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For the titans of industry in Nazi Germany and Trump’s America, silence and complicity enable authoritarianism
On a frosty February day in 1933, Adolf Hitler summoned 24 of Germany’s leading industrialists to a government palace in Berlin to enlist them in dismantling the last vestiges of democracy. When it was over, the high priests of commerce and industry had donated a total of 2.1 million Reichsmarks to the Nazi Party.
Last September, at the White House in Washington, D.C., 15 American tech executives sat down for dinner with Donald Trump. For eight months, Trump had been steering the country closer to authoritarianism. Yet instead of challenging him, the executives praised him. Google co-founder Sergey Brin lauded Trump for “supporting our companies instead of fighting with them.” Sam Altman, the OpenAI CEO, thanked him for being a “pro-business, pro-innovation president,” calling him “a very refreshing change.”
German industrialists’ money helped Hitler win enough support in the Reichstag to pass an Enabling Act granting him dictatorial power. American corporate executives’ silence about the path Trump has taken the country down has functioned as a different kind of currency — one that signals to the public that democratic backsliding is tolerable so long as the markets stay calm and the profits keep flowing.
While the political, economic and social circumstances surrounding Hitler’s meeting with industrialists and Trump’s with tech leaders are quite different, moments like these reveal the enduring symbiosis between political power and private capital — and the democratic vulnerabilities that emerge when corporate flattery eclipses civic responsibility.
After arriving at the imposing Reichstag Presidential Palace, the 24 industrialists were ushered into one of its heavily ornamented grand salons. When Hitler entered, he spent 90 minutes promising to smash the left, protect private enterprise, end lawlessness, lead Germany out of its economic crisis, and — most enticing of all — reward German companies with lucrative contracts as he rebuilt the military. The titans of industry were impressed.
Hitler then left the room, leaving Hermann Göring to pass the proverbial hat. The captains of industry had come prepared. Before they walked out of the palace, the Nazi Party had collected 2.1 million Reichsmarks to fuel its Reichstag campaign. The Nazis’ victory in that election gave Hitler the backing he needed to pass the Enabling Act. The Reichstag Fire Decree of February 28 had already gutted democracy by suspending civil liberties and unleashing mass arrests of political opponents. The March 23 Enabling Act supplied the final shovels of dirt, burying parliamentary democracy for the next 12 years.
Hitler came through with all of his promises, and in the process German companies became deeply complicit in his crimes against other countries and against civilians — setting up slave labor camps outside places of mass murder like Auschwitz, and feeding a war machine that killed tens of millions across Europe. These companies were the same ones represented at that fundraising meeting in February 1933. After the Nazis’ defeat, only a handful of German corporate executives were held to account. Most were able to resume powerful positions in postwar Germany.
America’s 21st-century tech titans are not war criminals, nor are they anything like the industrialists who built Hitler’s arsenal. They have thrived in a democracy that has rewarded their ingenuity, protected their freedoms, and made many of them fabulously wealthy. But that is precisely why their reluctance to call Trump to account for the damage he has done to democratic norms is so disconcerting — and so dangerous.
The video of their dinner at the White House makes that reluctance painfully clear. The executives sit around a long table in the State Dining Room, leaning forward, smiling, nodding eagerly as Trump speaks. They offer him compliments. They laugh at his jokes. No one raises a concern about democratic institutions, the rule of law, or the direction of the country.
The killings of Renee Good and Alex Pretti appear to have jolted at least some tech leaders out of that posture of deference. Yann LeCun, Meta’s former chief AI scientist, reposted the video of Alex Pretti’s killing with a single, furious caption: “M U R D E R E R S.” Hemant Taneja, CEO of General Catalyst, warned that “what we are seeing in Minnesota is a threat to those core tenets and to the promise of America.” Venture capitalist Vinod Khosla condemned the federal agents as “macho ICE vigilantes running amuck,” while Google DeepMind’s Jeff Dean called on “every person regardless of political affiliation” to denounce the escalation of violence. James Dyett, a senior executive at OpenAI, noted that “there is far more outrage from tech leaders over a wealth tax than masked ICE agents terrorizing communities.”
Sam Altman and Apple CEO Tim Cook, both of whom had lavishly praised Trump at the tech titans’ dinner, also said ICE had gone too far.
This must be said about Corporate America: its leaders, unlike the industrialists of Nazi Germany, have not been actively complicit in any effort to topple democracy. In the American system, doing so would amount to corporate suicide. But they have weakened democratic culture in quieter ways — such as treating free expression as expendable if it threatens profits. You can see it in the major-network settlements that chilled political reporting at ABC and CBS, and in the efforts to sideline late-night hosts like Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert.
Jeff Bezos’ $40 million contract with the Trumps for the documentary Melania is another example of this instinct. In the same week that the Bezos-owned Washington Post announced it was laying off more than 300 journalists, the Amazon founder was photographed on the red carpet at the premiere of Melania, attending at the Trumps’ invitation.
One of the gravest threats to American democracy today is the fusion of state authority with the private empires of tech tycoons like Elon Musk and Peter Thiel, whose control of critical communications and data-analytics infrastructure gives politically aligned capitalists the capacity to assist an administration intent on expanding executive power.
Civil-liberties activists and several members of Congress have warned that concentrating federal data systems — especially when augmented by advanced AI — creates a structural vulnerability for democracy. Such an architecture, they argue, could be turned toward political ends: monitoring critics, chilling dissent, or enabling forms of surveillance that become far harder to detect or challenge once they are woven into the machinery of government.
The German industrialists who helped Hitler consolidate power largely escaped accountability, their complicity swept under the carpet as Soviet Communism replaced fascism as the perceived greater threat to the West. Will our own era face a reckoning? When future generations look back, they may well ask what America’s most powerful corporate leaders did when democracy was faltering — and whether their silence helped steady the republic, or hastened its decline.
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Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement
I have long been obsessed with the Vatican and the inner workings of the papacy. (I majored and did my Master’s in religious studies.) But usually other people are not as tickled as I am by analyzing the newest theological statements from the Holy See.
Not this week. Pope Leo XIV just put out his first encyclical — the term used to refer to official statements outlining the church’s stance on a topic — and it has gone viral. “Spitting fire right out the gate,” said one of many similar trending posts, as though the encyclical was a rap song.
The topic is buzzy: AI, which the pope casts as one of the greatest threats to human flourishing and morality. (The encyclical is titled “Magnifica Humanitas,” or “Magnificent Humanity” in English, if that gives you the gist.) “Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur,” it opens, “ is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”
The document notes many of the concrete risks of AI — sexual abuse, distortion of facts, job loss — and calls for pragmatic solutions. But it is, at its heart, a testament to what makes humans human, written with palpable adoration for the people of the world: our creativity, our empathy, even our weaknesses. It’s a declaration that machines can never have the ineffable qualities of God’s children.
Structuring our world around technology, Leo writes, reduces “creation to an object of exploitation and human beings to mere cogs in a system driven toward ever greater efficiency.”
Later, in a paean to the importance of deep thought over easy answers, he goes on: “The speed and ease with which answers or summaries can be obtained risk extinguishing the desire to ask questions,” he writes, calling on the world “to protect our young people from the promise of the perfect machine” and warning against rendering “human thought seemingly superfluous precisely when it is most needed.”
“Magnificatus Humanitas” is a major statement, both in length — more than 43,000 words — and in symbolism. A pope’s first encyclical indicates the issues they believe are most important to the church, and signals the likely direction of their papacy.
That direction, for Pope Leo, is to be a voice for moral leadership, writ large. He addressed the encyclical not only to Catholics or even Christians, but “to all men and women of goodwill,” and cited thinkers like Hannah Arendt and J.R.R. Tolkien alongside the Bible.
It’s a declaration of a new — or, arguably, very old — relevance for religious leaders. As people rush through our increasingly fast-paced, frantic world, striving to keep up with the newest technology or geopolitical shift affecting markets and jobs, the slow-moving, zoomed-out perspective of religious leaders seems to be more and more important.
The Vatican held massive authority both moral and military for much of Western history. But its sway faded in the modern age. As democracy rose, Christianity broke into factions and religion’s prominence weakened, leaving the Church without the same ability to bestow a divine mandate on nations and rulers.
So many modern popes have kept their sights more narrowly focused on the theological. Even Pope Francis, who was a liberal, modernizing force for the church, and spoke out strongly on topics like the environment and immigration, focused three of his four encyclicals on Christian theological concepts like the Sacred Heart and Christianity as the world’s guiding light.
Pope Leo, however, seems to have found his way to modern, secular relevance by speaking out clearly on major issues of the day. He notes that he drew inspiration for “Magnificatus Humanitas” from Pope Leo XIII, an influential pope in the late 1800s and the inspiration for the modern Leo’s own papal moniker, whose 1891 encyclical “Rerum Novarum,” on the economy and conditions of the working class, was criticized for insufficient focus on the Gospel. The current pope’s own document is remarkably concrete and political.
Making political statements isn’t new for Leo, but the encyclical canonizes his boldness into an official form. In the past few months I’ve written about the ways in which Pope Leo has used sermons and statements to directly counter those made by U.S. leaders. After Pete Hegseth made a speech implying the U.S. military is doing God’s will, the pope gave a homily saying that prayers for war cannot be heard by God. He has made strongly worded comments about the rights of immigrants as Trump announced increased ICE raids, and made a point of appointing foreign bishops in American parishes. He has refused to visit the U.S. despite the fact that he is American and has been invited numerous times, including for the nation’s 250th birthday; he is instead planning to visit an island that serves as a refugee landing point in the Mediterranean.
It’s not all that surprising that Leo is making pronouncements on the justness of wars; popes have always given commentary on the world, albeit often less pointedly. Of course, Catholics have always looked to the pope for moral leadership — though that is increasingly under question, as renegade Catholics doubt the pope. (Even J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert with a book coming out about his conversion, has warned the pope to be “careful” with his theological interpretations — a near heretical statement. That’s how Protestantism came about.) The difference today is that everybody is listening.
I think the reason is that there is a certain ineffable quality that can’t be accounted for in so much of modern-day discourse in our metrics-focused world. Everything needs to be provable with a statistical analysis or some quantifiable indicator, or it needs to be as profitable as possible to extract value. But so much of what is most valuable in the human experience is intuitive — experiences and emotions like love, joy, transcendence. Connection with each other. Religious leaders have been honing the language to talk about these qualities for centuries, and they guard one of the only arenas in which the intangible remains central.
Of course, there are also plenty of issues with religious institutions, and the Vatican in particular is famous as a site where abuses of power were hidden and protected. But “Magnifica Humanitas,” and its virality, points toward a new relationship with religion, and a newly important role for it to play.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, a hope for my own increased importance as a religion reporter.
The post Why I’m vibing with the pope’s first big statement appeared first on The Forward.
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How can I live freely as a Jew in a world where strangers rip my mezuzah off my doorframe?
Twice, the mezuzah on my front door was ripped off.
The first time, I was shocked. The second time, I made a decision that still pains me. I did not put it back up.
This was before the Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023.
That is the part I keep coming back to. The fear did not begin after the Hamas attacks. It was already there, intruding with the quiet calculation of whether a small Jewish symbol on my home made me less safe.
A mezuzah is not a political statement. It makes no argument about a government or a war. It is a sacred object, a marker of memory, a tiny declaration that says: Jews live here. I thought about that mezuzah again recently when the Anti-Defamation League released its annual audit showing that antisemitic physical assaults in the United States reached record highs in 2025. That increase reflects something many Jews already feel in daily life: the slow erosion of ease, the daily calculation of whether to speak up or stay quiet — things I have felt since the first time my mezuzah was violently torn off my doorframe.
Since then, the realm in which I feel safe as a visibly Jewish person has been shrinking from all directions.
After the Oct. 7 attack, the bulletin boards in my apartment building began filling with calls to boycott Israel. Campaign flyers for a Jewish political candidate who came to speak there were defaced with Hitler mustaches. I learned to scan the walls before I scanned my mail.
This was not happening on a campus quad or in some distant place. It was happening where I live.
Then, among my mother’s things, I found a Star of David necklace from the 1930s — marcasite set against black onyx, delicate and old. A boyfriend had given it to her when they were both 14.
I put it on in Florida, where I spend much of my time caring for my mother. I loved wearing it. It felt like more than jewelry. It felt like inheritance, memory, and a small way of carrying my family with me.
But when my mother knew I was going back to New York, she told me to take it off.
My mother is 102. She is not easily frightened. She has lived long enough to know when the temperature in the room has changed. She was not making a political argument. She was trying to protect her daughter.
I still wear that Star of David. But I admit I am selective. In New York, there are moments when I leave it visible and moments when I tuck it under my shirt. That calculation itself tells me something about the world I am moving through.
Recently, in a private Facebook group for women essayists, I shared a personal piece I had written for the United Kingdom-based Jewish Chronicle about how Oct. 7 changed life for my mother and me. It was not a political manifesto. It was a reflection on fear, Jewish identity, aging and visibility.
And still, I was attacked by other writers.“What about Gaza?” I was asked. The message was clear: even my personal Jewish pain had to pass a political test before it could be acknowledged.
That is the narrowing.
This ugliness is coming from more than one direction now. It stems from old conspiracy theories on the right and newer moral certainties in some of the progressive spaces where I once felt most at home. Different language brings about the same result: Jews become less human, less particular, less entitled to fear.
That collapse is what frightens me most: the definitional collapse between Jew and Israeli; Israeli and Israel’s government; Jewish symbol and political provocation; mezuzah and target.
As Jews like me reckon with that collapse, we must reckon with how much we’ll go along with it.
Right now, too often, Jews are being asked to choose between our own safety and our compassion for others. We should be able to prioritize both. I am a Zionist. I believe in the right of the Jewish people to a homeland. I also believe Palestinians are human beings who deserve freedom, dignity, and protection from suffering.
These beliefs should not cancel each other out. They should make us more careful, more humane, more committed to truth.
Yet now we must choose between speaking about antisemitism and being accused of indifference to other hatreds. That is no way to live.
Since Oct. 7, I have found myself going to synagogue on Shabbat, something I never did before. I was a High Holiday Jew. Now I seek out rooms where I do not have to explain why this moment feels frightening. I have learned where I feel seen. I have learned who can hold my fear without turning it into an argument.
The mezuzah I did not put back up is small. It fits in the palm of my hand.
But what it represents is not small: memory, faith, survival, home, and the right to be visibly Jewish without fear.
When I did not put it back up, I told myself I was being practical. But now — after Oct. 7, the bulletin boards, my mother’s warning, and the explosive allegations I’ve seen travel through respected media without sufficient care or verification — I understand it differently.
I was not just protecting a doorframe. I was learning to shrink.
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Podcast: A lively conversation in Yiddish with actress Lea Koenig
ס׳איז לעצטנס אַרויס אַ פּאָדקאַסט מיט דער באַליבטער אַקטריסע אין ישׂראל, ליאַ קעניג, וועלכע איז הײַנט צום בעסטן באַקאַנט ווי די ייִדיש־רעדנדיקע באָבע פֿונעם פּערסאָנאַזש שלום שטיסל אין דער ישׂראלדיקער טעלעוויזיע־סעריע „שטיסל“.
אינעם שמועס באַטייליקן זיך אויך יניבֿ גאָלדבערג — דער מחבר פֿון אַ נײַער ביאָגראַפֿיע וועגן איר אויף ענגליש; דער איבערזעצער און דראַמאַטורג מיכל יאַשינסקי, און דער ייִדישער זינגער און קולטור־טוער חיים וואָלף. דעם פּאָדקאַסט האָט טראַנסמיטירט די באָסטאָנער ראַדיאָ־פּראָגראַם „דאָס ייִדישע קול“.
ליאַ קעניג גיט איבער אירע זכרונות במשך פֿון איר לאַנגער קאַריערע אין ייִדישן טעאַטער, ווי אויך אינעם העברעיִשן טעאַטער, טעלעוויזיע און קינאָ. כּדי צו הערן דעם פּאָדקאַסט, גיט אַ קוועטש דאָ.
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