

SUBSCRIBE TO OUR FREE NEWSLETTER
Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
5
#000000
#FFFFFF
To donate by check, phone, or other method, see our More Ways to Give page.


Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
Released from jail on this day 130 years ago, the great socialist and labor leader delivered a speech we would do well to remember in these perilous times.
On November 22, 1895, Eugene V. Debs was released from Woodstock Jail, where he had been imprisoned for six months for his leadership of the 1894 Pullman strike. Later that day, before a large crowd of supporters at Battery D in Chicago, he spoke on the topic of “Liberty.”
Debs was a great orator, and “Liberty” is a brilliant speech, powerfully evoking both “the spirit of liberty” heralded by the Declaration of Independence, and the promise of a freedom yet to be redeemed by American workers in thrall to plutocratic government. As Nick Salvatore noted in his classic biography, Eugene V. Debs, Citizen and Socialist, this speech marked an important moment in the evolution of Debs from a radically republican labor activist to the country’s leading socialist.
Debs notes his own situation, “stripped of my constitutional rights as a freeman and shorn of the most sacred prerogatives of American citizenship.” He proceeds to defend the American Railway Union as a necessary and legitimate organization of workers, and the strike as a legitimate means of pursuing justice, which” threw down no gauntlet to courts or armies—it simply resisted the invasion of the rights of workingmen by corporations.”
An adamant defense of worker rights, the speech’s overriding theme is unmistakably the political theme of “liberty” and indeed democracy. This is clear from Debs’s opening words:
Manifestly the spirit of ’76 still survives. The fires of liberty and noble aspirations are not yet extinguished. I greet you tonight as lovers of liberty and as despisers of despotism. I comprehend the significance of this demonstration and appreciate the honor that makes it possible for me to be your guest on such an occasion. The vindication and glorification of American principles of government, as proclaimed to the world in the Declaration of Independence, is the high purpose of this convocation.
The entire first half of the speech centers on the theme of “personal liberty; or giving it its full height, depth, and breadth, American liberty, something that Americans have been accustomed to eulogize since the foundation of the Republic.” Paying tribute to the republic’s founding—"For the first time in the records of all the ages, the inalienable rights of man, ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,’ were proclaimed July 4, 1776”—Debs proceeds to wax poetically, for eight long paragraphs, about the enduring resonance of that 1776 proclamation, the indivisibility of liberty, and the “more than satanic crime of stealing the jewel of liberty from the crown of manhood and reducing the victim of the burglary to slavery or to prison.” It is for this crime that he morally indicts the railroad magnates and their federal government allies for breaking the strike and imprisoning its leaders.
Debs insists that it is the labor movement that most embodies “the spirit of ’76”:
To the unified hosts of American working men fate has committed the charge of rescuing American liberties from the grasp of the vandal horde that have placed them in peril, by seizing the ballot and wielding it to regain the priceless heritage and to preserve and transmit it without scar or blemish to the generations yet to come.
The ballot, Debs notes approvingly, “has been called a weapon that executes a free man’s will as lighting does the will of God.” Debs rhapsodizes in almost religious tones about the power of democratic elections:
There is nothing in our government it cannot remove or amend. It can make and unmake presidents and congresses and courts. It can abolish unjust laws and consign to eternal odium and oblivion unjust judges, strip from them their robes and gowns and send them forth unclean as lepers to bear the burden of merited obloquy as Cain with the mark of a murderer. It can sweep away trusts, syndicates, corporations, monopolies, and every other abnormal development of the money power designed to abridge the liberties of workingmen and enslave them by the degradation incident to poverty and enforced idleness, as cyclones scatter the leaves of the forest. The ballot can do all this and more. It can give our civilization its crowning glory—the cooperative commonwealth.
Debs appreciated the rhetorical and the inspirational power of the dissenting American political tradition that hearkened back to the Revolution and its “spirit of ’76,” a tradition that included his heroes Jefferson, Paine, Garrison, Phillips, Lincoln, and Anthony. And he firmly believed that civil liberties and regular democratic elections represented forms of genuine if precarious social progress whose defense and expansion offered real opportunities for the furtherance of social and economic justice. He was, in short, a democrat.
He ended his speech with the hope that “American lovers of liberty are setting in operation forces to rescue their constitutional liberties from the grasp of monopoly and its mercenary hirelings.” That hope was not in vain, even if the Pullman strike was suppressed and Debs twice found himself in prison for refusing to be silenced, in 1895 and then in 1918 when imprisoned for his famous “Canton address,” critiquing WWI. The labor movement he helped to lead played a crucial role in advancing many of the policies—from the 8-hour workday to occupational safety and health regulation to “social security” broadly understood—that most Americans today simply take for granted. Debs was indeed one of the 20th century’s true crusaders for civil liberties and democratic inclusion. And his distinctive vision of a democratic socialism established an enduring legacy whose most recent heir is New York City’s mayor-elect, Zohran Mamdani, who indeed quoted Debs in his victory speech.
At a time when the Trump administration is attacking liberty on a daily basis, targeting everyone on the left as a “radical lunatic” and “enemy from within,” and seeking to destroy the very possibility of political dissent and opposition, Debs’s paean to “Liberty” on November 22, 1895—and his commitment to its active promotion—has never been more relevant.In the longstanding Western tradition that Trump epitomizes—free speech is the possession of some, meant to be used against others.
In The Dawn of Everything, David Graeber and David Wengrow note that the Western notion of freedom derives from the Roman legal tradition, in which freedom was conceived as “the power of the male household head in ancient Rome, who could do whatever he liked with his chattels and possessions, including his children and slaves.”
Because of this, “freedom was always defined—at least potentially—as something exercised to the cost of others.”
You have to understand this notion of freedom—that to be free, you have to make someone else less free—to make sense of the idea that Donald Trump is a champion of “free speech.”
Trump is still seen by many as a defender of free speech, because he sticks up for the free speech of people whose speech is supposed to matter.
This is, unfortunately, not a fringe idea. Last week, The New York Times (2/25/25) ran a long interview Ezra Klein did with Trump-supporting intellectual (and former CIA officer) Martin Gurri, who said his main reason for voting for Trump was that “I felt like he was for free speech.”
“Free speech is a right-wing cause,” Gurri claimed.
Trump is the “free speech” champion who said of a protester at one of his rallies during the 2016 campaign (Washington Post, 2/23/16): “I love the old days. You know what they used to do to guys like that…? They’d be carried out on a stretcher, folks.”
Trump sues news outlets when he doesn’t like how they edit interviews, or their polling results (New York Times, 2/7/25). Before the election, future Trump FBI Director Kash Patel (FAIR.org, 11/14/24) promised to “come after the people in the media who lied about American citizens, who helped Joe Biden rig presidential elections…. Whether it’s criminally or civilly, we’ll figure that out.” Trump’s FCC chair is considering yanking broadcast licenses from networks for “news distortion,” or for letting former Vice President Kamala Harris have a cameo on Saturday Night Live (FAIR.org, 2/26/25).
Nonetheless, Trump is still seen by many as a defender of free speech, because he sticks up for the free speech of people whose speech is supposed to matter—like right-wingers who weren’t allowed to post content that was deemed hate speech, disinformation, or incitement to violence on social media platforms. As the headline of a FAIR.org piece (11/4/22) by Ari Paul put it, “The Right Thinks Publishers Have No Right Not to Publish the Right.” Another key “free speech” issue for the right, and much of the center: people who have been “canceled” by being criticized too harshly on Twitter (FAIR.org, 8/1/20, 10/23/20).
Now Trump (Truth Social, 3/4/25) has come out with a diktat threatening sanctions against any educational institution that tolerates forbidden demonstrations:
All Federal Funding will STOP for any College, School, or University that allows illegal protests. Agitators will be imprisoned or permanently sent back to the country from which they came. American students will be permanently expelled or, depending on the crime, arrested. NO MASKS!
The reference to banning masks is a reminder that, for the right, freedom is a commodity that belongs to some people and not to others. You have an inalienable right to defy mask mandates, not despite but mainly because you could potentially harm someone by spreading a contagious disease—just as you supposedly have a right to carry an AR-15 rifle. Whereas if you want to wear a mask to protect yourself from a deadly illness—or from police surveillance—sorry, there’s no right to do that.
But more critically, what’s an “illegal protest”? The context, of course, is the wave of campus protests against the genocidal violence unleashed by Israel against Palestinians following the October 7, 2023, attacks (though Trump’s repressive approach to protests certainly is not limited to pro-Palestinian ones).
No one is talking about cracking down on students who proclaim “I Stand With Israel,” on the grounds that they may intimidate Palestinian students—even though they are endorsing an actual, ongoing genocide.
On January 30, Trump promised to deport all international students who “joined in the pro-jihadist protests,” and to “cancel the student visas of all Hamas sympathizers on college campuses, which have been infested with radicalism like never before.” He ordered the Justice Department to “quell pro-Hamas vandalism and intimidation, and investigate and punish anti-Jewish racism in leftist, anti-American colleges and universities.”
A federal task force convened by Trump (CNN, 3/3/25) is threatening to pull $50 million in government contracts from New York’s Columbia University because of its (imaginary) “ongoing inaction in the face of relentless harassment of Jewish students,” which has been facilitated, according to Health and Human Services Secretary Robert Kennedy, by “the censorship and false narratives of woke cancel culture.”
So the expression of ideas—Palestinian solidarity, U.S. criticism, generic “radicalism”—has to be suppressed, because they lead to, if they do not themselves constitute, “harassment of Jewish students” (by which is meant pro-Israel students; Jewish student supporters of Palestinian rights are frequently targets of this suppression). Those ideas constitute “censorship,” and the way to combat this censorship is to ban those ideas.
No one is talking about cracking down on students who proclaim “I Stand With Israel,” on the grounds that they may intimidate Palestinian students—even though they are endorsing an actual, ongoing genocide (FAIR.org, 12/12/24). That’s because—in the longstanding Western tradition that Trump epitomizes—free speech is the possession of some, meant to be used against others.
When billionaires like Musk ally with political forces to dismantle public institutions, they're not just eliminating jobs—they're attempting to redefine freedom as nothing more than market choice.
Last Friday, an estimated 14,000 federal workers were fired from their positions across multiple agencies. Among them was Brian Gibbs, a National Park Service ranger whose heartbreaking account of losing his "dream job" puts a human face on a crisis that threatens the very fabric of American life. "I am the smiling face that greets you at the front door," Gibbs wrote. "I am your family vacation planner... I am the Band-Aid for a skinned knee."
This generous offering of his words reveals an essential truth: Public service is not about bureaucracy—it's about the careful, often invisible, undervalued work of maintaining our society's fundamental freedoms.
These thoughtless mass firings represent more than a reduction in excess workforce. They are an assault on what sociologists call "connective labor"—the deep interpersonal work that underlies all public service. As researcher Allison Pugh explains, this represents a "layer of labor beneath the labor," the essential but often invisible work of building trust and maintaining human connections. When a park ranger comforts a lost child or a cybersecurity expert coordinates across agencies to protect our infrastructure, they're not just performing tasks listed in a job description—they're engaging in the profound work of caring for one another that makes our public institutions function.
Our collective survival depends on workers who prioritize public good over private profit.
This connective labor is the foundation of what we might call care infrastructure—the essential work of maintaining systems that make our daily lives possible and our shared spaces safe. From the Veterans Affairs data scientist developing machine-learning algorithms to serve veterans, to the Forest Service trail crews maintaining backcountry access for rural communities, to the USDA loan technicians supporting small-town development, these federal employees perform work that transcends mere employment. They create the web of trust and mutual recognition that holds our society together. They show up, they maintain a disciplined commitment to public service so that we can be free.
The implications are both immediate and far-reaching. As one ranger warned about the summer season in the National Parks, "There will be nobody to clean the bathrooms, nobody to manage parking, nobody to collect fees, nobody to issue permits, nobody to ensure mountaineers entering steep glaciated terrain have the requisite skills and equipment... nobody to rescue injured or lost hikers. People will die from incidents that would otherwise be just another Tuesday for us."
This crisis reveals a dangerous shift in how we value public service. When billionaires like Elon Musk pressure federal workers to abandon their posts for more lucrative private sector positions, and disturbingly compare federal workers to weeds that have to be eradicated by the root, they demonstrate a fundamental misunderstanding of what freedom means in America. True freedom isn't just about what we're against—whether that's fascism or authoritarianism—but also what we're for. Timothy Snyder argues freedom requires five essential elements: sovereignty (the ability to make meaningful choices about our lives), unpredictability (the power to act outside algorithmic control), mobility (the chance for people to grow beyond their circumstances), factuality (a grip on reality that enables us to challenge it), and solidarity (the recognition that these freedoms must be universal).
Our federal workers are not just employees—they are the guardians of these freedoms, but humble guardians who rarely seek the spotlight. You won't find them giving press conferences or cultivating personal brands. Instead, they show up day after day, maintaining the invisible infrastructure of democracy through quiet dedication rather than grandstanding. This humility isn't a weakness—it's their strength. It allows them to operate beyond political pressures and partisan loyalties, focused solely on their mission of public service.
These are the people who process veterans' benefits without fanfare, who conduct critical medical research at the National Institutes of Health without recognition, who maintain our nation's nuclear security without acclaim. When FEMA workers respond to natural disasters, when Centers for Disease Control and Prevention scientists track disease outbreaks, when Rural Development officers help fund vital infrastructure in small towns—they do so not for glory or profit, but because they believe in the promise of collective well-being. Through their steady, often unseen labor, they create the conditions that make genuine freedom possible. They build the foundation for what Snyder calls "sovereignty"—not the narrow nationalism of isolationists, but the creation of conditions where all individuals, regardless of their circumstances, can make meaningful choices about their lives.
These freedoms don't exist in a vacuum. They require maintenance, protection, and care—the very work being dismissed as "fat on the bone" by those orchestrating these firings. The Environmental Protection Agency scientist who monitors air quality in our cities, the Education Department specialist making education accessible for disabled students, the IRS worker ensuring corporations pay their fair share—these are not luxuries we can afford to lose. They are the essential guardians of our collective freedom.
The timing of these firings is particularly cruel, coming on Valentine's Day and affecting workers like Gibbs, whose wife is expecting a child, and others who have relocated across the country for their dream jobs. There are at least 14,000 stories of dreams destroyed in these 14,000 firings. But beyond the personal tragedies lies a broader threat to our collective democratic values. When we allow unelected billionaires to influence the dismantling of public services, we surrender a piece of our democratic control over the systems that maintain our quality of life.
During the pandemic, a crisis laid bare what had long been invisible: the essential infrastructure of care that sustains our society. We stood at our windows at 7:00 pm to applaud healthcare workers, celebrated delivery drivers as heroes, and finally saw the vital work of public health officials who tracked disease spread and coordinated emergency responses. That moment of recognition revealed a fundamental truth: Our collective survival depends on workers who prioritize public good over private profit.
Yet now, barely three years later, we're witnessing an orchestrated assault on the very concept of public service. This isn't merely about budget cuts or government efficiency—it's about a fundamental attack on the infrastructure of democracy itself. When billionaires like Musk ally with political forces to dismantle public institutions, they're not just eliminating jobs—they're attempting to redefine freedom as nothing more than market choice. This convergence of oligarchic wealth and authoritarian politics threatens not just our government services, but our very capacity to exist as a democratic society. Our freedom to thrive—to access public spaces, to trust our infrastructure, to rely on essential services—hangs in the balance.
The effects of these firings will ripple through our communities for months, perhaps years to come. When national parks become dangerous or inaccessible due to understaffing, when public utilities face increased vulnerability to cyber attacks, when basic government services break down, we'll all feel the impact. But by then, it may be too late to reverse the damage.
We must recognize this moment for what it is: a critical juncture in the fight for American democracy. The question isn't just about government jobs—it's about what kind of society we want to be. Do we want to live in a country where public service is devalued and dismantled, where the careful work of maintaining our shared spaces and systems is abandoned in favor of private profit? Or do we want to preserve and protect the essential care labor that makes our freedoms possible?
The answer to these questions will determine not just the fate of 14,000 federal workers, but the future of American democracy itself. As Ranger Gibbs reminded us, we must "stay present, don't avert your gaze." But what does it mean to truly stay present in this moment of crisis? Timothy Snyder, writing about tyranny in 2017, provided an answer: "Power wants your body softening in your chair and your emotions dissipating on a screen... Get outside. Put your body in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people."
This is how we defend our freedoms—not through passive observation, but through active solidarity with those who maintain our democratic infrastructure. We must stand alongside the park rangers who protect our public lands, the cybersecurity experts who safeguard our systems, and all the federal workers whose invisibilized care labor has long been the bedrock of our democracy. Their fight is our fight. Their freedom is our freedom. The time to act is now. Not just to protest these firings, but to reaffirm our commitment to the very idea of public service—to recognize that our collective freedom depends on the careful, committed work of those who choose to serve their communities rather than chase private profit. In defending these workers, we defend the possibility of a democracy built on care, connection, and collective well-being.