Dwain Northey (Gen X)

For years, we’ve been told to fear technology. Phones are rotting our brains, social media is destroying democracy, and cameras are apparently the reason no one can enjoy brunch in peace anymore. And yet—surprise twist—we may finally owe technology a thank-you note. Not a full Hallmark card, mind you. Just a cautious nod of appreciation. Because it turns out this administration didn’t plan for one small, glowing rectangle in everyone’s pocket: the cell phone camera.

They planned for fear. They planned for uniforms, masks, badges that say trust me, and guns held with the confidence of people who swear they’re doing “government business.” They planned for secrecy, intimidation, and the age-old assumption that if you say “national security” loudly enough, no one will ask follow-up questions. What they didn’t plan for was millions of concerned citizens quietly hitting “record.”

It’s amazing how much courage dissolves when a camera shows up. Suddenly the tough guys with face coverings don’t want to give names. The people enforcing vaguely defined authority get real shy about explaining which law they’re enforcing and for whom. Accountability, it turns out, is their kryptonite. Not lawyers. Not press conferences. Just a regular person holding a phone, documenting reality in real time.

And here’s the thing: this isn’t radical. This isn’t rebellion. This is the Constitution doing its job with a software update. The First Amendment didn’t anticipate iPhones, but it absolutely anticipated citizens bearing witness. The Fourth Amendment didn’t imagine livestreams, but it did imagine limits on power. Technology didn’t break democracy—it accidentally gave it receipts.

For years, we’ve been lectured about “a good guy with a gun” as the solution to everything. But in this moment, the more effective counterforce has been a good guy with a cell phone camera. No trigger. No escalation. Just documentation. Just truth. Just the unglamorous, undeniable evidence that becomes very inconvenient when someone later claims, “That’s not what happened.”

Because when everything is recorded, lies have a shorter shelf life. When actions are documented, spin becomes harder. And when citizens can show, not just say, what’s being done in their name, power loses its favorite hiding place: plausible deniability.

So yes, maybe we can be grateful—just this once—for technology. Not because it’s perfect, not because it’s neutral, but because it’s made secrecy expensive and abuse visible. In a time when authority expects obedience without questions, the camera quietly asks the most dangerous question of all: Why?

And maybe that’s the real takeaway. What stops a bad guy with a gun? Sometimes it’s not another gun. Sometimes it’s a witness. Sometimes it’s evidence. Sometimes it’s a shaky video shot by a regular person who refuses to look away and refuses to forget.

Turns out the most threatening thing to unchecked power isn’t force. It’s proof.