I wish to begin by stating this unequivocally: I neither condone nor engage in violence, terrorism, or retaliation. I reject the idea that violence is a path to liberation. Yet, I am radical. And I refuse to apologise for it.

To be radicalised is not an inherent evil—despite what those in power would have us believe. It is only evil when radicalisation serves oppression: when it fuels racism, genocide, slavery, sexism, and the many other engines of dehumanisation. But to be radical in the pursuit of justice, in the dismantling of power, in the unmaking of cruelty—that is not a failing. That is not a crime. That is survival.

It is also resistance.

The vast injustices of the world are not an accident of history. They are the careful, deliberate constructs of a system designed to sustain itself at all costs. Peel back the layers, and the same forces remain at the core: patriarchy and the violence of men, religion wielded as a weapon of obedience, the supremacy of whiteness, the erasure and destruction of LGBTQI2S+ lives, and the dehumanisation of disabled bodies. These are not separate issues; they are roots that tangle and tighten, feeding from the same poisoned soil. To challenge them is not extremism. It is necessity.

Yet, while I could fill volumes dissecting these systems, I will turn instead to a single instrument that has bound them all together: the internet.

There was once a dream of the internet as a revolutionary force, an unshackled space of knowledge, connection, and liberation. That dream is dead. From its inception, the architects of power have moved swiftly, methodically, to corrupt it—to shape it into the greatest mechanism of surveillance, control, and ideological warfare the world has ever known. The internet is not merely a battlefield; it is a weapon, wielded against us with terrifying efficiency. The propaganda machine is ceaseless. The systems of control are so deeply embedded that even those who seek to resist are ensnared in its web.

The truth is this: there is no going back. The internet will not be reclaimed. There is no reset button.

But what we can do is refuse to be swallowed by it.

Our strength is not in algorithms, in corporate platforms, in mass-produced narratives. It is in the oldest and most dangerous force of all: community. They can watch us. They can monitor us. They can silence us. But they cannot erase us unless we allow them to. And that is the most terrifying thing of all—for them.

Existence is defiance.

These men, these institutions, these rusting pillars of control—they do not want us here. They do not want queer, disabled, misandrist, ungovernable bodies to thrive, to organise, to breathe freely. They want obedience. They want silence. They want the illusion of order.

But we are still here. We have always been here. And no system, no force, no empire has ever survived forever.

They will fall.