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Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Nic Rawlence, Associate Professor in Ancient DNA, University of Otago

Today’s announcement by Texas-based de-extinction company Colossal Biosciences about a successful hatching of chicks from an artificial egg would represent a major innovation, if the claims can be verified.

The company says its artificial egg supports the full development of bird embryos outside a biological eggshell, without the requirement for supplemental oxygen. The work is part of its plan to “de-extinct” birds, including the giant moa and dodo.

Colossal’s artificial egg could be groundbreaking science and deliver a useful tool for conservation. But its announcement and slick video include no data or peer-reviewed scientific publications, making it difficult to independently assess the claim.

Artificial egg technology, which involves transferring and growing a developing chick embryo outside a natural eggshell, has been around since the 1980s. Live birds have been hatched from these systems before and grown to adulthood.

The technology is currently used for research purposes such as studying how embryos develop, how tumours grow, and to create genetically modified chickens. It also has applications for drug and vaccine development.

But several stumbling blocks to the widespread use of artificial eggs persist. To improve hatching efficiency, pure oxygen needs to be directly supplied to the developing embryo. This is a double-edged sword because it can also affect chick viability.

Colossal claims to have solved this problem by replacing the hard eggshell and membrane separating the yolk from the shell. Its version is based on the key innovations of an open, latticed half-shell and a transparent, silicone-based membrane that allows oxygen to freely diffuse from the air into the developing embryo.

The company’s plan is to transfer a fertilised embryo and yolk from a real egg to their artificial egg, which would then be housed in incubators. Embryo development would be observed directly through the transparent membrane, as in other artificial systems.

A gene-edited emu

Colossal is planning to genetically modify an emu genome to look more like that of a moa (as they did with grey wolves and dire wolves), create an embryo inside an emu egg, and then bring it to term using this new artificial egg.

The technology could also be used in Colossal’s attempts to genetically engineer a Nicobar pigeon to look more like a dodo.

Key to Colossal’s goal is that its artificial egg could be scaled in size.

However, this still requires a fertilised embryo and yolk. Given the large size differences between chicken eggs and emu (up to 12 times bigger) and giant moa (up to 80 times bigger), there is not enough yolk and egg white in any living birds’ eggs to support the development of a giant moa chick.

An egg yolk is a single cell. It will not be as simple as injecting extra yolk into this fragile cell to make it giant.

Bird embryo development is a complex process, unique to each species. A lot happens in an egg and only time will tell whether this new technology reflects natural processes and produces healthy individuals.

But as our work on other extinct species shows, there is also widespread Māori and public opposition in New Zealand to the company’s plans to “de-extinct” the moa for an ecotourism venture.

A potential conservation tool

The company claims its artificial egg technology “has broad applications for the conservation of threatened species”.

Artificial egg technology requires considerable amounts of funding, which Colossal has mobilised from private sources. This is funding that would not have otherwise been available for conservation.

One area where it could make a significant difference is the captive breeding of critically endangered species (such as kākāpō, kakī black stilt and pukunui southern dotteral) for reintroduction into the wild. This is especially true for long-lived and slow-breeding species which tend to produce fewer eggs.

For example, eggs damaged by inexperienced new parents, misadventure or adverse weather events could be rescued into artificial eggs to help developing chicks to survive.

When combined with genome engineering techniques, the use of artificial eggs could help to reintroduce lost genetic diversity or make birds resistant to diseases. The technology may also be able to reverse the impacts of inbreeding on low hatching success in some species.

However, for critically endangered birds with few natural eggs, the development of transgenic birds would be necessary to produce enough chicks.

For example, chickens could provide sperm and egg cells containing genetically modified DNA from a different species. After mating, the fertilised embryo and yolk could be transferred to the artificial egg.

Ethical questions remain about whether such steps should be taken, even if technologically possible.

The use of artificial egg technology in conservation, especially in combination with genome engineering and transgenic birds, would require transparent and increased levels of engagement with Indigenous communities as the kaitiaki (guardians) of endangered species.

It is also vital this technology (and conservation in general) is not privatised. If Colossal’s artificial egg technology is to make a meaningful difference to saving species from extinction, it must be available to conservation organisations in the public sector.

If the technology lives up to the hype, it won’t be a silver bullet or panacea to stopping species declines, but it might just help. In the short term at least, saving species from extinction will still come down to predator control and habitat restoration.

Nic Rawlence receives funding from Te Apārangi Royal Society of New Zealand Marsden Fund.

– ref. De-extinction company says it’s made an artificial egg – if true, it could help save living species – https://theconversation.com/de-extinction-company-says-its-made-an-artificial-egg-if-true-it-could-help-save-living-species-283138

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Liz Evans, Adjunct Researcher, English and Writing, University of Tasmania

During the final season of Lena Dunham’s acclaimed comedy drama series, Girls, the character she plays, Hannah Horvath, says her ambition as a writer is to make people laugh about painful things. In real life, this is exactly what Dunham has achieved with her second memoir, Famesick which opens with a prime example.

“It’s very hard to remember a time – aside from brief flashes of adrenaline on a set or a date or at a fashion party where people are inadvertently dressed like kids in a school play about Greek gods – when being in my body didn’t feel like towing a wrecked car across town at midnight,” she writes.

A searingly funny, bare-hearted exploration of the cost of success, Dunham’s book charts her meteoric rise as a young screenwriter, director and actor with brutal honesty.

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Review: Famesick by Lena Dunham (4th Estate)

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Smart, sassy and highly entertaining, Famesick is ultimately a painfully astute analysis of the ways a dream job can morph into a perilous nightmare. Particularly for someone who is neurodivergent, barely out of college, emotionally dependent on their parents and suffering from a rare, undiagnosed chronic disease.

Throughout the first decade of her glittering career, Dunham balanced precariously between adulation and critical attacks. Her intelligent, sharply observed humour defined her public and professional image, but her personal boundaries were all too permeable. The demands of her job bled into her life with devastating consequences for her body.

Careering from one disastrous man to another, leaning hard on colleagues and friends, Dunham looked to others for the psychological stability she hadn’t yet developed. Her heart dangerously exposed on her sleeve, she poured the events of her life into screenplays, medicated her stress and crashed her way through stardom, unprotected by the industry that relied on her.

The price of Dunham’s success was exorbitant, involving much more than long hours and hard work. Yet while parts of her story are harrowingly visceral, she refuses self-pity and keeps away from the confessional traps of trauma porn.

There is nothing gratuitous or exploitative in these pages and Dunham refrains from blaming others for her chaos. Instead, she frames her drug addiction, unhealthy relationship patterns and debilitating chronic health issues as the cost of her own ambition, with a central question in mind. Was it worth it?

A cursed, well-connected fairy tale

Dunham’s narrative begins like a modern-day fairy tale with the story of her name, chosen by her mother “because it sounded like the name of someone who could be a movie star or a lawyer with an equal measure of success”. As a legacy, this turned out to be something of a curse.

Raised within privileged and well connected New York circles, by artist parents, Dunham began experimenting with film-making while attending liberal arts college Oberlin. Her first breakthrough was in 2010, with the award-winning semi-autobiographical movie, Tiny Furniture. She was just 23.

Six months after her film premiere, Dunham’s career skyrocketed when HBO contracted her to write and direct the pilot episode of Girls. Aiming to reflect the messy, early twenties stage of life, “when you don’t even know enough to even know what you’re looking for”, the show, like her film, starred herself and her childhood friend Jemima Kirke, with Allison Williams and Zosia Mamet completing the quartet of titular girls.

The series’ most intriguing character was arguably Hannah’s oddball boyfriend, Adam Sackler, played with unnerving conviction by Adam Driver in his first major role. Sackler, a misanthropic alcoholic, was based on Dunham’s real-life abusive lover in the first season. Later, the character evolved into a tender and devoted partner.

Off screen, Driver and Dunham’s relationship was, according to the book, also intense. The two actors skirted each other as Dunham tried to fathom her co-star’s unpredictable, occasionally explosive behaviour.

On one occasion, rehearsing a fight scene, he threw a chair at a wall when she couldn’t remember her lines. But while she recalls his verbal aggression and short temper, she also remembers spending “an inordinate amount of time wondering if Adam liked me”. Given the obvious strength of her seemingly unresolved feelings for Driver, it’s hard to know how to read her interpretation of him, though she clearly never figured him out.

With its frank, often hilarious, sometimes uncomfortable, all too relatable depictions of troubled friendship, awkward sex, career missteps and the fraught struggle for identity, Girls made a huge impact. From 2012, it ran for six seasons and five years, by which time all four main actors were turning 30. According to Dunham, the ending was planned to avoid losing “the creative clarity and specificity that gave it value”.

The show established Dunham as a sharp-sighted, uniquely talented visionary, but also attracted pernicious criticism that took her many years to process.

Accused of exploiting her nepo baby status, reviled for daring to expose her perfectly average physique, branded a myopic millennial, Dunham was both pummelled and pressurised for assuming the voice of her generation. “Or a voice,” as Dunham remembers her high-powered co-showrunner, Jenni Konner quipping. “Of a generation.”

Body as battleground

The irony of her situation was ridiculous. The whole point of Girls was to satirise the hot, flawed, contradictory tangle of young, white female adulthood experienced by Dunham and her friends. But like countless other women, Dunham was vilified for daring to give herself a platform. Worse – again, like so many other women – she experienced every mistake as an abject failure that filled her with shame.

Dunham’s extraordinary trajectory served as both example and warning to her peers, but behind the scenes of her controversial story, her body had become a battleground.

Between the pilot of Girls, when a colitis attack landed her in hospital, and the final season, when she shattered her elbow, collapsed from endometriosis and suffered a massive internal haemorrhagic cyst that caused so much pain she could barely walk, Dunham had chosen to “ignore my body’s noisy signals in favour of this thing I wanted so badly”.

In 2019, Dunham was diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a rare genetic connective tissue disorder that explained many of her symptoms. Prior to this, her faltering health was often just another source of shame. Hospital stays and bed rest delayed production, which was expensive and upset Konner. So Dunham numbed herself with prescription pills and kept going.

On the brink of her career, Dunham was in thrall to Konner. Brought in by HBO, the 38-year-old supervisor was already a television heavyweight and represented a big sister figure for the less experienced creator, who was her junior by 14 years.

Within days of their first meeting, Konner began divulging intimate details of her life and making extremely personal remarks to Dunham, all while teaching her how to write a pilot. But once filming started, she began exercising her authority “on a more sinister note”, telling her protegee she had to gain weight and look dowdy in order to stay funny.

Years later, when working with younger women herself, Dunham could see “how absurd it would seem to link myself to them in ways beyond the playful support system an on-set adult provides”. But as the ingenue, Dunham placed all her faith in Konner, and immersed herself in a lopsided relationship that grossly transgressed professional boundaries.

Together with Kirke, and Dunham’s long-term partner, music mogul Jack Antonoff, Konner became one of the author’s “three Js”; effectively a triumvirate who “defined my world, and in relation to whom I defined myself”. Caught up in this circle of co-dependency, Dunham was invariably left with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. She felt she was

always in trouble with one of them for something: A dinner I arrived late for and left early. A messy breakdown I couldn’t predict or control … and the endless cycle of reassurance I required afterward. The only thing I could promise was to never miss a deadline.

Dunham is more circumspect when it comes to her parents. However, it’s impossible not to speculate over her enmeshed relationships in light of her family dynamic. Supportive, but also overprotective and possessive, her mother (“the original frenemy”) and father tended to burden her with “unreasonable expectations”.

And they appeared to have been threatened by her success, as Dunham explains, “because it forced them to admit how much of their own self-image rode on their own highly specific public identities”.

Other telling details are scattered throughout the book, including the death of her beloved anorexic grandmother and her estranged brother, Cyrus, who couldn’t bear the attention his older sister’s fame commanded. (A media storm over a passage in Dunham’s first book had resulted in claims she had sexually abused Cyrus when they were both children, and though Dunham strenuously denied this and issued an apology, damage was done.)

There is enough here to know that Dunham’s comparatively untold family story has been a difficult and complicated one, with firmly embedded roots and a pretty long shadow.

After Girls, Dunham’s life imploded. Her physical suffering culminated in a hysterectomy. She broke up with Antonoff after five years. And her addiction to benzodiasepines, taken to suppress her anxiety, finally landed her in rehab.

Her recovery, chronicled in the third part of the book, was slow and incremental as she learned to reappraise her work ethic, to accept her body and to learn to live with chronic illness. She also had to let go of Konner, which broke her heart, but helped her become more forgiving towards her younger, needier self.

As the book moves towards its poignant conclusion, which sees Dunham married to British musician Luis Felber and settled into a more sustainable rhythm of work and life, the price she has paid for fame becomes clear.

“Hollywood’s culture has always been permissive toward everything but human frailty,” she writes. And with this final insight, she points her reader back to the front of her book, and the long, tragic list of now-dead stars to whom her memoir is dedicated, along with “anyone else who was too Famesick to be cured”.

Liz Evans does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Famesick: Lena Dunham makes us laugh about a dream job turned brutal nightmare – https://theconversation.com/famesick-lena-dunham-makes-us-laugh-about-a-dream-job-turned-brutal-nightmare-282725

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Louise Pryke, Honorary Research Associate, Department of Classics and Ancient History, University of Sydney

On Thursday, United States President Donald Trump and Chinese President Xi Jinping shook hands outside China’s Great Hall of the People, in Beijing, for 14 seconds. Almost immediately, we saw various pundits trying to interpret the meaning of the interaction.

A brief look at the history of the handshake, however, reveals the complexity of this gesture’s symbolism.

Handshakes can be traced back to ancient societies, but the exact origins are somewhat mysterious. It is often said – although difficult to prove – that the gesture developed as a symbol of good faith, with the participants showing their hands to be empty of weapons.

A further theory is that the shaking was intended to jiggle any hidden weapons loose from the sleeves – somewhat undermining it as a display of trust.

Assyrian diplomacy

The oldest known depiction of a handshake comes from the 9th century BCE, and represents a diplomatic display of unity.

On a limestone relief found in modern-day Iraq, King Shalmaneser III of Assyria and King Marduk-zakir-shumi I are shown shaking hands, symbolising renewed treaty relations between Babylon and Assyria, and an alliance between the two rulers.

Relations between the two great Mesopotamian powers had long been problematic, but the peaceful image of the handshake lingered in this artistic depiction, even as the rivalry grumbled on.

Hello, but also goodbye

Although more commonly considered a signal of greeting, the handshake has also been used as a powerful farewell gesture.

In Classical Greek art, grave reliefs depict the dead clasping hands with the living. This motif is known as dexiosis, meaning the “joining of the right hands”. It signals the end of the embodied connection between the pair, as well as the continuation of their loving bond in the afterlife.

Handshakes can sometimes also have a religious meaning. In ancient Rome, the right hand was strongly associated with Fides, the divine force of trust and good faith, so the hand clasping was a sacred bond.

The “joining of right hands” (known as the dextrarum iunctio) was a gesture of unity that could be used to symbolise weddings, as well as other social and political bonds. It was also closely linked with the Roman goddess Concordia, who was the divine personification of harmony.

A misleading symbol?

The image of peace and harmony presented by the handshake shouldn’t always be taken at face value; the handshake symbolism can also be used to conceal a union in trouble. The Roman emperors Caracalla and Geta offer a clear example.

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Read more:
Who were Caracalla and Geta, the cruel and unhinged Roman brother emperors depicted in Gladiator II?

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After the death of their father, emperor Septimius Severus, in 211 CE, the brothers ruled together. Imperial imagery shows them with right hands extended in harmony.

Yet before the year was out, Caracalla was plotting his brother’s murder. He arranged a meeting with Geta under the pretence of reconciliation, where Geta was killed – reportedly in the arms of their mother.

Even among heroes, a handshake didn’t guarantee a happy ending. In ancient Greek art, Herakles is depicted shaking hands with the centaur Pholos, symbolising a warm welcome from the hybrid being. Sadly, their greeting ends in tragedy: Herakles is attacked by intoxicated centaurs, and Pholos dies after being struck with a poisoned arrow.

Peacocking politicians

Closer to home, Australian politics has its own (significantly less bloody) version of the doomed handshake. On the eve of the 2004 federal election, the two party leaders, Mark Latham and John Howard, met outside ABC studios.

Latham’s exaggerated handshake made good political theatre but is generally viewed as a misstep. His party went on to lose the election, with the image looming large in the minds of voters.

In Assyrian art, the handshake is static. But in modern politics, handshakes are filmed in motion, replayed on news bulletins, clipped for social media, and analysed by audiences the world over. In this context, the handshake can become something of a power play.

Donald Trump’s handshakes are frequently read as tests of dominance, with long grips and close stances.

When Trump and French president Emmanuel Macron met in Brussels in 2017, their handshake was widely described as a white-knuckled contest. Macron later characterised the exchange as a deliberate “moment of truth” designed to show he would not be pushed around. Macron said he wished to signal he wouldn’t make concessions – “not even symbolic ones”.

Last year, the pair once again clasped hands in front of the cameras, for 26 seconds.

The symbolism attached to handshakes also means the rejection of an offered hand carries a powerful sting. During the 2020 Australian Black Summer bushfires, Prime Minister Scott Morrison tried shaking a firefighter’s hand while visiting the fire-ravaged town of Cobargo, New South Wales.

“I don’t really want to shake your hand,” the firefighter said. Morrison took his hand anyway.

COVID almost killed the handshake

When COVID came, people wondered if the new era might mark the end of the handshake. There were widespread health warnings against shaking hands, resulting in a rise of alternative physical greetings.

These included the fist bump – a gesture with complex origins of its own. The fist bump is a type of “dap” greeting associated with Black American soldiers during the Vietnam War.

Yet, from ancient Assyria to modern China, the handshake endures. More than a greeting, it’s a deeply symbolic tradition carrying a multitude of meanings.

Louise Pryke does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. From ancient kings to Trump and Xi: when did humans start shaking hands? And why? – https://theconversation.com/from-ancient-kings-to-trump-and-xi-when-did-humans-start-shaking-hands-and-why-283078

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Jorgo Ristevski, Researcher, Palaeontology, The University of Queensland

The sight of a saltwater crocodile basking on a mudbank is one of the most iconic and intimidating images of northern Australia. Yet the crocodiles that inhabit the region today are just the survivors of a much richer and stranger lost world.

Until recently, Australasia was home not just to the familiar crocodiles found in tropical waterways, but also to a unique cast of crocs unlike any living species.

Our recent review of evidence from the past 129,000 years reveals a dramatic story of extinctions, human encounters, and survival against the odds.

Mekosuchines – the lost rulers of Australasia

Modern crocodiles are members of the genus Crocodyls, but an entirely different group of crocodylians known as mekosuchines once dominated the region.

For more than 50 million years, mekosuchines were the apex predators of Australasia. Some even survived to meet humans.

These remarkable animals came in an astonishing variety of shapes and sizes, inhabiting many different environments.

Some were giant semi-aquatic ambush predators, much like the saltwater crocodiles that still patrol northern rivers today. Others were much smaller “dwarf” species that inhabited islands such as New Caledonia. Most terrifyingly, some species possessed blade-like serrated teeth and probably hunted their prey on land.

A fragmentary puzzle

We pieced together a record of crocodylians over the past 129,000 years from scattered and highly fragmentary remains recovered from more than 20 archaeological and palaeontological sites.

Most are located in Australia, though some are found in New Guinea, and a handful more across the southwest Pacific. At archaeological sites on the Australian mainland, as well as in the Torres Strait and New Guinea, researchers have uncovered the broken bones and teeth of modern crocodile species, showing that these formidable reptiles have shared landscapes with people for thousands of years.

Ancient rock art, some dating back around 20,000 years, reveals that Indigenous Australians were closely observing and depicting these animals for millennia. The distribution of archaeological remains and rock art closely mirrors the modern ranges of crocodiles today. This points to a long and relatively stable coexistence between humans and these powerful predators.

Archaeological evidence shows that humans did occasionally eat crocodiles, and sometimes even crafted pendants from their teeth. Yet such discoveries are quite rare. When ancient archaeological sites do yield crocodile bones, there are usually only a handful of them.

The evidence suggests crocodiles were hunted only rarely. This is not surprising.

Adult saltwater crocodiles are enormous, immensely powerful, and highly lethal to humans. For ancient communities, engaging with these apex predators would have been a hazardous undertaking, and something mostly avoided.

But modern crocodiles weren’t alone in these ancient landscapes. Fossils show they shared them with the mekosuchines.

On mainland Australia, mekosuchines are currently only known from fossils. Most remains date from more than 40,000 years ago. We currently have no evidence of these extinct crocs from archaeological sites or in ancient rock art.

We don’t know if humans and mekosuchines ever directly interacted in Australia. Their disappearance occurred around the same time as the extinction of other Australian megafauna, potentially after a long period of coexistence with humans. The exact cause of their demise in Australia remains a mystery.

Island extinctions

However, the story is different on the islands of New Caledonia, Vanuatu and Fiji. There, some mekosuchine species managed to survive into much more recent times. And humans almost certainly encountered them directly.

The extinct crocs of New Caledonia and Vanuatu were small, reaching less than two metres in length as adults. They also likely lived more on land than today’s semi-aquatic crocodiles. Their small statures and terrestrial lives would have made them far more accessible for human hunters.

Tragically, the known record of these island mekosuchines ends within a few centuries of human settlement. In several cases, their remains were found in association with human artefacts and middens.

In one example from Vanuatu, a mekosuchine limb bone appears to bear the gnaw marks of a rat, an invasive species introduced to the island by humans. While definitive proof is elusive, it seems likely that direct or indirect human involvement may be the reason for the disappearance of these “dwarf” island crocodylians.

Lessons for the Anthropocene

We are now living through the Anthropocene, an age when humans are profoundly influencing the planet and extinctions are accelerating, as is particularly evident in Australia.

The prehistoric past is not just a record of vanished worlds, but a warning for the future. Understanding how apex predators like crocodiles responded to past climatic changes, environmental upheaval, and human impacts provides important clues for their conservation in the future.

To truly unravel these questions will take the combined work of palaeontologists, archaeologists, ecologists and conservationists. Just as crucial will be deep engagement with Indigenous knowledges and land managers, whose long histories of observing and living alongside these animals offer clues for protecting the world’s remaining crocodiles, and the threatened ecosystems they inhabit.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. 129,000 years of crocodiles: what we know about Australasia’s ancient apex predators – https://theconversation.com/129-000-years-of-crocodiles-what-we-know-about-australasias-ancient-apex-predators-283253

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Alexandra Andhov, Chair in Law and Technology, University of Auckland, Waipapa Taumata Rau

On Monday, a nine-member federal jury in Oakland, California took less than two hours to dismiss Elon Musk’s lawsuit against OpenAI and its chief executive Sam Altman.

Crucially, the jury did not rule on the core claims of the case. These included whether OpenAI, the company behind the popular artificial intelligence (AI) chatbot ChatGPT, strayed from its founding mission and whether Altman and OpenAI’s co-founder Greg Brockman enriched themselves at the expense of a charitable purpose.

It decided only that Musk had waited too long to sue in relation to his core claims about breaches of a founding contract or breach of charitable trust.

A victory for Musk could have neutered OpenAI, which in turn would have probably sent shockwaves through the entire AI sector given the company’s dominant position developing the technology.

Now, however, OpenAI has a clear path to take its next big step in the AI race, even though the key question at the core of the case remains unanswered: is OpenAI a nonprofit dedicated to humanity or a corporation dedicated to its shareholders?

How it all started

OpenAI was founded in December 2015 as a nonprofit entity – an AI research lab.

Musk and a group of prominent entrepreneurs pledged US$1 billion to develop AI for the benefit of humanity, free of commercial pressure. Alongside Musk, the founding group included Altman, Brockman and computer scientist Ilya Sutskever.

The organisation’s charter committed to two key principles. First, developing artificial general intelligence safely and for the benefit of all of humanity.

Second, developing the technology openly, meaning it would be open source. This would allow others to use their underlying models, code, and research freely.

This was the deal Musk says he signed up for. And OpenAI claims it continues to honour this deal even today, despite more than US$20 billion in revenue in 2025.

Since 2015, a lot has happened. And understanding these events is key to interpreting the jury’s verdict.

A very different deal

By 2019, the original deal looked different. Given that training frontier AI models was extraordinarily expensive, Altman started to seek more cash.

OpenAI created a capped-profit subsidiary where investors could earn up to 100 times their initial investment, with any extra money flowing back to the nonprofit parent.

One of the first investors was Microsoft, which initially invested US$1 billion and more than US$13 billion over time. The nonprofit retained formal governance, the usual nonprofit rules applied, but the commercial subsidiary became the decision-maker.

That same year, OpenAI released GPT-2. The model was released partially, in stages, rather than published as open source. This was the moment the “open” in OpenAI began to read differently.

GPT-3 followed in 2020, and it was available only via a paid subscription. The inner workings of the model also remained secret. ChatGPT launched in November 2022, and reached 100 million users in a few days.

Twelve months later, OpenAI’s nonprofit board fired Sam Altman, citing a loss of confidence in his candour. This was what the governance structure was meant for: to protect the organisation’s humanity-first mission, the board had the power to remove the chief executive.

Yet, within five days, after pressure from Microsoft and the employees, Altman was back and the board was out. A new board that aligned with the commercially-driven enterprise took their seats.

The mechanism built to keep OpenAI accountable to its charter was the one that lost. Whatever the “humanity claim” of the founding mission was supposed to mean, commercial interests prevailed.

A sweeping reorganisation

In October 2025, after nearly a year of negotiation with the attorneys general of California (where OpenAI is headquartered) and Delaware (where it is incorporated), the organisation completed a sweeping reorganisation.

The nonprofit became the OpenAI Foundation, with the same mission: “to ensure artificial general intelligence benefits all of humanity”. The for-profit became a public benefit corporation, called OpenAI Group PBC. Unlike a conventional corporation, it is required to advance its stated mission and consider the broader interests of all stakeholders.

The OpenAI Foundation holds a 26% stake in the new public benefit corporation and retains some contractual and special shareholder governance rights. Microsoft owns 27% and the remaining 47% is owned by other investors and employees.

Thus the Foundation controls the public benefit corporation in form. Yet in practice, OpenAI is now a profit-seeking enterprise with a charitable shareholder. So while a number of nonprofit governance guardrails are in place, significant deficiencies remain.

The unanswered question

OpenAI is now openly preparing for a public listing at the end of 2026, at an expected valuation at up to US$1 trillion, even as it defends dozens of pending lawsuits, ranging from intellectual property infringement and consumer protection claims to a wrongful death suit.

This is the part the jury did not address.

A verdict on a statute of limitations is a statement about timing, not purpose. It tells us when a complaint can be heard. It does not tell us whether the complaint was right. And in this particular case, it demonstrates the difficulty in relying on private individuals to enforce non-profit governance norms.

Musk has said he will appeal the verdict. The appeal court will almost certainly limit itself to a narrow legal question – perhaps when a reasonable plaintiff should have understood OpenAI had changed.

The larger question about whether OpenAI is a nonprofit dedicated to humanity or a corporation dedicated to its shareholders, has now been deferred indefinitely – at least in a legal context.

The public, however, will no doubt make up its own mind about a company now worth hundreds of billions of dollars.

Alexandra Andhov is the director of ALTeR (Center for Advancing Law and Technology Responsibly) at the University of Auckland. She received funding from the Independent Research Fund Denmark for the “PROFIT” Project (Gaps and Opportunities in Corporate Governance of Big Tech Companies) to research big tech companies.

Ian Murray is a Professor of Law at the University of Western Australia, Director of the Charity Law Association of Australia and New Zealand and also a member of the Law Council of Australia’s Charity and Not-for-profits Sub-committee.

– ref. Elon Musk sued OpenAI and lost. But the core question of the case remains unanswered – https://theconversation.com/elon-musk-sued-openai-and-lost-but-the-core-question-of-the-case-remains-unanswered-283256

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Kai Lane, Traditional Owner Representative and Trainee Ecologist, Indigenous Knowledge

I’m a proud Yorta Yorta and Barapa Barapa man, an Indigenous astronomer and a trainee ecologist.

When I look at the night sky, I don’t just see stars. Instead, I see an ancient knowledge system that has guided people, culture and Country for tens of thousands of years.

But that knowledge is now at risk. In many of our towns and cities, the stars are increasingly hidden behind a haze of artificial light. And that light pollution is threatening a unique way of understanding the world.

A ‘living classroom’

The night sky is a living classroom, at once a calendar, map, lore book and weather forecast.

Indigenous Elders share this knowledge with younger people – often outdoors, on Country, beneath the stars.

They may start by talking about constellations, which have helped guide Indigenous Australians for millenia.

One example is the Wangel or “long-necked turtle” constellation. Various Indigenous communities looked to this constellation, based on the bright orange star Pollux, to know when it was time to travel and gather for different ceremonies. This may be because the bright orange star reflects the turtle’s orange colouring.

Another is the Djurt or “red-rumped parrot” constellation. This constellation is based on the Antares star which appears bright red with a blue halo, resembling the parrot’s red and blue feathers. This constellation guided communities to spots where food was abundant, such as grasslands that were full of seeds.

Constellations also hold lore, or rules, that guide sustainable practices. For example, when the Otchocut or “Murray cod” constellation appears in the night sky, we do not hunt Murray Cod. This is because it becomes visible when the rivers are warm and the fish are breeding, typically between October to November. Similarly, when the red-rumped parrot constellation appears, that means the parrot is breeding and therefore cannot be hunted.

The stars may also provide weather forecasts, but only if you have the knowledge and observation skills to understand them. For example, a star that twinkles and appears bright blue suggests a storm is coming. And if a cluster of stars twinkle quickly, it may mean the wind will become stronger.

Stars and songlines

The routes laid out by the stars are often connected to songlines. Songlines, sometimes known as dreaming tracks, are cultural pathways that connect traditional sites. Songlines also act as “drop pins” that indicate where important resources, such as waterholes and food, may be.

A well-known example is the Seven Sisters dreamtime story, which recounts the journey of seven sisters that ultimately become part of the Taurus constellation. For some Indigenous communities in central Australia, the Seven Sisters serve as a kind of celestial map. This is because the seven stars roughly mirror the location of seven waterholes.

The threat of light

As our cities grow, light pollution from streetlights, floodlights and buildings is spreading. As a result, it’s increasingly rare to see dark nights and starry skies near urban areas.

For Indigenous communities, this has a direct cultural impact.

Light pollution makes it near impossible to connect with the stars, and therefore share Indigenous sky knowledge with younger generations.

Light pollution also affects culturally important species. In Barapa Barapa culture, the microbat is a men’s totem and the nightjar is a women’s totem. Both are nocturnal animals that rely on darkness, so artificial light makes it harder for them to survive.

Beyond culture, light pollution has widespread ecological impacts, affecting how animals grow, behave and breed. Research suggests light pollution can stop clownfish eggs from hatching, shrink the brains of spiders and disorient threatened seabirds such as petrels and shearwaters.

It can also negatively affect human health. Research shows artificial light – particularly from LED lights and electronic devices – may trigger sleep and mood disorders and certain cardiovascular problems.

So, what can we do?

The good news is, we can each help reduce light pollution by making simple lifestyle changes. Here are some ideas:

• turn off outdoor lights whenever you’re not using them
• use lightbulbs with a lower brightness and warmer colouring
• choose light designs that direct light only where its needed
• close curtains and blinds at night to stop indoor light from spilling out
• during festive times such as Christmas, opt for daytime decorations instead of outdoor lights.

We can also better regulate the use of artificial light outdoors. Currently, Australia does not have any regulations around light pollution. But countries such as France have substantially reduced their light pollution levels by regulating what kind of lighting people can use and install.

Together, stronger regulation and simple lifestyle tweaks could help us tackle light pollution. And that’s key to keeping Indigenous sky knowledge alive.

Kai Lane works for Ecology Restoration Australia and also co-leads the Habitat Warriors program.

Jaana Dielenberg is an Ambassador for the Australasian Dark Sky Alliance, Science Communication Director of the Biodiversity Council, Honorary Fellow at The University of Melbourne and University Fellow (Biodiversity) at Charles Darwin University. She was previously employed under a grant funded by the Australian government’s National Environmental Science Program Threatened Species Recovery Hub.

Kaori Yokochi is a lecturer at Deakin University. She receives funding from various organisations for her ecological research. She is also a member of the Network for Ecological Research on Artificial Light and the Australasian Dark Sky Alliance.

– ref. Indigenous Australians were the world’s first astronomers. But their knowledge is now at risk – https://theconversation.com/indigenous-australians-were-the-worlds-first-astronomers-but-their-knowledge-is-now-at-risk-281435