Who are you hoping is coming to save us? (Part 1)

From the decks of the sinking Titanic, passengers and crew could see a light twinkling through the dark. It looked tantalizingly close—close enough, in fact, that Captain Smith ordered Lifeboat 8 to row toward it, drop off passengers, and return for more.

The ship went down into 28°F water, and the air in the open lifeboats was equally frigid. Many passengers wore little more than a nightgown with a life vest thrown over. They grabbed oars and rowed.

Some rowed just to keep warm. Some rowed for fear of being sucked under as the ship sank. And some rowed toward that tantalizing light on the horizon—the light of a ship that might save them.

Sunday—election day in Germany—was oddly quiet. My partner Danny and I strolled to the education department at the University of Hamburg, which would be our polling place if we could vote here. I was curious to see the vibe, wondering if there’d be long lines, or people flyering outside, or music playing. But I got nothing: just a “polling place” sign on the door and an intermittent trickle of people disappearing inside to cast their ballots. Nothing to indicate, to my untrained American eyes, a seismic political moment.

At 6 pm, the election was over. 82.5% of voters had cast their ballots in the highest-turnout election since German reunification in 1990. (For reference, my fellow Americans: the 2020 U.S. election saw our highest turnout since 1900—at 66%.)

And as predicted, the AfD, Germany’s far-right nationalist party, won 20% of seats in the Bundestag (parliament)—doubling its vote share from the last elections in 2021. A seismic shift indeed.

For now, it appears the other parties’ pledge to never ally with the AfD will hold. The center-right party and the center-left party will likely form a governing coalition. And so the basic center of gravity of power here will remain mostly in place… satisfying very few people, leaving Germany’s economic woes unresolved, with little chance of progressive policies that might create a fairer economy for working people. (Sound familiar, Americans?) So—what to do about the fact that the AfD is now the second-largest party? Nobody seems to know.

We held a small post-election gathering with some of Danny’s fellowship mates—just a handful of us, some gin and tonics, and a crumpled-up cookie cake that I dubbed “cookie pudding” after I took it out of the oven too soon and it melted through the wires of the cooling rack.

As we sipped our G&Ts, we mostly talked of other things. But one of Danny’s fellow fellows, a Belgian scholar, commented that he thought the AfD’s wave had crested, that this would be their high-water mark.

I don’t pretend to know much about German politics, nor am I in the business of predicting. But as he said it, I felt a sense of foreboding inside. It felt all too similar to U.S. pundits’ wishful thinking, trotted out in op-ed after op-ed over the last decade, that “Trump fever” was just on the verge of breaking. Still, I can’t blame Danny’s colleague for hoping it’s true.

There’s an air of resignation among the people we know here in Hamburg. A sense of relief that it wasn’t worse than the polls predicted. A sense of foreboding, that those in power won’t do enough to address the conditions that give oxygen to the flames of fascism. Alongside a helplessness that feels familiar: This is what our country is now. Who or what will save us from this path?

Danny and I are propped up on pillows on our bed, video chatting with his brother.

“What’s it like at Berkeley? Have you been impacted?” Danny asks. Sometimes we forget how far we are from what’s happening in the U.S. until we ask.

Tim tells us. About how grants have been frozen, how his department isn’t affected yet, but he knows people who are, and his soon might be. “What’s really disgusting to me,” he says, “is how places like Harvard and Stanford are making these announcements about ending their inclusion programs or firing their equity and diversity staff or whatever, and using the executive orders as an excuse. Like, you’re a private institution, you have literally billions of dollars, you don’t have to cave already.”

“At least it shows how shallow their commitments really were all along,” Danny says.

“That’s true,” says Tim. “But I’ve been reading this book—” he reaches off screen with a little grunt— “it’s called On Tyranny, and it’s laid out as these historical lessons. And the first lesson is ‘Don’t obey in advance.’ Hang on, let me find it.” He flips through. “Aha, here. ‘Most of the power of authoritarianism is freely given. In times like these, individuals think ahead about what a more repressive government will want, and then offer themselves without being asked. A citizen who adapts in this way is teaching power what it can do.’”

He pauses. “‘Don’t obey in advance.’ And look at what they’re doing.” He shakes his head. “Spineless.”

Danny shakes his head, too—the slow, hangdog shake particular to academics, exhausted from years of climbing the endless stairs of the ivory tower. “If we had any illusions that our institutions of higher education would save us…” he sighs. “Now we know.”

Lately, it seems like we’re all looking for someone to save us.

On the right, I saw it in the months leading up to the election, from the comments on Trump’s and Fox News’ Instagram accounts—so many variations of “Trump will SAVE the USA!!”—and I see it now, when the popular rightwing newsletter I subscribe to trumpets that “Elon Musk is an Economic Savior for America.”

And I see it on the left, now that Trump’s back in office. There is fantastic organizing happening, to be sure. (More on this next time.) But the overall vibe on the left is noticeably more subdued than 2017—more fatigued than fighting spirit. And I can’t blame us.

As a progressive organizer, in 2017, I grew accustomed to people asking me, “What can I do?” (with an eagerness that signaled, I’m ready, sign me up!). In 2025, the more common question is, “Who’s gonna do something?” followed by a wishful guess at who might.

Some of us are hoping that the Democrats will grow a backbone and save us. Consider: Just after the election, when asked who they believed would stop Project 2025 (the playbook Trump and Musk are now implementing), a plurality of voters said Democrats in Congress. This, despite Democrats being in the minority, despite having no real governing power, despite having failed to prove a collective ability to be bold even when they have held power.

Some are hoping that a few Republicans in Congress will vote against their party and save us—even though the Susan Collinses and Bill Cassidys of the Senate have demonstrated, over and over and over, that their “concerns” are rarely worth their votes.

Some are hoping that the courts will save us. Despite the abundance of evidence that the Supreme Court is not on the side of the people.

Some of us are hoping—oh, how we’re hoping—that cracks will emerge in the Trump coalition, and his defectors will save us, as they reject the scam he and Musk are pulling. The media is full of stories like this, because it’s candy for liberals. As his support implodes, our wishful thinking goes, so will his power.

Look, I’m all for flights of fancy—creative imagination will help us through this, and who doesn’t dream of a prince on a white steed from time to time, anyway? I’d like to request James Marsden in Enchanted, please, but I’ll settle for anyone with power to just, you know… fix things.

But… that’s not how it works.

Don’t get me wrong: some Democrats are being bold. Some institutions are refusing to obey in advance. There are badass legal challenges working their way through the courts. Even Susan Collins does, occasionally, vote no. Some bad things are being stopped and will be stopped. And these are important victories.

But when I flip through the Rolodex of potential saviors—whether cultural and educational institutions, Democrats, Republicans, Trump voters themselves, or even the nebulous breaking of “Trump fever”—I’m faced with the fundamental problem: Focusing on those saviors lets me sit back and wait for someone to come along. It lets me succumb to numbness, or fear, or doom scrolling; it lets me look away from what’s happening or pretend it isn’t. And the effect, essentially, is to tacitly obey in advance. To not act. To teach power what it can do.

Nobody’s coming to save us. So that leaves us with… ourselves. As the oft-quoted poet June Jordan wrote, “We are the ones we have been waiting for.” We are the ones who will change things.

On the one hand—welp. Bummer. On the other—there is power in our hands. That’s exciting!

I know a lot of people who don’t know where to start. And there are too many articles out there already about how we need to “get involved locally” or “take to the streets.” (Both are true, but that advice on its own often feels more overwhelming than empowering, doesn’t it?)

In my next post, I’m exploring what it looks like to really be the ones we’ve been waiting for—to not wait for saviors, to take hold of our power. And what Germany’s past and present can tell us about it.

In the meantime, I want to know two things. Reply in the comments:

• Who have you been hoping comes to save us? Do you think they can?
• What is an example of tangible change-making you know about that brings you some hope? Something in your community or elsewhere; something you were involved in or not; something happening now, recent, or a while ago… doesn’t matter, I just wanna know the details.

By the way, here are two other important stats I’m holding onto right now:

• Trump won with less than 50% of the popular vote.
• Only 30% of Trump voters said, just after the election, that they believed Trump supports the policy proposals of Project 2025. It’s so unpopular, including among his voters, that they simply didn’t believe he would implement it.

All to say: there is no mandate for what Trump and Musk are doing. They are the ship about to be sunk by their own hubris—and we do not need to go down with that ship.

More next time. In the meantime, lemme know your thoughts. What’d I leave out?

Love,

Ari

P.S. The light that the passengers of the Titanic could see on the horizon was probably not a mirage, but scholars differ on what it was. Some say the S.S. Californian, the nearest known ship on the ocean that night; some insist on a mystery ship between the two; and of course, conspiracy theories abound. (But that’s all a topic for a different post.) Whatever the source of the light, the boats that rowed toward it never reached it. In the end, it was an entirely different ship, the Carpathia, that came steaming over the horizon to rescue them. Even then, the survivors had to row themselves in sync—frozen, exhausted, and traumatized—through increasingly blustery seas, to the shelter of the ship’s side, before the ordeal was over. And the simple act of rowing helped keep at least some of them warm and spirits up through the long night.

At the risk of extending the metaphor too far, there could be a Carpathia just over the horizon. But no matter what, the task at hand is clear: pick up an oar and row. 

What else:

• The Dems won’t save us, but they can sure as hell do a lot more than they are right now.
• Ok, maybe the Associated Press will save us? Love to see defiant word nerds.
• Our ability to access joy and humor just might save us. If you’re in Boston, go see my dear friend Melissa’s show, Beastly, this weekend—you’ll confront the state of the world while laughing your ass off. Plus, tickets benefit 3 great orgs.
• A 24-hour economic blackout is happening today. There’s SO much we could discuss about boycotts like this! But for now I’ll just say, if you’re on the fence about participating: Why not?
• If nothing else sticks with you from this post, this bop certainly will.