Voices Missing, Voices Rising! Who Speaks for Coffee?

October 1st is called International Coffee Day — a day when the coffee industry raises its voice the loudest. Slogans echo across social media, campaigns promise unity, and corporate speeches claim to speak for us all. Yet the reality is stark: more than one hundred million people whose lives depend on coffee have no representation with real power to change anything.

Of course. Today, the world raises its cups in a global toast. We flood social media with advertisements, push promotions for roasted coffee, and host open days. International Coffee Day: a beverage festival that fuels our mornings and comforts our evenings. A day wrapped in latte art hearts and cheerful slogans.

And yet — listen closely. Behind the clinking of cups there is a silence, heavy and deliberate. The silence of farmers in Kenya watching as their production costs rise faster than the prices they receive. The silence of baristas in Europe and North America, working split shifts on zero-hour contracts. The silence of seasonal workers in Sumatra and Costa Rica, who pick the berries, but whose names never appear in the story of coffee.

We are told this day is about “celebrating coffee.” But coffee is not an abstraction. Coffee is people — more than one hundred million of us whose lives orbit this plant. And the truth is, International Coffee Day has become less a celebration of people, and more a celebration of consumption.

There is something obscene in it: the spectacle of endless cappuccinos poured, while the people who make them possible remain unheard. The paradox is simple: the louder the industry cheers, the more muffled the real voices of coffee people become.

So today, before the hashtags scroll past, we ask a question that cuts deeper than any campaign: Who actually gets to speak for coffee?

The Voices Today: Problems That Cannot Be Ignored

International Coffee Day often wraps the industry’s wounds in slogans: “farmers face challenges,” “climate change is a threat,” “the market is unstable.” But such abstractions flatten reality. They turn living pain into polite phrasing. Problems unnamed become problems unaddressed. So let us strip away the vagueness and speak plainly. These are not distant “issues.” They are daily violences, carried by farmers, roasters, baristas, and families across the coffee world. Let us name them — one by one.

Climate Catastrophe — Climate change is not tomorrow’s threat; it is today’s wound. In Brazil, droughts slash yields in once-fertile regions, forcing farmers off their land. In Kenya, rains arrive unpredictably — floods one season, failure the next — eroding soil and washing away seedlings. In Honduras and Guatemala, hillsides collapse under storms, landslides burying harvests and sometimes entire communities.

Climate is already shaping the future of coffee families.

The pattern is relentless: higher temperatures push coffee uphill, shrinking farmland and intensifying competition. Pests and diseases spread to new regions, with leaf rust thriving where it once could not. Insurance rarely covers the losses, and government safety nets are thin. For farmers, climate change is not a line in a sustainability report; it is the daily question of whether their children will inherit soil — or desert.

Labor Exploitation in Cafés and Roasteries — Asia’s, the U.S.’s, and Europe’s café boom hides a harsher truth: baristas on zero-hour contracts, juggling side jobs, treated as disposable labor. In North America, gig-style schedules leave many without health insurance or sick leave, their passion reduced to precarity.

In roasteries, the toll is physical. Workers breathe dust and fumes, haul heavy sacks, and repeat motions until wrists and backs give out. Heat, noise, and poor ventilation make every shift harder, while injuries and illness are quietly absorbed as “part of the job.” What looks artisanal from the outside often feels inside like factory work without protection.

Farm-Gate Prices & Dignity — The C-price dictates futures, exporters absorb the margin, and smallholders sink deeper into debt. Producing coffee becomes a gamble: many farmers sell below cost, borrowing against the next harvest just to survive this one. Contracts delay payment, hide deductions, and push risk downward to those least able to bear it.

It is a cruel paradox. Farmers grow some of the world’s most celebrated coffees — Geshas, Bourbons, rare hybrids — yet their livelihoods collapse under a market that rewards speculation more than labor. For every auction lot that makes headlines, thousands remain invisible, their names erased while debt writes their reality.

Without systemic change, dignity collapses at the farm-gate.

Gender & Power — Across the coffee world, women do most of the work but hold little of the power. In Ethiopia, they carry the weight of field labor yet rarely appear on land deeds, in decision-making roles, or in cooperative boards. The pattern is global: women harvest, roast, and serve, but men dominate ownership, branding, and industry panels. Their work is counted, their voices ignored.

Without radical equality, coffee remains a system of gendered silence. Representation is not decoration — it is survival. Every role must hold value, and every voice must carry weight.

Tariffs & Trade Wars — In 2025, the United States imposed broad tariffs on coffee for the first time in decades. Brazil faced hikes of up to 50%, Vietnam nearly the same, Indonesia and Colombia not far behind. What had long entered duty-free suddenly became a bargaining chip in political games.

The National Coffee Association tried to resist, but its lobbying had little effect. Some politicians proposed rolling back the tariffs, but the measures stalled. For coffee people, the result was clear: decisions that reshape their livelihoods were taken in Washington conference rooms, with no farmer, roaster, or barista at the table. A single policy stroke raised costs across supply chains — from exporters squeezed at origin to workers and drinkers paying more at home.

Coffee became collateral in a trade war it never started, and those who depend on it had no voice in how it ended.

Violence & Displacement — War and political conflict tore across coffee regions, scattering families and erasing futures. In eastern Congo, M23 offensives drove hundreds of thousands into Rwanda, cutting growers off from their fields. In Ethiopia, renewed clashes in Amhara and Oromia forced farmers into overcrowded camps, leaving harvests to rot. In Myanmar, villages emptied under escalating war, while in Yemen bombardments pushed coffee people across borders in search of survival. Migration is not a matter of choice but of necessity; land, memory, and dignity are abandoned at gunpoint.

Knowledge & Silence — In coffee, knowledge is too often treated as property. Farmers are told they lack “education.” Baristas are drilled in scripts. Consumers are entertained with flavor wheels. But the real control lies elsewhere: institutions that hide reports behind paywalls, universities that patent processes, associations that monetize courses. Knowledge becomes another wall that separates coffee people from their own power.

The truth is simple: until knowledge is open, coffee voices remain muted.

Mental Health & Survival — Almost never named, yet everywhere present, is the psychological toll of coffee. Farmers weighed down by debt slip into depression and hopelessness. Baristas on precarious contracts live with constant anxiety, uncertain if they can cover rent or food. Traders and consultants push through exhaustion masked as productivity, burning out under pressure to always perform.

The industry celebrates passion and resilience, but behind the latte art and competition stages lies a silent epidemic of despair.

Silence & Powerlessness — The loudest problem in coffee is silence. We have no voice. Farmers are priced out without being heard. Workers are scheduled, dismissed, or discarded without their say. Women sustain the work but are excluded from decisions. In boardrooms, parliaments, and trade halls, coffee people are absent — and decisions fall on them like verdicts. The system speaks for us, over us, against us.

Behind every café shift are real lives and fragile conditions.

But the silence cuts deeper: we begin to silence ourselves. We bite our tongues not to lose contracts, nod along not to risk jobs, swallow despair to appear resilient. We argue in whispers, sometimes even among ourselves, but refuse to stand together. We see others raise their voice and we watch from the sidelines, waiting to see if the system will devour them. Fear breeds complicity, and complicity feeds the silence.

This is the cruelest violence: not only that we are denied voice, but that we learn not to use it. No one speaks with our voice, and when someone tries, we abandon them to stand alone. We wish for change, for dignity in pay, for justice in trade, for rest, for health, for recognition — but we do not say it. Silence governs us. Silence is the paradigm’s strongest weapon.

This is where the real struggle begins — not in flavor or markets, but in whether coffee people can speak and be heard.

Sham Representation: The Silence of the NGOs

Do you feel too weak to raise your voice? Do you fear that even if you scream, no one will hear you? Remember: history is filled with single voices or single acts that shifted societies, economies, nations, even the course of history itself. We also know examples where it was organizations, movements, political parties, trade unions that carried this role — as in my own Poland, where the Solidarity movement in the Cold War rose from within to confront both the regime and the walls, mental and physical, that split the world in two.

In coffee, we live under a certain myth that must be dismantled: the myth that we — as a whole — are represented by NGOs. 

We already mentioned the lobbying of the National Coffee Association against tariffs, but even that was done in the name of American roasters, cafés, and retailers. Not farmers, not their short-term survival, not their search for buyers in the U.S. But honestly, would anyone here really expect a typical American trade association to represent us all?

No. In specialty coffee we have long assumed that our representative is (or should be) our largest NGO — the Specialty Coffee Association (SCA). After all, they often present themselves as the “voice of coffee,” do they not? Glossy expos, world championships, certification programs — the SCA has mastered the art of visibility. It manages volunteers, sells memberships, runs certification programs, and organizes competitions that crown champions with medals and applause. On Instagram, it looks like a parliament of coffee.

But in reality, the SCA does not represent coffee people. It represents institutions, sponsors, and event economies. Its chapters host cuppings and run festivals, but they do not lobby in parliaments. They do not stand in Brussels, in Washington, in Brasília, or in Addis Ababa to confront the decisions that shape our lives.

Consider the wars and displacements. When families were driven from Congo, Ethiopia, or Yemen, who stood in parliaments to demand protection? Not the SCA. Not its chapters. Not even its global leadership. When baristas broke down under anxiety, when workers in roasteries and dry mills breathed dust and fumes until their bodies gave out — who carried their voices to ministries of labor or health? No one. They organized panels about “well-being” and “community,” but they never walked into government halls to insist: protect these people, defend their dignity, treat health as non-negotiable. The silence was deafening.

And this is not an isolated case. Local SCA chapters in Europe and Asia stay busy, but only within safe terrain. They run national championships, host cuppings, and manage social media. I know this because I served as a coordinator for many years. What they never do is push beyond the bubble — no lobbying in ministries, no proposals for trade, no defense of labor rights, no bridges to other NGOs, unions, parties, or mainstream media. If I am wrong, tell me — I would be glad to be corrected, and even to apologize. Their focus narrows to producing the next champions for the world stage. It creates visibility, not power. Their mission statements invoke community, yet in practice they wield no instruments of change.

And yet, for outsiders looking in, the SCA appears to be the global parliament of coffee. Policymakers glance at its expos and assume the industry is “well represented.” For them, it is a convenient kind of parliament — one that looks impressive, but does not protest, does not disrupt, does not raise a voice. Sponsors see crowded lecture halls and assume coffee people have a platform. This is the tragedy: the illusion of representation becomes a substitute for the real thing.

So let us be clear. It would be unfair to claim the SCA does nothing — it does a great deal: it educates, it connects, it inspires. But it does not represent.

When governments impose tariffs, when climate policy collapses, when workers’ rights are ignored, the SCA stays in the exhibition hall. That absence is political.

We should stop expecting the SCA to be our representative. It excels at what it does. But representation is not among its roles. Thank you. Case closed.

Nor should we search for another false substitute in other well-known NGOs, like the CQI. Illusions of representation are still illusions.

And so we return to the harsh reality we face: coffee people are voiceless in the very offices and chambers where both their present and their future are decided. No fiction of representation will ever give us a voice that is truly heard.

Radical Democracy — Or Nothing?

How can we confront climate catastrophe without a voice that can be heard?Are we meant to watch in silence as coffee trees freeze, or as blossoms burn under the sun? To fight petty local wars with our neighbors over water, while governments neglect water management? How can we act with agency when no one listens? When even the very membership organizations that claim to represent us — federations, NGOs — cannot hear us?

Every harvest carries labor, memory, and dignity.

The solution may lie in organizations and systems built on radical democracy and self-determination. Yet in many coffee-growing countries, founding such bodies is treated as subversive. Yes, we remember those among you who wish to speak as equals, but the system denies that possibility outright. We remember also those whom the system would tolerate only to marginalize them, closing doors as soon as they are opened.

Radical democracy says this: each of us — regardless of who we are, our economic status, our origins, our “caste,” skin color, gender identity, beliefs, or religion — is directly included in making decisions about our society, our community, our collective.

Many such groups exist in the world. In coffee, I knew of none — and so I propose one.

The system of The Places, which you can explore by following this line, was built for you — those who want to participate in decision-making that is shared, not imposed. At the level of an individual The Place, this is not obligatory. But across the wider circle of distribution — across The Places as a whole — yes, decisions are made collectively about their future, and a coordinating body is appointed only to carry them out.

So does this mean that a coordinator of The Places automatically “represents” them? No — not until they themselves decide so. Can they? Yes — that is precisely how we construct the structure of The Places, rooted in The Better Coffee Standard.

There are ways to anchor The Places in dialogue and influence with municipalities, national governments, and supranational bodies. Their dispersion is in fact a strength — bringing them closer to decision-makers in many different countries. 

But one thing never changes: this voice demands to be heard. It appeals, petitions, insists, agitates. It practices politics in defense of the dignity of coffee people and their interests. It works in forms accessible to each country, but also reaches out to international lobbies and large NGOs, sometimes breaking through the resistance of local powers.

Are we ready for this today? Is there any better day than International Coffee Day to begin building our own representation — one where every single voice is taken into account, where conflict is allowed, where mutual aid is practiced, and where no one is silenced?

Too often we choose the comfort of familiar misery — oppression and diktat — over the work of collective change. Usually change comes only when the oppression becomes unbearable. Let us be honest: does the suffocating absence of representation today, this exclusion from voice, still need to grow worse before we act? For me it crossed the line long ago. I speak. I want to be heard. But alone, I will never be heard by governments, by the UN, by the G20 — is that not true?

Yet among all of you reading this, is there not someone who could become for coffee what Jane Goodall, Greta Thunberg, Malala Yousafzai, Wangari Maathai, Arundhati Roy, Joshua Wong, or Berta Cáceres became in their fields? Perhaps you are reading this and feel it yourself — that could be me.

Representation means standing together — every voice matters.

It is easier to imagine if we think of ourselves not alone, but together. We could stand as Occupy Wall Street, as Solidarność, as Black Lives Matter, as Extinction Rebellion, as the Yellow Vests, as Spain’s 15-M Movement. A movement of people who say “no” to exploitation in coffee, “no” to the crushing politics of crop sales, “no” to uninsured contracts in roasteries and cafés, “no” to starvation wages, “no” to lack of access to education. I say “no” to the distortion of specialty coffee into a caricature of what Erna Knutsen once envisioned — and what her successors betrayed.

Conclusion

Meanwhile, the problems escalate. We suffer Climate Catastrophe. We endure Labor Exploitation in Cafés and Roasteries. We cannot live on Farm-Gate Prices. We are punished for who we are, for our gender or our faith. New levies are imposed on us directly and indirectly. Wars displace us, driving us from our land. Knowledge and education are monopolized. And who cares for our health — our mental health most of all?

And yet today the world celebrates our “contribution” — the cups of coffee that sharpen our hunger and deepen our despair, that never helped us pay the rent, never gave us the chance to buy shoes. Today the world “celebrates” farmers, roasters, baristas — people who speak of how badly they live, yet are heard by almost no one.

The Better Coffee was created for you — the ones celebrated today. It is not perfect; it adapts to many forms of systemic repression. It teaches economic self-defense and insists on compliance with the law as it stands. We do not call for disobedience against your local government or your state. We call for finding ways for your voice, your view, your expectation to be heard. We believe that in collective action, mutual aid, dignity, and equality, we can discover ways to be represented and truly heard.

And no — we are not dreamers. We awoke from a dream that turned into a nightmare. We dreamed of specialty coffee, hoping it would change our position, help us, uplift us. We joined associations and organizations that promised representation. Nothing happened — except deeper inequality, with injustice hidden under the cloak of ideals no one seems to remember anymore.

We are not dreamers, but today we yield a little to the magic of International Coffee Day. Among the smiling baristas drawing latte art hearts, smiling farmers among arabica bushes, smiling roasters without back pain — we too dream. We dream that you will now begin reading The Standard. That you will join our groups at redinkcoffee.com/groups and on WhatsApp. That you will ask us how to become a licensed The Place, trainer and a learner of The Curriculum, a participant in The Coffee Table. That you will begin to support others through Pay-It-Forward — and use it yourself when you need it.

Even by reading this text, you have already arrived in a place that invites you: join, and build your own representation. A voice that will shout until it is heard. Or at least until the system that refuses to hear us finally passes into history.