Early Resistance is Difficult; Later Resistance is Deadly

In every authoritarian shift—from Germany to Russia to Venezuela—the window for safe and effective resistance closes quickly. What begins as difficult becomes dangerous, and ultimately, fatal.

“For all of us, the moment will come when we will realize that none of the things we achieved by looking the other way and keeping quiet mattered. The only moments that matter in life are the moments when we’re doing the right thing.” – Alexei Navalny​

Democratic decline does not happen overnight. Would-be authoritarians usually telegraph their intentions through early actions and warning signs. Yet time and again, citizens, institutions, and foreign observers dismiss these signals until it’s too late. By the time people recognize the danger and mobilize en masse, resistance can come at a terrible cost. This pattern – that early resistance is difficult, but later resistance is deadly – has played out in many countries. From Nazi Germany to present-day Russia, from Venezuela to Turkey, Hungary, and Chile… history shows that the longer societies wait to confront authoritarianism, the more perilous the fight becomes. Today we’re examining the warning signs that many ignored, the tragedies of resistance that came too late, and why finding the courage to push back early – as hard as it is – offers the best hope of stopping tyranny.

I’m beginning to think these illustrations are a little too on-the-nose.

The Warning Signs Everyone Saw (But Dismissed)

Authoritarian regimes rarely arrive unannounced. In most cases, there are early warning signs – explicit rhetoric, incremental power grabs, or blatant abuses – that signal a leader’s undemocratic ambitions. All too often, however, those warning signs are rationalized or downplayed by the very people who stand to lose the most.

Consider Germany in the early 1930s. Adolf Hitler had never hidden his extremist agenda – he published Mein Kampf in 1925 outlining his anti-democratic, racist vision, and Nazi brownshirts engaged in political violence throughout the Weimar Republic. Yet when Hitler’s party gained votes, much of the German establishment chose to dismiss the threat. In January 1933, conservative elites made a fateful deal to appoint Hitler as chancellor, confident they could “control him” within the existing cabinet. Franz von Papen, the vice chancellor, smugly boasted of Hitler, “We’ve hired him.” This profound underestimation – treating Hitler as a pawn rather than a fanatic – proved disastrous. Within five months of taking office, Hitler had exploited an arson attack on the parliament (the Reichstag Fire) to suspend civil liberties and pushed through the Enabling Act to rule by decree, transforming Germany into a one-party police state​. The warning signs (Hitler’s open antisemitism, the Nazi paramilitaries’ street terror, the “Big Lie” that Weimar democracy was illegitimate​) were all visible. But too many Germans, blinded by anti-communist fears or hopes that Hitler would moderate, looked the other way until their democracy was beyond saving.

In Venezuela, there were also clear early signs of an authoritarian turn under Hugo Chávez – signs many observers and supporters overlooked. After winning office in 1998 as a populist outsider, Chávez pushed through a new constitution in 1999 that dramatically expanded presidential powers. He promised social justice, and indeed the new charter included human rights guarantees. But in practice Chávez immediately began concentrating power. Following a brief coup attempt against him in 2002 (which he survived), Chávez and his loyalists seized control of institutions. By 2004 they packed Venezuela’s Supreme Court, expanding it from 20 to 32 justices and filling the new seats with government allies​. An ostensibly independent judiciary was thus neutered, removing a key check on executive authority. The Chávez government also moved against critical media: in 2007 it refused to renew the license of RCTV, the country’s oldest private TV network, effectively shutting down a major opposition voice​. These were blatant warning signs of democratic backsliding – a “dramatic concentration of power” accompanied by “open disregard for basic human rights guarantees,” as Human Rights Watch later summarized. Yet at the time, many Venezuelans accepted or even cheered these actions. Buoyed by Chávez’s oil-funded social programs and his charismatic anti-elite rhetoric, supporters dismissed concerns about creeping authoritarianism as overblown. By the time it became undeniable that checks and balances had eroded, the regime had free rein to intimidate and censor critics without consequence.

Early red flags were also waved in Turkey and Hungary, albeit in different ways. In Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan came to power democratically in 2003 and for a time was seen as a reformer. But gradually, he showed an increasing intolerance for dissent. One major warning came in 2013 during the Gezi Park protests – what began as a small environmental sit-in swelled into nationwide demonstrations for pluralism. Erdoğan’s government met the peaceful protesters with tear gas, batons, and bullets, leaving several dead. At the time, some wondered if the crackdown was an aberration. In hindsight, observers note that Gezi was “the first solid indication of Erdoğan’s increasing appetite for authoritarian measures and the scale of the democratic backsliding to come.” Indeed, the harsh response previewed how far Erdoğan would go to silence opponents. In Hungary, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán wasted little time after his 2010 election landslide before weakening Hungary’s young democracy. His Fidesz party amended the constitution at will and overhauled election laws to cement its dominance. In 2011 Orbán’s government created a new Media Council empowered to impose bankrupting fines on critical media outlets​. At the same time, state agencies pulled advertising from independent news organizations to starve them financially. Many outside Hungary failed to grasp what was happening, but Orbán himself was brazenly transparent. He openly declared in 2014 that he intended to build an “illiberal state” within the EU, rejecting liberal democratic ideals. These moves – a captured media, ruling-party cronies buying up newspapers, and attacks on NGOs under a “foreign agent” label – were all clear signals of authoritarian consolidation. Yet Hungary’s opposition was fragmented, and European leaders were slow to respond beyond formal warnings. As in other cases, early warnings were downplayed until the authoritarian project was well underway.

Even in Chile – a country with a long democratic tradition – warning signs preceded the abrupt breakdown of democracy in 1973. In the early 1970s, Chile grew intensely polarized under socialist President Salvador Allende. Economic disruption and CIA-backed destabilization efforts set the stage for a military coup. Months before General Augusto Pinochet seized power, there was an attempted coup in June 1973 that was put down. Its failure led many to believe Chile’s constitutional order would hold. That proved tragically false. When Pinochet finally struck on September 11, 1973, it surprised some who believed the Chilean military would never betray its constitution. The “suddenness, the abruptness” of the coup in a country proud of its democracy shocked the world​. But in retrospect, the drumbeat of strikes, street clashes, and a propaganda campaign painting Allende as a threat were glaring omens. Those signs were either missed or dismissed by Chileans who thought their institutions were unbreakable. The cost of that miscalculation would be paid in blood.

The Resistance that Came Too Late

By the time an authoritarian regime’s true nature is undeniable, open resistance often entails extreme danger. When people finally do rise up or push back in earnest, they find a repressive machinery ready to crush dissent. History is replete with tragic examples of courageous resistance movements that arrived only after the regime had consolidated its power – resulting in martyrdom, massacres, or years of struggle against long odds.

In Nazi Germany, organized opposition to Hitler was virtually annihilated in the regime’s first months. Opposition parties were outlawed, independent labor unions destroyed, and dissenters sent to the first concentration camps by mid-1933. Any significant resistance that remained was forced underground. It was not until the catastrophe of World War II was well underway that some Germans mounted assassination plots and public protests – far too late to stop the Nazi horror. In 1942–43, a small group of students in Munich known as the White Rose secretly distributed anti-Nazi leaflets, decrying the genocide and dictatorship. They were caught and swiftly executed for treason. In July 1944, as German armies were in retreat, a faction of military officers led by Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg attempted to kill Hitler with a bomb. The plot failed, and the regime responded with ferocity: about 200 people were executed in the crackdown that followed, as the Gestapo used the opportunity to eliminate anyone suspected of disloyalty. Overall, scholars estimate tens of thousands of Germans were executed by the Nazi state for resistance or even perceived disloyalty during Hitler’s 12-year rule​. By the time Hitler had built a totalitarian police state and waged a world war, German resisters stood almost no chance of success; they paid with their lives in acts of heroism that came tragically late. As one famous poem by pastor Martin Niemöller lamented, “Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.” It is a searing reminder that if you wait until you yourself are targeted, resistance may no longer be viable.

In contemporary Russia, we see a similar pattern. Vladimir Putin’s regime grew more repressive year-by-year since 2000, while many Russians stayed on the sidelines. Only in the past decade, as corruption and abuses mounted, did large-scale opposition coalesce – epitomized by the opposition leader Alexei Navalny and the protest movements he inspired. Navalny became the Kremlin’s most prominent critic, exposing high-level corruption and rallying crowds against election fraud. But by the time his movement gained momentum (around 2011–2012 and again in 2017–2021), Putin had spent years tightening his grip on security forces, media, and the courts. The belated resistance was met with merciless retaliation. Navalny himself survived an assassination attempt by poisoning in 2020, only to be imprisoned upon his return to Russia in 2021. He continued to speak out from behind bars, at great personal risk. In February 2024, after more than two years in prison, Navalny died under murky circumstances in a remote penal colony​. The authorities claimed he collapsed from a sudden illness; his supporters consider his death an assassination in all but name. Around the country, any Russians who protest Putin’s war in Ukraine or his dictatorial rule face immediate arrest and charges of extremism or “terrorism.” With opposition politicians either exiled, jailed, or dead, resisting Putin’s regime in 2025 means gambling one’s life or freedom. The gradual buildup of repression – from early 2000s media takeovers, to laws branding critics “foreign agents,” to the brazen violence against figures like Boris Nemtsov (an opposition leader shot dead near the Kremlin in 2015) – ensured that by the time mass resistance arose, the cost would be lethal. Navalny’s fate embodies this grim truth: speaking out late in the game can be a death sentence under an entrenched dictatorship.

Venezuela’s opposition likewise found itself in an increasingly perilous position as it mobilized against the Chavismo regime only after many authoritarian entrenchments had taken place. For much of Chávez’s presidency, he still had substantial popular support, and open dissent was limited to opposition media and sporadic protests. After Nicolás Maduro took power in 2013 and the economy went into freefall, public anger exploded. In 2014, student-led protests and street barricades challenged Maduro’s rule; over 40 people were killed in the ensuing clashes, and a prominent opposition leader, Leopoldo López, was imprisoned for calling for demonstrations. An even larger wave of mass protests erupted in 2017, by which time Venezuela was in humanitarian freefall. Demonstrators faced live ammunition, arbitrary arrests, and torture. Security forces and pro-government militias killed at least 124 people during the 2017 protest wave​. Hundreds more were injured or jailed. Human Rights Watch reported that the scope and severity of the repression in 2017 reached levels unseen in Venezuela in recent memory – including systematic torture of detainees – as the Maduro regime fought to retain control at all costs. By then, nearly all institutional checks were gone: the courts, electoral council, and military high command were firmly under Maduro’s thumb. In 2019, the opposition tried a different tactic – invoking a constitutional article to declare National Assembly leader Juan Guaidó as interim president, with backing from the U.S. and dozens of countries. But without control of the coercive levers of power in Caracas, this attempt at late-stage resistance also faltered. Millions of Venezuelans ended up fleeing the country. Those who remain know that protesting the regime now can result in being shot in the streets or hauled off to a literal dungeon. Earlier in the 2000s, it might have been possible to demand democratic corrections (indeed, Venezuelans narrowly defeated Chávez’s 2007 bid for broader powers). But waiting until the situation was desperate made the fight exponentially harder.

Where outright violence may not be as prevalent, authoritarians still find ways to make late resistance fatal. In Hungary, Viktor Orbán has not needed to resort to mass bloodshed to quash dissent; instead, he has weaponized laws and economic power to entrench what some political scientists call a “competitive authoritarian” system. By the time the Hungarian opposition truly united in an effort to unseat Orbán in the 2022 election, Orbán had spent twelve years stacking the deck. He controlled most media, altered voting districts, and even used public resources to flood public discourse with his propaganda. The result was a grossly unfair contest that his party comfortably won. While Hungarian protesters or opposition candidates are not typically gunned down in the streets, they face a different kind of danger: the near impossibility of dislodging a regime that has legally rigged the entire playing field​. For journalists or civil society activists who speak up, the repercussions can include police raids, punitive tax audits, or job loss. Years of delay allowed Orbán to capture 80% of public-media programming by 2019 and even force a university to leave the country. Now, any resistance – whether via elections or activism – runs up against a fortified illiberal state. It may not be literally deadly in most cases, but it is arguably just as decisive in killing off meaningful dissent.

One more illustration comes from Chile under Pinochet. In the aftermath of the 1973 coup, the cost of resistance was as explicit and brutal as it gets. In just the first year of Pinochet’s dictatorship, over a thousand Chileans were executed or “disappeared”​. The regime’s security forces rounded up tens of thousands of people, torturing many in stadiums and secret prisons. Anyone attempting to resist – whether through protest, strike, or guerrilla action – was likely to be captured or killed. It was only in the mid-1980s, after more than a decade of state terror (and when international pressure on the junta grew), that Chileans cautiously began to organize again in large numbers. Even then, demonstrations were met with gunfire and batons. An underground armed resistance movement attempted to assassinate Pinochet in 1986; the attempt failed, and the regime retaliated with Operación Albania, executing suspected dissidents. In the end, Pinochet was removed not by an uprising but by a plebiscite in 1988, which he unexpectedly lost. By that point, Chileans had suffered 15 years of nightmarish repression – over 3,000 killed or disappeared, and 38,000 tortured during the dictatorship’s reign. Those who bravely resisted early on, in 1973–1974, were mostly annihilated or driven into exile. Those who resisted later, in the 1980s, still risked death or imprisonment, though shifting conditions finally gave them a slim opening to restore democracy. The Chilean experience underscores that once a regime has unleashed full-scale terror, the road to freedom is long and harrowing.

Why People Wait

If early resistance is clearly wiser, why do people so often wait until authoritarians are entrenched? The reasons are complex, rooted in psychology, politics, and human nature. In case after case, a combination of fear, denial, division, and hope causes citizens and leaders to postpone confronting the growing threat.

Firstly, there is fear and self-preservation. Authoritarians often impose costs on dissenters very early, precisely to scare others into compliance. The first protesters may be beaten or jailed; the first whistleblowers may be fired or poisoned. Seeing this, most ordinary people understandably keep their heads down. As Alexei Navalny observed in his courtroom speeches, the regime counts on people’s instinct to “look the other way” and not “do something cowardly” to save themselves.

"Life is Too Short to Look the Other Way" - Alexei Navalny

In Russia, for example, when a few voices spoke out in the 2000s – a critical journalist here, an opposition politician there – many citizens reacted not by rallying around them but by avoiding their fate. Navalny recounted how people around him would say, “He knew what he was doing when he came after Putin… If he had kept his head down, he’d be fine.”​ This encapsulates a common attitude in fading democracies: those who resist are seen as bringing trouble on themselves. The human psyche, as Navalny noted, finds ways to excuse inaction – to avoid guilt by convincing ourselves that the dissidents must have deserved their punishment or exaggerated the problems. It is safer and more comfortable to believe that keeping quiet will keep you safe. Thus, fear chills early resistance.

Secondly, many people fall into denial or normalcy bias. We tend to assume that life will continue as usual and that “it can’t happen here.” In Nazi Germany, a great many Germans simply could not imagine that Hitler would lead their nation into genocide and war – until it was too late. In Hungary, as independent media slowly vanished, some citizens explained it away as just market forces or temporary setbacks, unwilling to see a calculated plan behind it. Even in the United States, when scholars and watchdogs point out democratic erosion – attacks on the press, demonization of minorities, efforts to undermine elections – a large segment of the public dismisses it as partisan hysteria or insists American democracy is too strong to fail. This optimistic disbelief is a powerful inhibitor of early action. People tell themselves that institutions will hold, or that the leader “doesn’t really mean” the most extreme things he says. For instance, in Chile before 1973, many believed the military’s reassurance that it respected democracy – until generals literally bombed the presidential palace. Denial can be fed by propaganda, too: autocrats often create an alternate reality through state media, downplaying their power grabs or framing them as benign reforms. By the time people awaken to the danger, the trap is already set.

Another reason is division among the opposition. Early in an authoritarian’s rise, those who oppose him often cannot unite due to ideological splits or mutual mistrust. Weimar Germany’s greatest failing was the bitter rivalry between democrats, socialists, and communists – they were so busy feuding that they failed to band together against the Nazi menace until far too late. In Venezuela, the opposition was long split between moderates who participated in Chávez’s electoral processes and radicals who called for boycotts or even coups. This disunity meant no concerted resistance emerged when Chávez first undercut democratic checks. Similarly, in Turkey, secularists, liberals, and Kurdish activists all had reasons to oppose Erdoğan’s authoritarian turn, but they did not form a common front early on – some even initially supported Erdoğan’s crackdown on their rivals (for example, applauding the jailing of alleged coup-plotting generals) only to find themselves targeted next. “Divide and conquer” is a classic authoritarian strategy: target one group at a time, while others stay silent because it’s not their group under attack​.

Furthermore, many people wait because they still have something to lose – careers, businesses, or simply relative stability – and they hope to avoid jeopardizing it. In a declining democracy, life usually goes on for awhile for the average apolitical person. One might still go to work, watch TV, raise a family. Early resisters are often those with either little to lose or an acute moral conviction. Others calculate that as long as they aren’t directly affected, it’s better not to “make trouble.” As one Romanian saying under communism went, “the nail that sticks out gets hammered down.”

This cautious inertia can be reinforced by small perks the regime offers: Orbán, for instance, provided economic handouts to key voter bases​, encouraging people to stick with him. Chávez funneled oil revenues into social programs that maintained loyalty among the poor. Erdoğan boosted conservative business owners who benefited from his rule. Such tactics buy acquiescence. People convince themselves they can navigate or even benefit from the new system – until repression escalates to a point where nearly everyone’s freedoms are curtailed, and by then escape is difficult.

Lastly, there is often a misplaced hope that someone else will solve the problem. Citizens may pin their hopes on institutions (courts, the military, international organizations) to constrain the would-be autocrat, rather than taking personal risk. For example, Venezuelans in 2002 hoped the military would remove Chávez (it briefly did, but the coup failed and backfired). Hungarians hoped the European Union would force Orbán to reverse course; the EU did apply some pressure and even sanctions, but not enough to break his hold. Many Americans concerned about creeping authoritarianism hope that the next election, or the Supreme Court, or perhaps the Justice Department will “fix it,” without the need for mass civic action. Sometimes institutions do intervene – e.g., the Chilean plebiscite of 1988 or the U.S. courts rejecting false claims of election fraud in 2020. But counting on a deus ex machina can be a gamble. The truth is, when enough of society waits for someone else to act, no one acts in time.

In sum, people delay resistance due to fear of punishment, refusal to believe the worst, internal divisions, reluctance to sacrifice comfort, and the hope that others will do the job. These factors are deeply human. As an essay on Germans under Hitler notes,

“We all like to imagine we’d be brave dissidents under oppressive rulers, but when put to the test most people are cowards.”​

This isn’t to judge ordinary citizens harshly, but to underline a painful reality. Authoritarians exploit our very normal tendencies – to stay safe, to not want conflict, to trust that tomorrow will be like today – in order to consolidate power. Recognizing these tendencies in ourselves is the first step to overcoming them.

What Early Resistance Looks Like—and Why It’s Hard

What does early resistance entail? It means speaking up or taking a stand while the authoritarian shift is still in its infancy – when the risk is real but before the system of repression fully locks into place. Early resistance often falls to a brave few: opposition politicians, journalists, judges, activists, or even insiders who defect. They are the canaries in the coal mine, and their fate is a litmus test for how far the regime will go.

Early resisters typically face ridicule, isolation, or persecution – often all three. They rarely succeed at first in changing the regime’s course. What they can do, however, is rouse the conscience of the broader public or create cracks in the regime’s image of invincibility. For instance, in the very first months of Nazi rule, some Germans did resist even as others stayed passive. Social Democrats in the Reichstag voted against Hitler’s Enabling Act in March 1933 – knowing it would likely seal their party’s doom. After it passed, the SPD was banned and many of its members were hunted down. Lutheran pastor Martin Niemöller and a group of clergymen formed the Pastors’ Emergency League in 1933 to oppose Nazi encroachment on churches. Niemöller spoke out against Nazi racial policies early on, even directly to Hitler’s face in 1934​. For his defiance, he was eventually arrested and sent to a concentration camp. These early acts of resistance in Nazi Germany did not stop Hitler – but they laid moral groundwork that would inspire later generations. They proved not everyone gave Hitler their implied consent. Had more Germans joined these isolated acts early, it is possible that the trajectory could have been different. Still, one cannot romanticize early resistance: it is exceptionally hard. Niemöller himself was a war hero and firmly anti-communist – not an obvious dissident – but he was moved by duty to God and conscience. His courage was unusual, and he paid a price. This underscores why early resistance, while crucial, is such an uphill battle.

In Russia, early resistance to Putin’s authoritarian tendencies took various forms. There were bold journalists like Anna Politkovskaya, who reported on the brutal war in Chechnya and Kremlin corruption in the early 2000s – until her murder in 2006 sent a chilling message to others. There were business magnates like Mikhail Khodorkovsky, who dared to challenge Putin’s power; he was arrested in 2003 and served 10 years in prison on politically driven charges. There were also mass street protests relatively early in Putin’s rule: in 2011–2012, tens of thousands of Russians, many of them young, rallied in Moscow and St. Petersburg against fraudulent elections. This was a hopeful sign of civic awakening. The regime responded with force – riot police beat protesters, and new repressive laws were passed. Alexei Navalny emerged from this movement, organizing anti-corruption rallies and running for mayor of Moscow in 2013 (he nearly won, despite the odds). For his activism, he was hit with bogus criminal cases – a suspended sentence here, house arrest there – signaling the risks of early dissent. Navalny’s own lawyer once warned him, “They will definitely throw you in prison… sooner or later”. Navalny acknowledged the danger but continued regardless, famously saying “I’m not prepared to live in fear… If I have to fight, then I’ll fight, because I know that I’m right.”​ His stance exemplified early resistance: consciously accepting personal risk out of a belief that someone must set an example. Navalny’s rallies did help galvanize a new generation, but it took nearly a decade for that movement to reach critical mass – by which time, as we’ve seen, the regime was ready to crush it. Early resistance in Russia was hard and insufficient by itself, yet it was essential to keep the flame of freedom alive at all.

Another hallmark of early resistance is whistleblowing and truth-telling. In Hungary, for example, even as Orbán was capturing institutions, a few independent media outlets and NGOs refused to be silenced. Investigative journalists continued to expose scandals about Orbán’s cronies independently, even as their own outlets were being bought out or shut down. While many judges acquiesced to the new judicial reforms, some judges quietly resisted by sending cases to the European Court or delaying politically sensitive decisions. These were subtle forms of pushback that signaled not everyone was on board with the illiberal transformation. In Turkey, after the Gezi Park crackdown, a number of prominent journalists and intellectuals did not relent in criticizing Erdoğan’s slide toward authoritarianism. They wrote op-eds, spoke at forums, and some even took to social media to organize. The result: many were arrested or fired in the following years, especially after the 2016 coup attempt when Erdoğan had an authoritarian pretext to purge thousands. Yet without these early truth-tellers, the public would have only the government’s narrative. Telling the truth under an emerging autocracy is itself a form of resistance – one that is difficult and often personally costly, but vital. As Navalny has urged, “We must do what they fear – tell the truth, spread the truth. This is the most powerful weapon against [a] regime of liars.”​ Every authoritarian fears the truth, especially in the early stages when they still crave public legitimacy. That is why from Russia to Venezuela to Turkey, regimes spare no effort to smear dissidents as “traitors” or “terrorists” early on, trying to turn the wider population against them. Early resisters face not only state repression but also social ostracism, as propaganda paints them as enemies of the people.

Importantly, early resistance doesn’t always take the form of protests or speeches – sometimes it’s bureaucrats and officials refusing orders, or soldiers upholding their oath to a constitution. In Chile 1973, a notable (but lone) act of early resistance came from General Carlos Prats, the army commander-in-chief before Pinochet. Prats remained loyal to the civilian government and even confronted rebellious troops during the pre-coup turmoil. However, he was isolated and ultimately resigned under pressure, paving the way for Pinochet. Prats’s stance was an example of an official trying to do the right thing early; unfortunately, without broader support in the officer corps, it failed, and Prats himself had to flee (he was later assassinated in exile by Pinochet’s agents). In the context of present-day U.S. politics, one might draw an analogy: when government officials or judges choose to uphold democratic norms rather than enable a would-be authoritarian leader, they are engaging in exactly the kind of early resistance that can avert disaster. For instance, during the 2020 U.S. election aftermath, numerous local and state election officials (some from the president’s own party) resisted intense pressure to overturn results – a crucial stand that protected the integrity of the vote. It was hard for them; some received death threats. But their principled action in real time helped spare the country from a constitutional crisis. Early resistance often depends on people within institutions putting loyalty to law and democracy above loyalty to a leader.

Why is such resistance so hard? Because early on, it feels like swimming against an unstoppable tide. The authoritarian leader may still enjoy significant popularity or at least the benefit of the doubt from the public. Early dissidents are easily painted as hysterical, unpatriotic, or self-interested. They have little support and face a state apparatus that is not yet weakened by crisis. It’s much easier for a regime to punish a handful of early troublemakers (and frighten everyone else) than to confront a million people in the streets later. Early resisters also often lack coordination – they act based on principle before any larger movement has coalesced. They may never cross paths: one judge rules against the regime here, one activist stages a rally there, without a unified strategy. Autocrats exploit that disunity. In summary, early resistance is an act of faith. It rests on the hope that others will eventually join, even though at first you stand mostly alone. The people who engage in it do so out of moral conviction or foresight that few others yet share.

The benefit of early resistance, however, is that if it can spark wider awareness, it might stop authoritarianism in its tracks. There are instances where early mass resistance succeeded: the Philippines’ “People Power” movement against Marcos in 1986, or Serbians protesting Slobodan Milošević’s election fraud in 2000 – these are cases where citizens mobilized in huge numbers before the dictator could fully secure his rule, ultimately forcing him out relatively peacefully. Those are heartening exceptions. In most cases we’ve discussed, the early resisters did not themselves topple the regime – but they kept the spirit of opposition alive, making the eventual downfall of the dictator possible years later. They also ensured that the world knew the truth about these regimes from the beginning, preventing tyrants from completely controlling the narrative. Thus, while early resistance is hard and often fails in the short term, it is incredibly significant in the long term. It plants seeds that can grow when conditions are right, and it preserves the nation’s moral conscience.

Make A Choice That Will Be Remembered

Each society that slid into authoritarianism had a moment – often many moments – when people faced a stark choice: whether to resist early, or to remain passive and hope for the best. Those choices have echoed through history. We remember and honor the ones who got it right, who showed courage when it was most needed. And we lament those who, in hindsight, realize they waited too long.

The patterns of democratic backsliding and delayed resistance we have explored – from 1930s Europe to today – carry an urgent warning. Authoritarianism feeds on apathy and cowardice. Every time citizens excuse lies, tolerate rights being stripped from a minority, or shrug off the corruption of institutions, the new dictator tightens his grip. Opposing these moves early is undeniably hard; it demands vigilance, unity, and bravery at a time when the danger might still feel abstract. But the alternative is far worse. As one analysis of Niemöller’s famous quote observes, “though we all like to imagine we’d be brave dissidents… when put to the test most people are cowards.”​ History pleads with us not to be those complacent people.

For Americans watching polarization and illiberalism with concern, these lessons hit close to home. The United States is not Hungary or Turkey, but no democracy is immune to erosion. The warning signs – whether it’s election denialism, political violence, or leaders who openly admire and emulate foreign strongmen – should never be dismissed. Democracies don’t die in a day; they die through a series of small abuses and escalating norms violations that people let slide. If we fail to push back until the threat is obvious to everyone, it likely means the guardrails have already broken. At that stage, trying to reclaim democracy could be far more dangerous and divisive than anyone wants.

The title of this article is not hyperbole – it is drawn from the accumulated evidence of history. In Russia, we see how late resistance cost Navalny his freedom and life​, whereas millions staying silent earlier allowed Putin to entrench. In Germany, a united front against Nazi propaganda in the 1920s might have averted the cataclysm of the 1940s​. In Venezuela, had more voices across society protested court-packing and media censorship in the early 2000s, the country might have avoided the nightmare of the past decade. The pattern holds: the longer one waits, the higher the price to set things right.

Ultimately, each person and each generation must answer a fundamental question: when the warning signs flash, will we act or will we avert our eyes? Those who chose to act – Navalny writing from prison, Niemöller preaching against Nazi dictates, protesters in Budapest and Istanbul and Caracas standing up for freedom – they may not have stopped the tide immediately, but they kept the flicker of liberty alive. They also ensured that when the history of those dark times was written, it was noted that someone stood up and said no. They serve as bold examples. In contrast, those who remained silent will be remembered, if at all, as those who let fear or indifference guide them, and who left the burden of resistance to their braver compatriots later on.

The conclusion is as stark as it is clear: Resist early, or regret late. No autocrat gives up power willingly; the longer they reign, the more ruthless they become. Early resistance may feel “difficult” – lonely, thankless, even quixotic – but it is our best chance to prevent a slide into the abyss. If we wait until later, until the danger is manifest and all can see it, we may find that resistance has become not only deadly in a literal sense, but a futile pursuit as well. The choices we make at the early stages of democratic backsliding are the ones that will shape our nation’s fate, and they are the choices that will define our legacy.

In the end, whether in Moscow, Berlin, Caracas, Budapest, Ankara, Santiago, or Washington, the message is the same: Do not look the other way. Do not convince yourself that it’s not your problem until it’s too late. The price of liberty is eternal vigilance – and the courage to act on those warnings we see. History will remember what we did or failed to do when freedom was at stake. Let it be said that we recognized the warning signs and answered the call before the point of no return.