The No Kings Protests Proved That Seeing and Naming the Problem Is Not Enough
What do we do when 7 million people can see clearly and it changes nothing? When recognition is no longer power but only knowledge of the condition we are trapped inside?
In March 2023, anticipating his indictment, Donald Trump stood before a Conservative Political Action Conference audience and delivered what seemed like two speeches at once. "I am your warrior, I am your justice," he declared. "And for those who have been wronged and betrayed, I am your retribution." The crowd roared. But in the same breath, he pivoted to grievance: The radical Left was "indicting me in a disgusting witch hunt." Within minutes, he had performed both triumph and victimhood, the strongman and the martyr. His supporters saw no contradiction. His poll numbers surged.
By October 2025, over 7 million Americans took to the streets in the largest protests in the nation's history. The "No Kings" demonstrations erupted in every major city and hundreds of smaller towns, a collective outcry against government overreach and authoritarian drift. Millions saw the danger clearly enough to leave their homes and march. They named it. They refused it. They made it visible.
Trump's response deployed the same contradictory logic. House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) called it a "hate America rally" funded by George Soros and the Communist Party. Fox News warned of "Antifa terrorists descending on American cities." Yet when protests remained peaceful, those same outlets pivoted within hours. The demonstrators were "pathetically small," just "crybabies." A White House spokesperson's official response: "Who cares? Cry more, libs." The protesters were both too weak to matter and too dangerous to ignore, often in the same sentence.
What happened next revealed something darker than hypocrisy. Seven million people saw clearly, organized, and marched. And they discovered that seeing changes nothing when power no longer requires coherence. The contradiction is not a flaw. It is the performance itself.
We are not living in a failure of awareness. We are living in the space after awareness, in the gap between recognition and power, and that gap is where the system has learned to thrive.
How he got there reveals the pattern. Two years before those protests, Trump had been trailing badly. Two-thirds of voters said he should not run again. Primary challengers drew real support. His legal troubles should have finished him. But the contradiction that should have destroyed him became the engine that restored him. The party was remade not despite the oscillation between victim and victor, but because of it.
Hannah Arendt saw this coming decades ago. Writing in 1951 after fleeing Nazi Germany, she observed that "the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and that nothing was true." Totalitarian propaganda discovered that its audience no longer demanded consistency. When confronted with proof of falsehood, people would not abandon their leaders. They would take refuge in cynicism and admire the leaders for their "superior tactical cleverness."
Trump embodies this contradiction instinctively, moving between narcissistic wound (he is persecuted, silenced) and narcissistic grandiosity (he is unstoppable, the sole force capable of restoration). But figures like Stephen Miller have systematized what Trump performs on instinct. Miller's invocation of the 1798 Alien Enemies Act shows how emotional oscillation becomes policy. The law, designed for wartime, was reframed as defensive necessity: a persecuted administration forced to use emergency powers because "radical judges" tied their hands. Victimhood becomes justification. Dominance becomes outcome.
The mechanism works because it offers psychological completion. Most political movements offer either victimhood or triumph. Grievance movements mobilize through persecution but risk feeling powerless. Triumphalist movements mobilize through strength but alienate those who feel left behind. This offers both simultaneously. Followers never have to choose between feeling wronged and feeling victorious. They get the emotional satisfaction of grievance and dominance at once. Umberto Eco observed that in fascist ideology, "The enemies are at the same time too strong and too weak." The contradiction structures belief itself.
In September 2025, that belief became policy, enacted on bodies in the middle of the night.
Residents of a Chicago apartment building were woken by helicopters overhead. Hundreds of armed federal agents swarmed the building, some rappelling from Black Hawks. They kicked down doors, deployed flash-bang grenades, overturned mattresses. By dawn, dozens of Venezuelan nationals had been detained. But American citizens were swept up too. Residents were forced from apartments at gunpoint, zip-tied, marched outside in whatever clothes they had been sleeping in. Families were separated. One witness described an agent forcibly removing an infant from its mother's arms.
Chicago's mayor protested: "This was a show of authoritarianism, a forceful display of tyranny." But the images had done their work. They circulated on Fox as proof of law and order restored. Yet even as children were separated from parents and citizens detained without cause, Trump's social media performed pure victimhood. He posted about persecution by Democratic mayors and radical judges. The contradiction traveled through separate channels, reaching separate audiences, never forced into the same frame. Fox broadcast strength. MSNBC covered constitutional violations. Truth Social performed grievance while Homeland Security performed dominance. Both worked.
The same logic framed the No Kings protests. Before they began, Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy declared the peaceful demonstrations would be "part of Antifa." When millions showed up and remained peaceful, the narrative pivoted instantly. Newsmax dubbed it, "No Kings, Just Crybabies." But the framing went beyond weakness. It extended into psychiatric territory. Commentators called protesters "deranged," "unwell," "delusional." The language recycled an old tactic: Discredit protest by diagnosing the protester. In the 1960s, diagnoses of schizophrenia spiked among Black civil rights activists. The DSM was revised to include "hostility" and "aggression" as symptoms. Men demanding rights were labeled schizophrenic. In 2025, Minnesota legislators introduced a bill classifying "Trump Derangement Syndrome" as a formal psychiatric condition. It did not pass. It did not need to.
The paradox persists because it never occupies a single frame. Media fragmentation ensures different audiences encounter different versions of reality. Fox broadcasts the strongman: Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids, military flights, executive orders. Mainstream outlets emphasize grievance: persecution narratives, legal battles, claims of being silenced. Algorithmic systems ensure most people encounter only one version. The contradiction never gets forced into the same space where it would have to be reconciled.
Social media algorithms reward emotional extremes. A message declaring, "We are wronged" enrages opponents, who boost its visibility by arguing. The same message proclaiming, "We will prevail" energizes supporters who share it widely. A single post can simultaneously trend on Truth Social as evidence of persecution and on Twitter as evidence of dominance, the two narratives never intersecting. The administration posts images of people in chains, then hours later claims of censorship. Both spread efficiently. Both accomplish their purpose.
This creates exhaustion that functions as a weapon. Every news alert feels like whiplash. He is persecuted. No, he is ordering deportations. He is under attack. No, he is deploying troops. Courts rig the system against him. No, he appoints the judges. The exhaustion hardens into cynicism: "Both sides lie." "It's all performance." "I'm checking out." When the exhausted middle withdraws, they stop bearing witness. When people stop expecting coherence, accountability disappears.
Arendt wrote that totalitarian movements thrive when people believe nothing. Followers "do not particularly object to being deceived because they hold every statement to be a lie anyhow." The lie is not a problem. Its exposure creates no crisis. What matters is emotional alignment, belonging, shared enemies. The leader who can be both victim and victor is winning on multiple levels simultaneously.
When power no longer requires coherence, accountability becomes impossible. How do you hold someone responsible for contradictions when supporters admire them as tactical brilliance? The administration passed a reconciliation bill allocating $170 billion for immigration enforcement through standard procedure. Democratic forms persist. Democratic substance drains away. This is not a coup. It is a hollowing.
Dissent faces a trap with no exit. When protesters wept at family separations, they were mocked as "liberal tears." When activists cited asylum law and statistics, they were dismissed as coastal elites. When silent, they were accused of complicity. When marching, they were cast as mobs. Every response is pre-discredited. Emotion is hysteria. Reason is elitism. Silence is complicity. Action is extremism.
The asymmetry reveals where power lives. When the Tea Party filled town halls with rage in 2009, their anger was received as patriotic conviction. When college students mourned the 2016 election, "liberal tears" became memes within days. Conservative anger is always righteous. Liberal grief is always weakness. Power decides whose feelings count and whose pain gets laughed off stage.
Seven million Americans marched in October 2025 believing that visibility would matter, that naming the threat clearly would create accountability. They understood exactly what was happening. The problem was that understanding provides no protection when power has learned to function without requiring coherence.
The No Kings protests represented the largest collective act of recognition in American history. Millions simultaneously saw the danger, named it accurately, organized around shared perception, and took to the streets. And they discovered that recognition without power is the new condition. The system continues not because it has convinced them, but because it operates in the space between recognition and action, in the gap between seeing and being able to stop what you see. The administration does not need to hide. It does not need to persuade people that contradictions make sense. It only needs to ensure that recognition alone cannot interrupt the machinery.
This is what the protests proved. Not that Americans are unaware or complicit. Millions are paying attention. They see what is happening. They name it correctly. They refuse it loudly. Yet the system continues. We are not living in a failure of awareness. We are living in the space after awareness, in the gap between recognition and power, and that gap is where the system has learned to thrive.
The strongman's paradox is not really a paradox. It is the logic of authoritarian power when truth has become optional, when coherence is no longer required, when contradiction works better than consistency ever did. To see with clarity that coherence no longer governs, that the contradiction is the point, that demanding truth from power is the wrong question—this is not despair. It is the beginning of sight.
Then we face the harder question. What do we do when 7 million people can see clearly and it changes nothing? When recognition is no longer power but only knowledge of the condition we are trapped inside? The protests made one thing certain: We are living in the gap between recognition and power. The question is not whether we see. The question is what we build in the space where seeing is not enough.
