Ken Rudin joins The Great Battlefield podcast to talk about his career as a journalist at NPR, hosting his podcast, The Political Junkie and why he's changed his nonpartisan orientation in the Trump era.
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Anthropic’s lawsuit against the Trump administration over a Pentagon “supply-chain risk” label raises major constitutional questions about AI policy, corporate speech, and political retaliation.
Anthropic’s dispute with the Trump administration is no longer just about AI policy; it has escalated into a constitutional test of whether American companies can uphold their values against political retaliation. After the administration labeled Anthropic a “supply‑chain risk”, a designation historically reserved for foreign adversaries, and ordered federal agencies to cease using its technology, the company did not yield. Instead, Anthropic filed two lawsuits: one in the Northern District of California and another in the D.C. Circuit, each challenging different aspects of the government’s actions and calling them “unprecedented and unlawful.”
The Pentagon has now formally issued the supply‑chain risk designation, triggering immediate cancellations of federal contracts and jeopardizing “hundreds of millions of dollars” in near‑term revenue. Anthropic’s filings describe the losses as “unrecoverable,” with reputational damage compounding the financial harm. Yet even as the government blacklists the company, the Pentagon continues using Claude in classified systems because the model is deeply embedded in wartime workflows. This contradiction underscores the political nature of the designation: a tool deemed too “dangerous” to be used by federal agencies is simultaneously indispensable in active military operations.
The rhetoric has escalated as well. President Trump publicly attacked Anthropic as a “radical left” company and ordered agencies to “IMMEDIATELY CEASE” using its technology, while Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth insisted the company must accept “all lawful uses” of Claude, including those Anthropic considers ethically impermissible. The administration’s position is clear: refusing to enable mass surveillance or lethal autonomous weapons is grounds for punishment.
What’s striking is not just Anthropic’s refusal to yield but the wider commercial reaction. Silence can look like complicity, and complicity erodes trust faster than any political reward. The backlash against Bud Light after its brief partnership with a transgender influencer, leading to sales drops and resignations, shows how quickly culture reacts to perceived lapses. The slow response to an advertising controversy fueled boycotts and lasting damage. Silence or weak messaging erodes trust across industries. Anthropic’s stand now prompts overdue questions: What is the long-term cost of sacrificing values for appeasement? Is it enough for you to trust a president who demands loyalty but offers no stability in return? How would you respond if the pressure to compromise your values came directly to your doorstep?
This moment provides a rare clarity. It shows that corporate courage is not only compatible with long-term business health—it may be essential to it. In the sections that follow, we will examine real-world cases, review how the Constitution shapes this conflict, and trace how other companies are responding to these pressures. This roadmap will clarify not only why courage matters, but how it translates into lasting trust and competitive advantage. And it prompts other American companies to decide whether they will retreat into self-preservation or step forward to defend the democratic norms and moral boundaries that make innovation possible in the first place.
The central significance of the Anthropic case is its focus on a constitutional boundary: may the executive use state power to punish companies for disagreeing politically? The First Amendment’s protections cover both the right to speak and the right to refuse to endorse. When refusal makes a company a “risk,” retaliation is clear, and this is precisely what the Constitution seeks to prevent.
Anthropic’s lawsuit signals a deeper warning: If the government can label tech companies as security threats solely for refusing practices they deem unethical, then all industries risk punishment for political noncompliance. The precedent would make political allegiance central to business operations.
Other companies are responding quickly. Some do so quietly, evaluating risks at the highest levels. Others speak out, weighing the reputational risk of inaction higher than that of government backlash. In tech, firms now express unwillingness to enable mass surveillance. Legal advice is increasingly central as compliance with unpredictable federal directives threatens market stability.
Companies need to understand that the real risk is not in defying political pressure; it is in appearing to abandon their values when that pressure arrives. Trust, once lost, is nearly impossible to rebuild. In operational terms, trust is reflected in tangible business indicators: companies with higher employee retention rates, stronger talent pipelines, and superior customer net promoter scores consistently outperform their peers. Fortune 500 firms that rank highest in trust-based metrics regularly report greater consumer loyalty and more job applications from top candidates. Trust is not simply an abstract value; it is a measurable source of competitive advantage.
This moment tests the rediscovery of an old American idea: prosperity and principle are not opposing forces but mutually reinforcing. The companies that endure will not be those that bend most easily to political winds but those that show a consistent moral compass, even when the cost is real. Anthropic’s stand is not simply a legal maneuver. It should remind us that success with honor is still possible, and perhaps more necessary than ever.
In a political climate defined by loyalty tests and punitive governance, corporate courage becomes a civic act. When companies choose principle over intimidation, they do more than protect their bottom line; they help preserve the democratic norms that make free enterprise possible in the first place.
David Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
As AI transforms the labor market, the U.S. faces a familiar challenge: preparing workers for new skills. A look at a 1991 Labor Department report reveals striking parallels.
“Today, the demands on business and workers are different. Firms must meet world-class standards, and so must workers. Employers seek adaptability and the ability to learn and work in teams.”
Sound familiar?
It’s the sort of guidance you’ll find on X, in studies issued by nonprofits, and, as I recently dug up, a report by the Department of Labor published in 1991. The familiarity is striking—and not accidental. Periods of economic transition tend to produce the same anxieties, framed in remarkably similar language.
The Labor Secretary spun up a commission to study “the demands of the workplace and whether young people were meeting those demands.” This was an important question at that moment for a couple of reasons. First, the economic prospects of the next generation of Americans did not look bright. Unemployment among young adults stood at 9.6 percent at the start of 1991; it climbed to north of ten percent within a few months.
Second, there was a concern that the economy was transforming at a faster rate than educational curriculums. “[M]ore than half of our young people leave school without the knowledge or foundation required to find and hold a good job,” observed the Secretary. Against that backdrop, the gap between schooling and work felt urgent rather than abstract. The Secretary’s Commission on Achieving Necessary Skills (SCANS) was thus formed and mandated to talk with educators, private sector stakeholders, and government officials to identify a path forward.
We find ourselves in a similar place today. Young adults have an 8.2 percent unemployment rate as of December of 2025. Pundits, researchers, and politicians fear our educational and vocational infrastructure is ill-suited for the labor market shifts being driven by AI. The technology may be new, but the underlying worry—that institutions are lagging behind economic reality—is not.
So far, our response seems to have been the same, too.
Then, there was a lot of talking, information gathering, and stakeholder engagement. These are all practical steps, in moderation, and they often feel like progress. “We have talked to [employers] in their stores, shops, government offices, and manufacturing facilities,” explained the Secretary. “Their message to us was the same across the country and in every kind of job: good jobs depend on people who can put knowledge to work.”
That groundwork was followed by something else that will also feel familiar to modern readers: a flood of broad statements about the skills Americans would need to thrive in a new technological era.
Take it from the Secretary:
New workers must be creative and responsible problem solvers and have the skills and attitudes on which employers can build. Traditional jobs are changing and new jobs are created everyday. High paying but unskilled jobs are disappearing. Employers and employees share the belief that all workplaces must ‘work smarter.’
From there, the conversation moved quickly from diagnosis to prescription—though not always with much specificity.
Then, there were a lot of generic policy recommendations.
The Secretary summarized the three takeaways from the SCANS report:
(1) “All American high school students must develop a new set of competencies and foundation skills if they are to enjoy a productive, full, and satisfying life.” This recommendation even called for equipping students with more “know-how.” Apparently, only one-half of young people had such “know-how.” Of course, a similar shortage of “know-how” is drawing headlines and shaping congressional debates today.
(2) “The qualities of high performance that today characterize our most competitive companies must become the standard for the vast majority of our companies, large and small, local and global.” Specifically, workers must become “comfortable with technology and complex systems, skilled as members of teams, and [passionate] for continuous learning.”
(3) “The nation’s schools must be transformed into high-performance organizations in their own right.” Notably, efforts at transformation were already underway but “a decade of reform efforts” had amounted to “little improvement.”
What there wasn’t a lot of was political prioritization and commitment—I’m talking a decades-long focus on “transforming the nation’s schools into high-performance organizations.” The Secretary's report did not lead to a sustained overhaul of the nation’s educational infrastructure. School as of 1991 looks more or less like school as of 2026. Ambition, it turns out, is easy to articulate and hard to finance, defend, and sustain. Transformation of just about anything—let alone something with as much resistance to change as our educational system—requires incredible amounts of political and financial resources to be expedited over several years.
That’s a lesson we must heed today. Just about every actor in our political system is incentivized to think on two-year time horizons (if that). These conditions are not conducive to initiating and sticking with transformational projects. Such changes are only possible if the public champions these efforts, providing political cover to those who are willing to incur short-term losses for long-term gains.
So, will we update our educational and vocational infrastructure for the Age of AI?
It depends. Specifically, it depends on whether we can collectively muster the focus and persistence that’s inherent to successful political projects—and whether we are willing to treat this challenge as more than another familiar talking point in a long line of reports that warned us, correctly, and were then quietly shelved.
Kevin Frazier is a Senior Fellow at the Abundance Institute, directs the AI Innovation and Law Program at the University of Texas School of Law, and is an Affiliated Research Fellow at the Cato Institute.
For as long as I’ve worked in democracy reform, I’ve watched people use non‑partisan and non‑biased as if they meant the same thing. They don’t. This confusion has distorted how Americans judge the credibility of the democracy reform movement, journalists, and even one another. We have created an impossible expectation that anyone who claims to be non‑partisan must also be free of bias.
Non‑partisanship, at its core, is not taking sides in political debates or endorsing a party, candidate, or ideology. It creates space for fair, balanced dialogue accessible to multiple perspectives. Nonpartisan environments encourage discussion and explanation of various viewpoints.
Non-partisanship should not be confused with neutrality, which implies a lack of engagement. Neutrality is like the umpire who simply calls balls and strikes. By contrast, nonpartisanship is like a mediator who brings both teams together for active engagement on important issues, balancing the goal of finding common ground to solve problems.
The two operate on different planes, and understanding the difference is essential if we want to rebuild trust in our civic life.
Bias, on the other hand, is not a choice. It is the sum of your experiences, values, education, fears, hopes, and identity. It shapes what you notice, what you ignore, what you believe is urgent, and what you believe is possible. Bias is not inherently negative; it is simply the perspective through which each of us sees the world. The danger is not in having bias. The danger is in pretending we don’t.
Yet in American public life, we routinely collapse these two concepts. We expect non‑partisan organizations to behave as if they are neutral, blank‑slate observers. We expect journalists to write as if they have no worldview. We expect reformers to speak as if they have no personal history. And when they inevitably reveal a preference, a value, or a perspective, they risk being accused of violating their non‑partisan commitments.
This is a fundamental misunderstanding. Non‑partisanship does not require neutrality. It requires fairness and independence. It requires a willingness to evaluate ideas, behaviors, and institutions on their merits rather than their partisan utility. But it does not require erasing one’s biases; it requires understanding how they affect decision-making.
The most trustworthy non-partisans are often those who are transparent about their biases. They don’t pretend to be above the fray. They acknowledge the biases through which they see the world, then test their biased assumptions to ensure their personal preferences do not distort their institutional commitments. This is especially important in democracy reform, where the work is inherently value-laden. When we advocate for fairer elections, more accountable institutions, or a healthier political culture, we are not operating from a vacuum. We believe democracy works best when power is constrained, because checks and balances reduce abuse and encourage trust in the political system. We believe citizens must be informed, since an educated electorate leads to higher participation and fact-based decision-making at the ballot box. We insist that leaders need to be accountable because transparent oversight and consequences for misconduct yield less corruption and more responsive governance. These are values that mold our priorities. But they are not partisan.
The same is true in journalism. A reporter may have personal views about climate change, immigration, or voting rights. Those views do not automatically compromise their work. What compromises their work is the failure to be aware of those views, to disclose relevant conflicts, or to apply consistent standards. The expectation should not be that journalists have no biases, but rather that they manage them with discipline and transparency.
The irony is that the loudest accusations of “bias” in public life often come from people who are themselves deeply partisan. They wield the word as a weapon, not as a call for fairness. They demand neutrality from others while exempting themselves from the same standard. This double standard runs deeper than we admit. Let’s ask ourselves honestly: When have you expected flawless impartiality from another person or institution, while quietly believing your own preferences are justified? When have you demanded purity from others while guarding your own biases? Asking ourselves these questions can push us toward self-accountability, motivating us to recognize that admitting one’s biases should be treated as a sign of integrity, not a confession.
We should stop punishing people for having biases and start rewarding them for being honest about them. The health of our democracy depends not on eliminating bias, but on managing it responsibly. In my own work, whether through Bridge Alliance or The Fulcrum, I have learned that the most effective teams are not those that pretend to be bias-free. They are the ones who develop self-awareness, ask hard questions of themselves, invite challenges, and design processes that reduce the influence of individual blind spots. They build cultures in which transparency is a strength, not a vulnerability.
If we want a healthier democracy, we must stop demanding that people be unbiased and start asking them to be accountable. The health of our democracy depends on our ability to do both with humility, clarity, and devotion to finding the common good.
So allow me to leave you with a concrete invitation: What is one step you can take tomorrow to manage your own bias more responsibly, whether in your conversations, your work, or your civic life? Is it choosing a simple action, expressing your viewpoint transparently, inviting feedback from someone with a different view, or reflecting before reacting to disagreement?
By turning reflection into a commitment, you can help build the culture of confidence and responsibility that our democracy needs.
David Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
How social media “likes” distort political leadership, fuel polarization, and shape democracy—plus why platforms need new civic feedback signals.
In my work on leadership and followership, I’ve noticed something simple but powerful: followers shape leaders. Leaders adjust themselves in response to the signals they receive — not just in rallies and speeches, but increasingly in the digital sphere.
Social media “likes” and “hearts” send immediate feedback that can influence political behavior. In contrast, largely for commercial reasons, there are no equivalent icons to express dislikes or concerns.
Instead, one must enter the turbulent water of comments. These produce so much blowback that many otherwise engaged citizens avoid this option. A political leader or activist is left with a false view of the popularity of their ideas from the positive icons. This has consequences. Imagine a market in which only “buy” signals were possible, and not “sell” signals.
Anyone who has attended a political rally has seen this in action. A candidate says something that draws cheers. The crowd leans in. The candidate repeats the line, sharpens it, intensifies it, and hears more applause. Over time, that feedback loop pulls a leader further in a particular direction. Sometimes that produces clarity. More problematically, it produces excess that feeds the political hyper-polarization from which we now suffer.
This dynamic is not limited to one party. When strong rhetoric on the right gets rewarded, it escalates towards the authoritarian and “othering." When uncompromising language on the left gets amplified, it veers toward the dogmatic and shaming. Human beings respond to reinforcement. That is not ideology; it is social psychology.
Today, much of that distorting reinforcement happens on platforms such as X, Facebook, and Truth Social. Public figures receive immediate feedback. Approval takes one tap — a thumbs-up, a heart, or another positive icon. Disapproval, by contrast, requires a comment, which often means entering a highly distasteful fight.
The result is predictable. Applause is visible and measurable. Concern is either silent or argumentative. There is no simple way to say, “I’m not sure,” or “Slow down,” or “This is too much.” A distorted picture results that may become a basis for consequential action.
For those who care about institutional health, this engineered imbalance matters. In the mid-20th century, the Canadian media philosopher, Marshall McLuhan, summarized the phenomenon in the pithy saying, “The medium is the message." The design of our social media is further distorting our political and civic behavior.
In this dominant media form, we need ways to register concern without escalating into argument. In addition to a thumbs-up icon, why not have a thumbs-down option? Let’s go beyond that. Why not imagine additional civic signals? A question mark could mean, “I’m not sure about that.” A caution symbol could communicate, “Proceed carefully.” An extended outward palm could mean, “This is going too far.” A dial or gauge, “Turn it down a notch”.
Platforms design and test reaction buttons regularly. They experiment with small user groups, measure behavioral effects, and refine what works. These signals could be aggregated rather than personalized, allowing leaders to see the volume of concern without exposing individual users to retaliation. Responsible citizens can flock to the first major social media platform that adopts this, giving it and its competitors a commercial interest in supporting a civic virtue.
These enhancements will need to be insulated from manipulation by bot swarms and foreign dissimulators. They can be made more useful by offering an option to briefly explain why a follower is giving a signal, keeping this protected information.
If our public conversation increasingly takes place on privately designed platforms, then design choices carry public consequences. Democracy requires more than cheering with icons or mud wrestling in comments. It requires the steady ability of citizens to say: we have questions; we have concerns; let’s not go beyond the sensible to the dogmatic and extreme.
Given the omnipresence of social media, this is not a peripheral issue. It is a core design element for sustaining a coherent society and a functional representative democracy. Which platform will take the lead in better signal design, and who among us will follow them?
Ira Chaleff is the author of “To Stop a Tyrant: The Power of Political Followers."
Journalist and Political Junkie Ken Rudin
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