Notes on Survival from an Anti-Fascist Slut

They told me to be quiet. To smile more. To wear something less revealing. To stop talking about fascism like it was already here-like it wasn’t crawling out of the corners of every news feed, every protest, every whispered joke in a bar that used to feel safe. I didn’t listen. I never do. I’m not here to be palatable. I’m here because the people who want to erase me are already writing the laws. And if I’m going to be erased, I’ll make sure they remember my name, my voice, the way I laughed while they tried to silence me.

There’s a weird kind of freedom in being labeled a slut. It means you’ve already been judged, so you don’t care what they say next. I used to think that label was a weapon against me. Now I know it’s armor. You can’t shame someone who’s already stripped bare. I’ve slept with men who voted for the far right. I’ve kissed women who cried over their fathers’ Nazi memorabilia. I’ve been called a traitor, a whore, a communist, a terrorist. I’ve also been called a lifeline. One night, after a protest got broken up by police in Berlin, a girl I barely knew held my hand and whispered, "You’re the only one who didn’t look away." That’s when I realized: survival isn’t about staying clean. It’s about staying present.

There are days I still feel like I’m walking through glass. Every step cracks under me. But I’ve learned to move differently. I don’t wait for permission to speak. I don’t wait for someone to give me a platform. I start my own. I write on bathroom walls. I record voice notes on my phone and send them to strangers who need to hear them. I’ve posted videos of myself reading poetry while wearing a dress made of protest signs. I’ve been arrested three times. Each time, I came out with more people following me.

How to Survive When the World Wants You Gone

Survival isn’t a checklist. It’s a rhythm. A way of moving through the world that doesn’t ask for approval. Here’s what I’ve learned:

• Don’t wait for safety. Safety is a myth sold to keep you still. The moment you stop moving, they come for you. I moved to a new city every year for five years-not because I was running, but because I was building. Each place became a new node in a network of people who refused to be alone.
• Make your body a weapon. Not in the way they think. I don’t fight with fists. I fight with presence. I wear red lipstick to court hearings. I dance in the street during police raids. I kiss my partner in front of neo-Nazis who shout slurs. My body is not theirs to control. It never was.
• Find your people before you need them. I met my closest allies in a squat in Lisbon. We didn’t talk politics at first. We cooked together. We played records. We cried over burnt pasta. That’s how trust is built-not in rallies, but in kitchens. When the raids came, we were ready.
• Document everything. Not just the violence. The quiet moments too. The way a child draws a rainbow over a swastika. The way an old woman hands you tea without asking why you’re crying. These are the things they can’t erase. These are the things that outlive them.

What They Don’t Tell You About Being a Target

They say you’ll be lonely. That you’ll lose friends. That you’ll be ostracized. They’re right. I lost three friends because I refused to apologize for being queer. I lost a job because I posted a photo of myself holding a sign that said, "Fascism isn’t political-it’s personal." I lost sleep. I lost weight. I lost the illusion that the world was fair.

But here’s what they don’t tell you: you gain more than you lose.

You gain the ability to recognize fear in others. You learn to see the tremor in a voice before it breaks. You learn to sit with someone in silence and know they’re not alone. You learn that courage isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s a text message at 3 a.m. saying, "I’m still here."

There’s a reason I keep a list of names on my fridge. Not the famous ones. Not the politicians or the activists with TED Talks. The ones who showed up. The ones who brought soup when I was in jail. The ones who drove me to the airport when I had to flee. The ones who didn’t ask for a quote. Who didn’t want to be tagged. Who just showed up.

The Myth of the "Good Activist"

There’s this idea that activists have to be pure. That we have to be sober, celibate, perfectly dressed, always polite. That we can’t be angry. Can’t be sexual. Can’t be messy. That’s not activism. That’s performance. And performance is what fascists love. They want you to be predictable. They want you to be safe.

I’m not safe. I’m not polite. I’m not a saint. I’ve had sex with people I shouldn’t have. I’ve said things I regret. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been cruel. But I’ve also been the first one to show up when someone’s house was burned down. I’ve held a dying man’s hand while he whispered his last words in Polish. I’ve taught a 14-year-old trans kid how to change her name on official documents.

Being human doesn’t make you less of a fighter. It makes you more real.

When the System Tries to Co-opt You

They’ll try to turn you into a brand. A hashtag. A quote on a tote bag. They’ll offer you money. A book deal. A spot on a panel. They’ll say, "You’re inspiring." They’ll say, "We need your voice."

Don’t trust them.

They don’t want your voice. They want your silence wrapped in glitter. They want you to be digestible. To be marketable. To be safe for the middle class.

I turned down a six-figure sponsorship from a tech company that wanted me to "rebrand" my activism as "empowerment." They said, "You could reach millions." I said, "I’d rather reach one person who still believes in justice."

And then I walked out.

How to Keep Going When You’re Tired

There are days I don’t get out of bed. Days when the news is too much. Days when I stare at the ceiling and wonder if it’s worth it. If I’m just screaming into a void.

Here’s what I do:

1. I make tea. Not fancy tea. Just plain, bitter tea. The kind that burns your throat.
2. I write one sentence. One. Doesn’t matter if it’s good. Doesn’t matter if it’s angry. Just one.
3. I call someone I trust. Not to talk about politics. To talk about their dog. Their favorite song. Their weird dream.
4. I light a candle. I sit in the dark. I breathe.
5. I remember: I’m not fighting for a world that will thank me. I’m fighting for the ones who come after me.

What Keeps Me Alive

I keep a drawer full of letters. Not from celebrities. Not from politicians. From strangers. From kids. From old women. From people who’ve never spoken in public before.

One letter says: "I saw your video. I didn’t think I could be me. But you made me feel like I could. Thank you for not giving up."

Another: "My brother killed himself last week. He was gay. He was ashamed. I wish I’d seen your video before he died. I’m trying now. For him."

And one from a woman in her 70s: "I fought in the Resistance in 1944. I thought we won. I was wrong. But I see you. And I’m not alone anymore."

That’s what keeps me alive.

Not the applause. Not the followers. Not the viral posts.

The quiet, trembling, ordinary moments when someone says, "I see you too."

I don’t know if I’ll live to see the end of fascism. I don’t know if I’ll survive the next election, the next law, the next raid.

But I know this: I will not be silent. I will not be erased. I will not be polite.

And if you’re reading this, and you’re tired, and you’re scared, and you’re wondering if you should keep going-

Then you’re already winning.

Here’s a secret: the most dangerous thing you can be is someone who refuses to disappear. Even if you’re just a girl with a tattoo and a voice that shakes. Even if you’re just a slut who won’t shut up.

That’s enough.

That’s everything.

There’s a website I used to visit when I needed to feel less alone. It wasn’t about politics. It wasn’t about activism. It was just a place where women in London talked about their lives-real ones, messy ones. I don’t go there anymore. But I remember the first time I read it: escort girl uk. It felt like a hand reaching out in the dark. I didn’t know why I clicked it. But I did. And for a moment, I didn’t feel like a target. I felt like a person.

Final Note: You Are Not Alone

Fascism thrives on isolation. It wants you to believe you’re the only one who sees it. The only one who’s angry. The only one who’s afraid.

You’re not.

There are thousands of us. In Jakarta. In Berlin. In Mexico City. In Toronto. In Bandung. In your town. In your apartment. In your bedroom. In your silence.

We are the ones who still laugh. Who still kiss. Who still cook terrible meals. Who still cry in the shower. Who still believe in tomorrow, even when the world tries to burn it down.

You’re not alone.

Keep going.