Female journalists have been the target of Donald Trump this past week—hardly for the first time. One of them dared to ask about the murder of U.S. journalist Jamal Khashoggi in front of Trump and Saudi Arabia’s strongman, Mohammed bin Salman (whom the CIA holds responsible for Khashoggi’s death). Trump called her “a terrible person, a terrible reporter.” He then added, referring to Khashoggi’s killing, that “things happen.”
Another female journalist asked about Trump’s ties to the convicted pedophile Jeffrey Epstein aboard Air Force One—and was called “piggy” in response.
All this occurred in the same week that members of Congress received death threats after stating that soldiers should not obey illegal orders. It was also the week when political scientist Daniel Treisman suggested on CNN that Trump’s Ukraine “peace proposal” is written so awkwardly that it may even be a translation from Russian.
Some adopt an analytical framing that sees Trump as part of a broader “wave of populism” or “wave of backsliding.” From this perspective, we are told not to worry too much: this is not Hitler, and no one is about to be exterminated. This, they say, is more akin to Orban, Bolsonaro, AMLO, or Maduro. Relax—it’s not the same.
Viewing Trump—especially Trump 2.0—through this lens pushes us to focus on similarities with other populists, including those on the left. These other populists certainly exist and have their own pathologies. But focusing too narrowly on this comparison obscures the class dimension of Trumpism, and the immense social and economic power behind what The Economist has called a corrupt, autocratic force.
There is another perspective, of course. Trump may be a unique figure, yet also the product of a long historical trajectory—of deep-rooted social conflicts within the United States. These may resemble dynamics elsewhere, but the American case remains distinctly singular. The U.S., after all, is the most powerful country in the world and, while its history includes bright moments such as the Progressive Era, the New Deal, its role in the Second World War, and the Marshall Plan, it also includes darker chapters: what Margaret Atwood has described as an eighteenth-century theocracy, slavery, post-slavery discrimination against Black Americans, McCarthyism, and support for dictators such as Franco—still defended today in the pages of The Wall Street Journal—and Pinochet.
The opportunity costs of violence have so far kept Trump from using overt force against the American population. But selective violence persists: abroad, and against immigrants at home. Even under Hitler, violence was selective; killings of Jews were more frequent outside Germany’s borders than within them.
There are effective populists and there are efficient politicians, but we have yet to see someone who is both an efficient politician and an effective populist. Trump is neither. Instead, he is immensely powerful, he is not alone, and he is extremely dangerous. Efforts to appease him may be understandable—after all, who does not want to avoid a third world war?—but we should not delude ourselves about the true nature of the threat.










