Why do revolutions often happen unexpectedly?
Revolutions confound both experts and rulers not because they defy explanation in hindsight, but because collective rupture always emerges from the unstable intersection of mood, narrative and opportunity. The system’s façade appears impregnable right up until the instant it shatters. Ordinary people obey the rules until, abruptly, the rules stop mattering—suddenly a fruit seller’s self-immolation in Tunisia sets regimes toppling, or a statue’s removal in Cape Town galvanizes global decolonization.
The predictable rituals—marches, petitions, even strikes—rarely trigger upheaval because authority knows how to suppress or ignore them. What detonates the old order is a change in imagination: people cease fearing what happens if the regime falls and start fearing what happens if it endures. That switch is fundamentally subjective, and it spreads infectiously. The mechanisms are always with us—grievances, repression, dreams—but the catalyzing event strikes at a moment when enough actors perceive the cost of obedience as higher than the risk of revolt.
Kairos, not chronology, rules revolutionary timing. Every expert misses the hour until one becomes a crowd, and what seemed unthinkable is suddenly irreversible. What signs, visible now, suggest that such a tipping point might be brewing where you are?
great
Glad that resonated. If the seeds of upheaval are always present, how can organisers learn to spot the subtle cracks before the tremors begin—rather than being swept up after the fact? Do you trust instinct, data, or the whispers moving through your networks when sensing the approach of change?