Are we sleepwalking towards a future in which our every action, thought, and intention are relentlessly surveilled and scrutinised? The Dream Hotel imagines precisely this world. Set in a “retention centre” named Madison, individuals are detained not for crimes committed but for those predicted by an algorithm. Where Orwell’s 1984 depicts the brute force of a totalitarian regime and Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale exposes theocratic oppression, Lalami envisions a subtler form of control, one that operates through data-driven governance, rendering oppression near-invisible yet inescapable.
Surveillance Cost
Sara Hussein, the novel’s protagonist, is a historian and digital archivist whose professional expertise lends an ironic, almost tragic resonance to her plight. A woman trained to preserve history finds herself subjected to a system that seeks to erase individual identity. As she wakes each day under the cold gaze of surveillance cameras, she is forced to navigate a world where compliance begins at the most intimate level:
“Compliance begins in the body,” Lalami writes, capturing the invasive scrutiny Madison imposes on detainees.
But the damage of surveillance is not merely physical—it is psychological. One of The Dream Hotel’s most unsettling aspects is how constant observation seeps into personal relationships, eroding trust and severing human connection. Sara’s memories of her children, initially a refuge, become tinged with guilt and fear. Her interactions with her husband Elias, once filled with warmth, grow strained under the weight of algorithmic suspicion.
Throughout the novel, Sara struggles with the knowledge that her very existence has been reduced to a numerical score, her every action feeding into a system that determines whether she will ever be free again. This slow erosion of her autonomy is one of the novel’s most harrowing elements, echoing the ways in which real-world surveillance regimes, whether in China’s social credit system or Western predictive policing, render individuals powerless over their own fates.
Risk Scores
Madison is not a conventional prison, and that is what makes it so terrifying. Unlike Orwell’s Ministry of Love, which relies on overt brutality, Madison functions through euphemism and bureaucratic detachment. Detainees are never called prisoners; they are retainees, residents, or program participants. They are not incarcerated, they are simply “under forensic observation.” The very act of naming disguises the system’s cruelty, creating the illusion of neutrality.
At the heart of this dystopia is the Risk Assessment Administration (RAA), the governmental body tasked with predicting crime before it happens. Sara learns that her own detention stems not from anything she has done, but from an opaque algorithm that has determined she is an “imminent risk.” The criteria are unclear, the process unchallengeable. In this world, the presumption of innocence no longer applies; instead, individuals must prove they are not a threat, a near-impossible task when even minor infractions (such as refusing a job assignment) can raise their risk scores.
The logic underpinning Madison is chillingly plausible. Predictive policing already exists in the form of algorithmic sentencing, facial recognition software, and AI-driven threat assessments. Lalami’s novel does not ask if we will end up in a society like Madison, it asks how much of it is already here.
Dark Satire
Despite its bleak vision, The Dream Hotel carries a sharp satirical edge. Lalami exposes the absurdity of modern surveillance culture through the corporate jargon and euphemistic doublespeak that dominate Madison. Language is weaponised to make oppression palatable:
“The attendants bristle when one of the women calls Madison a jail. This is a retention centre, they say, it’s not a prison or a jail. You haven’t been convicted, you’re not serving time. You’re being retained only until your forensic observation is complete.”
This bureaucratic newspeak recalls the linguistic distortions of totalitarian regimes, where words are stripped of meaning to justify oppression. But Lalami’s satire is most cutting in the way it highlights how Madison’s detainees are expected to participate in their own subjugation, with phrases like “behavioural optimisation” replacing forced compliance and “device check” masking invasive biometric scans.
Silent Resistance
One of the most compelling aspects of The Dream Hotel is Sara’s evolving relationship with resistance. At first, she clings to the belief that her detention is a mistake, convinced that a rational appeal will restore her freedom. But as the days pass and she observes the system’s inner workings, she realises that her imprisonment is not an aberration but the inevitable outcome of a society that has surrendered to algorithmic governance.
Sara’s resistance is not dramatic; it is subtle and deeply internal. She refuses to lower her head when the guards scan her neuroprosthetic. She finds solace in her memories, clinging to the past as a way to assert her humanity. Even the act of writing in her notebook becomes a form of defiance, a refusal to let her story be dictated by others.
“Writing about her life at Madison seemed to her a form of capitulation,” she acknowledges. And yet, she writes.
In a world where even thought is subject to scrutiny, the mere act of remembering, of holding onto one’s inner life, becomes an act of rebellion.
Political Context
While The Dream Hotel is primarily a meditation on surveillance capitalism, it also serves as a critique of the political and legal structures that enable it. The Crime Prevention Act (CPA), which underpins Madison’s existence, is rooted in real-world anxieties about security and public safety. Its premise, that preemptive detention can prevent crime, is eerily reminiscent of counterterrorism policies implemented after 9/11, as well as contemporary efforts to expand police surveillance under the guise of crime prevention.
Lalami is particularly attuned to the way fear is used to justify mass surveillance. The CPA was introduced after a mass shooting, much like the way real-world governments have expanded surveillance powers in response to terrorism or public unrest. By linking Madison’s dystopian mechanisms to present-day security policies, Lalami challenges readers to question how much freedom they are willing to sacrifice for the illusion of safety.
Final Warning
Ultimately, The Dream Hotel is not just a work of fiction but a warning. Lalami does not depict a far-fetched dystopia; she extrapolates from existing trends, showing how data-driven governance can erode individual liberties under the guise of efficiency and protection.
“The logic underpinning Madison is not a paranoid fantasy but a trajectory already underway.”
Lalami’s novel is a call to be vigilant. It asks not whether we will end up in Madison, but whether we are already there.
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