Amras

Tag: community

  • Communication and Silence in the Strange of 2026

    In that wild, imprecise, ineffable space — where neither words, emotions, imagination, nor music can hope to describe — something has changed.

    I sit on a bench in a Frankfurt Oder train station, shivering in the cold and waiting for a train that Deutsche Bahn has delayed ninety minutes. Beside me sits a woman of about sixty, a back-and-forth migrant between the various Polish and German states of her time. She complains about missing the New Year’s performance at the Katowice Arena — Sting is performing, did you know? Her frustration bounces between familiar topics: the names of politicians, the agony of being unheard over Christmas dinner, of being told by her son to “shut up about politics” when what could be more important in these times.

    For the first time in many years, I don’t feel the urge to tune her out. For the first time in many years, I listen. And in that ineffable space where words and imagination don’t reach, I hear something new.

    Five years ago, as the world turned inward — having decided that the solution to a global crisis was to bunker down and wait for it all to blow over — her words would have meant, “Why haven’t they fixed yet, acting all mighty?” But now, her words mean, “Why aren’t we fixing?”

    So I hold her meaning and respond in kind. I pull out my phone and battery pack and search for a livestream of Katowice’s streets: the arena awash in neon lights and snow, exploding every few seconds into a thirty-two-meter-tall disco ball of white light. Our postures shift; the cold and tension wash away. She says that if the train is delayed another half hour, she’ll return to Berlin and spend the rest of the night with her nephew. A third passenger chimes in, offering a couch one city over—for both of us, should we need it.

    Out of habit, I try to explain using inadequate words that politics don’t happen in parliaments anymore; they happen here in cold German train stations among found communities providing solutions with whatever is on hand. My words miss the mark, of course—the language I want to speak doesn’t exist yet between us. So I return to Silence, and that communicates my meaning.

    Five years ago, a crisis hit, and we waited it out, building new rules and new communities in the spaces around us. And when we heard the crisis was over, we told our bosses, our systems, and our politics that we’d go back to how things were, (maybe with a few concessions). And our systems believed us, returning to their plots of optimal resource extraction, happy that their spreadsheets and parables were back how they liked them.

    But in that strange, ineffable space where words and numbers and images don’t reach, something changed. Our stories found new footing, and our words meant something else than they used to.

    In times and places without access to modern statecraft, anthropologists described a “cycling” between hereditary-hierarchical states and stateless communities. These cycles operated not just on material concerns, but also on a rivalry between the cosmologies of clans who wanted control and wealth, and those who wanted all to have the power to solve their own problems. In Zambia, historians struggled to place the lineage of many highland groups, because history and material facts were left unclear— inconsistent stories combating the Han’s meticulous records and censuses, discernible only to those with context.

    Pythagoreans vowed to silence, because words of truth could only harm the uninitiated. Platonists and Merkavah mystics insisted fundamental reality cannot be described, only experienced. Masonic and Rosicrucian orders, even now, design elaborate rituals to convey experiences where no other communication will suffice.

    Silence isn’t new. But something is. A tool of understanding and power that flows beneath our conversations – for ages accessible mostly to the disenfranchised and esoteric – has grown mycelial roots under the thick concrete of our most robust institutions. The fruits are sprouting in spaces that haven’t had a taste in millennia.

  • Thriving as an Autistic Community Builder

    “It’s a paradox, isn’t it,” a fellow neurodivergent communicator told me. “Your brain has all these traits that make you ill-suited to communication. And yet it screams that your purpose in life is to Build Community.“

    In that moment, this essay appeared in my brain. Because I think I’m actually quite good at Community Building. And that’s not despite my autism; it’s because of it. Some part of me wishes it was obvious, that when we say neurodivergence is different not worse, we understand that to mean that it’s useful. But if we don’t – if we believe that autistic people are ill-suited to Social Solutions – then I think I need to share my experience.

    Before I start, I’ll give the standard disclaimer, for any discussion of diversity: if you’ve read one autistic person, then you’ve read… one autistic person. This is only my personal journey, and how I see myself. When I use terms like “neurodivergent” or “autistic” I can mean those only in the way I experience them. What I write is true to me.

    Why I Should Be Bad At This

    I’d like to guess at a narrative which might have prompted my colleague to suggest I’m a paradox:

    Allistic people pick up an innate sense of social norms; they know the rules of the social game without having to think about it. Autistic people can still play the same game, but they have to work out the rules as they go – so they’re slower to play, or at a disadvantage.

    Neurodivergent brains are different from neurotypical brains. More specifically, they’re good at accomplishing different things. So where allistics are good at tackling interpersonal challenges, autistics can contribute in other fields: technical tasks, deep compassion, rigorous maintenance of knowledge, etc.

    Now, community building is certainly an interpersonal challenge: the ideal community builder is an extroverted social butterfly. They need to start conversations, remember names, stay in touch, read the room, and have the social energy to keep up that work each day. Since I’m autistic, I can’t do any of those things. So when I feel a calling to perform that interpersonal task – of founding and nurturing and encouraging a community – I have to tackle it on hard mode! In addition to all the usual challenges, I need to overcome a social disability.

    But That’s Not Been My Experience

    I don’t feel I need to resolve the paradox of the Autistic Extrovert; it’s true I don’t have those interpersonal tools in my toolbox, so I don’t rely on them. The communities I build look different from the communities the neurotypical-centering narrative imagines. And the way I build them focuses on very different aspects. My communities thrive on kindness, safety, and inclusiveness – rather than e.g. a common identity or purpose.

    Being a Tea Monk

    I’ve been reading Becky Chambers’ Monk and Robot. In the book, a professional monk travels the countryside in a wagon. Where they stop, you can step inside and vent your worries. You can cry, you can hug. And the monk will listen. They’ll give you a personalized cup of tea – the exact blend your emotions need. And they’ll show you to a cushion where you can rest and drink. And when you’ve spent some time there, sipping your tea, you can leave, and go about whatever it was you couldn’t do before.

    In the neurotypically-centering narrative, this monk is a pretty bad therapist. They’ve left you to solve your own problems, and neglected their duty to reply with calming words which might validate your anxiety. And, because of that, this is a role I can perform. I never have platitudes on hand (even the important ones!) so I don’t say them. And I can’t adopt a facial expression to suggest sympathy, without intense focus. Certainly can’t look you in the eyes. No – if you tell me that you’re having a shitty day, I will stare blankly, maybe tilt my head, stay quiet for a bit. And yet – after a few minutes, you’ll find yourself with a tissue in one hand, a glass of water in the other. Suddenly covered by a blanket and eating the exact snack you’re craving. And when you’ve had a sip or a bite, I’ll spin off some seemingly unrelated story. And somehow, after all that, you feel heard.

    Overton’s Blinkers

    Most groups have an Overton’s Window, with a space in the middle of what’s acceptable, possible, and worth discussing; and a big space all around of the absurd, radical ideas that are worth joking about but are safe to dismiss.

    One theory for why this happens is that (allistic) people tend to look around before they speak. Seeing which ideas have already been expressed is how they figure out where the Window lies. There’s an implied social cost to venturing too far outside it, so most people try to stay in the bounds.

    My particular flavor of neurodivergence makes me bad at seeing where a group’s Window is. Conversely – it makes me good at speaking outside it. And that gives me superpowers.

    Staying inside the Window maintains cohesion and identity, at the cost of limiting how people can engage. Exploring the space outside it breaks identity, but is a huge step towards intimacy and meaningful connection.

    So I say the Wrong Thing sometimes – pulling analogies and ideas from wildly distant, sometimes dangerous spaces. And I get push-back, and half-joking dismissals, and tangible discomfort from half the room. But inevitably the Overton Window shifts. And someone figures out that the voices they’ve been keeping quiet are welcome here, too.

    I Communicate Directly

    … which feels dangerous to say. Because half the time, straight-shooting is claimed as a substitute for empathy, and that’s not me. I’ll elaborate:

    I don’t – can’t – nest my meaning in comfortable language. My words are abrasive, uncomfortable, and sudden, even when the intent is kind. Here, again, I don’t feel the need to hide that directness away.

    My directness does not come from impulsiveness. I actually spend a lot of effort thinking about what I’ll say, and how I’ll phrase it – and anything important needs to come from a place of humility and mindfulness. I offer perspectives or context – leaving room for interpretation. “I could be wrong, but here’s something I’ve observed.” And when something is worth celebrating, I’ll do that just as readily. This directness builds trust. It allows people to be vulnerable around me. They know they won’t receive a dishonest response from me, or an unkind one.

    This generalizes to groups, and then to communities: if you create a space for people to be vulnerable around you, they will use the space to trust each other, too. And once they have that trust, they’ll carry it even when you’re not around.

    Vulnerability is a Catalyst for Compassion

    Vulnerability sometimes feels like the biggest power play. By describing precisely where my boundaries lie, and saying “this hurts” when they’re broken, I make it difficult for people to be unkind. Even in groups that value ribbing or trolling, I’m generally treated with the same kindness I show.

    I think there’s a neurotypical narrative where my vulnerability reads as selfish and dangerous: I disarm important social mechanisms; I break the rules; and I demand kindness without earning status. But, in my experience, something else also happens: the group starts to see kindness as an option for each other. They see it done by me, and to me – and they want it for themselves too. Kindness is very easy to multiply – it ripples through communities if you let it.

    That’s Why I Don’t Feel Like a Paradox

    The calling I feel towards connecting the people around me, finding common ground, and nurturing shared spaces – it’s a vocation I’m suited to, in all the ways that I’ve been told I can’t be. My uniqueness and divergence are what allow me to construct safe spaces, challenge interpersonal barriers, and foster vulnerability and kindness. For all of those reasons, I can pull people closer to each other – sometimes in contexts that other community builders would struggle with.

    I live surrounded by kindness, respect, and understanding. Often in spaces I’ve seeded and nurtured and encouraged. And in communities that support me as much as I support them. The more I unmask – the more I allow myself to be that autistic, awkward, introverted me – the easier it becomes to continue that growth.

    So if you’re reading this with a brain as “broken” as mine – I want you to reconsider what you’re capable of. If you feel a calling, follow it even if people tell you it’s wrong for you. Follow it as far as your strength will allow. Because this world needs your brain more than you know. And you can turn around someday, lock eyes with your haters, and show them how much they underestimated you.