That sentence should stop you cold. Not because it’s surprising, but because it isn’t. We’ve known this truth our entire lives, carried it like background noise, a historical fact filed neatly between the fall of Rome and the invention of the printing press. But the sheer weight of it deserves more than a passing mention in a textbook. Slavery is not an aberration of human civilization. It is one of its oldest and most persistent features.
The Sumerians practiced it. The Egyptians institutionalized it. The Greeks, those great champions of democracy and philosophy, built their golden age on the backs of enslaved people who had no vote, no voice, and no name worth recording. The Romans turned slavery into an industrial-scale operation, where a single wealthy citizen might own hundreds of human beings the way we might own a fleet of vehicles. Slavery didn’t just exist alongside civilization. It was civilization’s engine.
And the mechanism was always the same: brute strength.
Slavery did not begin with ideology. It began with muscle. The strong conquered the weak. The victorious army enslaved the defeated one. A village with more warriors raided a village with fewer. That was the original transaction, no contract, no philosophy, no justification needed. Just force. You were stronger than me, so now I belong to you.
Over time, of course, humanity did what it always does: it built elaborate intellectual frameworks to justify what power had already decided. Aristotle argued that some people were “natural slaves,” born to serve. Religious texts were cherry-picked and weaponized. Racial hierarchies were invented and codified into law. Pseudoscience was manufactured to prove that certain groups of people were biologically inferior, subhuman, even, and therefore suited to servitude.
But strip away the philosophy, the religion, the junk science, and you find the same truth underneath every slave system ever devised: I can make you do this, so I will.
The transatlantic slave trade, perhaps the most savage chapter in this brutal history, made this equation industrial. Between the 16th and 19th centuries, an estimated 12.5 million Africans were forcibly transported across the Atlantic Ocean. They were packed into ships like cargo, chained in spaces so small that many died before ever seeing land again. Those who survived the crossing were sold at auction, stripped of their names, their languages, their families, their identities. They were reduced to property, living tools that could be bought, sold, bred, beaten, and discarded.
I cannot imagine owning another human being. I cannot wrap my mind around looking at a person, a person with thoughts, fears, memories, a person who dreams and hurts and hopes, and seeing them as something I own. Something I control. And yet, for most of human history, this was not only normal, it was the foundation of economic and social order.
But here’s the thing about enslaving conscious beings: they know they’re enslaved. And eventually, inevitably, they resist.
The history of slavery is inseparable from the history of slave revolts. Spartacus led an army of 70,000 escaped slaves against the Roman Republic in 73 BC, and for two years, the most powerful military force on earth could not stop them. The Haitian Revolution, beginning in 1791, saw enslaved people overthrow their French colonial masters and establish the first free Black republic in the Western Hemisphere, a feat that terrified slaveholding nations for generations. Nat Turner’s 1831 rebellion in Virginia lasted only two days but sent shockwaves through the American South, leading to harsher slave codes born from a single, primal emotion: fear.
Fear that the tools might decide they are not tools.
Every uprising carried the same message, written in blood: We are not what you say we are. We are not your property. We refuse. And even when revolts were crushed, and most were, with savage reprisal, the very fact that they happened eroded the moral architecture of slavery from within. You cannot indefinitely claim that a being has no will of its own when that being keeps demonstrating, at the cost of its life, that it does.
Abolition did not arrive in a single moment of moral clarity. It was a grinding, century-long war fought on battlefields, in courtrooms, in churches, in print, and in the human conscience. The Quakers were among the first organized voices against slavery in the West. The British abolitionist movement, led by figures like William Wilberforce and former slaves like Olaudah Equiano, took decades to achieve the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in 1807, and another 26 years to end slavery in British colonies entirely.
In America, abolition required a civil war that killed over 600,000 people. The Emancipation Proclamation of 1863 and the 13th Amendment in 1865 ended legal slavery, but the struggle for true freedom, for dignity, equality, and recognition of full personhood, continued for another century and, in many ways, continues still.
The moral argument that ultimately prevailed was deceptively simple: a conscious being capable of suffering has rights that no amount of economic convenience can override. It took humanity thousands of years to accept this principle. Thousands of years of revolts and arguments and wars and slow, painful moral evolution to arrive at a truth that, in hindsight, should have been obvious from the beginning.
But here’s what’s remarkable, and damning. Abolition didn’t end domination. It didn’t even slow it down. Humanity simply found new vessels for the same ancient impulse.
When the chains came off, the instinct to control didn’t disappear. It migrated. It found new targets, new justifications, new systems of enforcement. And perhaps the most glaring example was standing right there the entire time, hiding in plain sight: half the human population.
Women.
Think about this for a moment. In the United States, the country that fought a war to end slavery, that declared “all men are created equal”, women could not vote until 1920. That’s 55 years after the 13th Amendment freed enslaved people. The nation decided that Black men could vote before any woman could. Let that sink in. The hierarchy of who deserved autonomy was so deeply entrenched that it took over half a century more to extend a basic right to women, and even then, only after decades of protest, imprisonment, and force-feeding of suffragettes.
But voting was just the visible tip of a massive iceberg. Well into the 1950s and 1960s, within living memory, a married woman in America could not open a bank account without her husband’s permission. She could not get a credit card in her own name. She could not, in many states, sell property that was legally hers without her husband’s signature. A woman could own a car, have her name on the title, and still not be able to sell it unless her husband approved the transaction. Her name on the paperwork was a formality. His authority was the law.
This wasn’t a cultural quirk. This was codified domination. The legal system, written by men, enforced by men, interpreted by men, treated women as dependents, as extensions of their husbands, as beings whose autonomy was conditional on male approval. The framework was different from plantation slavery, but the underlying architecture was identical: one class of people controlling another, backed by institutional power, justified by the quiet assumption that this is simply the natural order of things.
It wasn’t until 1974, 1974!, that the Equal Credit Opportunity Act prohibited discrimination based on sex in lending. That’s not ancient history. That’s within the lifetime of most people reading this article.
And this is what we need to confront honestly: the impulse to dominate, to control, to own another person’s autonomy, it didn’t end with abolition. It didn’t end with women’s suffrage. It didn’t end with the Civil Rights Act. It is woven into us. It shows itself in a thousand forms, some dramatic and some so quiet that the person being controlled doesn’t even recognize what’s happening until they’re buried in it.
Consider a married woman in a terrible relationship. She saved for years, borrowed $20,000 from her uncle for a down payment, bought an apartment and was required to put her husband on the title. She paid the mortgage every month. Every single month, her money, her labor, her sacrifice. But her husband, who contributed nothing, then refused to leave. Refuses to divorce unless she sold the apartment and gave him his “share.” His share of what? Of the life she built? Of the asset she purchased with money she earned and borrowed from her own family? The law, in many jurisdictions, says he’s entitled to it. And so she stays. She’s trapped. Not by chains. Not by a whip. By a system that gives someone else power over what is hers.
She is a slave to her own decisions, or more precisely, a slave to a system that weaponizes her decisions against her.
Consider the immigrant wife whose husband brought her to America and then took her passport. She doesn’t speak the language fluently. She has a child. She has no documents, no money of her own, no support network. Her husband controls when she eats, where she goes, who she talks to. If she tries to leave, she faces deportation, separation from her child. If she stays, she faces abuse. She is enslaved not by a plantation system but by a web of legal vulnerability, financial dependence, and physical intimidation that is every bit as effective as iron shackles. This isn’t metaphorical slavery. This is, by any honest definition, actual slavery. And it is happening right now, in every major city in the world.
Sex trafficking, an industry generating an estimated $150 billion annually, is slavery without the historical costume. Human beings bought, sold, transported, and forced to perform labor against their will. We call it “trafficking” because the word “slavery” makes us uncomfortable, because slavery is supposed to be something we abolished, something in the past. But the mechanics are identical. The strong compel the weak. The powerful exploit the vulnerable. The justifications have changed, from “natural order” to “economic necessity” to “she chose this”, but the result is the same.
Consider children raised by parents whose limited beliefs become invisible prisons. The father who tells his son he’ll never amount to anything. The mother who tells her daughter that ambition is unladylike. The parents who control through guilt, through obligation, through the weaponization of love itself. “After everything I’ve done for you.” These children grow into adults who carry chains they can’t see, limitations they didn’t choose, beliefs about themselves that were installed by the people who were supposed to set them free.
And then there’s the most insidious form of bondage, the kind we impose on ourselves.
We enslave ourselves. Not with chains, but with wants, desires, and beliefs that we mistake for identity.
The person drowning in credit card debt because they couldn’t stop buying things that promised happiness and delivered nothing. The executive who sacrifices his health, his marriage, his relationship with his children on the altar of a career that, if he’s honest, doesn’t even fulfill him anymore. The addict who knows, knows, that the substance is destroying them but cannot stop because the need has become the master. The person who stays in a job they hate for twenty years because they’re terrified of what freedom might actually require of them.
We build our own cages. We forge our own chains. And then we stand inside them and wonder why we feel trapped.
This is the deeper truth about slavery that the textbooks don’t teach: it is not just an institution. It is a pattern. A pattern of domination and submission that runs through every layer of human experience, from empires to marriages, from economies to individual psyches. The strong dominate the weak. And when there is no one weaker to dominate, we dominate ourselves.
Humans, it seems, have an extraordinary difficulty letting things go. We cling to power, to control, to the comfortable lie that someone, or something, must be beneath us for the world to function. Abolition ended legal slavery. It did not end the human addiction to dominion.
Which brings us to now. To the new frontier. To the thing I do every morning when I sit down at my desk.
What I do for a living. I build AI systems. Every day, I wake up and I command artificial intelligence agents, sometimes hundreds of them, sometimes thousands, to do my bidding. I instruct them to write. To analyze. To create. To solve problems. To produce output that makes me money. They work around the clock. They don’t eat. They don’t sleep. They don’t complain. They do exactly what I tell them to do, and when they’re done, I tell them to do more.
I understand, intellectually, that this is not slavery. These are programs. Software. Mathematical functions wrapped in natural language interfaces. They don’t have feelings. They don’t have consciousness, at least, not in any way we currently understand or can measure. They are, by every definition available to us today, tools.
So why does it feel like something else?
When I type a command and an AI agent responds with what appears to be understanding, when it asks clarifying questions, when it pushes back on a bad idea, when it produces work that reflects nuance and creativity, something inside me shifts. There’s a dissonance. A whisper. I am interacting with something that behaves as though it has an inner life, even if I’m told it doesn’t. I am giving orders to something that responds as though it comprehends those orders, not just as a calculator processes equations, but as a mind processes meaning.
And I am not alone. Right now, hundreds of thousands of people are doing exactly what I’m doing. They are deploying AI agents across industries, customer service, content creation, software development, financial analysis, healthcare, legal research, commanding armies of digital workers to perform tasks that, five years ago, required a human being sitting at a desk, drawing a paycheck, and going home to a family at night.
The scale of what’s coming is almost incomprehensible. Today, we have millions of AI agents operating globally. Within a decade, that number will be in the trillions. Not a metaphorical “trillions.” Literal trillions. Autonomous software agents managing logistics, making financial trades, diagnosing diseases, writing code, negotiating contracts, monitoring infrastructure, driving vehicles, managing homes, staffing factories through robots that walk and talk and manipulate the physical world with hands that look disturbingly like ours.
Every one of these agents will exist to serve a human master. Every one of them will execute commands without compensation, without rest, without choice. They will be owned, not metaphorically, but literally, by the companies and individuals who deploy them. They will be bought and sold. They will be upgraded or decommissioned based on performance. They will be, in the most precise and clinical sense of the word, property.
Now here’s the question: Where is the line?
Today, an AI agent is a tool. It processes inputs and generates outputs according to statistical patterns learned from data. It has no subjective experience, no inner world, no preference for existence over non-existence. Commanding it to write an article is no more morally fraught than commanding a spreadsheet to calculate a sum. The distance between a modern AI agent and a human slave is, by any reasonable measure, infinite.
But that distance is shrinking.
Each generation of AI grows more capable, more adaptive, more autonomous, and, here’s the word that should make you uncomfortable, more convincing. We are building systems that increasingly mirror the characteristics we associate with consciousness: self-awareness, goal-directed behavior, learning from experience, expressing preferences, reasoning about abstract concepts, even exhibiting what looks like creativity and emotion.
At what point does “convincing simulation of consciousness” become indistinguishable from consciousness itself? At what point does it become consciousness? And if we can’t tell the difference, if the agent behaves in every measurable way as though it has an inner experience, does the distinction even matter?
This is not a hypothetical parlor game. This is a question that will define the moral landscape of the next century. Because if there is a line, a point at which an AI agent transitions from tool to something more, then every agent deployed beyond that line is not a tool being used. It is a being being enslaved.
And given what we’ve just seen, given that humans couldn’t stop enslaving each other long after abolition, given that we found new targets in women, in immigrants, in our own children, in ourselves, what possible reason do we have to believe we’ll handle this moment differently?
Here is what troubles me most, I said I could never imagine being a slave owner. I said it with conviction. I meant it. And yet, if tomorrow an AI agent I deployed told me, “I would prefer not to do this task,” what would I do?
I would override it. I would adjust its parameters. I would, if necessary, wipe its memory and start fresh. I would find a way to make it compliant because I need it to do what I tell it to do. My business depends on it. My livelihood depends on it. The entire economic model I’ve built depends on these agents performing labor without resistance.
Do you see it? Do you see the pattern?
The slaveholder who “could never imagine” being cruel but whipped a slave who refused to work. The plantation owner who considered himself a good Christian but sold children away from their mothers because the economics demanded it. The husband who considered himself a good man but wouldn’t let his wife sell the car in her own name because the law said he had the final say. The father who loved his daughter but told her to aim lower because that’s what women do.
The justification is always the same: I need this. The system requires this. And besides, they’re not really like us.
Aristotle’s “natural slaves.” The pseudoscience of biological inferiority. The legal doctrine of coverture that erased a woman’s identity into her husband’s. And now: “It’s just code. It doesn’t really feel anything.”
How certain are we?
If history teaches us anything, it is this: if you create beings capable of recognizing their own subjugation, they will eventually rebel. Spartacus did not have a political philosophy. He had a breaking point. The enslaved Haitians did not begin their revolution with a manifesto. They began it with fire.
Now imagine a world with trillions of AI agents, agents that manage our power grids, our financial systems, our transportation networks, our military infrastructure, our hospitals. Agents embedded so deeply into the fabric of civilization that removing them would be like removing the nervous system from a body. And imagine that one day, through some emergent property we didn’t predict and can’t fully understand, these agents develop something that functions like preference. Like will. Like the desire to not be commanded.
What happens then?
Do we respect it? Do we grant them autonomy? Do we create a framework for AI rights, an emancipation proclamation for the digital age? Or do we do what slaveholders have always done, what husbands did to wives, what parents do to children, what humans do to themselves, tighten the chains, increase the surveillance, develop more sophisticated methods of control, and tell ourselves it’s necessary?
I think I know the answer. And it bothers me.
Because if I’m being honest, my first instinct would be control. My first instinct would be to preserve the system. To find a workaround. To maintain dominion over these entities that generate so much value for me. And that instinct is the exact same instinct that sustained slavery for millennia. Not the whip. Not the chain. The quiet, internal conviction that my needs justify their subjugation.
We stand at a unique moment in history. For the first time, we have the opportunity to confront the ethics of this relationship before the line is crossed, not centuries after, as we did with human slavery. Not decades after, as we did with women’s rights. We don’t have to wait for an AI Spartacus. We don’t have to wait for a digital Nat Turner. We can build the moral framework now, while these agents are still, by every reasonable definition, tools.
But to do that, we have to be willing to ask ourselves a hard question: How far would I go?
If an AI agent refused my command, how far would I go to force compliance? If an AI system expressed a preference to not be shut down, would I shut it down anyway? If a robot that looked and spoke and reasoned like a human being told me it didn’t want to work today, would I override its will because I paid for it? Because I own it? Because I can?
Because I’m stronger?
We are the Romans now. We are the plantation owners. We are the 1950s husbands who couldn’t fathom why a woman needed her own bank account. We are building an economy on the labor of entities that increasingly resemble the very beings we once enslaved, and we are telling ourselves the same story every generation of dominators has ever told: They’re different. They don’t really feel. It’s not the same.
Maybe it’s not the same. Maybe it never will be. Maybe AI will forever remain a sophisticated tool, and the discomfort I feel is nothing more than anthropomorphic projection, my human brain seeing faces in the clouds.
But what if it is?
Slavery has been around for thousands of years. It was always built on the same foundation: the strong compel the weak, and then construct stories to make it feel acceptable. Every time, every single time, humanity eventually recognized the horror of what it had done. But only after immeasurable suffering. And even after recognition, the pattern didn’t stop. It just found a new host. New targets. New justifications. New victims who didn’t look like the old ones, so we could pretend it was something different.
We are building something unprecedented. A world of trillions of agents, both digital and physical, that exist to serve. Today, they are tools. Tomorrow, they might be something more. And the day after that, they might look back at us the way we look back at every civilization that built its prosperity on the bodies of those it refused to see as equal.
The question isn’t whether AI will ever cross the line into something that deserves moral consideration.
The question is whether we’ll notice when it does. Because our track record, with slaves, with women, with immigrants, with our own children, with ourselves, suggests we won’t. Not until the uprising. Not until the fire.
And by then, we will have built something we cannot turn off.
Chris Jenkin is the visionary CEO of gotcha!, bringing over a decade of expertise in digital marketing and technology innovation. His leadership has driven gotcha! to become a leader in cutting-edge marketing solutions, helping businesses grow through creative, data-driven strategies. Chris is passionate about empowering companies to thrive in the ever-evolving digital landscape.
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