These days I try to observe more than to act. First, because I want space to be given to the names and stories of those who were killed. Second, because experience has taught me that movements are often clearer from the outside. From within, people dissolve into collective emotion. And while that can sustain hope and determination, from the outside patterns become visible.

What I see from the outside reminds me, disturbingly, of things history has already witnessed.

In twentieth-century Europe, warning signs appeared long before catastrophes took the form of camps, war, and genocide. Scholars emphasize that fascism rarely begins with a coup or an official declaration. In Nazi Germany it arrived first through calls for unity, promises of restored national greatness, the construction of internal enemies, leader worship, and the transformation of politics into collective emotion. And it spread quickly.

In Mussolini’s Italy the same pattern emerged: nostalgia for a supposedly glorious past, glorification of power, delegitimization of opposition, and the replacement of dialogue with displays of authority.

In political theory and history, fascism is not understood merely as a specific regime but as a pattern of thinking and behavior. Umberto Eco, in his essay on “Ur-Fascism,” explains that fascism is a constellation of traits rather than a fixed form: rejection of diversity, obsession with unity, internal enemy-making, veneration of authority, and the emotionalization of politics. He argues that fascism can reappear in new forms, even without uniforms or military spectacle.

Hannah Arendt shows in her analysis of totalitarian systems that before open violence takes hold, language shifts first: reality is simplified, the boundary between “us” and “them” sharpens, and individuality dissolves into collective identity. For her, the gradual erosion of critical thinking and the normalization of obedience form the foundation of authoritarianism.

Roger Griffin defines fascism as a form of “palingenetic nationalism,” rooted in the myth of national rebirth: the promise to recover lost greatness, paired with the exclusion of those seen as obstacles to that renewal.

Taken together, fascism can be summarized as a political pattern in which:

• diversity is treated as a threat
• unity is placed above individual rights
• a central figure or symbol is revered
• opposition is delegitimized
• an idealized past is constructed to simplify a complex present

In its classical form, we saw this logic in Hitler’s Germany and Mussolini’s Italy.

Many say this is not the moment for such reflections, especially while victims have not even been buried and the power of those in control remains intact. But fascism never starts suddenly. First language changes. Then the line between “us” and “them” hardens. Then criticism becomes betrayal. Finally, exclusion appears normal.

That is precisely why we must pause, even if it feels inappropriate. Fascism is not just a historical episode. It is a political mindset in which diversity becomes danger, leaders are sanctified, opponents are discredited, and “unity” turns into a tool of exclusion.

I am not making a direct historical comparison. Today is not yesterday. I am talking about the logic of power. And from that perspective, the similarities are troubling.

Here we must pay attention to language itself.

A slogan like “one nation, one country, one flag” is not merely a harmless patriotic phrase. Structurally, it directly echoes the Nazi rallying cry Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer. The issue is not verbal similarity but architecture. This linguistic pattern reduces a diverse society to a “single body,” draws symbolic borders between “us” and “others,” and implicitly frames difference as a disruption of unity. This is precisely how fascist language operates: erasing complexity, simplifying reality, and turning politics into rigid formulas.

In a language like Persian, rich in poetry, metaphor, myth, and layered expression, turning toward such a rigid model, rooted in Nazi propaganda, can hardly be dismissed as accidental.

To me, this is a clear choice. It shows that the language of this movement is not neutral. When a movement borrows from authoritarian traditions, it inevitably imports their logic of power.

This logic appears not only in slogans but in gesture, voice, and political imagination. One example is a speech by a woman at a rally in Austria. Her pronunciation of German, tone, rhythm, and direct address to the “nation” unconsciously reminded many German-speaking listeners, especially older Germans, of Hitler’s oratory style. Such moments quickly disappear amid the flood of events, but they should not be dismissed. This is not about conscious imitation by individuals. It is about bodies, voices, and political language reverting to historically burdened patterns: emotional mobilization, direct appeals to “the people,” and the erosion of critical distance.

At the same time, visions of the future are being shaped. Alongside constant calls for revenge, we see demands to hand people over to SAVAK (the Shah-era secret police, notorious for torture and political repression), SAVAK flags carried at demonstrations, and even early declarations of readiness to become members or heads of this apparatus. Meanwhile, there is almost no enthusiasm for building institutions like ministries of culture, economy, education, or industry, the structures that would actually shape everyday life after liberation.

This too is not accidental. When collective energy is invested more in imagining future repression than in social reconstruction, the logic of power moves faster than the logic of rebuilding.

The similarity lies not in appearance but in logic: in the language of exclusion, in the sanctification of unity, and in turning criticism into threat.

Recent examples make this clear. In Ali Bandari’s latest video, one can see how carefully language is chosen, how topics are selected, how sharp positions are avoided. The same applies to interviews with Parastou Forouhar and Amir Hassan Cheheltan. There is a conscious effort to address human and intellectual issues without falling into aggressive polarization.

Yet they are still targeted by personal attacks, online harassment, and ruthless labeling. It often feels as though much of the movement’s energy is directed toward silencing critical voices from within.

This goes beyond disagreement. A climate emerges in which even cautious, independent voices are unsafe. The outcome is predictable: people learn to censor themselves, soften their thoughts, choose “safe” topics, or eventually prefer silence over confrontation.

At the same time, a disturbing shift occurs. Voices that merely repeat slogans grow louder. Voices that attempt to think, show complexity, and ask questions are gradually pushed aside. Not by official decree, but through collective pressure.

This is the moment when propaganda replaces thought. Not because everyone wants it that way, but because the environment is shaped so that thinking becomes costly.

This text is not directed against any particular movement or group. It criticizes methods. It is an attempt to protect something easily lost: the ability to think, to disagree, and to remain together without erasing one another.

At this point, for me, it is not even primarily about monarchy or republic. It is about whether humanity and the individual come before the flag or after it.

If we are not attentive today to exclusionary language, glorified unity, and the tabooing of criticism, tomorrow will be too late. Fascism rarely begins with tanks in the streets. It begins with words, with group pressure, with the normalization of attacks on independent voices, and with the sanctification of slogans.

I write this not to weaken a movement. I want to remind us of an old danger: freedom never emerges from silencing thought.