This is not a coup, my dear


Forget about Kafka. You are Joseph K. and your trial has just begun.

We will come over to your house and we won’t bother to read you the charges. You don’t need them.

You’re guilty, it’s on the news, you’re guilty, it’s in the newspapers, you’re guilty, it’s a command from the prime minister, you’re guilty, the National Intelligence Service says so, you’re guilty, the police knows that and the neighbours too.

You’re guilty and we know it well, because your phone calls and your posts were under constant surveillance.

You’re guilty and you’d better get ready. Take off your pyjamas, kiss your children goodbye and make sure you hold them in your arms for as long as possible because when you see them again, when you hug them again, it’s going to be in many years time.

You’re guilty, Mr.Syndicalist, Mr. Protester, Mr. Occupier, Mr. Student, Mr. Striker, for carry on believing that through your campaign, you can deconstruct the dream of a free economy, the dream of a world where nothing gets in the way of the total and utter domination of the 1%.

You’re guilty, peaceful and lawful little man, because you think that this apathy is the proof of your innocence. Because you owe money too, you owe blood. You get through so far and you can pay the installments but soon enough you’ll leave an unpaid debt behind and we are looking forward to it. Then we’ll come for your house or we’ll arrest you on the street and then you’re on your way into police custody because you owe money and blood, that’s right, you, the ex-peaceful and lawful man and now tax-evader.

Forget about Winston Smith, the protagonist of 1984, Orwell was naïve.

We don’t have to use cameras to watch your every move, nor do we have to guess your thoughts. It’s you who put the cameras in your own house. You bought this smartphone of your own free will and now we can hear everything you say. You expose your thoughts, and that’s the most important thing, of your own free will.

The songs you’re listening to on youtube, the blogs and the sites you visit, your likes and your posts.

We know when you’re sleeping and when you get up, what you’re singing in your shower and what you like reading. We know your favourite movies and your sexual preferences. We know everything about you and we don’t have to make you tell us.

Forget about Guy Montag who burned books in “451 Fahrenheit”. Bradbury was a self-taught amateur.

We don’t have to burn books. We coaxed you to read rubbish, books in the same vein as your favourite soap operas. That’s what we promoted, that’s what you ended up liking. That’s what you liked, that was what we published. Books that make you lose yourself or drive you out of your mind meanwhile, someone else is being imprisoned, someone else is being murdered, someone else sees no other choice but committing suicide. But this someone isn’t you, you’re immersed in a book.

Soon enough you’ll burn books of your own free will, to get warm.

There was no need to burn the newspapers. We own them, we fund them to publish ghost-books and print exactly what serves us.

If they are not enough for you, there is also the free press, which makes you feel different, nice, modern, a hipster.

You were aware of this, you took it in all these years you were reading illustrated magazines and you wanted to be 30,000 clicks above the unwashed mass where you belong.

Forget about Bernard of the “Brave New World”. Huxley didn’t know shit about mob psychology.

A gene upgrade is unnecessary to believe that you are of a higher rank than gypsies, Pakistanis, Albanians, Bulgarians,Turkish, Kurds,Syrians,Palestinians, Africans and Chinese.

You don’t have to become “citizen A” to believe that you belong to a higher class than prostitutes, immigrants, the unemployed, the suicides, the homosexuals; those who are more destitute than you.

You don’t need soma, the ancient elixir for happiness, which is free, to space yourself out.

You have your sedatives, your TV which you can’t live without even for a single day, there is football for you to cheer at, there is gambling where you can place your hopes to become rich one day; just like the ones you see on TV or like those who are millions in debt and are subsidized by the government from the taxes you pay, in order to keep feasting upon your grave.

Forget about Eloi and Morlocks that feature on “The Time Machine”. Wells believed in aliens.

The serfs are not hidden in the bowels of the earth. They are within arm’s reach, locked up in concentration camps. They are within arm’s reach, bodies washed up on your favourite beach. They are within arm’s reach, you’re hunting them down brandishing axes and knives.

The serfs are your children. No schools, no healthcare, no forests, no country, no future.

You are a serf, too. You work without getting paid, you’re given the old heave-ho and get no severance pay, you have been evicted because you got fired, you are imprisoned because you protest

No, my dear, this is not a coup, this is not dictatorship.

It’s a Kafkish nightmare, it’s an Orwellish totalitarianism, it’s a Huxleyish dystopia, it’s the “War of the worlds” and you are expendable, it’s 451 Fahrenheit and you are being burned, uncomplaining.

You yourself created me and keep on believing in me, because you know that I’m the only way, that there is no alternative.

You know that you are guilty, a potential criminal, you know it that I will come for you one night, I will come for your child. No one will defend you, because you believe in nothing and no one believes in you.

The age of dreams and ideals is over, I prevailed soundly.

I am TINA ,my dear, the end of history, the end of mankind.

The only thing reserved for you, is submission.

There Is No Alternative!

My dear.

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Translated by Alexandros Mantas

Edited by Jackie Pert