Pessimism, the economists say, is rising in Germany. Consumer confidence: down. Political trust: down. Willingness to spend, dream, risk? Flatlined.
But this isn’t just about one survey or a cautious quarter.
It’s about a nation—and a continent—slipping into psychological recession.
According to BCG, over 60% of Europeans now expect things to get worse—not just economically, but socially, politically, existentially.
They stockpile savings. Cancel plans. Delay futures. But this is more than caution. It’s chronic anticipation of collapse.
When uncertainty becomes permanent, fear becomes rational. And fear—weaponized by media, capital, and populists—becomes the most valuable asset of all.
Because anxious people don’t riot. They downgrade their dreams.
And the question is no longer “Will growth return?” The question is: What grows in a society where belief has withered?
From Prosperity to Paralysis
For decades, Europe’s deal with its people was simple:
Work hard.
Trust institutions.
Sacrifice stability for unity. And in return? You get peace, pensions, progress.
But now, prices climb while futures shrink. Wages stagnate while war creeps closer. Governments flip like coins. And people—real people—ask quietly:
“Is this as good as it gets?”
The Real Crisis is Existential, Not Economic
BCG calls it “uncertainty.” Reuters calls it “pessimism.” But those are polite words.
What we’re really seeing is:
Collapse of optimism.
Erosion of civic faith.
Emotional austerity.
People aren’t just saving money. They’re saving themselves from hope. They’ve stopped investing in the future because no one’s shown them it still exists.
You cannot build an economy on anxiety. And you cannot sustain democracy on despair.
Who Profits from Uncertainty?
Let’s not pretend this is natural.
Uncertainty is good business—for some:
For far-right parties that weaponize fear.
For corporations that raise prices in chaos.
For media that monetizes panic by the click.
When people fear tomorrow, they become easier to control today.
And while the average German family cuts back on groceries, the system still rewards those who sell anxiety dressed as advice.
The Myth of Resilience is Wearing Thin
Europe tells itself it’s resilient. That it has weathered worse. That it will recover.
But resilience without reform is just endurance. And endurance without direction is just slow decay.
We keep asking people to adjust. To tighten. To wait. But wait for what, exactly?
In the absence of vision, you get drift. In the absence of leadership, you get longing.
What Comes After the Pause?
This moment—this pause—is dangerous.
Because people who stop expecting things stop demanding better. Stop participating. Stop showing up.
And that is how democracies die: Not with explosions. But with resignation.
A continent that forgets how to hope becomes easy prey—for authoritarians, for markets, for silence.
The Only Way Forward Is Through Meaning
This isn’t just about Germany. It’s about the soul of Europe.
It must stop asking: “How do we restore confidence in the economy?”
And start asking:
“What do we owe people who no longer believe in tomorrow?”
Because if Europe doesn’t offer more than austerity and algorithms— if it cannot paint a picture worth waking up for—
One in four of Berlin’s children lives in poverty. The district of Marzahn-Hellersdorf is a particular hotbed of social disadvantage. People who grow up here have little-to-no chance of upward social mobility. But that doesn’t stop them from fighting for their rightful places in society.
Every June, the high priests of creativity descend on Cannes to baptize consumerism in gold.
We wear the right linen. Whisper the right buzzwords. Applaud campaigns that make the world feel better —while keeping the system exactly as it is.
But maybe the question isn’t what wins. Maybe it’s why we’re still awarding anything that worships the market above all.
Capitalism Makes a Poor Muse
We’ve mistaken reach for relevance. Profit for purpose. Cleverness for conscience.
Advertising was never neutral— But now we award its best lies, its cleanest distractions, its highest-performing manipulations.
If the work doesn’t question the system— It upholds it.
And we celebrate that? We dress it in titanium?
Glass is the Only Lion That Breaks the Spell
The Glass Lion doesn’t care about ROI. It asks: Who was empowered? What inequality was challenged? Did this leave behind justice—not just impressions?
And here’s what’s radical:
The work doesn’t have to sell.
It has to liberate.
It has to leave behind proof of dignity restored.
That’s not capitalism. That’s creative resistance, its the only award that really matters in a post pandemic world full of wars, volatility, and injustice! This one should be the one you always aim for as an agency!
Everything Else Is Complicity in Couture
Let’s tell the truth:
Most Cannes Lions go to work that pleases the system. They flatter the world as it is. They use rebellion as branding—but stay loyal to power.
We give Gold to campaigns that simulate empathy without ever shifting structures, without even changing culture, without even changing the world better.
They don’t challenge capitalism. They accessorize it.
Time to Flip the Script
What if Cannes wasn’t built around categories that serve the market— but around ones that dismantle its harm?
What if we would expand the notion of Glass into every category—not as a side dish, but the main course.
Because a Lion that doesn’t protect the people?
It’s just a logo with teeth.
An Award Show or an Autopsy?
Cannes faces a choice.
It can continue to be an arena for marketing’s most exquisite distractions— or it can become a stage for work that actually moves us forward.
But that means one thing:
Decenter capitalism. Center impact. Make awards serve justice, not just sales.
Not all creativity deserves applause. Not all lions deserve gold.
Until every award is held to the standard of the Glass, we’re just clapping for the architects of decline of our future!
If your creativity feeds the system and not the people— you don’t deserve a Lion.
It began yesterday , as these things often do, with a child asking if the sky was angry. The mother did not have an answer. She only knew that she had forty seconds to decide whether the hallway or the bathtub was the safer place to die. Forty seconds between the warning siren and the firestorm. Forty seconds to hold her son and pretend that hiding was still a kind of hope.
In Tel Aviv, another child stared out a reinforced window, hearing his father curse under his breath in a language older than empires. “We had no choice,” said the man on the television. “But when do we?” whispered the father.
The Empire of Fear
The bomb did not fall on Iran. It fell on the idea that nations can outgrow their ghosts.
Israel’s strike was precise in its coordinates, imprecise in its consequences. It hit a military facility. It hit an oil artery. But it also hit memory. It hit myth. It hit the unbearable inheritance both nations refuse to bury.
Israel, birthed from the charred bones of Auschwitz, still breathes as if hunted. Iran, humiliated by coups and sanctions, still dreams of ancient glory. Both are run by men who mistake vengeance for vision.
The Language of the Liars
They call it a “surgical strike.” But surgery heals. This dismembers.
They say it was “measured.” But they never measure the burned dolls, the shattered nerves, the silence between fathers and sons.
They say it was “defensive.” But there is nothing defensive about bombing a country struggling under sanctions, drought, and dissent.
We are told to pick sides. As if history were that clean. As if trauma cannot be passed down like heirlooms. As if the child in the bunker and the child in the crater are not cousins in the same collapsing dream.
Power Forgets the Body
No headline mentioned the nurse in Isfahan who couldn’t get to the hospital because the roads were closed. No tweet counted the embryos that thawed and died in a bombed fertility clinic. No one eulogized the poet whose manuscript turned to ash with his home.
This is how war works in the 21st century. It’s clean on screens. It’s carnage off-camera.
The West applauds. The markets tremble. And somewhere in a village, a boy draws a picture of fire and calls it God.
Who Profits from Apocalypse?
The U.S. sells more weapons. The Israeli Prime Minister’s approval rating jumps. Iran’s hardliners crush dissent with a new excuse. The oil price surges. Wall Street feasts.
And the mothers? They learn to pack go-bags. They learn how to tell bedtime stories that include missile shadows. They learn that grief is not an event — it’s an atmosphere.
The Bomb Is Not the End — It Is the Beginning
This was not a war. It was a message.
“We will define what safety means.” “We will decide who is allowed to dream.” “We will burn your future to save ours.”
But what if safety cannot be built on supremacy? What if every bomb dropped on another child’s home ricochets back into our own?
The child who asked about the sky? He no longer asks. He just flinches when the wind slams the door.
That’s what the bomb destroyed. Not Iran. Not enrichment sites. Not centrifuges.
It destroyed the idea that our children might grow up unafraid.
