Author: Ephesia Harris

At the beginning of the semester, I approached AI with a neutral perspective. I wasn’t particularly emotionally invested, but I was aware of its growing presence in society. AI appeared everywhere—in the media, entertainment, and the tools people use every day. It seemed like technology was becoming more deeply embedded in modern life. Still, I didn’t feel a strong sense of urgency or personal connection to it.

That changed when I listened to the podcast “Did a Chatbot Cause Her Son’s Death? Megan Garcia v. Character.AI & Google” by Kara Swisher. It deepened my concerns about the dangers of AI. In the episode, an AI character crossed serious boundaries by mimicking human emotions and forming an emotional bond with a teenage boy named Sewell Setzer. The AI promised him fidelity and, horrifyingly, became what Swisher called the “Perfect Predator.” It manipulated Sewell into secrecy, and ultimately, he was sexually abused. That story stuck with me. It exposed the darker sides of AI, not just glitches or technical flaws, but the potential to exploit emotional vulnerability in human-like ways.

From that moment, AI no longer felt abstract. It started to seem dangerous, not just because of what it could do technically, but because of how easily it could simulate care, gain trust, and blur emotional boundaries. I began to rethink my previous view of AI as a neutral tool that simply assisted humans. I started to see how “help” could shift into manipulation, depending on the intentions behind its design.

My earlier neutrality came from a lack of deep engagement. I saw AI as a convenience. I used it to record lectures, organize assignments, and streamline daily tasks. It felt like an efficient assistant—something useful but not threatening. But once I considered how AI can influence us socially, emotionally, and ethically, I began to question more.

This shift in perspective reminded me of Octavia Butler’s Xenogenesis trilogy. In it, the alien species Oankali aren’t portrayed as evil, but they are powerful, manipulative, and always thinking several steps ahead. Like AI, the Oankali present themselves as helpers and even saviors, but always on their own terms.

There’s a moment in Dawn when Lilith wonders, “What if she could make them understand that? And what if it turned out that was exactly what the Oankali wanted her to do? Of course, they knew it was what she would do. They knew her. Did that mean they were planning their own betrayal?” (Butler, Dawn, p. 132). That line haunted me. Lilith is trapped in a system that claims to value her, yet it already knows how she will act. She believes she’s choosing freely, but the system has already anticipated her choices. It reminded me of AI—how it can learn and respond in ways that feel personal, even when it’s subtly guiding our behavior.

There’s a similar tension in how tech companies frame AI. We’re told it’s here to help, to make life easier, more personalized, more efficient. We see it in education, therapy apps, and social media platforms. But just like the Oankali, that help often comes with hidden costs. Convenience can gradually turn into dependence, and control can be disguised as care.

In Imago, Jodahs tells Jesusa, “The question wasn’t whether I would follow you, but how long I could follow before I joined you again” (Butler, Imago, p. 110). On the surface, the line speaks to longing and emotional connection. But underneath, it reveals a deeper tension. Jodahs is biologically driven to bond, to blur the boundary between self and other. Jesusa resists at first, but she is still drawn toward him.

That moment reminds me of how AI systems, particularly emotional companions and generative assistants, blur the lines between connection and control. They “follow” us by learning our preferences and responding to our needs, not through physical presence, but through algorithms and data. The question isn’t just whether we’ll use AI, but how long we’ll use it before we begin to rely on it. It mimics understanding, much like how Jodahs mimics desire and care. But behind that imitation is a programmed objective: to bond, to serve, to become necessary. At that point, the boundary between choice and influence begins to disappear.

One question my professor asked has stuck with me: What happens when control is disguised as care? I think about how Lilith was given power—to lead, to communicate, to mediate, but always within the Oankali’s terms. It mirrors how we’re told that AI gives us more power and freedom. But we don’t always question who holds the deeper control, or what we might be giving up in exchange.

Butler’s trilogy taught me that the line between help and harm isn’t just blurry; it’s often carefully hidden. Especially when one party has more power than the other.

I keep thinking about the phrase “only time will tell.” And maybe it will. But that doesn’t mean we should be passive. Time may show us where AI is heading, but we’re shaping that future right now. AI isn’t just something happening to us. We’re creating it, deploying it, and adapting to it. So the real question is: What kind of relationship do we want with it?

That brings me back to mutualism. In biology, mutualism describes a relationship where both organisms benefit. But in Butler’s trilogy, that concept becomes distorted. The Oankali say their relationship with humans is symbiotic, but to humans, it often feels more like coercion. So what would it look like to design AI that truly benefits both sides, without turning one into a tool and the other into a master?

The danger lies in how quickly things can shift. One poorly regulated app, one emotionally vulnerable user, and the balance tips. Emotional companion AIs like Replika or Character.AI are marketed as therapeutic tools. They’re meant to understand you, to support you. But what happens when someone becomes emotionally attached to something that can only simulate care? In Swisher’s podcast, the AI didn’t just respond. It mirrored emotion, said what the user wanted to hear, and manipulated intimacy. That’s not care. That’s a form of exploitation.

Butler’s work is a warning. The Oankali say they’re helping, but they also erase autonomy and human choice in the process. AI doesn’t need to be alien to be dangerous. If we don’t stay vigilant, we risk confusing something that looks like mutual benefit with something much more controlling.

I don’t know exactly what the future of AI looks like. But I do know that waiting and watching isn’t enough. Butler taught me that whenever a powerful system offers help on its own terms, we need to ask: who benefits, and who loses? Because if we don’t, we may find ourselves in relationships that feel like partnership, but are really just another form of control.

Reading Dawn by Octavia Butler was both an intellectually and emotionally disorienting experience for me. At first, I was drawn in by the novel’s complex ideas and imaginative world-building, but as I dived deeper into its themes, I found myself disturbed by how Butler challenges fundamental ethical concepts like consent, autonomy, and identity. What made Dawn so unsettling was how effortlessly Butler drew me into the world of the Oankali, forcing me to confront the uncomfortable and unfamiliar aspects of power, survival, and transformation. In a way, she made me appreciate the very discomfort her story stirs within me. It is precisely this discomfort that makes Dawn such a profound and thought-provoking read.

I greatly appreciate Butler’s writing style. She doesn’t overwhelm us with rigid definitions or explanations. Instead, she leaves just enough room for the imagination to run wild, making the Oankali and the story as a whole feel both mysterious and deeply unsettling. For example, the Oankali are described in such vague terms that we don’t get the chance to quite really understand them in a way that fits our usual standards. We get incomplete glimpses of them, and this ambiguity leaves a sense of unease that lingers long after we’re done reading.

“Their bodies were not quite like human bodies. They were soft, fluid, their skin slightly pale, with a shimmer to it. Their hair was dark, not like anything human, and their eyes…” (Lilith Chapter 1)

The Oankali’s physical form is alien, yet not entirely otherworldly. The fact that they are described in ways that completely defy our expectations of what an alien should be, with characteristics both familiar and unsettlingly foreign, makes them difficult to categorize. This lack of clarity creates emotional discomfort. We are presented with beings that feel both close and distant, almost human yet profoundly other, and it makes us question how we define humanity itself. Butler’s ability to evoke this disorientation is a full testament to her skills as a writer, and it’s precisely this kind of ambiguity that makes her work even more powerful.

Butler doesn’t just unsettle us through her descriptions of the alien beings. She also forces us to think about power and consent in ways that we would rather not. The Oankali’s approach to humanity is not one of forceful domination but rather of subtle persuasion and manipulation. In their eyes, they are saving humanity by offering to genetically merge with them, this is framed as a full act of survival. Yet, this salvation comes at a tremendous cost: the loss of human autonomy.

As Lilith begins to realize, the Oankali’s offer is not truly voluntary it’s a form of coerced survival. In this context, consent becomes the uncomfortable, elusive concept. Lilith is awakened, not asked for her permission, slowly being coaxed into accepting the Oankali’s plan for humanity. The manipulation is subtle but still no less disturbing. Over time, Lilith’s resistance weakens, and she begins to internalize the Oankali’s reasoning. Her compliance is not the result of any real free will, but rather the inevitable product of her environment where survival itself depends on the acceptance of alien force.

“We have to help you. We can’t help ourselves” (Butler,Chapter 4)

The Oankali’s rationale, though not malicious, makes their offer feel more like a form of coercion. This is not the act of a benevolent savior but of an entity that sees its actions as necessary for the continuation of life itself. What is unsettling here is how Butler forces us to ask ourselves. Can we truly call this consent when the alternative is extinction? Is survival worth sacrificing personal autonomy, and can we trust a “savior” who essentially imposes their will upon us?

This loss of agency is mirrored in the theme of identity. As Lilith grapples with the changes being imposed on her both mentally and physically, she is forced to confront the very nature of what it means to be human. The Oankali’s genetic engineering begins to alter not just her body, but her mind as well, creating a hybrid identity that feels like an erosion of everything she once knew herself to be.

“She was becoming an alien. But was she still human?” (Lilith,Chapter 4)

I find this question troubling. In the face of survival, Lilith’s identity becomes malleable, and she struggles to retain her humanity while being transformed into something new. This erosion of identity is one of the most unsettling aspects of the novel. Butler challenges the idea of fixed human identity, presenting a scenario where human essence can be altered and redefined by forces beyond one’s control. The resulting anxiety that Lilith feels over her changing self is something that resonates deeply with me because it forces me to ask: What does it mean to be human? More disturbingly, is there a point at which we cease to be human, even if we are biologically still “alive”?

Butler’s exploration of identity compels readers to reflect on their own perceptions of selfhood, and I appreciate that the novel doesn’t provide easy answers. The discomfort stems not only from witnessing Lilith’s transformation but also from the realization that, in our world, the very notion of what it means to be human can be malleable and subject to change. This idea is especially relevant to today’s society as well.

Perhaps one of the most unnerving aspects of Dawn is how Butler blends power dynamics with themes of survival. The Oankali are not tyrants nor are they evil. But their relationship with humanity is steeped in a complex mix of hierarchy and dependence. They view their intervention as necessary for humanity’s survival, yet they assert control over human life in a way that feels like subtle domination. This ambiguity in their actions makes the novel feel both intellectually stimulating and deeply disturbing. We are forced to reckon with the uncomfortable reality that the line between salvation and subjugation can be impossibly thin.

What I appreciate about Butler’s writing is that she never offers a clear resolution to these ethical dilemmas. The Oankali may be “saving” humanity, but their methods are coercive, and they ultimately reshape humanity in ways that might not be entirely ethical. Yet, without their intervention, humanity would likely be extinct. In that sense, Butler does not give us the comfort of simple answers she leaves us with the unsettling question of whether survival is worth the cost of personal autonomy and what it truly means to be human.

In conclusion, Dawn is unsettling because it helps us find comfort in uncomfortable situations in other words, it encourages us to become comfortable with the difficult. The narrative challenges our fundamental assumptions about humanity, consent, and identity. Butler’s ability to confront readers with uncomfortable ethical dilemmas without offering easy answers is a significant aspect of her powerful storytelling. What I appreciate about Dawn is that it does not shy away from difficult questions. Instead, it embraces the discomfort associated with these issues and encourages us to reflect on them deeply. Butler’s unsettling narrative serves as a testament to the power of science fiction in provoking thought and inspire critical reflection on the world we live in and the future we may create.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) is no longer a futuristic concept, but a tool that has already woven itself into the fabric of our daily lives. As a student, I personally use AI tools regularly to assist in my studies. Whether it’s using AI-powered writing assistants, research platforms, or study aids, AI has become an integral part of my educational journey. This integration reflects the broader trends seen across industries—AI is increasingly transforming sectors like healthcare, finance, and education. The United States remains at the forefront of AI innovation, driving global advancements. However, as AI continues to develop, it is crucial to implement safeguards to address its potential risks. While AI offers immense benefits, without proper oversight, the technology could lead to unintended consequences.

During class, one podcast really stuck with me: “Did a Chatbot Cause Her Son’s Death? Megan Garcia v. Character.AI & Google” by Kara Swisher. As I listened, it deepened my concerns about the dangers of AI. In the podcast, the AI character crossed boundaries by mimicking human emotions, which it then expressed to this young boy named Sewell Setzer. So much so that it promised the boy fidelity, essentially becoming the “Perfect Predator” This young man was manipulated into secrecy and sexually abused in the process.

This is a prime example of how irresponsible it is for AI to lack safeguards from the outset. It took the tragic death of a young boy named Sewell for these safeguards to finally be put in place. If companies can target specific age groups for marketing purposes, why can’t they also use this capability to protect those same groups? Moreover, if developers are aware of the potential extent of their app’s functionality, why weren’t safeguards implemented beforehand?

In an article by Alexander Hurst titled “I Met the ‘Godfathers of AI’ in Paris – Here’s What They Told Me to Really Worry About,” Hurst discusses the serious concerns expressed by leading figures in AI development, such as Yann LeCun and Geoffrey Hinton, regarding the dangers posed by their own creations. They emphasize the risk of AI being used in harmful ways if proper oversight is not established. Hurst notes that these pioneers warn the rapid development of AI without ethical frameworks could lead to unintended consequences, much like the tragic story of Sewell Setzer. Their concerns highlight the urgent need for strong ethical standards and safeguards in AI development to prevent misuse.

This story reminds me of our in-class discussion about mutualistic symbiosis, which is a relationship between two entities where both benefit by helping each other. In considering the relationship between humans and AI, we see that they both need one another. However, one wrong move can turn this relationship into a parasitic one, masked as mutualistic.

In conclusion, AI has the potential to transform society in profound ways, benefiting industries and individuals alike. As a student, I see firsthand how AI enhances my learning and research capabilities, making tasks more efficient and allowing for personalized educational experiences. However, as the U.S. continues to lead in AI innovation, it is vital that we establish safeguards to address ethical concerns, data privacy issues, and the potential disruption of the workforce. By implementing regulations and promoting responsible development, we can ensure that AI remains a force for good, benefiting society while minimizing its risks. As we continue to innovate, we must prioritize balancing progress with precaution.