Why Do We Still Trust Them?

"We’re Here to Help”: The Phrase That Should Chill You to the Bone

I just finished watching Mr Bates vs The Post Office.

While the storyline centred on a UK scandal involving wrongful prosecutions of subpostmasters, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen this sort of thing before — not in fiction, but here in Australia. The arrogance. The systemic denial. The devastating consequences. The way public servants [1] sat behind procedures and policy while innocent people were crushed beneath the weight of institutional failure.

Then it hit me: this was Robodebt in another accent.

Different country. Different victims. Different software. Same cruelty.

What began as a chilling drama series about a UK scandal quickly opened a door in my mind to a much broader pattern. I did some digging — and what do you know — the similarities weren’t just coincidental, they were structural: systemic institutional failures, misuse of technology, and harm to innocent individuals. But perhaps most disturbing of all, in both the UK and Australia, public servants and decision-makers perpetuated or covered up these disasters, refusing to stop the damage until public outrage made it impossible to continue.

These weren’t just bureaucratic errors. These were systems of cruelty disguised as administrative duty.

And once you spot it in one place, you start seeing it everywhere — from Maralinga to Windrush, from Thalidomide to the COVID response, from the Post Office scandal to the trauma forced on veterans, asylum seekers, whistleblowers, and welfare recipients.

And so I ask the obvious question: Why on earth do we still take the word of government authorities at face value? Why do we still trust the phrase “we’re here to help” when, time and again, it turns out to be the calm prelude to catastrophic harm?

The Post Office Scandal: A Nation’s Shame

Between 1999 and 2015, over 900 British subpostmasters were prosecuted for fraud, theft, and false accounting based on data from a faulty IT system called Horizon, developed by Fujitsu. Despite being riddled with bugs, the Horizon system was embraced by Post Office executives as infallible. They dismissed the possibility of error, insisting that if money had gone missing, it could only mean one thing — subpostmasters were to blame.

People lost their homes, their livelihoods, their reputations. Some went to prison. Some died before their names were cleared. Many were driven to the brink of despair. And all the while, Post Office management knew the system had problems — and lied to courts, Parliament, and the public to keep the house of cards standing.

It wasn’t just a failure of technology. It was a failure of morality, accountability, and basic human decency. It was a betrayal — not by a faceless machine, but by people in suits who chose to protect the system over the truth.

Robodebt: Australia’s Cold, Calculating Bureaucracy

Sound familiar?

In Australia, between 2016 and 2020, hundreds of thousands of welfare recipients were issued automated debt notices under the now-infamous Robodebt scheme. The government, without proper legal authority, used income averaging algorithms to accuse people of owing money to Centrelink. The system lacked nuance, ignored individual circumstances, and reversed the burden of proof, forcing vulnerable citizens to prove their innocence — often years after the alleged overpayments.

It wasn’t just cruel. It was illegal.

And it took years, public outrage, a Royal Commission, and tragic suicides before the government finally admitted fault. The final cost? $1.8 billion in settlements, thousands of shattered lives, and the exposure of a culture of calculated indifference inside the public service.

Scott Morrison, then Minister for Social Services, was found to have misled Cabinet. Departmental officials dismissed early warnings. Legal advice that questioned the scheme’s legitimacy was buried. And victims were gaslighted, ignored, and hounded into silence — or worse.

A Pattern, Not an Exception

These weren’t isolated incidents. They weren’t rare breakdowns in an otherwise good system. They were examples of a predictable pattern:

1. A system is introduced, often with the promise of efficiency or reform.

2. People start getting hurt, and whistleblowers raise concerns.

3. Authorities deny, delay, deflect.

4. Evidence mounts. The harm grows.

5. Finally — years later — a royal commission or inquiry reveals what the victims knew all along: the system was broken, and the state knew it.

And the public service? It shrugs, says “lessons will be learned,” and carries on.

Let’s stop pretending this is new. Because it’s not. Here are more examples — some shocking, some forgotten — all part of the same DNA.

Maralinga: Radiation and Lies

Between 1956 and 1963, the British government, with Australia’s cooperation, conducted nuclear weapons tests at Maralinga in South Australia. Thousands of servicemen, many of them young Australians, were exposed to radiation without adequate protection. Indigenous communities were displaced, contaminated, and in many cases, never warned of the dangers they were being subjected to.

The tests were declared safe. The truth was buried. Only decades later, after a Royal Commission, did we learn the extent of the contamination and the betrayal.

Even then, justice was partial, compensation limited, and accountability non-existent. The lesson? You don’t matter. The system does.

Thalidomide: Delay, Denial, and Disdain

In the late 1950s and early 1960s, thalidomide was marketed to pregnant women in Australia as a treatment for morning sickness. It caused catastrophic birth defects — missing limbs, organ deformities, lifelong suffering.

And for decades, the Australian government offered silence.

Survivors fought for recognition, compensation, and truth. But their calls were met with indifference. The apology didn’t come until 2023. That’s six decades after the drug was first prescribed.

And even then, the apology came only after media pressure and survivor advocacy made further denial untenable.

Windrush: Destroying Lives with Bureaucratic Zeal

In the UK, the Windrush generation — British citizens who had arrived from the Caribbean in the post-war years — were wrongly classified as illegal immigrants in the 2010s due to the Home Office destroying landing records.

People who had lived and worked in the UK for decades were fired, evicted, detained, or deported. Some died waiting for justice.

And the bureaucrats? They denied it. Defended it. Claimed they were just enforcing policy.

Sound familiar?

COVID-19: The Global Betrayal Disguised as Public Health

No recent chapter of government deception has had such a sweeping global impact — nor such devastating consequences — as the COVID-19 debacle. What began as a public health emergency quickly morphed into an authoritarian crusade cloaked in science. With slogans like "safe and effective" and "we're all in this together," governments worldwide rolled out experimental medical products, enforced lockdowns, muzzled dissent, and crushed livelihoods — all in the name of safety.

In Australia, the government boasted one of the harshest pandemic responses in the Western world: curfews, closed borders, vaccine mandates, and relentless pressure campaigns. Medical professionals who questioned the narrative were deregistered. Everyday citizens were fined, tracked, and silenced. Elderly people died alone, children lost formative years of schooling, and the working class bore the brunt of economic ruin.

In the UK and New Zealand, the pattern was disturbingly similar. Public health agencies colluded with media to spin fear campaigns, behavioural 'nudge units' psychologically manipulated citizens, and inconvenient data about vaccine harms, excess deaths, or natural immunity was either censored or ignored. Instead of informed consent, people were coerced. Instead of transparency, there was obfuscation. And instead of apology, there was triumphalism.

The tragic irony? For many — the vulnerable, the elderly, the already sick — it wasn’t the virus that ultimately destroyed them. It was the response. Suicide rates rose. Mental health plummeted. Cancer screenings stopped. Families fractured. And now, as the dust settles, we learn of the growing catalogue of adverse events, including young, healthy individuals maimed or dying suddenly — all while governments drag their feet on investigations and continue to gaslight the public.

This was not just a public health failure. It was a globalised, technocratic betrayal — the weaponisation of trust, and the transformation of fear into a policy tool. And just like Robodebt or Maralinga, the bureaucrats have already moved on.

But the victims haven’t. Nor should we.

Why Do We Still Trust Them?

After all this — after so many examples of lies, cover-ups, and state-sanctioned cruelty — why do we still nod along when a minister or bureaucrat says, “We’re from the government, and we’re here to help”?

Why do we treat public advice as neutral or benevolent, when the evidence shows it is often neither?

We trust them because we’ve been conditioned to trust them. From school to media to politics, we’re told that “the system works,” that “public service is honourable,” and that if something really bad were happening, someone would stop it.

But history says otherwise.

In fact, it says this: the bigger the failure, the bigger the lie. The more outrageous the abuse, the more righteous the denials. And the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to undo.

So What Should We Do?

Here’s what we must do — if we care about truth, justice, and the rights of the individual:

1. Adopt a Contrarian Instinct: If a government agency tells you something, don’t assume it’s true. Assume it serves them. Then ask: What do they stand to gain? What aren’t they saying?

2. Seek Independent Sources: Relying on government media, official spokespeople, and glossy public campaigns is like asking a thief if the safe is secure. Look for whistleblowers. Citizen investigators. Independent journalists. Survivors.

3. Demand Accountability: Don’t be satisfied with inquiries that take years or apologies made after the damage is done. Call for resignations. Prosecutions. Reforms. Not because you’re angry — but because it’s the only language systems understand.

4. Remember the Victims: For every Robodebt or Horizon or Maralinga, there are names: People who lost jobs. Lives. Reputations. Families. They were not “collateral damage.” They were the price of bureaucracy left unchecked.

The Lie Behind the Smile

The next time you hear a public official say “we’re here to help”, let history be your interpreter.

Remember Jo Hamilton and Alan Bates. Remember the suicides triggered by Robodebt. Remember the soldiers at Maralinga. Remember the silence over Thalidomide. Remember Windrush. Horizon. Phoenix. Agent Orange.

And remember this:

The system is not your friend. It never was. It never will be. Unless we force it to become one. And that starts by not trusting anything that wears a lanyard and says, “Just following orders.” Because the more power hides behind “help,” the more reason we have to look it in the eye and say:

No. You don’t get my trust. You have to earn it.

---

[1] Technocratic Obedience: The Hidden Violence of Modern Governance

They arrive in suits, with lanyards and sanitized mission statements. But behind the fluorescent lights and polished protocols of Whitehall and multinational boardrooms lurk enablers of devastation. The public servant who rubber-stamps a ruinous algorithm. The corporate executive who shreds a memo exposing harm. They are not aberrations—they are products of a system that rewards moral disengagement and punishes conscience.

These individuals aren’t driven by sadism—that would at least imply passion. No, what moves them is something far more grotesque: a technocratic apparatus of institutional venom, designed to anesthetize conscience, erase empathy, and exalt the machinery of process over the wreckage of human lives. In their world, “fraud detection” becomes a euphemism for persecution, and “operational error” masks the industrial-scale destruction of lives. Families shattered, communities hollowed out—victims reduced to data anomalies. They diffuse responsibility across a thousand departments, shielding themselves with bureaucratic fog.

From that fog emerges a quiet, systematic cruelty. Loyal to systems, not truth, they silence whistleblowers, manipulate data, and stonewall victims. Many know the harm they enable, but bury dissonance under a mountain of rationalizations: “It’s not personal,” “It’s the system,” “I have a job to do.” At the top, a colder breed thrives—charming, strategic, void of remorse. Psychopathic traits masquerade as executive poise.

These aren’t lone villains—they are cogs in a culture that venerates compliance and punishes integrity. The true horror? They believe they’re doing their job.

In the end, evil doesn’t need monsters. It just needs men and women in meetings, nodding at spreadsheets, quietly destroying lives—one email, one policy, one denial at a time.