The sweeping, whirlwind policies of Donald Trump’s second administration ranging from mass deportations and freezing NIH research activities to halting federal grants and loans are shaping a new political reality in 2025. At first glance, these measures may seem like aggressive responses to specific issues, but their deeper purpose, I would argue, appears far more calculated: to foster a climate of fear, solidify power, and reimagine America’s identity by targeting anything deemed “other.” From immigrants and scientists to students and marginalized communities, these policies frame differences not as diversity but as danger.
Take, for instance, the administration’s ramped-up deportations and militarization of immigration enforcement. These actions are justified under the guise of protecting national security, but the effect is a pervasive atmosphere of fear within immigrant communities, where families are torn apart, and entire neighborhoods are destabilized. Similarly, the freezing of NIH funding and federal grants undercuts scientific research and education, sending a chilling message: those who depend on federal support are expendable, and their work is disposable if it does not align with the administration’s priorities and vision. In all, these policies are not just acts of governance; they are tools designed to intimidate, divide, and reshape the nation’s priorities and allegiances.
Yet this climate of fear is not unique to Trump or his supporters. For over a decade, Democrats have also relied on fear as a central component of their politics, focusing almost exclusively on the dangers posed by Trump. By casting him as an existential threat to democracy, Democrats have cultivated a sense of urgency and alarm that has come to dominate their rhetoric and strategy. While this framing has mobilized voters and sustained opposition to Trump’s agenda, it has also contributed to a broader political landscape defined by fear, where the focus is less on substantive policy solutions and more on stoking anxieties about the other side. In this sense, fear has become a bipartisan tool, shaping not just governance but the way both parties engage with their constituencies.
To make sense of this, Corey Robin’s 2004 book, Fear: The History of a Political Idea offers a compelling, yet somewhat outdated framework. Robin defines political fear as “a people’s felt apprehension of some harm to their collective well-being—the fear of terrorism, panic over crime, anxiety about moral decay—or the intimidation wielded over men and women by governments or groups” (2). What distinguishes political fear from private anxieties is its societal origin and its broad, collective consequences. Robin’s analysis of how fear operates as a political tool provides key insights into how these policies are wielded not only to address perceived threats but to manufacture fear as a means of control.
Robin’s book, written in the wake of 9/11, critiques liberal commentators who saw fear as culturally rejuvenating—something that could unify a fractured nation or reinvigorate civic engagement. Instead, Robin demonstrates that fear corrodes democracy, fostering compliance and suppressing dissent. His argument that fear is deeply embedded in American liberalism resonates when reflecting on the post-9/11 era, where fear was wielded to expand surveillance, justify wars, and erode civil liberties under the guise of protecting freedom. However, Trump’s second administration signals a departure from this framework. While fear in liberalism often operates as a paradoxical tool to balance order and liberty, Trump’s policies deploy fear more explicitly, framing it not as a necessary tension within democratic ideals but as a means to reorient society. Robin’s insights, while illuminating, feel incomplete in capturing a political climate where fear is not constrained by liberal principles but embraced as a framework for action.
To understand the broader implications of this shift, it is helpful to consider Robin’s historical exploration of fear. From Thomas Hobbes to Montesquieu, Alexis de Tocqueville, and Hannah Arendt, fear has been theorized as both necessary and dangerous. Hobbes viewed fear as the foundation of the social contract, a stabilizing force that compels individuals to surrender freedoms for security. Montesquieu, in contrast, saw fear as the hallmark of despotism, eroding civic bonds and liberty. Tocqueville warned of the “soft despotism” of conformity in democratic societies, where fear of standing apart creates a stifling uniformity. Arendt highlighted fear’s dual role: as a tool to atomize and control populations and as a way for individuals to justify their participation and advance in oppressive systems. These thinkers provide valuable perspectives on how fear can shape both governance and individual behavior, offering insight into the dynamics at play in Trump’s policies.
Building on these ideas, the Trump administration’s policies capitalize on fear’s dual nature: its ability to suppress dissent and to galvanize supporters. By framing “otherness” as an existential threat, these policies do more than intimidate marginalized groups—they cultivate a sense of social capital and belonging for supporters. Fear is wielded not just to promise protection and stability but to provide status and community to those who align with the administration’s vision. For many, being part of this redefined “in-group” is a source of pride, a way to assert power and identity in a world portrayed as chaotic and threatening. This sense of protection is reinforced through actions like the blanket pardon of January 6th rioters, signaling that loyalty to the administration will be rewarded with immunity from consequences. This dynamic reflects Robin’s discussion of Arendt, particularly her analysis of how fear can enable individuals to justify their roles within larger systems of power. Trump’s policies extend these dynamics, using fear not only to govern but to create a shared identity, binding supporters through a collective sense of purpose, superiority, and security. In this way, fear becomes central not just to governance but to shaping political behavior, identity, and community in profound ways.
In the context of 2025, these ideas illuminate how the Trump administration has weaponized fear not only to consolidate power but to redefine the social and political fabric of the country. Mass deportations and funding freezes are not isolated actions; they are part of a broader strategy to deepen insecurity, foster division, and maintain authority by making fear the bedrock of governance. What Robin identified as a paradox within liberalism has metastasized into a politics wholly reliant on division, where fear is no longer a byproduct but the primary goal.
Robin’s conclusion in Fear: The History of a Political Idea feels distant yet urgent today. He called for a politics rooted in freedom and equality, a rejection of fear as the foundation of collective life. The policies of 2025 remind us of the stakes: without envisioning a political culture that moves beyond fear, we risk allowing it to remain the defining force of our time. Robin’s work is a critical lens through which to understand not only the policies themselves but the broader dangers they represent.
The Online Sociologist 