Steven LaChance Blog

How Ordinary Societies Learn to Allow the Unthinkable

By Steven LaChance

The voice promised renewal. It promised safety. It promised pride. It spoke about enemies without ever fully defining them. It spoke about “them” with just enough vagueness that anyone already disliked could be folded into the category. Outsiders. Intellectuals. Journalists. Artists. Minorities. “Degenerates.” The list stayed flexible on purpose.

At first, nothing felt extreme.

Laws changed in small, technical ways. Courts were adjusted “for efficiency.” Media outlets were labeled untrustworthy “for national security.” Dissent was not banned outright. It was mocked. Questioned. Made to seem unpatriotic. Who would argue, after all, against unity?

Neighbors still waved to one another. Shops stayed open. Children still went to school. People reassured themselves that the system was holding. That this was just a phase. That it could not possibly get worse because it did not feel like a revolution.

That is how it works.

The loudest supporters were not monsters. They were ordinary people who felt seen for the first time. People who liked hearing their private resentments spoken aloud without shame. People who were relieved to be told that their failures were not their fault. Someone else was to blame.

Soon, language began to change. Words like “traitor” and “parasite” entered everyday conversation. Violence was not encouraged directly. It was merely excused. When it happened, it was described as unfortunate but understandable. Necessary, even.

Those who objected were told they were overreacting.

Those who warned of danger were accused of hysteria.

Those who asked for evidence were told to trust the leader instead.

And many did.

Power concentrated itself the way water finds cracks. Each emergency justified another exception. Each exception made the next one easier. By the time people realized what had happened, they were already living inside it.

At some point, the fear changed direction. It was no longer fear of the “enemy.” It became fear of speaking. Fear of being noticed. Fear of being next. Silence stopped being neutrality and became survival.

And still, life went on. That is the part people forget. Atrocities do not halt daily routines. They coexist with them. Bread is baked. Trains run. Papers are signed. Evil does not announce itself as evil. It calls itself necessity.

By the time the full truth was undeniable, the cost of resisting was unbearable. The machinery was built. The uniforms were everywhere. The words had already done their work.

This did not happen in ancient times.

It did not require magic or monsters.

It did not begin with genocide.

It began with grievance.

With permission.

With people convincing themselves that it could not happen here.

Only at the end do we give it its name.

This was Nazi Germany.

And the most dangerous lie we tell ourselves is not that it was evil.

It is that it was unique.