I never met Steve Jobs. But I know him—or I know him as well as anyone can know a man through the historical record. I have read every book written about him. I have read everything the man said publicly. I have spoken to people who knew him, who worked with him, who loved him and were hurt by him.
And I think Steve would be disgusted by what has become of his company.
This is not hagiography. Jobs was not a saint. He was cruel to people who loved him. He denied paternity of his daughter for years. He drove employees to breakdowns. He was vain, tyrannical, and capable of extraordinary pettiness. I am not unaware of his failings, of the terrible way he treated people needlessly along the way.
But he had a conscience. He moved, later in life, to repair the damage he had done. The reconciliation with his daughter Lisa was part of a broader moral development—a man who had hurt people learning, slowly, how to stop. He examined himself. He made changes. He was not a perfect man. But he had heart. He had morals. And he was willing to admit when he was wrong.
That is a lot more than can be said for this lot of corporate leaders.
It is this Steve Jobs—the morally serious man underneath the mythology—who would be so angry at what Tim Cook has made of
Apple.
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Steve Jobs understood money as instrumental.
I know this sounds like a distinction without a difference. The man built the most valuable company in the world. He died a billionaire many times over. He negotiated hard, fought for his compensation, wanted
Apple to be profitable. He was not indifferent to money.
But he never treated money as the goal. Money was what let him make the things he wanted to make. It was freedom—the freedom to say no to investors, to kill products that weren’t good enough, to spend years on details that no spreadsheet could justify. Money was the instrument. The thing it purchased was the ability to do what he believed was right.
This is how he acted.
Jobs got fired from his own company because he refused to compromise his vision for what the board considered financial prudence. He spent years in the wilderness, building
NeXT—a company that made beautiful machines almost no one bought—because he believed in what he was making. He acquired
Pixar when it was bleeding cash and kept it alive through sheer stubbornness until it revolutionized animation.
When he returned to
Apple, he killed products that were profitable because they were mediocre. He could have milked the existing lines, played it safe, optimized for margin. Instead, he burned it down and rebuilt from scratch. The
iMac. The
iPod. The
iPhone. Each one a bet that could have destroyed the company. Each one made because he believed it was right, not because a spreadsheet said it was safe...
This essay is not really about Steve Jobs or Tim Cook. It is about what happens when efficiency becomes a substitute for freedom. Jobs and Cook are case studies in a larger question: can a company—can an economy—optimize its way out of moral responsibility? The answer, I will argue, is yes. And we are living with the consequences.
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Jobs understood something that most technology executives do not: culture matters more than politics.
He did not tweet. He did not issue press releases about social issues. He did not perform his values for an audience. He was not interested in shibboleths of the left or the right. [...]
This is how Jobs approached politics: through art, film, music, and design. Through the quiet curation of what got made. Through the understanding that the products we live with shape who we become.
If Jobs were alive today, I do not believe he would be posting on Twitter about fascism. That was never his mode. [...]
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Tim Cook is a supply chain manager.
I do not say this as an insult. It is simply what he is. It is what he was hired to be. When Jobs brought Cook to
Apple in 1998, he brought him to fix operations—to make the trains run on time, to optimize inventory, to build the manufacturing relationships that would let
Apple scale.
Cook was extraordinary at this job. He is, by all accounts, one of the greatest operations executives in the history of American business. The margins, the logistics, the global supply chain that can produce millions of
iPhones in weeks—that is Cook’s cathedral. He built it.
But operations is not vision. Optimization is not creation. And a supply chain manager who inherits a visionary’s company is not thereby transformed into a visionary.
Under Cook,
Apple has become very good at making more of what Jobs created. The
iPhone gets better cameras, faster chips, new colors. The ecosystem tightens. The services revenue grows. The stock price rises. By every metric that Wall Street cares about, Cook has been a success.
But what has
Apple created under Cook that Jobs did not originate? What new thing has emerged from Cupertino that reflects a vision of the future, rather than an optimization of the past?
The
Vision Pro is an expensive curiosity. The car project was canceled after a decade of drift. The television set never materialized.
Apple under Cook has become a company that perfects what exists rather than inventing what doesn’t.
This is what happens when an optimizer inherits a creator’s legacy. The cathedral still stands. But no one is building new rooms.
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There is a deeper problem than the absence of vision. Tim Cook has built an
Apple that cannot act with moral freedom.
The supply chain that Cook constructed—his great achievement, his life’s work—runs through China. Not partially. Not incidentally. Fundamentally. The factories that build
Apple‘s products are in China. The engineers who refine the manufacturing processes are in China. The workers who assemble the devices, who test the components, who pack the boxes—they are in Shenzhen and Zhengzhou and a dozen other cities that most Americans cannot find on a map.
This was a choice. It was Cook’s choice. And once made, it ceased to be a choice at all. Supply chains, like empires, do not forgive hesitation. For twenty years, it looked like genius. Chinese manufacturing was cheap, fast, and scalable.
Apple could design in California and build in China, and the margins were extraordinary.
But dependency is not partnership. And Cook built a dependency so complete that
Apple cannot escape it.
When Hong Kong’s democracy movement rose,
Apple was silent. When the Uyghur genocide became undeniable,
Apple was silent. When Beijing pressured
Apple to remove apps, to store Chinese user data on Chinese servers, to make the
iPhone a tool of state surveillance for Chinese citizens—
Apple complied. Silently. Efficiently. As Cook’s supply chain required.
This is not a company that can stand up to authoritarianism. This is a company that has made itself a instrument of authoritarianism, because the alternative is losing access to the factories that build its products.
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There is something worse than the dependency. There is what Cook gave away.
Apple did not merely use Chinese manufacturing.
Apple trained it. Cook’s operations team—the best in the world—went to China and taught Chinese companies how to do what
Apple does. The manufacturing techniques. The materials science. The logistics systems. The quality control processes.
This was the price of access. This was what China demanded in exchange for letting
Apple build its empire in Shenzhen. And Cook paid it.
Now look at the result.
BYD, the Chinese electric vehicle company, learned battery manufacturing and supply chain management from its work with
Apple. It is now the largest EV manufacturer in the world, threatening
Tesla and every Western automaker.
DJI dominates the global drone market with technology and manufacturing processes refined through the
Apple relationship.
Dozens of other Chinese companies—in components, in assembly, in materials—were trained by
Apple‘s experts and now compete against Western firms with the skills
Apple taught them.
Cook built a supply chain. And in building it, he handed the Chinese Communist Party the industrial capabilities it needed to challenge American technological supremacy. [...]
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So when I see Tim Cook at Donald Trump’s inauguration, I understand what I am seeing.
When I see him at the White House on January 25th, 2026—attending a private screening of
Melania, a vanity documentary about the First Lady, directed by Brett Ratner, a man credibly accused of sexual misconduct by multiple women—I understand what I am seeing.
I understand what I am seeing when I learn that this screening took place on the same night that federal agents shot Alex Pretti ten times in the back in Minneapolis. That while a nurse lay dying in the street for the crime of trying to help a woman being pepper-sprayed, Tim Cook was eating canapés and watching a film about the president’s wife.
Tim Cook’s Twitter bio contains a quote from Martin Luther King Jr.: “Life’s most persistent and urgent question is, ‘What are you doing for others?’”
What was Tim Cook doing for others on the night of January 25th?
He was doing what efficiency requires. He was maintaining relationships with power. He was protecting the supply chain, the margins, the tariff exemptions. He was being a good middleman.
I am seeing a man who cannot say no.
This is what efficiency looks like when it runs out of room to hide.
He cannot say no to Beijing, because his supply chain depends on Beijing’s favor. He cannot say no to Trump, because his company needs regulatory forbearance and tariff exemptions. He is trapped between two authoritarian powers, serving both, challenging neither.
This is not leadership. This is middleman management. This is a man whose great achievement—the supply chain, the operations excellence, the margins—has become the very thing that prevents him from acting with moral courage.
Cook has more money than Jobs ever had.
Apple has more cash, more leverage, more market power than at any point in its history. If anyone in American business could afford to say no—to Trump, to Xi, to anyone—it is Tim Cook.
And he says yes. To everyone. To anything. Because he built a company that cannot afford to say no. [...]
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I believe that Steve Jobs built
Apple to be something more than a company. He built it to be a statement about what technology could be—beautiful, humane, built for people rather than against them. He believed that the things we make reflect who we are. He believed that how we make them matters.
Tim Cook has betrayed that vision—not through malice, but by excelling in a system that rewards efficiency over freedom and calls it leadership. Through the replacement of values with optimization. Through the construction of a machine so efficient that it cannot afford to be moral.
Apple is not unique in this. It is exemplary.
This is what happens to institutions that mistake scale for strength, efficiency for freedom, optimization for wisdom. They become powerful enough to dominate markets—and too constrained to resist power. Look at
Google, training AI for Beijing while preaching openness. Look at
Amazon, building surveillance infrastructure for any government that pays. Look at every
Fortune 500 company that issued statements about democracy while writing checks to the politicians dismantling it.
Apple is simply the cleanest case, because it once knew the difference. Because Jobs built it to know the difference. And because we can see, with unusual clarity, the precise moment when knowing the difference stopped mattering.
Image: Steve Jobs/uncredited
[ed. Part
seventeen of a
series titled
The Crisis Papers. Check them all out and jump in anywhere. A+ effort.]
