Do not despair

The darkness of fascism was gathering on the horizon. Politicians rose to prominence by demonizing the alien and the other, spreading fear of imaginary enemies within as they grasped for dictatorial power. Violent, cultish political movements banned books, scorned intellectuals and rejected tolerance, worshipping the leader and promising to restore lost greatness. The rule of law was under siege, and fear stalked the streets. The drums of war beat in the distance.

Some people saw the threat clearly, but many more dismissed it.

"It can't happen here," some assured themselves. "It doesn't affect my life," shrugged others. "They make some good points; they're not all bad," said far too many.

And then there were those who saw the darkness for what it was and despaired of ever glimpsing light again.

This was the world in 1940, and this is America in 2025.

Do I still dare to hope?

This column was supposed to be relatively straightforward—a highlighting of the undeniable similarities between our time and 1940. A comparison between the complacent and the complicit, those who feared and those who still dared to hope.

Simple.

As I started writing it, however, I was forced to ask myself a question—do I still dare to hope?

Putting myself in the shoes of someone from 1940, I asked the question again. The answer was yes, but it was a tainted yes. I cheated by virtue of knowing the final outcome. When their future is our past, the answer comes readily.

Freedom for me, but not for thee

Now, though, it's our future that's unknown, without any comforting assurances of how it will turn out.

And I am scared.

I'm scared for myself as a non-religious, non-binary liberal with autism, a veritable superfecta of undesirability. However, I'm painfully aware that I still occupy a comparatively privileged position, due to my skin color and my American accent. I'm scared for those who can't meet the incredibly narrow standards proclaimed as a way to make America “great” again.

America is inherently a nation of "others" that sought to cultivate a reputation as a beacon of freedom and opportunity. Unfortunately, the reality has been “freedom for me, but not for thee.” For a long time, I believed that we were genuinely trying to become what we had always claimed to be, but now I realize that was an illusion. Laws like the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Americans with Disabilities Act only exist because society has to be forced to do the right thing. An ugly face of prejudice hides under the mask of progress.

The despair is palpable

In the world of 1940, prejudice wasn't subtle. It was on display—openly and proudly. Discrimination was enshrined in law. Everyone had their assigned place where they were expected to remain: black Americans held the menial jobs that white Americans regarded with contempt, women were shut out of the workplace and coerced to stay in the kitchen, people with disabilities were shut up at home or consigned to institutions, and the only times that queer people weren't invisible were when they appeared in films coded as villains.

Taking all this into account, it shouldn't be shocking that the general American attitude toward Hitler was mixed at best, with an alarming number of people who outright admired him. Figures as prominent as Henry Ford and Charles Lindbergh spearheaded an isolationist movement led by the America First Committee (I wonder why that sounds so familiar?). Isolationists sat in Congress. Antisemites, most infamously Lindbergh, accused American Jews of warmongering. Hollywood had produced a grand total of two anti-Nazi films—and neither dared to use the word "Jew".

When I again put myself in the shoes of someone from 1940, the despair is palpable.

Some found the courage

And yet, some found the courage to speak out.

While America had officially remained neutral in the Spanish Civil War, that did not stop individual Americans from joining the fight against the Spanish fascists as the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.

Dorothy Thompson—the first American journalist to be kicked out of Nazi Germany—wielded her column and her radio show as weapons against fascism, even crashing a pro-Nazi rally in order to heckle it.

Her husband, the writer Sinclair Lewis, wrote a prescient novel that warned about the possibility of a fascist dictator ruling America.

And, in Hollywood, one filmmaker couldn't remain silent any longer.

"You must, it's our only hope."

Charlie Chaplin had been preparing The Great Dictator since 1938, with actual filming commencing in September 1939, just in time for the war to break out. Chaplin knew that it wasn't just his own career he was laying on the line. He risked getting all Hollywood films banned from Nazi-controlled territory. He forged ahead anyway, consequences be damned. Someone had to say something.

The Great Dictator would be the third anti-Nazi film out of Hollywood, but it was arguably the first to get it right. Chaplin is merciless in his depiction of Hitler as a ridiculous, yet extremely dangerous, megalomaniac. He also refuses to sugarcoat the Nazis' actions. The inhabitants of his ghetto are attacked and terrorized by stormtroopers, and at one point, his barber character is nearly lynched from a lamppost. Speaking of the ghetto, The Great Dictator does what Confessions of a Nazi Spy and The Mortal Storm were too afraid to do—not only is the word "Jew" spoken, but it also appears painted on shop windows.

The Great Dictator also happened to be a milestone in Chaplin's own career. Just over a decade had passed since the release of The Jazz Singer, and Chaplin had become Hollywood's sole holdout against sound. As he was preparing The Great Dictator, however, he came to realize that the very nature of the film meant it had to be a talkie. Chaplin would, quite literally, have to break his silence.

The film climaxes with Tomainia (the Germany analogue) conquering the neighboring country of Osterlich (Austria). Just as in the real world, the Jews of Osterlich are brutalized, even murdered, for daring to fight back. Chaplin's barber, who happens to resemble the Tomainian dictator Adenoid Hynkel, has been mistaken for him and is now expected to deliver a grand victory speech to the world. His friend, a defector from the regime, urges him to speak. The barber initially refuses, but is told, "You must, it's our only hope."

Hope.

"To make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure."

"I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an emperor."

No triumphant victory. No glee over conquest.

"To those who can hear me, I say—do not despair."

Instead, a simple plea—for peace, for tolerance, for unity.

"You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure."

Life doesn't have to be this way.

"By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. But they lie! They do not fulfill that promise. They never will!"

To a dictator, the people are only a tool, a means to an end.

"In the name of democracy, let us all unite!"

Let us all unite.

Will I despair?

Chaplin's words still retain their power.

Seriously. Even these brief excerpts brought me close to tears. The entire speech radiates hope to me, and I feel optimistic in spite of myself.

And then I look around—and my optimism increases tenfold.

People have been coming out in the millions, in countless cities and towns, to demonstrate their commitment to democracy and equality. Two of the largest protests in American history both occurred this year. It is incredibly heartening to see so many rise up against the threat of authoritarianism—such a far cry from the complacency of 1940.

Am I still afraid? Well, yes. I'd say that anyone who isn't doesn't know their history.

But will I despair?

History tells me this—do not despair.