Introduction

• Defining Doubt: The Beginning of Every Question
• An Invitation to Uncertainty: Why Should We Doubt?
• Personal Narrative: My First Doubts in Coffee

Part One: The Coffee System and the Crisis of Meaning

• Doubting the Concept of “Specialty Coffee”
• Doubting the Claims of Justice and Direct Trade
• A Genealogical Philosophy: Coffee, Capitalism, and the Formation of Power

Part Two: Hidden Structures and the Lost Transparency

• Why Are Systems Still Not Transparent?
• The Cycle of Discrimination: From Farm to Cup
• Sponsorship Systems, Competitions, and the Rise of New Powers

Part Three: Judgment, Value, and the Deception of Time

• Why Are Our Judgments Not Standardized?
• The Philosophy of Time in Coffee Competitions: Why 15 Minutes?
• Why Do We Rank? And Why Aren’t We Free?

Part Four: Technology, Luxury, and the Return to Essence

• Why Are We Becoming More Complex Every Day?
• Why Are We Becoming More Luxurious?
• Technology: Progress or Regression?

Part Five: Discrimination, Modern Slavery, and Forgotten Metaphors

• Why Are Race, Geography, and Color Still Embedded in Coffee?
• The Metaphor of Slavery: Why Is It Still Alive?
• The Critique of Language: Which Words Limit Us?

Part Six: The Threshold of Critique and the Death of Doubt

• Why Has Critique Become Superficial?
• Why Do Conversations Lead to Silence?
• The Philosophy of Doubt as a Tool for Change

Part Seven: Returning to the Self

• Personal Narrative: The Doubts That Changed Me
• Confession and Apology: I Am Also Part of This System
• Ending: Living in Doubt

DOUBT: The Beginning of Every Question

Every question, before it becomes a word, is a wound that forms in the mind. A wound that begins from the tiny cracks of not-knowing and gradually turns into doubt. I have been living with this wound for some time now. Not in the sense that I have found knowledge or hold an answer, but precisely because I have postponed knowing, handed it over to contemplation, and given space to uncertainty.

My doubt began where it usually doesn’t: with myself. With the position I stood in, with the certainties I had unknowingly turned into unquestioned truths. The place where coffee classes for me had become less a space for free thinking and more a fixed, exclusive ritual. And I asked: why? Why does coffee knowledge carry such a price? Why is access to it so limited? Why does it close instead of open?

I learned that every doubt, before anything else, must be directed at the questioner. The psychology of doubt tells us that the human mind has an inherent tendency to build certainties. We feel secure in certainty. But that security often builds walls that prevent us from seeing what lies beyond. Just as unnamed philosophers of past centuries have said, truth is not something within reach; truth is more like a horizon: the closer you approach, the further it recedes.

This is where I must remember what Foucault discusses in his essay “What is Critique?”: critique is not merely the search for flaws in existing systems but the challenging of the very foundational concepts we lean on. For Foucault, critique is not mere denial but becoming-other with what we know; a kind of devotion to another possibility. Genealogy, in Foucault’s sense, teaches us that no concept is self-evident, no word is rootless, and everything that today appears to us as self-sufficient truth has a history, power, and sometimes oppression behind it. From this perspective, even “specialty coffee” is a construct; a narrative shaped within power, economy, and language, and it can be transformed.

For two years, this horizon has taken the face of coffee for me. Coffee that was supposed to be the story of freedom, of direct connection, has instead become mechanisms that create exclusivity and discrimination. Classes that function not merely as education but as instruments for dividing power. Whenever knowledge turns into privilege, doubt must begin.

But doubt did not end with the classes. The question that took shape in my mind gradually expanded, entangling more threads of this hidden network: why, in the coffee community, is justice merely a linguistic concept, not a practical one? Why do financial systems and power relations still move within the same frameworks of past centuries, only with new masks? Why is coffee knowledge sold as a luxury commodity instead of being open and accessible?

Behind these questions, I reached a point where I realized the problem lies not only in external systems but within our internal systems. Cognitive psychology has shown that humans are drawn to self-confirmation—what is called “confirmation bias”: the tendency to seek information that affirms our prior beliefs. And this is precisely where specialty coffee systems are caught. Instead of openness, we insist on closure. Instead of humility, we place ourselves at the center of truth.

For me, doubt means opening doors I had never dared to open out of fear. The same fear that every society has of the loss of meaning. Any system that collapses under critique has already died from the absence of doubt. This doubt led me to question ranking systems, to rethink hidden discriminations, to examine sponsorship patterns, artificial valuations, and shallow judgments.

But this path is not the path of giving answers. Doubt, as Freud’s psychoanalysis has shown, is never shaped with the goal of finding answers; it sometimes arises simply because the mind can no longer endure the absence of questioning. If specialty coffee wants to survive, it must keep this tolerance for questioning alive. Just as an anonymous philosopher wrote: “Every society is as alive as its questions, not as its answers.”

Thus, this essay is an invitation to questioning, not a lesson in answers. And I, as part of this very system—someone who has taught, judged, written, and been judged—am the first who must stand under the blade of these questions.

Perhaps my errors are as deep as the errors of the system to which I belong. Perhaps I have forgotten these doubts more often than I wanted. But now, the only thing I can do is to raise the question and leave the answer to a future that may never come.

An Invitation to Doubt: Why Should We Doubt?

Every doubt, if it arises from the right place, is not meant to destroy but to awaken. For me, doubt has not been a sudden event but a daily habit. Every morning when I wake up, I ask myself: Why am I doing what I’m doing? There’s a voice that constantly whispers in my mind: What if all of this is merely an effort to be seen? What if I am standing right at the heart of the very system I claim to critique? What if the truth I’m chasing is just another mask?

But even these questions cannot be asked without close attention to language. What does “the right thing” mean? What does “positive” mean? What is “a good outcome”? We use words in our daily speech and actions that we assume are self-evident, but their genealogies, their meanings, their psychological and social weights are often hidden from us. Words, as Wittgenstein once said, are like tools that sometimes pre-shape our thinking. When I say “positive,” do I mean success? Or change? Or acceptance? And what is success anyway? For whom? In what context?

These doubts must extend everywhere—not only to the coffee system but also to our own language, to our inner motivations. Psychology shows us that many of our behaviors, including professional choices, may stem from hidden needs for approval, attention, or security. Doubt towards oneself means seeing these unseen layers.

Foucault, elsewhere, writes that critique means “saying no differently”—not rejecting or destroying but “seeking another way of being.” This is precisely what genealogy teaches us: no word, no concept, no system is natural or self-evident. Everything is constructed—everything has a history.

When we speak of “specialty coffee,” what are we really talking about? Quality? Justice? Culture? Or merely another marketplace within the heart of capitalist markets? And when we talk about “positive change,” who is that change for? Who benefits? And who is left behind?

For this reason, my invitation is not to simple doubt, but to pervasive doubt. Doubt that allows us even to dismantle our own words and rebuild them. Just as in psychoanalysis, the exploration of a word’s roots can lead to the exploration of the unconscious, here too, the analysis of language is the analysis of the system. The analysis of coffee. The analysis of ourselves.

Personal Narrative: My First Doubts in Coffee

For me, doubt began in a place I least expected it—right from where I thought I had found a “safe haven”: the heart of coffee itself. In the beginning, coffee was not just a taste—it was a language for dialogue, a tool for constructing meaning. But what initially felt meaningful gradually turned into a reflection of repetition. Every word, every behavior, every claim became like worn-out links in an old chain, endlessly reproduced—and this is where doubt slowly crept in.

The first cracks appeared in my view of the coffee classes. I asked: Why must coffee knowledge be so exclusive? Why has education—something meant to liberate—turned into a limited, costly, and often hollow marketplace? Why has so much of the content in these classes remained unchanged for years? Why, instead of creating spaces for thinking, have they become mere spaces for collecting certificates? Why has the concept of “teacher” in coffee become so inflated that instead of opening doors, it closes them?

Then the doubt seeped into competitions. A space where I once believed justice and skill should come first. But the deeper I went, the more I saw competitions becoming arenas for consolidating power. Why are evaluation systems still ambiguous? Why are judging criteria not standardized? Why do time constraints, which should serve as neutral measures, turn into tools of injustice? Why is it that in those brief minutes, the outcome of years of effort is reduced to a “judge’s experience” and “momentary pressure”? And why has a system that was supposed to foster creativity become one that increasingly resembles tired, repetitive models?

From classes and competitions, the doubt moved to the farms. The place where specialty coffee was supposedly meant to be the savior of justice. Yet in practice, the farmer still holds the smallest share. Prices, middlemen, big market games—nothing has truly changed; only the words have. I asked: Why is justice still marginalized—not in language, but in reality? Why do we, who claim to seek justice in the cup, remain so distant from justice in the chain?

And then the doubts turned inward. Am I too an actor in this scene? Are the lessons I teach, the competitions I enter, the words I write—all, unknowingly, part of the same unexamined cycle? Every time I look at a cup, do I truly “see” it—or am I merely repeating what is expected to be said?

Analyzing these doubts became crucial for me when I realized the problem wasn’t only external. Cognitive psychology teaches us that the human mind naturally gravitates towards stabilizing beliefs and rejecting uncertainty. We fear doubt because doubt means restlessness, conceptual homelessness. But any truth, if it is truly a truth, must survive the passage through doubt.

Philosophy, in parallel, taught me that the words I use carelessly—like “education,” “competition,” “justice”—are never neutral. These words carry historical weight, class implications, and the burden of power. As Foucault shows, words shape us before we shape them. So if I want to change, I must change my language. I must ask: When I say “success,” what do I really mean? When I say “progress,” “development,” “innovation”—what exactly am I referring to?

These doubts taught me that the issue is not merely external. This is something modern psychology—especially in the work of thinkers like Carl Rogers and Albert Ellis—has explored: every genuine doubt begins with self-reflection, with questioning the assumptions we have accepted as fixed data. Thus, I cannot speak of change in the coffee community without seeing myself as part of that change. And even that statement, too, must always sit within the parentheses of doubt.

Part One

The Coffee System and the Crisis of Meaning

Every system, even one seemingly “small” and unassuming like specialty coffee, carries within itself a mass of meanings—meanings that shape, guide, and over time, can wear thin, become lost, or even turn into their opposites. Specialty coffee was once born with the hope of creating a distinct and fairer space; a space where quality, justice, and humanity would replace quantity, exploitation, and inequality. But no concept in the world is immune to questioning. And no meaning, not even the noblest, is free from the need for rethinking.

To doubt the specialty coffee system is not an attack on any particular group, nor is it a dismissal of its achievements. It is, rather, an invitation to pause, to look, to ask again: Does what we say still align with what we do? Do our words still carry their meanings? Or—without realizing it—have we fallen into a cycle that has hollowed out these meanings?

Why is it that when someone once said coffee is not bitter, they were attacked? And when someone else said coffee is bitter, they too were attacked? So where, then, did thinking find its place within coffee?

The crisis of meaning occurs, at a deeper level, the very moment when words and actions become disconnected. When “justice” is uttered only in speech without being realized in practice. When “specialty” ceases to open doors and instead builds taller and more expensive walls. When “direct trade” turns into a mere marketing slogan where power still remains in the hands of the same small groups.

Philosophical genealogy reminds us that no concept is self-evident. No word is without roots. As Foucault repeatedly showed, history, power, and language are always intertwined. When we say “specialty coffee,” this word carries not just a flavor profile or a processing method—it carries a history of colonialism, discrimination, market dynamics, justice, and ultimately—power.

Today, we stand on the threshold of what might be called a “crisis of meaning.” A crisis in which many of our words and concepts in coffee have become emptied or trapped in repetitions that lead nowhere. Specialty coffee, which once sought to rethink the value chain, has at times itself become the reproduction of the very old cycles it intended to disrupt.

Yet doubting these concepts is not only not a flaw—it may be the only way they can remain alive. Just as a house collapses if it is not maintained and renewed, so too a meaning-system collapses if it is not critiqued. My invitation is an invitation to doubt: to rethink our words, our relationships, our power dynamics, and ourselves.

This essay is not written to attack or to judge. It is written to ask. And from here, I wish to move forward into three key concepts most deserving of doubt: the shape of the idea of specialty coffee itself, the claim of justice and direct trade, and the genealogical philosophy that frames all these within history and power.

Part One

Doubting the Concept of “Specialty Coffee”

Every word, before it describes something, constructs something. Words are not just labels; they are realities shaped in minds, behaviors, and social relationships. The concept of “specialty coffee” is no exception. I have thought about this word for a long time. When we say “specialty” or “specialty coffee,” are we—perhaps unknowingly—building walls between ourselves and others? Is this word, instead of opening space, becoming a boundary? And have we, over time, become trapped in a language that originally intended something quite different?

Perhaps no one, when first using the term “specialty coffee,” intended exclusion or elitism. But words, as philosophers of language have taught us, are living entities. They grow, evolve, and sometimes become something quite different from what they originally were. And language, before we master it, masters us.

Language is more than a vehicle for conveying meaning—it is a tool for shaping meaning. This idea appears throughout the works of Wittgenstein, Austin, and Derrida—though I prefer to let their ghosts linger without over-naming them, even if occasionally I must mention them for the sake of intellectual honesty. Names, too, generate power. Wittgenstein once wrote: “The meaning of a word is in its use.” In other words, words have no intrinsic meaning in isolation; they emerge within social, historical, and psychological contexts and they shift over time.

When we say “specialty,” we think we are referring to quality. But in the mind of the listener, this word conjures images and boundaries: something for the “insiders,” something for the “chosen few,” something “more-than-ordinary.” And precisely at that moment, the word drifts from its original meaning and becomes a tool for distinction. Words, silently yet ruthlessly, build walls where none existed before. As philosophers of language remind us, language not only describes the world—it creates it.

In the realm of social psychology, we find the same patterns. Language shapes identity; words shape behavior. When a term like “specialty coffee” is spoken, it unconsciously evokes chains of emotions and values: good coffee vs. bad coffee, insiders vs. outsiders, belonging vs. exclusion. These distinctions, even if unintended, operate beneath the surface. As behavioral psychology has shown, linguistic cues can predict and shape behavior—often before we are even aware of them.

Today, specialty coffee has in many parts of the world become something luxurious—a product whose production, access, costs, and even the language around it create deep divides—not only economic divides but divides of meaning. Many farmers, those at the very start of the chain, may not even know what price their coffee reaches in this system or how it is valued. Distance, in the truest sense of the word, has become a chasm.

This is where we must turn to conceptual analysis. What does “specialty” actually mean? In social psychology, words don’t merely transfer information; they generate emotions, identities, and behavioral patterns. The word “specialty” may create a sense of belonging for some and exclusion for others. This is precisely what sociolinguists describe as “the power of words to shape social reality.” With words, we don’t just describe—we create.

So my question is: Should coffee be “specialty”? Or should it be “distinct”? “Advanced”? “Different”? Perhaps the word “specialty” unintentionally carries meanings we no longer desire. Meanings that generate restriction instead of freedom. That build distance instead of connection.

The philosophy of language tells us that value-laden words carry hidden semantic weights that shape our minds. When we call something “specialty,” the mind instinctively categorizes: this is for some people, not for everyone. This is for those who must have “specialty.” Even if our intention wasn’t exclusion, language silently does the excluding. Just as racial, gendered, or classist words can carry layers of discrimination even when their users remain unaware.

We must ask ourselves: Was our aim in specialty coffee to keep coffee reserved for a select few? Or was it to spread quality and awareness? If it is the latter, perhaps we need to reconsider our words. Perhaps we need to think about what to replace “specialty” with—something that preserves the dignity of quality but dismantles invisible walls.

Within this doubt, there is no attack. There is only a question raised to preserve meaning. Because every meaning, if not passed through doubt, will sooner or later erode. And what we call specialty coffee today may one day become something no one wishes to belong to. Words have destinies. And doubt is the only way to keep them alive.

Doubting the Claim of Justice and Direct Trade

We live in a world where words, often more than actions, shape reality. “Justice,” “Direct Trade,” “Equality”—these are not mere words; they are horizons that cast their shadows over behaviors, economies, and values. But every word, once connected to systems of power, becomes something that must itself be doubted.

I have felt this tension between claims and reality many times in my professional life. When I receive a fee for teaching a barista class that is sometimes three times the monthly wage of a working barista, I ask myself: Is this justice? Do I truly deserve a larger share of this system? Or is the system designed in such a way that my share merely appears larger? I know that in many cases, this inequality was not created by me; I work within structures where these gaps are embedded. But does the fact that I am not the direct agent of this injustice absolve me of the responsibility to see it?

Direct trade, one of the central slogans of specialty coffee, is precisely where questioning must occur. If direct trade is truly happening, then why are farmers still the weakest and least rewarded actors in the value chain? Why are their names still lost on so many packaging labels, or at best, used as mere tools for marketing aesthetics? Why do middlemen, even in new structures, still hold decisive power? This is precisely the point where we must read the system through the lenses of power philosophy and political economy.

Despite these doubts, it must not be forgotten that the path of specialty coffee, despite its flaws, has seen moments of equality and genuine efforts toward justice. There have been small but meaningful examples—from producers whose names appeared on coffee bags for the first time to grassroots movements aimed at removing unnecessary intermediaries. In some corners of the chain, we have seen human relationships valued beyond mere business contracts. Though rare and insufficient, these signs show that specialty coffee can still be a ground for rethinking and change.

However, what increasingly stands out today is the transformation of many concepts and words into mere marketing slogans. Acidity, Single Origin, Anaerobic Fermentation, Infused Coffees—these were once markers of quality and distinction. But today, in many contexts, they have become labels whose purpose is not awareness but the construction of market value. More precisely: meanings have been emptied, leaving behind beautiful but hollow sounds and images.

As critical linguistics shows, words produce power. When words like “specialty,” “anaerobic,” or “acidity” enter public consumption without renewed reflection or education, they become tools of distinction and luxury. We are witnessing how this very process is turning coffee into a product increasingly inaccessible to many. While taste, experience, and awareness could be simpler, more human, and more accessible, words and complex processes have instead built artificial and often unnecessary walls.

At the same time, social psychology teaches us that humans have a need for belonging. Many of these trends—even the luxurious and exclusionary ones—feed on this need for identity and inclusion. But if this process is not critically revised, if the path of rethinking and critique remains closed, these very tools of belonging will turn into instruments of exclusion. Coffee, a product intertwined for centuries with people, land, and life, slowly risks becoming a market commodity reserved for minorities.

Here, we can still lean on the positive points: the moments where producers and consumers have met face-to-face; the brands and projects that have pursued real pathways to narrow the gaps rather than relying on slogans; the educational efforts that have shared knowledge instead of hoarding it; and perhaps above all, the minds still willing to ask questions. Perhaps salvation lies not in finding a definitive answer but in keeping the path of doubt open.

We can draw on the thoughts of various philosophers and social thinkers here without falling into ideological traps. Marx, though not entirely replicable today, raised a fundamental question: Who creates value, and who benefits from it? This question, independent of political systems, helps us see how value is created in the coffee chain—and how sometimes that value is built at the expense of forgetting those who originally produced it.

We might think of Adam Smith, who first spoke of the “invisible hand” of the market. Yet what we see in today’s coffee market looks more like an “invisible hand of power” than of market freedom. Derrida reminds us that words never have fixed meanings; any word can carry a completely different meaning in another context. Perhaps “justice” too, within this market, has lost its meaning.

And amid all this, Hannah Arendt’s warning about “totalitarianism” reminds us that domination sometimes appears not through overt violence but through the unification of meanings and the suppression of alternative thinking. When everything in the specialty coffee system flows through only one pathway—the official, the marketing-driven, the pre-defined standards—have we not arrived at a form of soft totalitarianism?

Justice, in essence, means opening equal pathways for participation. But today, in education, in commerce, in brand structures, this equality is often an illusion. And we—whether knowingly or unknowingly—have participated in this illusion.

These doubts, however, should not lead to a complete rejection of all progress. The reality is that valuable efforts have also emerged along this path. Some direct trade projects, small brands, and grassroots movements have tried to change the course. Local cooperatives, micro-lots, independent farmer movements—these are examples of resistance against systemic pressures. Yet these efforts alone are not enough.

What I propose is not an immediate solution but a continuation of questioning. We must keep asking—about our words, our systems, our power relationships. Is what we call justice truly justice? Or is it just another mask worn by the same old inequalities?

Genealogical Philosophy: Coffee, Capitalism, and the Formation of Power

No system can be understood apart from the structures of power that enable it. Specialty coffee, despite its presentation as a more ethical, human-centered, and justice-driven movement, is fundamentally built upon the same capitalist foundations it often claims to transcend. What drew me to doubt was precisely this question: Is what we call specialty coffee truly different, or is it simply a reproduction of the same system it seeks to critique?

I do not wish to steer this discussion into classic Marxist critiques or rigid ideological frameworks. The issue is not the wholesale rejection of capitalism but a reconsideration of how deeply its logic is embedded within what we now call specialty coffee. A simple but fundamental question: If justice, direct trade, and human relationships are the ideals of specialty coffee, why can this system not survive without the backing of large financial powers? Why does it stall without economic force?

Another question follows: How have these economic powers—those same brands, institutions, and specialty coffee associations—come to sit at the seat of authority? Is this not the same structure of power that Hannah Arendt describes? Arendt teaches us that totalitarianism does not only emerge through overt political violence but also through the mundane machinery of daily systems. A regime where everything must pass through specific channels and alternative narratives are silenced. Even systems of judgment, valuation, and dominant language are determined by centralized power.

Looking at specialty coffee systems—be it the Specialty Coffee Association (SCA) or regional bodies—we see that power is not distributed along the chain but increasingly concentrated. For a farmer to enter this system, they must bear enormous costs: certifications, memberships, standards, scoring. The very farmer who starts the coffee journey becomes the smallest and least powerful participant.

In Arendt’s view, power is not merely coercion; it is what operates when structures and institutions shape behavior silently. Totalitarianism, she warns, arises where thinking itself is no longer possible, where only one path of legitimacy exists. Applied to specialty coffee, one must ask: Are we approaching a uniformity where only one worldview, one value system, and one legitimacy prevails?

Systems like CQI, SCA, SCAA were founded with positive intentions: to bring order, standardization, and transparency. But as sociologists of power have shown, whenever systems of standards take root in the market, those standards inevitably become instruments of control. The endless updates from these institutions—whether grading, competitions, or flavor definitions—appear scientific but in practice construct new structures of domination. Only those with access to these updates, trainings, and financial resources can remain in the game. The rest are gradually excluded.

This is what Foucault calls the “formation of power”: power that operates through knowledge relations and presents itself as neutral and natural. Every time CQI or SCA defines a new method or standard, the circle of legitimacy tightens. Every time “Specialty” is redefined, another wall is built—soft, invisible walls embedded in language and knowledge.

Critical sociology reminds us that value systems always reflect power relations. Even something seemingly neutral like the coffee scoring system (85 or 90 points) creates hierarchies upon which markets, prices, and the livelihoods of thousands of farmers depend. These are not just numbers—they are instruments of power. Instruments deciding which coffee is “valuable” and which is condemned to “commercial” status. Justice, even in language and numbers, is systematically erased.

Even voluntary efforts, charitable projects, and grassroots movements often struggle without alignment with these central powers. It seems a system has been built where only those either connected to or compliant with these centers of power can survive and grow. This is Foucault’s “productive power”: not overt repression, but shaping who speaks, who is visible, who remains in the margins.

Governments can largely be set aside. In many producing countries, weak political structures mean that meaningful change does not originate from state institutions. But within the economic system of specialty coffee—where human relationships were meant to replace capital—it is still the old rules that prevail: concentration of power, monopolization, and the reproduction of inequality.

Here doubt becomes meaningful. A simple yet profoundly unsettling question: Whom does this system serve? Who is it built for? Who is excluded? Who is invisible? Can this structure change without collapsing? Who writes the updates? Who benefits from change? Who is never seen? As Arendt warns, indifference and silence are the breeding grounds for absolute power—power that, even when soft and invisible, can bury justice.

I have no solution. And honestly, I do not wish to offer one. Because doubt, in itself, is valuable. In itself, it illuminates. Every time we fall silent, every time we accept without questioning, we become part of the very system we once sought to change.

Part Two

Hidden Structures and the Lost Transparency

Our world—especially in social and economic spheres—has always been caught between two opposing forces: those striving to create transparency and accessibility, and those constructing hidden structures, exclusive systems, and layers of complexity. Wherever power arises, inevitably some form of concealment is born within it—this is intrinsic to the very nature of power.

Structures, as classical sociologists like Emile Durkheim and later thinkers like Anthony Giddens have shown, always carry hidden layers. These structures do not necessarily stem from conspiracy or ill-intent; often, they form gradually and silently. Yet these invisible frameworks decide who is seen and who is ignored, whose voice is amplified and whose is silenced.

In the world of specialty coffee, we were initially promised transparency in supply chains, justice in trade, and honesty in communication with consumers. But gradually, we see that the very concepts that were meant to carry transparency have themselves become opaque and controlling structures. Words like “Single Origin,” “Direct Trade,” and “Traceability,” once clear markers of transparency, now often carry only the husk of their original meaning. Behind these words lie complex networks of decision-making, value-setting, and economic interests that remain hidden from view.

The philosophy of transparency—especially in ethical and political thought—defines transparency not just as visibility but as accountability and the possibility of questioning. True transparency is not merely about making information available; it is about creating open structures where entry, critique, and change are possible. In specialty coffee, with each step forward, instead of expanding openness, we seem to accumulate layers of jargon, discourse, and evaluation systems that, in many places, effectively erase the initial promise of transparency.

Wherever words and structures move away from simplicity and direct presence toward unnecessary complexity and accumulation of irrelevant data, transparency is replaced by something else: control, exclusivity, power. This is precisely what Hannah Arendt referred to as the danger of “faceless power”: a situation where it becomes impossible to know who makes decisions, who holds responsibility, and who is accountable.

In coffee, this facelessness is visible in the abundance of standards, ranking systems, certifications, and technical language that multiply daily. Yet it could—and still can—be simpler, clearer, more human. Implementing transparency in this industry is not inherently difficult; rather, it is about returning to that original principle: seeing people, hearing voices, respecting those who have remained unheard.

And this is exactly where my doubt arises: With all these tools, with all these words, have we truly become more transparent? Or have we built a system that merely resembles transparency while, in practice, erecting ever more invisible walls?

Why Are Systems Still Not Transparent?

In a world where technology shifts the boundaries of access and transparency every day, the question of opacity in specialty coffee is no small matter. In many industries, tools such as blockchain, digital tracking, and open data systems have made it possible to trace the exact journey of a product from origin to destination. So why, in an industry that claims direct trade, fairness, and transparency, are we still, in so many places, in the dark?

Every farmer, every producer, in every part of the supply chain could, with minimal infrastructure, record data on fertilizers, processing methods, harvest dates, varietals, and shipping details. This information could be shared—untainted and uncensored—with buyers, consumers, and judges alike. And yet, systematically, this has not happened. Why?

Meanwhile, in some countries, especially Brazil and Colombia, advanced technologies have entered the coffee production chain. In Brazil, thanks to stronger infrastructure, farmers in many regions use digital systems to track each stage of cultivation, harvest, and post-harvest. Some farms are equipped with moisture sensors, temperature monitors, and real-time soil analysis, making detailed information easily accessible to buyers and standards bodies. In Colombia too, controlled fermentation technology and chemical process evaluations are implemented alongside blockchain and digital tracking in select export projects.

These technologies are not only tools for quality improvement; they are tools for transparency. Any consumer along the chain could know exactly what journey the coffee in their cup has taken, who cultivated it, and what decisions shaped its final quality. These tools are neither prohibitively expensive nor exclusive to large companies; at least in their basic forms, they can be implemented across much of the world.

Yet what we observe is a kind of imbalance in progress. In many parts of the industry, there is an excessive focus on segments of the chain—on complex fermentations, on marketing narratives, on flashy packaging—while the basic infrastructure that would allow farmers access to transparent markets, fair pricing, or even visibility remains overlooked. We celebrate anaerobic fermentation, while many farmers still lack the simplest means to record data about their coffee.

This question extends not only to market mechanisms but also to the behavior of educators, storytellers, and consumers. We, whether as baristas, instructors, judges, or consumers, through the choices we make, perpetuate this imbalance. Why has anaerobic fermentation become more important than the name of the farmer? Why have apparent complexities in the cup replaced fundamental questions about fairness and transparency? Why do we always value the end product of coffee but seldom look at what happens at the start of the chain?

This is exactly what sociological theories of inequality point to: many systems, as they grow more complex, effectively remove themselves from accountability. The more intricate the system, the more obscured the point of responsibility becomes. As Zygmunt Bauman argues in his critique of consumer society: “The more luxurious consumption becomes, the deeper inequality grows.” In coffee too, we see the same picture: instead of simplifying, instead of making things fairer, instead of making coffee more accessible, we have become more complicated, more expensive, and more opaque.

Perhaps it is time to return to priorities. Not by rejecting technical progress or new aesthetics, but by preserving balance. Technology, if used without the philosophy of justice and transparency, becomes merely an instrument of deception. But if accompanied by the question “Who benefits from this?” it can be the path that brings the coffee industry back to its more human roots.

The question of “why” takes us to the heart of the power structures and political economy of coffee. In many cases, the absence of transparency is not due to a lack of tools but a lack of will. Transparency disperses power. But the current specialty coffee system, like any capital-driven system, is built on concentrating power and added value in specific nodes. Many intermediaries, brands, and even educational and judging bodies benefit—directly or indirectly—from this opacity.

Instead of yearly auctions making coffees available at the highest possible price for a select few, we could have employed simpler tools to regulate supply and demand—tools that would allow the farmer to remain an agent and decision-maker within the system. Prices, instead of being dictated by those upstream, could have been the result of open and transparent agreements in which everyone has a share. But that has not happened because in many capital-driven systems, transparency is always a threat to the status quo.

This is what political philosophy calls “hegemonic structures”—powers that hide themselves within everyday mechanisms, powers that appear invisible but are present in economic decisions, quality valuations, and even the language used. And this is exactly where thinkers like Hannah Arendt, Michel Foucault, and critical sociologists warn us: when structures become so natural that no one questions them, faceless domination begins.

The concept of “hegemony,” rooted in political philosophy, was first seriously analyzed by Antonio Gramsci, the Italian Marxist thinker. Gramsci rightly pointed out that power does not necessarily operate through force or coercion; it is reproduced through consent, acceptance, and becoming habit in minds and behaviors. Hegemony, simply put, is the moment when a value system, a structure, or even a word seems so natural and self-evident that no one questions it anymore. Exactly where domination no longer needs a visible face, nor overt violence.

In the coffee industry, this hegemony is visibly embodied in terms like “Specialty Coffee”—when this term and its surrounding systems have become so institutionalized and dominant that even questioning their validity, function, and fairness is marginalized. This system, instead of being just one taste or method, has become the only possible narrative. Other narratives—from the most traditional methods of production to indigenous and community-based consumption practices—have gone silent, disappeared, or lost legitimacy. This is the modern form of hegemony in language and economy.

The same mechanisms can be observed in many other social contexts. In Iran, for instance, the educational system is one of the clearest examples of hegemony: a system that over decades has built a specific narrative of success, social values, and ways of living, and brought them to such a level of obviousness that for many, stepping outside this system, or even doubting it, seems impossible or meaningless. Here too, power operates not through overt oppression but by shaping the horizon of what can be thought.

In modern capitalist worlds, brands and social networks are further examples of hegemony. Today, many people consume products not out of need, but because of symbolic and cultural pressures. Whenever choice exists without real alternatives, whenever narratives become singular and other voices are silenced, hegemony is at work. In such a space, we are no longer mere consumers; our most intimate behaviors and decisions are shaped within networks of power that appear invisible and natural.

The danger lies precisely where these networks of power hide behind language: behind beautiful words, behind attractive labels, behind narratives of “progress,” “quality,” or “justice.” And unless these words are periodically questioned, power is easily reproduced and alternative pathways remain forever silenced.

Perhaps the central question is this: why, in an industry supposedly built on justice and human connection, have we arrived at a point where we have more access to data than ever, yet see and hear less than ever? Why do names disappear? Why do values stay hidden? And who benefits from this darkness?

The Cycle of Discrimination: From Farm to Cup

When we examine the structure of the coffee industry from above, one of the first patterns we notice is the repeated cycle of discrimination embedded at multiple levels. This discrimination does not remain confined to the economic sphere; it extends into culture, language, human psychology, and even the narratives we construct around coffee.

The cycle of discrimination begins right at the source—the farm. Many producers, especially in countries like Ethiopia and Brazil, never have equal access to global markets. Only a small fraction of the coffee they produce—often from select regions or specific producers—has the chance to enter the export chain and become “visible” in the specialty market. Even in Ethiopia, whose name has become synonymous with specialty coffee, farm-level payments have seen little real change over the years. The price paid to small farmers has remained stagnant while the value of their coffee has soared in global markets, sometimes transforming into a luxury product. This is the first link in the cycle of discrimination: the producer remains trapped at the lowest rung of value creation.

The next link unfolds in the realm of imports and trade networks. Many countries gain or lose access to international markets not based on the actual quality of their coffee but through commercial relationships, colonial legacies, and existing market dynamics. This is why lower-grade Ethiopian coffees (like Grade 4) easily find market access, while better-quality coffees from countries like Kenya or Tanzania struggle to gain a foothold. The inequalities here are often unrelated to the intrinsic value of the coffee itself.

The third link lies with roasters and consumers—where discrimination takes on a psychological and cultural dimension. Consumers, often unconsciously, are drawn to certain origins based on market-created narratives. Words like “Ethiopia,” “Anaerobic,” or “Gesha” evoke not just flavors but a sense of identity and prestige. Meanwhile, Brazilian coffee—regardless of its actual quality and diversity—is often reduced to a stereotype of cheapness or as mere filler for blends. These perceptions are manufactured, reproduced, and normalized to the point where they escape critical scrutiny.

From a psychological standpoint, these patterns are tied to humans’ inherent need for narrative, belonging, and identity. We construct personalities for products. Ethiopian coffee becomes the emblem of authenticity and exoticism. Brazilian coffee represents affordability and lack of adventure. These classifications rarely emerge from the sensory qualities of the coffee itself but are shaped by a web of storytelling and marketing. Social psychology demonstrates that people often make decisions based on these symbols rather than on analytical reasoning.

Yet this cycle doesn’t just reside in the mind; it is enacted materially across the chain. When a coffee brand chooses to cut costs by sourcing cheaper Brazilian beans instead of investing in quality, and when consumers accept this “cheapness,” the entire discriminatory cycle is reinforced at every level.

Here, a philosophical idea may help us frame the issue: entropy. A system that, left unchecked, tends to move not toward balance and justice but toward disorder, erosion, and the reproduction of inequality. Without conscious intervention, this cycle naturally deepens disparities. As theories of social justice and moral philosophy remind us, in such situations, the simple acts of questioning and pausing are the first steps toward restoring meaning and justice.

In the coffee world, breaking this cycle requires more than surface-level changes. It demands a reevaluation of how value is assigned, whose voices are heard, and how narratives are constructed. Only through this deeper interrogation can the cycle of discrimination—from farm to cup—be challenged and ultimately transformed.

The Sponsorship System, Competitions, and the Rise of New Powers

Wherever capital and visibility enter, power inevitably takes shape. And wherever power arises, the question of justice, ethics, and meaning becomes unavoidable. In the world of specialty coffee, the formation of these new power structures is clearly visible within the realms of competitions, sponsorship, and emerging ranking systems—systems that, while seemingly progressive, often replicate the same old cycles of inequality at their core.

The sponsorship system of coffee competitions, instead of serving as a platform for genuine quality development, chain justice, and public awareness, has in many cases become a tool for consolidating new forms of power. Many brands ascend not because of ethical conduct or their role in supporting producers, but merely due to financial strength and networking capabilities. This is the moment when, instead of true “specialization,” what emerges is a new monopoly—something well-documented even in older industries.

Within these competitions, ranking systems follow the same trajectory. Only one individual, one brand, or one country can dominate, and winning signifies not merely a better cup, but market value, pricing influence, and fame. This system not only marginalizes those outside of it but also transforms into a “black market of power”—where what is truly sold is not flavor or culture, but status.

Profound ethical questions arise here: Why is the winner of a coffee competition—whose success largely rests on the invisible labor of farmers—not bound by any ethical charter? Why does the farmer’s share and voice disappear after the glitter of victory? Why do brands that blatantly uphold unjust relationships continue to hold central positions in sponsorship and power? If ethics, rather than capital, are to be at the heart, the question must be asked: “Who is accountable?”

From a political philosophy standpoint, this trend mirrors the reproduction of neoliberalism within coffee. It is a system where value is no longer tied to human or ethical quality but is instead attached to price, rarity, and brand. From a Marxist perspective, this is the moment of complete “commodification”: coffee, rather than carrying human relationships, becomes an object of exchange value—what matters is not origin, humanity, or labor but the price it commands.

Even psychologically, these cycles mirror the timeless human need for distinction and superiority. We tend to admire winners. We align ourselves with champion brands. Yet, as cultural sociologists show, these patterns are often reproduced without critical thought, driven by pre-packaged narratives. Competitions often define victories not by the truth of taste, but by the truth of power.

We can cite examples such as coffee festivals in Latin America where, for the first time, some competitions were held not based on coffee rankings but on collective participation of farmers. Or collaborative projects in Central America where part of the competition proceeds were reinvested in improving farmers’ living conditions. But these examples remain rare and often muted within the dominant systems.

My question is this: Can we redesign competitions and sponsorship systems? Can we redefine the real share of human contribution within these cycles? Or are we doomed to perpetuate the same repetitive path seen in so many other industries: the repetition of power, profit, and exclusion.

Part Three

Judgment, Value, and the Deception of Time

Time is one of humanity’s oldest concepts—but it has always been deceptive. In coffee too, time continues to play a deceptive role: in judging, in ranking, in the way we assign value. And what preoccupies my mind more than anything else is this: why, in an industry that claims expertise, justice, and progress, do judgments still rely on static, uniform, and sometimes artificial models? Why is time in competitions and evaluations still defined not as a living, dynamic process but as a fixed and unchangeable standard? This question marks the starting point of this essay.

In the world of specialty coffee, we encounter systems that appear advanced and scientific, but in their depths, they reproduce the same old power relations. Judging in competitions, especially in national and global events, is an example of these closed systems. As if with each judgment, a fixed and unchangeable truth is issued. But is this truly the case? Can a taste, shaped within thousands of variables, really be summarized in a few minutes and with a handful of words and numbers? This is the moment when time acts not merely as a measuring tool but as an instrument of power.

Competition time, judging time, limited training time—all these become tools that, at their core, are loyal not to the real value of coffee but to its performative order. The judging system, as we’ve seen many times, tends toward closure and finality rather than interpretation and openness. In many cases, judges emerge from the very system in which they once competed. They are products of the same mindset, the same narrative. And here, an important question arises: can these judgments truly be impartial? Can they recognize another dimension of taste, experience, or coffee storytelling?

These closed systems resemble what political philosophy calls “the reproduction of elites”—where the same faces, the same minds, the same voices return as judges, champions, and mentors. We face a closed loop: someone who loses today’s competition appears tomorrow as a judge; someone who attends a judging class today is presented tomorrow as an authority—and all of these pathways are repeated without real space for critique, distance, or deep reconsideration.

The question of judging is not merely a question of method; it is a question of power. Why have judging classes, instead of being tools for opening, become instruments of monopoly? Why has judging, instead of being an independent and professional role, become a means of gaining prestige, influence, and ultimately profit? Why do we still build systems in which the true values of coffee are overshadowed by short, performative displays of competition?

At its core, the question of judging is a question of justice and virtue—two concepts that have stood at the center of ethical thought from ancient philosophy to today. In ancient Greece, judging was not merely about issuing verdicts but about discovering truth amidst contradictions. In The Republic, Plato writes that justice is realized when everyone knows their place and everything stands in its proper order. But does such a condition exist in today’s coffee judging? Have judges truly understood their role? Or are we, in practice, witnessing something akin to Plato’s allegory of the cave: we see only artificial reflections of the truth and pass judgment on them?

In Stoic philosophy too, judgment was always tied to moral responsibility. The Stoics believed that what separates us from animals is our ability to judge rightly—judgment that is free from emotions, interests, and momentary impulses. Yet today, in many coffee competitions, judging has become a process often tainted by these very impulses and interests. Sometimes even a simple sentence, a glance, or a smile can change the course of a competitor. This type of intervention, however subtle, is destructive.

Modern judging systems, contrary to their claim of neutrality, carry power within them—power that is reproduced with every comment, every silence, every unspoken reaction. In Kantian moral philosophy, judgment must be based on the “universal law”—principles that apply equally to all and not on feelings or momentary outcomes. But in many coffee competitions, judges—due to personal proximity to competitors, past affiliations, or even a desire to maintain their own public image—drift away from these principles.

This situation not only tramples justice but also distorts the very experience of the competitor. We often see judges who, instead of maintaining silence, offer implicit advice—through words or facial expressions—and subtly change the mental path of the competitor. This type of intervention is, in the truest sense, a form of “psychological manipulation”; something that not only violates explicit judging rules but is ethically flawed.

The solution may lie in returning to those ancient teachings: instead of judges being merely technical assessors, they must embody a moral responsibility. Judgment, if it is to be just, must remain free from any psychological influence or intervention in the competitor’s mental process. Judging must be silence—an active silence, an ethical silence.

This is precisely the point where we must ask: why has judgment in coffee, instead of being accompanied by inquiry and openness, turned into a frozen verdict? Why is the limited time of a competition still the determinant of value—value that in other times, in other contexts, could carry a different meaning? And why do systems that were meant to open pathways, instead, tighten them day by day?

Perhaps the answer is not clear. Perhaps there shouldn’t be an answer at all. What matters here is to bring the question itself back to the center: What is judgment? What is value? What is time? And above all: Who has the right to judge?

Why Are Our Judgments Not Standardized?

The judging systems in specialty coffee, despite repeated claims of precision, impartiality, and scientific grounding, continue to suffer from a kind of stagnation and structural backwardness. We are still standing at a point where judgments are not only inconsistent but also lack transparency, accountability, and contemporaneity. A question that has occupied my mind for years is: why do these systems, despite the technical and intellectual growth in other parts of the industry, remain stuck in the same old patterns? Why do these systems not only resist change but sometimes become tools for reproducing discrimination, monopoly, and even the erasure of truth?

The first answer lies in the very structure of power within these systems. Unlike sports judging—such as in the Olympics or football—where precise systems, VAR rooms, clear rules, and real-time appeals exist, coffee judging is still based on personal taste, limited memory, and forms that have not been updated in decades. There is no independent body or system to review these judgments. Judges are selected, trained, and promoted within a closed loop. Those who judge were often once baristas or competitors, and those judged today can easily become judges tomorrow. This closed loop is what sociologists refer to as a “self-reproducing institution”: systems that merely reproduce themselves and block the entrance of fresh perspectives and new structures.

The second reason pertains to the issue of “forms” and “standards.” Many of the scoring forms and judging methods in coffee, despite vast developments in sensory science, flavor chemistry, and psychophysical analysis, are still based on frameworks from decades ago. These forms don’t change because changing them would not only question the judging system but also challenge the education system, exams, certification, and accreditation. Put simply: changing the form means challenging the entire system. As Foucault aptly demonstrated, systems of power always tend to preserve the “dominant knowledge,” even when that knowledge is no longer functional.

The third reason is the issue of slowness in updating and resistance to change. In many industries, protests, statistical data analysis, and feedback-driven changes are commonplace. But in coffee judging, obvious errors and protests—whether at the local or global level—are rarely heard and almost never lead to structural revision. At best, superficial details change, but the system remains the same. This is precisely where, as Hannah Arendt puts it, indifference becomes the greatest face of evil: the moment when errors are seen but so normalized that no one even thinks of changing them.

The fourth reason is psychological. The judging system is designed in a way that, by creating status, symbolic respect, and social identity, keeps judges loyal to the cycle. Judging is not an independent professional job but a tool for entering circles of power, prestige, and even financial benefits. This is the point where judging, instead of being a profession, becomes an identity tool. In social psychology, this moment is called “role dependency”: when individuals make decisions not based on independent values but on social status and attached benefits. From this perspective, it is unlikely that a judge would rise against the system that granted them that status.

But the question of judging is not merely a question of methods and forms; it is a question of power, of position, and of the meaning of the judge’s role. One of the less discussed points in the coffee industry is: what place should judging essentially hold? Should judging be defined as an independent and professional job—a job with its own identity, skills, and responsibilities—or should it remain as a secondary, marginal, and temporary role?

In many other fields, from professional sports to arts and culture, judging has gradually gained an independent and specialized status. Referees in football, judges in the Olympics, and adjudicators in film festivals are often not active members of the same industry they judge but act as external, independent figures with clear ethical codes. This is what Pierre Bourdieu calls “critical distancing”: the moment when a judge can judge impartially, without being tied to internal interests of the system.

But in coffee, we face systems where judges are almost always within the same system they are supposed to judge. The barista who fails today becomes a judge tomorrow. The judge who judges today stood on the competition stage yesterday. This is the closed loop known in sociology as “interwoven roles”: systems that not only limit the entrance of new voices but also eliminate true impartiality.

This essential question arises from within this closed loop: isn’t it time for judging in coffee to become an independent and professional job? Just as in some sports, referees must step away from their professional activity for years before qualifying to judge, shouldn’t such a distance be defined in coffee too? Why is judging still simultaneously a tool for prestige, income, and networking, but not a profession in the true sense of the word?

This situation not only undermines the fairness of judgment but also perpetuates the same old powers, familiar relationships, and unjust patterns. Here, the choice is clear: judging must either become an independent job, with proper training and clear ethical codes, or be explicitly defined as a side role without claims of impartiality. Any middle ground will only perpetuate the current injustices.

In the end, when all these layers come together, we face a system that resembles neither the Olympics nor professional sports judging. Rather, it resembles a closed circle where judgment, value, and time all dissolve within a soft, opaque power.

The Philosophy of Time in Coffee Competitions: Why 15 Minutes?

This writing is neither an attack nor a judgment. It is neither for condemnation nor approval. It is merely an invitation to doubt. Doubt about something so frequently repeated to us that it now seems natural and self-evident: why is “time” in coffee competitions defined so rigidly and absolutely? And why does no one ask: what does 15 minutes even mean? Who set this limit? And is it truly possible to narrate something as complex as coffee—with all its sensory, cultural, economic, and historical layers—in fifteen minutes?

A coffee that often embodies years of effort, harvesting, processing, shipping, and barista training must be judged in less than a quarter of an hour. But is time here merely a logistical tool? Or has it independently become a qualitative measure? In other words: in coffee competitions, has time itself become a judge? A faceless, invisible arbiter whose value is unclear, yet everyone obeys?

In official competitions, we encounter forms that sometimes span over thirty pages—forms with precise wording, flavor standards, parameters for presentation, and evaluation criteria. Yet these very forms, with all their details, are overshadowed by a strict time constraint; and here lies the contradiction: how can we expect someone, within 15 minutes, to present the origin, processing, brewing method, flavor philosophy, service quality, and even their physical and mental capabilities? And at the same time, expect the judge to understand, compare, analyze, and evaluate all of this in that fleeting moment?

The situation that has emerged today resembles less a specialized evaluation system and more an inverted pyramid: the higher you go, the tighter the competition, the greater the spectacle, and the less opportunity for authentic expression. This is what cultural sociologists refer to as “symbolic competition”—where what matters is not actual quality but conformity to predefined forms of winning.

This structure is not only unjust but also exclusionary in terms of access. Many baristas, even if they possess skill, creativity, and vision, can never enter this arena due to the costs of travel, accommodation, equipment, and educational resources. Meanwhile, in other models like the Cup of Excellence, judgment and competition occur on regional and national levels, in slower, more collective, and more localized settings where even producers are visible. Why can’t barista competitions adopt such a structure? Why must they always take place in a global event, with a fixed format, in an environment saturated with brands and media?

In sports, we have the Olympics—a global event held once every four years. It offers a chance to reflect change, elevate value, and create space for genuine preparation. But coffee competitions, held annually, seem increasingly superficial and crowded each year. Speed has triumphed over depth. Form has overtaken meaning. And time, instead of being a tool for organization, has become a boundary for suppression.

Perhaps it’s time to rethink: if a competition is meant to judge both human and coffee, then its time frame must also be more humane.

Why Do We Have Rankings, and Why Are We Not Free?

At first glance, rankings in coffee competitions may seem natural: there’s a competition, there’s rivalry, so there must also be ranking. But when we look deeper into this system, we see that rankings are far more than a simple result; they become tools of power, identity-shaping forces, and ultimately, mechanisms for controlling future paths.

Today in specialty coffee, rankings exist not only at the level of competitors—from first to fifth place—but within the very structure of the competitions themselves. Competitions are implicitly or explicitly ranked: global championships are deemed more prestigious, local contests less so. Some events are considered “gold standard” competitions, while others are viewed merely as “practice” or “unofficial.” Even in the minds of competitors, the type of competition they enter determines their social and professional status.

These rankings not only shape how judging is conducted but also influence choices, the professional dreams of baristas, and even educational pathways. When we know that there are seven to ten types of competitions—from brewing to latte art to the Barista Championship—each carrying a different weight in the social value hierarchy, it becomes impossible to see them as merely friendly rivalries. This structure is what sociologists call a “system of distinction”: a place where identity, value, and opportunities are unequally distributed.

The question is: why must such a ranking system exist? Why can’t all competitions be viewed on equal footing? And why, within each competition, has the ranking system gained so much power that many talented baristas—simply due to resource limitations or access—never make it to higher levels? Why are we still unable to hold competitions where judging is more open, participatory, and even conducted without rigid ranking systems?

Perhaps the next question is this: instead of making competitions so tightly focused on ranking and rivalry, wouldn’t it be better to move towards an educational and participatory system? By its very nature, competition can be a space for learning, growth, and the exchange of knowledge. Yet today, competitions have become more of a dry, result-driven arena rather than an opportunity for empowerment and education.

Looking at current systems, we see numerous classes for judging—judge training, judging practice, judge certification—but how many structured, formal classes exist to teach competitors the rules of the game? How much has been done to promote open and accurate interpretation of the rules? How much support is given to competitors so they can step into competition with confidence and understanding, free from the hierarchies of power?

In many parts of the world today, there are more people applying to become judges than to compete. This phenomenon signals a crisis: judging, instead of serving as a complementary and supportive role for competition, has become an independent goal in itself. Becoming a judge brings prestige, social standing, and represents a “lower-risk” path to visibility and presence on the scene. Meanwhile, competing is costly, high-risk, and often structurally unequal.

This is the point where we need to rethink: why, instead of strengthening education and expanding deep understanding of coffee, is our focus on expanding the number of judging positions? Why don’t we yet have competitions whose goal is not just to choose a winner but to create a profound educational-cultural experience for all participants?

Ranking, in its current form, has not only limited freedom but also killed imagination and boldness. Baristas, instead of focusing on creative paths, are forced to fit into predetermined molds. This is exactly the condition described in the philosophy of freedom as “negative liberty”: the moment when a person is unable to choose their own path not because of physical constraints, but because of mental and social restrictions.

Part Four

Technology, Luxury-ization, and the Return to Essence

We live in a world where with every step forward in technology, it seems we move further away from our own essence. Every time a new tool, fresh knowledge, or modern technique is introduced, instead of serving to make processes more accessible, simpler, and more human, it often turns into a tool for creating new classes, monopolies, and luxury-ization. Specialty coffee has been no exception to this rule.

Technology, in its essence, is neutral. But what determines whether this progress benefits one group or harms another is not the tool itself but the intention, power, and structures that employ this tool. Today, when we talk about artificial intelligence, sophisticated judging software, sensory analysis, and the science of taste, a fundamental question arises: Are these tools here to help us understand coffee better? Or are they merely adding another layer to a spectacle accessible and understandable only to a privileged few?

Yuval Noah Harari, in his analyses of the future of technology and power, has repeatedly warned that technology does not necessarily lead to equality but often deepens existing divides. Every time new knowledge or a new tool emerges, if moral systems and social structures are not updated alongside it, that same tool becomes an instrument of domination, exclusion, and luxury-ization. In coffee, we see this pattern repeating: each time a new processing method or tasting analysis tool hits the market, instead of creating more simplicity, accessibility, and universality, it often transforms into a more expensive commodity, a more complex narrative, and a more exclusive experience.

And this is exactly the point where we must ask: Why are we becoming more complex every day? Why does every apparent step forward pull us further away from simplicity, from touch, from the direct and human experience of coffee? Do we really need to transform coffee into a world of data, numbers, rankings, and machine tools? Or is it time to return to our essence: to the simplicity of a single bean, a single farm, a single cup?

Luxury-ization, especially in the coffee industry, has not only removed coffee from public accessibility but has also eroded collective experience, empathy, and simplicity. What was once the drink of the people has, in some spaces, turned into a tool for distinction, display, and self-aggrandizement. Just as Harari points out: wealth and knowledge, if not placed in the service of participation, only serve to deepen divisions.

So the first question is this: Is technology supposed to lead us toward empathy and meaning? Or toward an endless race for unnecessary complexities, misleading narratives, and new monopolies? And if it is indeed time to return to the essence, how should that return take place?

Why Do We Keep Getting More Complicated?

Perhaps this is the very question that not only the coffee industry but the entire modern world needs to ask itself: Why, despite countless advancements, smart tools, artificial intelligence, massive data, and ever-expanding knowledge, do we move not toward simplicity but toward complexity, disorder, and even confusion? Why is it that every new thing, instead of serving greater accessibility and human-centeredness, turns into yet another tool for monopoly, distinction, and bewilderment?

Jorge Luis Borges, the writer who consistently imagined the world as an endless labyrinth, often returned to this idea in his works: that every step we take toward understanding and controlling the world ultimately leads us into deeper darkness. In his stories, every new understanding, every fresh discovery, instead of opening the door to clarity, led to yet another maze. It is as if the world is an infinite weave of overlapping layers, and we, in our attempts to simplify, only create more tangled knots.

Artificial intelligence is following the same path today. A tool that was supposedly created to simplify and ease life has now itself become a source of worry, crisis, and even threat. The questions of who has access to it, how it is used, and what powers are behind it have themselves added another layer of complexity.

In the specialty coffee industry, this situation is clearly visible. Coffee, which was once the simple drink of the people, has today turned into a collection of words, concepts, methods, and technologies that at times are inaccessible even to professional baristas. Every new brewing method, every new processing style, every fresh standard—rather than first asking “How can this be made understandable and accessible to all?”—finds its echo only within a small circle of elites and specialists.

In physics, the concept of “entropy” teaches us that any system, if left to itself, naturally moves toward disorder, fragmentation, and chaos. It is as though the universe inherently leans toward complexity. But when this complexity is reproduced in our minds—when we, consciously, make the pathways even more complicated—it is no longer just the law of nature; it becomes our choice. We choose to make coffee more complex instead of simpler. We choose to forget the audience and instead speak in languages even we barely understand.

So perhaps the question is this: Why, with every new definition, every innovation, every new method, is our first concern not “How can we make this simpler, more open, more human?” Why do we not first ask ourselves how this knowledge, this tool, this new language could be presented in the most accessible way to the greatest number of people? And why, instead of simplicity, instead of returning to essence, instead of inviting participation, do we move toward exclusivity and obscure, unintelligible terminology?

Borges once said, “Every time I write, a new labyrinth begins.” Perhaps it is time for us to ask: Is there a way out of this labyrinth, back to simplicity, to clarity, and to once again touching the truth?

Why Are We Becoming More Luxurious?

Human beings, by nature, have an inherent desire for beauty, progress, and distinction. From the earliest days when we crafted tools, decorated our homes, wore better clothing, to today where technology and luxury goods have become part of everyday life, this desire has always been with us. Depth psychology, especially in the works of thinkers like Carl Gustav Jung and Jacques Lacan, shows us that we are always in search of a “better image of ourselves”—an image that is often constructed through objects, commodities, and symbols.

Jung spoke of the “persona”—the social mask we wear so that others may see us the way we wish to be seen. Lacan, too, spoke of the “objet petit a”—that unattainable desire that always appears in new guises but is never fully satisfied. In today’s world, luxury is that very persona and that very object petit a; it is a tool for expressing distinction, belonging to exclusive groups, and perhaps an escape from deeper anxieties.

In the coffee industry, this natural inclination toward luxury may at first seem harmless: new tools, modern machines, innovative methods. But at some point, this desire ceases to serve the human experience or quality—it becomes an end in itself. Today, it is easy to see how the purchase of expensive brewing devices, special tables, and luxurious accessories has replaced attention to the coffee itself. People who lack genuine sensory understanding create an image of themselves as knowledgeable and experienced simply by owning exclusive equipment.

One of the clearest examples of this relentless luxury-building is found in espresso machines. Machines that were originally intended merely to push hot water through coffee under pressure have today become complex systems that often overshadow the coffee itself. Multi-boiler systems designed to optimize specific parts of the brewing process—something that, to a reasonable extent, can be useful—have now reached a point where decimal-point temperature adjustments across multiple pathways are presented as added value, as if the secret of quality lies not in the bean but in the precise digits on a digital display.

New machines come equipped with features that alter pressure in several phases: from low-pressure pre-infusion to gradual ramp-up and then controlled decrease. Yet for many coffees, such complexities are not only unnecessary but sometimes fail to improve the final result. These features, rather than serving better understanding of coffee, have become tools for showmanship, distinction, and even exclusivity.

The same trend is evident in grinders. What was once a simple device for grinding beans has now become a machine with digital controls, precise displays, infinite settings, and even automatic smart adjustments. The truth is, for many coffees, this level of precision doesn’t significantly change the taste but instead serves a symbolic and performative role. The cost of these devices often exceeds many times over the coffee being brewed, while in many cases, that very coffee could have delivered an excellent experience without such tools.

Even in manual brewing, we see this same trajectory: equipment originally designed for simplicity and accessibility is now produced in versions made with expensive materials, complex designs, and endless accessories. Tools that were once meant to simplify brewing have now become symbols of complexity, high cost, and limited access.

Throughout this journey, what has faded is the coffee itself. The sensory experience, the connection to the farm, the quality of the bean, and the story behind each coffee have been overshadowed by tools that attract more attention than the coffee they are meant to serve. We have arrived at a point where sometimes the cup itself is pushed aside, and what stands out are the prices, the brands, and the technologies of the machines.

This situation, as cultural sociology theories show, leads to the formation of “consumer classes”: where consumers focus not on real value but on signs and symbols. As we see in coffee: many are willing to pay heavy costs for a luxury espresso machine but do not truly know the taste of coffee; or in ceremonies and competitions, what captures the most attention is the packaging, appearances, and equipment—not the inner quality of what is being drunk.

And here lies the vulnerability: the luxury-ization of coffee, instead of expanding this culture, has made it more limited and exclusive. The more luxurious the face of specialty coffee has become, the more it has moved out of public reach—not just in terms of price, but in terms of meaning. Coffee, which could have been a social, cultural, even spiritual bond, has sometimes been reduced to a symbol of display.

The problem worsens when this trend unconsciously takes hold even in the minds of those considered “pioneers” and “influencers” in this industry. The belief that “the better you present, the more you win people over” carries an inherent danger: if that “better” is only surface and not depth, only tools and not meaning, then nothing of coffee’s essence remains.

Perhaps it is time to pause this endless reproduction of luxury and ask: How did coffee—this simple, communal beverage—become a tool for class display? And what are we losing when, instead of joy and meaning, we move toward ownership and spectacle?

Technology: Progress or Regression?

Progress is a concept that has always been accompanied by doubt. What we recognize today as progress may, in its hidden layers, carry a form of regression—not just at the technical level, but in meaning, ethics, and the human experience. The coffee industry in recent years has become a precise example of this very paradox.

Since the concept of “pre-infusion” was introduced—initially as a tool to improve extraction, control consistency, and enhance quality—this so-called advancement, rather than leading to simplicity and greater accessibility, has turned into a current whose consequences we are still grappling with. Today, the complex systems of pressure and time control in espresso machines have not only made training more difficult and expensive but have also resulted in thousands of kilograms of wasted coffee during the process of testing, adjusting, and “understanding” these tools. We are now destroying more coffee in pursuit of making a slightly better cup—and this, in itself, is a sign of regression within progress.

In the espresso machine industry, the path has evolved to such an extent that today, understanding how a machine works sometimes requires technical knowledge far beyond the grasp of many baristas and ordinary users. Multi-phase pressure profiles, independent boilers with decimal-level control, smart temperature regulation systems, and even remote control features have, instead of opening the way to better understanding coffee, closed the path for many. The result is that machines, instead of being tools for expressing coffee, have themselves become the subject of display.

This same picture is even clearer in roasting machines. There was a time when coffee roasting was an intuitive craft, a combination of sensory awareness, experience, and connection with the material. Today, it has often turned into a graph. Advanced roasting machines, equipped with dozens of sensors and complex software, focus attention more on “understanding the machine” rather than “understanding the coffee.” Time, energy, and vast amounts of coffee are consumed merely to configure and experiment with these devices—while that same energy could have been used to tell the story of coffee, educate consumers, and develop coffee culture.

Grinders have followed this very path. What was once merely a tool to crush beans has now transformed into machines with multiple memory settings, digital controls, and exponentially higher prices. And again, we see that the tool has overtaken the subject: coffee is pushed to the margins while the machine takes center stage.

From a philosophical perspective, this condition recalls the concept of “instrumentalization”—the moment when tools cease to serve humanity and humans instead become servants to their tools. Philosophers like Martin Heidegger warned of this very danger: that technology, if not placed in the service of meaning, itself becomes the meaning, and in this path, human beings and the human experience are forgotten.

This trend is by no means confined to the coffee industry. The history of major industries has followed this path repeatedly. The automotive industry is a classic example: once cars were built purely for transportation—practical tools designed to simplify human life. But gradually, competition, the desire for distinction, and profiteering turned cars into objects evaluated not for function, but for consumption symbols, luxury, and complexity. Where simple, sustainable, and accessible vehicles could have been built, systems emerged that not only consumed more resources but became markers of power, status, and class identity.

The same pattern was repeated in the tobacco industry. Cigarettes, once merely a momentary leisure or relaxation, after World War I and II became tools for display, attraction, and power. Packaging, branding, advertising, and cultural narratives came to dominate the actual product to such an extent that cigarettes were no longer “things” but “identities.” From the “Marlboro Man” to cinematic imagery, cigarette consumption distanced itself from the real experience and entered the realm of psychological and social games.

The World Wars, particularly the Second World War, were the starting point for many of these transformations. In an era when industry, economy, and technology served survival and resistance, after the wars ended, those very infrastructures rapidly shifted toward mass production, consumerism, and luxury-making. What had originally been born out of necessity turned into systems for creating new desires and new markets. Tools, once necessary, became markers of distinction and power.

Today, the coffee industry is walking the exact same path: every new tool, every advanced machine, every fresh technology, instead of leading to quality, simplicity, and accessibility, turns into a tool for competition, display, and exclusion. We are not only repeating the same mistakes, but we are reproducing them in new clothing, within a smaller and more soulful industry.

On an economic and environmental level, too, this trend is harmful: the resources consumed to manufacture, transport, maintain, and train people on these tools are often disproportionate to the actual improvements in taste or quality. Energy consumption, coffee waste, and the hyper-focus on tools are as much signs of progress as they are signs of deviation.

The question that must be asked is this: If specialty coffee, with all its claims of humanity, connection to origin, and respect for farmers, has arrived at the point where the tools have become more important than the coffee itself—is this not a failure? Hasn’t the time come to reverse the path of progress—not by rejecting technology, but by restoring meaning to the center?

Part Fifth

Discrimination, Modern Slavery, and Forgotten Metaphors

Coffee, from the very moment it emerged from the soil and found its way into our cups, has carried with it a constellation of metaphors, stories, and narratives. Yet somewhere along this journey, so many of these fundamental metaphors have been forgotten—overshadowed by luxury narratives, elaborate language, and performative discourses that have come to dominate this beverage. One of the most significant of these forgotten truths is what sociologists and philosophers today refer to as “modern slavery.”

Modern slavery, a concept analyzed in various forms by thinkers such as Antonio Negri and Michel Foucault, describes the moment when apparent freedom replaces overt slavery, while power relations, domination, and discrimination persist—often in ways that are even deeper and more insidious than before. In this form of slavery, chains are no longer physical. There are no whips striking bodies. Yet the gap in power, the injustice of wages, and the inability to change one’s condition remain firmly in place.

In the coffee industry, this modern slavery reveals itself not only in the level of unjust wages but also through the very language and imagery we use. We still—whether consciously or unconsciously—speak of coffees that have an “origin,” but rarely speak the names of the human beings who harvest them. We celebrate coffees by their regions, elevations, processing methods, and “stories,” yet the real story often remains untold: the story of the calloused hands of women and children who work for wages that are sometimes less than the price of a single cup—laboring for hours in heat, cold, and danger.

The metaphors we use in today’s coffee industry—from “hand-picked coffee” to “clean and transparent cups”—are all carriers of a kind of symbolic violence. Violence that, as Pierre Bourdieu noted, is embedded in language, reproduced through structures, and eventually forgotten in collective memory. When we speak of “rare,” “exclusive,” or “luxury” coffees, we are in fact reproducing the same old metaphors—metaphors that build value, scarcity, and distinction on the backs of other people’s lives, labor, and silences.

The question is: how often do we think of those who stand at the beginning of this chain? The women who in many regions bear the primary burden of harvest. The children who miss the chance of education so they can pick cherries from steep slopes. The farmers who each year face the fear of global price fluctuations, the pressures of climate change, and the tightening grip of volatile markets.

And worse still is the fact that even when we do mention these realities, we filter them through the very same redemptive metaphors: marketing campaigns, heroic storytelling, and emotional narratives that, in the end, circle back to benefit the same upper classes. This is precisely what Slavoj Žižek refers to as “symbolic violence within charity”: the moment when help itself becomes another tool of domination.

Why Do Race, Color, and Geography Still Shape Coffee?

No social system is ever free from its own history and memory. Coffee, more than merely a beverage, carries within it a history of colonialism, discrimination, power, and representation. Even if these realities are now buried under deeper layers, they still flow through the heart of the coffee industry. This reflection is not written to judge, but to see—and to rethink.

Sociologists like Edward Said, in their analysis of Orientalism, have shown how the West’s gaze upon the “Other” is reproduced through language, images, and narratives. The same mechanism can be observed today in specialty coffee. Still, when we speak of African coffees, our language is often filled with words—consciously or unconsciously—that carry images of “untamed nature,” “wild fruits,” or “mysterious flavors.” In contrast, coffees from Latin America are typically described with words like “balanced,” “classic,” or “stable.” This language is not just language; it reflects underlying dynamics of power, economy, and culture.

Even the forms of judging and valuing coffee are influenced by these patterns. Coffees from certain countries stand a better chance in the market simply because of the cultural imagery constructed around them, while coffees from other countries—despite having technically superior quality—are less visible and less heard because they lack a place in the global market’s cultural imagination.

For example, Ethiopian coffees—especially wild or heirloom varieties—have long been marketed through an image of “purity” and “authenticity.” On one level, this reproduces the same colonial gaze of the 19th century: the search for the “primordial source,” the “motherland,” the “untouched nature.” Yet many contemporary producers in these very regions are working with cutting-edge techniques and knowledge, while their product continues to be sold within the frame of these outdated narratives.

On the other hand, coffees from countries like Rwanda or Congo rarely occupy top positions in the global market—not because of lower quality, but because of the image the world has constructed around them: nations marked by crisis, damage, and marginalization. This image leads to the taste of these coffees often being overlooked, or rarely placed within the category of “specialty” coffees.

Geography in itself is not the problem. What creates harm is the persistence of images built not on real human value but on clichés, color, race, and pre-constructed narratives. This is exactly what critical sociology refers to as “symbolic discrimination”—the subtle reproduction of inequality through mental and cultural mechanisms, even in the absence of overt discrimination.

Perhaps the simple question we must ask is: how can we liberate coffee—not just in the cup, but in language, in imagery, and in minds? How can we create narratives where the place of each coffee is determined not by color, race, or geography, but by the human effort, the craft, and the true quality behind it?

The Metaphor of Slavery: Why Does It Still Live?

Slavery, as it has been imprinted on our historical memory, is an image of chains, whips, and bodies in bondage. Yet the reality is that slavery, in its more hidden forms, is still alive—not only in distant farms, but in our minds, our language, in the choices we lack, and in the choices that are made for us.

We ourselves remain enslaved when we are unable to choose freely. When the path of our lives, our tastes, even our language, has already been written for us. When larger structures, invisible but omnipresent, decide for us what is “valuable” and what is “worthless,” we are no longer free. And coffee is merely a metaphor for this condition.

In the specialty coffee industry, this modern slavery reveals itself in production, consumption, and valuation. Even today, coffees evaluated with identical scores—say, a coffee scoring 84 from Brazil and one with the same score from Ethiopia—face vastly different price tags in the global market. This discrepancy is not solely about quality. Here lies the living metaphor of slavery: a price that depends not on real labor, not on the human behind the coffee, but on narratives, cultural positioning, and images constructed by the market.

The language of coffee is steeped in these metaphors. We still speak of “pure coffee,” “wild coffee,” “authentic coffee”—words rooted in histories of colonialism and Orientalism. We still divide origins into two groups: those that are “special” and those that are “ordinary.” We remain unwilling to admit that much of this difference lies not in the soil or altitude, but in our own eyes, our own judgments, our own mental conditioning.

Slavery in coffee is not only in the fields. It is there too—in the hands of children who lose the chance for schooling, in the women whose wages never reach the poverty line—but this is just the surface layer. The deeper layer is where a consumer in a modern city, upon seeing the name of a region, unconsciously assigns greater value to that coffee without ever understanding how that value was constructed.

Sociologists speak of “soft domination”—that form of power that, without coercion or visible violence, holds people captive. The metaphor of slavery in coffee is precisely of this nature: invisible chains, mental shackles, hierarchies that appear natural but are, in fact, manufactured.

But these metaphors of slavery do not only live in the fields or in language. They flow through the seemingly neutral structures of global coffee competitions as well. Many of the world’s key coffee events—the most prestigious competitions, exhibitions, and gatherings—are still held in countries and cities where obtaining a visa is nearly impossible for a large percentage of real producers from coffee-growing nations.

We face a reality where half of those who have the technical ability, the story, and the skill to participate in these competitions cannot even physically access them. Some countries have designed visa restrictions, prohibitive travel costs, and administrative barriers in such a way that the gates of this world remain effectively closed. Here, competition becomes not just a coffee event but a reproduction of those same metaphors of power and inequality: those who are granted “entry” and those who are not.

This situation reminds us that justice in coffee cannot be limited to the farm. Justice must stretch from the very beginning to the very end of the supply chain: from the hands that pick the coffee, to the hands that serve it, to the faces that appear on global stages. When a system is built such that even basic access is impossible for a large part of the coffee community, we can no longer speak of equality, freedom, or expertise.

Perhaps it is time to return to these metaphors. To ask: why is it that coffee from one region, with the same quality, the same effort, and the same story, is valued less? Why is value distributed so unequally? And how can we revive these forgotten metaphors—not to judge, but to truly see.

A Critique of Language: Which Words Limit Us?

Language has always been more than just a tool for conveying meaning—it is a tool of power. The words we choose not only express what we wish to say but also shape the very frameworks of our thought. The specialty coffee industry is no exception to this rule. Over time, we have created—or borrowed—words that, instead of helping us deepen understanding, have become a limiting and exclusionary language.

The first term we need to return to is “Specialty Coffee” itself. A term borrowed from the systems of classification and ranking used in the world of wine, originally intended as a tool to distinguish higher quality coffees from commercial ones. But over time, this term has become not only a marketing label but also a carrier of hierarchies that trap quality within narrow and restrictive meanings. “Specialty” is a word that, rather than opening up possibilities, creates exclusivity. In its Persian translation too, it carries the same burden of power and separation. Why not use a term like “distinctive,” “refined,” or “open”?

The same story applies to other words. From “Body”—borrowed from wine terminology and often mistranslated as “Bādi” in Persian—to “Acidity,” which is frequently used incorrectly or vaguely as “Asiditeh.” These words, instead of reflecting the sensory experience of coffee, have become badges of belonging to a particular group—a group that uses its own language to maintain its boundaries.

The influence of wine culture on the language of coffee is visible everywhere. Many of the structures of flavor description, sensory concepts, and even technical vocabulary are borrowed directly from the world of wine. But coffee, as a drink with a distinct social, accessible, and historically different identity, deserves its own language. Why, instead of repeating imported words and metaphors, have we not thought about creating a new language for coffee? Why does “Winey” still exist as a tasting descriptor, when the cultural experience of coffee drinking in most societies has nothing to do with wine?

This situation is not just a linguistic issue—it is philosophical. Wittgenstein reminds us: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” When the language of coffee is limited, so too is the world of coffee.

These linguistic limitations do not remain merely at the level of words. They are invisibly reproduced in the material and social structures of the coffee world. Just as the language of coffee can guide individuals inside or outside a particular group, in the real world, many of those who truly carry the stories and labor of coffee remain excluded from global stages and decision-making spaces. Global coffee competitions, events, and international gatherings take place in countries and cities where many of the real actors in coffee—especially from producing countries—either cannot obtain visas or cannot afford the costs of attendance. Here, linguistic discrimination becomes structurally entangled. Coffee, in such a world, remains unequal not only in language but in opportunities, spaces, and power as well.

When we cling to old labels and tired words instead of opening experiential spaces, we take choice and freedom away from coffee. Coffee becomes a closed system, where flavors, feelings, and stories can only find meaning within pre-defined linguistic boundaries.

This language has real consequences in practice. Even when new judging forms are introduced in the coffee industry—forms that are supposed to improve standards or create fairer spaces—we still see that the old language is repeated without reflection or repair. Complex and obscure vocabulary continues to dominate these forms, the same metaphors and the same criteria that, instead of clarifying the sensory experience, keep it trapped within linguistic and conceptual restrictions. These new forms, instead of opening a fresh gateway, often end up as updated versions of the same old structures.

We have yet to see language in these new forms become more human, simpler, and more tangible. The same tired dualities, the same borrowed words, and the same hierarchical logic persist—as if coffee is not an experience but merely a numeric and technical process. The question remains: when will the language of coffee change—not just in daily conversations but in official documents and evaluation forms?

The new consumer, faced with a flood of technical terminology, is driven away from coffee. The sensory experience gives way to anxiety over using the correct or incorrect word. The same phenomenon that has been repeatedly observed in the world of wine is now being replicated in coffee: the construction of a language designed not for conveying meaning but for preserving social and economic hierarchies.

Perhaps it is time to begin again. To review the words. Instead of repeating the language of wine, let’s build the language of coffee—a language closer to the experience, closer to humanity, and one that creates the possibility of freedom rather than limitation. A coffee whose language is simpler is a coffee that is more human. And this is what we have forgotten.

Part Six

 

Threshold of Critique and the Death of Doubt

Every intellectual system, every society, and every industry inevitably reaches a point in its trajectory of growth and consolidation that can be called the “threshold of critique”—a moment when receptivity to criticism gradually fades, questions give way to certainties, and doubt is pushed to the margins. This is the moment of danger: the moment when growth gives way to repetition, openness turns into closure, and the path of transformation shifts into conservatism.

In philosophy, thinkers such as Jürgen Habermas and Michel Foucault have warned that every discourse, if it does not reach self-awareness and continual reflection, inevitably slides toward rigidity, control, and the death of doubt. Doubt, which is inherently alive and dynamic, is suffocated by excessive fixation, final certainties, and rigid, closed definitions.

In the world of specialty coffee, we are standing precisely at such a moment today. Not so long ago, specialty coffee emerged as a critical movement—a rebellion against low-quality coffee, against meaningless consumerism, and against the erasure of farmers’ labor. But now, that same movement, that same language, that same set of frameworks, has hardened into a structure that often cannot tolerate questioning.

Every time someone criticizes valuation systems, scoring, price disparities, competition structures, or the language of coffee, they often encounter either silence or blind defensiveness. It’s as if unwritten boundaries have emerged: these questions can be asked, and those cannot. These frameworks may be challenged, and those must remain untouched.

What has been the result of this in practice? One of the clearest examples lies in coffee competitions: we have arrived at a system in which judging forms, judging language, and even styles of presentation have become so fixed that few pause to ask, “Is this method still the best method?” Even as competitions are repeated year after year, fundamental questions about the nature of these contests, their fairness, and their potential for transformation are rarely raised—or quickly sidelined.

Another example lies in the language itself. Words like “acidity,” “body,” “washed,” “natural,” and “specialty” have become so entrenched that even imagining alternatives is met with resistance. What was once fresh, dynamic, and exhilarating has today turned into repetition—a system that reproduces itself.

This has also happened in coffee production. When new processing methods like anaerobic fermentation and honey processing were first introduced, the coffee world was open: eager for new experiences, willing to challenge habits. But today, these very methods in many places have become new standards, tied not to genuine rethinking of taste philosophy or ethics of production, but to higher prices, fancy packaging, and surface-level markers.

And this is precisely the moment we can call the “death of doubt.” When an industry—any industry—traps itself in old answers instead of staying open to new questions; when anyone who raises a question is accused of ignorance, destruction, or misunderstanding; when genuine, caring questions are met with silence or exclusion—at that moment, doubt dies. And with the death of doubt, change dies too.

That is why we must be vigilant at this threshold. Vigilant against the moment when the specialty coffee industry, which once embraced doubt, now fears it. We must reopen language, rethink rules, and above all, remain alive to doubt. Because wherever doubt dies, humanity dies.

 

Why Has Critique Become Superficial?

The modern world—especially in the era of social media—is caught in a crisis of critique: shallow, fleeting, and rootless criticism. Instead of serving as an opportunity for reflection, change, and rethinking, critique has been reduced to quick Instagram stories, ephemeral posts, and knee-jerk reactions. The coffee industry is no exception to this phenomenon.

Today, much of what we see as critique within the world of coffee amounts to little more than a few sarcastic remarks, a handful of ironic comments, or superficial comparisons made online. These critiques disappear from memory as quickly as they appear, and instead of bringing about real change, they serve mainly as tools for visibility or entertainment. There is no genuine struggle behind them. Few are willing to step outside the safety of their personal brands, take risks, and engage in structural critique. Above all, most are concerned with preserving their own business interests.

Yet this situation inflicts its deepest harm exactly where change and critique are most needed: the farms and the farmers. Every day in the coffee supply chain, we speak of “sustainability” and “justice,” but in practice, the fundamental inequalities of this system remain unseen—or worse, deliberately ignored. Value addition grows in luxury markets, but the share of farmers remains largely unchanged. Even when their crops are sold in premium packaging, accompanied by beautiful narratives and emotional storytelling, they remain in their original place, untouched by the wealth they help create. No serious critique emerges around these profound imbalances.

On the other hand, meaningful criticism has become so difficult that many simply abandon it. Anyone who dares to question pricing systems, brands, purchasing methods, or the way coffee narratives are marketed is easily labeled: either accused of “not understanding the industry” or blamed for “negativity” and “destruction.” As a result, most critiques remain on the surface—words that are quickly forgotten, leaving no trace on the structures they aim to challenge.

Coffee, like any other human experience, needs critique—critique that is rooted, critique that emerges from within the chain itself, critique that does not only focus on competitions or tools, but considers the “human” and “justice” at its core. When critique is reduced to fleeting posts, the meaning of coffee itself becomes shallow. And that is what we should truly fear: the death of coffee’s meaning in the heart of the death of critique.

 

Why Do Conversations Fall Silent?

Conversation, by its very nature, is a sign of life—a sign of openness, movement, and hope. Yet every discourse, every society, and every industry can, at some point, fall into silence—a silence not of calm, but of stagnation, suppression, and fear. The specialty coffee industry is no exception.

Time and again, we have seen those who raise questions, offer criticism, or present alternative narratives ultimately sidelined or boycotted. Instead of being heard, they are accused of “negativity” or “lack of professionalism.” When a critique is voiced and no space for response is created, the issue is not opened—it is denied. Many prefer, rather than facing paradoxes, not to confront the question at all—neither to respond nor to engage—choosing instead to remain silent. And this silence is itself a sign of crisis.

This situation is not only visible in the structures of judging, competitions, or coffee language, but it also runs through the heart of the production chain. Time and again, in coffee booths, in interviews, in events, questions about supply chain justice, unfair pricing, or structural discrimination have been raised—yet instead of fostering dialogue, instead of creating safe spaces for critique, the issues are swiftly forgotten. Many who have asked these questions have eventually changed careers or been pushed to the margins. And still, few remain willing to stand, to ask, and to stay.

One of the key reasons for this silence is the dominance of business logic over the logic of thought. Where preserving status, personal brand, income, and social position becomes more important than truth, change, and justice, conversations fall silent. Because questioning carries risk in such a world. And a society that does not encourage risk-taking gradually empties itself of inquiry.

Social psychology also shows us that humans tend to flee from confronting contradictions. When a structural critique calls the dominant paradigm into question, many unconsciously prefer to erase the issue rather than live with it. We see this in the coffee industry as well: questions that remain unfinished, discussions abandoned without resolution, and silences that fill the empty spaces.

But the fundamental question remains: Do our conversations not deserve greater visibility? Should we not create spaces where questions can be asked without fear? Is it not time to recognize that doubt, critique, and conversation are not threats but signs of life?

Conversations fall silent when the hope of being heard disappears—when language gives way to strategy, when human values are buried under the shadow of business.

And yet—as long as even one person still asks—the hope remains alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Philosophy of Doubt as a Tool for Change

Doubt, in the eyes of many, is a sign of hesitation, weakness, or incapacity. But in philosophy, doubt has always been the starting point—the beginning of knowing, the beginning of change, the beginning of stepping beyond preordained paths. From Descartes, who said: “Even if I doubt everything, I cannot doubt the very act of thinking,” to contemporary philosophers who see doubt as a tool to free the mind from invisible dominations, it has always been doubt that creates new possibilities.

For me, doubt is not merely a mental state; it is a tool. A tool for change. And this change only finds meaning when each person constructs that meaning for themselves. Success, growth, moving forward—these are concepts that must be redefined, over and over. There is no pre-written script. If today I doubt myself, my actions, the paths I’ve taken, the decisions I’ve made, this doubt arises not from fear, not from regret, but from the belief that change is still possible. A change that begins with me, not with anyone else.

Everything I have spoken about along this journey—from the language of coffee to competitions, to farms, to inequality and silences—are things I, too, have been part of. All these years, I have been inside the very same system: I have taught, I have competed, I have sold coffee, I have learned, and I have taught others. But now, with a view from the outside looking in, I understand that doubt is not only necessary—it is the only way to stay alive within this system.

Coffee, for me, is a metaphor for life itself: a seed that grows in the darkness of the soil, is transformed in the fire of roasting, and in the cup becomes a flavor that can create new meaning each time. If coffee, in its very essence, is change—then why do we, the people of this industry, fear change? Why don’t we question? Why don’t we write our own narratives?

Doubt gives us the power to define our own path. To say what success means to me, what change looks like for me, and to write my own values. We are not obliged to continue down roads built before us. We can break paths, change languages, reconstruct meanings. We can turn coffee into something beyond labels, price tags, and competitions: into a human experience.

So if I doubt, it is because I still believe change is possible. And if I invite you, I invite you to doubt—to a kind of doubt that does not frighten, does not corrode, but instead opens the way. A way to see, to listen, to live.

 

 

 

 

Part Seven:

Returning to the Self

Now that I have come this far, perhaps it is time to bring myself to the same table where I’ve invited others to sit. I, as someone who has walked many of these paths, spoken many of these words, done many of these things, cannot stand outside the circle. This conversation, without confession, without taking the place of those I have critiqued, has no meaning.

I myself, in my own way, have participated in this system countless times. The system of education, the system of competitions, the system of value-making, the system of storytelling. I have told the story of coffee in the very language I now doubt. Time and again, perhaps unknowingly, I have contributed to the injustice faced by those who were unseen, unheard. Sometimes through silence, sometimes through repeating the same words, sometimes by playing the very same game.

Perhaps in many places, I succeeded. I made money. I was seen. I went places I once couldn’t have imagined. But now, looking back, I can see that some things only become clear with time. Some moments of unfairness, some missed chances for kindness, some places where I could have acted differently.

Today, when I see others setting out on the same path—perhaps in a different way, with a different language, in a different era—I feel a responsibility to say: doubt. Not to make you stop. Not to make you give up. Not to make you hesitate. But to help you stay conscious enough that when you are rising, when you are seeing more, when you are gaining more, you remember that every step you take can either be an act of change—or an act of repetition.

I have been a victim of this system myself. A victim of the games that, at some point, you no longer know whether you are the player—or the one being played. And now I am learning to doubt. To doubt myself. My work. My choices. And this doubt, for me, is not weakness, nor regret, but the only hope for change.

Perhaps everything has been good. Perhaps many moments have been moments of pride. But being good alone is not enough. We must also learn to doubt what we call “good.”

 

 

 

A Personal Narrative: The Doubts That Changed Me

When I talk about doubt, I’m talking about something I have lived. These aren’t just philosophical ideas or pretty words. These are scars I carry with me. Paths I have walked. Mistakes I have made. And sometimes, moments when I stood still and thought: “Maybe I need to see everything from the beginning again.”

I was one of those people who worked for six months without pay just to take a class, just to get into this path. Not out of passion—out of necessity. Because the money I had spent on that class was too much. Too heavy to just walk away from. So I was forced to start teaching earlier than I should have. Maybe back then, I wasn’t a good teacher. Maybe I wasn’t even a good person. Maybe, out of desperation, I said things and did things I no longer believe in today.

The truth is, in this system, just because money is hard to earn doesn’t mean you find the right path. Very often, when you struggle to earn something, all you want is to make more money from it. That’s exactly the mistake I made. I thought because I had paid the price, I had the right to repeat it. I had the right to make money from it. My doubt began right there.

I started to question that very first class I ever taught. That moment I realized teaching is not just about transferring information. I questioned the fact that maybe many people never got a good feeling from me. That being young, inexperienced, yet carrying high expectations—threw me into a system where only one thing mattered: “Income.”

And then, when I went abroad, I saw that this idea of being “set apart” was just another illusion. People think when they cross a border, they change. But what doesn’t change is the mind. And if the mind remains trapped, geography is just a new window display.

I doubted roasting—the very thing I love, the thing I’m passionate about, the thing I’ve spent years on. I saw how even this knowledge could be monopolized. How you could lock roasting behind closed doors, how you could “not tell,” how you could “withhold.” I tried to open it up, but there were always people who preferred to keep that door shut. And these divisions, this splitting into sides, made me ask more than ever: Why can’t we just sit at the same table?

I doubted the financial systems behind coffee: the imports, the roasteries, the cafés. I saw how money, instead of people, had taken the central seat. How greed had replaced care. These were the things that changed me. Not all at once. Not easily. But slowly, bit by bit.

Now when I look back, I see that every doubt, every hesitation, was a wake-up call. A call that sometimes hurt, sometimes cost me something, but was never pointless. These doubts forced me to see. Forced me to ask. Forced me to say: “All these things I’ve spoken about, all these things I’ve doubted—I was the one who did them first.”

And maybe that’s the only thing I can offer to someone who’s about to enter this path: speak, ask, doubt. Because it’s these very doubts that, sooner or later, save us from endless repetition.

 

 

 

 

Confession and Apology: I Am Part of This System Too

No change begins without the acceptance of responsibility. No form of awareness makes sense without admitting past mistakes. And today, with all my heart, fully aware that I am still on a journey of learning and transformation, I want to say: I have been part of this system too.

I too have held classes at times when perhaps I wasn’t truly ready to teach. Maybe back then, I hadn’t yet reached the intellectual and experiential maturity to understand that being a teacher is not just about transferring information. Today I know—some of those who sat and listened to me may not have felt good, or they may have taken lessons that I no longer believe in. To them, I apologize. Because I now understand that when a word leaves a teacher’s mouth, it can either build a path for someone or destroy it.

I too have participated in competitions or stood beside them, even though I was never an organizer or an official judge. Yet today, I question the fairness and integrity of many of these structures. I too have introduced coffees without knowing their full story, or I’ve turned a blind eye to the inequalities behind prices, brands, and packaging. Back then, I thought I was on the right path—but today I see that perhaps, instead of helping, I was playing a role in reproducing the same unjust systems.

I too have, knowingly or unknowingly, because of youth, ambition, or inexperience, said things or remained silent in ways I am now ashamed of.

Especially as a teacher, I know there were many moments when I acted immaturely. Times when I didn’t give enough attention to my students—to their voices, to their personal needs and concerns. Sometimes I got caught up in too many classes, sometimes in the wrong chase for speed. Even when I organized bigger classes and tried to keep costs low to make them accessible, I know there were still people who were treated unfairly. Some may have felt unseen or left alone in their learning journey.

Today I tell myself that teaching is not just the transmission of knowledge; teaching is care. It is creating a space for listening, for understanding, for walking alongside someone. And I confess that I haven’t always built such a space. This too is one of my failures that I need to acknowledge, to reflect on, and to grow from.

I too have, when I was struggling, when the path got hard, turned to sponsors whose only reason for being there was money—not shared values, not a belief in change. Even though I tried to keep those relationships human, often receiving services instead of money, and tried to bring sponsors together without sacrificing the system, I was still part of that system. The same system that sometimes limited my choices and unconsciously pushed me towards repetition. This confession, for me, is not an attempt to erase the past or to seek total forgiveness. It is only the first step in accepting that change is impossible without awareness and without standing face to face with oneself.

In philosophy, the “philosophy of error” holds a special place. Hegel said: “Error is the necessary condition for progress.” But error leads to progress only when it is recognized, analyzed, and not repeated. Error can save us only when it forces us to see. We are human, and the repetition of mistakes is part of our nature. But ignoring mistakes, denying them, or fleeing from responsibility leads us down the endless path of decline.

I remember a short story by Yuri Andropov, an obscure writer from Eastern Europe, about a man who worked in a factory for years, tightening a small screw every day, without knowing that the machine he was helping to build was taking human lives. When he finally learned the truth, there was no way back—except confession. A confession not to change the past, but to change the future.

I am that worker too. Maybe my part was small—but it was still a part. In the words I chose, the classes I held, the competitions I took part in, the things I said and the things I left unsaid, the brands I promoted and the silences I maintained.

And now, to anyone who—because of my words or actions—may have walked a path they did not choose, I am sorry. To those who may have felt they didn’t understand and I, instead of supporting them, kept my distance. To those who tried but were never seen. To those who were led down a road that, like me, is now full of doubt.

I remember a poem by Anna Akhmatova, the Russian poet:

“I don’t remember the first lie,

But every time I repeated it,

The rope around my neck grew tighter.”

I too have repeated those lies, those worn-out words, those tired paths. And I can feel the invisible ropes tightening around my neck even now.

Maybe today I can say out loud: I don’t want to repeat it anymore. And this means that I am still learning. I am still ready to listen. I am still open to change.

And this is not the end.

 

 

Ending and Living in Doubt

We often think that every conversation, every journey, every critique must lead to a conclusion. Must arrive at an answer. But now, having walked this path, having laid bare my words and my wounds, I have arrived at only one thing: living in doubt.

Doubt is not a place to stand still. It is not a destination. Doubt is movement. It is remaining in between. A place where no truth is absolute, no story is the only story. A place where everything can be seen again, heard again, recreated anew.

The great linguist, Ludwig Wittgenstein, once said: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” And I find myself thinking how much our world has shrunk because our language has shrunk. Because our words have stopped moving. Because the same old words, the same tired narratives, have been reproduced over and over again. When language stagnates, the mind stagnates too. And coffee—just as it travels from the depths of the soil to our world—also travels through language. And if language is closed, taste remains closed too.

Living in doubt means living among questions. It means embracing not knowing. It means making peace with the fact that perhaps there will never be a definitive answer, and there is no need for one. But this very act of questioning, this standing at the threshold of uncertainty, is what keeps us alive.

Elsewhere, Italo Calvino, in one of his letters, writes: “No story ever really ends. It is only we who stop somewhere and imagine an ending.” And I have felt this time and again in my own journey. I have often thought I had reached the endpoint—a place where perhaps I had knowledge, experience, status. But each time, doubt would slip in through the back door and whisper: “It’s not over yet. There’s still a path. There’s still a question.”

All these paths we have walked together—through words, through systems, through inequalities, through classrooms, through competitions, through farms—none of them have been linear. And none of them are meant to ever close. They are circles. They are revolutions. They are returns. Every time we think we have arrived somewhere, it is only the beginning.

In the world of coffee, just as in the world of life, if we stop questioning, if we grow content with what we think we know, if we fear change, everything turns into repetition. Into imitation. Into reproduction. And nothing alive survives in imitation.

Today, I have chosen to stay in doubt. To stand still. To see. To listen. To sometimes make mistakes. To sometimes turn back. To sometimes say: “I don’t know.” And for me, this “I don’t know” is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of honesty. Living in doubt means still believing in hope. Still believing in change. Still believing in the human being. Coffee is the same. If you plant its seed today, you don’t know what taste it will yield tomorrow. Nothing about it is absolute. Like language. Like the human.

And this, perhaps, is the only path I know. And now, as I write these words, I claim no knowledge, no closure. Only an invitation: to doubt, to question, to remain open.

Because this path has never had a beginning, nor will it ever have an end.

The Coffee Tree

July 2025