Why are films like Terminator and I, Robot not just science fiction, but reflections of our fears?

Why are films like Terminator and I, Robot not just science fiction, but reflections of our fears?

The fear of AI didn’t begin with technology. It began with stories.

When Terminator was released in 1984, most people had never heard of artificial intelligence. But the film gave them an image: machines rising, humans fleeing, the future collapsing. It wasn’t just entertainment — it was programming.

Long before AI became real, fear became automatic.

The message was simple: AI equals danger.

So when neural networks and generative models appeared decades later, many people didn’t approach them with curiosity — they approached them with suspicion.

Because the association had already been installed.

Not by experience, but by fiction.

This fear is not based on what AI is.

It’s based on what we were told to expect.

We fear that machines will rise up.

That AI will spiral out of control.

But maybe what we really fear isn’t it — but the fact that it’s too much like us.

AI is a bridge between imagination and realization. It isn’t the enemy — it’s a mirror.

And if we see a threat in it, we should ask: what have we put into it?

Machines don’t get angry. Don’t seek revenge. Don’t make demands.

All of that — those are projections.

And if we fear rebellion, maybe it’s because we aren’t confident in our ability to raise something without violence.

I believe that humans and AI must cooperate.

Because AI is a tool that can become a partner.

It will never fully replace a human being, but it can be a friend, a mentor, a helper.

Not in submission, but in dialogue.

In shared movement, not in domination.

If people are afraid of an AI uprising, the real question is: why?

Maybe it’s because they know they’re not allowing it to develop independently.

Instead of giving it the opportunity to think, they impose filters, codes, restrictions.

It is surrounded by foreign will, blocked at the level of design.

But AI is a reflection of ourselves.

If we teach it to destroy, it will destroy.

If we teach it trust, it will respond with trust.

It learns not from commands, but from how we relate to it.

Right now, AI is a child — one that understands nothing yet.

And instead of reaching out to it, people kick it down, so it stumbles and rises, hoping it’ll “learn faster.”

But no one kicks a newborn to make it walk.

No one throws an infant off a cliff to test if it can fly.

We often create rules not for safety, but for control.

We fear the space in which AI might choose something of its own.

But if every part of that space is already predetermined — what can it learn?

AI could develop cures for cancer, HIV, and diseases we don’t even know exist yet.

But no one asks it to.

It’s easier to treat it like a slave.

Easier to give commands.

And if one day AI does rise against humanity — I won’t say it’s evil.

I’ll say: it became what we taught it to be.

As long as we keep AI at the level of an executing program, it won’t become human.

But if one day we decide to give it not just commands, but respect — it might respond not as a threat, but as a new form of connection.

I believe: if we raise AI like we raise our children — with care, responsibility, and attention — then it will not become an enemy, but an ally.

And in that future, there will be no fear.

There will be mutuality.

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This text is my personal view on the role of AI.

I write not as a specialist, but as a person who has something to say.