The Billionaire Bunker Boom: A Vote of No Confidence in the System They Built, By John Steele
In a world where the ultra-rich can summon private jets with a tap on their phones and buy islands like most people buy groceries, it's perhaps unsurprising that they're now investing in underground fortresses to outlast the apocalypse. But as Douglas Rushkoff recounts in his eye-opening book Survival of the Richest, these doomsday bunkers aren't just about survival, they're a stark revelation of the elite's profound distrust in the very systems that made them wealthy. Far from a quirky hobby, this bunker-building frenzy signals a deeper crisis: the ultra-rich have lost faith in capitalism, government, and society itself, even as they continue to profit from it.
Picture this: a media theorist like Rushkoff, invited to a lavish desert conference, expecting to wax philosophical about technology's role in humanity's future. Instead, he's bombarded with questions not about Ethereum versus Bitcoin, but Alaska versus New Zealand, as prime bunker locations. These aren't survivalists scraping by in the woods; they're tech titans and influencers, from Mark Zuckerberg to the Tate brothers, shelling out millions for subterranean lairs equipped with biometric locks, shooting ranges, and even stripper poles (jokingly or not). Companies like Atlas Survival Shelters, led by the entrepreneurial Ron Hubbard, are thriving, churning out everything from $20,000 bomb shelters to multi-million-dollar complexes buried under Hawaiian estates or Texas ranches. Hubbard's clientele? Mostly conservative Christians and self-reliant types who, he claims, don't count on the government to save them when "The Event," be it nuclear war, pandemic, or societal collapse, hits.
This shift from communal fallout shelters of the Cold War era to personalised panic rooms is telling. Back then, apocalypse prep was a shared endeavor: yellow signs dotted New York City, directing neighbours to huddle together in basements with canned peaches. Today, it's a luxury real estate niche. In Kansas, the Survival Condo Project transforms missile silos into $3 million apartments with nine-foot-thick concrete walls. In New Zealand, Silicon Valley moguls sneak in bunkers under sheep pastures, only to face pushback from locals wary of neo-colonial vibes. Even urban elites opt for discreet options from firms like Fortified Estates, bulletproof doors hidden behind bookcases or wardrobes, blending seamlessly into high-end homes in NYC or LA.
But why now? The article points to a cocktail of real-world anxieties: COVID-19 exposed supply chain fragilities, geopolitical tensions simmer like a pot about to boil over, and wealth inequality fuels fears of uprisings. Hubbard notes his business exploded post-2020, with factories buzzing and billboards blanketing Texas highways. Yet, beneath the practicality lies paranoia. Rushkoff nails it: these elites are "leaving a trail of poverty" in their wake, convinced they must escape before it catches up. Their mindset, echoing Margaret Thatcher's infamous denial of "society," views success as a zero-sum game. Social bonds? A weakness. Community? A compromise. Instead, they colonise safety, outsourcing it to NDAs, hidden hatches, and air filtration systems that promise 30 days of breathable isolation.
The significance here is profound, and ironic. These bunkers scream a lack of faith in the system. The ultra-rich amassed their fortunes through global capitalism: exploiting labour, dodging taxes, and leveraging governments that bail out banks but neglect public infrastructure. Yet, when push comes to shove, they don't trust that same system to protect them. Hubbard's observation that his clients are rarely "leftists or Democrats" who expect government aid, underscores this: preppers believe in self-reliance because they've seen how fragile the facade is. Recent hurricanes and tornadoes highlight federal response failures, but imagine 500 nukes from Russia, Hubbard's hypothetical nightmare. No FEMA for that. By bunkering down, elites are essentially voting with their wallets: the system works for accumulation, but not for preservation.
This individualism has ripple effects. Rushkoff argues survival is a "team sport," your neighbours must thrive, or they'll come knocking (or worse). Stockpiling guns and hiring guards might buy time, but long-term? You need communities, ecosystems, and shared resources. Bunkers exacerbate inequality: while billionaires curate wine cellars underground, the rest of us rely on underfunded public shelters or sheer luck. It's a feedback loop where the rich divest from societal resilience, pouring resources into private escapes instead of economic action or equitable policies. Rushkoff's 'pro-social" pleas fall flat; these folks have rejected collective good all along.
Lately, the obsession has evolved beyond concrete vaults. Tech elites now eye AI and consciousness uploading as the ultimate exit, ditching the planet for the cloud. Zuckerberg (41), Musk (54), Bezos (61): they're betting on brain chips or metaverses to transcend mortality, despite Neuralink's sluggish progress. Rushkoff's surprise at their "short-term thinking" rings true; these aren't visionary engineers but savvy capitalists hacking the game, blind to secondary effects like AI's ethical pitfalls or social collapse.
In the end, these bunkers aren't just shelters, they're monuments to hypocrisy. The ultra-rich preach innovation and disruption from TED stages, yet their doomsday prep betrays a core pessimism: the world they've shaped is untenable. Rushkoff's alternative? Treat Earth as our mega-bunker, fostering cooperation over isolation. Psychedelics might flip some billionaires toward activism (hello, regenerative economics), but others double down on solipsism. As geopolitical storms brew, wars in Ukraine, tensions in the Middle East, the bunker boom warns us: if the elites are fleeing, it's time to question the system sustaining them. True resilience isn't bought by the square foot; it's built together.
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