There was a time when fascism wore its uniform proudly: Flags. Massive banners. Boots shining under the sun.
Today?
Nothing like that.
Fascism today is stylish. It wears a plain white/black T-shirt and smiles at you through a mobile app.
We are entering the age of networked fascism.
No nations.
No borders.
Just companies, cryptocurrencies, Oligarchies, private cities glimmering like mirages in the desert, and shiny promises of a “smart and sustainable future.”
Imagine being nothing more than a visitor in your own homeland.
Imagine becoming a “user” in a country governed by Terms of Service.
This is how they want it.
No gunshots, no screaming.
Just a tiny checkbox you click without thinking.
You surrender your privacy, your language, your memory — in exchange for a free update.
How do we resist this?
‘O my friends,Pay attention to the words that deceive you every day:
“Smart city”? An open-air prison.
“Active user”? A willing slave.
“Social network”? A marketplace for performance.
‘O my friends, Language was always the first battlefield of fascism. Pay attention the flower that rise from our children graveyard.
Today, more than ever, we must doubt every word we think we understand.
Modern fascism/ Tech-Zionism hates the streets.
It hates random collisions, spontaneous laughter, conversations that start because a table is too close.
It wants you clean, separated, smoothed at the edges.
But edges are your life. Friction is your last defense.
And what about politics?
Is politics boring? Yes.
But it’s the last weapon we have before we’re turned into products sitting neatly on the shelves of the future.
No flags.
No slogans.
No shots fired into the air.
Just a “Privacy Policy” you agree to as you yawn.
We must return to politics, not because it’s perfect, but because it’s noisy.
Because it’s messy.
Because it still allows us to make mistakes and shout, to protest and dissent.
All we have is our beautiful chaos, ‘O my friends; Scattered stories, Loud voices, Spontaneous gatherings, Incomplete but living ideas
It cannot tolerate a burst of laughter in the middle of a crowded street.
It cannot tolerate a short story that doesn’t lead to a neat ending.
That’s why every piece of chaos, every story, every random encounter is a small battle against them.
That’s why every yawn in which you refuse blind consent is a declaration of war.
Hold on to your chaos.
Hold on to your stories.
Hold on to your streets.
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