Since around 2014, something has shifted across the world — not just in one country, but everywhere. A certain kind of thinking has grown louder, more confident, more entitled to occupy space.

And while that reality is unsettling, it has revealed two uncomfortable truths.

First — it has unmasked people.

Prejudice no longer hides behind politeness. Bigotry speaks openly. And in that exposure, there is clarity. I have learnt who I cannot stand beside, who I cannot call my own, and who does not deserve access to my life. There is a strange, painful gift in that — the ability to see people as they truly are.

Second — it has shown me my tribe.

The quiet ones. The ones who do not scream hatred. The ones who believe in dignity, in nuance, in letting others exist without needing to dominate them.

But here is where we are failing.

We are too quiet.

We tell ourselves that we are different because we do not rant, do not rage, do not reduce people. And that difference matters. But silence is not the same as dignity — and it certainly isn’t resistance.

If hate can organise, so can empathy.

If lies can spread, so can truth.

If they can be loud, we can be clear.

Not through noise, but through presence.

Through protest.

Through calling out misinformation.

Through refusing to normalise cruelty — whether towards people, animals, or the world we inhabit.

Change will not arrive because it is allowed.

It will come because it is insisted upon.

So perhaps it is time.

Time for those who believe in love, in fairness, in coexistence — to stop waiting, find one another, and speak.

Not like them.

But not in silence either.If you’d like, I can tighten this into a shorter, punchier carousel version or make it more poetic and sharp for impact.

(Thanks to Sanjevi Jayaraman, who inspired this piece.)