Fascism in the Clothing of Freedom: How Oppression Masquerades as Liberation

The concept of freedom is, in its most intoxicating form, the elixir of human desire — a state of being that promises release from all constraints, liberation from the shackles of power and subjugation. The mere utterance of “freedom” can send a thrill through the veins, invoking images of a sweeping landscape, boundless possibilities, and the opening of doors previously locked. Yet, this utopian vision of freedom is often hijacked and cloaked by those who seek to use its allure for darker purposes. What appears as freedom is, in fact, a smokescreen. A carefully constructed narrative that hides the true intentions of those who seek to dominate, control, and subjugate others.

Freedom, when you think about it, is always in the process of being sold. It’s the latest fragrance. Bottled and marketed to make you think you’re liberated, when really, it’s just a fresh coat of paint over the same old cage. It’s like buying into a slogan without ever questioning who’s profiting from it. Fascism loves this language, wraps its poison in the velvet words of liberty and watches everyone gobble it up. Nationalism, misogyny, authoritarianism — they all dress up in the same robes. The joke is that you can never quite escape the feeling that you’ve been fooled into buying it.

We’ve seen the way the world sways with catchphrases that promise freedom but leave you suffocating in the same air. Take a look at the world stage; everything’s got a shiny bow on it. But peel back the layers, and you’ll find control wrapped tightly in the folds. The language is the dressing; the oppression is the body underneath.

The Facade of Freedom: Nationalism and the Illusion of Sovereignty

Nationalism has a way of sneaking up on you — its whispers of pride and unity, its promises of belonging and security, its glittering vision of a world where “we” can stand tall, unbroken by the tides of change. Wrapped in the banner of patriotism, nationalism wears the guise of purity, honour, and tradition, luring us into a collective nostalgia for a simpler time. A time when borders were clear, values were fixed, and identity was something that could be held in one’s hands, untainted by outside forces. And yet, under the sheen of these noble ideals lies a far darker undercurrent. The question becomes: at what cost does this promised freedom come?

There’s an undeniable seduction to the narrative of nationalism, one that calls for a return to sovereignty, a shield against the encroaching forces of globalisation, a defence against the erosion of identity. It’s the type of message that slides into the bloodstream, both familiar and comforting, like a warm blanket stitched together with threads of a past we’re told we should remember. But scratch the surface, and it’s easy to see how this cloak of freedom becomes something more sinister, more suffocating, than it was ever meant to be.

This is the paradox of nationalism: it thrives on the illusion of self-determination while eroding the very mechanisms of democracy. For example, Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, who frames his authoritarian consolidation of power as a defense of “Christian Europe” against migrants and liberal elites. Or India’s Hindutva movement, which conflates national identity with religious purity, rendering Muslims and other minorities perpetual outsiders. In both cases, the rhetoric of sovereignty masks a systematic dismantling of pluralism — all in the name of “freedom.”

At the core of nationalist movements, whether expressed in the rhetoric of “America First” or “Make Britain Great Again”, is the illusion of sovereignty. Nationalism cloaks itself in the language of protection, of defending a way of life that is under siege. These movements promise a world where national borders are respected, where cultural values are upheld, and where the power to make decisions is returned to the people. The language is so seductive, so reassuring: “You are not alone; we will fight for you.” It’s almost impossible not to want to believe in it. Almost.

But look closer, and it quickly becomes apparent that the nationalism we’re offered is not the liberation it claims to be. In reality, it’s an ideology rooted in control, exclusion, and fear. The “freedom” that nationalism promises is, at its heart, the freedom to decide who is worthy of that freedom. It is the freedom to construct walls, both literal and ideological, that define who belongs and who does not. What starts as a call for sovereignty devolves into a toxic nationalism that demands conformity, demanding loyalty not to ideals, but to an exclusionary sense of identity.

This is not hypothetical. The 20th century’s fascist regimes, such as Mussolini’s Italy and Franco’s Spain, rose on nearly identical promises: restoring national pride, purging “degenerate” influences, and reclaiming sovereignty from shadowy global forces. Their rhetoric of freedom was a sleight of hand; what they delivered was a police state. Today, the same script plays out in softer tones. Poland’s Law and Justice Party wages a “cultural war” against LGBTQ+ rights under the banner of defending tradition. In Brazil, Bolsonaro framed deforestation as a nationalist crusade against foreign interference. The language varies, the targets shift, but the mechanism remains unchanged: freedom as a euphemism for control.

There’s a certain tension in the nationalist argument — a contradiction that sits like a splinter in the narrative. Nationalism purports to champion the common people, presenting itself as the antidote to a world where power rests in the hands of a distant elite, disconnected from the struggles of everyday life. And yet, in its pursuit of a unified national identity, it leaves little room for difference. The paradox is simple: what is meant to be a movement for inclusion, one for the people, becomes at best a system of conformity and, at worst, a machine of division and suppression.

The freedom these movements claim to defend is a freedom bound by walls: borders that separate, ideas that exclude, people that don’t fit within their narrowly defined conception of “us.” It is a freedom that, ironically, diminishes the very essence of human liberty — the right to define oneself, to live freely without fear of being cast out for not fitting into the predefined box of national identity. What nationalism offers isn’t freedom at all, but a suffocating homogeneity where difference is no longer a virtue but a threat to the collective order.

In truth, nationalism is not about sovereignty, it’s about power. It’s the freedom to control the narrative of what a nation should be, to declare who gets to belong and who doesn’t, to silence those who resist, and to build the myth of a perfect society that never was. The politics of nationalism are steeped in the rhetoric of “us versus them,” painting anyone who doesn’t fit within the prescribed national identity as a threat. And with that, the very idea of freedom becomes a tool of oppression.

It’s not a new playbook. History is littered with examples of nationalist movements that promised freedom, only to deliver persecution. From the rise of fascism in the 20th century to the present-day resurgence of far-right politics, the script remains eerily consistent. Fascist regimes once justified their rise to power by claiming to protect the freedom of their people, only to imprison, persecute, and erase the very people they had promised to defend. Nationalism has always danced with authoritarianism, pulling on the same strings of fear and control, weaving a narrative where freedom becomes the perfect weapon for the oppressor.

This pattern is evident in the recent surge of populist movements across the globe. In their bid for sovereignty, these movements trade in divisiveness, painting entire groups of people — immigrants, refugees, the marginalized — as threats to the nation’s purity. Nationalism, then, is not a movement for freedom, but for the solidification of power in the hands of those who already control the levers of society. The rhetoric of “freedom” masks an insidious desire for dominance, a desire to reassert the power of those who see themselves as the rightful arbiters of who gets to claim freedom and who doesn’t.

And yet, despite all of this, the illusion persists. Nationalism persists because, at its core, it promises something deeply human: belonging, identity, community. It plays on the fear that in a globalised world, we’ve lost something important: something that defines us, that makes us feel safe and seen. But the tragedy is that this promise of belonging often comes at the expense of others, and the freedom it offers is a lie. It is the freedom to oppress, to control, and to silence. It is a hollow, dangerous freedom that erodes the very thing it claims to protect.

Perhaps the cruelest trick of all is how nationalism weaponises the trauma of its followers. The working-class Briton who votes for Brexit, the Rust Belt worker who cheers Trump’s tariffs — they are not villains, but casualties of a system that taught them to blame the Other rather than the oligarch. Nationalism redirects rage downward, never upward. It is a freedom that chains everyone, even those who think they’re holding the key.

So, the question remains: who does nationalism truly serve? The people? Or the power structures that thrive in division and control? When nationalism is stripped of its shiny rhetoric, what remains is not freedom — but a well-oiled machine of oppression, running on fear, exclusion, and the relentless pursuit of power. And that, in the end, is the cruelest trick of all.

Misogyny and the Illusion of Men's Liberation

There’s something deeply insidious about the way anti-feminist movements have spun themselves into the fabric of the modern discourse. On the surface, they seem like a cry for justice — an urgent plea for the forgotten struggles of men, cast aside in the overwhelming tide of feminism’s successes. They call it the men’s rights movement, promising to “free” men from the weight of societal expectations, from the shackles of modern life, from the relentless push of feminism. It sounds so innocent, so reasonable at first. Men are oppressed too, right? They have their struggles, their pain. Who could argue with that?

But once you start peeling back the layers, the polished veneer of victimhood begins to crack, revealing a far more dangerous agenda. This movement isn’t about freedom, autonomy, or genuine equality. It’s not even about men. It’s about re-establishing a power structure, one where men’s “liberation” is tied to the preservation of patriarchy — a system where dominance is not just a right but an identity.

This is not a new phenomenon. The backlash against women’s rights has always disguised itself as a defence of tradition, morality, or even men’s wellbeing. In the 19th century, doctors warned that higher education would cause women’s wombs to atrophy. In the 1970s, the anti-feminist crusader Phyllis Schlafly claimed that equal rights would destroy the family. Today, the language has simply evolved: the same fear of lost male privilege now masquerades as concern for men’s mental health or “free speech.”

There is no surprise in this; misogyny has a unique way of presenting itself as something other than what it truly is. Wrapped in the language of liberation, it promises men a return to an imagined golden age: a time when masculinity was unchallenged, when men had unquestioned authority, when the world was clearly divided into “roles” that could never be blurred. It pretends to champion men’s rights by insisting that feminism has gone too far, by claiming that men are now the ones oppressed, shackled by modern expectations of emotional vulnerability, gender equality, and shared responsibility in domestic life. But if we’re honest, what these movements really mourn is the loss of their unchecked power, their supremacy, and their ability to maintain control without question.

The “freedom” promised by these movements isn’t the freedom of men to be who they are, without the expectation of conforming to toxic ideals. It’s the freedom to reassert the same tired hierarchies of old — freedom to dominate, to remain in control, to maintain a world where men can dictate the terms of relationships, work, and life. Men’s liberation, as sold by these anti-feminist groups, isn’t a call for equality or human dignity. It’s a plea to return to a time when “men” meant power and “women” meant subordination, when gender roles were as rigid as the walls of a cage.

Figures like Andrew Tate, whose entire brand is built on repackaging patriarchy as male empowerment. He sells young men the fantasy of dominance — wealth, sexual conquest, and unapologetic aggression — while framing feminism as the enemy of their natural rights. His rhetoric, though extreme, is just a cruder version of the same narrative pushed by mainstream “men’s rights” activists: that feminism has emasculated men, and true freedom lies in reclaiming their “rightful” place atop the social hierarchy.

And there’s the rub. The freedom they demand is not freedom at all. It is, in fact, a form of self-imposed slavery. The chains are simply recast in a different mould. By insisting that men are only “free” when they can control, when they can be the “breadwinners,” when they can dictate the behaviours of women, these movements don’t offer liberation, they offer the preservation of a system that binds everyone to preordained roles, one where no one, man or woman, can escape the suffocating expectations of gendered identity.

This is not a battle for fairness, for equality, or for justice. It’s a war for dominance — one that wears the mask of fairness, wrapping itself in the noble language of “freedom” to convince those who are willing to listen. But in truth, it’s no more than the same old story: men asserting their right to hold the reins, to maintain their place at the top of the pyramid, and to crush any attempts to shift the balance.

The irony is that these movements often exploit genuine male suffering, such as high suicide rates, workplace fatalities, and the pressures of traditional masculinity, while offering no real solutions. Instead of addressing the root causes (isolation, economic precarity, rigid gender norms), they blame feminism. It’s a distraction, a way to redirect male frustration away from the systems that harm all of us — capitalism, austerity, lack of mental health support — and towards a fabricated gender war.

The language of “freedom” in the context of these movements is a cruel trick. It turns autonomy into oppression. It takes the very idea of liberation and distorts it, making it a weapon for upholding the structures that keep both men and women trapped in boxes. The “freedom” they promise men is a freedom that comes at the expense of women, and in many ways, at the expense of men themselves. For the freedom to dominate is, at its core, a prison. It limits what men can be, what they can feel, what they can experience. The pressure to remain strong, to never show weakness, to always be in control, to “win” at all costs, this is no liberation. It is a straitjacket. And worse, it forces men to exist in constant conflict with their own humanity, pushing them to deny emotions, to reject vulnerability, and to suppress everything that does not fit within a narrow vision of what it means to be a man.

This is why figures like Jordan Peterson resonate so powerfully. He frames his arguments in intellectual terms, warning of “chaos” if traditional hierarchies collapse. But his message is the same: men must reclaim their “natural” authority, lest society descend into disorder. It’s a fear-based appeal, dressed up as philosophy — another iteration of the old myth that male dominance is not just preferable but necessary for civilisation itself.

The tragedy of the anti-feminist movement is that it conflates freedom with power — an idea that freedom is the ability to control others, to dictate what others can or cannot do. It forgets that true freedom is not about domination; it’s about choice. It’s about being able to choose your identity, your relationships, your purpose, without being weighed down by society’s expectations or someone else’s vision of how you should live. The movement’s so-called “men’s rights” are not rights at all, but a distortion — a desperate attempt to hold onto a world that was never as ideal as it claimed to be. It’s a world built on inequality, and so when they fight to preserve it, they fight against real liberation, for everyone.

The incel (involuntary celibate) subculture, where men rage against women for denying them sex, a “right” they believe patriarchy once guaranteed. Their rhetoric is extreme, but it’s rooted in the same entitlement that fuels milder men’s rights activism: the belief that men deserve access to women’s bodies, attention, and labour, and that feminism has “stolen” this from them. Their version of “freedom” is a world where women have no say in the matter.

In the end, the false promise of men’s liberation through anti-feminism is just another illusion, another way to keep people divided and distracted from the real fight. The real battle for freedom is not about reclaiming an outdated, patriarchal structure — it’s about tearing down those structures altogether, so that both men and women can finally live freely, unburdened by the need to conform to roles that restrict and define them. True freedom is not in reasserting power. It’s in redistributing it, in sharing it, and in allowing every person to define their own place in the world. And until that happens, the cry for men’s liberation will only echo in the empty halls of a patriarchy that no one should want to return to.

The saddest part? Many of the men drawn to these movements are genuinely hurting. But the answer isn’t less feminism — it’s more. Because feminism, at its core, is the fight to free everyone from the cages of gender. The problem isn’t that men have lost their freedom. It’s that they’ve been sold a lie about what freedom even means.

Colonialism: The ‘Civilising’ Mission Wrapped in Freedom’s Clothing

There’s a grotesque irony that runs through the history of colonialism, a perverse twist in the narrative that turns “freedom” into the very thing that shackles. The imperial powers that once spanned continents, from the British Empire to the Belgian Congo, carried with them a weapon wrapped in the most seductive of cloaks: civilisation. To those in power, it seemed like a righteous cause — carrying the torch of progress, bringing the light of freedom to the "dark" corners of the world. The colonised peoples, in their eyes, were mere primitives — ignorant, barbaric, in desperate need of enlightenment. And so, with the firm belief that they were doing a great service, colonial powers began their so-called "civilising missions."

The colonialists did not come as conquerors, they came as “saviours”. The language of freedom was weaponised, the word itself drained of meaning as it was wielded to justify not liberation, but domination. The idea that freedom could be an instrument of control, a tool of subjugation, is perhaps one of the cruelest betrayals of the word in history. And yet, colonial powers were experts in this betrayal, using the most noble ideals to conceal their darkest motives.

For instance, the British Raj’s imposition of railways in India, which was touted as a gift of modernity, yet built with indentured labour to extract cotton and opium for imperial profit. Or Leopold II of Belgium’s Congo Free State, where millions perished under the guise of “philanthropy” while rubber quotas were enforced with severed hands. These were not acts of benevolence but calculated systems of extraction, disguised as liberation.

What is often glossed over in the tidy narrative of the civilising mission is the brutal underbelly of colonial rule. The promise of freedom was not about autonomy or self-determination; it was a promise to control, to extract, to exploit. The colonisers did not bring freedom to the lands they occupied — they brought chains, both literal and figurative. The system they imposed on the colonised was one built on labour extraction, land theft, and the suppression of every element of local culture and autonomy. In their quest to civilise, they destroyed. The notion that they were bringing progress becomes almost laughable when one looks at the forced labour, the systemic violence, and the mass dehumanisation that marked colonial rule.

Even the language of “development” was a ruse. The British dismantled India’s thriving textile industry to flood markets with Manchester cloth. France’s mission civilisatrice in Algeria banned Arabic in schools while seizing farmland for pied-noir settlers. These were not mistakes of policy but deliberate acts of erasure — freedom as cultural genocide.

The true legacy of colonialism is not one of civilisation, it is one of exploitation. The wealth of the West was built on the backs of those they deemed less than human, on the plunder of natural resources and the dismantling of entire societies. The veneer of freedom was, at best, a cynical tool used to disguise the unrelenting quest for power and wealth. And yet, despite this, the myth persists: the belief that colonialism was somehow benevolent, that it was somehow beneficial. This belief is deeply ingrained in the historical record, carefully woven into the narratives of imperial glory, making it all the more difficult to untangle the truth from the propaganda.

This distortion lingers today. When British politicians speak of the Empire with nostalgia, or French textbooks frame colonisation as a “cultural exchange,” they perpetuate the lie that oppression was a fair trade for railways and roads. The “freedom” offered was never freedom at all — it was the freedom to starve under British-engineered famines in Ireland and Bengal, the freedom to die in Leopold’s rubber fields, the freedom to surrender your language, your gods, your very name.

Perhaps the most egregious element of this false narrative is the way it turns the very concept of freedom into a weapon. When freedom is controlled by those in power, when it is used to justify domination rather than deliverance, it becomes the ultimate tool of oppression. Colonialism was a masterclass in this manipulation of ideals — using the language of liberation to entrench systems of control, of subjugation, of racial hierarchies. The colonial project was built on the idea that the “other” needed to be saved, that they could not govern themselves, that their cultures were inferior and needed to be replaced with the superior culture of the West. It was a logic that justified not only the violent suppression of indigenous populations but also the erasure of entire ways of life, the imposition of foreign values and systems that would forever alter the fabric of these societies.

The hypocrisy was breathtaking. The same Britain that championed “free trade” bombarded China with opium to force open its markets. The same France that declared “liberté, égalité, fraternité” enslaved Haitians and amputated the hands of Congolese children. This was not freedom — it was freedom’s corpse, dressed up in epaulettes and a pith helmet.

The aftermath of this deeply flawed conception of freedom is still being felt today. The colonial powers left behind fractured nations, ravaged economies, and broken identities. The idea of freedom, once co-opted by imperialists, continues to be a contentious issue in the post-colonial world. Former colonies have struggled to reclaim their own narratives, to rebuild after the destruction of both their physical and cultural landscapes. The scars of colonialism — both material and psychological — remain, etched into the very structures of these nations. The legacy of imperial rule continues to haunt the world, perpetuating cycles of inequality, exploitation, and division.

Look at the Democratic Republic of Congo, rich in minerals yet crippled by corporate looting. Look at Palestine, where the British promise of a “national home” for Jews and Arabs alike became a blueprint for apartheid. The colonial map was drawn in blood, and its borders still bleed.

And yet, perhaps the most disturbing aspect of this history is how deeply embedded it remains in the psyche of former colonial powers. Even as they acknowledge the brutality of their past, they continue to grapple with the consequences of their actions, often failing to truly confront the long-lasting impact of colonialism. The legacy of freedom as a tool of control is not something that can be easily undone; it lingers, festering, in the cultural and political structures that still favour the former colonisers. The idea of “civilisation,” once used to justify the most heinous acts, remains a convenient cloak for those who wish to avoid grappling with the darker truths of their past.

When museums refuse to return stolen artefacts, when corporations sue post-colonial nations for “lost profits” after nationalising their own resources, when Western NGOs impose “democracy” at gunpoint — the civilising mission never ended. It just swapped cork helmets for suits and spreadsheets.

Colonialism, in the end, was never about bringing freedom. It was about imposing control, about remaking the world in the image of imperial ambitions. It was a war for resources, for power, for dominance. The narrative of freedom, so easily appropriated, was the perfect disguise for a system built on subjugation. And as long as that narrative persists, the true story of colonialism will remain hidden, its legacy continuing to shape the world in ways that are still too often ignored.

The tragedy is that the colonised were never the barbarians in this story. The real savagery was a system that could burn villages, empty continents, and call it “progress.” Freedom, under colonialism, was never freedom — it was the freedom of the wolf to name the terms of the hunt.

The Language of Freedom: Who Controls the Narrative?

Freedom is a seductive word — a concept so wrapped in nobility that it can make the most oppressive systems appear benevolent. It’s the golden ideal that sits at the heart of countless movements and ideologies, a promise of self-determination, autonomy, and a life unburdened by control. But as with all things imbued with power, the word itself is ripe for distortion, ripe for repurposing by those who wish to bend it to their will. The question, then, is not whether freedom exists, but who gets to define it, who gets to wield it, and most crucially, who gets left behind when the narrative is decided.

We find ourselves at a crossroads in the discourse surrounding freedom, where its language is no longer a universal aspiration, but a tool of the powerful. In political speeches, in corporate slogans, in media campaigns, freedom is wielded as a weapon, sold as a commodity, and twisted into a concept that serves those who already hold power. Freedom is no longer a shared ideal; it is a prize reserved for the chosen few — those who have the influence, the resources, and the capacity to shape the conversation.

This is not an accident. It is a deliberate strategy. The ruling class has always understood that to control language is to control reality. When politicians speak of “economic freedom,” they rarely mean the freedom of workers to unionise or tenants to resist eviction. They mean the freedom of capital to move unchecked, of corporations to exploit without consequence. When media barons champion “free speech,” they are not defending the marginalised but protecting their own platforms from accountability. The language of freedom, in their hands, becomes a linguistic sleight of hand — a way to invert morality, to dress predation in the robes of liberty.

This is where the danger lies. The powerful, in their infinite capacity for manipulation, have learned that the most effective way to maintain control is not through overt coercion, but through the subtle, insidious control of language. And there is no language more potent, more charged with history and emotion, than that of freedom. Who gets to define what freedom is? Who decides what it should look like? In a world increasingly dominated by the corporate elite, the answer is clear: it is they who control the narrative. Politicians, media moguls, multinational corporations, they are the gatekeepers of freedom, and they have mastered the art of selling us an illusion.

For instance, the language of freedom is plastered across its banner in the rhetoric of far-right nationalism. The idea of “freedom” is sold to the masses as the right to preserve one’s culture, one’s identity, and one’s nation from external threats. But behind the call for national freedom lies an insidious agenda — a desire to maintain the status quo, to preserve power, and to suppress the voices of minorities, immigrants, and the othered. This version of freedom is not about liberation; it is about control. It is a freedom that is conditional, a freedom that is predicated on the exclusion of others. The narrative of freedom becomes a shield, used to justify policies that restrict movement, suppress voices, and reinforce structures of inequality.

I think of how the British press framed Brexit as an act of “taking back control” — a rallying cry for sovereignty that masked the xenophobia at its core. The freedom to “control our borders” was, in practice, the freedom to scapegoat migrants for austerity’s failures. Or look at the way the Tory government brands its attacks on protest rights as defending “public order,” as if freedom were synonymous with silence. These are not slips of the tongue; they are calculated reframings, designed to hollow out the word until it means whatever those in power need it to mean.

Similarly, the language of freedom is central to the anti-feminist movements that have risen in recent years, as mentioned previously. The promise of “freedom” for men is pitched as the answer to what these groups perceive as the rise of feminism. Yet, this so-called freedom is not about equality, nor is it about justice. It is about the freedom to reclaim a world where men are once again unchallenged in their dominance, where patriarchal structures are preserved under the guise of liberation. Here, freedom is not a universal right; it is a tool for reasserting the old hierarchies, for silencing women’s voices, for keeping the wheel of oppression turning. The language of freedom, as used by these groups, becomes a weapon of division, a tool of manipulation that seeks to perpetuate the very structures that feminism has fought so hard to dismantle.

The irony is thick enough to choke on. These movements, such as Men’s Rights Activists, “incels,” and the manosphere, cloak their rage in the language of liberation, as if demanding the right to dominate were a radical act. They speak of “free speech” when what they mean is freedom from consequence, freedom to harass, freedom to enforce a world where women exist for male convenience. It is freedom as entitlement, freedom as supremacy. And it works precisely because the language of freedom is so elastic, so easily stretched to cover even the most grotesque of agendas.

And then there is colonialism, arguably the grandest, most grotesque distortion of freedom in history. Colonial powers, wrapped in the language of civilisation, justified their exploitation and violence by claiming to bring freedom to the “uncivilised” peoples of the world. The colonisers, in their deluded righteousness, saw themselves as the bearers of liberty, bringing culture, education, and religion to the savage. Yet, in truth, their freedom was one born of violence, extraction, and subjugation. The freedom they offered was a false one — a freedom to live under the control of foreign powers, to serve their interests, to exist as subjects rather than citizens. It is a stark example of how freedom can be twisted into a tool of oppression, a concept that can be used to justify the most heinous of acts. The colonisers controlled the narrative of freedom, using it to cloak their exploitation in a veneer of benevolence.

The legacy of this linguistic theft lingers. When Western nations speak of “spreading freedom” through military intervention, whether it be in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya, they are still using the same colonial playbook. The freedom they export is the freedom to obey, the freedom to submit to markets and militaries that serve imperial interests. The contradiction is glaring: how can freedom be imposed at gunpoint? Yet the narrative persists, because the language of freedom is infinitely malleable in the hands of those who write history.

What these examples have in common is the subtlety with which the language of freedom is weaponised. In each case, the powerful have taken a word that should, in its essence, denote liberation, and twisted it into something that serves their interests. The idea of freedom, when defined by those who stand to gain from its distortion, becomes a tool of oppression rather than a means of emancipation. This is why it is crucial to critically engage with the rhetoric of freedom — to ask who is defining it, who benefits from it, and who is excluded from it.

The real question is not whether we have freedom, but whose freedom counts. When the Home Office speaks of “free borders,” it does not mean the freedom of refugees to seek safety. When Silicon Valley CEOs preach “digital freedom,” they do not mean freedom from surveillance. Freedom, in the mouths of the powerful is a selective privilege, not a universal right. And until we reclaim the word, until we strip it back to its radical core, it will remain a weapon in their hands.

The real danger lies not in the word itself, but in the ways in which it is used and misused. When the narrative around freedom is controlled by a select few, it becomes a weapon. One that can be used to justify anything from violent nationalism to the silencing of dissent. The question we must ask ourselves, then, is not simply whether freedom is being granted, but whether the freedom being promised is truly liberating. Or whether it is, in fact, just another form of control, another way of maintaining the status quo, another way of keeping the powerful in power.

To truly reclaim freedom, we must wrestle it away from those who have hijacked its meaning, from those who have used it as a tool of manipulation. We must ask who benefits when the language of freedom is distorted, and work to redefine it in ways that are inclusive, empowering, and just. Freedom is not a commodity to be bought and sold; it is a right to be shared, a principle to be upheld, a value to be protected. But in order for it to mean anything, we must ensure that the narrative is not controlled by those who would use it to divide, to conquer, and to oppress.

Because freedom, real freedom, is not a gift bestowed by the powerful. It is a demand made by the powerless. It is the noise outside the palace walls, the refusal to kneel, the insistence that another world is possible. And until we stop letting our oppressors define the terms, we will remain trapped in their fiction — buying our chains and calling them liberation.

The Algorithmic Masterclass in ‘Freedom’

Here we are, living in the era of the algorithm — the grand illusion of digital freedom. We sit comfortably at our screens, scrolling through an endless stream of information, sharing opinions, buying products, watching cat videos, all under the banner of autonomy. The very nature of the internet seems to scream freedom; freedom to choose, to speak, to connect with people from all corners of the world. But, in a cruel twist of fate, the more we engage with this digital landscape, the more we realise that the freedom it promises is just that — promised, not delivered. What we’ve been sold is not liberation but a masterclass in control, delivered with the finest veneer of convenience.

This is the great irony of our age: we have never been more connected, yet never more isolated. Never more informed, yet never more misled. Never more empowered to speak, yet never more algorithmically silenced. The tools we were told would democratise thought have become the instruments of its homogenisation. What began as a digital public square has mutated into a hall of mirrors, where every reflection is tailored to keep us docile, engaged, and most importantly, consuming.

In this brave new world, we’ve become mere puppets in a performance orchestrated by unseen forces. The digital platforms that tout themselves as spaces for free expression and choice are, in fact, the very architects of a reality that constrains what we see, what we hear, and most crucially, what we believe. The illusion of freedom is masterfully constructed by algorithms designed to shape our experience, guiding us down pre-determined paths, all while making us think we are the ones choosing the direction. The information we consume is tailored, curated, and filtered, not by our interests but by data-driven systems built to maximise engagement, maximise revenue, and maximise control.

The mechanics of it: every like, every pause, every micro-expression captured by your device’s camera feeds into a profile so precise it can predict your political leanings before you’ve articulated them yourself. The algorithm doesn’t just respond to your behaviour, it shapes it. It doesn’t just reflect your desires; it manufactures them. The freedom to choose is a pantomime, with the algorithm whispering your lines before you’ve even opened your mouth.

The question then becomes: where does true freedom fit into this equation? Is it found in the autonomy of choosing which ad to click on, or in the comforting sense of connectivity that social media offers, or perhaps in the illusion of political participation through online petitions and hashtags? Here lies the paradox: the more ‘free’ we feel, the more closely we are surveilled, targeted, and profiled. The platforms we worship as the paragons of freedom, the very spaces that claim to uphold democratic ideals, are in reality designed to capture and commodify our every move. Each scroll, each click, each search is fed into the great digital machine that churns out our identities as products to be bought and sold.

This is the dystopia we signed up for with a thumbprint and a terms-of-service agreement we never read. The bargain was simple: give us your attention, and we’ll give you the world. But the world we’ve been given is a funhouse distortion — one where outrage is amplified to keep us hooked, where misinformation spreads faster than truth because conflict is profitable, where your deepest insecurities are monetised by the very platforms claiming to connect you. The algorithm doesn’t just know you, it knows how to play you.

These algorithms, those silent rulers of our digital existence, do not care for our freedom. They care only for one thing: data. Our preferences, habits, desires — these are the raw materials that feed the algorithmic beast. It’s a cycle of perpetual motion, where the more we consume, the more we are consumed. Every action we take online, no matter how innocent it may seem, is recorded, analysed, and used to shape our future interactions. The ‘freedom’ we experience in this environment is one of choice — a choice that is always directed, always shaped by the unseen hand of the algorithm. We are not free in the sense we’ve been led to believe. We are free only to make decisions within the narrow, carefully constructed parameters set for us.

The most insidious lie is that we are the customers. We are not. We are the inventory. Every minute spent scrolling, every emotional reaction logged, every private moment surveilled — these are the goods being traded. The real customers are the advertisers, the corporations, the political operatives who pay to manipulate our behaviour. We are not users of these platforms. We are used by them.

In this sense, the algorithm is a master of illusion. It provides us with the appearance of choice, of freedom, but in reality, we are walking in circles. We are constantly fed content that aligns with our previous interactions, reinforcing our biases, our desires, and even our fears. The freedom to explore new ideas or break out of our echo chambers is a luxury few can afford. Instead, we find ourselves trapped in an endless loop, a digital treadmill designed by corporations with profit as their sole aim. The more we click, the more we are tracked, and the more we are fed back into the cycle. Our data becomes a commodity, our attention a product to be sold.

And what of dissent? What of the freedom to resist? The algorithm handles that too. Activist content is shadow-banned, radical ideas are quietly deprioritised, and the Overton window of acceptable discourse is algorithmically narrowed. You’re free to speak, as long as what you say doesn’t threaten the platform’s profitability or the status quo it serves. The revolution will not be trending.

And yet, we still cling to the illusion. We still believe in our autonomy, in the idea that we are in control. But the reality is far grimmer. The very platforms we’ve entrusted with our attention have transformed us into commodities. We are not just the consumers in this digital marketplace; we are the product. It’s as if the digital world were a grand stage, and we, the unwitting actors, are performing roles dictated by a script written in code. The lines we speak, the choices we make, the opinions we express — they are all part of a carefully curated performance, designed to elicit the maximum return. We are not free; we are simply well-behaved participants in a world that is increasingly controlled by data, by algorithms, by the invisible hand of digital capitalism.

This is digital feudalism. We till the soil of our own attention, harvesting data crops for Silicon Valley’s new aristocracy. They own the land, the tools, the very air we breathe online. And in return? We get the illusion of ownership over our digital lives. The serfs never realised they were serfs either — they thought they were just farmers.

This is not a new reality, but a familiar one: the illusion of choice masking the reality of control. It’s the same trick that has been played throughout history: the narrative of freedom that masks the mechanisms of power. We are told we have choice, but the choices are limited, restricted by the walls built by those in control. The digital age, for all its promises, has done little more than give us a more sophisticated version of the same illusion, one that feels more convincing, more seamless, but is no less insidious.

The algorithm’s greatest trick? Making us complicit in our own surveillance. We adjust our behaviour to game the system — posting at optimal times, crafting clickable headlines, performing our personalities for maximum engagement. We don’t just obey the algorithm; we internalise it. The panopticon doesn’t need guards when the prisoners police themselves.

So, we scroll. We post. We buy. We interact. And with each passing day, the algorithm learns more about us. It knows us better than we know ourselves. It knows when we’re tired, when we’re vulnerable, when we’re craving something new, and it feeds us the content it knows we will consume. We are free to roam, yes, but we are free only to follow the path laid out before us. The treadmill turns, the cycle continues, and we continue to believe that we are in control. The true cost of our so-called freedom? The price we pay is our attention, our privacy, and ultimately, our very sense of self. In the digital age, freedom is not just an illusion. It is the commodity being sold to us every day.

The way out won’t be found in better algorithms or ethical AI. It won’t come from regulators or whistleblowers alone. The cage is digital, but the lock is cultural. We’ll only be free when we stop confusing convenience for liberty, when we relearn how to sit quietly with our own thoughts without reaching for the dopamine drip of the feed. The first click is free. The addiction is lifelong.

The Need to Unmask: Real Freedom is Disruptive

What, really, is freedom? It’s the big question, the one that lingers in the shadows of every political speech, every corporate slogan, every online advert claiming to empower you. But if we’re being honest, we’ve long forgotten what freedom looks like beneath all the polish. It’s not sleek and shiny, wrapped in the perfect package of consumer choice and empty promises. No, real freedom is rough-edged. It’s unruly, unrefined, and downright uncomfortable. It’s the kind of freedom that makes the powerful shudder, the kind that interrupts the smooth flow of systems designed to keep us in line.

When we talk about freedom, too often we’re talking about a narrow, hollow version of it — the kind that fits neatly into the narrative of those who already hold the reins of power. The ‘freedom’ they sell us is the freedom to participate in a rigged game, to buy into a system that benefits the few while keeping the rest of us distracted by shiny distractions and empty choices. But real freedom? It’s a disruption. It doesn’t come neatly packaged, and it certainly doesn’t fit into the tidy boxes that have been crafted for us. It’s the kind of freedom that demands we question everything — our systems, our beliefs, our relationships with power.

Because real freedom isn’t just about individual liberty. It’s about collective liberation. It’s about a world where every voice has weight, where power isn’t concentrated in the hands of the few but shared across the many. It’s about creating space for everyone to flourish, to define their own destiny without fear of being erased or oppressed by the whims of the powerful. That’s the freedom we’ve lost sight of. We’ve bought into the lie that freedom is a commodity to be traded, a brand to be sold. But freedom, when it’s real, doesn’t wear a label. It’s not for sale, not up for auction, not tied to a price tag.

If we’re ever going to truly embrace freedom, we need to strip away the glossy advertisements that promise it and reclaim it from those who’ve co-opted its language for their own gain. We need to start seeing freedom not as something we can consume, but something we must fight for, something we need to build together. And this isn’t a neat process. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s the kind of freedom that challenges us, that forces us to look beyond our own little bubbles and question the world around us.

But it’s only when we dare to disrupt the dominant narratives, that we’ll begin to build a freedom that means something. Not the freedom to buy more, to conform more, to fit neatly into boxes designed by others. But the kind of freedom that tears those boxes apart and allows us all to walk free. It’s a collective, disruptive freedom. A freedom that doesn't just build walls but breaks them down. And until we start demanding that kind of freedom, we’ll be stuck in the same old cycle, buying into the lies of a freedom that was never ours to begin with.

S xoxo

Written in Peloponnese, Greece

12th May 2025