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Every time Trump attempts to rewrite January 6 or parrot Putin's propaganda about Ukraine, we must respond not with outrage (after all, this was all written in Project 2025), but with unwavering commitment to truth.
When U.S. President Donald Trump declared on February 19 that Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky—not Russian President Vladimir Putin—was the real dictator, he wasn't only spouting inflammatory rhetoric. He was launching a calculated assault on our collective memory and shared reality. From our reality-star king-in-chief this is not just another chaotic distraction that we slap the word unprecedented on—it's an active threat that puts millions of Ukrainian lives at risk and fuels violent instability across Europe.
But it's also a direct insult to the American people, who witnessed these events unfold in real time just two years ago. Most voters can recall the horror of watching a sovereign nation be invaded by an army. Trump's audacious attempt to rewrite current events follows the authoritarian playbook to the letter: Deny reality, rewrite the narrative, and weaponize chaos and confusion until the public's grip on truth begins to slip. The end goal is crystal clear: total power, sacrificing democracy and millions of lives in the process.
The strategy is painfully familiar because we've already lived through it. Within hours of his inauguration, Trump continued his rewriting of January 6—yet another event we all witnessed in real time. The pardon he issued is far from popular or celebrated by voters, as 83% of Americans disapprove of this decision, disapprove of this rewriting of history. We watched his supporters, inflamed by his lies, storm the Capitol to block the peaceful transfer of power. That poll indicates that the American people know what we saw no matter how many executive orders he signs. We recall how the violence was methodical: smashed windows, destroyed barricades, ransacked offices. The human cost was devastating: lives lost, lawmakers running for safety, democracy itself under siege. For 187 excruciating minutes, Trump—then still the sitting president—ignored pleas to stop the violence, instead making calls to senators urging them to object to the election while watching the chaos unfold on Fox News. When he finally spoke, it wasn't to condemn the violence but to validate it: "We love you... I know your pain... the election was stolen." He watched democracy burn and poured gasoline on the flames. And now, he's reaching for the gas can again.
Fact-checking isn't just a journalistic practice—it's an act of civic resistance that each of us must embrace.
This pattern isn't just about misstatements or confusion. This is about the systematic dismantling of shared reality—a tactic many authoritarian heads of state have relied on. In Romania, where I was born, the brutal dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu didn't just control the present; he rewrote the past. His regime banned books, silenced histories, and maintained lists of names that couldn't be spoken aloud. The goal wasn't just censorship—it was the eradication of collective memory. It was also necessary for his attempts to target specific communities. If our histories were not honored it was easier to deny our human rights.
Putin's Russia shows us this same pattern. He claims Ukraine has no legitimate history as a nation, that it was "entirely created by Russia." These aren't just words—it's the groundwork for invasion and occupation. When Trump echoes these lies about Ukraine and Zelensky, he's not just parroting Putin's propaganda. He's signaling his allegiance to the authoritarian practice of bending reality itself to serve power.
And of course, we need to talk about Hitler's Germany. Not only because the Nazi salute is suddenly being flaunted before conservative audiences in the U.S., but because that is exactly what we are seeing unfold right here in the United States. When the White House posts an ASMR video of an undocumented person in chains being taken to a concentration camp, we need to talk about Nazi Germany. Like Trump, the Nazi regime didn't begin with death camps; they began with propaganda, with book burnings, with the systematic rewriting of history to support their white supremacist ideology. North Korea too maintains its grip on power through absolute control of information and historical narrative. These aren't distant cautionary tales—they're blueprints being followed by Trump.
The architects of alternative facts fear one thing above all: truth told boldly and repeatedly. Since 1848, when the Associated Press was founded with an emphasis on factual reporting, journalism has served as a check on power. It's no coincidence that Trump has now banned AP reporters from the White House press corps for their factual reporting about the Gulf of Mexico. When facts become the enemy, we're watching authoritarianism in action. But defending truth isn't just the job of journalists, though their freedom remains essential to democracy's survival. The front line in this battle runs through every conversation we have, every social media post we share, every time we choose to speak up rather than stay silent. Fact-checking isn't just a journalistic practice—it's an act of civic resistance that each of us must embrace.
The more chaotic and overwhelming these attacks on truth become, the more essential it is that we refuse to normalize them. Speak up. It matters. It makes a difference. Each book banned, each journalist silenced through intimidation or exile, each historical event rewritten—these are not isolated incidents. They are coordinated strikes against our collective power to resist.
It often feels like we are at the point of no return, especially when we look at the complicity of Congress. Congress' willingness to surrender its constitutional role has become apparent to many Americans. Rather than draft legislation or serve as a check on executive power, Republican lawmakers have chosen to let Trump rule by decree. Why bother with the messy work of democracy when you can simply allow a demagogue to issue orders? This isn't just institutional failure—it's institutional surrender and they are betraying every American by doing so. The Republicans in Congress have traded their dignity and our democracy for positive tweets from Elon Musk and Trump.
Though this is undeniably bleak, I don't believe it means defeat. It means we must make a collective decision: Will we perform what Timothy Snyder calls "anticipatory obedience" (especially since a majority of the orders are unjust, unconstitutional, and illegal), or will we hold onto our shared reality with fierce determination? History isn't just a record of what happened—it's a guide for resistance. When we allow our past to be rewritten, we surrender the lessons that could save our future. When someone thinks they can rewrite the past, they believe themselves to be God in control of events. We have to make sure we declare that Trump is no King nor God.
The path forward isn't through individual action or protecting our personal freedoms. This moment demands collective resistance, a tall order in a country that is being told it must destroy its neighbors to survive. But we know better. We love our neighbors. We see the labor and care our national park service workers are investing and we believe the firing of the 100,000 federal workers who maintained our freedom is unjust and needs to be reversed. We know that in a democracy, an unelected billionaire does not have the right to treat Americans as pawns. We are smarter than Elon and Trump are acting like we are. Every time Trump attempts to rewrite January 6 or parrot Putin's propaganda about Ukraine, we must respond not with outrage (after all, this was all written in Project 2025), but with unwavering commitment to truth. We must refuse to let our shared reality be negotiated away in service of authoritarian ambition.
History is clear on this point: When leaders wage war on truth itself, silence equals surrender. We cannot afford to surrender now. Read the books. Refuse to obey in advance unjust, unconstitutional, and illegal executive actions. Gather with your neighbors and friends and speak the truth. Refuse to believe in the lie that we are now against one another, for our individual survival. We must gather and speak the truth in unison: Trump is no King nor God.
The strategy is painfully familiar because we've already lived through it. Within hours of his inauguration, Trump continued his rewriting of January 6—yet another event we all witnessed in real time. The pardon he issued is far from popular or celebrated by voters, as 83% of Americans disapprove of this decision, disapprove of this rewriting of history. We watched his supporters, inflamed by his lies, storm the Capitol to block the peaceful transfer of power. That poll indicates that the American people know what we saw no matter how many executive orders he signs. We recall how the violence was methodical: smashed windows, destroyed barricades, ransacked offices. The human cost was devastating: lives lost, lawmakers running for safety, democracy itself under siege. For 187 excruciating minutes, Trump—then still the sitting president—ignored pleas to stop the violence, instead making calls to senators urging them to object to the election while watching the chaos unfold on Fox News. When he finally spoke, it wasn't to condemn the violence but to validate it: "We love you... I know your pain... the election was stolen." He watched democracy burn and poured gasoline on the flames. And now, he's reaching for the gas can again.
Fact-checking isn't just a journalistic practice—it's an act of civic resistance that each of us must embrace.
This pattern isn't just about misstatements or confusion. This is about the systematic dismantling of shared reality—a tactic many authoritarian heads of state have relied on. In Romania, where I was born, the brutal dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu didn't just control the present; he rewrote the past. His regime banned books, silenced histories, and maintained lists of names that couldn't be spoken aloud. The goal wasn't just censorship—it was the eradication of collective memory. It was also necessary for his attempts to target specific communities. If our histories were not honored it was easier to deny our human rights.
Putin's Russia shows us this same pattern. He claims Ukraine has no legitimate history as a nation, that it was "entirely created by Russia." These aren't just words—it's the groundwork for invasion and occupation. When Trump echoes these lies about Ukraine and Zelensky, he's not just parroting Putin's propaganda. He's signaling his allegiance to the authoritarian practice of bending reality itself to serve power.
And of course, we need to talk about Hitler's Germany. Not only because the Nazi salute is suddenly being flaunted before conservative audiences in the U.S., but because that is exactly what we are seeing unfold right here in the United States. When the White House posts an ASMR video of an undocumented person in chains being taken to a concentration camp, we need to talk about Nazi Germany. Like Trump, the Nazi regime didn't begin with death camps; they began with propaganda, with book burnings, with the systematic rewriting of history to support their white supremacist ideology. North Korea too maintains its grip on power through absolute control of information and historical narrative. These aren't distant cautionary tales—they're blueprints being followed by Trump.
The architects of alternative facts fear one thing above all: truth told boldly and repeatedly. Since 1848, when the Associated Press was founded with an emphasis on factual reporting, journalism has served as a check on power. It's no coincidence that Trump has now banned AP reporters from the White House press corps for their factual reporting about the Gulf of Mexico. When facts become the enemy, we're watching authoritarianism in action. But defending truth isn't just the job of journalists, though their freedom remains essential to democracy's survival. The front line in this battle runs through every conversation we have, every social media post we share, every time we choose to speak up rather than stay silent. Fact-checking isn't just a journalistic practice—it's an act of civic resistance that each of us must embrace.
The more chaotic and overwhelming these attacks on truth become, the more essential it is that we refuse to normalize them. Speak up. It matters. It makes a difference. Each book banned, each journalist silenced through intimidation or exile, each historical event rewritten—these are not isolated incidents. They are coordinated strikes against our collective power to resist.
It often feels like we are at the point of no return, especially when we look at the complicity of Congress. Congress' willingness to surrender its constitutional role has become apparent to many Americans. Rather than draft legislation or serve as a check on executive power, Republican lawmakers have chosen to let Trump rule by decree. Why bother with the messy work of democracy when you can simply allow a demagogue to issue orders? This isn't just institutional failure—it's institutional surrender and they are betraying every American by doing so. The Republicans in Congress have traded their dignity and our democracy for positive tweets from Elon Musk and Trump.
Though this is undeniably bleak, I don't believe it means defeat. It means we must make a collective decision: Will we perform what Timothy Snyder calls "anticipatory obedience" (especially since a majority of the orders are unjust, unconstitutional, and illegal), or will we hold onto our shared reality with fierce determination? History isn't just a record of what happened—it's a guide for resistance. When we allow our past to be rewritten, we surrender the lessons that could save our future. When someone thinks they can rewrite the past, they believe themselves to be God in control of events. We have to make sure we declare that Trump is no King nor God.
The path forward isn't through individual action or protecting our personal freedoms. This moment demands collective resistance, a tall order in a country that is being told it must destroy its neighbors to survive. But we know better. We love our neighbors. We see the labor and care our national park service workers are investing and we believe the firing of the 100,000 federal workers who maintained our freedom is unjust and needs to be reversed. We know that in a democracy, an unelected billionaire does not have the right to treat Americans as pawns. We are smarter than Elon and Trump are acting like we are. Every time Trump attempts to rewrite January 6 or parrot Putin's propaganda about Ukraine, we must respond not with outrage (after all, this was all written in Project 2025), but with unwavering commitment to truth. We must refuse to let our shared reality be negotiated away in service of authoritarian ambition.
History is clear on this point: When leaders wage war on truth itself, silence equals surrender. We cannot afford to surrender now. Read the books. Refuse to obey in advance unjust, unconstitutional, and illegal executive actions. Gather with your neighbors and friends and speak the truth. Refuse to believe in the lie that we are now against one another, for our individual survival. We must gather and speak the truth in unison: Trump is no King nor God.
"Donald Trump realizes that recent financial judgments against him are losses, not wins. But, like a desperate gambler, he plays on, believing that delays in future judgments will win him the presidency again."
Back when many in the media found it unthinkable that Donald Trump would win the U.S. presidency, he told a cheering crowd of thousands that he and they would win so much they'd "get tired of winning."
It's happening in front of our eyes. Dull, fat, exhausted, and confused, Trump is the embodiment of his prediction. He's tired of winning.
But he can't stop playing. He realizes that recent financial judgments against him are losses, not wins. But, like a desperate gambler, he plays on, believing that delays in future judgments will win him the presidency again. And by dictatorial fiat, he will make all charges disappear.
I kept People magazine's Decade In Review from the 80s. My children were born then, so it was history. Donald Trump is on the cover, and the movie Wall Street is quoted - "Greed is good!" That became the battle cry of a new generation of business leaders who defied old moral norms. Winning was no longer everything but the only thing, to quote UCLA coach Red Saunders (later attributed to Vince Lombard.) Restraint was weakness. Unbridled ambition was rewarded and revered.
Forty years on, Bernie Sander's disgusted "Enough is enough!" answered that excess and became so popular it resonates, still, across our political divide. But in 2016, it was Trump who won the White House - not Bernie and not Hilary, despite winning two million more popular votes. It was a bitter spectacle for many of us to see "Greed is good!" become the organizing principle of our country's policies, foreign and domestic, overt and covert. It was, and is, testament to the spell of TV celebrity that so many Americans, frightened by changes that seem beyond our control - mass migration, climate catastrophe, vanishing wealth, toxic pollution in our neighborhoods, sexual changes in the new generation – believed that a fabulously wealthy white man could restore their supremacy under the old order. Trump clothed himself in that belief and added to it a promise of national religious salvation, invoking a Bible he can't even quote. But believers believed in his belief, and trusted a biblically righteous president to stop climate change, end the emergent changes in the biological binary order, and end what Catholic AM radio host Mother Angelica daily decried to listeners as "the Holocaust of abortion."
Following Mitch McConnell's refusal to allow Obama to appoint a Supreme Court justice, Trump obediently filled the empty positions with judges who reliably overturned Roe v. Wade. Trump was proven godly, as was the GOP. His personal promiscuity and dishonesty were also proof: God can do good with the most flawed of human beings. Trump's persistent ubiquity in the media marketplace makes him seem a kind of secular saint, an immortal in the pantheon of our celebrity-worshipping culture. The marketplace can't resist Trump. He sells. He's a long-running soap opera, an adrenalin rush. Here I am writing about him, though I've resisted doing so for a long time. Because, in fact, I'd really rather ignore him.
But I can't. Because he and his followers are now devoted to replacing our country's imperfect democracy with a repressive dictatorship that would outlast him and require great suffering to dislodge.
The tragic irony now seems to be that the only person with a direct connection to Trump who can stop Trump is Trump. While the American people voting in overwhelming numbers may yet rise up to stop his self-described winning streak, even his wife appears to have little power in their partnership. She warned us sartorially, long ago, that she really doesn't care. She may care more, now that the money that keeps her comfortable - and her son safe – dwindles. I remember the sad spectacle, during the 2016 campaign, of a nude photo from her past. It was unearthed supposedly to show us a norm that would be violated by a Trump presidency. For me, it served primarily as an unpleasant but telling glimpse into her rationale for becoming the third Mrs. Trump. Surely marriage to a wealthy and powerful man was security against ever having to be exploited – including by herself, in desperation – again. To me, her First Lady photos of public reverence show how deeply she aspired to being a Madonna, a faithful wife and loving mother. Donald Trump provided that. Whatever consequences she faces now, of having married him, he first appeared to her as a savior.
Wishing this man would go away – as many of us, Republican and Democrat, do – inspires deeply uncomfortable and ghoulish thinking. And perilous: we instinctively know that wishing harm on another is poisonous, and brings harm to us. One of the most painful things about the spectacle of Trump's exhaustion, and his followers' gradual disillusionment, or furious denial, is the effort it takes to obey the moral imperative of not wishing him ill. He spreads his exhaustion like a pandemic.
I am aware that many religious Americans believe a God-fearing dictator could better secure our nation's future than a president obeying the Constitutional oath to protect religious freedom and preserve equal rights. They think a president serving a dogmatic, Omnipotent Deity would attract that Deity's help in eradicating our national problems. If this required reward and punishment, so be it. The dictator could do, to whomever did not get in line, "whatever the hell they want."
To the religiously fearful, I would point out the godly government, including Christian ones, are dangerous. Hitler was a Catholic but saw no problem with genocide. In fact, his religious views may have sanctified his resolve to kill Jews, homosexuals, and their sympathizers. The Rwandan massacre saw Christian neighbors, friends, and relatives commit mass-murder on one another, due to tribal hatred fomented for years by popular radio hosts. In Uganda and the Congo, the Lord's Resistance Army employed rape, torture, murder, and child soldiers forcibly recruited to commit atrocities, all towards the stated goal of establishing the Ten Commandments as the supreme law of the land. Stalin was an atheist, but Putin isn't. Yet his publicly observed Russian Orthodox Christianity seems no obstacle to poisoning, impoverishing, imprisoning, starving, and killing political opponents. In Ukraine, his Russian soldiers kill Ukrainian ones who bear the image of Jesus' mother, Mary, on their uniforms. Which nation is the Christian God's favorite?
Jesuit priest Greg Boyle, founder of Homeboys Industries, the most successful gang recovery program in the world, bases his work in the inclusive and unconditional love taught by Jesus of Nazareth. If your God inspires to you to fear, dominate, hate or kill, Boyle writes, you've got the "wrong God."
Realizing that one may have "the wrong God" is usually something that takes place in private conscience or an affirming community. But when your God wants you to kill, torture, impoverish, and imprison your fellow human beings, "wrong God" must be publicly pointed out. And, in a democracy, voted down.
I believe in a God of mercy. Could it be that mercy is allowing Trump to be proven right, by his own prediction? And that exhaustion might show him how so much winning missed the mark?
I do not envy him his remorse for the sorrow he sowed for the nation and his family. The cosmic circumstances of anyone's birth are a mystery, and Donald Trump's father was, by all accounts, terrifying. Donald seemed to want to be different: more charming, more generous, more loved than feared. But he succumbed to "Greed is good," and winning to vanquish his demons. To stay on top, he had to reward and punish. And he did, with mercurial approval and disdain stemming from a chaotic refusal to self-examine. His children's various mothers, except for Barron's, are invisible. Ivana is six feet under the Bedminster golf course, a source of much mirth from our late night wags. To me it is sad blasphemy in a world where even the poorest of the poor generally seek reverence for their loved ones' earthly remains.
Tired of winning: his lips to God's ears.
If you thought what was once proudly dubbed "the American Century" couldn't get any worse, you clearly haven't been paying attention.
I’ve been describing this world of ours, such as it is, for almost 23 years at TomDispatch. I’ve written my way through three-and-a-half presidencies — god save us, it could be four in November! I’ve viewed from a grave (and I mean that word!) distance America’s endlessly disastrous wars of this century. I’ve watched the latest military budget hit almost $900 billion, undoubtedly on its way toward a cool trillion in the years to come, while years ago the whole “national security” budget (though “insecurity” would be a better word) soared to well over the trillion-dollar mark.
I’ve lived my whole life in an imperial power. Once, in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, it was even “the lone superpower,” the last great power on planet Earth, or so its leaders believed. I then watched how, in a world without great-power dangers, it continued to invest ever more of our tax dollars in our military. A “ peace dividend“? Who needed that? And yet, in the decades that followed, by far the most expensive military on planet Earth couldn’t manage to win a single war, no less its Global War on Terror. In fact, in this century, while fighting vain or losing conflicts across significant parts of the planet, it slowly but all too obviously began to go down the tubes, or perhaps I mean (if you don’t mind a few mixed metaphors) come apart at the seams?
And it never seems to end, does it? Imagine that 32 years after the U.S. became the last superpower on Planet Earth, in a devastating kind of political chaos, this country might indeed reelect a man who imagines himself running a future American “dictatorship” — his very word for it! — even if, publicly at least, just for a single day.
And yes, in 2024, as chaos blooms on the American political scene, the world itself continues to be remarkably at war — think of “war,” in fact, as humanity’s middle name — in both Ukraine and Gaza (with offshoots in Lebanon and Yemen). Meanwhile, this country’s now 22-year-old war on terror straggles on in its own devastating fashion, with threats of worse to come in plain sight.
After all, 88 years after two atomic bombs were dropped on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to end World War II, nukes seem to be making a comeback (not that they were ever truly gone, of course). Thank you, Kim and Vlad! I’m thinking of how North Korean leader Kim Jong-un implicitly threatened to nuke his nonnuclear southern neighbor recently. But also, far more significantly how, in his own version of a State of the Union address to his people, Russian President Vladimir Putin very publicly threatened to employ nukes from his country’s vast arsenal (assumedly “tactical” ones, some of which are more powerful than the atomic bombs that ended World War II), should any European countries — think France — send their troops into Ukraine.
And don’t forget that, amid all of this, my own country’s military, eternally hiking its “defense” budget, continues to prepare in a big-time fashion for a future war with — yes — China! Of course, that country is, in turn, rushing to upgrade its own nuclear arsenal and the rest of its military machine as well. Only recently, for instance, the U.S. and Japan held joint military maneuvers that, as they openly indicated for the first time, were aimed at preparing for just such a future conflict with China and you can’t get much more obvious than that.
Another World War?
Oh, and when it comes to war, I haven’t even mentioned, for instance, the devastating civil war in Sudan that has nothing to do with any of the major powers. Yes, we humans just can’t seem to stop making war while, to the tune of untold trillions of dollars globally, preparing for ever more of it. And the truly strange thing is this: it seems to matter not at all that the very world on which humanity has done so forever and a day is now itself being unsettled in a devastating way that no military of any sort, armed in any fashion, will ever be able to deal with.
Let’s admit it: we humans have always had a deep urge to make war. Of course, logically speaking, we shouldn’t continue to do so, and not just for all the obvious reasons but because we’re on a planet that can’t take it anymore. (Yes, making war or simply preparing for it means putting staggering amounts of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere and so, quite literally, making war on the planet itself.) But — as both history and the present moment seem to indicate all too decisively — we just can’t stop ourselves.
In the process, while hardly noticing, it seems as if we’ve become ever more intent on conducting a global war on this planet itself. Our weapons in that war — and in their own long-term fashion, they’re likely to prove no less devastating than nuclear arms — have been fossil fuels. I’m thinking, of course, of coal, oil, and natural gas and the greenhouse gases that drilling for them and the use of them emit in staggering quantities even in what passes for peacetime.
In the previous century, of course, there were two devastating “world” wars, World War I and World War II. They were global events that, in total, killed more than a hundred million of us and devastated parts of the planet. But here’s the truly strange thing: while local and regional wars continue in this century in a striking fashion, few consider the way we’re loading the atmosphere with carbon dioxide and methane while, in the process, heating this planet disastrously as a new kind of world war. Think of climate change, in fact, as a kind of slow-motion World War III. After all, it couldn’t be more global or, in the end, more destructive than a world war of the worst sort.
And unlike the present wars in Gaza and Ukraine, which, even thousands of miles away, continue to be headline-making events, the war on this planet normally gets surprisingly little attention in much of the media. In fact, in 2023, a year that set striking global heat records month by month from June to December and was also the hottest year ever recorded, the major TV news programs of ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox actually cut their coverage of global warming significantly, according to Media Matters for America.
“If I Don’t Get Elected, It’s Going to Be a Blood Bath”
I live in New York City which, like much of the rest of the planet, set a heat record for 2023. In addition, the winter we just passed through was a record one for warmth. And I began writing this piece on a set of days in early March when the temperature in my city also hit records in the mid-60s, and when, on March 14th (not April 14th, May 14th, or even June 14th), it clocked 70-plus degrees. I was walking outside that afternoon with my shirtsleeves rolled up, my sweater in my backpack, and my spring jacket tied around my waist, feeling uncomfortably hot in my blue jeans even on the shadier side of the street.
And yes, if, as my wife and I did recently, you were to walk down to the park near where we live, you’d see that the daffodils are already blooming wildly as are other flowers, while the first trees are budding, including a fantastic all-purple one that’s burst out fully, all of this in a fashion that might once have seemed normal sometime in April. And yes, some of what I’m describing is certainly quite beautiful in the short run, but under it lies an increasingly grim reality when it comes to extreme (and extremely hot) weather.
While I was working on this piece, the largest Texas fires ever (yes, ever!), continued to burn, evidently barely contained, with far more than a million acres of that state’s panhandle already fried to a crisp. Oh, and those record-setting Canadian forest fires that scorched tens of millions of acres of that country, while turning distant U.S. cities like New York into smoke hells last June have, it turns out, festered underground all winter as “zombie fires.” And they may burst out again in an even more devastating fashion this spring or summer. In fact, in 2023, from Hawaii to Chile to Europe, there were record wildfires of all sorts on our increasingly over-heated planet. And far worse is yet to come, something you could undoubtedly say as well about more intense flooding, more violent storms, and so on.
We are, in other words, increasingly on a different planet, though you would hardly know it amid the madness of our moment. I mean, imagine this: Russia, whose leader, Vladimir Putin, clearly doesn’t consider climate change a significant issue, is on pace to achieve an oil-drilling record for the second year in a row. China, despite installing far more green power than any other country, has also been using more coal than all other nations combined, and set global records for building new coal-fired power plants.
Meanwhile, the third “great” power on this planet, despite having a president dedicated to doing something about climate change, is still the largest exporter of natural gas around and continues to produce oil at a distinctly record pace.
And don’t forget the five giant fossil-fuel companies, BP, Shell, Chevron, ExxonMobil, and TotalEnergies, which in 2023 produced oil, made profits, and rewarded shareholders at — yes, you guessed it! — a record pace, while the major petrostates of our world are still, according to the Guardian, “planning expansions that would blow the planet’s carbon budget twice over.”
In sum, then, this world of ours only grows more dangerous by the year. And I haven’t even mentioned artificial intelligence, have I? As Michael Klare has written in an analysis for the Arms Control Association, the dangers of AI and other emerging military technologies are likely to “expand into the nuclear realm by running up the escalation ladder or by blurring the distinction between a conventional and nuclear attack.”
In other words, human war-making could become both more inhuman and worse at the same time. Now, add just one more factor into the global equation. America’s European and Asian allies see U.S. leadership, dominant since 1945, experiencing a potentially epoch-ending, terminal failure, as the global Pax Americana (that had all too little to do with “peace”) is crumbling — or do I mean overheating?
What they see, in fact, is two elderly men locked in an ever more destructive, inward-looking electoral knife fight, with one of them warning ominously that “if I don’t get elected, it’s going to be a blood bath… for the country.” And if he isn’t victorious, here’s his further prediction: “I don’t think you’re going to have another election, or certainly not an election that’s meaningful.” Of course, were he to be victorious the same could be true, especially since he’s promised from his first day in office to “drill, drill, drill,” which, at this point in our history, is, by definition, to declare war on this planet!
Unfortunately, Donald Trump isn’t alone. All too sadly, we humans clearly have trouble focusing on the world we actually inhabit. We’d prefer to fight wars instead. Consider that the definition not just of imperial decline, but of decline period in the age of climate change.
And yet, it’s barely news.