There is a certain majesty to the modern state. We build towering monuments, we fund armies that could conquer the moon, and we construct complex legal systems that would make a philosopher’s head spin. But none of these achievements truly shine until you see them in action against their ultimate nemesis: a five-year-old child.

We recently learned that witnesses watched as agents from Immigration and Customs Enforcement—the brave men and women tasked with keeping the homeland safe—detained a five-year-old. Yes, you read that correctly. The mighty machinery of the United States government, a system with a budget in the trillions, finally managed to secure its borders against someone who probably still needs help tying their shoes. It is a moment that should make everyone pause and marvel at the sheer, overwhelming competence of it all.

Let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment. This isn’t just about one specific agency or one specific bad day. This is about the beautiful, tragic comedy of bureaucracy. When you give people badges, guns, and a thick book of rules, common sense is usually the first casualty. To the average human being with a beating heart, a five-year-old is a child. They are small, they are confused, and they are generally harmless unless they have a sticky juice box near a white carpet. But to the system? To the cold, unfeeling logic of the state? That child is just a file number. That child is a potential threat to national security. That child is a box that needs to be checked on a clipboard.

The witness who described this scene wasn't just watching an arrest. They were watching a theater of the absurd. Imagine the scene. You have adults, fully grown, presumably educated adults, standing over a child who likely has no idea what a "visa" is or why the people in the uniforms look so angry. The agents were likely just "following procedure." That is the phrase that forgives every sin in the modern world. If the procedure says the child must be detained, then the child must be detained. It doesn't matter if it looks cruel. It doesn't matter if it makes no sense. The procedure is god, and we are all just worshippers at its altar.

It takes a special kind of discipline to look at a terrified kid and think, "Yes, this is good police work. This is making the country safer." You have to wonder what goes through the minds of the people involved. Do they go home at night and tell their families about the dangerous criminal they took off the streets? Do they feel a swell of pride knowing that the integrity of the border has been preserved against the onslaught of someone who still watches cartoons? Or do they just feel tired and hollow, caught in a machine they can’t control?

This is the problem with treating human beings like paperwork. When you stop seeing people and start seeing "cases," you end up in situations like this. It is a failure of imagination. The government cannot imagine a world where a five-year-old doesn't need to be treated like a suspect. It lacks the flexibility to say, "Wait a minute, this is ridiculous." Instead, it doubles down. It builds more cages, writes more forms, and hires more people to enforce rules that lost their meaning years ago.

And let’s not pretend this is shocking. It is horrifying, yes, but it is not surprising. This is what governments do. They organize. They categorize. They detain. It doesn't matter which political party is in charge of the White House. The machine itself is designed to do this. It is designed to be blind. It is designed to crush anything that doesn't fit into the right box, even if that thing is a small child holding a toy. We look at this and we shake our heads, but we keep funding the machine. We keep voting for the people who promise to make the machine stronger, faster, and tougher.

The witness to this event saw the raw truth of our civilization. We are scared. We are so scared of the outside world, so terrified of losing control, that we have decided it is acceptable to treat children like enemies. It is a pathetic sort of fear. A strong nation, a confident nation, would not need to detain a five-year-old. A strong nation would look at a child and see a child. But we don’t live in a strong nation. We live in a nation of nervous paperwork shufflers who are terrified that if they make one exception, the whole house of cards will fall down.

So, raise a glass to the brave officers. They did their job. They followed the rules. They secured the perimeter against the kindergarten menace. We can all sleep soundly tonight knowing that the five-year-old is in custody. The system works. And isn't that the saddest joke of all?