Fear, Strength & Optimism - Living In Interesting Times

You could probably divide the people of the world into those who have lived with persistent fear and those you haven’t. And perhaps you need to have known fear quite well in order to recognise its approach. Maybe this is why recent events in the UK have compelled me to admit to myself that what I feel right now is frightened. It’s a sensation I recognise all too well — that growing sense of dread, the urge to look over your shoulder and make sure a threat isn’t getting ready to pounce.

If you’re thinking that our recent local election results have prompted these emotions, then you wouldn’t be wrong. Those of you with an outlook and a belief system similar to mine will almost certainly understand why it’s hard not to feel despondent when you look at the graph showing how many people across the nation decided that the party to which they wanted to give their vote was Reform. On the charts that were spread across all our news websites a few weeks ago, the rise of the turquoise bar was, to put it mildly, startling.

But my current state hasn’t been brought about by just one political event. Indeed, I’m well aware that local votes don’t often predict what happens in general elections and that we may still be some way off having a Reform government in the UK… although I wouldn’t be surprised if Robert Jenrick is our next PM. And I do mean Jenrick rather than Farage: I think the latter is an accomplished moaner and agitator, but I’m not convinced he wants to be in the hot seat himself. I reckon he’s realised that he’ll achieve greater personal success by maintaining the role of the shouty finger-pointer who always knows better than anybody else how all our collective woes need to be fixed.

No, my current angst is caused by the phenomenon of which the recent elections are merely the latest symptom. And the phenomenon in question is the oldest one on the planet: change. Right now, in 2026, here in the UK, things ain’t what they used to be. And the direction they’re heading in isn’t pretty.

The signs have been clear for quite a while. Look at the increasing support for far-right marches and the likes of Tommy Robinson. The heightened animosity towards immigrants, as seen in protests outside accommodation centres. The rise in nationalist symbolism, such as the increased visibility of politically-loaded flags. The growing disdain for what would recently have been lauded as inclusive, politically correct language. The exploitation of local events to spread toxic, anti-minority narratives, many of which turn out to be false. The targeting of religious sites and of people whose outward appearance marks them as belonging to specific faith groups. The use of online gaming to recruit young people into extreme organisations. The rise in referrals to the government’s Prevent programme. Sadly, the list goes on.

What is happening is clear and where it is going is equally clear. That, in itself, is enough to turn my blood cold. But what’s more frightening is that even with all this evidence right before their eyes, so many people continue to insist that such things “won’t ever happen here.” The human capacity for holding on to several entirely contradictory convictions never fails to amaze me, but it’s on particularly strong form at the moment. In my own circle of relatives and friends, people have tried to convince me (or themselves?) that they’re “not racist” right before saying something along the lines of, “I don’t see why I should have to keep working so hard just so they can get a free roof over their heads and tons of benefits.” When the language of ‘us and them’ trips so easily off our tongues, you can be sure we’re in deep, deep trouble.

Knowing that change can happen is another way of knowing fear: it’s an innate understanding that nothing ever stays the same for long. Interestingly, it can also be another way of knowing strength and optimism, but then those three concepts aren’t unrelated anyway. When you’ve lived through a revolution that brought about a complete and utter change to people’s lives within the space of a few months, when you’ve witnessed the brutal effects of martial law and when you’ve seen the downfall of a regime that infiltrated not just people’s material existence but the most intimate corners of their thoughts, you know that, like it or not, change is real, and it can come at any time, in any place. Even the land of cream teas and colourful bunting. A land in which I can picture myself, and others like me, being rounded up and carted off to some secluded destination — not next year or in the next five years, but perhaps at some point within this generation.

It’s at such moments that we would do well to turn to art for prescience. Last year, a novel first published in 1934, Sally Carson’s Crooked Cross, became something of a mini-sensation here in the UK. Although it was written many years before the outbreak of WWII, it is disturbingly accurate in its prediction of what would happen in Germany in the run up to the conflict, especially in terms of the divisions experienced by family members finding themselves on different sides of ideological lines. In 2023, Paul Lynch’s Booker-winning Prophet Song painted a harrowing picture of what a fascist Europe might look like in the 21st century. And of course, Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four continues to reign supreme for the depth and sharpness of its vision. All these works, and many more, act as a warning of the power of forces that threaten to obliterate openness, tolerance and generosity.

But is anyone paying attention to them? I’m honestly not sure. And that leaves me wondering what we’re meant to do in the face of such bleakness. The forces that benefit from causing and maintaining all this division have done an excellent job of stopping us from being able to engage in meaningful dialogues with each other. They have spread so much suspicion and animosity that it has now become almost impossible to imagine having a constructive conversation with someone whose views may differ from yours. Of course, this status quo conveniently ensures that the blame for all our societal problems is aimed at immigrants or trans individuals or religious people, as opposed to, say, billionaires who avoid paying taxes and are quite happy to watch the gap between rich and poor grow wider.

That said, I think we do need to keep trying to reach out to each other, whether it’s through demos or donations or even humble little posts such as this one. And above all, we need to keep the faith — because we know that when the dark times come, they too will have to surrender to the relentless power of change. Some of us may not be around to see those brighter days, but we can surely take some comfort from knowing that they will arrive, and that it’s worth doing what we can to prepare for them.

Dariush