Walking into the lions den once might be deemed a reckless act, but returning after having been mauled by the lion? That raises the stakes significantly. Six years ago, I took to the stage at TED, the world's premier technology and ideas conference, sharing insights that would lead to a punishing lawsuit and a series of repercussions that still echo through my life today.

Fast forward to last week, and I found myself back at TED, ready to deliver another talk. This time, it would address my own experiences: a TED Talk about being sued for a previous TED Talk, and the survival lessons I gleaned from that ordeal. I aimed to communicate a vital message regarding what I term 'broligarchy' a concept I first explored in the Observer last July. This term describes the troubling alliance between Silicon Valley and autocracy, marking a shift in power dynamics we have never witnessed before.

The core message I wanted to impart to this influential audience was simple yet profound: politics intertwined with technology is the new reality, and technology has increasingly become a tool of political power.

As I prepared several drafts leading up to my talk in Vancouver, Canada, an overwhelming sense of anxiety washed over me, akin to a slow-motion panic attack. A single question loomed in my mind like a persistent ache: why? Why, after enduring the fallout from my previous experience, was I willingly stepping back into this arena once more?

In 2019, my first TED Talk, titled 'Facebooks Role in Brexit and the Threat to Democracy,' sent ripples through the conference, the internet, and my own life. The fallout from that talk led to a defamation lawsuit regarding a mere 19 words I spoke, consuming my time, energy, and ultimately, my mental health.

Now, as I faced a second Trump presidency and witnessed figures like Elon Musk reshaping the U.S. government landscape, the power wielded by tech giants a subject I have scrutinized for nearly a decade was more evident than ever. Yet, it felt as if we had missed the boat. My previous warnings about the potential consequences of unchecked technology on democracy had gone unheeded.

Once again, I found myself addressing Silicon Valley, speaking directly to the men yes, predominantly men who are behind the latest technological advancements, particularly in artificial intelligence (AI). This runaway train is poised to impact all our lives in profound ways. These are individuals who now seem to align themselves with Donald Trump, the leader of what appears to be a rogue state.

The challenge was immense: how could I succinctly address the disintegration of the postwar international order and the role of technology in this upheaval within the limited 10 to 12 minutes allocated for my talk? It felt absurdly overwhelming. While TED Talks are typically crafted and rehearsed months in advance, I was a last-minute addition to the schedule. As my departure approached, I still lacked a finalized script.

During a critical Zoom meeting with the lead curators and TED's head, Chris Anderson, a British media entrepreneur and philanthropist, my latest draft was meticulously scrutinized. Anderson's insights were invaluable, but they also stirred a whirlwind of emotions within me. Did I really need to include a slide showing Musk's questionable salute, he asked, noting that it could alienate part of the audience? I had succeeded in taking the audience along with me during my previous talk, he reminded me.

Reflecting on that, I admitted to him that back in 2019, I believed redemption was still achievable. I thought the so-called 'gods of Silicon Valley' could be swayed into taking steps to mitigate the harms their platforms were causing. Yet now, it felt as though that ship had sailed. The leaders in Silicon Valley could no longer claim ignorance; they had made deliberate choices.

Anderson countered that the individuals working at these companies, who would be present in the audience, represented the best chance of catalyzing change. Hearing his pushback was refreshing, yet I found myself emotional when he suggested removing a line about my lawsuit. This line encapsulated the essence of the case: the importance of defending facts. 'Its profoundly significant for me,' I explained. 'Its what it was all about.'

In the end, Anderson said, 'We invited you. Its up to you to choose what you want to say.' That statement resonated with me deeply, as I recognized the weight of that freedom and the responsibility I bore. It was a burden I carried with me during my long flight across the Atlantic.

Two days later, I stood on the TED stage, delivering the conference's opening talk. To my surprise, my initial slide prompted an enthusiastic cheer: 'Its a coup.' I emphasized that we cannot confront a situation we cannot recognize, and we cannot recognize it if we dont name it. The spontaneous reaction caught me off guard; it felt validating. In the days following my talk, many attendees expressed how liberating it was to hear those words spoken aloud. One fellow speaker remarked, 'It hit me somewhere beneath my solar plexus. I cant explain how powerful it was, especially here.'

Yet, as my talk unfolded, I noticed a contrasting sentiment rippling through a section of the audience. While many cheered and applauded, there were also arms crossed and hostile glances aimed my way. Later, I would encounter one of those individuals: a close friend of Musk, whose spouse served on the boards of Musk's companies.

In my concluding remarks, I addressed those titans of technology directly, stating, 'In 2019, I called out the gods of Silicon Valley: Sam Altman, Mark Zuckerberg, Elon Musk. I was wrong. You are not gods; you are men, and you are careless. You are collaborators. You are complicit in a regime of fear and cruelty.'

After stepping off the stage, I let out a deep, involuntary sigh, audible on the recording of my talk. I had tried. I had attempted to convey the urgency of the risks we face. The emotion resonated throughout my presentation, reflecting why I chose to re-enter this challenging arena.

What I experienced is now a reality facing many others. It extends beyond weaponized lawsuits against journalists and online harassment campaigns although those are indeed looming threats. We must also acknowledge the pervasive surveillance and data harvesting to which we are all subject. In todays political climate, this carries newly defined risks. I have felt the sharp edge of these realities, and I know firsthand how terrifying it is. This is also the business model of Silicon Valley, and it underscores the need for individual steps to safeguard ourselves.

What I cannot stress enough is that the situation today is far worse than it was six years ago.

Most individuals and I count myself among them have little understanding of the rapid acceleration of technology and the extent of power we are willingly relinquishing, leaving us exposed and vulnerable.

Now that Im back home, I participated in a follow-up interview with Anderson, who characterized my talk as 'an absolute blockbuster.' It has since found a life beyond the conference; it has garnered nearly one million views on YouTube in less than a week.

I have received heartfelt notes from American friends and even complete strangers. Additionally, two Members of Parliament, one from Labour and another from Conservative, as well as two members of the House of Lords, have reached out regarding a specific mention I made about the UK governments proposed bill. This bill seeks to dismantle our 300-year-old copyright laws, aiming to ease the path for AI companies to utilize artists intellectual property for training their models. Currently known as the data use and access bill, it is navigating through the Commons despite widespread protests from thousands within the UK creative industries, including high-profile figures such as Elton John and Paul McCartney.

However, none of this was guaranteed. I almost chose not to go through with my talk, feeling rattled by the back-and-forth communications with Tamsin Allen, a UK libel lawyer, just hours before I took the stage. There was risk associated with even the most seemingly innocuous statements regarding my case, due to the nature of my situation, the TED platform, and the hard-learned lesson that aggressors will find a way to attack.

One YouTube comment succinctly captured the sentiment: 'Watch her talk from five years ago. She was much more animated, much more upbeat and bright. Now she looks and sounds completely terrified, dejected, exhausted, and heartbroken.'

It is alarming that AI is in the control of a select group of reckless, careless men who seemingly lack any comprehension of societal implications. The internet we have created, dominated by large corporations and reliant on data tracking, was not a foregone conclusion. The pathway to what lies ahead is not predetermined, which is why I felt compelled to articulate this perspective. As grim as the situation may seem, no outcome is inevitable, and I am appalled by the British government's naivety. At a time when it should be reinforcing UK national sovereignty against U.S. tech influence, it is doing the exact opposite.

This is not merely a partisan issue. Conservative MP David Davis left me a voice note expressing that he views the proposed copyright law revisions as 'somewhere between theft and intellectual slavery.' He argues that it represents a fundamental inversion of property law.

The most significant difference between the TED of six years ago and the TED of today is the omnipresence of AI. This technology now dominates nearly every conversation. The scale and speed of its advancements are genuinely mind-blowing. AIs influence at TED is just a microcosm of its impending impact on all facets of our lives.

It threatens to obliterate entire industries, concentrate even greater power within an even smaller group of individuals, and deplete the planet's resources at an alarming rate. Control of this technology rests in the hands of people who seem to be racing toward a winner-takes-all scenario without understanding the societal implications. Meanwhile, the world continues to feel remarkably unchanged the same streets, the same houses, the same politicians on our screens. This disconnect complicates our ability to fully grasp the implications.

In my talk, I used the opportunity to criticize Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, whose company made headlines with the launch of ChatGPT in 2022. Later in the week, Anderson interviewed Altman live on stage, relaying my concerns directly to him. 'In our opening session, Carole Cadwalladr showed ChatGPT giving a TED Talk in her style. It was impressive but lacked the essence of her original talk. She expressed that she did not consent to this.'

Should OpenAI be using the work of individuals who havent given their permission? Shouldnt they receive compensation? Altman sidestepped the question. 'As it stands, if you use our image generation tool and request something in the style of a living artist, it wont do that,' he stated, conveniently avoiding the reality that it does precisely that for writers and journalists.

Instead, he emphasized the 'creative spirit of humanity' that AI is purported to 'democratize'. He spoke of new tools that would empower 'new creators to produce better art, better novels, and better content for everyone to enjoy.'

A Canadian editor from the Globe and Mail even mentioned that they now send reporters to the U.S. with burner phones and wiped laptops as a precaution.

The point I made during my talk is that the entire AI gold rush is fundamentally rooted in theft. A significant portion of the training data for this industry derives from us our work, our words, our labor. It isnt innovation; its appropriation. Yet, during discussions at the conference, this inconvenient truth was largely overlooked.

After my talk, I encountered Altman backstage. His security detail lingered nearby. 'I dont want to intrude,' I said. 'No, Im open to answering questions,' he responded. But when it came to the foundational issue of using other peoples work without their consent, he could not provide a satisfactory answer.

'Whats the difference between me reading your work?' he queried, pointing to the fact that it was all free to access. The difference, I explained, is that youre disseminating it to potentially millions for profit without compensation. 'Thats fair use,' he countered. But I pointed out that he had ingested the entirety of my work. Establishing that fact would be straightforward.

And just like that, he was gone, returning to the controls of the powerful machine that threatens to roll over us all.

Besides the dominance of AI, my talk was the only one that addressed the current political climate, sparking conversations throughout the conference. For instance, a TED fellow shared that some of her peers, who were in the U.S. on visas or green cards, had canceled their trips, fearing detention upon their return. A Canadian editor revealed that they are advising their reporters to travel to the U.S. with burner phones and wiped laptops. A historian specializing in black history relayed stories of canceled grants.

Even Steven Pinker, the Harvard professor known for championing human progress, expressed an uncharacteristically somber outlook, shaken by the attacks on universities, including his own.

Meeting Pinker at the conference marked a personal milestone for me. I first attended TED two decades ago as his guest, watching Jimmy Wales present the idea of an online encyclopedia that anyone could edit. At the time, I thought, 'Well, thatll never take off,' and then I witnessed the live demonstration of Wikipedia, which revolutionized my understanding of information accessibility.

My experiences with TED and the Observer have been intertwined throughout my two-decade career, evolving from a tech utopian perspective to the stark reality we face today, where Silicon Valley has merged with authoritarian regimes around the globe.

These vast tech monopolies controlling our digital sphere were never a predetermined outcome. There exists an alternative vision. We can aspire to return to a democratic, inspiring, and non-commercialized internet, much like the one Wales demonstrated was achievable.

We are not powerless. There are actions we can collectively undertake. I learned this when 30,000 Observer readers rallied to support me during my legal battle. My recent talk is dedicated to them, as I owe my current position to their backing. Together, we held power accountable. Amidst the encroaching darkness, I firmly believe that rebuilding our information system collectively is the vital first step toward reversing this crisis. This marks my final sign-off for the Observer. Its been an incredible journey. Thank you for reading.