The impulse to withdraw is understandable. Politics feels toxic and truth seems negotiable. But each quiet exit from civic life widens the silence where democracy once lived.
Chris Kremidas-Courtney
During the Cold War, one of the least visible but most corrosive forces inside the Soviet Union was not the outspoken dissident or the exile abroad, but the quiet figure of the internal émigré. These were citizens who did not flee their country, nor openly resist, but instead withdrew into an inner world where the state no longer touched them. Outwardly they complied, inwardly they lived as if politics did not exist. They turned to family, poetry, or private intellectual circles, refusing to invest their spirit in public life. It was an understandable strategy for survival under a repressive regime. But it also hollowed out civic life, leaving the public sphere empty for authoritarian rule to persist.
That concept feels eerily relevant in America today. While our country is not the Soviet Union, the steady drift toward repression under Trump’s second term has created a climate where many Americans are quietly checking out. They are not marching in the streets, nor publishing manifestos. They are simply retreating into private life, hobbies, and apathy. They avoid political conversations, disengage from news, and treat elections as toxic spectacles best left alone. In the Cold War, this was called internal emigration. In today’s America, it may be the most dangerous form of political withdrawal we face. For some, it is also what they see as the only available option. Many who want to leave the country simply cannot afford to do so and find themselves becoming internal émigrés by necessity rather than by choice.
The scale of this phenomenon is hard to ignore. Voter turnout, after peaking at 66.7% in 2020, fell to 64% in 2024 race and has continued to decline in recent surveys. Polls show rising numbers of Americans saying politics “doesn’t affect their lives” or that both parties are equally corrupt. Social media, once a space of civic conversation, has become so rancorous, manipulated, and infested by bots that many log off altogether. In neighborhoods, civic associations that once mobilized people across party lines are thinning out. Instead, people pour their energy into their own personal interests or private communities, leaving the broader civic sphere to the loudest and most extreme.
At first glance, internal emigration feels rational. The political arena can be exhausting. Public debate has become hostile, fact-free, and often physically threatening. Many Americans believe that institutions are captured by wealthy elites and that their individual voices don’t matter – and mounting evidence reinforces this belief. In this sense, withdrawal can feel like self-protection or even integrity by refusing to play a rigged game.
But here is the paradox. What preserves the individual can imperil the collective. By retreating into their own small circles, Americans unintentionally cede the field to the angriest, most polarized factions who remain mobilized. Elections decided by a shrinking minority distort representation, producing outcomes far from what the broader public would choose. Authoritarian-leaning leaders thrive in this vacuum since their passionate base dominates low-turnout contests, while a disillusioned plurality stays home.
History offers a warning. In Eastern Europe, the silent withdrawal of millions created a façade of compliance that allowed repression to normalize. Václav Havel, the Czech dissident and later president, argued in The Power of the Powerless that even small acts of quiet conformity sustain authoritarianism. A shopkeeper who hangs a Party slogan in his window not because he believes it but because “that’s just how things are done” contributes to the system’s durability. Likewise, an American who withdraws from politics out of exhaustion may not endorse repression, but their absence makes it easier for authoritarianism to entrench itself.
Normalization is another danger. Each new erosion of rights, whether a crackdown on protest, tighter surveillance of dissent, or partisan capture of institutions lands with less outrage when citizens are tuned out. For internal émigrés, politics has already become background noise. Repression becomes just another item scrolled past on the news feed, stripped of urgency. In this way, mass withdrawal can create a silent consent that is every bit as corrosive as active collaboration. Authoritarians count on large numbers of people retreating into hobbies and private life so they can more easily exert their will.
To be clear, America still has vital strengths the Soviet Union did not. Our courts, while under pressure, remain independent. Civil society is still robust in many places. Whistleblowers, journalists, and activists continue to speak out. But none of these can carry the weight of democracy if too many citizens check out. Dissidents are always a minority, and they need a surrounding population willing to listen, support, and sometimes join them. Without that connective tissue, even the bravest acts of dissent fall into a void.
This is where historian Timothy Snyder’s advice becomes critical. In his 2017 book On Tyranny, he distilled lessons from the twentieth century into twenty practical steps to prevent authoritarian drift. Many of these steps are precisely the antidote to internal emigration. He urged citizens not to “obey in advance,” warning that passive conformity is the oxygen authoritarianism breathes. He called on us to defend institutions and not assume they will survive on their own but recognizing that their endurance depends on our active support. He advised us to “stand out,” to break the silence that normalizes repression, even in small, everyday ways. He reminded us that “believing in truth” is itself an act of resistance, especially in a culture where cynicism and disinformation make withdrawal tempting. And he emphasized the power of small acts of community; eye contact, conversation, and solidarity to keep civic bonds alive.
Taken together, these steps form a blueprint against mass withdrawal. They show that engagement need not mean grand gestures. It can mean refusing to repeat a falsehood, continuing to vote, supporting local journalism, or simply showing up in civic spaces that others are abandoning. These acts are modest, but they add up. They keep the public sphere from hollowing out, and they signal that not everyone has checked out.
Recent research underscores this truth. Political scientist Erica Chenoweth’s analysis of more than a hundred civil resistance campaigns found that when just 3.5% of a population engages in sustained, nonviolent activism, political transformation almost always follows. This is not a large number, roughly one in thirty citizens, but it is enough to shift a nation’s direction.
The lesson is that democratic renewal does not depend on universal mobilization, only on a committed minority who refuse to withdraw. In an age when cynicism feels contagious and withdrawal appears rational, even small acts of courage like showing up, speaking out, refusing falsehoods can carry exponential power. History suggests that if even just a few percent of Americans stay actively engaged, it may be sufficient to halt the authoritarian slide and reignite the civic imagination of the rest.
Taking a rest from time to time is not the same as disengaging from civic life. Living in a collapsing system can be exhausting, so recharging now and then and seeking mental health assistance is vital to sustain the energy needed to effect real societal change.
The temptation to retreat is strong. It feels safer, cleaner, and even more authentic to live simply away from the noise. But democracy isn’t self-sustaining. It depends on messy, frustrating, often imperfect engagement. If too many Americans become internal émigrés, living as if politics does not matter, we may wake up to find that politics has permanently remade the country around us without our consent, and without our resistance. The lesson from both Havel and Snyder is that silence and withdrawal are not neutral. They are choices that shape the future. And in moments of democratic peril, they are choices we cannot afford to make.
