Tag: authoritarianism

Tomorrow: The Response to a Republic in Crisis

A Republic does not fall in a day, nor is it restored in one.

Today was the reckoning—the recognition of what we have lost, the indictment of our failures. But reckoning alone is not enough. If the Republic is to endure, we must turn from despair to restoration.

Tomorrow is that turn.

It is not a promise that the Republic will be saved. It is a challenge: that we must choose to save it. Not by rhetoric, not by grievance, not by empty nostalgia, but by reclaiming reason, morality, and purpose—by remembering what the Republic was meant to be.

What shall we make of tomorrow? That choice is ours.

A reading of the D.S. Yarab’s essay “Tomorrow”

TOMORROW

What shall we make of tomorrow?

If Today is the reckoning, then Tomorrow must be the response. But where does restoration begin? Not in speeches, nor in promises, nor in the empty rituals of politics. It begins in the only place it can—within ourselves.

A Republic cannot be saved by its institutions alone. Laws, constitutions, courts, elections—these are but scaffolding. They do not stand without a foundation, and that foundation is the people. If the people are unmoored, if they are ruled by grievance, by appetite, by fear, then no law will save them, no leader will redeem them. If the people themselves are lost, then the Republic is lost with them.

We have been taught to believe that we are powerless, that history is something done to us rather than something we shape. But this is a falsehood. The truth is that the fate of a nation is not determined by its rulers alone—it is determined by its citizens, by what they accept, by what they demand, by what they are willing to stand for.

If we are to restore reason, we must reclaim the habits of thought that we have abandoned. We must question, we must listen, we must doubt, we must seek to understand before we seek to judge.

If we are to restore morality, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard than those we condemn. We must not mistake vengeance for justice, or self-righteousness for virtue. We must remember that morality is not merely a tool to wield against our enemies but a mirror in which we must see ourselves.

If we are to restore purpose, we must remember that liberty is not the right to do as we please but the responsibility to govern ourselves, to live not as individuals alone but as a people. We must choose to build rather than to destroy, to create rather than to consume, to serve rather than to rule.

But we cannot restore what we do not understand.

Education: The Foundation of Restoration

We must educate ourselves—not with propaganda, not with the comforting lies of factional loyalty, but with truth. Real education is neither indoctrination nor mere vocational training. It is the development of the mind, the sharpening of judgment, the capacity to distinguish the essential from the trivial, the real from the false. It is learning to think.

The founders of this Republic, despite their flaws and contradictions, understood that knowledge was the safeguard of freedom. Jefferson wrote that “If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be.” Franklin warned that democracy was always one step from tyranny if the people lacked the wisdom to guard it. Washington, in his farewell address, cautioned against faction and the corruption of reason by unchecked ambition.

Yet today, we have forsaken the intellectual inheritance of the Republic. We do not educate for wisdom—we educate for compliance. We do not seek understanding—we seek affirmation. We do not debate—we shout. We do not learn—we consume.

A people who will not think for themselves will be ruled by those who think only of themselves.

If we are to reclaim the Republic, we must first reclaim ourselves. We must read not to confirm what we already believe, but to challenge it. We must seek facts, not slogans. We must recognize that learning is not a passive act but an active responsibility, that ignorance is not an excuse but a failure.

We must resist the seduction of easy answers.

We must understand what we have lost.

The Spirit of the Republic

The Republic was never meant to be an empire. It was never meant to be a mere tax revolt. It was never meant to be a vessel for ideology, oligarchy, or faction.

It was an idea. A radical, fragile, difficult idea: that a free people could and should govern themselves—not by force, not by wealth, not by divine right, but by reason and consent.

This idea has been betrayed, not by one party, not by one movement, but by all who have sought power for its own sake, who have turned democracy into a game of conquest, who have mistaken governance for domination.

The Republic was meant to be a living thing, a constant dialogue, a place where principles could be tested against reality, where reason could temper passion, where justice could stand apart from vengeance.

But we have let it become something else.

We have let it become a battleground for competing tribes, each seeking to impose its will rather than to govern in common cause. We have allowed it to be captured—by interests, by ideologues, by oligarchs, and finally by would be tyrants who have no stake in the future of the people they claim to serve.

We have mistaken cynicism for wisdom. We have mistaken manipulation for leadership. We have mistaken spectacle for governance.

But the Republic is not yet lost.

If we understand what has been taken, we can take it back.

If we remember what the Republic was meant to be—not a possession, not a weapon, not an empire, but an ideal—we can begin the work of restoring it.

Not through empty gestures. Not through rage or grievance. But through the slow, difficult work of becoming a people worthy of self-governance again.

The road to restoration is not a single act, nor a single moment. It is a thousand small choices, made every day, by each of us.

What shall we make of tomorrow?

That choice is ours.

The Gulf of Mexico Renaming: A Shift Toward Authoritarianism

Perhaps historians, social commentators, and others have overlooked the significance of the official renaming of the Gulf of Mexico by the U.S. government. In retrospect, this single action—more than all the other actions of the recent past—may be the clearest indication that the Republic has slid into authoritarianism.

Consider this: every other action undertaken recently, no matter how heinous, illegal, or unconstitutional, was not truly surprising. These actions were long planned—rooted in old hatreds of people, ideas, and ideologies that have been debated in this country for decades, if not longer.

But to the point—he had a thought, perhaps fleeting, perhaps deliberate, to arbitrarily rename the Gulf. This was not a longstanding controversy, not a battle waged over decades. No committee debated it, no scholars weighed in, no political factions fought over it. It had never been considered or raised. It is not a point of hate or ideology. It was simply arbitrary, irrational, and ahistorical. And yet—voilà—it was done. No resistance. No hesitation. The act was obeyed with the same mechanical efficiency as in North Korea, the Soviet Union, Communist China, Nazi Germany, or Fascist Spain.

It was a test. Could he control thought, speech, and language itself without resistance? Yes. He could.

There were no legal battles, no protests, no challenges. The Gulf of Mexico was not—and had never been—an issue of public contention or even a discussion. Yet this renaming was an exercise in raw, unchecked power. And no one even stopped to ask, Wait—what? Why?

Thus, the Authoritarian States of America arrived. The Republic can be declared dead as of the day the U.S. government—or, at the latest, Google Maps—recognized the change.

Orwell warned us. Read Nineteen Eighty-Four. Read Politics and the English Language.

The Tragic Lesson of Verginia: Power and Tyranny

Guillaume Guillon Lethière (French, 1760 – 1832) The Death of Virginia, about 1825–1828, Oil on paper, mounted on canvas. Unframed: 73.5 × 117 cm (28 15/16 × 46 1/16 in.).
The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 2023.7

Livy’s History of Early Rome offers a timeless case study in the corruption of power through the story of Verginia. In Book 3, Appius Claudius – a member of the decemviri tasked with codifying Roman law – becomes consumed by lustful desire for Verginia, a young woman of plebeian birth. Unable to win her through legitimate means, he orchestrates a fraudulent court case to claim her as a slave, abusing his authority to ensure the verdict.

When her father Verginius, a soldier, arrives to defend his daughter, he finds the machinery of justice has been wholly perverted to serve Appius’s desires. Faced with no recourse against this tyranny, Verginius takes his daughter’s life in the forum rather than see her enslaved and defiled. His tragic act galvanizes both the people and army, leading to the overthrow of the decemviri and restoration of constitutional government.

The story has relevance today as we witness how unchecked power still corrupts, with modern figures who – like Appius – seduce both masses and elites with promises of reform while pursuing personal gain and dismantling democratic safeguards. The allusive poem I drafted below below explores this persistent danger, using Verginia’s sacrifice to illuminate the cost of our collective failure to recognize and resist tyranny in its early stages.

The Wages of Compromise: The Blood of Verginia

Beneath the rostra’s shadowed height, he stood,
The man whose gilded words had bought the crowd.
Their cheer, a wreath for virtue misconstrued,
Their gaze averted, though his deeds grew loud.
What harm, they thought, if petty sins abound?
A jest, a taunt, though brazen, met no plea;
The slights were not whispered, though unjust,
Personal gain o’er public trust was clear to see.

Yet they excused what honesty would shun,
For promised change, for vengeance lightly jested.
The wrongs of old made present wrongs seem none;
A brighter future claimed, though untested.
And so, unchecked, his shadow stretched and grew,
Till justice bowed before his grim designs.
A father’s hand, with love and fury true,
Struck down the bonds of tyranny’s confines.

Her blood, a warning, sanctified the square,
The people’s slumber shattered by her cry.
The forum rang with shouts that pierced the air,
The dream of freedom breathed, though she must die.
No longer could they feign or look away—
Their wish for ease had birthed a tyrant’s reign.
The jest of vengeance turned to ash that day,
And Appius fled, undone by grief and shame.

Let not the lesson fade within our time:
That deeds unchallenged fester into might.
To mock the law, to cloak a crime sublime
In promised gold, ensures the coming blight.
The people’s trust, the lords’ approving nod,
May crown a man or break his staff and rod.