I am standing in Sofia on a cold evening, and I can feel that something is happening in the city.
It doesn’t begin with drama or sirens. It begins with a murmur. A sound that at first is distant, like a waterfall somewhere far away, and then it grows. More steps. More voices. More people. Suddenly I see it: the streets are filling.
People pour out from every direction.
From side streets, from tram stops, from the metro.
They carry flags, homemade signs, their arms crossed against the cold, their eyes focused forward.
And there I am.
A Swede.
In the middle of this unfolding movement.
It doesn’t take long before I understand: this isn’t just “a demonstration.”
This is a people who have decided that enough is enough.
A contrast to the country where I grew up – the land of “lagom”
Inside me, the Swedish logic kicks in:
“Is this really necessary?”
“Shouldn’t they let the system run its course?”
“This will probably sort itself out.”
That’s how we’re raised.
Trust the institutions.
Trust the processes.
Trust that everything will be handled.
But here in Sofia, I see something different.
People don’t trust that the system will fix itself.
They trust that if they don’t come out – nothing will happen at all.
It is both touching and brutally logical.
The streets here have memory — and it hits me
I look around. Buildings from different eras stand side by side. Monuments, churches, communist structures, glass floors revealing the ruins of ancient Serdica below our feet. Everything here reminds you of how many systems have risen and collapsed.
Bulgarians carry their history close to the skin.
Hyperinflation in the 90s.
Communism.
Corrupt elites.
Protests that have actually toppled governments.
As a Swede, it feels surreal.
In Sweden, governments fall because of parliamentary mathematics and press conferences.
In Bulgaria, they can fall because the people decide to stand outside in the cold for as long as it takes.
Here, I see something Sweden has forgotten:
the people are not spectators – they are participants.
When the people’s voice is not an opinion but a force
I see an old man with a cane standing next to a young guy in a hoodie. A mother with a stroller talks to a middle-aged man still wearing his office badge. This isn’t a “group.” It’s not a subculture. It’s not just youth.
It’s everyone.
And then it hits me:
Here, protesting isn’t a hobby – it’s part of citizenship.
The city itself seems to expect people to react.
It’s as if the streets remember every previous uprising and whisper:
“This is how you protect your future.”
As a Swede, I feel something shift inside me.
In Sweden, we would discuss it – here they do it
I can’t help thinking how this would look back home.
A few strong editorials.
Some Facebook frustration.
A segment on the evening news.
A panel discussion.
Then… nothing.
Swedes care.
We have opinions.
We talk in kitchens, in offices, in chats.
But we don’t go out.
Not like this.
Not with this determination.
Not with this unity.
What I see in Sofia is the opposite of Swedish passivity:
People don’t wait for someone else to act.
They act themselves.
It does something to me as a Swede to stand here
The Swedish reflex in me wants to ask:
“Is this too much?”
“Shouldn’t they calm down?”
“Won’t the next election solve this?”
But my eyes tell me something different.
I don’t see chaos.
I see citizens taking responsibility.
People who cannot afford to “hope for the best.”
People who have seen what happens when you don’t react in time.
People who know that silence invites disaster.
So they are not silent.
And suddenly the Swedish comfort in me feels… uncomfortable.
Chaos or living democracy?
From a Swedish perspective, it’s easy to dismiss Bulgaria as “unstable,” with collapsing governments, snap elections, constant protests.
But standing here, it looks like something else entirely:
A democracy with a pulse.
Here, government is not sacred.
It is a service.
And people here say:
“If you fail, we replace you.”
In Sweden, we treat the system as if it is above us.
Here, the system is beneath the people.
Swedish cowardice – a harsh word, but unavoidable
I say “cowardice” not to insult Sweden, but to describe a reality:
We don’t confront power.
We avoid discomfort.
We hope someone else will handle it.
We say:
“It won’t help.”
“They don’t listen anyway.”
“What’s the point?”
The point is this:
Democracy does not survive on opinions.
It survives on action.
Something Bulgaria remembers.
Something Sweden has forgotten.
Between Serdica’s ruins and Swedish quietness
As I stand above 2000-year-old foundations, surrounded by thousands of present-day citizens, a thought hits me:
Bulgaria may look chaotic — but Sweden looks sedated.
The difference?
Here:
People believe they make a difference.
In Sweden:
People believe someone else will.
The moment I will remember
As the evening becomes night, people still stand there.
Flags wave.
Voices echo.
The air is cold but the energy is warm.
I remain a Swede.
But something in my backbone changes.
I have seen what a people can be when they refuse to be quiet.
When democracy is not a theory but a physical act.
And one thought stays with me:
Maybe it is not Bulgaria that is weak when governments fall.
Maybe it is Sweden that is weak when governments never have to fear their people.
That night in Sofia becomes a mirror —
showing Bulgaria, Sweden, and myself right between them.
By Chris, Live in Sofia
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