I have a hard time finding the right words these days. The world feels different — not only politically, but in the way truth itself is being treated. We are watching an evolving system of control that seeks to reshape reality: to dictate which voices are heard, what stories are told, and how history itself will be remembered. Institutions once built to ensure balance now bend under pressure, and those who could speak often stay quiet, so long as the markets are steady and life appears normal.

For those of us in academia, this silence is especially painful. There is no unified response, no open reckoning — only hushed conversations and a quiet sense of fear. Many of us know what happens when intimidation seeps into public life: when courts lose independence, when language is twisted into slogans, when legality becomes a weapon rather than a safeguard. History shows that such shifts do not announce themselves with thunderclaps — they begin with small permissions, gradual compromises, and the slow normalization of control.

At my stage of life, it would be easy to step back and watch from the sidelines. But that is not an option when people around me — students, postdocs, colleagues — have placed their trust in the same ideals that brought me into science decades ago: curiosity, honesty, and the belief that knowledge must remain free from coercion.

On that front, I have faith. I work with remarkable, independent minds who will carry our ideas beyond what I could imagine. The work of our lab is not ending; it is growing. It is a small plant that has taken root, developing branches and reaching upward. My task now is to trust it, to let it grow.

Yet I cannot ignore the question that keeps resurfacing: will the soil remain fertile? Will science still grow in freedom, or will it be forced to conform — shaped by political fashion, commercial interests, or fear of reprisal? Funding priorities already drift toward what looks exciting, headline-grabbing, or marketable. The quieter work — the slow, persistent kind that builds understanding brick by brick — becomes harder to defend in a culture that values spectacle over substance.

This is not new in history. The moment when a society starts rewarding obedience more than integrity is the moment when the lights begin to dim. It rarely happens with violence at first. It begins with language — with vilifying groups of people, with deciding who is “worthy” and who is not, with redefining dissent as disloyalty. Once that mindset takes hold, the machinery of repression doesn’t need to be invented; it only needs to be reactivated. The writing is already on the wall.

Academic freedom is not a luxury; it is a defense against that darkness. It is what allows knowledge to outlast regimes and dogmas. But freedom survives only when it is used — when people choose to speak, even softly, rather than fall silent for comfort.

I do not know what the next five or ten years will bring. But I hope the next generation of scientists still feels that truth is worth defending, that a career built on curiosity and integrity is worth the uncertainty it demands. Universities cannot remain neutral observers; silence in times of moral distortion is itself a decision.

The world may feel darker now, but growth begins quietly, under pressure, in unseen places. And even if power tries to dictate what can be said or imagined, it cannot own the human mind. Our capacity to think, to observe, and to draw conclusions is an act of freedom in itself — one that cannot be legislated away. Ideas continue to grow where they are nurtured by honesty and wonder.

My hope is that this small plant — our lab, our community, our shared belief in open inquiry — continues to grow toward the light, even when the landscape around it begins to darken. Because as long as we keep thinking freely, there will always be light.

“I wrote this blog post with some help from AI (ChatGPT) to enhance clarity, eloquence, and to create the accompanying illustration.”