How Democracy Died in Germany — and the Eerie Parallels to Today

A disgraced traitor weaponized fear, broke norms, and turned democracy against itself. Hitler's rise is a stark warning of how freedom collapses when institutions fail to stand their ground.

Adolf Hitler, 1937 | Photo by Heinrich Hoffmann via German Federal Archives

By Brian Daitzman

They said his criminal record would destroy him — but it made him a martyr. Every indictment, every charge of treason, only deepened his bond with the angry and the forgotten. He didn’t promise unity. He promised revenge. And as the crowds cheered louder, as the headlines blared his name in outrage, he didn’t shrink. He soared. Because in their eyes, he wasn’t the threat to democracy — he was its reckoning.

His past was steeped in scandal — a felon, accused of treason and sedition, his actions and rhetoric frequently straddling the line of legality. He was convicted for attempting to overthrow the government, yet this criminal history didn’t disqualify him. It only made him more appealing to those who viewed the establishment as corrupt and broken. Instead of disqualifying him, his criminal record and charges became part of his defiant charm, painting him as an outsider willing to fight the system. Every accusation, every charge of treason, only fueled his rise, showing his supporters that he could not be tamed and was the only one willing to challenge the powers that had held the nation in their grip.

At first, they dismissed him. The elites, the media, the political class — they thought they could control him. They mocked him as a sideshow, a foolish provocateur, destined to be forgotten. But in the wake of high inflation, economic instability, and a country that had lost its bearings, his words struck a chord with those who had been cast aside. In an age of rising populism, economic dislocation, and a shrinking middle class, his rhetoric didn’t promise solutions — it promised retribution. It wasn’t just blame he offered; it was a convenient, scapegoated enemy to rally against. His was a message soaked in anger, dripping with resentment for anyone deemed an outsider. Minorities, immigrants, political rivals — all of them were the root of the nation’s collapse. And in this narrative of vengeance, he found his power.

It wasn’t just the forgotten and the downtrodden who rallied to him. His support was a web of disenfranchised voters, alienated workers, and desperate communities — a rage that turned inward, then outward. People who had once believed in the promise of democracy now saw him as their only hope, their only defender. He was the hammer to crush a system they believed had betrayed them. They didn’t care what he stood for, as long as he was willing to destroy the things they hated. And with every provocation, every scandal, his following grew — spurred on by his audacity and his defiance. The more they despised him, the more they were drawn to him, their loyalty strengthening with every wave of mockery that he deflected effortlessly.

And the elites—those in power who thought they could control him, who thought they could use him as a pawn — were blindsided. They believed they could keep him in check, that they could appease him, use his base for their own gain. But they underestimated him. The more they belittled him, the stronger he became. He wasn’t a puppet to be manipulated — he was the one pulling the strings. He turned their ridicule into strength, feeding off their disbelief. They thought he was a joke, but soon they realized too late that they were the joke, and he had mastered the art of media manipulation. By the time they tried to pull him back, they were already too deep in the web he had spun.

The media, once its fierce critics, now played into his hands. They thought they could contain him, frame him as an outsider, someone to laugh at. But he knew their game. He used their skepticism to his advantage, turning every criticism into a badge of honor, every insult into a weapon. The more they tried to expose him as a fraud, the more they fed his narrative. He became not just a disruptor, but a force that could not be denied. They fed him; he grew stronger. The very institution that had once seen itself as a check on his power now played its part in building his empire of chaos. And they didn’t even realize they were doing it.

As the flames of division fanned, he reached out to the lost, the alienated—the disillusioned young men, angry and unmoored by economic despair. He gave them something to belong to, something to fight for. These young men, disconnected from society, were eager to embrace a cause that promised them a sense of purpose, a return to glory. They formed into militant groups, ready to do his bidding. These groups were not just followers—they were enforcers, thugs who used intimidation, violence, and fear to crush opposition and silence those who spoke out. Like paramilitary enforcers, they saw themselves as the true defenders of the nation, yet they acted outside the law, terrorizing communities and political adversaries alike. The streets became battlegrounds, not for ideas, but for supremacy. They were no longer just supporters. They were instruments of his power, ready to impose his will by force.

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But he didn’t stop there. He didn’t just vilify his enemies — he made them enemies of the state. He made their very existence a threat. Historically marginalized religious groups, such as Jews, and other targeted groups like intellectuals, socialists, the LGBTQ community, and the disabled — they were all targets. They weren’t just “wrong” — they were subversive, dangerous, a cancer on the nation. And through law, through decree, through weaponized propaganda, he gave life to these lies. What began as whispers soon became legal mandates. Their rights were revoked, their very humanity was questioned. No one cared at first—after all, they were always seen as different, as outsiders. But the fear that was planted in those first few steps soon spread, until no one was safe.

At first, it was small — small legal measures, restrictions here, decrees there. It didn’t seem so bad. But the walls began to close in. The laws grew harsher. The rhetoric darker. What had once been considered radical became normalized. Rights were stripped away in broad daylight, disguised as necessities for the survival of the nation. It was subtle—just enough to pass unnoticed—but every law, every act, was another thread pulling at the fabric of democracy.

Soon, there were raids, arrests, families were separated, and some were sent to camps. The streets became places of fear, where no one was safe. The terror grew as more and more people disappeared, their lives torn apart by the machinery of the state. The once-thriving communities were scattered, their futures erased, all in the name of preserving a twisted vision of order and power.

As his power grew, so did his loyalists — individuals who pledged their allegiance not to the constitution or the rule of law, but to him, personally. His loyalists infiltrated key institutions, including the intelligence agencies, placing their unwavering allegiance to him above the principles of justice and democracy. These agencies, once charged with protecting the nation’s integrity, became tools of his personal vendetta, used to silence opposition, undermine dissent, and enforce his will. Loyalty, not competence or respect for the law, was the only criterion for advancement. What had been an independent apparatus to uphold justice was transformed into a shadowy force that stifled truth, creating a nation where fear, not law, dictated action.

And as the nation teetered on the edge, he seized his moment. The institutions that were supposed to hold power in check — courts, legislatures, the media, and intelligence agencies — were all bending to him. He was given sweeping powers, the ability to act outside the bounds of the law. He executed executive orders, bypassing the legislative process and presenting himself as the only one capable of restoring order. His loyal courts, now compliant, gave him the legal cover to do whatever he pleased. What they thought was a temporary solution for national emergencies soon became permanent—edict-like powers that made a mockery of the very notion of a democratic system.

This wasn’t just an accident. It wasn’t just a series of missteps. This was the deliberate, calculated dismantling of a system. It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow rot, a steady erosion of the foundations of democracy, until nothing was left but rubble. Every executive order, every new decree, every judicial ruling from his compliant courts — each was a brick in the wall of authoritarian control. The elites were complicit, the people were divided, and before long, the country had transformed. It was no longer a democracy. It was his kingdom.

And as the final pieces of the democratic edifice fell into place, the question remained: how did we get here? How did we allow it? The answer is simple: We underestimated the power of a single man to manipulate, to exploit, to feed off our deepest fears. We thought we could contain him, control him, dismiss him. But in the end, we fed him. We made him the monster we feared. And by the time we realized what we had done, it was too late.

This is not just the story of one man’s rise to power — it is the story of how democracy dies, of how the institutions we trust, the norms we rely on, can be eroded in plain sight, masked as patriotism, as necessity, as protection. This is not just history repeating itself — it is a warning.

And unless we recognize the signs, unless we see what is happening now, we risk seeing the same fate repeat itself. But next time, it may not be a distant past we’re reading about — it may be our present.

Brian Daitzman is the Editor of The Intellectualist. Read the original article here.