When They Came for the Country

Witnessing New World Disorder

The door to the Oval Office swung open, and Volodymyr Zelenskyy walked out alone. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw, the way his steps quickened, told the real story. He had just been humiliated—berated and dismissed by the American president, told to leave before he could even sign the agreement he had come for.

Inside, Donald Trump and J.D. Vance were still talking. Russian state media—TASS—had been inside the room, somehow invited in despite not being sanctioned to be there.

Putin’s mouthpieces got to stay. Ukraine’s leader was thrown out.

This wasn’t just a diplomatic collapse. It was a message.

A message to allies: America is no longer who it claimed to be.

A message to enemies: We will reward aggression and punish resistance.

A message to us: The country you thought you lived in is slipping away.

I felt physically sick.

Not just at what had happened, but at how familiar it felt. Because this wasn’t just about one meeting—it was about a shift that had been happening for years, accelerating before our eyes. And history had already shown us what happens when people choose to look away.

I expected outrage. Instead, I saw indifference.

The scrolling past. The blank expressions. The conversations that never happened. The shift was happening in plain sight, yet so few seemed to recognize it for what it was.

And that is terrifying.

Because once that numbness takes hold, it becomes easier to accept the unacceptable. To let this moment pass. And the next. And the next—until there’s nothing left to save.

There was a time when I believed there were boundaries even the worst leaders wouldn’t cross. That belief is gone now, shattered by every broken norm, every capitulation.

But disbelief is a luxury we can no longer afford.

We have seen this before.

The Slow Creep of Betrayal

I think often now of First They Came, the famous poem by Pastor Martin Niemöller about the slow, methodical rise of fascism in Nazi Germany:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

People often quote this as a warning—as if it’s an abstract lesson from history.

But what if we are living it, in real time?

First, they came for voting rights.

Then, they came for the press.

Then, they came for the rule of law itself.

And now, they are coming for the very idea of democracy—stripping it for parts, hollowing out the institutions that once held power in check, turning America into something unrecognizable.

Maybe you feel it too—the exhaustion, the uncertainty about where to even begin. Maybe you tell yourself that one person’s voice can’t matter against a machine this big.

I’ve told myself that too.

I know that feeling. I’ve fought it myself—some days successfully, others not. But history doesn’t wait for us to feel ready. It moves, whether we move with it or not.

What We Can Do

Those in power count on our exhaustion. They rely on us feeling powerless. But we still have choices—choices that shape what happens next.

If you’re reading this, you still have power. The question is, how do we use it?

• Hold elected officials accountable—whether we voted for them or not
  They work for us. Every representative, senator, and governor is answerable to the people, not just their party. Call their offices. Demand public town halls. Show up and insist that they listen. If they refuse, let their constituents know. Pressure works—especially when they realize that silence won’t protect them.

• Find and support independent journalism
  The mainstream press hesitates, but independent journalists are doing the work to expose what’s happening. I follow Heather Cox Richardson (Letters from an American), Judd Legum (Popular Information), and Ruth Ben-Ghiat (Lucid). (I’m compiling a full resource list—check back here soon for a link.)

• Amplify voices that won’t be heard otherwise
  Some of the most critical reporting is happening on Substack, Bluesky, and independent podcasts. Sharing their work matters.

• Share this essay
  Conversations matter. Awareness matters. If this piece moved you, share it with someone who needs to see it.

• Donate what you can.
  Whether it’s $5 to fight voter suppression or supporting independent media, small actions build momentum.

• Show up
  At town halls, protests, and even in everyday conversations—because silence isn’t neutrality. It’s permission.

Not everyone can march in the streets. Not everyone can risk their job speaking out.

But everyone can do something.

And that something, however small, matters.

No one person can fix this.

But we don’t need everyone.

We just need enough.

Enough people who refuse to look away.

Enough who choose action over paralysis.

Enough to remind history that this fight was never just theirs—it’s ours now.

The Fight Ahead

Zelenskyy walked out of the White House alone.

But the doors stayed open for those who cheered his humiliation.

History doesn’t just record the boldest actions of the powerful.

It records the quietest failures of the ordinary.

The moments when people—overwhelmed, exhausted—let something slip by, thinking it was someone else’s problem.

I know how easy it is to look away. To tell yourself someone else will fix it.

I told myself that once, too.

But history doesn’t wait for someone else.

It waits for no one.

Rachel Maddow, Robert Reich, and Lawrence O’Donnell are still speaking truth to power.

But let’s be honest—they are preaching to the choir. Many who most need to hear their words have already tuned them out, or worse, have been conditioned to see them as the enemy.

That is why we need more voices—people on the ground, people we recognize as being like us. People like us—seeing, feeling, thinking, and refusing to look away.

This is not just about an election.

This is about whether the American experiment—flawed, imperfect, but still the longest-running democracy in modern history—survives.

They are coming for the country.

But they have not won.

Not yet.