My Croatian Grandmother spoke to me in French. Language, Technofascism and the Utopian Project of European Science Fiction.

Aiki Mira, 13.08.2026

Keynote EuroCon 2026, Berlin

What happens when machines learn to write language perfectly, and mean nothing at all? In this keynote, delivered on 3 July 2026 at EuroCon in Berlin, writer Aiki Mira traces zombie prose back to Hannah Arendt’s idea of “thoughtlessness,” asking what resistance to technofascism could sound like. Along the way: Nadsat, Newspeak, Euromish, queer futures, and a Croatian grandmother who spoke in French. A case for translation, and for untranslatability as ways livable futures are made.

There is a specific kind of terror when something you are passionate about, something existential to you, seems under threat on a scale you and the world have never seen before. The rise of large language models transforms how we read and write, changes how language develops.

A recent working paper estimated that more than half of all new books released on Amazon now contain AI-generated text. Even more troubling: in 2026 AI Writing entered prestigious literary and intellectual spaces like the acclaimed Granta Magazine. I’m a writer, language is my passion, my living. Of course, I am concerned, but so should you. Current debates speak about a new kind of fascism: technofascism. 

So, here I am working out: What is currently happening to language under the rise of technofascism? How does it affect our imagination? What does this have to do with European Science Fiction? What is European Science Fiction?

Language 

Let’s start with language. Language is a commons: a shared resource, produced collectively, maintained collectively. No one owns language. Institutions attempted to regulate it through academies or censorship, but living language – spoken, sung, written, improvised – remained something made by those who used it. By us. 

That has changed.

Some call it “the biggest intellectual-property theft in human history” or even the death of intellectual property. Internal planning documents from Anthropic, the company behind the large language model Claude, described “Project Panama” as an effort to “destructively scan all the books in the world.” Millions of books were physically destroyed. Their spines sliced off, to feed the loose pages into the scanning machine.

Large language models are trained on the output of human language: books, emails, essays, poems, scientific papers, Wikipedia arguments. This collective archive is then broken down into tokens, which are neither units of meaning nor syllables.

In the English language, they are bits like [lization] or [ness]. These pieces are recombined statistically to predict the most likely next word or phrase. The result is language that appears fluid, so fluid, in fact, that finding grammatical errors or clunky syntax is nowadays a hint that you are looking at human prose. 

The language that comes out of the machine has a specific tone. A specific style. It is formally correct and at the same time it is undead. A language that functions rather than thinks. A zombie. Repetitions. Empty phrases. Clichés. This is its political form.

Thoughtlessness

Hannah Arendt had a word for this: Gedankenlosigkeit, thoughtlessness. She found it in the speech of Adolf Eichmann, a Nazi who organised mass murder and, when asked to explain himself, could only reach for stock phrases and bureaucratic procedure ([1] Arendt,1979, p. 13-15.). Thoughtlessness, for Arendt, is a failure of care and attention. Not a lack of intelligence. Something scarier: making no effort to think. And the symptoms are linguistic: the cliché, the repetition. Everything that relieves us of the need to think relieves us of the need to care. With the concept of Thoughtlessness Hannah Arendt wanted to show how a certain style, a certain form is deeply connected to a lack of empathy, to a lack of relating with the world. 

What Arendt saw as a moral catastrophe, Silicon Valley has turned into a subscription service (Von Redecker p.154-169.).

Technofascism

In a 2026 paper in AI & Society (Coeckelbergh, 2026), Mark Coeckelbergh describes the authoritarian tendencies shaped by digital technologies, corporate concentration, and the enclosure of commons as technofascism. In her book “The New Fascism. Entitlement and the Urge to Destroy” (“Dieser Drang nach Härte. Über den neuen Faschismus“), published in March 2026, philosopher Eva von Redecker notes that to have an understanding of fascism does not simply mean clearly acknowledging something terrible. It also means being able to explore the horrors of the present without exaggeration or one-sidedness (Von Redecker, 2026, p.27.). To locate something without it being fully developed. 

What is this something in the case of technofascism?

The concentration of data infrastructure, artificial intelligence, and political power in the hands of a small number of unaccountable people, with no democratic mandate, explicitly hostile to regulation and advancing an ideological programme.

George Orwell understood this shape of danger. In his novel “Nineteen Eighty-Four”, the fictional language Newspeak is a tool of political control: reduce the vocabulary and you reduce what can be thought. What is happening at the moment is something subtler and more total: a statistical regression towards the dominant, the most-represented.

The privatisation of language follows the same structural logic as the privatisation of whole cities like Próspera in Honduras: Take something shared. Something that belongs to everyone. Remove it from accountability. Privatise it. Then sell it back to us. Call it progress. 

Call it utopia. 

Utopia & Phantom Ownership

When the democratic government of Honduras, a socialist government repealed the law that enabled Próspera, the investors sued. They sued for ten point seven billion dollars. One third of the country’s annual budget. So, that’s what it costs to say no to someone else’s utopia. 

In her 2026 book “Kybernetik und Kritik”, Anna-Verena Nosthoff suggests that ideological critique now faces a new challenge: spaces of possibility are prematurely closed by utopias and cybernetic paradises. By visions in which social problems are presumed to be already resolved through technical elegance, efficiency, or disruptive innovation alone. Under these conditions, ideological critique itself, she argues, must become a critique of utopias (Nosthoff: p 604.).

This includes, I would suggest, the technofascist science fiction at work when Elon Musk speaks of colonising Mars or when Peter Thiel promotes the idea of “free cities” like Próspera. Both are new forms of corporate colonialism. Both are blocking the very futures in which we could still slow climate collapse. 

The same logic extends to the proposed utopia of large language models. Their data centres are burning through water, pumping out emissions on a scale that so far has been hidden from us. And the output, the AI language, stays with us like plastic waste. Like plastic waste the next generation of LLMs will have to choke on it. 

Large language models are sold to us as paradise. What is being claimed, however, is ownership of language itself. Eva von Redecker calls this “Phantombesitz” (“phantom ownership”): the claim of something as “mine” that was never legitimately owned in the first place (von Redecker, 2026, p.18-19.). Fascism, she argues, is the brutal intensity with which people defend something as theirs, even though it never was (von Redecker, 2026, p.21-22, p.233.). And she points out that phantom ownership is also a core logic of capitalism: the idea that bodies, nature, and now language can be owned and sold (Von Redecker, 2026, p.76., 163-164.).

So, under the rise of technofascism, we are confronted with a new language. A language that sounds correct, professional, even reasonable, and at the same time evades care and responsibility. This is why I think that questions of style, aesthetics, sound, and poetics are politically urgent right now. Confronted with thoughtless language, attention to style becomes a form of resistance. 

Sound, syntax, poetics: these are political technologies. 

And science fiction has always known.

Science Fiction

Science fiction, also understood as Speculative Fiction, Speculative Feminism, Social Fiction (Inspired by Haraway (2016, p.2) , is often discussed in terms of ideas or world-building. But for me its deepest work happens at the level of language. 

One of my first encounters with language and what it can do was in the novel “A Clockwork Orange” by Anthony Burgess, published in 1962. Its narrator, Alex, speaks in Nadsat, a slang invented by Burgess that draws on Russian, on the working-class dialect Cockney and on pure invention. Reading the opening lines, you find yourself in a different world, in a different body:

“That's it going to be then, eh? 

There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry.” (A Clockwork Orange, p.5)

The story of violence and state power is told through a language that is itself an act of youth resistance. To speak Nadsat is to refuse the language of the authorities. Language is world, is body. And yet, the genre is rarely discussed in terms of its language. 

Joanna Russ, in “How to Suppress Women’s Writing”, documented this pattern across literary traditions: entire bodies of work are excluded from serious aesthetic consideration. A woman wrote it, so it isn’t really literature. A genre wrote it, so it isn’t really literature. 

In her novel “The Left Hand of Darkness”, Ursula K. Le Guin invents the word “shifgrethor” (Le Guin, 2014, p.324) to name a concept from the planet Gethen, a complex weaving of honour and social presence that the visitor Genly Ai cannot fully translate because he lacks the world the concept lives in. And yet. Estraven and Genly Ai find each other anyway. Across the gap. Across the untranslatable. 

Where Burgess shows language as resistance and identity, Le Guin shows it as a medium for what I call “impossible empathy” (: the capacity to stay in relation without fully understanding.

Karin Tidbeck goes even further. In their novel “Amatka”, language is existential. Objects must be named regularly, or they dissolve into a formless substance. When the protagonist Vanja encounters the dissident poetry of Berols Anna, she encounters the power of language:

“The poems weren't just simple marking rhymes or descriptions of the world. Vanja had a feeling that the plant houses didn't need marking anymore, because Berols Anna’s words had fixed their shape completely.” (Amatka, p.83) 

Whether language is presented as identity, resistance, the untranslatable or the condition of reality itself, these works of fiction all point at the same truth: 

Language is politics.

Queer* Science Fiction

If science fiction is a genre of world-making and reality changing through language, then queer* science fiction is one of its most devoted practices. Queer* science fiction writes towards futures for bodies and experiences that the present has no stable language for – or actively erases. 

Sabrina Calvo, one of my favourite queer writers working in French science fiction today, writes about queer bodies, and Calvo’s language performs them, sentence by sentence. 

In her award-winning novel “Toxoplasma”, the protagonist Nikki Chanson’s body is written like this: 

“le pommeau entre ses cuisses, là où le chaud remue le chaud, ou tout s’embrase. Ronron de l’eau qui bout, dehors, dedans, et l’émaille blanc où glisse ses doigts” (Toxoplasma, p. 88) 1

Fragmentation, rhythm, and poetic excess. Form itself becomes the queer body. Calvo says of her own writing: “I am not a linguist, I don’t know how to create a world from its language, real or imaginary, but I can create a language from a dream world.” 2

This language – itself a queer body – resists normative expectations.

To use language like this belongs to a longer tradition. In the 1960s and 70s, the New Wave treated the formal experiment as political intervention. Writers like Joanna Russ, Ursula K. Le Guin, Samuel R. Delany, James Tiptree Jr. and many more questioned the default voices of the genre. It is not a coincidence that the writers who pushed furthest were often those with the most at stake: women, queer people, and Black people.

James Tiptree Jr., who was also Alice Sheldon, wrote stories in many styles. Some styles passed as masculine. When Tiptree’s identity was revealed, it demonstrated that “masculine style” was itself a construction. In fact, Tiptree’s style has so many variants, it cannot be reduced to being masculine. 

Just listen to the sound of the Tiptree story “Love is the plan the plan is death”:

“How we blended our singing wordlessly and then with words, until more and more we came to see with each other’s eyes, to hear, to taste, to feel, the world of each other, until I became Leelyloo and you became Moggadeet, until finally we became together a new thing, Moggadeet-Leely, Lilliloo-Mogga, Lili-Mogga-looly-deet! “ 

Le Guin’s “Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction” argues for new narrative forms that hold multiplicity rather than hierarchy, relation rather than conquest. Queer science fiction answers to this. As José Esteban Muñoz in argues “Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity”, queerness is not yet here. If queerness is not yet present, we need new forms, new languages as queer as the futures we desire. 

Sabrina Calvo and Tiptree performing bodies into existence through language is a practice of this. Science fiction can imagine futures where bodies are liveable. Bodies, which have been made unliveable through racism, transphobia, ableism, antisemitism, sexism, classism and so on. Bodies are a paradoxical place: visible and invisible, tangible and inaccessible, real and imaginary. A space through which other spaces (and times) become experienceable. So, the body is our first medium of every utopia (Foucault, 2005, p. 34.). 

Interestingly, in the utopias of the tech oligarchs, the body is something to overcome through technology. Something to leave behind for the promise of superintelligence and eternal life. 

In her famous short story “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas”, Le Guin presents us with a utopian city, where all the prosperity and happiness depend on one child, one vulnerable body, living in horrible misery. Today the seemingly clean and magical AI we enjoy is trained on data that has been cleansed by so-called ghost workers, human workers often from postcolonial countries whose bodies are forced to witness horrific content, absorbing the trauma to keep the utopia of commercial systems running.

So, who gets to have a future?

In science fiction the answer was for far too long: the same bodies who own the present. But there was always a counter-tradition. Octavia E. Butler, writing Black women into the far future. Samuel R. Delany, writing queer Black futures long before the vocabulary existed to name them. A feminist tradition that broke the rules and reinvented the genre. And today we are building new queer* feminist traditions. Because science fiction, rather than escaping into the future, invents languages for bodies the present cannot yet name. 

That is survival work.

1 “The showerhead between her thighs, where warmth stirs warmth, where everything ignites. The purring of boiling water, outside, inside, and the white enamel along which her fingers glide.” (own translation)

2 « Je ne suis pas linguiste, je ne sais pas créer un monde à partir de sa langue, réelle ou imaginaire, mais je peux créer une langue à partir d’un monde rêvé. » (Calvo:2025).

Imagination

A study published in 2025 found that groups using LLMs came up with very similar ideas. The use of large language models seemed to limit the diversity of their imagination. Another study published in the same year found that to use large language models makes people feel less creative. But we are in a moment where we need more diverse imagination, more creative thinking to invent and build liveable futures on this planet. 

Many of our past achievements – women's rights, democratic and ecological projects – would not exist without imagination. Social movements feed on imagined futures and are united by them. A movement begins in the moment when person decides to turn those imagined futures into reality. 

Social movements and democracies also run on language, on argument and dissent, on the capacity to name things differently than the powerful name them. Hannah Arendt writes that clichés and stock phrases “have the socially recognised function of shielding against reality, against the demands that all events and facts, by virtue of their existence, place on our thinking attention” (Arendt, 1979, p.13.).

What large language models offer is the industrialisation of that relief. The antidote, for Hannah Arendt, is the capacity to think from someone else’s position, to imagine otherwise. 

Let’s imagine otherwise: What would an anti-fascist large language model look like?

Maybe it wouldn’t be large at all. 

How about many small language models, shared like a commons. Models we can curate and take responsibility for. Now imagine this applied to culture. Artists training their own models, experimenting with language and technology, re-introducing diversity, and contradiction. Maybe the future of art lies in shaping the systems.

An anti-fascist language model wouldn’t speak for everyone. It would be plural and unfinished. We don’t have to look far. Prototypes already exist in the languages of migration, in dialects, in sociolects, in the many ways people keep hacking language to survive and to belong.

“Naspa!” Kawi shouts.

Tell doesn’t understand. “Wesh, sus?”

Euromish – from every mouth the mush sounds slightly different.

“Naspa means the sky has a poor resolution. Not much light.”

“That's proto, sus.”

“Ba, Capitána Obvius.” 

(Proxi, p.7-8)

This is a dialogue from “Proxi”, in this novel I imagined Europe as a city with many slangs and accents, and a new language called Euromish, a living language of postclimate migrations. Researching this, I looked at youth slangs across European countries and found something beautiful: words and phrases are recurring across national borders. Turkish words, Arabic words, Croatian words. The Arabic word yalla (let's go) is used by German teenagers who have never spoken Arabic at home. And yalla itself travels further: from Arabic into Turkish, into German, into Scandinavian languages, into French banlieue slang. Sociolects and slangs emerge from contact and use. They are collective and unpredictable. They are already the languages of many futures.

The question for science fiction is whether it will be attentive enough to listen. Whether it will be open enough to let these words restructure the sentence. Because resistance to technofascism can be linguistic, poetic: rhythms, refusals, the capacity to surprise, to imagine otherwise.

European Project

Let me propose something that might sound strange. Europe – the European project – what Europe actually is when you look at it carefully, is itself science fiction. A project of imagined futures. Historically, it is a collection of empires and nation-states that spent most of their existence trying to destroy each other. And then, out of that wreckage, something new emerged. European countries began to cooperate, with difficulty and many failures. Still, they built institutions that were genuinely new. A court that could hold member states accountable to human rights standards. A parliament elected across national lines. A zone of free movement. A shared space of scientific collaboration. 

As reported in 2025 by investigative journalists Peter Thiel outlines a theology of the Antichrist in his private lectures. In this Antichrist theology, international cooperation, climate agreements, basic tech regulations like Europe’s AI Act, the world’s first attempt to use AI more ethically, can be interpreted as early signs of the Antichrist, of an approaching catastrophe: the apocalypse.

Is the European Project the Antichrist? Or is it anti-fascist? 

Eva von Redecker contrasts the fascist urge to destroy with the practice of caring for one another. According to her, anti-fascism means building structures of solidarity, preventing exclusion and strengthening collective resistance (Redecker, 2026, p. 234-237.). Maybe the EU can become this anti-fascist project. Maybe it is in this sense a utopian project: not yet here. A project that says: we are different from each other, we speak different languages, we have different histories, we sometimes still do not trust each other, and we choose to cooperate anyway.  Such a project does not have a single language. There is no European language. There is no Euromish. 

Europe exists only in translation. 

Every EU Parliament session runs in 24 languages simultaneously. Twenty-four. That’s a commitment. Every law exists in 24 official versions, each equally valid. This is beautiful. And it is the structural opposite of what large language models are doing to language, turning it into an algorithmic mono-voice, a statistical norm weighted towards the already powerful.

To translate means to move towards what you do not yet understand. Preserving tension and differences. Insisting that meaning survives multiplicity. 

My grandmother was a translator.

By the logic of a country that no longer exists, my grandmother was Croatian, married Serbian and lived Serbian. We spoke only in French because I never learned Croatian or Serbian. To this day there are many languages and many accents in my family, and I do not know all of them. We exist in translation, and this feels European. Because Europe is more than geography to me: it is the idea of coming together in our differences.

“But it was from the difference between us, not from the affinities and likenesses, but from the difference, that that love came: and it was itself the bridge, the only bridge, across what divided us.” (Le Guin, 2014, p.325-326.)

This is a quote from my favourite novel by Ursula K. Le Guin: “The Left Hand of Darkness”. It describes what I call impossible empathy: the ability to love what we cannot fully understand. Science fiction is a practice for impossible empathy. And the European Union, in its aspiration, is an institution built on the same capacity: to stay in relationship across gaps that cannot be resolved.

My grandmother thought that translation is always more. That when you move a text from one language to another, something is added. That the space between languages is always full: full of possibility, of interpretation, of surprise, of dedication and of love.

The gap between languages, the untranslatable, is a space where meaning can grow. How as a postmigrant you can carry several gaps, several meanings, several European histories in one body. 

Europe is also many failures. Wars and conflicts. Of what happened to the countries of my grandparents and parents. Europe does not give us tolerance. We still have to do the work of actually tolerating each other. 

European Science Fiction

What if we open these spaces of our imagination a little bit further and try to imagine a European science fiction? European science fiction as a utopian project, something not yet here, but worth striving for. An idea, an attitude, an outlook, an ever-expanding pool of difference and cooperation. Because if Europe truly wants to be a project of democracy and human rights, then it should care about the future and the futures of many.

When I think of European science fiction, I imagine futures that read and write across languages as an act of political commitment. A science fiction that exists in translation as its natural condition, that builds difference into its structure.

Stanisław Lem wrote in Polish about the impossibility of genuine contact with alien minds. Early English versions of “Solaris” were translated from a French text. Angela Carter wrote in English about bodies that refuse their own mythology. As a translator, Angela Carter herself was famous for creative appropriations, which reflected her own subversive feminist style. Karin Tidbeck imagines language as constitutive for reality. Karin Tidbeck is a writer who translates their own works from Swedish into English. Sabrina Calvo performs bodies through French language. And these bodies are still looking for their translations.

The mere idea of a European science fiction can bring these works into conversation with each other. The mere idea of European science fiction can recognise them as parts of a common project. A project mediated by lively arguments between readers, writers, translators. 

Between us.

How would European science fiction respond to technofascism? 

How would it engage with the specific experience of queer European bodies, which is multiple and contradictory? The experience of queer people in Eastern Europe, in the post-Soviet context, where LGBTQ+ rights movements have a very different history and a very different relationship to Western progressive politics. 

A European SF that genuinely engages with all of this would be doing something new: imagining different futures from different bodies in different languages. Building an imaginary that is structurally plural. An imaginary that can hold contradiction, refusing resolution into a single form or a single voice. That is the condition of possibility. The possibility of many liveable futures.

Liveable Futures 

What does it look like when a European project decides for many liveable futures? 

In 2022, the European Space Agency selected the first person with a physical disability to train as an astronaut. His name is John McFall. He is British, a Paralympic sprinter who had his right leg amputated after a motorcycle accident at nineteen. ESA selected him as part of a programme explicitly designed to figure out what adaptations would be needed to make space travel more accessible to all kinds of bodies. A programme which is so far the world’s first and only programme to do so. By 2025, ESA concluded there are no technical or medical reasons why McFall could not fly on long-term missions. 

In other words: they decided that the future should be more than the past. 

This is science fiction made real. 

I imagine European science fiction as a literary equivalent: A project that creates many futures, changes many realities, making room for bodies that have been left out. 

A practice of caring for one another, a practice of anti-fascism.

We are in a moment of danger. These technologies are at work right now, without democratic consent, without accountability – technologies that privatise and distort language, then resell it to us as progress. 

How do we resist?

Through institutions holding that power accountable.

How do we resist technofascism?

Through practices of care: caring for our futures and for the futures of our commons.

How do we build a new commons?

A European science fiction as multilingual and contested as Europe itself? Something that makes room for all the bodies and voices that have been left out?

What does it sound like?

What are its styles?

Its rhythms?

I don’t know.

But I want to read it. I want to write it. I want to find it in your novels, your short stories, your poems. Translated. Mistranslated. Always creating something new in the crossing.

A commons that lives in the vast space of our differences.

A commons made of bridges and translations and love.

My Croatian grandmother spoke to me in French.

 And I am still answering her. 

Thank you.

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