Do Not Obey in Advance

Timothy Snyder begins On Tyranny with a warning that echoes louder every day: “Do not obey in advance.” It’s not just a lesson from history—it’s a diagnosis of the present.

Tyranny doesn’t always arrive with a bang. More often, it creeps in through silence, courtesy, and deference. It thrives not on orders, but on anticipation—when people adjust their speech, their values, their gaze, before anyone even asks them to.

The problem didn't start with Trump. American society, for all the talk of independence, is remarkably obedient in this way.

An example that comes to mind is Colin Kaepernick. Here was a man who, quietly and respectfully, refused to stand for the anthem as a form of protest. Not violence. Not disruption. Just dissent. And the cost? He was cast out. Not officially. Not with fanfare. But with a collective shrug—a professional blackballing that many treated as justified. As if we had all silently agreed that refusing to go along, even when morally compelled, deserved punishment.

It was preemptive obedience that made it possible. The kind that says, “Well, he should’ve known better.” Or worse: “He made his choice.” The kind of thinking that justifies erasure because it’s uncomfortable to witness conviction.

What about the War on Drugs? One of the most staggering examples of preemptive obedience in American history—a campaign waged not just through laws, but through cultural consent. Over decades, we constructed a vast custodial complex to punish addiction and poverty, branding it as protection. We locked people in cages—millions of them, disproportionately Black and brown—under the banner of public safety. But who were we really protecting? Often, the justification came dressed in paternalism: “They need discipline.” “It’s for their own good.” As if criminalization was a form of care.

And through it all, the objections were minimal. Obedience didn’t require agreement—only acquiescence. Politicians gained points for being “tough on crime,” while entire communities were gutted. Schools became pipelines. Neighborhoods lost fathers, sisters, sons. And the rest of society watched, largely unmoved, convinced the system was working—or at least not working against them. The machinery of mass incarceration wasn’t just built with bricks and bars. It was built with silence.

More recent—more quietly, but just as corrosively—on platforms like LinkedIn. Communities of professionals, many impacted by the recent wave of unconstitutional, illegal, hostile, and in many cases needlessly cruel actions taken by DOGE, remain largely silent. And when someone does try to speak up, they’re often met with disdain or tone-policing from peers. "No politics here on Linkedin!" No one’s ordering people to be quiet. We just are. Because obedience has become habit.

Snyder’s lesson isn’t abstract—it’s personal. It asks: Where have I gone along with something I didn’t believe in? Where have I stayed silent because I thought it was safer?

There’s no shame in admitting it. That’s where the work begins.

Do not obey in advance is not a call for rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s a reminder that democracy is lived one choice at a time. One conversation. One refusal to nod along when something feels wrong.

We don’t need permission to resist. But we do need each other.

Thought For The Day:

Think of a moment—recent or long past—when you felt something was wrong but stayed silent or went along.

• What stopped you from speaking or acting?

• What were you protecting?

• What did it cost?

Now consider:

What would it take—individually or collectively—to respond differently next time?