Dr. Asis Mistry
Donald Trump’s political resurgence mirrors historical fascist movements and poses a grave threat to the foundations of American democracy.
History, it is often
said, does not repeat itself, but it does rhyme. This adage rings with
unsettling clarity when we examine the present trajectory of American politics
under the shadow of Donald Trump. With his return to power, the United States
finds itself in a moment of democratic vulnerability that carries echoes of
early 20th-century Europe, particularly the rise of fascism in Italy and
Germany. Though the context and contours differ, the essential
tactics—undermining institutions, fostering ultra-nationalist fervour,
scapegoating minorities, and attacking liberal thought—remain hauntingly
familiar.
In 1922, Benito Mussolini
came to power in Italy not by storming the gates of parliament but by being
invited in. King Victor Emmanuel III, amid political paralysis, appointed him
prime minister, despite the Fascist Party holding only a handful of seats.
Similarly, Adolf Hitler, though leading a minority party, was invited to form a
coalition government in 1933 by conservatives who believed they could contain
and use him to neutralise the left. In both cases, democratic institutions were
used as ladders to power—and then kicked away.
Trump’s rise did not
initially mirror this trajectory in method, but over time, his politics have
begun to reflect its essence. In 2016, he was elected on a wave of populist
discontent, promising to "drain the swamp" and restore America's "greatness"
against the backdrop of economic uncertainty, racial anxieties, and
anti-immigrant sentiment. His supporters were not marginal extremists alone but
included mainstream conservatives, business elites, and religious
traditionalists, many of whom believed they could ride his charisma to advance
their agendas.
During his first term,
Trump’s politics flirted with authoritarianism—questioning the judiciary, demonising
the press, and stoking white nationalist rhetoric—but remained within certain
democratic bounds. It was after his 2020 electoral defeat, however, that the
darker undercurrents surfaced with full force. His baseless claims of electoral
fraud culminated in the January 6, 2021, attack on the U.S. Capitol, an act of
insurrection not seen since the Civil War. The goal was to halt the
certification of Joe Biden’s electoral victory, a direct assault on the
peaceful transfer of power.
What unfolded that day
should have ended a political career. Instead, it hardened a movement. Trump's
refusal to accept electoral defeat, his tacit encouragement of violence, and
his ongoing campaign of grievance and revenge have only deepened his grip on
the Republican base. His latest administration is staffed entirely by
loyalists, purging anyone with independent thought or institutional allegiance.
Traditional Republican leaders, who once criticised him, now either support him
unconditionally or remain complicit in silence.
Trump’s agenda today
reveals an unambiguous pattern. He has accelerated mass deportations of
undocumented immigrants, sometimes without court authorisation, reviving cruel
tactics like shackling migrants and sending them to prisons in foreign
countries. His justification is national security, but the message is
unmistakable: dissent and difference are unwelcome in Trump’s America.
The comparison with
fascist regimes becomes more troubling when we examine Trump’s hostility toward
academia and liberal institutions. Under his directives, federal funding has
been cut from universities accused of harbouring “anti-Israel” sentiments—often
conflated with broader critiques of American foreign policy or human rights.
This suppression of intellectual dissent, particularly targeting research on
race, gender, and colonialism, mirrors the fascist obsession with ideological
purity. In fascist Europe, universities were among the first institutions to be
silenced or co-opted, as critical inquiry was seen as a threat to state
control.
Trump’s collaboration
with billionaire allies like Elon Musk to audit and downsize federal
departments further erodes institutional independence. Without any official
designation, Musk has been given sweeping authority to identify “waste” and
streamline government—a euphemism for ideological cleansing. Thousands of civil
servants have been fired, particularly from education and foreign aid
departments, which conservatives label as liberal bastions. Again, the
comparison is apt: fascist regimes often employed industrialists and media
magnates to restructure the state in service of the regime.
Meanwhile, conservative
attacks on affirmative action, gender equity, and social welfare have
escalated. The Trump administration’s explicit denial of institutional racism
and its ban on social diversity programs reinforce a vision of America that is
exclusionary, patriarchal, and monolithic. This is not governance—it is a
cultural crusade.
Even Trump’s economic
policies serve ideological rather than practical ends. His reintroduction of
steep tariffs, particularly against China, has rattled global markets and
triggered fears of trade wars. The financial logic is dubious, as history and
economics warn that trade wars rarely benefit anyone. But for Trump, these
moves serve a nationalist narrative: they paint America as a victim of global
exploitation and himself as its saviour.
The consequences are
immediate. Prices rise. Investments falter. Pensions shrink. Yet Trump
persists, because the politics of spectacle and resentment outweigh economic
rationality. This is not about fixing America—it is about controlling it.
The most alarming
element, however, is the erosion of democratic norms. Trump’s open musing about
bypassing constitutional term limits, combined with his threat to weaponise
institutions against political opponents, raises serious concerns about the
future of American democracy. Fascists, once in power, rarely surrender it
voluntarily. They change the rules, suppress dissent, and manufacture consent.
And while Trump may not
wear a uniform or lead a paramilitary force, he enjoys the unwavering support
of groups like the Proud Boys and other far-right militias. Many of those who
stormed the Capitol now hold positions of influence in his party. Their rise is
not an accident—it is part of a strategy. Fear, misinformation, and
intimidation are tools as potent today as they were in the 1930s.
What is perhaps most
disheartening is the passivity of the establishment. Conservative judges,
corporate donors, and Republican lawmakers who once claimed to defend the
Constitution now look the other way. Their complicity recalls the appeasement
of fascism by European elites who thought they could manage the radicals, only
to be consumed by them.
America today stands at
an inflexion point. The institutions of democracy—courts, elections, press,
academia—are under assault not from external enemies but from within. The
battle is not only about Trump but about what kind of country the United States
wants to be. Will it remain a pluralist democracy, messy and diverse but
committed to liberty and law? Or will it slide further into authoritarianism
cloaked in the language of patriotism?
The answer will depend on
the courage of its citizens and leaders. History teaches us that fascism often
wins not because of overwhelming strength but because of the weakness of
opposition—because people assume “it can’t happen here” until it already has.
Democracy is not
self-sustaining. It must be defended, not only in times of crisis but every
day, by those who value freedom, equality, and justice. Donald Trump’s politics
may not yet be fascism in its full form, but the shadows are lengthening. And
shadows, left unchallenged, eventually turn to night.
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