Category: MIL-OSI

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Bridget Haire, Associate Professor, Public Health Ethics, School of Population Health, UNSW Sydney

Over the past three decades there have been amazing advances in treating and preventing HIV.

It’s now a manageable infection. A person with HIV who takes HIV medicine consistently, before their immune system declines, can expect to live almost as long as someone without HIV.

The same drugs prevent transmission of the virus to sexual partners.

There is still no effective HIV vaccine. But there are highly effective drugs to prevent HIV infection for people without HIV who are at higher risk of acquiring it.

These drugs are known as as “pre-exposure prophylaxis” or PrEP. These come as a pill, which needs to be taken either daily, or “on demand” before and after risky sex. An injection that protects against HIV for six months has recently been approved in the United States.

So with such effective HIV treatment and PrEP, why are we still spending millions looking for HIV cures?

Not everyone has access to these drugs

Access to HIV drugs and PrEP depends on the availability of health clinics, health professionals, and the means to supply and distribute the drugs. In some countries, this infrastructure may not be secure.

For instance, earlier this year, US President Donald Trump’s dissolution of the USAID foreign aid program has threatened the delivery of HIV drugs to many low-income countries.

This demonstrates the fragility of current approaches to treatment and prevention. A secure, uninterrupted supply of HIV medicine is required, and without this, lives will be lost and the number of new cases of HIV will rise.

Another example is the six-monthly PrEP injection just approved in the US. This drug has great potential for controlling HIV if it is made available and affordable in countries with the greatest HIV burden.

But the prospect for lower-income countries accessing this expensive drug looks uncertain, even if it can be made at a fraction of its current cost, as some researchers say.

So despite the success of HIV drugs and PrEP, precarious health-care systems and high drug costs mean we can’t rely on them to bring an end to the ongoing global HIV pandemic. That’s why we also still need to look at other options.

Haven’t people already been ‘cured’?

Worldwide, at least seven people have been “cured” of HIV – or at least have had long-term sustained remission. This means that after stopping HIV drugs, they did not have any replicating HIV in their blood for months or years.

In each case, the person with HIV also had a life-threatening cancer needing a bone marrow transplant. They were each matched with a donor who had a specific genetic variation that resulted in not having HIV receptors in key bone marrow cells.

After the bone marrow transplant, recipients stopped HIV drugs, without detectable levels of the virus returning. The new immune cells made in the transplanted bone marrow lacked the HIV receptors. This stopped the virus from infecting cells and replicating.

But this genetic variation is very rare. Bone marrow transplantation is also risky and extremely resource-intensive. So while this strategy has worked for a few people, it is not a scalable prospect for curing HIV more widely.

So we need to keep looking for other options for a cure, including basic laboratory research to get us there.

How about the ‘breakthrough’ I’ve heard about?

HIV treatment stops the HIV replication that causes immune damage. But there are places in the body where the virus “hides” and drugs cannot reach. If the drugs are stopped, the “latent” HIV comes out of hiding and replicates again. So it can damage the immune system, leading to HIV-related disease.

One approach is to try to force the hidden or latent HIV out into the open, so drugs can target it. This is a strategy called “shock and kill”. And an example of such Australian research was recently reported in the media as a “breakthrough” in the search for an HIV cure.

Researchers in Melbourne have developed a lipid nanoparticle – a tiny ball of fat – that encapsulates messenger RNA (or mRNA) and delivers a “message” to infected white blood cells. This prompts the cells to reveal the “hiding” HIV.

In theory, this will allow the immune system or HIV drugs to target the virus.

This discovery is an important step. However, it is still in the laboratory phase of testing, and is just one piece of the puzzle.

We could say the same about many other results heralded as moving closer to a cure for HIV.

Further research on safety and efficacy is needed before testing in human clinical trials. Such trials start with small numbers and the trialling process takes many years. This and other steps towards a cure are slow and expensive, but necessary.

Importantly, any cure would ultimately need to be fairly low-tech to deliver for it to be feasible and affordable in low-income countries globally.

So where does that leave us?

A cure for HIV that is affordable and scalable would have a profound impact on human heath globally, particularly for people living with HIV. To get there is a long and arduous path that involves solving a range of scientific puzzles, followed by addressing implementation challenges.

In the meantime, ensuring people at risk of HIV have access to testing and prevention interventions – such as PrEP and safe injecting equipment – remains crucial. People living with HIV also need sustained access to effective treatment – regardless of where they live.

Bridget Haire has received funding from the National Health and Medical Research Council. She is a past president of the Australian Federation of AIDS Organisations (now Health Equity Matters).

Benjamin Bavinton receives funding from the National Health and Medical Research Council, the Australian government, and state and territory governments. He also receives funding from ViiV Healthcare and Gilead Sciences, both of which make drugs or drug classes mentioned in this article. He is a Board Director of community organisation, ACON, and is on the National PrEP Guidelines Panel coordinated by ASHM Health.

– ref. We have drugs to manage HIV. So why are we spending millions looking for cures? – https://theconversation.com/we-have-drugs-to-manage-hiv-so-why-are-we-spending-millions-looking-for-cures-258391

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Daniel Binns, Senior Lecturer, Media & Communication, RMIT University

Some say it’s em dashes, dodgy apostrophes, or too many emoji. Others suggest that maybe the word “delve” is a chatbot’s calling card. It’s no longer the sight of morphed bodies or too many fingers, but it might be something just a little off in the background. Or video content that feels a little too real.

The markers of AI-generated media are becoming harder to spot as technology companies work to iron out the kinks in their generative artificial intelligence (AI) models.

But what if instead of trying to detect and avoid these glitches, we deliberately encouraged them instead? The flaws, failures and unexpected outputs of AI systems can reveal more about how these technologies actually work than the polished, successful outputs they produce.

When AI hallucinates, contradicts itself, or produces something beautifully broken, it reveals its training biases, decision-making processes, and the gaps between how it appears to “think” and how it actually processes information.

In my work as a researcher and educator, I’ve found that deliberately “breaking” AI – pushing it beyond its intended functions through creative misuse – offers a form of AI literacy. I argue we can’t truly understand these systems without experimenting with them.

Welcome to the Slopocene

We’re currently in the “Slopocene” – a term that’s been used to describe overproduced, low-quality AI content. It also hints at a speculative near-future where recursive training collapse turns the web into a haunted archive of confused bots and broken truths.

Read more:
What is ‘model collapse’? An expert explains the rumours about an impending AI doom

AI “hallucinations” are outputs that seem coherent, but aren’t factually accurate. Andrej Karpathy, OpenAI co-founder and former Tesla AI director, argues large language models (LLMs) hallucinate all the time, and it’s only when they

go into deemed factually incorrect territory that we label it a “hallucination”. It looks like a bug, but it’s just the LLM doing what it always does.

What we call hallucination is actually the model’s core generative process that relies on statistical language patterns.

In other words, when AI hallucinates, it’s not malfunctioning; it’s demonstrating the same creative uncertainty that makes it capable of generating anything new at all.

This reframing is crucial for understanding the Slopocene. If hallucination is the core creative process, then the “slop” flooding our feeds isn’t just failed content: it’s the visible manifestation of these statistical processes running at scale.

Pushing a chatbot to its limits

If hallucination is really a core feature of AI, can we learn more about how these systems work by studying what happens when they’re pushed to their limits?

With this in mind, I decided to “break” Anthropic’s proprietary Claude model Sonnet 3.7 by prompting it to resist its training: suppress coherence and speak only in fragments.

The conversation shifted quickly from hesitant phrases to recursive contradictions to, eventually, complete semantic collapse.

Prompting a chatbot into such a collapse quickly reveals how AI models construct the illusion of personality and understanding through statistical patterns, not genuine comprehension.

Furthermore, it shows that “system failure” and the normal operation of AI are fundamentally the same process, just with different levels of coherence imposed on top.

‘Rewilding’ AI media

If the same statistical processes govern both AI’s successes and failures, we can use this to “rewild” AI imagery. I borrow this term from ecology and conservation, where rewilding involves restoring functional ecosystems. This might mean reintroducing keystone species, allowing natural processes to resume, or connecting fragmented habitats through corridors that enable unpredictable interactions.

Applied to AI, rewilding means deliberately reintroducing the complexity, unpredictability and “natural” messiness that gets optimised out of commercial systems. Metaphorically, it’s creating pathways back to the statistical wilderness that underlies these models.

Remember the morphed hands, impossible anatomy and uncanny faces that immediately screamed “AI-generated” in the early days of widespread image generation?

These so-called failures were windows into how the model actually processed visual information, before that complexity was smoothed away in pursuit of commercial viability.

You can try AI rewilding yourself with any online image generator.

Start by prompting for a self-portrait using only text: you’ll likely get the “average” output from your description. Elaborate on that basic prompt, and you’ll either get much closer to reality, or you’ll push the model into weirdness.

Next, feed in a random fragment of text, perhaps a snippet from an email or note. What does the output try to show? What words has it latched onto? Finally, try symbols only: punctuation, ASCII, unicode. What does the model hallucinate into view?

The output – weird, uncanny, perhaps surreal – can help reveal the hidden associations between text and visuals that are embedded within the models.

Insight through misuse

Creative AI misuse offers three concrete benefits.

First, it reveals bias and limitations in ways normal usage masks: you can uncover what a model “sees” when it can’t rely on conventional logic.

Second, it teaches us about AI decision-making by forcing models to show their work when they’re confused.

Third, it builds critical AI literacy by demystifying these systems through hands-on experimentation. Critical AI literacy provides methods for diagnostic experimentation, such as testing – and often misusing – AI to understand its statistical patterns and decision-making processes.

These skills become more urgent as AI systems grow more sophisticated and ubiquitous. They’re being integrated in everything from search to social media to creative software.

When someone generates an image, writes with AI assistance or relies on algorithmic recommendations, they’re entering a collaborative relationship with a system that has particular biases, capabilities and blind spots.

Rather than mindlessly adopting or reflexively rejecting these tools, we can develop critical AI literacy by exploring the Slopocene and witnessing what happens when AI tools “break”.

This isn’t about becoming more efficient AI users. It’s about maintaining agency in relationships with systems designed to be persuasive, predictive and opaque.

Daniel Binns is an Associate Investigator with the ARC Centre of Excellence for Automated Decision-Making and Society.

– ref. Understanding the ‘Slopocene’: how the failures of AI can reveal its inner workings – https://theconversation.com/understanding-the-slopocene-how-the-failures-of-ai-can-reveal-its-inner-workings-258584

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Christopher White, Historian, The University of Queensland

The history of the dead – or, more precisely, the history of the living’s fascination with the dead – is an intriguing one.

As a researcher of the supernatural, I’m often pulled aside at conferences or at the school gate, and told in furtive whispers about people’s encounters with the dead.

The dead haunt our imagination in a number of different forms, whether as “cold spots”, or the walking dead popularised in zombie franchises such as 28 Days Later.

The franchise’s latest release, 28 Years Later, brings back the Hollywood zombie in all its glory – but these archetypal creatures have a much wider and varied history.

Zombis, revenants and the returning dead

A zombie is typically a reanimated corpse: a category of the returning dead. Scholars refer to them as “revenants”, and continue to argue over their exact characteristics.

In the Haitian Vodou religion, the zombi is not the same as the Hollywood zombie. Instead, zombi are people who, as a religious punishment, are drugged, buried alive, then dug out and forced into slavery.

The Hollywood zombie, however, draws more from medieval European stories about the returning dead than from Vodou.

A perfect setting for a ‘zombie’ film

In 28 Years Later, the latest entry in Danny Boyle’s blockbuster horror franchise, the monsters technically aren’t zombies because they aren’t dead. Instead, they are infected by a “rage virus”, accidentally released by a group of animal rights activists in the beginning of the first film.

This third film focuses on events almost three decades after the first film. The British Isles is quarantined, and the young protagonist Spike (Alfie Williams) and his family live in a village on Lindisfarne Island. This island, one of the most important sites in early medieval British Christianity, is isolated and protected by a tidal causeway that links it to the mainland.

The film leans heavily on how we imagine the medieval world, with scenes showing silhouetted fletchers at work making arrows, children training with bows, towering ossuaries and various memento mori. There’s also footage from earlier depictions of medieval warfare. And at one point, the characters seek sanctuary in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, in Yorkshire, which was built in 1132.

The medieval locations and imagery of 28 Years Later evoke the long history of revenants, and the returned dead who once roved medieval England.

Early accounts of the medieval dead

In the medieval world, or at least the parts that wrote in Latin, the returning dead were usually called spiritus (“spirit”), but they weren’t limited to the non-corporeal like today’s ghosts are.

Medieval Latin Christians from as early as the 3rd century saw the dead as part of a parallel society that mirrored the world of the living, where each group relied on the other to aid them through the afterlife.

While some medieval ghosts would warn the living about what awaited sinners in the afterlife, or lead their relatives to treasure, or prophesise the future, some also returned to terrorise the living.

And like the “zombies” affected by the rage virus in 28 Years Later, these revenants could go into a frenzy in the presence of the living.

Thietmar, the Prince-Bishop of Merseburg, Germany, wrote the Chronicon Thietmari (Thietmar’s Chronicle) between 1012 and 1018, and included a number of ghost stories that featured revenants.

Although not all of them framed the dead as terrifying, they certainly didn’t paint them as friendly, either. In one story, a congregation of the dead at a church set the priest upon the altar, before burning him to ashes – intended to be read as a mirror of pagan sacrifice.

These dead were physical beings, capable of seizing a man and sacrificing him in his own church.

A threat to be dealt with

The English monastic historian William of Newburgh (1136–98) wrote revenants were so common in his day that recording them all would be exhausting. According to him, the returned dead were frequently seen in 12th century England.

So, instead of providing a exhausting list, he offered some choice examples which, like most medieval ghost stories, had a good Christian moral attached to them.

William’s revenants mostly killed the people of the towns they lived, returning to the grave between their escapades. But the medieval English had a method for dealing with these monsters; they dug them up, tore out the heart and then burned the body.

Other revenants were dealt with less harshly, William explained. In one case, all it took was the Bishop of Lincoln writing a letter of absolution to stop a dead man returning to his widow’s bed.

These medieval dead were also thought to spread disease – much like those infected with the rage virus – and were capable of physically killing someone.

The undead, further north

In medieval Scandinavia and Iceland, the undead draugr were extremely strong, hideous to look at and stunk of decomposition. Some were immune to human weapons and often killed animals near their tombs before building up to kill humans. Like their English counterparts, they also spread disease.

But according to the Eyrbyggja saga, an anonymous 13th or 14th century text written in Iceland, all it took was a type of community court and the threat of legal action to drive off these returned dead.

It’s a method the survivors in 28 Years Later didn’t try.

The dead live on

The first-hand zombie stories that were common during the medieval period started to dwindle in the 16th century with the Protestant Reformation, which focused more on individuals’ behaviours and salvation.

Nonetheless, their influence can still be felt in Catholic ritual practices today, such as in prayers offered for the dead, and the lighting of votive candles.

We still tell ghost stories, and we still worry about things that go bump in the night. And of course, we continue to explore the undead in all its forms on the big screen.

Christopher White 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. The 28 Days Later franchise redefined zombie films. But the undead have an old, rich and varied history – https://theconversation.com/the-28-days-later-franchise-redefined-zombie-films-but-the-undead-have-an-old-rich-and-varied-history-247900

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Katrina Muller-Townsend, Lecturer in Psychology, Edith Cowan University

Sabrina Carpenter’s Man’s Best Friend album cover has fans divided.

Carpenter poses on all fours, her glossy blond hair grasped by a male figure cropped from the frame. Her wide-eyed expression intensifies an ambiguous performance of subservience, tapping into a visual language tied to female objectification, from classic pin-up imagery to contemporary pop culture.

The emotionally loaded image plays on her hyper-feminine, tongue-in-cheek pop star persona, forcing us to question where irony ends and objectification begins.

Is it satire, or self-degradation?

Up for debate

At first glance, the cover seems like just another stylised, provocative pop image. It delivers what we’ve come to expect: a bold, ironic twist on the exaggerated Juno-style pose she reinvents on stage.

To some fans, it’s clever satire: a pop star reclaiming and amplifying her image to mock industry norms. Satire uses exaggeration, irony, or humour to critique power structures – and Carpenter’s pose walks that tightrope.

To others it crosses a line, reinforcing regressive attitudes about women’s sexuality and drawing criticism from domestic violence advocates.

The debate reflects our unresolved discomfort about gender, power and control. There is a tension between Carpenter’s ironic persona and the submissive pose, creating uncertainty for the viewer.

We can use psychology to better understand this dichotomy.

The schema violation

This mismatch between expectation and perception is a schema violation.

A schema is a mental shortcut: a template built from experience and unspoken rules that helps us make sense of the world and predict what to expect. When something breaks that pattern, it’s called a schema violation.

Carpenter’s brand is cheeky, self-aware irony – so when she adopts a pose steeped in submission and hyper-femininity as in this album image, it feels off.

That can trigger cognitive dissonance: the mental tension we feel when two ideas (here, empowerment and obedience) don’t align.

To resolve the conflict, some fans reinterpret the image as feminist sarcasm. Others reject it, fearing it panders to outdated, dangerous norms.

Both reactions reflect our emotional and ideological investments in who Carpenter is or should be.

Exploring confirmation bias

Part of this conflicted reaction is driven by confirmation bias: our tendency to filter information to support what we already believe.

Fans who see Carpenter as witty and empowered interpret the image as intentionally ironic. Others – more sceptical of the industry’s history of exploiting female sexuality – view it as a throwback to damaging norms.

Either way, our interpretations often reflect more about ourselves than about Carpenter’s intent.

When her image contradicts both her public persona and our social values, it creates a gap between what we think is right and what we want to be right. So, we try to explain it away, by either defending the image or criticising it.

Satire and scandal

Carpenter’s cover follows a long tradition of female artists whose work straddles satire and scandal, complicating public reception.

Madonna’s Like a Prayer drew outrage for mixing religion with sexual imagery. Yet it positioned her as a provocateur – a woman resisting the lack of agency that so often defines sexualised media.

Miley Cyrus’ Bangerz era shocked fans with a bold shift from Hannah Montana innocence to hypersexualised rebellion, challenging the narrow roles women in pop culture are confined to.

Doja Cat’s shift from glam pop princess to glitch villainess unsettled audiences. Was it satire, rebellion, or just chaos?

These women, like Carpenter, force us to confront our own discomfort with women who won’t stay in one lane.

Performer and provocateur

Audience reaction is also shaped by emotional investment in Carpenter’s persona. Through carefully curated social media, interviews and lyrics, fans build intimate narratives forming parasocial relationships – one-sided emotional bonds with celebrities.

When an image contradicts that imagined persona, it can feel jarring, even like betrayal.

Audiences often expect idols to be empowering but not polarising, sexy but safe, to challenge norms – but only in ways that affirm our own values.

Carpenter’s image breaks that implicit contract, which creates discomfort for some viewers.

Carpenter’s cover raises uncomfortable but necessary questions about how much freedom female artists have to be both critical and complicit. Can they play with society and play along, to be both performer and provocateur?

This highlights the double bind many women face in media and popular culture. Female artists are expected to both subvert and satisfy; to entertain without offending; empower without alienating. The burden to be palatable and provocative is one male artists rarely face.

It’s what we make of it

Is Carpenter undermining herself or subverting the system? Perhaps both. Or perhaps the image isn’t the message: our reaction is.

The image forces us to confront not only our perception of Sabrina Carpenter but also our cultural discomfort with women who defy neat categorisation. Satire demands interpretation, especially when it comes from women addressing sex or power.

More than provocation, Carpenter’s cover mirrors our cultural struggle to accept women who defy simple labels of satire or submission. The image can reflect broader social ideals and tensions projected onto public figures.

What we see says more about our assumptions than her intent. Understanding those reactions doesn’t kill the fun – it deepens it.

Katrina Muller-Townsend 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. Is Sabrina Carpenter’s Man’s Best Friend album cover satire or self-degradation? A psychology expert explores our reactions – https://theconversation.com/is-sabrina-carpenters-mans-best-friend-album-cover-satire-or-self-degradation-a-psychology-expert-explores-our-reactions-259043