There are times when, deep into a scroll through my phone, I tilt my head and realize that I’m not even sure what app I’m on. A video takes up my entire screen. If I slide my finger down, another appears. The feeling is disorienting, so I search for small design cues at the margins of my screen. The thing I’m staring at could be TikTok, or it could be one of any number of other social apps that look exactly like it.

Although it was not the first app to offer an endless feed, and it was certainly not the first to use algorithms to better understand and target its users, TikTok put these ingredients together like nothing else before it. It amassed what every app wants: many users who spend hours and hours scrolling, scrolling, scrolling (ideally past ads and products that they’ll buy). Every other major social platform—Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, YouTube, X, even LinkedIn—has copied TikTok’s format in recent years. The app might get banned in the United States, but we’ll still be living in TikTok’s world.

I recently made a game out of counting how many swipes it takes for each of my apps to try to funnel me into a bottomless video feed. From the default screen on the YouTube app, I swiped only once, past a long (five-minute) video, before it showed me a split screen of four “Shorts,” the first of which tried baiting me with a few seconds of looping, silent footage. Tapping any would have led me down the app’s vertical-video pipeline. I’m confronted with an array of “Reels” almost immediately upon opening Facebook, and need to swipe only once or twice before hitting similar “Videos for you” on LinkedIn. Both of these apps also have dedicated video tabs; Snapchat and Instagram do too. X eschews the carousel, but clicking any video leads to the entry point of something common to all these platforms: the wormhole. The app expands into full-screen mode to serve me an infinite scroll of videos.

The new social media that TikTok ushered in isn’t really about your actual social circle anymore. Platforms such as Snapchat, Facebook, and Instagram were built on connections to people you’d met before; now using them feels more and more like scrolling through channels, or peeping into 1 million glass houses. In 2022, Kate Lindsay wrote for The Atlantic that this is the era of “performance” media, “in which we create online primarily to reach people we don’t know instead of the people we do.”

[Read: The age of social media is ending]

Not everyone has loved this transition. In the summer of 2022, hundreds of thousands of people signed a petition declaring that “We The People” wanted to return to the “dawn” of Instagram, when timelines were chronological and the algorithm favored photos. Kendall Jenner and Kim Kardashian each shared a plain graphic reading “MAKE INSTAGRAM INSTAGRAM AGAIN (stop trying to be tiktok i just want to see cute photos of my friends.)” The head of Instagram, Adam Mosseri, responded: “If you’re seeing a new, full-screen version of a feed or you’re hearing about it, know that this is a test,” he said. Instagram’s video feed clearly passed. Photos, which he called part of Instagram’s “heritage,” are still on the app, but they are being drowned out by vertical video. On a call with investors last year, Mark Zuckerberg shared that the videos account for half of the time people spend on Instagram.

Why this particular feature—new videos surfaced by the flick of a finger? “Every designer knows that retention for an app, how engaged users are, is directly correlated with how fast the next thing loads,” Aza Raskin, who purportedly invented infinite scrolling in 2006 and now speaks about the dangers of social media, told me. In other words, apps are harder to tear yourself away from when they quickly present you with more. The design exploits the human urge for a visual cue that a task is through—an empty plate, say, or the bottom of a page—and hooks us because it never delivers. “It hits below the belt,” Raskin said.

The unpredictable and immediate reward of a post you like encourages more hunting. Marrying short videos with rapid context-switching, research suggests, interferes with our ability to act on our prior intentions. We struggle to even remember them. TikTok is especially good at lulling users into a flow state where they are so engrossed that “little else seems to matter to them,” researchers at Baylor University, in Texas, have found. Genuine delight drives that feeling. People report having more fun on TikTok than on Instagram, and experiencing more serendipity than what they find on Shorts or Reels: The app, the researchers found, erodes our self-control in a way those competitors just don’t.

[Read: The government’s disturbing rationale for banning TikTok]

Some users get so hooked on TikTok in particular that they seem to welcome the possible ban: “​​I have an addiction to this app. There’s nothing that could stop me. They need to take it away,”  one recently posted. “I might actually get my life back,” another said. “I average 14 to 15 hours a day … It’s not just like screen time; it’s the constant doomscrolling.” Similarly: “yesss phone detox.” Last year, Fast Company ran a piece with the headline “I’m Addicted to TikTok. I'm Begging the Government to Ban It.” A recent poll found that 44 percent of American adults support a TikTok ban, but only 34 percent view the app as a national-security threat; maybe the rest just want to be saved from themselves.

TikTok’s secret sauce is its famously—even uncannily—smart algorithm, which none of the copycats have totally been able to replicate. Much of the app’s success might also come from the less professionalized, more unhinged culture that its users have cultivated: I’m just more likely to stumble upon someone doing an impression of how a prepubescent Justin Bieber would have performed the role of Glinda the Good Witch, or covering their head with Nair, than I am anywhere else. If the app goes, I’ll have to find another way to check up on a 20-something who has been learning to play the same song on the trumpet since Christmas. She’s bad, but she’s getting better.

TikTok’s ultimate legacy is convincing other major social-media apps that people aren’t interested in seeing just people they know. We also appreciate videos that, like little windows, let us peek briefly into the lives of strangers. FCC Commissioner Brendan Carr has said that this aspect of TikTok makes it “uniquely replaceable”—any app can show you a bunch of strangers. Still, those strangers need to actually like the app enough to use it.

Researchers have already pointed out that the motion we use to scroll past videos kind of resembles pulling the lever of a slot machine. That rhetoric can fuel loose language around social-media addiction, confusing unhealthy use with genuine, debilitating craving. But it does seem very possible that, if TikTok ends up banned, people who have developed the impulse to scroll will continue to pull the lever in search of a dopamine rush, or a video you’d actually send to a friend. Without TikTok, we might just hit the jackpot less.

Updated at 1:55 p.m. ET on January 16, 2025

Imagine that a foreign-born billionaire buys Facebook, asks its engineers to boost his own posts, and then introduces a payment system that rewards users for pandering to his whims and prejudices.

Also imagine that the billionaire happens across a news report on the death toll in Iraq following the allied invasion back in 2003, and links that carnage to the intelligence failures that were used to justify the war. Bristling with righteous outrage, our fictional billionaire then suggests that the state and the media have covered up this whole incendiary topic.

This was how Elon Musk sounded to many Britons after he belatedly discovered the organized child-sexual-abuse networks known as “grooming gangs.” Here was a real scandal: Networks of adult men, primarily British citizens of Pakistani descent, had trafficked and raped young girls in towns across England, over many years, aided by failures of local governments and the police. But the scandal wasn’t new, nor had reporters ignored it en masse. “You don’t hate the legacy media enough,” Musk insisted at one point during his multiday spree of posts on X, his social-media platform. Never mind that a legacy media outlet—Rupert Murdoch’s London Times—first broke the story of the child-sex-abuse ring in Rotherham, 14 years ago.

[Ali Breland: Elon Musk has appointed himself king of the world]

Musk’s horrified reaction to the scandal, which appears to have been prompted by a viral post on New Year’s Eve, is entirely justified. However, it comes quite late, and demonstrates his usual self-centeredness: His thinking seems to be that if he didn’t hear about the scandal during the 2010s, then surely no one else did, either. His ownership of X, and his alliance with Donald Trump, gives him the power to force any issue he likes into the political conversation. Lately he has used that power to intervene in European politics, berating British Prime Minister Keir Starmer, boosting the German far-right Alternative für Deutschland, and attacking the European Union for its efforts to regulate his businesses. Starmer’s opponents on the right, including the Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch, have been quick to echo Musk’s interest in the grooming gangs—even though Badenoch’s party was in power as the story originally unfolded.

The Times reporting kicked off dozens of prosecutions, multiple public inquiries, and even a primetime British Broadcasting Corporation drama. The story was well known enough that one of the police whistleblowers appeared on a celebrity reality-television show in 2018. The news even reached America: In 2014, the New York Times columnist Ross Douthat observed that “what happened in Rotherham was rooted both in left-wing multiculturalism and in much more old-fashioned prejudices about race and sex and class.” The ethnicity of the perpetrators mattered, he argued, but so did the status of the victims—working-class girls whom the police saw as “‘tarts’ who deserved roughly what they got.”

Musk’s newfound revulsion at the details of the abuse is entirely justified—read the sentencing reports if you have the stomach for it. “Girls were raped callously, viciously, and violently,” the judge told nine men convicted of grooming offenses in the northern towns of Oldham and Rochdale in 2012, adding, “Some of you acted as you did to satiate your lust, some to make money out of them. All of you treated them as though they were worthless and beyond all respect.”

The sexual abuse of children occurs in all human societies, but the forms it takes are culturally dependent. Like school shootings in the United States, grooming gangs are a particular type of crime that emerged from the laws and social conditions of a specific time and place. The gangs are not representative of the whole picture of what researchers call “group-based child sexual exploitation”—a phenomenon that in Britain appears to be dominated by men who are white, as you would expect from the makeup of the population. (England and Wales are more than 80 percent white, census data show; “Asian ethnic groups” are about 9 percent of the population.) Most grooming-gang defendants in the cases that have attracted media attention, however, were men of Pakistani descent. Many were connected to the nighttime economy, such as by running minicab firms and delivering takeout. They primarily targeted vulnerable girls—runaways or those who lived in foster homes. We know all this because of extensive reporting, testimony by victims and whistleblowers, and the bravery of politicians such as Ann Cryer and Sarah Champion, two Labour Party members of Parliament who were shunned by their own side for speaking out.

[Ali Breland: Elon Musk’s X endgame]

It is entirely reasonable to ask why they were shunned. In the 2000s and early 2010s, the racial dynamics of the grooming gangs made English towns extremely reluctant to face what was happening. Local South Asian communities were afraid to report the perpetrators in their midst. Police did not record complaints or investigate the issue actively; by some accounts, race riots in Oldham in 2001 made police emphasize “community cohesion” over what should have been their primary concern—dismantling organized-rape gangs regardless of the demographics of the perpetrators. White members of municipal councils fell into a pattern of assuming that problems among British Pakistanis were best left to their fellow councilors from that community. “Rotherham isn’t a very PC place, I think that is why the council overcompensated too much,” one local officer told an investigator in 2015. “It doesn’t want to be accused of being racist.”

Living through this story, experiencing the slow accretion of details and convictions and inquiries in real time, clearly felt very different from learning about it all at once. One of the main complaints to have surfaced since Musk reheated this story is that much of the original coverage was piecemeal and overly restrained: Had gangs of white men been trafficking immigrant women, it might have prompted a reckoning comparable to America’s protests over the 2020 murder of George Floyd. What qualifies as a “reckoning” is arguable—but I agree that the left would have raised hell about such a story, as the right has done with this one.

In response, some commentators, on both the left and right, have called for a “national conversation” about the gangs. What that conversation would sound like, however, is the tricky part. Would it include calls for the mass deportation of migrants, as many on Europe’s emergent right want? Is the answer militant secularization of Britain? Or a renewed insistence that the United Kingdom is a Christian country? Should Britain enact a “Muslim ban” or reject asylum seekers from Muslim-majority countries? When liberals are still queasy about engaging with this topic, it’s because they sense that these shadow arguments lie just out of sight.

Although Musk is powerful enough to draw new attention to the Rotherham scandal, polling suggests that most Britons see his interventions as opportunistic. The X owner has a deep animus toward Starmer, the Labour prime minister, whom Musk sees as an enemy of free speech in general and of his platform in particular. Many of Musk’s posts called for implausible scenarios such as the King dissolving Parliament or the country holding fresh elections, adding to the sense that Musk had not deeply researched the topic before picking up his phone to post.

Nonetheless, the Conservative opposition, led by Badenoch, pandered to him, demanding a fresh national inquiry to “join the dots.” That reverses the Tory position of a year ago—back when the party was in power and had the ability to commission whatever inquiries it deemed necessary. (In 2019, the future Prime Minister Boris Johnson said that investigating historic sex abuses was money “spaffed up a wall.”)

Badenoch’s decision to echo the Musk line also minimized the work that the Conservatives did do in government to tackle rape gangs. Former Prime Minister Rishi Sunak created a “grooming gangs task force” that has helped police make more than 550 arrests. The Tories also accepted that some sentences given to gang members had been too lenient, and proposed to create a new aggravating factor in sex offenses involving grooming. That will likely be included in the Crime and Policing Bill this spring, alongside a mandatory-reporting measure requiring social workers and others to notify police when they suspect children are being abused. Despite all that progress, Badenoch understands that calling for a new investigation is one of the few ways for an opposition leader to attract attention. (Today, Labour caved and promised a “rapid audit” and more funding for local inquiries.) Just as the activist left sometimes refuses to believe that civil-rights victories have been achieved—remaining instead in a state of politically lucrative perma-war—so the right will not claim victory in having already forced Britain to take these gangs seriously. Conservatives want the fight, not the win.

[Read: He’s no Elon Musk]

Intriguingly, Britain’s other right-wing party, Reform, has been less harmoniously in tune with Musk in the past couple of weeks than the Tories have. Reform’s leader, Nigel Farage, has joined Badenoch in calling for a new nationwide inquiry into the gangs. But he has refused to fulfill a peculiar demand from Musk: to normalize the pseudonymous agitator Tommy Robinson, whom the far right credits for making the grooming scandal public. Robinson, whose real name is Stephen Christopher Yaxley-Lennon, is not a folk hero. A founder of the xenophobic English Defence League, he risked collapsing one of the grooming trials by filming the defendants outside it. He is also a convicted mortgage fraudster and is currently in jail for contempt of court in a different case.

Robinson badly needs mainstream support to shake off his thuggish reputation, and Musk has taken up his cause. “Free Tommy Robinson!” Musk declared on X. He also faulted Farage—who has sought to keep racist “bad apples” out of Reform—for distancing himself from Robinson. Farage “doesn’t have what it takes,” Musk complained. Once again, the billionaire seemed out of touch with the British political scene: Farage, a key champion of Brexit, is the most successful leader that the British populist right has ever had. Reform won more than 4 million votes in last year’s election and looks set to make big gains in local contests in May.

To many Britons’ relief, Musk seems to be moving on to other subjects, including the California wildfires. His intervention has presented liberals with a difficult terrain to navigate. Yes, his interest was opportunistic. Yes, he spread conspiracy theories as well as the true scandalous details. But at least part of his instinctive reaction was correct: This was and is a scandal that shames Britain, as the Times asserted in 2012. It just isn’t a hidden one, thanks to the many victims and whistleblowers who have brought it into the open , beginning more than a decade ago. They deserve the tribute of having their bravery acknowledged.

When Donald Trump completes his once-unthinkable return to the White House, he’ll face a world far more violent and unsettled than when he unwillingly gave up power four years ago.

And his very presence behind the Resolute desk feels destined to destabilize it further.

Trump has offered mysterious plans to bring quick ends to the wars raging in Ukraine and the Middle East. He has antagonized allies and mused about a return to an age of American imperialism, when the United States could simply seize the territory it wanted. He and his advisers have threatened trade wars and allied themselves with movements that have eroded democracies and supported rising authoritarians.

And Trump is again poised to push an “America First” foreign policy—inward-looking and transactional—at a moment when a lack of superpower leadership could embolden China to move on Taiwan or lead to renewed conflict in the Middle East, just as the region seems on the doorstep of its biggest transformation in generations.

“Trump is less of a surprise this time but will be a test. The international system has baked in that Trump is not an instinctive supporter of alliances, that he will be inconsistent,” James Stavridis, a former supreme allied commander of NATO, told me. “Allies and adversaries alike are going to know that nothing is free; everything is a negotiation.”

[Read: How ‘America first’ became America alone]

Trump, Biden officials ruefully note in private, will inherit a strong hand. He will take the helm of a healthy economy and will become the first U.S. president in decades to assume office without a large-scale military deployment in an overseas war zone. And the grueling conflicts in Ukraine and Gaza—which Trump has demanded end immediately—both appear to be at inflection points, with war-weary sides showing a willingness to talk.

The president-elect has said there will be “hell to pay in the Middle East” if Hamas hasn’t released the hostages seized on October 7, 2023, by the time he is inaugurated. After months of negotiations by President Joe Biden’s team, a breakthrough appears at hand to pause fighting and release some hostages.

The moment has come during the incumbent’s final days in office, yet Trump has been quick to take credit—the deal was made with input from his Middle East envoy—even as a permanent resolution to the conflict remains uncertain. And his intervention does seem to have played a key role in achieving a breakthrough. Israel’s prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, appeared eager to start Trump’s second term on the incoming president-elect’s good side while Hamas may have been spooked by his bombast. But as the cease-fire slowly unfurls in the weeks ahead, Trump’s tempestuousness could just as easily endanger the fragile deal.

During his reelection campaign, Trump repeatedly proclaimed that he would end the war between Russia and Ukraine “within 24 hours,” a claim he has since softened. Indeed, nowhere will his swearing-in be more nervously watched than in Kyiv. Trump, of course, has long derided NATO, the alliance that has propped up Ukraine. Moscow has made some halting advances, despite a last-ditch surge of aid to Ukraine from the Biden administration. And the president-elect’s desire for a quick, negotiated end to the conflict seems likely to ratify some of Russia’s territorial gains.

Trump’s White House and the MAGA-ified House of Representatives have shown no appetite to send substantial aid or military equipment to the front, and although Europe will gamely try to pick up the slack, Ukraine’s efforts to defend itself will suffer without American support. Russia’s advantage in manpower—bolstered by the North Korean troops it is using as cannon fodder—will only expand, and Russian President Vladimir Putin may grow more confident that he can simply win a war of attrition.

[Read: Trump is facing a catastrophic defeat in Ukraine]

One senior U.S. official, speaking on condition of anonymity to discuss the incoming administration, identified Trump’s long-standing deference to Putin as a grave concern, particularly if Russia’s aggression sets off NATO’s mutual-defense pact. “If Trump gives in to Putin an inch, he’ll take a mile,” the official told me. “If he turns his back completely and encourages him to move beyond Ukraine, think how much more costly it will be if Article 5 gets triggered. Then we have American skin in the game.”

Divisions are already emerging in Trump’s orbit as to the best approach to Ukraine and beyond. Steve Bannon, the right-wing provocateur and first-term Trump aide, has argued against globalism. Elon Musk, the tech billionaire who has become Trump’s most influential informal adviser, has used his fortune and social-media reach to prop up right-wingers in the U.K. and Germany who are eager to walk away from Kyiv. That echoes the approach of the incoming vice president, J. D. Vance.

But not all of Trump’s team is in lockstep. The secretary-of-state nominee, Marco Rubio, has been a NATO defender, and Mike Waltz, Trump’s incoming national security adviser, has argued forcefully in favor of tougher sanctions on Moscow’s energy sector to strangle Putin’s government economically.

Those divisions feel familiar. Trump’s first-term diplomatic and national-security teams—initially stocked with Republican stalwarts whose views were far closer to GOP orthodoxy than those embraced by MAGA—often found themselves feuding among themselves. Both camps were frequently frustrated by a president who had few consistent desires other than a need for flattery.

The result was a haphazard foreign policy. North Korea’s Kim Jong Un started out on the receiving end of “fire and fury,” only to later receive what Trump called “beautiful letters.” China went from foe to friend and then back again. And even as his administration levied tough sanctions against Russia, Trump continually cozied up to Putin, siding with the dictator over his own U.S. intelligence agencies in Helsinki.

[Read: No more Mr. Tough Guy on China]

That unpredictability, although it brought chaos before, could work to Trump’s advantage on the world stage this time around, his new crop of advisers believes. Would any foreign adversary dare test Trump if they can’t anticipate his response? Trump himself leaned into the idea in October, when he told The Wall Street Journal’s editorial board that he would not have to use military force to prevent Beijing from blockading Taiwan, because Chinese President Xi Jinping “respects me and he knows I’m fucking crazy.”

It’s far less calculated than Richard Nixon’s “madman” theory of the case—far more born of Trump’s own whims and ego—but the end result, his advisers argue, could be the same.

And that, to put it mildly, was on full display during the transition.

Maps showing the familiar view of the Western Hemisphere, but with the U.S. borders cartoonishly expanded, have become popular right-wing memes. Suddenly, Greenland is part of the United States. Upon closer examination, so is the Panama Canal. And Canada—our friendly, polite neighbor to the north—is now the 51st state.

There are debates even in Trump World as to how serious any of these efforts at territorial expansion might be, and all agree that a healthy dose of trolling was involved in Trump dispatching Donald Trump Jr. to Greenland or calling Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau “governor.” But foreign capitals have long learned to take the elder Trump both literally and seriously.

Trump’s desire for Greenland—based on its strategic location and abundant resources—has rattled not only Denmark, which governs the island, but also other NATO members, which are aghast at the incoming American president’s refusal to rule out using military force to seize the island. Similarly, Trump’s threats toward Panama and his bullying of Canada—including warnings of sweeping tariffs—have again sent a clear message to the world: Under its 47th president, the United States cannot be counted on to enforce the rules-based order that has defined the postwar era.

[Read: The intellectual rationalization for annexing Greenland]

A Trump-transition spokesperson did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

In the Middle East, Israel’s response to October 7 created a humanitarian crisis in Gaza but also decimated the Iranian proxies that have served as buffers for Tehran for decades, leaving the regime newly vulnerable.

“Iran is now at the weakest point since 1979,” Jake Sullivan, Joe Biden’s national security adviser, said on Monday. “There is a cease-fire in Lebanon and the possibility of a new political future with a new president. Russia and Iran’s lackey in Syria, [Bashar al-Assad], is gone.”

In his first term, Trump withdrew the United States from a nuclear deal with Iran, implemented a “maximum pressure” sanctions campaign, and brokered the Abraham Accords, which further isolated Tehran. He authorized the assassination of Qassem Soleimani, the general who directed Iran’s militias and proxy forces around the Middle East. He’s now filled his Cabinet with Iran hawks, including Waltz—which could put him at odds with Gulf allies who seem more inclined to try for a détente with Tehran.

The only certainty is more uncertainty. And the president-elect was quick to embrace the chaos when asked by a reporter at a news conference last month about his plans for Iran.

“How could I tell you a thing like that now? It’s just … you don’t talk about that before something may or may not happen,” Trump said. “I don’t want to insult you. I just think it’s just not something that I would ever answer having to do with there or any other place in the world.”

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Donald Trump has said, at different times, that he will pardon some, most, or even all of the January 6 insurrectionists. He’s also said at least once that he would do this on his first day in office, which is imminent. Given Trump’s past rhetoric about the incident (calling it a “day of love”) and the people who were jailed for acts they committed that day (“political prisoners,” “hostages”), his pardons can be understood only as part of his alarming—and alarmingly successful—attempt to rewrite the history of the day that nearly brought down our democracy. But what if the pardon were to come in a different spirit? That could move the country a long way toward healing.

In this episode of Radio Atlantic, we invite the author and scholar Linda Kinstler to talk about a centuries-old legal theory, embraced at calmer times in American history, of “oblivion.” When two sides have viciously different experiences of an event, how do you move forward? You do a version of forgetting, although it’s more like a memory game, Kinstler says, “a kind of collective agreement about how you’re going to move past something that is fundamentally irreconcilable.”

The following is a transcript of the episode:

Hanna Rosin: What if President Joe Biden had pardoned the January 6 insurrectionists—that is, the 1,500 or so people charged with federal crimes related to the riot?

And yeah. I said Joe Biden, not President-Elect Donald Trump.

This is an idea I’ve heard floated around these past few weeks. And on its face, it sounds illogical. Like, why on earth would the outgoing Democratic president pardon people who damaged property or injured law enforcement officers or plotted to overthrow democracy?

Trump has said many times that he will pardon the J6ers. He said he’ll pardon some of them or most of them, or even consider pardoning all of them, at different times. He’s said he’ll pardon them on his very first day in office, which is just in a few days.

Donald Trump: People that were doing some bad things weren’t prosecuted, and people that didn’t even walk into the building are in jail right now. So we’ll be looking at the whole thing, but I’ll be making major pardons.

Rosin: Right. So why would Biden do that, again?

[Music]

Rosin: I’m Hanna Rosin. This is Radio Atlantic.

The answer to that question requires you to zoom out to different countries and different periods of history to understand the long political traditions that pardons are a part of and what, at their very best, they could accomplish. And it matters who does the pardoning and their motive for doing it.

I myself did a lot of research on the January 6 prosecutions for a podcast series I hosted for The Atlantic called We Live Here Now. And as I was researching, I came across a couple of articles by author and journalist Linda Kinstler that helped me understand these cases and this charged political moment in a new way. Linda is a junior fellow at the Harvard Society of Fellows. She writes about politics and collective memory, and she’s written for many publications, including The Atlantic.

She’s also working on a new book about the idea we’re talking about today, which is: oblivion.

[Music]

Rosin: Linda, welcome to the show.

Linda Kinstler: Thank you for having me.

Rosin: Absolutely. So the J6 prosecutions are, for the most part, unfolding at the federal courthouse in D.C., just a few blocks from where we are now. Linda, you attended some of these cases. I did also. What is your most vivid or lasting impression from these trials?

Kinstler: Oh, wow. I mean, I spent months—I mean, the better part of a year, actually—attending these trials in downtown D.C. And there are so many elements, as you have described, about the courthouse—namely, that it’s right across from the Capitol and overlooks the grounds upon which all of these crimes happened. And there were so many times I was walking through the halls of the courtroom. And some of them had little windows you can peer through, and almost on every single one—there was one day when you could see in the monitors in the courtroom, and you could see that they were all playing January 6 footage.

[Crowd noise from January 6]

Kinstler: You know, different angles. You could hear the sounds of the footage that the prosecuting attorneys had assembled.

[Crowd noise from January 6]

Man: [indistinguishable] We’re trying to make our way through all this.

Kinstler: And you really do get the sense there that in this building, this really pivotal event in history is being litigated and worked through in real time—kind of away from the public eye, even though these are open to anyone who wants to come see them.

[Crowd noise from January 6]

Man: We need to hold the doors of the Capitol.

Rosin: A few of these cases have stuck with Linda, for different reasons. One was the hearing of a member of the Proud Boys: It was the juxtaposition of this violent offender and his young kids, who were playing around on the courthouse benches at his sentencing.

And the other was a woman, a nonviolent offender with no prior record.

Kinstler: She just kind of walked through the building and clearly made horrible, horrible choices that day, as many of them did who were there. And she repented before the judge. And the judge said, I’m choosing to view this as an aberration in your life, as a kind of lapse of judgment. And she cried.

[Crowd noise from January 6]

Man: [indistinguishable] We’ve lost the line. We’ve lost the line. [indistinguishable] Get back.

Rosin: And did you feel—how did you feel in that moment? Did you feel like, Oh, there’s some injustice being done? Or not quite that?

Kinstler: No. I mean, I think this is justice, right? This is actually the levers of justice working. It is absolutely that these people broke the law, and they are being brought to court because they violated public order in different ways, so it is kind of like our ur-definition of justice.

But it’s a different question—and I think this is the one that has kind of been left undealt with in public, is: Okay. This is one version of justice, but this is not a kind of public reckoning with what January 6 was. And the, kind of, how these individual offenders are being treated and punished for what they did is not the same thing as, How is the country going to deal with what January 6 threatened to, kind of, the fabric of democracy? Those are two separate questions, I think.

Rosin: Interesting. So what you’re saying is: There is a legal process unfolding. The courts can do what the courts can do. But what you’re saying is the courts can only do so much.

Kinstler: Correct.

Rosin: Yeah. Okay.

Kinstler: Right. And there’s, in general, been an overreliance, I think, upon the legal process to deal with January 6 for, quote-unquote, “us”—for us, the public—in a way. And I don’t think there has been a broader conversation about what it means in the long haul.

Rosin: Okay. I want to take what you just said and compare it to the public conversation that is happening around these court cases—namely, from Trump, because we’re a few days from him taking office.

Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the horribly and unfairly treated January 6 hostages.

[Recording of “Justice for All” by the J6 Prison Choir]

Rosin: And the way he puts it is that the J6ers were treated unfairly, persecuted by the justice system; they’re hostages. He’s said this in many different ways, with many different degrees of passion throughout the course of his campaign.

Trump: Well, thank you very much. And you see the spirit from the hostages—and that’s what they are, is hostages. They’ve been treated terribly and very unfairly, and you know that.

Rosin: What do you think of that argument, and how does that fit into what you are saying?

Kinstler: Yeah. On the face of it, what they are doing is manipulating historical terminology, right, for their political ends.

Rosin: So you don’t think they were unfairly—your argument is not at all that they were unfairly persecuted.

Kinstler: No, no. I mean, I think that they broke the law, and they should be punished for what they did. I think there’s a genuine argument you could have about which offenders should be facing jail time, but I don’t think that’s the conversation we’re having right now.

But I do think what this question raises is the fact that Trump himself has not been held accountable for what he did on January 6, right? And there were many efforts to do that. And my view of this whole process is that, historically speaking, we’re doing it backwards. Historically, it was the top people in power who oversaw the crime, who would be the first to be held responsible for what they had done.

In this case, we have almost the exact opposite, right? We have the lower-level offenders—the people who are easier to find, the kind of foot soldiers of Trump’s movement—who are being the ones hauled into court. And, obviously, we have seen: The efforts to prosecute Trump himself have sequentially collapsed and now are almost certainly not going to happen.

Rosin: Do you have an example in your head of a time when, historically, it unfolded in the correct way? Like, a way that promotes a sense of fairness and justice?

Kinstler: Yeah. I mean, this is the kind of subject that has fascinated me for many years—is, like: How have societies worked through moments in which you have a population of perpetrators or people who have violated the public order, who nevertheless must remain in the country or the city in some way? How have you dealt with that?

And so in my work, the prototypical example comes from ancient Athens after the reign of the Thirty Tyrants, where you had a population of oligarchs—30 of them—who overtook the city, stripped people of their rights and properties, killed people unjustly, oversaw all of these abuses, and then were deposed by the victorious democrats. After the fact, there was a kind of general amnesty for most of the supporters of the Thirty. But the Thirty Tyrants themselves were made to choose between standing trial and exile from the city.

So in that case, you have this prototype of the people who are responsible having to account for their crimes—verbally and in, you know, a kind of legal system—while the lower level of people were offered a different set of choices.

And, of course, the reason this is so fascinating is because this becomes the blueprint for centuries of leaders after that: if you look at 1660, after the English civil war; it kind of comes after World War II, where there’s this question of, What do we do with Nazi perpetrators? How wide and deep should the justice run? And we know that denazification failed in many ways. So I do think, in our country, we are going through something like this, in a sense.

Rosin: Can we talk about Nazi Germany for a minute? I mean, I realize we always have to be careful when we’re making historical comparisons to Nazi Germany. But you threw out this sentence, Denazification didn’t work. There were, though, a lot of higher Nazi officials who were held accountable. So how can we use what happened in Nazi Germany to inform what you’re saying we have to figure out right now?

Kinstler: Right. So yes, of course. Saying denazification didn’t work is a huge, sweeping claim, and we can argue about that a lot. But what you had there was the Nuremberg trials—of course, what we think of as Nuremberg—did hold the top brass accountable for what they had done. And then you had many, many smaller, sequential trials, both in West Germany and in the former Soviet Union.

But what I often think of—and I want to be careful about making the comparison today, of course—but I have been thinking about this line that the philosopher Judith Shklar said, which was that why denazification failed, in many ways, was because the prosecutors mistook a group of individual offenders for a social movement. So in other words, they thought that by continuing with all these trials that they would squash the kind of violent, virulent sentiment underlying Nazism itself.

Rosin: Which holds some intuitive appeal because you think, I’m holding people accountable. That’s what we’re supposed to do as a society: hold people accountable.

Kinstler: Totally. And it feels good. It appeals to all of our liberal sensibilities about how order and justice are supposed to work.

Rosin: And particularly—you say liberal, because I think right now, we do have this divide where Democrats, or maybe the left, are trusting in institutions, and the right is a lot less trusting in institutions. So Democrats are putting their faith, in this case, in this institution—the court—to go through the paces and do the right thing.

Kinstler: Exactly. We are in a very legalistic society, in that we like to talk about courts and legal cases as solving political problems. And I do think we repeatedly have seen that over the last however many years—about, you know, Oh, maybe the courts will save us from Trumpism writ large. And we have seen, of course, that the legal system is just not capacious enough to do that for many reasons.

Rosin: That’s a really interesting and concise way of looking at it. We have been relying on Jack Smith, the cases against Trump, these January 6 cases, of which there are, you know, 1,500. What’s the gap? What does the legal strategy leave out?

Kinstler: I mean, so much, in that it’s just a legal strategy, right? It doesn’t—and I think I can kind of see this in the almost allergy that people have when talk of pardons comes up, for example, right? There’s this notion that if you pardon someone, you’re letting them off the hook. But that’s not what a pardon does. A pardon confirms the crime.

And I guess I’m saying there is this paucity of a wider understanding of what happened that day because it has become this legalistic football, right? Of, like, Who was standing where? Who was part of the mob? What does it mean to be part of the mob? Who was commanding them? Etcetera, etcetera. You get lost in all these details and all these individual cases. And, of course, this is the role of historians, to say, This is what that event did that day, and this is its lasting impact.

But that’s what I’m saying—that’s the gap, right? The gap is: What is the narrative of this event? How do you protect it from manipulation, particularly when the person who’s about to be inaugurated has been one of its kind of manipulators in chief? And I do think there are answers.

Rosin: Okay. Let’s just ground ourselves in the moment we’re in. (Laughs.)

Kinstler: (Laughs.)

Rosin: Let’s say, on day one, Trump does what he has many times said he’s going to do: pardon the J6ers.

Trump: I’m going to be acting very quickly.

Kristen Welker: Within your first 100 days? First day?

Trump: First day.

Welker: First day?

Trump: Yeah. I’m looking first day.

Welker: And issue these pardons?

Trump: These people have been there—how long is it? Three or four years?

Rosin: Is it possible that it accomplishes any of the goals of putting this to rest? Like, any of the goals of reconciliation?

Kinstler: I mean, reconciliation, I think, is a different question. I think it’s not going to accomplish that. I think the only sense in which it “puts it to rest,” quote-unquote, is that it will, as I said, confirm their crimes, right? A pardon does not erase what people did.

It’s unfortunate, in my view, that Trump will be the one to pardon them, because I do think there was an opportunity for the Democrats to extend a kind of grace towards some of the January 6 offenders—and by no means all of them—if they had been the ones to pardon them.

Rosin: Okay. You said that casually, and there have been a few law professors who floated that idea. It is, on its face, a kind of shocking idea. Like, when you read a headline that says, Should Joe Biden pardon the J6ers? it’s actually kind of hard to get your head around. What do you think of that idea?

Kinstler: Well, I think, first of all, historically, pardons have been almost a routine thing that any new ruler or president has done upon taking office.

Interviewer: Are you glad that you pardoned those people that went to Canada, the draft evaders?

Jimmy Carter: Yes, I am.

Interviewer: Why?

Carter: Well, it was a festering sore and involved tens of thousands of young men.

Rosin: Like, I was reading about Jimmy Carter, who pardoned draft dodgers, and thinking that, like, we can look in retrospect and say they were peaceful, and the January 6ers were violent rioters. But it must have been hurtful to a lot of people whose children, or who they themselves, went to Vietnam, didn’t want to. And it was quite controversial. So to what end does a new president pardon people?

Kinstler: Well, I mean, on the face of it, it’s a gesture of goodwill. But it’s supposed to say, We are all subject to the law, and let’s start on the right foot, etcetera, etcetera.

Rosin: So it sets a national mood.

Kinstler: Yeah.

Rosin: It sets a mood of, I’m the president for all of you. We’re all in this together. And the value of this country is mercy. Mercy is a value.

Kinstler: Yes.

Carter: So after I made my inaugural speech, before I even left the site, I went just inside the door at the national Capitol, and I signed the pardon for those young men. And yes, I think it was the right thing to do. I thought that it was time to get it over with—I think the same attitude that President Ford had in giving Nixon a pardon.

Gerald Ford: We would needlessly be diverted from meeting those challenges if we, as a people, were to remain sharply divided over whether to indict, bring to trial, and punish a former president who is already condemned.

Rosin: I was looking for historical precedent and read about George Washington and the Whiskey Rebellion, because that was a fairly violent rebellion—and it was hundreds of people—and he pardoned some of them. And I was wondering if that was analogous.

Kinstler: Yeah. I mean, I don’t know about the analogy, but it is kind of an instance in which you have a violent community of offenders who nevertheless must remain in the country, right?

Ford: The power has been used sometimes as Alexander Hamilton saw its purposes: “In seasons of insurrection … when a well-timed offer of pardon to the insurgents or rebels may restore the tranquility of the commonwealth; and which, if served [sic] to pass unimproved, it may never be possible afterwards to recall.”

Kinstler: You can’t get rid of all of them. It wasn’t moral forgiveness. It was just a measure that allowed them to remain in the society in a way that wouldn’t cripple the society itself at this moment of extreme fragility.

[Music]

Rosin: So yes, there are presidential pardons. But if we can neither forgive nor forget something, we just may need something else to move forward: an act of oblivion.

That’s after the break.

[Music]

[Break]

Rosin: Linda, you have researched and written about what’s called “an act of oblivion.” Can you lay out the basics of what that is?

Kinstler: Yes. So historically speaking, we see that there were either acts of oblivion, laws of oblivion, or articles of oblivion that appeared in peace treaties or as legislative measures or as kind of kingly edicts that were issued in the aftermath of revolutions, wars, and uprisings. And what they were, essentially, is a kind of resetting of the legal order, where they said—and this is generally happening in the, quote-unquote, “Western world,” but we also see similar measures elsewhere.

But what they would say is: Everything that happened prior to this law—whatever it was, whether hostility, war, killing, theft, etcetera—none of that can be litigated or spoken of, quote, “in public,” which often meant: You can’t bring a lawsuit after this measure is passed.

Rosin: So it’s not actual forgetting. It’s like a public declaration that we shall all forget together.

Kinstler: Right. And in some ways, forgetting isn’t even the right word. And the interesting thing to me is that the word oblivion is the kind of Roman invention that was used to describe it, that Cicero used after the fact, and that was kind of like his spin on it, right? And everyone is telling tales about how to make a democracy work or how to make a state or a kingdom work, right? Not all of these are democracies.

But, yeah, forgetting is, in some ways—it’s not really the correct description of what’s going on. It’s more of a kind of collective agreement about how you’re going to move past something that is fundamentally irreconcilable.

Rosin: Got it. It’s almost a funny word. Like, I’m gonna blast you into oblivion. It’s a very powerful word. I don’t know if it was meant as kind of campy—probably not—by the Romans. (Laughs.) But there is something kind of, like, huge about it, you know?

Kinstler: Yeah. Oblivione sempiterna: “eternal oblivion,” to kind of wash away everything. It’s a totally beguiling word, and it kind of connotes erosion, in English, and erasure. But there’s also, in other languages: in Russian it’s вечное забвение, “eternal oblivion,” right? Eternal forgetting, in a way.

Rosin: So it’s almost so grand and big that it’s not connected to the mundane act of, Oh, I forgot my keys.

Kinstler: (Laughs.)

Rosin: Like, it’s almost so big that it’s on a grand, national scale. Maybe it’s something like that.

Kinstler: Yeah, I mean, like, you’re always rescuing things from oblivion or losing things to oblivion. I mean, it is in a way, right? Because you’re burying something in oblivion. It’s a physical location, right? It’s a noun, oblivion. And so to me, I think of it as, Okay, you’re burying it, but you’re not forgetting where it is, right?

Rosin: Right.

Kinstler: It’s always there.

Rosin: So what’s the difference between what you just described and whitewashing, revisionist history—sort of what we’ve seen happen with January 6 and Trump calling it a “day of love”?

Trump: But that was a day of love from the standpoint of the millions—it’s, like, hundreds of thousands—

Rosin: Like, sort of actively describing it as something it wasn’t. Can you compare those two modes?

Kinstler: Yeah. I would say they’re kind of fundamentally opposite, right? One is constructive, and one is malignant, right? Which is not to say that the two couldn’t be conflated. But for the sake of argument, the oblivions I have been looking at have been kind of, like, ideal types. Obviously, none of these, historically, ever work perfectly, right? It’s more about the idea that people wanted them to work, that there was this desire for reconciliation that would be operative.

And obviously, that’s not what you see at all in the language that Trump has been using and in the way he and his supporters have been framing January 6. Usually, I think, if we were to follow the framework of oblivion, what should have happened was that Biden—upon taking office and kind of restoring liberal order, we could say—would have passed an act of oblivion for the January 6ers that would have mandated that, kind of, Trump and his immediate circle would have to stand trial for their actions that day. And what we have been seeing with the lower-level offenders, that some of them would not have had to explicitly, as a kind of gesture of goodwill.

Rosin: A couple of challenges I can think of to using this approach with January 6: The first, surface one is just the sheer amount of documentation, YouTube videos. Like, what you’re describing—which is a clever act of forgetting or a memory game—I mean, if you’re a prosecutor working in the federal courthouse, this is a gift. You’ve seen these trials. Basically, what you’re doing at these trials is watching videos. Like, some Facebook video that somebody made, saying, Hey. I was at the Capitol. I did this—me. Nobody else did this.

Kinstler: Yeah.

Rosin: Literally, that’s what some of them say because they’re proud in that moment.

[Crowd noise, chanting from January 6]

Man: Whatever it takes. I’ll lay my life down if it takes. Absolutely.

Rosin: And then—I mean, there’s footage from everywhere.

Kinstler: Yeah.

[Crowd noise, overlapping screaming from January 6]

Rosin: So since you are talking about historical examples: What do you do with an era in which everything is über-documented?

Kinstler: Yeah. And it’s actually interesting. I was in a couple of trials where the judge, to the prosecutor, was saying, Listen. I’ve been to so many of these trials. You do not need to establish for me what happened on January 6 writ large. Like, I get it. Can you please fast forward?

But I guess what I’m talking about is not even about, Oh, you know, keep these videos from circulating, or, Don’t talk about what happened. It’s more about: Don’t expect the legal process to achieve something that cannot be achieved through law.

Rosin: Okay. That makes sense. You just have to accept the fact that the footage is everywhere. The footage is—in fact, maybe that makes what you’re saying more urgent. Because I do find, even with myself—like, if I hear a Capitol Police officer on the radio, if I watch that A24 movie that’s a documentary about January 6, it’s, like, right there all over again, and you just have to be, maybe, aware that that’s the age we live in.

Kinstler: Right.

Rosin: Second question I have is: I read your various articles you’ve written about oblivion. And it almost scared me, reading them, only because we live—this is the first era that I’ve lived through, as an adult, where I’ve watched the revising of history happen in real time. I don’t recall a president talking about facts the opposite of what I saw with my own eyes.

It’s a very bad feeling. So in that context, I feel nervous about even entering into a conversation about oblivion, memory games, or anything like that. And I wonder how you’ve squared that.

Kinstler: Oh my gosh, absolutely. This is what fascinates me, precisely because we are in this era of, kind of, historical revisionism, and we have been in for a long time. But the thing about acts of oblivion is that they actually, in my mind, consecrated what happened, right? They protected the historical record. They didn’t literally say, Oh this never happened. And in fact, what you see is that they’re often accompanied by records—like, historical accounts—of what happened, such that an act of oblivion was necessary, right? Like, Okay, actually, what happened here was a civil war or a tyranny or a revolution that totally wiped out the legal order, so we needed to do this extremely drastic thing if we were to reestablish democratic law.

The one that I often point to is: After the Revolutionary War, there were—because you did have the kind of legacy of British law, right—acts of oblivion came to the Americas from the European system. So there you did have, kind of, royalists who were subjected to acts of oblivion. It was individual states passing them over their royalist populations to allow them to remain, even though they had been defeated.

Rosin: So it was essentially an act of mercy saying, The royalists are going to live among us. They’re not going back. And what? How did it define—

Kinstler: It meant that they couldn’t be ostracized, essentially. They couldn’t be perpetually held accountable for what they had done, for everything that they had done against their neighbors, right? And often, it was a kind of very local, proximate question of, like, We’re not going to kick you out unless you want to be kicked out. That kind of thing.

Rosin: So you could imagine that kind of thing would be controversial at first. People would want vengeance. And so in the immediate, it would be difficult to swallow. But then in the long term, it would put things to rest. That’s the idea.

Kinstler: Yeah. And, I mean, there are a lot of failed oblivions. After the Civil War, a lot of the Southern states were, quote-unquote, “crying for an act of oblivion.” And it was a term that was circulating in the papers. And there’s this amazing quote from Frederick Douglass, who said, you know, I look in Congress, and I see the solid South enthroned, and the minute that that is not the case, we will join you in calling for an act of oblivion, but as long as they have not been held accountable, we cannot support this.

Rosin: Okay. So let’s move to the current moment. If you were King Linda—

Kinstler: (Laughs.)

Rosin: So is what you would want an act of oblivion around January 6?

Kinstler: No. No. Because I would never be so bold as to say that. But I do think it’s a useful political concept. I think that there was a missed opportunity during the Biden administration to do something concerted—that wasn’t just the Jack Smith investigation—about it. I think there could have been something really meaningful done.

Rosin: Okay. So you’re not going all the way to saying, you know, an act of oblivion. But you’ve started to eke at little things. Like, what do you mean by Biden could have? I mean, we’re in the very, very last days of the Biden administration. But if he had pardoned some of the low-level offenders, would that have been in the spirit of oblivion?

Kinstler: Yeah. I think that would have been a really potentially transformative thing to do, because it would not have done anything to jeopardize the record of what occurred that day or what it meant to participate in it.

But we are going to move beyond it, and I think we will see the narrative of January 6 begin to settle in some way, right? And as always happens, the conspiracies about it will become part of the narrative of how this is told, right—not in a kind of whitewashing way, but just in, like, it shows how volatile it is and how manipulable.

And I think there’s been this debate about how to memorialize that day, whether it’s through a physical memorial, a memorial to the Capitol officers who died, or to anyone who died that day. I think those are the questions that we haven’t kind of figured out, really.

Rosin: I see. So there is a potential that, even though we’re not figuring them out now, they’ll be figured out in a sideways way through questions down the road—like, questions about how we will ultimately remember that day—not necessarily how we’ll remember it in this charged political moment, but how we’ll remember it 10, 20 years from now.

Kinstler: Yeah. I mean, I was at the Capitol for the year anniversary of January 6 and watched all the ceremonies from the press gallery. And it just struck me how it was almost like a kind of nothing. You know, like how it was—

Rosin: What do you mean?

Kinstler: It was just so quiet, somber, of course. But there was no fan—you didn’t get the sense of the enormity of the event that was being consecrated, right? And it was almost like—and understandable because it was so close and so terrifying—there was this sense that we haven’t figured this out yet.

William Hungate: The Subcommittee on Criminal Justice of the House Committee on the Judiciary today welcomes the president of the United States, Gerald R. Ford.

Ford: As a people, we have a long record of forgiving even those who have been our country’s most destructive foes. Yet to forgive is not to forget the lessons of evil and whatever ways evil has operated against us.

[Music]

Rosin: This episode of Radio Atlantic was produced by Jinae West and edited by Claudine Ebeid. It was engineered by Rob Smierciak and fact-checked by Sara Krolewski. Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor.

I’m Hanna Rosin. Thanks for listening.

Israel and Hamas have reached a hostage-release and cease-fire agreement, offering a measure of relief and hope to the region. But the deal brings no certain closure to the catastrophic Gaza war. It does not guarantee an end to the fighting, a full release of the Israeli hostages, or a lasting political solution for Gaza.

For Israelis, joy at the return of some of the hostages is tempered by trepidation about the fate of the rest. The deal provides for a six-week cease-fire, during which 33 Israeli hostages will come home—some alive, some for burial—in exchange for the release of a much larger number of Palestinian prisoners held by Israel. A second stage of negotiations will then begin, to include the return of the remaining 65 hostages in Gaza and a lasting cease-fire. The success of those talks is just one of the questions the current deal leaves open.

Another is why the agreement wasn’t reached months ago. The framework appears to be the same one—“but for a few small nuances,” the Israeli ex–cabinet minister and former general Gadi Eisenkot said in a radio interview yesterday—that President Joe Biden presented last spring. Had both parties agreed to these terms then, thousands of Gazans might still be alive, and the recent destruction in the northern Gaza Strip could have been averted. At least eight Israeli hostages—including Hersh Goldberg-Polin, the best-known—might have survived, along with more than 100 Israeli soldiers.

So why was the agreement reached only now? The most significant development in recent days appears to be Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s new urgency. This week, unlike in May, he pressed the leaders of his coalition’s two resistant, far-right parties to accept a hostage agreement. One new element is Donald Trump. The president-elect demanded a hostage deal before his inauguration, promising that there would be “hell to pay” otherwise. He sent his own envoy, Steven Witkoff, to Qatar, where the indirect negotiations were taking place. Witkoff went from Qatar to Israel on Saturday and insisted on having a meeting with the prime minister on the afternoon of the Jewish sabbath—a violation of Israeli protocol rudely designed to remind Netanyahu who was the vassal and who was the suzerain.

Israeli government and military sources have tried to explain the timing of the deal to national media outlets by pointing to the death of Hamas’s leader Yahya Sinwar in October; the defeats suffered by its Lebanese ally, Hezbollah; and the devastation of northern Gaza. But the purpose of this account largely appears to be presenting the agreement as the fruit of Israel’s military success—rather than a sharp change of course under pressure. In reality, Hamas managed to sustain its war of attrition despite being weakened.

[Read: Sinwar’s death changes nothing]

Meanwhile, Netanyahu’s willingness to pursue a deal is a major reversal. Last summer, he reportedly stymied progress toward a cease-fire by raising new conditions, which infuriated his then–defense minister, Yoav Gallant. (The dispute was one reason Netanyahu dismissed Gallant in November.)

The Israeli right, which assumed that Trump’s bluster was aimed only at Hamas, is in shock. One clue as to what Trump may have threatened—or promised—the prime minister has come from leaks about Netanyahu’s talks with his finance minister, Bezalel Smotrich. The leader of the far-right Religious Zionist Party, Smotrich is a prominent patron of West Bank settlement. In a meeting between the two on Sunday, Netanyahu reportedly told Smotrich that “we must not harm relations with the Trump administration,” and explained that Trump would help with the government’s designs for “Judea and Samaria”—apparently referring to plans to expand West Bank settlement construction.

That promise did not satisfy Smotrich’s party. After a meeting of its Knesset members today, the party demanded a commitment from Netanyahu that he resume the war “after completion of the first stage of the deal.” This, it said, was “a condition for the party remaining in the [ruling] coalition and the government.” As of this writing, Netanyahu has not responded.

While the ultimatum is unlikely to scuttle the deal immediately, it underlines a central question: whether the first stage will lead to an agreement on the next one and a lasting cease-fire. The previous agreement, in November 2023, furnished only a pause. This one could be similar—a six-week hiatus, after which the fighting and destruction resume, while the rest of the hostages remain in Gaza.

A more lasting settlement would require political arrangements in Gaza that Netanyahu has so far studiously avoided discussing. Gaza needs a new Palestinian governing authority, with its own forces or foreign troops capable of keeping the peace. Without that, Hamas will almost certainly resume control in the shattered territory after Israeli troops pull out—and this war will have been just one particularly destructive round of fighting, but not the last. Israel should have been working with the United States, Egypt, the United Arab Emirates, and the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank to create the framework for a new government in Gaza from the very beginning of this conflict. Instead, by failing to define a policy for Gaza’s future, the Netanyahu government turned the war into a highway to nowhere.

[Yair Rosenberg: Trump made the Gaza cease-fire happen]

Netanyahu’s far-right partners have pledged to reverse the 2005 Israeli withdrawal from Gaza and resume Israeli settlement there. Netanyahu has not endorsed that goal, but he has opposed any governing role for the Palestinian Authority in Gaza, despite the fact that foreign partners consider its inclusion essential. Outgoing Secretary of State Antony Blinken emphasized as much in a speech on Tuesday.

For the second stage of the deal to succeed—for the war to end and for the remaining hostages to come home—both Hamas and the Israeli government will have to face the complex problem of Gaza’s future. Anyone who wants an end to the agony of the past 15 months must conjure up at least a quarter measure of hope. But best to hold off on any celebrations until a final deal is reached.

The image that really got me on social media this week was a faded photo of a man and woman, standing on what looks like the front steps of their home. It’s a candid shot—both are focusing their attention on an infant cradled in the mother’s arm. It is likely one of the first photos of a new family, and the caption broke my heart: “This photo was blown into our yard during the Eaton Canyon fire. Anyone from Pasadena/Altadena recognize these people?”

The picture is perfectly intact, not singed or torn, yet it seems to represent an entire universe of loss. Staring at the photo, a piece of family history scattered by the same winds that fuel the Los Angeles fires, you can just begin to see the contours of what is gone. The kind of grief that cannot be inventoried in an insurance claim.

And then you scroll. A satellite photo of a charred, leveled neighborhood is sandwiched next to some career news. On Instagram, I see a GoFundMe for a woman who is nine months pregnant and just lost her house; it’s followed immediately by someone else’s ebullient ski-vacation photos and a skin-care advertisement. I proceed through the “For You” feed on X and find Elon Musk replying to a video where Alex Jones claims the fires are part of a globalist plot to ruin the United States (“True,” he said), and blaming the fires on DEI initiatives; then a shitpost about Meta’s content-moderation changes (“On my way to comment ‘retard’ on every facebook post,” it reads, with 297,000 views). I scroll again: “Celebrities Reveal How They REALLY Feel About Kelly Clarkson,” another post teases. This is followed by a post about a new red-flag warning in L.A.: The fire is not relenting.

[Read: The unfightable fire]

To watch the destruction in Los Angeles through the prism of our fractured social-media ecosystem is to feel acutely disoriented. The country is burning; your friends are going on vacation; next week Donald Trump will be president; the government is setting the fires to stage a “land grab”; a new cannabis-infused drink will help you “crush” Dry January. Mutual-aid posts stand alongside those from climate denialists and doomers. Stay online long enough and it’s easy to get a sense that the world is simultaneously ending and somehow indifferent to that fact. It all feels ridiculous. A viral post suggests that “climate change will manifest as a series of disasters viewed through phones with footage that gets closer and closer to where you live until you’re the one filming it.” You scroll some more and learn that the author of that post wrote the line while on the toilet (though the author has since deleted the confession).

Call it doomscrolling, gawking, bearing witness, or whatever you want, but there is an irresistible pull in moments of disaster to consume information. This is coupled with the bone-deep realization that the experience of staring at our devices while others suffer rarely provides the solidarity one might hope. Amanda Hess captured this distinctly modern feeling in a 2023 article about watching footage of dead Gazan children on Instagram: “I am not a survivor or a responder. I’m a witness, or a voyeur. The distress I am feeling is shame.”

For those on the ground, these networks mean something different. These people do not need to bear witness: They need specific information about their circumstances, and they need help. But the chaos of our social platforms and the splintered nature of a hollowed-out media industry extend the disorientation to them as well. “This time, I’m a civilian,” Matt Pearce, a Los Angeles–based journalist, wrote last week. “And this time, the user experience of getting information about a disaster unfolding around me was dogshit.” Anna Merlan, a reporter for Mother Jones, chronicled the experience of sifting through countless conspiracy theories and false-flag posts while watching the fires encroach on her home and packing her car to evacuate.

As I read these dispatches and watch helplessly from afar, the phrase time on site bangs around in my head. This is the metric that social-media companies optimize for, and it means what it sounds like: the amount of time that people spend on these apps. In recent years, there has been much handwringing over how much time users are spending on site; Tech-industry veterans such as Tristan Harris have made lucrative second careers warning of the addictive, exploitative nature of tech platforms and their algorithms. Harris’s crusade began in 2016, when he suggested a healthier metric of “time well spent,” which sought to reverse the “digital attention crisis.” This became its own kind of metric, adopted by Mark Zuckerberg in 2018 as Facebook’s north star for user satisfaction. Since then, the phrase has fallen out of favor. Harris rebranded his effort away from time well spent to a focus on “humane” technology.

But the worries persist. Parents obsess over the vague metric of “screen time,” while researchers write best-selling books and debate what, exactly, phones and social media are doing to kids and how to prove it. American politicians are so worried about time on site—especially when its by-product, metadata, is being collected by foreign governments—that the United States may very well ban TikTok, an app used by roughly one-third of the country’s adults. (In protest, many users have simply started spending time on another Chinese site, Xiaohongshu.) Many people suspect that time on site can’t be good for us, yet time on site also is how many of us learn about the world, form communities, and entertain ourselves. The experience of logging on and consuming information through the algorithmic morass of our feeds has never felt more dispiriting, commoditized, chaotic, and unhelpful than it does right now.

[Read: No one knows exactly what social media is doing to teens]

It is useful, then, to juxtapose this information ecosystem—one that’s largely governed by culture-warring tech executives and populated by attention seekers—with a true technological public good. Last week, I downloaded Watch Duty, a free app that provides evacuation notices, up-to-date fire maps, and information such as wind direction and air-quality alerts. The app, which was founded in 2021 after fires ravaged Sonoma County, California, has become a crucial piece of information infrastructure for L.A. residents and first responders. It is run by a nonprofit as a public service, with volunteer reporters and full-time staff who help vet information. Millions have downloaded the app just this month.

Watch Duty appears to be saving lives at a time when local-government services have been less than reliable, sending out incorrect evacuation notices to residents. It is a shining example of technology at its best and most useful, and so I was struck by something one of its co-founders, David Merritt, told to The Verge over the weekend: “We don’t want you to spend time in the app,” he said. “You get information and get out. We have the option of adding more photos, but we limit those to the ones that provide different views of a fire we have been tracking. We don’t want people doom scrolling.” This, he rightly argues, is “the antithesis of what a lot of tech does.”

The contrast between Watch Duty and broad swaths of the internet feels especially stark in the early days of 2025. The toxic incentives and environments of our other apps are as visible as ever, and the men behind these services—Musk and Zuckerberg especially—seem intent on making the experience of using them worse than ever. It’s all in service of engagement, of more time on site. Musk, who has transformed X into a superfund site of conspiracy theorizing, crypto ads, hateful posts, and low-rent memes, has been vehement that he wants his users to come to the platform and never leave. He has allegedly deprioritized hyperlinks that would take people away from the platform to other sites. (Musk did not deny that this is happening when confronted by Paul Graham, a Y Combinator co-founder.) He has his own name for the metric he wants X to optimize for: unregretted user seconds.

Zuckerberg recently announced his own version of the Muskian playbook, which seeks to turn his Meta platforms into a more lawless posting zone, including getting rid of fact-checkers and turning off its automated moderation systems on all content but “illegal and high-severity violations.” That system kept spam and disinformation content from flooding the platform. Make no mistake: This, too, is its own play for time on site. In an interview last month with the Financial Times, a Meta executive revealed that the company plans to experiment with introducing generative-AI-powered chatbots into its services, behaving like regular users. Connor Hayes, vice president of product for generative AI at Meta, says that this feature—which, I should add, nobody asked for—is a “priority” for the company over the next two years. This is supposed to align with another goal, which is to make its apps “more entertaining and engaging.”

This should feel more than disheartening for anyone who cares about or still believes in the promise of the internet and technology to broaden our worldview, increase resilience, and expose us to the version of humanity that is always worth helping and saving. Spending time on site has arguably never felt this bad; the forecast suggests that it will only get worse.

In recent days, I’ve been revisiting some of the work of the climate futurist Alex Steffen, who has a knack for putting language to our planetary crisis. The unprecedented disasters that appear now with more frequency are an example of discontinuity, where “past experience loses its value as a guide to decision-making about the future.” Steffen argues that we have no choice but to adapt to this reality and anticipate how we’ll survive it. He offers no panaceas or bromides. The climate crisis will come for each of us, but will affect us unevenly. We are not all in this together, he argues. But action is needed—specifically, proactive fixes that make our broken systems more effective and durable.

Clearly our information systems are in need of such work. They feel like they were built for a world we no longer inhabit. Most of them are run by billionaires who can afford to insulate themselves from reality, at least for now. I don’t see an end to the discontinuity or brokenness of our internet. But there are glimpses of resilience. Maybe platforms like Watch Duty offer a template. “I don’t want to sell this,” John Clarke Mills, the company’s CEO, told The Hollywood Reporter on Monday. He went further: “No one should own this. The fact that I have to do this with my team is not OK. Part of this is out of spite. I’m angry that I’m here having to do this, and the government hasn’t spent the money to do this themselves.” Mills’s anger is righteous, but it could also be instructive. Instead of building things that make us feel powerless, Mills is building tools that give people information that can be turned into agency.

There’s no tidy conclusion to any of this. There is loss, fear, anger, but also hope. Days later, I went to check back on the post that contained that photo of the man and woman with a child. I’d hoped that the internet would work its magic to reunite the photo with those who’d lost it. Throughout the replies are people trying to signal-boost the post. In one reply, a local news producer asks for permission to do a story about the photograph. Another person thinks they have a lead on the family. So far, there’s no happy ending. But there is hope.

Donald Trump’s repeated promise to consider pardons for the January 6 attackers is rightly seen as a craven political move, one that would both satiate his base and bolster the lie that the violent assault on the U.S. Capitol was a peaceful protest, and that those who have been charged and convicted are political prisoners or even “hostages.” But the promise is something graver too: Blanket pardons for the January 6 rioters would be a severe assault on the legitimacy of the criminal legal system, and in particular, on the role of the judiciary in that system.

Since January 6, 2021, the federal judges of the district court in Washington, D.C., have worked tirelessly to handle the nearly 1,600 criminal cases brought by the U.S. Department of Justice against those who allegedly attacked police officers, damaged and stole government property, caused members of Congress and the vice president of the United States to flee for their lives, and prevented the counting of the Electoral College ballots for more than six hours. The charged crimes have ranged from misdemeanors such as trespassing and disorderly conduct to serious felonies such as assaulting police, obstructing an official proceeding, and seditious conspiracy.

In every case, federal judges have worked to ensure that the defendant’s constitutional rights have been protected, including the rights to counsel, due process of law, and a jury trial. More than 1,000 of those charged have pleaded guilty. More than 250 have been found guilty after a trial. More than 800 have received sentences of incarceration, including some who were permitted to serve their sentences in home detention. Others have received sentences of probation. And through it all, the federal judges—whether appointed by a Republican president, a Democratic president, or former President Trump himself—have devoted themselves to carefully stewarding their cases in accordance with U.S. law.

[Tom Nichols: Trump’s dangerous January 6–pardon promise]

This has required thousands of hours of intense, difficult work. These judges have seen the evidence over and over again—seen their fellow Americans beat police with baseball bats and flagpoles, erect a gallows to hang the vice president, scale the walls of the Capitol and break through its windows, and brag about their insurrection on social media. They have sentenced some who are contrite and remorseful, and many others who remain defiant and unapologetic, amplifying the lies about January 6. Regardless of political affiliation, the judges have been uniform in condemning the acts of those convicted in their courtrooms.

As Royce C. Lamberth, a Republican-appointed judge with nearly 40 years on the bench, said at the sentencing of a January 6 defendant:

The Court cannot condone the shameless attempts by [the defendant] or anyone else to misinterpret or misrepresent what happened. It cannot condone the notion that those who broke the law on January 6 did nothing wrong, or that those duly convicted with all the safeguards of the United States Constitution, including a right to trial by jury in felony cases, are political prisoners or hostages.

So let me set the record straight, based on what I’ve learned presiding over many January 6 prosecutions, hearing from dozens of witnesses, watching hundreds of hours of video footage, and reading thousands of pages of evidence. On January 6, 2021, a mob of people invaded and occupied the United States Capitol, using force to interrupt the peaceful transfer of power mandated by the Constitution and our republican heritage …

Although the rioters failed in their ultimate goal, their actions nonetheless resulted in the deaths of multiple people, injury to over 140 members of law enforcement, and lasting trauma for our entire nation.  This was not patriotism; it was the antithesis of patriotism.  

These same judges, many of whom have been threatened with violence by supporters of the January 6 defendants, are now being asked by those appearing before them to postpone their proceedings, including their sentencings, because Donald Trump has promised to pardon them. For the most part, the judges have remained firm and pressed ahead. As Judge Reggie B. Walton, another Republican-appointed judge, noted, “The potential future exercise of the discretionary pardon power, an Executive Branch authority, is irrelevant to the Court’s obligation to carry out the legal responsibilities of the Judicial Branch.” Judge Carl J. Nichols, who was appointed by Trump, lamented that “blanket pardons for all January 6 defendants or anything close would be beyond frustrating and disappointing,” though he added that it wasn’t his “call” and agreed to reschedule a jury trial from late 2024 to after the inauguration.

[Paul Rosenzweig: Pardon Trump’s critics now]

The judicial branch is an integral part of our country’s criminal legal system. Federal judges in the nation’s district courts must ensure that every defendant before them is treated fairly and afforded the same constitutional rights. It is their responsibility to dispense justice not only to those with means, or to those in the president’s favor, but to those who are indigent and far out of favor. And in my experience as a former federal prosecutor for nearly 20 years, most defendants respect the judges who handle their case and accept the sentence imposed on them.  

Some defendants who have been sentenced by a federal judge later receive clemency—either a pardon or commutation of sentence—from the president. This act of mercy is sometimes granted to defendants who have accepted responsibility and changed their lives for the better while serving their sentence. Sometimes it is used when sentencing practices have changed dramatically, making sentences imposed long ago seem draconian. But it would be an all-out assault on our criminal legal system, and on the role of the judiciary in that system, to issue blanket pardons to the January 6 attackers regardless of the seriousness of their crimes, their remorse (or lack thereof), and their actions post–January 6. These federal judges deserve more respect than that.

One of the most powerful inventions of the 20th century is also an object that no one ever wants a reason to use. The sexual-assault-evidence collection box, colloquially known as the “rape kit,” is a simple yet potent tool: a small case, perhaps made of cardboard, containing items such as sterile nail clippers, cotton swabs, slides for holding bodily fluids, paper bags, and a tiny plastic comb. Designed to gather and preserve biological evidence found on the body of a person reporting a sexual assault, it introduced standardized forensics into the investigation of rape where there had previously been no common protocol. Its contents could be used in court to establish facts so that juries wouldn’t have to rely solely on testimony, making it easier to convict the guilty and exonerate the innocent.

The kit, conceived within the Chicago Police Department in the mid-1970s, was trademarked under the name “Vitullo Evidence Collection Kit,” after Sergeant Louis Vitullo. The Chicago police officer had a well-publicized role in the 1967 conviction of Richard Speck, who had murdered eight student nurses in one night. Vitullo’s second claim to fame is more complicated. The Secret History of the Rape Kit, a revealing new book by the journalist Pagan Kennedy, doubles as an account of the largely unknown history of the collection box’s real inventor—a woman named Martha “Marty” Goddard, whose broader goal of empowering survivors led her to cede credit to a man. In a cruel irony, a woman who drove major social change failed to get her due as a result of politics and sexism.

Kennedy became obsessed with the rape kit in 2018, after hearing Christine Blasey Ford testify during the confirmation process for Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh, and wondered, “Had anything ever been specifically invented to discourage sexual assault?” Her investigative dive begins in 1970s Chicago, where the women’s-liberation movement was gaining ground and the police had a reputation for corruption. The brutality of the police crackdown on protesters at the 1968 Democratic National Convention was still fresh in the public mind. Rape was also rampant throughout the city, Kennedy writes—in 1973, according to an article in the Daily Herald, an estimated 16,000 sexual assaults took place, only a tenth of which were reported. And less than 10 percent of those 10 percent led to a criminal trial. In court, the proceedings usually devolved into “he said, she said.”

In 1974, Goddard was a divorcée in her early 30s working for a philanthropic organization that tapped into a local family department-store fortune to help Chicago’s needy. The job gave Goddard, whom a friend once described as “fucking relentless,” access to a wide swath of the people who formed the city’s civic backbone. She also volunteered for a teen-crisis center, where she heard stories from runaways who had experienced sexual abuse. Goddard, who grew up with an abusive father and had briefly run away from home as a teenager, became consumed with the question of why so few women reported rapes—and why perpetrators were rarely punished.

That year, she met with the state’s attorney Bernard Carey to discuss the “failure points in the sexual assault evidence system.” He soon appointed her to a new citizens’ advisory panel affiliated with the city’s new Rape Task Force. Goddard thus gained access to the police department and, more important, to its crime lab. She discovered that it was a mess. Cops told her that they didn’t even receive usable evidence from the hospital, such as properly collected swabs of semen, saliva, and blood. This was in part because hospital staff had never been trained to collect it properly. But even when police officers did have evidence, they weren’t always trained to preserve it.

Goddard approached Sergeant Vitullo, the crime lab’s chief microanalyst, with a written description of her vision: a sexual-assault-evidence collection kit. As one of Goddard’s colleagues told Kennedy, Vitullo “screamed at her” and told her to leave his office.

A few days later, Kennedy reports, Vitullo invited Goddard back and, to her surprise, showed her a complete mock-up of exactly the box she had described. Both the sergeant and the State’s Attorney’s Office wanted the credit for Goddard’s idea. As a compromise, Goddard agreed to have the kit recognized as a collaboration among them. Her accommodation was realistic and also strategic. She knew that “[Vitullo’s] name could open doors—and hers couldn’t,” Kennedy writes. Goddard was a visionary, but she was not a lawyer, a cop, or an expert, and she had no formal experience in forensics.

[Read: American law does not take rape seriously]

In 1978, a nonprofit group Goddard had formed, Citizens Committee for Victims Assistance, filed a trademark for the Vitullo Evidence Collection Kit. With this move, Goddard had, as Kennedy puts it, “seemed to collaborate in her own erasure.” That same year, The New York Times noted that the “Vitullo kit” was being used in 72 hospitals across Chicago, citing Goddard as the kit’s co-creator. Mentions of her in the media were otherwise glancing at best. Upon Vitullo’s death in 2006, Kennedy writes, “an obituary in a local paper celebrated him as the ‘man who invented the rape kit.’”

Many women inventors have shared a similar fate. This past November, Kay Koplovitz, a co-founder of the business accelerator Springboard Enterprises and the founder of television’s USA Networks, noted in an interview with The New York Times that “if a woman co-founder has at least one male co-founder, the woman somehow does not get credit for raising the capital.” In science, this phenomenon is so common that it even has a term of art: the Matilda Effect, named for the writer and women’s activist Matilda Joslyn Gage. There are scores of examples of the Matilda Effect, but to pick just a couple: Lise Meitner described the theory behind what she named nuclear fission, but credit went to her former lab partner Otto Hahn, who won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1944. Eunice Newton Foote described the greenhouse effect in 1856, but posterity remembers John Tyndall, who presented his own experiments three years later. No known photograph of Foote remains today.

Every one of these backstories carries its own particular ironies. In Kennedy’s telling, Goddard’s obscurity stems from the sacrifices she made for the rape kit to exist. Not only did she relinquish credit for her invention, but she also did all the grunt work to get it out into the world—including the fundraising. Conservative philanthropists were just as squeamish as Sergeant Vitullo had initially been about the idea of being associated with sexual shame; the word rape simply carried too much stigma. And so she turned to an organization that had made shamelessness its mission; through her nonprofit, she applied for and received a grant of $10,000 from the Playboy Foundation. “I decided,” she later said, “we had to put aside our feelings for objectification of women in [Playboy] magazine.”

Taking money from the philanthropic arm of a nudie-magazine publisher turned out to be a canny move. Playboy’s foundation, also headquartered in Chicago, gave generously to progressive causes. Hugh Hefner, the founder and editor in chief of Playboy, considered the feminist movement “a sister cause to his own effort to free men from shame and guilt,” Kennedy wrote in The New York Times, in an opinion article that fueled the book.

Kennedy does not mention that Hefner was the subject of several accusations of sexual assault, both before and after his death in 2017. (The director Peter Bogdanovich claimed in his book The Killing of the Unicorn, published in 1984, that Hefner sexually assaulted Bogdanovich’s late partner, the playmate Dorothy Stratten. Hefner denied the allegation.)

Still, when it came to Goddard’s invention, Playboy stayed true to its public mission, and the organization donated more than money. The magazine’s graphic artists designed the outer box of the original rape kit to feature a bright-blue line drawing of a woman’s face swathed in a thick mane of wavy hair. An early “Vitullo kit” was recently acquired by the Smithsonian.

In 1982, New York City adopted the Vitullo kit, and Goddard commuted to the East Coast to train doctors, nurses, and cops. The Department of Justice paid her to travel to other states that wanted to develop their own rape-kit programs. Goddard invented not just the box but the entire training system, teaching hospital staff and the police to collaborate on evidence collection.

Without that essential training to help surmount powerful systemic barriers, the kit would have been useless—and in that sense, the job is still woefully unfinished. Untested rape kits have languished across the country: In 2009, more than 11,000 were discovered abandoned in Detroit; in 2014, Memphis had backlog of more than 12,000 kits, and 200 more were found in a warehouse. One study estimates that from 2014 to 2018, 300,000 to 400,000 kits remained untested in the United States. Since then, aggressive fundraising efforts with help from survivors, combined with $350 million from the Department of Justice, have whittled down that backlog significantly.

[Read: An epidemic of disbelief]

Kennedy examines the gaps that still remain in the medical system. In 2021, just over 2,100 Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner–certified nurses were registered with the International Association of Forensic Nurses. The examination requires survivors to undergo hours of waiting and testing, and can feel invasive and re-traumatizing. This may be one reason so few people—only one-fourth of victims— report rapes, she writes.

Some of these limitations can be traced to a lack of effective innovation in the 50 years since the Vitullo kit was developed. In recent years, several women have conceived of and even sold at-home rape kits that would allow a victim to collect evidence of her assault herself. These ideas and products were met with strong resistance—and in one case, death threats. Detractors argued that self-collected evidence would never be taken seriously by juries. Apparently, accusers were still considered unreliable. Only after COVID made virtual doctor visits a necessity did the push for at-home testing gain a modicum of traction. With an at-home test, the victim received instructions, sometimes via a virtual nurse, on how to swab her own body, collect other physical evidence, and seal the kit.

In the late 1980s, Goddard abruptly disappeared from public life and lost contact with friends and family members. Kennedy painstakingly traces the confluence of events that may have led to her decline: In the late ’70s, she survived a violent rape while on vacation in Hawaii. A workaholic, she seems to have reached the point of burnout by the end of the decade. Somewhere along the line, she developed a problem with drinking. Kennedy concludes that she “bounced around the country, taking odd jobs and drinking heavily,” until finally settling in Arizona.

Kennedy works deftly with sometimes scant information, weaving her reporting on Goddard’s life and contribution into the narrative. The result is less a true-crime story, as advertised in the subtitle, than a page-turning mystery. The subject is also personal for Kennedy, who was molested in childhood. She confesses that her book was fueled by rage, pain, and her desire to restore “the woman who had believed little girls” to her rightful place in history.

As Goddard’s life shrank, the influence of the rape kit grew exponentially—especially after DNA fingerprinting was invented in 1984, eventually making it possible to trace a single drop of sperm or blood to a specific person. Evidence stored in the kits, sometimes for decades, allowed cold cases to be solved and wrongful convictions to be overturned.

Goddard’s last years were marked by alcoholism, erratic behavior, and diagnoses of dementia and “manic depression.” In 2015—the year of her death—a CNN reporter managed to track Goddard down. The resulting article credited Vitullo with the invention but noted Goddard’s role in distributing it, describing her as the “formidable woman” behind the “successful man.” During the interview, Goddard expressed anger at how her role had been downsized, calling Vitullo “an asshole.” The sergeant “had nothing to do with it,” she told the reporter. But those comments never made it into the story, partly because Vitullo was no longer around to defend himself and partly because Goddard struck the journalist as an unreliable witness—a woman who couldn’t be believed.

Thanks to Kennedy’s dogged reporting, CNN’s story wasn’t the final one, and Goddard can step out from the shadows of history. Upon Goddard’s death, no ceremonies or memorials marked her passing. In accordance with her wishes, there was no funeral or obituary. Nevertheless, her work leaves a remarkable legacy. The rape kit reoriented the public attitude toward survivors—as not potential liars but “an eyewitness whose body might reveal real evidence of a violent crime.” Yet Kennedy’s book isn’t just the hero’s journey of a forgotten heroine. It acknowledges that the system works best when it can be improved by those who are most affected by sexual assault—and the women who are willing to risk obscurity or damage to their reputation in order to finish the job Goddard started.