Not long after the Trump administration took office, my son noticed several empty seats in his sixth-grade classroom. At first, he didn’t understand why his Hispanic classmates — many from families who have lived and worked in the Hood River valley for generations — were missing. Later, when my wife and I took him to a protest in solidarity with our immigrant community, he realized their parents had kept them home as an act of protest against the administration’s inhumane treatment of immigrants.
His realization sent shivers down my spine. Growing up in Germany, I read Friedrich by Hans-Peter Richter, a novel about two boys in Hitler’s Germany — one Jewish, the other not. Their innocent childhood is shattered as persecution tightens.
One day, Friedrich’s seat at school is empty. That silent absence is a powerful warning about how dehumanization creeps in and takes hold. History teaches us that injustice follows once we accept the idea that some people are worth less than others.
Here in the Hood River valley, we are a welcoming community. But we are not immune to the forces that seek to divide us. Dehumanizing rhetoric and policies are already shaping our daily reality, affecting the families that make this valley what it is. As heavily armed immigration officers parade shackled immigrants in front of staged TV cameras and the administration makes clear that mass arrests and deportations are just beginning, we must recognize the moment we are in.
Dehumanizing rhetoric and policies are already shaping our daily reality. Philosopher Hannah Arendt described “the banality of evil,” the idea that horrific acts don’t require monsters — just ordinary people following orders or accepting cruelty as normal.
Dehumanization allows this to happen. It starts with language: calling people “illegals” instead of individuals, “invaders” instead of families seeking safety. We are far past subtle shifts in language.
Today, the president, White House press briefings, and political advisors spread deliberate propaganda to make certain people seem less human. As historian Timothy Snyder warns, this mirrors the tactics of past fascist regimes. Immigrant communities are described as criminals, terrorists, or threats to “American purity,” with bad genes “poisoning our blood.”
When this rhetoric goes unchallenged, it justifies policies that strip people of rights, dignity, and safety. It leads to detentions, deportations, and violence — threats that aren’t just happening far away but affect our neighbors, our farmworkers, and the people who help make this valley thrive.
History shows us dehumanization doesn’t happen all at once. In 1933, Germany passed the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service, purging Jewish people and political opponents from jobs in education, government, and the courts. Today, we see efforts to reshape American universities — a Lebanese faculty member from Brown University was deported, Palestinian students are targeted for nonviolent dissent, and funding is threatened under the guise of political control.
Or take the 1935 Nuremberg Laws, which formally defined Jewish identity based on ancestry and stripped Jewish people of German citizenship. Trump is obsessed with ending birthright citizenship, a fundamental American principle enshrined in the Fourteenth Amendment. At the same time, he proposes a “Golden Card,” a $5 million purchasable Green Card, making clear which immigrants are deemed worthy and which are not.
Or consider book bans. In 1933, Nazi Germany banned and burned books that challenged its ideology. Today, this administration dismisses concerns about book bans as a hoax, while conservative groups have targeted more than 16,000 books — primarily those addressing race, racism, and LGBTQ+ topics. These aren’t just policy debates but deliberate steps to erase marginalized histories and reverse decades of progress.
But we can resist dehumanization.
First, we must name it when we see it — language matters. We should challenge rhetoric that reduces people to stereotypes and denies their full humanity.
Second, we must amplify the real stories of those targeted — our neighbors, coworkers, and friends — so fear and misinformation don’t define them.
Third, we must strengthen our communities by building relationships across differences. Solidarity is the antidote to division. Here in Hood River, we are one community, not separate. We work the land together, we play on the same soccer teams, and we share the same rivers and trails.
To be clear, Donald Trump is not Hitler. Such comparisons distract from what is observable in plain sight: the systematic erosion of human dignity and democracy through dehumanization. Fascism doesn’t start with concentration camps — it begins with the belief that some people matter less than others. That belief is taking root now.
Resisting the Trump administration’s agenda is not about partisanship. And no, it is not about being “sore losers,” as someone called us during the protest. It is about humanity.
If we ignore the signs, we may one day see more empty chairs in our schools, workplaces, and communities — not because of a protest, but because a government decided certain people do not belong.
I refuse to stay silent. When my son asks why his classmates’ seats are empty, or when his friend holds up a sign at the protest reading ‘Protect my friends,’ I want to tell them both: I am speaking up.
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Patrick T. Hiller, Ph.D., is a scholar and advocate of conflict transformation, dedicated to advancing nonviolent approaches to conflict. He serves in leadership roles with global peace-focused organizations and is deeply engaged in issues of justice and human dignity. He lives in Hood River, with his wife and son.
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