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Ahmed begins by questioning the wisdom of pinning all hopes on the future, using a quote from French sociologist Émile Durkheim. She engages with queer theory, particularly Lee Edelman’s argument in No Future that queer politics should reject hope and futurism. Ahmed then considers Michael Snediker’s call for a “queer optimism.” She connects this debate to the concept of “revolutionary consciousness,” drawing on Marxist theorist Georg Lukács, philosopher Karl Marx, and anticolonial thinker Frantz Fanon to examine how alienation from existing social conditions can generate political awareness. She also draws on philosopher Herbert Marcuse’s concept of “happy consciousness,” in which acceptance of existing conditions can conceal injustice and limit the desire for social change.
Ahmed next considers what optimism and pessimism mean for how people imagine the future. Drawing on philosophers Arthur Schopenhauer and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, she shows that expecting happiness can leave people vulnerable to disappointment, while expecting the worst can offer protection from it. Hope carries its own uncertainty because the future being hoped for may never arrive. This uncertainty also produces anxiety about what might be lost, revealing how hope can involve care for a future that is not guaranteed.
To explore these ideas, Ahmed turns to dystopian films, which she argues express what cultural theorist Fredric Jameson described as a necessary “anxiety about losing the future” (163). Her primary example is Children of Men (2006), set in a world where global infertility has caused societal collapse. The protagonist, Theo, is a cynical “affect alien”—a term for someone estranged from the feelings of the collective—whose despair is gradually connected to the largely unspoken loss of his child, Dylan. He is drawn into a revolutionary plot by his ex-wife Julian, who is later killed, after which Theo discovers that Kee, a young refugee, is miraculously pregnant. His task becomes getting Kee to a boat called Tomorrow to join the mysterious “Human Project,” which communicates only through a chain of whispered messages. While the narrative propels Theo from apathy to action without giving him certainty that the Human Project exists, Ahmed critiques its reliance on “reproductive futurism”—the investment of hope for the future in the figure of the child. She also notes how the film contains its revolutionary potential within a conventional narrative where the white male hero is rewarded with symbolic paternity (Kee names her baby Dylan, adding “it’s a girl’s name too” (187)) just before he dies.
Ahmed contrasts this with the film The Island (2005), another dystopia where clones are controlled by the promise of a future happiness that does not exist, showing how hope itself can become a means of social control. Ahmed identifies a literary subgenre she calls “happiness dystopias,” including Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and Ursula Le Guin’s short story “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” In these worlds, the requirement to be happy becomes a means of social control. Ahmed argues that when happiness becomes a social requirement, claiming the “right to be unhappy” can become an expression of freedom (193). Le Guin’s story starkly illustrates how the idyllic happiness of an entire society can depend on the calculated, hidden misery of a single child, forcing a confrontation with the often-unseen costs of social harmony.
Ahmed concludes by cautioning against making unhappiness a new political ideal. Feminist, queer, Black, and antiracist struggles can still involve joy, hope, love, and wonder as they create possibilities beyond established ideas of the good life. For Ahmed, the future remains open precisely because its possibilities cannot be known or prescribed in advance. She describes this openness as the future of the “perhaps,” where different ways of living and finding happiness can emerge.
In the conclusion, Ahmed synthesizes her argument about happiness as a “hopeful performative”—a word whose repetition carries the hope of bringing about the state it describes—and as a conversational “stopping point” that can halt further inquiry into the nature of desire. She offers a genealogy of happiness as a moral-philosophical concept, taking German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s genealogy of morals as a starting point. Critiquing Nietzsche, she argues that when the powerful declare themselves “we the happy ones” (207), the declaration can conceal how their happiness is bound up with fortune and social position. She shows how other philosophers, like Seneca and Adam Smith, attempted to remove the “hap” from happiness, locating happiness in virtue and conduct that appear to lie within individual control and distancing it from chance.
Ahmed challenges the philosophical binary that casts happiness as active and unhappiness as passive. Drawing on Gilles Deleuze’s reading of Baruch Spinoza, she argues that what is often framed as a “good encounter” can be a form of submission and agreement with power, while unhappiness can be an active form of disagreement. She extends this critique to the “affirmative turn” in contemporary theory—exemplified by thinkers such as Brian Massumi and Rosi Braidotti—which associates positive affects such as joy with greater capacity and possibility and can position negative feelings as reactive or as obstacles to overcome. For Ahmed, this move risks erasing the histories of injustice that bad feelings often register and respond to. An ethical response therefore requires attending to what suffering reveals without deciding in advance which feelings are productive or desirable.
Ahmed closes by loosening happiness from its status as an ethical goal and putting the “hap” back into it, emphasizing possibility, contingency, and forms of happiness that may be dismissed as “silly.” She uses the film Happy-Go-Lucky (2008) to illustrate a character who is happy with a life that does not follow socially approved “happy objects” such as marriage and children. The book concludes by describing feminist, queer, and antiracist struggles as “hap movements.” These movements work to “make happen” by opening possibilities for alternative ways of being and living. The struggle against happiness as a necessity, she contends, is ultimately a struggle for happiness as a possibility.
Ahmed develops the book’s concern with the future by examining how hope becomes attached to particular visions of what should continue and survive. Her reading of Children of Men brings this question into dialogue with queer theorist Lee Edelman’s concept of “reproductive futurism”—the idea that political hope is channeled through the figure of the child. The film’s investment in the miraculous pregnancy of the refugee Kee allows Ahmed to question how the future can become organized around reproduction even within a narrative of social crisis and political change. The film’s protagonist, Theo, is an “affect alien,” whose detachment from the collective response to infertility initially takes the form of cynicism and withdrawal rather than political consciousness. His involvement in Kee’s survival gradually draws him into action and into caring about what happens, even though he does not gain certainty that the Human Project, toward which he is travelling, actually exists. Ahmed therefore shows how investment in what happens next does not require certainty that a hoped-for future will arrive. At the same time, the film’s revolutionary possibilities remain shaped by reproductive futurism and by Theo’s eventual position as a symbolic father to Kee’s child. Ahmed’s reading therefore holds together two aspects of futurity: the possibility of acting without certainty about what the future will bring, and the risk that hope for the future can remain attached to familiar objects, particularly reproduction and the child.
Ahmed develops the concept of revolutionary consciousness by examining how becoming conscious of alienation can acquire political significance. Drawing on Marx and Fanon, she distinguishes experiencing suffering from recognizing the conditions that produce it. Consciousness of alienation involves recognizing that suffering has causes within the social world rather than simply experiencing oneself as alienated from that world. Herbert Marcuse’s concept of “happy consciousness” helps Ahmed examine the other side of this process: Acceptance of existing conditions can make the “misdeeds” of society easier to accommodate and restrict the possibility of recognizing alternatives. Ahmed does not, however, treat unhappiness or alienation as sufficient for revolutionary consciousness. Theo’s initial cynicism and despair in Children of Men are accompanied by withdrawal and apathy, showing that his alienation from the prevailing social mood does not necessarily lead to political action. His later involvement with Kee shows how someone initially withdrawn from the world can become invested in what happens and act without certainty about the future. This develops Unhappiness as Political Resistance by clarifying the conditions under which unhappiness can become politically significant: Suffering can contribute to resistance when its causes become recognizable, while unhappiness by itself does not guarantee either political consciousness or action.
Ahmed uses the term “happiness dystopias” for works that examine what happens when happiness becomes an organizing principle of social life. Works like Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and Ursula Le Guin’s “The People Who Walked Away from Omelas” allow her to examine different problems produced when happiness becomes an agreed social good. In Brave New World, happiness works through conditioning subjects to accept and desire their assigned social conditions; in “Omelas,” collective happiness depends upon the suffering of another. These different arrangements allow Ahmed to question the assumption that the presence of happiness is sufficient evidence of a good society. Le Guin’s story provides the starkest illustration of this principle, revealing that an entire city’s flourishing is predicated on the misery of a single child. This develops The Exclusionary Nature of the Good Life by showing how the happiness of a collective can depend upon the “localization” of suffering in those excluded from that happiness. Ahmed’s “freedom to be unhappy” develops from this refusal of indifference (195): It means remaining open to being affected by unhappiness and being free to deviate from established paths of happiness rather than accepting happiness as the agreed endpoint of human action.
In her conclusion, Ahmed returns to the history of happiness as an ethical concept to question how happiness came to be understood as an endpoint of human action. Her discussion of Seneca and Adam Smith shows how attempts to separate happiness from fortune or chance—to remove the “hap” from happiness—place greater emphasis on virtue and conduct understood to be within a person’s control. Ahmed reads this removal of the “hap” as an attempt to secure happiness against contingency: What happens to us, and what lies beyond our control, is excluded from the conditions through which happiness is understood. This concern also informs her critique of a theoretical hierarchy in which positive affects are associated with activity and increased capacity and negative affects with passivity or diminished capacity. Her discussion of the contemporary “affirmative turn” extends this critique by questioning whether positive feelings should be privileged in advance as sources of possibility and action. Ahmed instead resists establishing either happiness or unhappiness as inherently politically valuable. By proposing to “put the hap back into happiness” (222), Ahmed returns contingency to happiness and opens it to forms and objects that cannot be determined beforehand. Her final description of feminist, queer, and antiracist struggles as “hap movements” connects this principle to political struggle. These movements “make happen” by opening possibilities for “being in other ways” and for a world in which things can happen differently (223). The book therefore ends not by abandoning happiness but by distinguishing happiness as a necessity from happiness as a possibility: Political struggle can challenge prescribed paths of happiness while leaving open what other forms of living and happiness might become possible.



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