A Dystopian Era, Right Here at Home

Reflections on surveillance, fear, and the slow erosion of freedom.

By Theodora Filis

Sometimes I wonder if we even noticed the moment everything changed. Maybe it was gradual, like the slow dimming of lights at the end of a long day. Or perhaps it was sudden—a jolt, a headline, a new rule that made us pause and think, “Wait, can they really do that?”

I remember a time when privacy was a given, not a privilege. When my records—my story—belonged to me, not to some faceless agency or algorithm. Now, every click, every purchase, every conversation seems to be logged somewhere, waiting to be called up and examined. It’s unsettling, really, like living in a house with too many windows and never knowing who’s looking in.

And freedom? That word used to taste sweet. It meant choices, movement, the right to speak my mind—even if my voice shook. Lately, though, it feels like freedom is something we have to ask for or, worse, apologize for. There are new lines we’re told not to cross, new topics we’re told not to discuss. The world feels smaller, tighter, as if the walls are inching closer every day. I can’t help but notice how fear, quietly and persistently, chips away at our hopes and dreams, making us second-guess what we dare to say or do.

Safety, too, has gained a new meaning. Once, it was about feeling secure in my home, neighborhood, and country. Now, it’s about compliance—about following rules that seem to multiply overnight—about trading a little more of myself for the promise of protection. But protection from what? And at what cost? Sometimes I wonder if, in our pursuit of safety, we’re letting fear shrink our imagination and creativity until the world feels not just smaller, but dimmer.

I look around and realize—we’re living in a time that would have seemed like science fiction not too long ago. Cameras on every corner. Data collected and stored, just in case. Voices silenced, records altered, freedoms chipped away at the edges. It’s a dystopian era, not somewhere far off, but right here, right now.

And then I think of "V for Vendetta." That film used to feel like a warning about what could happen if we let fear and control take over. Now, it feels eerily familiar. The masks, the surveillance, the quiet resistance. Sometimes, I wonder if we’re all waiting for our own “V” to remind us that ideas are bulletproof and that hope can survive even in the darkest times.

Reflecting on my youth when I was eager, I recall a time when the world seemed vast and full of potential. I remember my first “real” job, the excitement of independence, and feeling like I could go anywhere and be anyone. Now, I find myself longing for that feeling again—wondering if I’ve traded too much for comfort, safety, or just the illusion of control.

Sometimes, late at night, I flip through my mental slide show of memories. I see the highlights, the risks I took, the times I dared to step outside my comfort zone. I wonder if I’m still that brave, or if the world has made me cautious, compliant, a little bit smaller. But then I remember: life is still exciting, still unpredictable, still full of unknowns. Maybe the cherry on top is the courage to keep questioning, to keep reaching for the light—even when the world feels dim. Because fear, if we let it, will destroy not just our hopes and dreams but also our imagination and creativity.

And so, as I hold on tightly in this strange, unsettling era, I remind myself that the bumps along the way are often the experiences we cherish most. Maybe, just maybe, we’re all enrolled in a new course—one that asks us to be vigilant, to be bold, and to remember that even in a dystopian world, hope is never truly lost.