We live in a paradox: saturated with political messaging, we are simultaneously taught to fear political labels themselves. Many have been conditioned to have an extreme response to any mention of political alignment and, even more effectively, to believe they exist outside of any such position. This cultivated sense of unique detachment isn’t an accident; it’s a product of a media ecosystem that profits from our confusion and disconnection. Politics is, at its core, a power struggle, and a key tactic in that struggle is to convince the audience that the struggle itself is beneath them, or that their only role is to condemn the “evil, stupid, or crazy” individuals presented to them.

But let’s be clear: most people don’t wake up choosing to be self-centred idealists or willing dupes. Falling for propaganda or clinging to the safety of “neutrality” isn’t a conscious decision. It’s often the result of years of conditioning—a fear of what happens if you do pick a side, if you do conform, or if you are perceived as just another partisan voice. Yet, as the world shifts decisively to the right, it is often the proudly “unaligned” who are dragged along, unaware they are marching to a tune they claim not to hear.

Their language gives them away. They’ll insist they dislike both sides but are often incapable of defining a political position without regurgitating media talking points. This is how we get a landscape where communism is reflexively seen as worse than fascism, where public health measures are equated with tyranny, and where entire nations are cartoonified into empires of evil orcs. It’s how we see portrayals of a fictitious, hysterical “left” and hear about “crazy SJWs” used to dismantle solidarity, turning women against women and propping up minorities as exaggerated boogeymen. People argue ferociously against trans rights while knowing no trans person, defending an idealised “individual freedom” that slowly morphs into a license for indifference. This is the essence of essentialist propaganda: destroy the image, ignore the circumstances, and prevent anyone from looking at the systems that create the conditions.

This solipsistic individualism is everywhere, repackaged as enlightenment. “You do you” becomes a philosophy, while systemic failures are explained away as just “crony capitalism” or government overreach. Rarely is there a deeper look into how government and private power are intertwined—how legislation cripples public services, how media criticism justifies further defunding, and how the cycle perpetuates itself. The solution offered is often less regulation, based on a faith that common sense would prevail in a world where power has been meticulously structured to avoid it. We focus on the scandalous politician or the greedy CEO as the problem, when they are merely symptoms of a society that enables and rewards exploitative behaviour. Taking down one leaves the structure—the loopholes, the lack of transparency, the legalised corruption—intact for the next.

Without a coherent framework, people swing like pendulums. The person from a religious family rebels into atheism not from conviction but from anger. The frustrated anarchist jumps onto the authoritarian train, unable to distinguish between state function and fascism. The world gets compartmentalised into a collection of isolated islands, each with supposedly unique needs that forbid any collective, global solution. If an individual doesn’t immediately like something, it’s deemed undemocratic—a perversion of freedom that insists we owe each other nothing.

And what of this “democracy” we’re told to protect? When was it ever truly for the people? The voting systems are gamed, the choices managed. The hypocrisy is laid bare when we listen to the voices from nations that have borne the brunt of imperial “democracy-building.” As Fred M’membe recently stated:

A country that has toppled so many governments in Africa, that has led so many coups in Africa and other parts of the world, a country that has killed so many of our leaders in Africa and other parts of the world... The killers of Patrice Lumumba, those who toppled Kwame Nkrumah, those who killed Nasser, those who killed Muammar Gaddafi, today are coming to teach us about democracy.

This is the logic of power, not principle. It operates just as legally and ruthlessly at home. Consider the example of the small, poor city we examined in From Spectacle to Substance: Reframing Political Discourse, where officials legally manipulated the system to pay themselves astronomical salaries. They didn’t break rules; they changed them through a sham election that drew fewer than 400 voters, exploiting apathy and complexity to serve themselves. The law, so often, is a tool for those in power to retain it.

So, what is this all for? This rant is a cry for awareness. We must step outside ourselves—practice humility, nurture empathy, and above all, develop a thirst for genuine knowledge. We need media literacy and a healthy skepticism toward any outlet that makes us feel special simply for listening. We must question every headline that tells us whom to hate and which leader is evil for thwarting imperial designs. We need to follow the incentives to find the reality buried beneath the dirt. This means looking past the spectacle of individual villains to the substance of the systems that create them.

The struggle is that this very language of skepticism has been co-opted. Right-wing talking heads have taken the call for “questioning the narrative,” stripped it of all care for humanity and equality, and filled the void with their own poison. Their “truth” leads to conspiracies about Jewish cabals, threats of white replacement, microchips in vaccines, and a hatred for a government that they claim stifles business—even as it funnels public wealth into private hands. Their conclusion always points toward the suppression of others and a paradoxical freedom to exploit without being exploited.

This co-option makes it hard to simply say “knowledge will set us free.” They appeal to legitimate dissatisfaction, to the very real sense that everything is not great. But unlike them, I believe in a different capacity within people: not for hatred, but for building. The goal is not just to see through the spectacle, but to change the rules of the game. We must learn how the game works not to become better pawns, but to stop being pawns altogether.

Sometimes we are too hard on ourselves, feeling we are not doing enough. But the point of living isn’t to be enough; it is to strive for better. Every time you question a propagandistic line, you build a barrier against it. Every moment you spend honestly trying to better your understanding, or gently encouraging someone else to do the same, you make the world a better place. The machine is powerful, but its fuel is our acquiescence. The individual fight begins the moment you choose to turn off the fuel supply—in your own mind, in your own conversations, in your own relentless, humble pursuit of a truth that serves people, not power.

The rage is not enough. It must be coupled with a stubborn, empathetic, and critical hope. It must shift its focus from the symptom to the disease, from the spectacle to the substance. That is the fight.