A Way of Being in the World

There is a kind of public influence that disturbs the soul. It cloaks itself in authority, but what it reveals—again and again—is a profound betrayal of moral responsibility. It is not simply a matter of disagreeing with policies or positions. What is at stake is something deeper: a way of being in the world.

This way of being thrives on control. It leans toward authoritarianism, drawing strength from centralised power and rule-by-force rhetoric. It silences dissent, rewards loyalty over integrity, and mistakes domination for leadership. Its strength lies not in persuasion, but in intimidation.

It speaks without compassion. It casts the vulnerable as threats, and the desperate as criminals. It employs dehumanising language, policies, and, at times, violence—disregarding the lives of civilians, minorities, and outsiders. Its moral imagination is stunted by fear, and it reduces human dignity to a political inconvenience.

It trades in nationalism, but not the kind that builds common life. This is nationalism that excludes, that fortifies borders both physical and cultural, that defines identity by who is kept out. It offers belonging through uniformity, not through mutual care. It turns citizens against neighbours and calls it unity.

It treats democratic norms as obstacles. Transparency, accountability, dialogue—these are dismissed as weakness or delay. Power is hoarded, not shared. Secrecy is justified. Structures meant to protect the public are twisted to serve private agendas. There is contempt for process, and impatience with truth.

At its heart, this kind of leadership is self-serving. It thrives on survival at any cost—whether through wealth, manipulation, or ideological purity. Its legacy is often stained with corruption, repression, or cruelty dressed as pragmatism.

What makes this so troubling is not merely the outcomes it produces, but the posture it embodies. It leads from fear instead of hope, from force instead of humility, from ego instead of wisdom. It speaks of security, but offers only control. It claims strength, but cannot make space for love.

True leadership—responsible leadership—calls for something else. It is grounded in compassion, not cruelty; in justice, not expedience; in humility, not dominance; in service, not self-interest; in truth-telling, not manipulation. It dares to act not only for the strong, but for the stranger, the voiceless, the overlooked.

It’s not just that I disagree with these figures. It’s that they represent a way of being in the world that trades in fear instead of hope, in self-interest instead of the common good. And that, I cannot follow.

They speak in certainties,
build walls with words,
offer safety—
but only to a chosen few.

They call it strength:
the clenched fist,
the hardened face,
the truth bent to fit fear.

But I have seen another way.

I have seen the quiet dignity
of those who carry wounds
and still choose kindness.
The courage of those
who have lost everything
but not their love for other

Leadership is not control—
it is service.
Not fear—
but courage rooted in compassion.

So no,
I cannot follow
those who lead with fear.

There is a better way.
And I will keep walking it.