Thread by @Ghostwoods

When I was young, I read Martin Niemoller's poem, and swore that I wouldn't be the one who didn't speak up.

I've lived that promise. I've spoken up, endlessly, time after time.

All it's done is piss acquaintances off.

Social Credit is rolling out in China next year officially, yet it's _already_ prevented 11 million people from taking plane flights, and 40 million more from taking train journeys.

If you can't see that it's on the way here, you're blind.

I've tried. I've been reasonable and fact-laden, emotive and empassioned, even ranting and raving. I've born the personal, social, and professional costs.

I don't regret an instant of it.

We're entering a very dark place, now.

So my time of issuing warnings is coming to an end -- to the relief of a lot of you, I'm sure.

It won't be long -- a decade, if we're lucky, quite possibly less than half that -- before speaking up tangibly harms not only me, but people I love.

At that point, it's too late.

When they came for the immigrants, I spoke up, but no-one listened because they were not an immigrant.

Etcetera, ad nausea.

Soon, speaking up will stop your medical treatment, strip you of your job, keep you out of transport and housing.

I've done my best.

It wasn't even slightly good enough, and even if we all suddenly rose up together now, screaming in outrage, it would only speed up the jack boots.

So, you know, whatever.

I tried. I expect I'll keep trying until the harm is imminent, because I'm stubborn.

But this is your final moment of impassioned pleading from me:

Prepare. Make plans. Get ready.

Because it's too late. The storm is coming.

The moving finger writes,
and having writ moves on;
not all thy piety and wit
can call back half a line
nor all thy tears
wash out a word of it.