The Silence of the Reasonable

When Those Who Know Better Say Nothing

There's a particular kind of despair that comes not from your enemies' triumph but from your allies' abdication. It's the cold realization that those who should be standing with you—those who know better, who have seen this movie before, who understand what's at stake—have chosen comfortable irrelevance instead of necessary discomfort. This is where I find myself today, watching America's descent into absurdity and danger while those who once occupied the highest offices in the land maintain a silence that grows more damning by the day.

Where is Barack Obama—the constitutional law professor, the eloquent defender of democratic norms—as the current administration casually texts classified war plans to journalists and then claims it didn't happen? Where is George W. Bush—who whatever his faults understood the gravity of national security—as unqualified television hosts are confirmed to lead the Pentagon? Where is Joe Biden as deportation planes carry people to countries where they face torture and death without due process? Where is Kamala Harris as the institutional guardrails she warned about during the campaign collapse exactly as predicted?

The silence is deafening, and increasingly, indefensible.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And the failure of America's elder statesmen and women to forcefully respond to our present crisis represents not just a political miscalculation but a profound moral abdication.

I write this not as a leftist seeking to drag the conversation toward some ideological extreme. I am, and have long been, a liberal in the tradition that stretches from Madison to Mill to Lincoln—committed to constitutional governance, to the rule of law, to the productive tension between liberty and order that makes democracy possible. But increasingly, I find myself in the bizarre position of seeing Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez—figures well to my left—as among the few prominent politicians willing to speak with moral clarity about what we're witnessing.

This isn't about policy preferences or ideological positioning. It's about the basic moral courage to name what is happening: a systematic assault on democratic governance being met with strategic silence from those who know better. It's about the willingness to risk political capital, media criticism, and the accusation of alarmism to stand for basic principles that should transcend partisan calculation.

And now, a word to those who have pulled away—friends and colleagues who have privately suggested that my concerns represent some form of derangement, some irrational fixation, some loss of perspective:

Fuck you.

I say this not in blind anger but in precise moral judgment. Fuck you for the thinness of your friendship. For the emptiness of your shared moral commitments to our common cause. To our nation. To humanity. I owe you nothing. And don't be surprised when your name appears on these pages, as it should, held up to the moral light. For all to see.

This isn't about hurt feelings or personal grievance. It's about the fundamental failure of moral seriousness in a moment that demands it. It's about the casual ease with which you dismiss legitimate alarm as “derangement,” how you pathologize the appropriate response to genuine danger as some form of mental instability.

What you call “Trump Derangement Syndrome” is actually moral clarity. It's the recognition that what we're witnessing isn't normal political disagreement but constitutional crisis. It's the refusal to normalize the abnormal, to pretend that traditional political calculations still apply when the very foundations of democratic governance are under assault.

The conventional wisdom seems to be that former presidents should remain above the fray, that dignified silence best serves institutional stability, that speaking out would only further inflame divisions. But this conventional wisdom assumes normal times, normal transitions, normal disagreements between the parties. It assumes that institutional memory and professional norms will naturally reassert themselves, that excesses will be tempered by experience, that the center will inevitably hold.

But what if these assumptions are wrong? What if silence in the face of institutional collapse doesn't preserve democracy but enables its demise? What if the dignified reluctance to “get involved” is actually a form of complicity—a way of preserving personal reputation and relationships at the expense of the very system these leaders once swore to defend?

The historical precedents are not encouraging. When democracy collapses, it rarely happens through a single dramatic coup. More often, it erodes through a series of norm violations that gradually become accepted as the new normal. Each transgression that goes unchallenged makes the next one easier. Each institutional failure that passes without consequence weakens the entire structure. Each silence from those who should know better normalizes what should remain unthinkable.

There's a particularly insidious form of institutional capture that happens not through dramatic confrontation but through quiet acquiescence. It's the process by which reasonable people convince themselves that speaking up would be counterproductive, that working within the system is more effective than challenging it, that maintaining access and influence requires accepting certain compromises. It's how good people become complicit in terrible things—not because they approve, but because they've convinced themselves that their silence serves some greater strategic purpose.

But at some point, this calculus fails. At some point, the compromises become so fundamental, the norm violations so egregious, the dangers so immediate that silence itself becomes a moral position—and an indefensible one.

We are at that point now.

When national security officials can text classified war plans to journalists and face no consequences, we are at that point.

When the Secretary of Defense can be a former television host with no relevant experience, we are at that point.

When the Attorney General deflects questions about security breaches by invoking Hillary Clinton's emails, we are at that point.

When people are deported to face torture without due process, we are at that point.

When press secretaries refuse follow-ups on matters of grave national concern, we are at that point.

This is not normal political disagreement. This is not a policy dispute where reasonable people can differ. This is an existential threat to constitutional governance itself—and it demands a response from those who have held the highest offices in our system and understand what's at stake.

The irony is that by remaining silent in an effort to preserve their stature and influence, these former leaders are actually diminishing both. Their silence is increasingly interpreted not as dignified restraint but as tacit acceptance. Their reluctance to engage is seen not as principled deference to democratic transitions but as moral cowardice in the face of democratic erosion.

And the vacuum they leave is not remaining empty. It's being filled by voices from the political margins—some thoughtful and principled, others opportunistic and extreme. The absence of centrist moral leadership doesn't preserve the center; it abandons the field to those with less institutional investment in the system itself.

I find myself thinking of an observation Hannah Arendt made about how totalitarianism succeeds: not just through the actions of true believers, but through the acquiescence of those who know better. The bureaucrats who continue processing paperwork for policies they privately find abhorrent. The journalists who report outrages as routine political developments. The opposition figures who calculate that strategic silence today will preserve their influence tomorrow—even as that tomorrow never arrives.

The same pattern applies to personal relationships in times of moral crisis. The friends who pull away when moral clarity becomes too uncomfortable. The colleagues who prioritize social ease over ethical demands. The confidants who suggest that your concern about genuine dangers represents some form of pathology rather than appropriate alarm.

This is not a call for partisan warfare or permanent opposition. It's a recognition that certain principles transcend party and require defense regardless of political calculation. The rule of law. The peaceful transfer of power. The integrity of national security. The protection of basic human rights. These aren't partisan values; they're the foundation of constitutional democracy itself.

Former presidents and political leaders have unique moral authority precisely because they've seen the system from the inside. They understand the pressures, the constraints, the responsibilities that come with high office. Their voices carry weight that others' don't. Their warnings resonate differently. Their interventions can create space for others to speak up.

This moral authority is not a possession to be hoarded but a responsibility to be exercised—particularly when the system they once led faces its greatest tests. The question is not whether speaking out carries risks; of course it does. The question is whether the risks of silence have become greater—and increasingly, the answer seems clear.

I'm not suggesting that former presidents should become daily commentators on every political development. I'm not calling for them to lead the resistance or engage in partisan campaigning. I'm asking for moral clarity about fundamental principles—the kind of clarity we would expect from anyone who has taken an oath to defend the Constitution, regardless of party.

Where are the joint statements from former presidents condemning the breakdown of basic operational security in national defense? Where are the bipartisan commissions of former cabinet officials addressing the appointment of manifestly unqualified individuals to critical security positions? Where are the public letters from former attorneys general expressing alarm at the politicization of justice?

The silence creates a void where moral clarity should be. It leaves ordinary citizens wondering if perhaps things aren't as serious as they seem—because surely if they were, those who know best would be speaking out. It creates the dangerous impression that what we're witnessing is within the normal bounds of political disagreement rather than an extraordinary threat to constitutional governance itself.

This brings me back to the strange position I find myself in—looking to figures like Sanders and Ocasio-Cortez for the moral clarity I would expect from centrist former presidents and officials. I don't share all their policy preferences. I don't embrace their full ideological vision. But I recognize in their willingness to name what is happening, to speak directly to the dangers we face, a moral courage that seems increasingly rare among those who should be leading this conversation.

The center cannot hold if those who claim to represent it refuse to defend it when it matters most. Institutions cannot protect themselves; they require human beings willing to stand for the principles that animate them. Democracy cannot survive on automatic pilot; it needs active stewardship, particularly in moments of crisis.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And the silence of reasonable people in unreasonable times doesn't preserve reason—it surrenders the field to unreason. It doesn't protect institutions—it abandons them to those who would destroy them from within.

The time for dignified silence has passed. The stakes are too high. The dangers too immediate. The damage already being done too severe. What we need now is not strategic restraint but moral clarity—the willingness to name what is happening and stand for the principles that make democracy possible.

If those who have led our nation in the past cannot find their voices now, when will they? If defending basic constitutional governance against manifest threats is seen as too partisan, too political, too controversial—then what exactly are we preserving by remaining silent? A system that exists only in theory while being dismantled in practice? Institutions whose norms are respected only by those who are watching them be violated?

The abyss is not coming. We are already falling into it. And those who know better, who have seen the system from the inside, who understand the fragility of democratic governance—they owe us more than silence. They owe us truth. They owe us leadership. They owe us the moral clarity that their experience uniquely qualifies them to provide.

In the absence of this leadership, we must look where we can find it—even if it comes from unexpected quarters, even if it aligns us temporarily with those whose broader visions we may not fully share. Because some principles transcend normal political divisions. Some moments demand setting aside ideological preferences for the defense of the system itself.

This is such a moment. The question is whether those who should be leading this defense will find their voices before it's too late.

If the silence continues, history will not be kind. And neither should we be.

They owe us their voices.

We owe them our memory.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” — Edmund Burke (though the exact quote is disputed)