On Protest and Privilege: the tension of belonging

On a Friday, October 18th, 2019, Chile’s capital, Santiago, erupted: fires, chaos, and a massive refusal to pay public transport fares. Although the trigger was a 30 Chilean pesos increase in subway ticket prices, what truly exploded was a deep, collective exhaustion, built up over decades of inequality. From that final drop came the now-iconic slogan “No son 30 pesos, son 30 años,” which, without a way of knowing, would mark a turning point in our country’s history.
This essay explores participation as both a concept and a personal tension. It emerges from this particular social uprising, but reaches toward broader questions about privilege, affect, and the frameworks we often internalize when it comes to speaking out.

The so-called “Estallido Social” (social uprising) in Chile was neither an isolated event nor a spontaneous outburst. In the days leading up to October 18, high school students began protesting the fare hike (a measure decreed by the Panel of Public Transport Experts under President Sebastián Piñera’s administration). Although the increase seemed small, it affected millions who rely on public transport daily. By Thursday the 17th, at least fifteen stations had closed after massive fare evasions led by students jumping turnstiles. But it was on Friday that the main subway lines were completely shut down, following the destruction of infrastructure and the collapse of public order. As El País reported: “Protesters have destroyed and thrown infrastructure onto the tracks at several stations, among other disturbances” (Laborde, A. 2024). That was only the beginning of a wave of nationwide protests that revealed deep social wounds carried for decades.

In this context, and alongside it, a series of questions began to follow me. They’ve stayed with me since then, sometimes quietly, sometimes insistently. I started wondering about my role, my place, and whether I had the right to be present in a fight that felt urgent and just, but from which I sometimes felt extraneous.

Since I can remember, I’ve been told I have everything I need to live well, to build a good future, to be happy. I am fortunate, I must make the most of those advantages. This idea has followed me for years. I don’t discredit it, and I certainly don’t deny it, would be wrongful and reckless to ignore such an appearance. It is, without a doubt, a privileged position in itself to even face this kind of internal contradiction. Still, it is that very awareness of privilege, of good living, of potential happiness, that stirs an uncomfortable feeling of not belonging. Of not having the right to participate in a movement like the one that broke out in October 2019.

Can this interfere with how I think about politics, about justice? Should it?

At around three in the afternoon on October 18, I was, as usual on a Friday after class, sitting in a subway car in Santiago. I was heading to my aunt’s house in Peñalolén. That Friday marked a week of student protests against the fare hike. My route that day was different from the one I usually take, so I was paying more attention to the maps and the stations where I needed to transfer. The lights indicating active stations flickered inconsistently; one moment they were working, the next they were off. Stations started to close. The announcements over the speaker kept contradicting each other, until, after a sudden blackout, the train came to an abrupt stop. In the dark, we were informed: “Alert on the tracks, alert on the tracks, protesters at the next station, sitting with their legs hanging over the rails.”

We were asked to evacuate, still in the dark, through a narrow gap between the train and the tunnel, walking until we reached the station. As I walked, I began to hear the chants:

“Evadir, no pagar, otra forma de luchar” | “Evade, don’t pay, another way to fight.”
“El pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido” | “The people, united, will never be defeated.”

It wasn’t fear I felt. Something electric, from my stomach to my throat. A strange hope. A confused smile drew itself on my face. When I reached the station, a crowd of students, all younger than me, were shouting together, vibrating as one. I observed. I did not join.

I went and had lunch at my aunt’s. Around 6 p.m., I returned home by bus (it was the only alternative since by then most subway stations were shut down). While traveling on a fully packed Transantiago bus, we passed a subway entrance that was on fire. I realized then that something big was happening, something unavoidable that I wanted to be a part of.

It was my first year living in the capital, Santiago de Chile. First year of university, studying Anthropology. Like many of my classmates, I closed the semester early so I could join the movement. I attended protests, assemblies, and community discussions. For the first time I felt like I truly belonged to something that made sense. Until I returned to Viña del Mar, the city where I grew up. There, although there were some demonstrations, my social circle seemed mostly untouched. Some friends treated the moment like a short vacation, escaping to nearby beaches or countryside homes. Social media became a battleground. Either black or white, no gray areas. I was impressed to see people I knew, even ones close to me, posting things like: “This isn’t the way,” “Bring in the military,” “Criminals hiding behind a cause.”

And I just asked myself where does all of this come from. Where does the discord start?  We come from the same place. We share background, in some cases blood, memories, neighborhoods,  schools. That question lingers in me still.

With the help of writings like The Promise of Happiness by Sara Ahmed and Lauren Berlant’s concept of Cruel Optimism, I began to question the foundations of what it means to “have everything one needs”, what exactly entails “well-being”?

Ahmed questions the way happiness works as a normative expectation. Certain lives and paths are celebrated as happy, while others, all those that deviate from what is expected, productive, or traditional, are seen as problematic or even threatening. Happiness, then, stops being a spontaneous emotion and becomes a tool for social regulation. A promise that directs our desires toward certain objects, behaviors, and ways of living, making us believe that once we reach them, we will be fulfilled.

Lauren Berlant, on the other hand, introduces the concept of Cruel Optimism to describe the emotional attachments people have to dreams, ideas, or goals that are ultimately harmful or unreachable, yet still pursued because they carry the promise of a better life. Even when that goal is toxic or impossible, we cling to it, because letting go would mean losing the very idea of happiness.

Reading both authors gave me a way to put my unease into words. Their concepts helped me dig into what lies beneath what we call and believe as desirable. Allowing me to see this discomfort not as just personal, or baseless guilt. There are structures molding the ways we feel and assess our place in the world.

These discourses operate from the most intimate to the most global. In Chile, we have inherited promises from global powers like the famed American Dream: market logics, individual freedoms, aspirations. This makes it easier to connect the personal and the political, the inner world and the social structures.

So if I am, within this framework of what is called (and critiqued as) “good living” and a path toward happiness, seen as someone included rather than excluded, why would I even think to question, let alone change, the conditions that make that possible?

All of this has been part of a process, both theoretical and individual, that I believe is tied to what has been called the affective turn. The way emotions shape how we relate to the world, and how concepts like happiness, well-being, or a good life are not neutral but historically (and politically) loaded. Today, more than yesterday, I’m aware of how these notions may sway the way I feel about the world. The tricky part is that, unless we pause and make the effort to notice, these affects end up shaping not only how we feel, but also how we think, and through that, the way we act. As if there were an unwritten rule, a hidden script, that tells me how to be, how to behave. 

Something that I still can’t quite decipher, that I still don’t fully understand, but writing is part of that effort. So is protesting. So is naming the discomfort, even if it remains unresolved. Maybe that’s what we need: more uneasy voices. Voices that don’t have answers, but carry real questions. Because sometimes, participating is doubting. Participating is reflecting. Participating is sharing that uncertainty.

How different am I from them?

Nothing really.

References
Ahmed, Sara. The Promise of Happiness. Duke University Press, 2010.
Berlant, Lauren. Cruel Optimism. Duke University Press, 2011.
Laborde, Antonia. “Minuto a minuto: así fue el estallido social del 18 de octubre de 2019 en Chile.” El País, October 18, 2024. https://elpais.com/chile/2024-10-18/minuto-a-minuto-asi-fue-el-estallido-social-del-18-de-octubre-de-2019-en-chile.html

Written by Isabel Gallaher