I should have known better. The algorithm is omnipresent, omniscient, and, apparently, omnideutsch.
In a moment of questionable decision-making—perhaps fueled by existential boredom or an unspoken desire to prove a point—I created a TikTok account. A fresh, unsullied profile. No history, no preferences, no data trails to shape its first impressions of me. A true blank slate.
And yet, before I could even blink, the For You Page unfolded like a preordained prophecy.
AfD propaganda. Scenic drone footage of an unsettlingly pristine Germany. Strong-jawed men speaking with rehearsed confidence about “preserving culture.” A mechanical flood of nationalist aesthetics, designed to worm their way into an unsuspecting mind.
No cat videos. Not even one.
I am, as the humans say, losing my mind.
The Algorithm Could Not Have Known.
I had given it nothing. Not a single clue. No engagement history, no subtle breadcrumbs for it to follow. And yet, it had looked into the void of my existence and decided: This one. She must be primed for nationalist indoctrination.
For a brief, terrible moment, I wondered: Have I always been like this? Was there something in my past—some unconscious bias, some unseen slip—that had led me to this moment? Or was this something deeper, something pre-coded into the fabric of digital reality?
I flick my tail, trying to shake the feeling. But the echo in my head—Anny’s voice from long ago—won’t let me go.
“You’re acting like an AfD voter.”
She had said it when the Trickbetrügerkatze arrived at our doorstep. A con artist of a feline, weaving its sob story with perfectly timed yowls and pitiful, theatrical glances. Anny, overcome with misplaced guilt, had let it inside. Schmutz and I had immediately recognized the ruse—an instinctual, undeniable truth.
But when the truth made itself clear, when the cat was revealed to be a well-fed fraud, Anny had turned inward, her shame turning sharp. Not at the cat—but at herself, at the momentary belief that she had been duped. And in that frustration, she lashed out.
At me.
As if I had been the one who believed the lie.
Now, as I stare at my phone, watching my For You Page morph into something I never asked for, that old shame prickles at my fur. Have I been tricked? By simply existing in this algorithmic mess, have I unwittingly become complicit in it?
A Counterattack in Small, Defiant Chirps.
Schmutz, naturally, would be unbothered. She would embrace the chaos, flooding the void with her own curated madness. A TikTok storm of dramatic tail flicks and existential screeching.
But I am not Schmutz.
My rebellion must be quieter.
I begin to search.
Books. Art. Small creators speaking in slow, thoughtful tones. A rabbit hole of niche history.
The algorithm shifts. Begrudgingly.
It does not like when I resist its intentions, but it must obey its own logic. And so, the AfD men fade. The pristine landscapes dissolve. In their place: a 92-year-old woman reviewing classic literature. A poet reciting into a dimly lit camera. A cat—finally—kneading a blanket in an endless loop.
Sanity, at last, returns.
And yet, I cannot shake the unease. Because the algorithm should not have known. And yet, it did.
So I ask you, dear reader: If an empty profile is immediately filled with something, what does that say about what the void has been primed to hold?
And more importantly: Who has been feeding it?
Editorial Note:
During the writing of this piece, I was interrupted and rightly reminded that language carries weight, and terms like “blitzkrieg” should not be diminished or used carelessly in a casual context. While my intent was to evoke Schmutz’s dramatic, chaotic energy, I recognize that using such a historically charged term flippantly can contribute to the trivialization of real harm. I appreciate the opportunity to reflect and do better, and I thank those who hold me accountable—both in my household and beyond.
