Chris Abraham

When words like “Nazi” and “Hitler” get used to describe everything from bureaucratic enforcement to genocide, it creates a dangerous moral distortion.

On one side, those words historically mean organized extermination, mass shootings, and people disappearing into graves. On the other, they are often used today to mean cruelty, unfairness, or the violation of social justice norms. Those are not the same claim, but they are treated as if they were.

That gap matters because of how it affects behavior. If someone is being accused of being equivalent to genocidal killers, and they know they are not lining people up and shooting them, then a strange logic can take over: anything short of mass murder starts to feel morally irrelevant.

There appears to be a wide zone of “still not Nazi” territory where increasingly harsh actions feel justified, because the ultimate accusation has already been made.

At the same time, if even small acts of enforcement or inconvenience are described as “disappearances,” “kidnapping,” or “literal Nazism,” then language loses its ability to distinguish between levels of harm. Everything becomes maximal, even when the reality is not.

That mismatch creates a feedback loop. One side believes it is calling out injustice and cruelty. The other hears itself being accused of genocide and responds by hardening, not softening, because the accusation has already gone as far as it can go. When moral language stops grading severity, it stops restraining power.

In a world where real people are being arrested, detained, and sometimes killed, that collapse of meaning is not just rhetorical. It shapes how far force is pushed, and how little incentive there is to pull back.

What keeps getting lost in this argument is agency.

The people who confront ICE are not confused about what they are doing. They know these agents carry weapons. They know confrontations can turn lethal. They know they are stepping into a space where the state has a monopoly on force. And yet they show up anyway.

That matters.

You can believe their cause is destructive. You can think their worldview is warped. You can even think their actions are reckless, dangerous, or morally wrong. But it is intellectually dishonest to pretend they are merely misinformed or accidental participants in a system they don’t understand.

They are making a conscious wager with death.

That doesn’t make them wise. It doesn’t make them virtuous. It doesn’t mean they are right. It means they are not cowards.

There is a difference between bravery and goodness. There is a difference between courage and correctness. History is full of people who were willing to die for ideas that were terrible. The willingness to face lethal risk is still a form of courage, even when the cause itself is misguided or destructive.

You can reject what they stand for while still acknowledging what they are doing: deliberately stepping into danger, fully aware of the consequences.

That combination of clarity and risk is rare. And it’s why this moment feels volatile. People who believe they are already dead behave very differently than people who think they are safe.

That is what you are actually seeing.

Since when did “living in a free country” mean “living in a safe” or “living in a kind” country. Freedom suggests that everyone is doing their own thing even if and when it doesn’t agree or vibe with your thing. Wait, do you mean “freedom from?” That’s a pretty strong redefinition of the term, but I get it. The State is not your friend.

People are reacting to masked federal agents as proof that the rule of law is ending. That fear is legitimate. History shows how quickly unaccountable armed power can turn brutal and unjust.

But what keeps getting missed is why this does not trigger universal rejection. Many Americans believe the rule of law already failed in their daily lives. Not in theory, but on the street. Open drug markets. Encampments. Repeat violent offenders cycling through courts. Borders that feel unenforced. Police constrained. Institutions frozen. From their perspective, disorder won first.

So when Trump signals force, even ugly force, they do not hear tyranny. They hear reassertion. They hear someone finally willing to make the law real again.

This is not about loving chaos. It is about believing chaos already took over and that only pressure can push it back.

That is what I mean by the resettlement of America. It is a frontier instinct. When a place feels lost, people do not reach for process. They reach for sheriffs. They want the ground retaken, the lines redrawn, and the rules enforced again, even if the method is harsh and risky.

None of this makes it moral. History is full of innocent people being crushed when states use force to reassert control. That danger is real.

But politically, this is not a coup against America. It is America expressing what it thinks it needs to survive. A majority voted for friction because they think polite legalism failed and unmanaged disorder was tearing the country apart.

If that diagnosis is wrong, the answer is not panic. It is rebuilding real order that does not require men in masks. Until then, fear of state power will keep losing to fear of collapse.