Naomi Kanakia delivers a startling narrative that uses the mundane setting of an international high school to expose the insidious, everyday mechanics of authoritarianism. Rather than focusing on grand geopolitical maneuvers, the piece argues that fascism thrives not through sudden coups, but through the quiet erosion of truth, the weaponization of victimhood by the powerful, and the complicity of institutions designed to be neutral. This is a story about how language is twisted to protect the oppressor, and how a single act of confusion from a shy student can crack the facade of a system built on lies.
The Theater of Oppression
Kanakia constructs a world where the definition of reality is constantly contested by those holding the most power. The narrator, a tall, bookish outsider, observes a classroom where a student from a powerful political family delivers a monologue claiming to be oppressed by the very system his family controls. Kanakia writes, "Under real fascism, when you mention the word 'fascism' people will either do one of two things: a) fall silent and ignore you; or b) immediately start arguing with you about the meaning of the word 'fascist' and all the many ways your own society doesn't resemble Hitler's Germany at all." This observation cuts to the heart of modern authoritarian strategy: the gaslighting of the public by reframing the aggressor as the victim.
The author highlights the absurdity of this dynamic when the student, Dafydd, claims his grandfather was a freedom fighter despite evidence of colonial exploitation. Kanakia notes, "These guys constantly talk about how they are oppressed. By whom? Who is oppressing you? Like okay, you have the power now—you have the whip-hand, everyone is afraid of you. So just enjoy it—there's no need to redefine language to force everyone to pretend like you guys are not the oppressors here." This framing is particularly effective because it strips away the ideological complexity often used to defend such regimes, revealing the raw, cynical power play underneath. The narrator's confusion—"What is this? What is happening now?"—mirrors the disorientation felt by citizens when the rules of discourse are rewritten overnight.
Under real fascism, when you mention the word 'fascism' people will either fall silent or argue about the definition, pretending your society isn't like the regimes you fear.
Critics might argue that the narrator's detachment limits the emotional impact of the political critique, but Kanakia uses this distance to show how normalized these distortions have become. The school, a microcosm of the state, operates on a logic where the powerful can do whatever they want, and dissent is met with procedural silencing rather than open debate. As Kanakia puts it, "If these students complain about a teacher, the teacher will be fired. This is beyond just 'rich parents always complain' stuff—now you're dealing with geopolitics."
The Banality of Complicity
The narrative takes a sharp turn when the narrator connects with Anwen, a girl from a similarly powerful family. One might expect a romantic subplot to overshadow the political commentary, but Kanakia uses their interaction to illustrate the profound isolation of living under such a regime. The narrator admits, "I am so lonely, every guy at my school is horrible in various ways that are too tedious to enumerate here." Yet, when he tries to engage Anwen on the political absurdity of the day, she deflects, focusing instead on the trivialities of American college entrance exams.
Kanakia writes, "It's ridiculous. And it cuts into class time." When the narrator tries to discuss the deeper implications of Dafydd's speech, Anwen responds, "People are like that." This exchange reveals a terrifying truth: the system doesn't just rely on fear; it relies on the apathy of those who benefit from it. The narrator laments, "Honestly, it was enough to make somebody an incel. Like, I am trying to interact with this girl who seems to want something from me. And I would give her anything! Anything she wanted, she could have from me." Here, the personal longing for connection is thwarted by the political reality that even potential allies are too insulated to see the danger.
The piece further explores how institutions like the school are hollow simulations of democracy. Kanakia describes the student government as "a hollow simulation of an American high school," where a basketball team flies to other countries for games "nobody cared about." This critique extends to the broader society, where the "Union Party" once held power but lost elections while retaining control of the media and banks, only to be slowly overtaken by a party that "whipped up ethnic hatred against our country's main religious minority group." The author is clear that the fascist claim of demographic replacement is "just plainly untrue," yet it succeeds because it is repeated until it becomes the accepted narrative.
The Cost of Speaking Up
The climax of the piece arrives when the narrator is confronted by Geraint, the student body president and a bully, who demands an apology for questioning the status quo. The threat is not just social; it is institutional. Geraint warns, "Or we'll charge you with honor code violations. I'm head of the honor board." The narrator, realizing the absurdity of this new judicial system, refuses, stating, "That will not happen." This moment of defiance is small, but in the context of the story, it is monumental. It represents the first crack in the wall of silence.
Kanakia uses this confrontation to show how authoritarianism seeks to enforce conformity through bureaucratic means. The narrator notes, "Our school is just like every other school—kids don't prosecute each other. That's not a thing." The introduction of an "honor board" to police speech is a clear metaphor for the expansion of state power into the private sphere. The author suggests that the true danger lies not in the overt violence of the regime, but in the quiet, incremental changes that make resistance seem impossible. As Kanakia writes, "Fascism has crept slowly upon this school. Many of the students have powerful, unscrupulous parents."
Bottom Line
Kanakia's piece is a masterclass in using the personal to illuminate the political, showing how fascism corrupts language, relationships, and institutions from the inside out. The strongest part of the argument is its unflinching portrayal of how the powerful reframe themselves as victims to justify their dominance. The biggest vulnerability, however, is the narrator's isolation; the story leaves the reader wondering if a single act of refusal is enough to stop a machine that has already ground so many others into silence. The reader should watch for how these small, everyday acts of resistance might scale, or if they will be swallowed by the very system they seek to expose.