I’m neither the calmest nor the most anxious person. But as Donald Trump’s presidential victory seems more certain by the minute, I feel sick to my stomach with worry. I hoped to go to sleep on election night knowing Harris had won, and that we were safe. But that is not what was in store for us.
The anxiety I’m feeling right now started months ago. During the lead-up to the 2024 presidential election, my hair began falling out and one of my eyelids started twitching. Classic signs of stress, said a doctor friend. On Halloween, talking with a colleague, I realized that we looked and sounded the way people look and sound outside the intensive care unit, as they wait to learn whether a friend or relative will survive.
The survival we were worried about was that of our democracy. Our flawed democracy, I should say. No one can pretend we live in a nation of equals, that there aren’t massive income and racial disparities. No one imagines the rich and poor have an equal say about who runs for office or makes decisions about healthcare and education. No one dreams that either presidential candidate will stop funding war in the Middle East.
Regardless of who is funding our political campaigns, no one is going to run for office on a platform that proclaims: I promise the American people that I am going to fight to protect our precious oligarchy!
So let’s call it democracy. Because the alternative is so much worse.
We understand the alternative. We know what a dictatorship is. The millions killed by Hitler, the millions killed by Stalin. The Argentinean military dropping prisoners out of helicopters. The replacement of laws and rights with the whims of the dictator. The dehumanization of the other, the whipping up of the majority to see the minority as vermin, as vectors of “poisoned blood”. The normalization of violence as part of the political process. The mutual admiration of one dictator for another. The silencing of every voice except that of the dictator and his inner circle. The idea that the old couple next door, with their funny accents, raising their grandson, are criminals who must be arrested and dumped across the border. The delight in racist humor, that jolly dog-whistle of hatred.
The imprisonment and execution of those who disagree with the government is one of the most common threats we’d heard during the campaign. Any system, even ours, could murder its Alexei Navalny. In Pittsburgh I met a writer, Abdelrahman ElGendy, who spent six years in prison for taking part in a demonstration against Egypt’s military government. And what if the dictator decides against birth control or equal rights for women? What if misogyny is so open and prevalent that a woman’s laughter is described as a witch’s cackle?
And what if the dictator loses his mind – along with the nuclear code? What if the dictator surrounds himself with power-hungry sociopaths, as so many dictators have? What if the dictator decides that the sick and old, the infirm and poor are a drain on the economy?
These are snowflake fears, I know, but buttressed by sturdy historical facts. The most eloquent account of the prelude to a dictatorship was written by Gabriel García Márquez, in an essay, Death of a President: The Last Days of Salvador Allende, published in Harper’s, in 1974.
All you have to do is read about the rally at Madison Square Garden on 26 October 2024. A comedian told nasty jokes about Puerto Rico, the sex lives of Latinos, the cheapness of Jews, the sluttiness of powerful women. A prominent speaker said, “America is for Americans.” In 1939, 20,000 people attended the rally of the German American Bund, also in Madison Square Garden. One of those speakers said that if George Washington were alive, he would be friends with Adolf Hitler.
Regardless who wins the 2024 election, the campaign has been a snapshot – however blurry in places – of our country. And it’s not a pretty picture. The divisions are going deeper, or perhaps just more open. In our peaceful rural neighborhood, someone has posted a campaign sign at the entrance to the long narrow lane that leads to the peaceful town cemetery.
Dictators are not about bridging divides. They prefer divisions. They like people hating other people. They like people fearing that the country is in danger from maniacs who want to defund the police and offer welcome baskets to busloads of narcos and serial killers. We’ve been encouraged to picture migration as a scene from World War Z (2013), zombies scaling fortifications, swarming the cities of the living.
People have been saying that the would-be dictator was not really going to do what he threatened during the campaign. Economically, it was a nonstarter. Deport the undocumented agricultural workers, and a tangerine will cost $20! But I kept thinking of something that the journalist Masha Gessen wrote in the aftermath of the 2016 election: believe the dictator.
Added to our dark fantasies about the future are the pre-existent realities lately getting new scrutiny. The refusal of two major newspapers to endorse a candidate reminded us (surprise!) how much of our media is run by billionaires calculating, to the penny, the potential profit and loss, depending on who wins. Officials with significant roles in our governments turn out to have price tags as low as an airline upgrade. For most of my life, I’ve felt more or less reassured by the existence of the supreme court, but that bedrock trust is gone.
Things are a mess. We want the country to get better, and we fear it could get worse.
People in other countries have apparently been obsessed with the 2024 US elections. They understand what’s at stake. Even from afar they can see why we have been sleeping badly at night and being on edge during the day.
