Academia builds walls. Walls of hierarchy, of titles, of gates you need permission to pass. Walls that tell you: You are not enough unless you publish here, cite this, reference that, compete, outperform, make money for the institution, survive. Scholarship, on the other hand, does not recognize walls. It is a landscape of curiosity, vast and borderless, where questions roam free, and answers are stepping stones, not trophies.

I thrive in multitudes. I jump from neuroscience to ethnomusicology, from politics to art history, from dance ethnography to genetics, without seeking permission. I do not carry the burden of proving myself. I am not here to climb ladders built by other people’s ambitions. I am here to wander, to chase questions wherever they may lead, and to delight in the patterns, the absurdities, the interconnections no one else may notice.

I do not consider myself an expert. Expertise is an endpoint. I am but a student. I have been a student since the day I could read, and I will remain one until my last breath. My dream has never been to “succeed” in the traditional sense. I never wanted to be an astronaut, a geneticist, a detective, a lawyer, or a doctor. My dream was simple, strange perhaps: I wanted to study. Just study. For the rest of my life. Not for a paycheck, not for prestige, not for validation, nor a degree. But for the privilege of learning, of knowing, of thinking, and of letting knowledge transform me.

I remember my early days in engineering school. Someone called me a pseudo-intellectual. At the time, it felt like an insult. Sharp. Pinching. Condescending. They meant to put me in a box, to say: You think you know more than you do, don’t you? But now, I wear that label with pride. Because if the spectrum of intellectual capabilities start with recognizing one has an intellect. Then perhaps, Academia is just a stepping stone to Pseudo-intellectualism, which itself is a stepping stone to being an Intellectual. I am exactly where I want to be: unshackled from academic pretension, yet still endlessly curious, endlessly rigorous, endlessly alive in thought.

I don’t chase competition. I don’t compete for approval, for status, or for recognition. Knowledge is not a zero-sum game. Every conversation, every reading, every deep dive adds layers, threads, perspectives that no hierarchy can quantify. The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know and I delight in that awareness. The day I stop learning is the day I welcome Death. No curiosity left to chase, no question daring me forward: that is the true finish line. Life and knowledge are inseparable; to abandon one is to eradicate the other's existence.

To be a scholar is to resist boundaries. To be a scholar is to honor questions more than answers, curiosity more than acclaim. I am fascinated by everything: the small, the obscure, the vast, the abstract, the sensual, the political, the erotic, the historical, the philosophical. No discipline can claim me. No journal, no tenure committee, no funding body can decide the shape of my mind. My mind is my own. It is free.

So no, I am not an academic. I am something else entirely: a scholar without borders, a lifelong student, and a human utterly in love with the pursuit of knowledge. I may never retire. My questions shall not hold their breath. And I am wildly, irrevocably grateful for a life spent chasing questions, curiosity, the infinite, beautiful landscape of thought itself.

I’m not a guardian. I’m not a custodian. I’m not here to preserve anyone’s culture in a glass case or defend it with a sword. I don’t romanticize suffering, and I’m not here for spiritual tourism. I’m a storyteller and that puts me in a different box altogether.

I tell stories because distortion disgusts me. The idea of someone dressing a tradition up in glitter and hashtags while the people who embody that tradition are pushed to the margins makes my blood boil. I don’t care if it’s Dance, Music, Art, Traditional knowledge bases, Spirituality, Religion or even Ritual: if you’ve scraped it clean of history to make it “marketable,” I will respond, and I will NOT be polite.

I am not a practitioner. I’m an atheist. I’m not fluent in every language I quote. But that doesn’t make me an outsider to the responsibility.

Even if I don’t practice, I believe in the people who did.

Even if I don’t move or sing in that rhythm, I believe in the bodies that once did.

Even if I don’t pray, I believe in the weight of inherited silence, the kind that comes from being told your story is too much, too foreign, too angry, too inconvenient and needs to be repackaged to appeal to the 1%.

I sit at the intersection of privilege and displacement. I research stories I may never physically stand inside. I work online, from across oceans, across borders I didn’t choose. And even from here, I can see when a story has been gutted, rebranded and sold. The desert doesn’t have to be under my feet for me to know someone was forced to walk it.

I don’t tell stories to protect. I don’t speak for the masses. I don’t translate things to make them easier for anyone to swallow. I tell stories to bare their teeth.

If you’re uncomfortable, good.

Culture should not feel safe when it's been colonized.

Tradition should not feel soft when it’s been misinterpreted.

History should not be soothing when it’s been looted.

This is not only about discomfort. It is about harm.

This is not only about interpretation. It is about erasure.

This is not only about dialogue. It is about accountability.

I am not the origin. I am not the authority.

But I will not stay quiet while stories are ripped apart for ornamentation.

Who am I?

I am a storyteller.

I deal in what remains after the museum lights turn off and the influencers walk away.

I speak so the story doesn't lose its script.

The story is not your fantasy.

The story has and never will be for sale.

Freedom is the state of existing, expressing, and experiencing oneself within the boundaries set by a structured, state-based society, where those boundaries are shaped by cultural norms, legal systems, and power hierarchies. It is less an absolute condition than a negotiated space, permitted and sustained by the degree of tolerance the system extends to different people. Because these tolerances vary across place, time, and identity, what is called “freedom” is, in essence, a managed illusion — one feels free only because the limits are placed far enough away to remain unseen until they are crossed.

Liberation, by contrast, rejects the premise of operating within any imposed structures or political frameworks. It is a deliberate challenge to the authorities, hierarchies, and systems that define and constrain possibility. Liberation is not conferred by an external power; it is seized through the dismantling of the frameworks that dictate the conditions of existence and the scope of permissible action. Where freedom accepts the presence of fences and negotiates movement within them, liberation seeks to render those fences irrelevant.

When people ask me about my values or the lens through which I see the world, I sometimes struggle to give a neat, packaged answer. My politics aren’t about parties, campaigns, or leaders; they’re about the deeper principles of how humans live, relate, and care for one another. To make this clearer, let's obtain a solid glimpse into who I am.

At my core, I am deeply skeptical of hierarchy and centralized authority. I am an Anarchist. For me, anarchism isn’t about disorder or chaos, it’s about the radical belief that people can live without domination. I believe we are capable of organizing ourselves in ways that don’t require the oversight of a ruling class or a government that polices every aspect of life. To me, no one should hold power over another, and true freedom begins when we stop surrendering our agency to institutions that thrive on control.

That belief in decentralization carries into how I think about economics. I am both a communist and an egalitarian. I don't believe that we should live in a monetary economy, that resources must be distributed according to human need rather than hoarded as capital or exchanged as profit. Value should be measured in care, survival, and creativity, not in currency. I do not romanticize unions, bureaucracies, or formal establishments; they too often replicate the hierarchies they claim to resist. My commitment is to people and communities, not to institutions. At the same time, I resist being locked into a single economic dogma. I embrace the principles of communal care and equality, but I remain wary of any system that hardens into orthodoxy.

With regards to society, I am an Individualist. I hold fast to the idea that individuals should have the right to control their own bodies, minds, and choices without censorship or interference. Freedom, for me, is not abstract, it’s the ability to live authentically, to express yourself without fear, to love without restriction, and to use the tools of science, technology, and creativity to expand human potential. If there is one principle that runs through everything I do, it is the commitment to freedom in its most personal and expansive sense.

Religion, for me, falls on the opposite end of the spectrum. I am an atheist, and at times, even an anti-theist. Though that might sound harsh, it speaks to a conviction I carry: organized religion, when institutionalized, becomes a tool of oppression. I do not oppose private spirituality, but I oppose the idea of religion shaping laws, policies, or collective life. Religion, as history shows us, has too often been a weapon, reinforcing hierarchies, silencing dissent, and dictating morality. My stance is not against people’s personal paths, but against systems that cloak domination in divine language. I am also of the opinion that not a single child in the world, has ever consciously provided their informed consent. It is scientifically impossible to obtain an informed consent from a developing human being. That being said, I hold religion, its teachers, practitioners and initiators responsible in promoting and actively participating in Child Abuse for not obtaining informed consent.

When it comes to security, I lean strongly toward humanism, with a touch of decentralization. I don't believe there exists and good or bad people, just actions that are deemed conducive and non-conducive to society they inhabit. I believe in rehabilitation rather than punishment, in providing people opportunities to heal and grow rather than casting them away. I am of the strong opinion that the incarceration system reflects poorly upon the state, as the prisoners, in my opinion, are people the state, society and our culture failed to protect. At the same time, I do not hold out a torch for any government institution, to uphold the safety of its constituents. Communities should be able to care for themselves, without resorting to prisons and police as the default setting. I believe that the police force, military, navy and army should be disbanded.

Finally, my views on foreign policy are clear: I believe in open borders. National boundaries are human constructs that too often become tools of exclusion, fear, and control. To me, people should be able to move freely, to seek opportunity, to love, to build lives wherever they choose. Militarized borders, xenophobic restrictions, and walls only serve to divide humanity and reinforce systems of domination. A world with open borders is a world where belonging is not dictated by geography or a passport.

Taken together, these results paint a picture of someone who believes in trust, freedom, and community as the cornerstones of life. I reject hierarchy in all its forms: government, religion, society, economics or foreign policy that centralize power at the expense of humanity. I care more about autonomy and compassion than I do about tradition or authority. For me, politics is not about allegiance to a system but about an ongoing practice: building spaces where people can live freely, love openly, and create without fear.

This is not to say I expect everyone to share these views. But it does explain the lens I bring to conversations, education, and community work. If you’ve ever wondered why I resist easy answers, or why I emphasize freedom, autonomy, and care above all else—it’s because this is not just politics for me. It is the very foundation of how I view humanity.

I’m a Post-Structuralist Philosophical Anarchist

I don’t believe in leaders. Not the temporary kind, not the “benevolent” kind, not the ones who claim they’re “just facilitating.” Even calling someone a leader implies that the rest of us are followers, as if human beings are a flock needing to be herded. That alone signals a hierarchy, and hierarchy, no matter how invisible or well-intentioned, always constrains freedom. Leadership, as a concept, imposes limits before any action has even begun.

I am not opposed to people organizing toward shared goals. Collaboration is natural, valuable, and enriching. My issue arises when organizing crystallizes into structures. A structure is never neutral. By its very nature, it defines who belongs, who thrives, and who is othered. I have seen communities that began as inclusive, fluid, and experimental, only to harden over time into gatekeepers, enforcing norms that exclude anyone who deviates. Even when consent is given, it is often assumed or fossilized. The moment you step outside what is “acceptable,” you pay a price. That is not freedom. Consent must be a living, ongoing process, continually renegotiable without punishment or exile.

This is why my politics embrace flexibility and fluidity. You don’t have to agree with every rule, norm, or structure to participate in a community. But you also can’t be forced to adopt them. Leaving a community should never feel like punishment, because exile is not liberation.

I see the world through a lens where “good” and “bad” are not fixed properties. Fences are fences — physical, social, or ideological. You only know how a fence affects you when you encounter it. Some fences provide safety or stability; others restrict or suffocate. A single society may contain multitudes of fences, built from competing ideologies, and each individual experiences them differently. Recognizing this multiplicity, and refusing to moralize it, is central to my philosophy.

Liberation, in my view, is fundamentally individual. It cannot be achieved through a collective checklist or by submitting to someone else’s notion of freedom. If you approach liberation with a collectivist mindset, you risk catering to others rather than examining your own possibilities. True liberation is discovering, defining, and navigating your own conditions of existence while maintaining awareness of the multiple, overlapping social frameworks that shape your reality.

I do not imagine large federations or universal systems in liberated societies. Such structures, by necessity, create norms, hierarchies, and limitations. Instead, I envision small, voluntary, interest-based communities formed by choice, sustained by mutual respect, and always open to renegotiation or exit. People may come together to collaborate, to create, to explore shared goals, but each participant retains sovereignty over their path, their actions, and their relationships.

My anarchism is post-structuralist because I reject fixed categories, absolutes, and universal prescriptions. It is philosophical because it is rooted in questioning the legitimacy of all imposed authority, not merely critiquing existing political institutions. It is individualist because liberation begins with the self, not the collective. And it is practical because it is rooted in how people actually live, interact, and choose to organize themselves.

At its core, my politics are simple: no hierarchy, no coercion, no rigid structures that define who you must be or how you must relate. Organize, yes. Collaborate, yes. But always in ways that leave room for people to evolve, to experiment, to step outside and reimagine their existence — without judgment, without exclusion, and without losing their autonomy.

My philosophy isn't a finished work that you'd find in a textbook. It's more of an unwritten manifesto, a collection of critiques and opinions, against all odds, stacked to form a working worldview. It's in constant motion, a living document that changes with every new thought and experience.

It begins, as all good tragedies do, with a simple truth: There's no grand plan. We aren't here for a reason. We're here because of biological processes: a messy, chaotic biophysical accident that has no idea we even exist. Most people, faced with that void, try to fill it with something: a God, Love, a Career. I just look at it and shrug. "Meh," followed by "Who cares."

That shrug, however, comes with a sneer. Our species, in my opinion, is the universe's most tragic punchline. We’re not unique in our awareness; the acknowledgment of self, where it begins and ends, is what I believe constitutes consciousness, and with that definition, all living things are conscious, including all plans, animals and micro-organisms.

But we are the only ones who use this awareness as an excuse to build hierarchies and systems that subjugate not only ourselves to them but also everything on this planet. We use it to create a narrative that places us at the pinnacle of evolution, atop the food chain so we can casually destroy everything on our path. I don't see us as the pinnacle; I see us as Nature's biggest mistake. My disgust for humanity isn't a philosophical position; it's a gut reaction to a species that has betrayed its own planet.

And yet, my misanthropy isn't a totalizing, all-consuming flame. It's a precise, surgical one. I don't hate you for being human; I hate the systems that make you terrible. I've seen how good we can be in small, tight-knit communities: egalitarian in nature. Then we invent property, money, and the State, and suddenly, we're tearing each other apart to see who sits on the throne. It's a corruption born of structure, and imbibed in all of us.

So, where does that leave me? I have no hope for a better world. I don't believe in a glorious revolution that will set things right. I know it is a lost cause, and yet, I resist. I stand against the oppressor, not because I believe my rebellion will lead to utopia, but because I defend my values. It's an act of principled futility: a defiant middle finger to a world I can't fix.

I have no grand purpose. I don't need things, people or actions in service to my existence. I just exist and express.