What I am recording here are my personal observations during these turbulent days. I make no claim to scientific rigor, and I don’t believe general truths can be derived from them. I am writing this for later—for the moment when we have put this time behind us. Because these days will eventually end.

In this current movement, I see intense political and media activity from people who were previously invisible in any social context, even at a minimal level. Not as activists, not as individuals with a history of continuous social or political engagement—often not even as people who had previously shown a recognizable stance, even casually, on social media. This is neither good nor bad in itself. But I notice it because the quality of presence has changed.

Earlier movements had, unspoken, a kind of entry threshold. A form of cultural or intellectual capital, or at least a conceptual engagement with terms like power, structure, oppression, resistance, struggle, or even democracy. Regardless of education or social class, many entered these spaces through reading, conversation, collective experience, or civil society engagement. This time, that filter seems to be missing. Everything feels more open, raw, and urgent. It arises more from reaction than from conscious action and reflection—more from anger than from analysis. And that is exactly why people who were previously marginalized socially, linguistically, or in their relationship to the commonwealth and the political, feel particularly close to this movement.

When I speak of different social positions, I am by no means referring to human worth or dignity. I am talking about the nature of one's relationship to the common and the political: about who was able to develop an independent voice at all, who was used to being heard, who had access to the language of analysis, who gained experience in civic participation, and who experienced politics primarily in a direct and physical way rather than as something abstract or theoretical.

Some come to politics through reading, writing, and discussion. Others come through pressure, exclusion, instability, and injury. These two paths shape different kinds of people—with different languages, and with different thresholds for anger, patience, and complexity.

In this sense, I speak of social subordination. Not as a judgment, but as a description of a social condition. I am talking about people who had less access to symbolic means of power: media, official language, visibility, or organized collective practice.

For many, politics is not a space for thought, but a physical experience. Bodies that have been under pressure for years. Bodies that have experienced chronic insecurity. Bodies that have learned to react quickly because pausing always carried a price. In such biographies, politics doesn't arrive via analysis, but through the nervous system. Anger, fear, restlessness, the need for certainty—all of these are understandable responses to a life lived in a long-term state of threat. When a movement is built on such bodies, its language also becomes physical: hard, polarized, immediate. There is hardly any room for ambivalence. Every pause looks like a retreat; every question like a betrayal.

A few days ago, after I had written on Instagram about non-violent resistance and principles, I received fierce feedback. I was accused of speaking "from above." I was told no one wanted to hear such words, and that it was moral self-exaltation. Who was I even to invite people to anything? I wasn't a teacher or a social reformer, just a normal person; I should get back to reality.

And this is exactly where my inner fracture occurs. I see that this movement is carried more by destroying than by building. The desire for collapse is there, but the collective vision of the "afterward" remains vague or is shifted into the realm of fantasy. This makes the space vulnerable to oversimplification: good or evil, us or them, with us or against us.

In such a climate, thinking becomes a privilege. And privilege is quickly read as distance. Perhaps that is why my texts sound condescending to some, even when I am speaking about the same pain. I come from a space accustomed to complexity. A large part of this movement comes from a space where complexity is a luxury. This conflict is not moral. It is not personal. It is structural.

Yesterday, I came across a quote by Adam Grant that I can’t get out of my head: "Our highest loyalty is not to people or groups, but to principles. If we don’t accept something from our opponents, we shouldn't accept it from our allies." And the crucial sentence: "Integrity means standing by your values, even when your own group violates them."

I believe that is exactly where I stand. Not outside the movement, but not dissolved within it either. I am not prepared to overlook verbal violence, simplification, or the erasure of other perspectives just because it comes from "my own side." I prefer loneliness to the suspension of thought. Perhaps it is precisely this position that makes my voice sound cold or superior to some. But for me, this is the only form of loyalty that is possible.

I don’t know where this revolution is leading. But I have the feeling that we are dealing with a movement that—in its social composition, its language, and its relationship to critical thinking—differs significantly from previous waves. And from my perspective, that is less its strength than its danger. People with intellectual capital, with lived experience of resistance, and with an attachment to principles are withdrawing or becoming quiet to avoid being marked as "not belonging." Meanwhile, those who emerge out of the background noise and are carried by the dynamics of the crowd increasingly form the body of the movement.

And I see myself at a point where I can neither distance myself from this collective anger nor am I willing to sacrifice thinking to urgency. Perhaps my role, if there is one at all, is exactly this "in-between." Whether that holds up, the future will show.