Fascism is never born overnight. It does not emerge from a coup, a slogan, or a madman’s epiphany; rather, it is rationalized step by step in an atmosphere of fear, disorder, and disappointment, ultimately brought to power by the masses themselves.
Historically, fascist movements share a common starting point: societies undergoing severe upheaval. Economic recession, humiliating defeats, widespread unemployment, and institutional failure create conditions where the existing order can no longer explain reality or improve lives. People begin to stop asking how to repair the system and instead seek to identify who is to blame. At this juncture, reason recedes, and emotion takes center stage.
The first step of fascism is to simplify the world. Complex issues are distilled into a single narrative: the decline of the nation is not due to policy errors, structural imbalances, or global changes, but rather because ‘someone is holding us back.’ This ‘them’ can be outsiders, minorities, intellectuals, the media, opposition parties, or even the entire existing elite. As long as it remains sufficiently vague, it can bear the weight of public discontent.
The second step is the politicization of emotion. Fascism is not adept at governance but excels at mobilization. It does not offer solutions but provides emotional outlets. Anger is framed as justice, fear is packaged as crisis, and doubt is denounced as betrayal. Rational discussion is viewed as weakness, and compromise is depicted as treachery. The masses are not persuaded; they are incited.
Next comes impatience with institutions. When democratic processes are described as ‘slowing efficiency’ or ‘hindering reform,’ when judicial independence is labeled as ‘protecting the guilty,’ and when media oversight is dismissed as ‘fake news,’ fascism begins to dismantle checks and balances. It does not outright deny elections but claims they are ‘manipulated’; it does not immediately abolish courts but first attacks the motives of judges. The institutions remain, but their credibility is hollowed out.
The crux of fascism lies not in the strength of its leader but in the willingness of followers to abandon judgment. When people start saying, ‘This is not the time for procedures,’ or ‘Extraordinary times require extraordinary measures,’ they have already accepted a premise: that power can be unchecked as long as the purpose is ‘just.’ And this ‘just’ is always defined by those in power.
It is important to note that fascism does not necessarily appear in the form of military boots and salutes. It can don a suit, rise to power through voting, and concentrate authority in the name of democracy. It can even exalt the term ‘people’ while gradually stripping away their choices. Historical examples have long shown that when dissent is stigmatized, when minorities are seen as the problem itself, and when violence is rationalized as a necessary means, the escape routes often vanish.
The most successful moment for fascism is not the day it seizes power, but the moment when the majority begins to think, ‘This might not be so bad after all.’ It is not imposed on society but tacitly accepted; not because everyone believes in it, but because too many choose to remain silent.
The question is never merely whether fascism will re-emerge, but whether we will still be able to recognize its form when the same conditions arise again. For the true nourishment of fascism is not hatred itself, but the fatigue of relinquishing thought.
