The 1930s in Germany began with a whisper of desperation and ended in a roar of destruction. In the shadows of World War I and the Great Depression, the German people were aching for stability, dignity, and hope. But what they got instead was a rising tide of far-right extremism that would plunge the world into its darkest abyss. The lessons of that decade still echo today, especially as far-right movements stir again across the globe, cloaked in new language but driven by the same old fears.

Germany’s democracy, the Weimar Republic, was fragile and battered. Inflation had shattered savings and unemployment soared. People were angry, disillusioned, and vulnerable to the promise of easy answers. Enter Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party, a fringe movement that exploited the pain of a nation. With slogans about restoring greatness, purifying the nation, and crushing enemies from within, they wrapped fear in patriotic colours and made hatred feel like a duty.

When Hitler was appointed Chancellor in 1933, he moved fast. Civil liberties evaporated, the press was muzzled. Political opponents were silenced, imprisoned, or killed. The Nazis used propaganda not just to inform, but to mold reality itself – painting Jews, communists, intellectuals, and the disabled as threats to be neutralised. Step by step, they turned neighbours into enemies and bystanders into accomplices. The churches, too, wrestled with compromise and complicity, and many chose silence rather than risk.

At its heart, this was not just a German tragedy, it was a human one. It was about what happens when fear outweighs compassion, when power goes unchecked, and when a people forget that the stranger at the gate is often just a reflection of themselves.

And here we are again…

Across continents today, we hear echoes of that decade: the rise of nationalism that scapegoats the weak, the nostalgia for a glorified past that never truly existed, the distrust of the press, and the sneering disdain for democratic norms. We see it in the chants at rallies, in the conspiracies that spread like wildfire, in the tightening of borders and the loosening of empathy. The faces and flags have changed but the spirit is familiar: an idolising of strength, a demonising of difference.

Yet history doesn’t repeat itself word for word, it rhymes. And the echo of the 1930s isn’t a prophecy, but a warning. It tells us that democracy isn’t a given, it must be guarded. That kindness isn’t weakness, it’s the foundation of any society worth building. When we believe “it can’t happen here” we’ve stopped paying attention.

Light always begins small: a candle, a voice, a hand reaching out. But so does darkness. The far-right grew not just because of violence, but because of indifference. And that, more than anything, is what history urges us to resist. We must stay awake. We must speak up. We must remember.

Because the past is not dead, it waits to be repeated if we let it.