Strongmen and Soft Words

The Linguistic Armour of Authoritarianism

From euphemisms and slogans to sentimental appeals, modern authoritarianism often arrives in language that sounds soothing — even noble. But beneath the softness lies something more sinister.

The Linguistic Armour of Authoritarianism

From euphemisms and slogans to sentimental appeals, modern authoritarianism often arrives in language that sounds soothing — even noble. But beneath the softness lies something more sinister.

Authoritarianism Doesn’t Always Snarl

In the first post of this series, I explored how authoritarianism corrodes language — twisting words until meaning itself begins to dissolve. But the erosion of meaning isn’t always violent, or even loud. In fact, much of the power of today’s strongmen lies in how quietly they operate. They don’t just rule through brute force or censorship, although some, like Putin do. They rule through suggestion. Through familiarity. Through soft, comforting words that slip past our defences.

In the 21st century, authoritarianism often wears a smile. It invokes family values, religious faith, and safety. It talks about tradition and unity. It doesn’t bark orders — it whispers reassurance. But behind the warmth lies control.

This post examines how strongmen use euphemism, repetition, and emotional appeal to make repression sound reasonable, even righteous. These are not accidental flourishes of speech — they are tools of power. And the more comfortable they make us feel, the more dangerous they become.

Euphemism as Armour

Euphemism is the substitution of a mild, indirect, or vague term for one that might be considered harsh, blunt, or unpleasant. In everyday speech, it’s how we soften difficult topics — we say “passed away” instead of “died,” or “let go” instead of “fired.”

But in politics, euphemism becomes something far more dangerous: a linguistic disguise. It allows violence to masquerade as policy, and cruelty to pass as procedure. When leaders say “collateral damage” instead of civilian deaths, or “enhanced interrogation” instead of torture, “relocation or re-education centres” instead of detention camps, they are not just softening language — they are distorting the reality of policies and actions.

History offers chilling examples: the Nazis called the planned extermination of Jews the “Final Solution.” During the Vietnam War, US military reports spoke of “pacification” operations — a term that meant bombings, raids, and civilian deaths.

These aren’t slips of the tongue — they’re deliberate attempts to blur the moral lines. Euphemism builds distance between the speaker and the outcome. It offers plausible deniability and invites the public to look away.

Repetition: Making the Unreal Feel Real

Authoritarian leaders understand a truth that propagandists like Joseph Goebbels once exploited: repetition is persuasion. (See this BBC Bitesize article for more information.)

When you hear something often enough, you begin to believe it — not because it’s true, but because it’s familiar. It’s like an earworm that burrows into your subconscious — familiar, unexamined, and stubbornly resistant to logic. You internalise it — not because it’s convincing, but because it’s constant. And after a while, it no longer feels like something to question.

Slogans like “America First,” “Build Back Better,” or “Peace Through Strength” are repeated until they lose specific meaning and become mantras of identity. This repetition short-circuits critical thinking. It creates an emotional echo chamber.

Key words like “security,” “stability,” and “unity” are rolled out in press briefings, campaign speeches, headlines, and social media posts until they become impossible to interrogate. Of course, repetition is a tool used across the political spectrum — but in authoritarian hands, it becomes something more insidious: not persuasion, but programming.

When language becomes a loop, thought becomes a trap– one that many struggle to break free from.

The Tribe Behind the Slogan

“Make America Great Again” is more than a campaign slogan. It’s a tribe — one that many Americans, especially those who felt ignored or left behind by previous administrations, are desperate to belong to. In that desperation, the slogan becomes sacred. It doesn’t demand understanding; it offers identity — and expects obedience.

In numerous interviews, Trump supporters struggled to name specific accomplishments or define basic terms like GDP, yet remained unwavering in their loyalty. Why? Because MAGA provides something politics rarely offers: a sense of inclusion. It tells its followers you matter. It invites them into a story — one where they are the real Americans, the ones taking their country back.

In this way, repetition becomes ritual. The slogan is worn on hats, shouted at rallies, shared on bumper stickers. It no longer functions as language in the traditional sense — it becomes symbolic armour, a shorthand for belonging. And like all tribal affiliations, it resists outside questioning. Criticism feels like betrayal. Facts become irrelevant. Belief becomes blind. You’re a cult member.

Authoritarian rhetoric thrives in this space — not by commanding obedience, but by offering a home.

Over time, the slogan “Make America Great Again” became more than just a rallying cry — it became a test of loyalty. Trump and MAGA fused into a single identity, and the Republican Party, once rooted in conservative principles, was reshaped around that fusion. The GOP no longer acts as a political institution with competing ideas; it behaves as a vehicle for Trump’s persona and grievances. MAGA is Trump. Trump is MAGA. And the party has become the echo chamber that amplifies both.

Emotional Appeal: Weaponising Comfort and Fear

If euphemism hides the truth and repetition dulls our senses, emotional appeal does something else entirely — it pulls us in. It seduces.

Strongmen know this. They don’t just rely on fear; they speak to our sense of belonging, our pride, our nostalgia for a simpler past. Modi talks about Hindu unity. Erdoğan stirs up memories of Ottoman glory. Across Europe, far-right parties wrap themselves in talk of “family values” and “protecting our culture.”

On the surface, it all sounds comforting — familiar, even wholesome. But it’s not just cultural noise. It’s a kind of soft weapon. The language of unity almost always becomes a language of exclusion. There’s always someone on the outside.

And that’s the point. Symbols like flags, anthems, and traditional dress become distractions. They offer something to rally around while quietly shifting the blame for people’s pain onto someone else — immigrants, minorities, anyone who doesn’t quite fit the story being told.

It’s not just about stirring emotion. It’s about steering it — away from those in power, and toward the nearest scapegoat.

Case Study: Viktor Orbán’s Hungary

Viktor Orbán has become something of a master at soft authoritarianism. He doesn’t shout, and he certainly doesn’t call himself a dictator. Instead, he talks about “illiberal democracy” and “Christian values” — phrases that sound reasonable enough, even reassuring, depending on who’s listening.

But behind that language, the pattern is clear. He’s restricted the press, reshaped the courts, and turned migrants into political scapegoats.

His words are calm, measured, and steeped in cultural familiarity. He speaks to Hungarian identity, to tradition, to faith. And it’s through that language — not in spite of it — that he tightens his grip on power. The message he sends is simple: we’re keeping you safe. And really, who wants to argue with that?

What Orbán shows us is that repression doesn’t always come dressed as control. Sometimes, it comes wrapped in care.

Why Soft Words Are So Dangerous

Brute force tends to spark resistance. But soft language — that’s harder to push back against. It makes us feel safe. Seen. Like we belong. Even as our freedoms quietly shrink.

And that’s the danger — it feels good. Who’s going to argue with “stability” or “tradition” or “protecting our families”? Those words don’t raise alarm bells. They feel like common sense.

That’s how authoritarianism slips through the cracks. It stops sounding like a threat. And starts sounding like the most reasonable thing in the world.

Conclusion: Listening Between the Lines

In the first post, I described how language loses meaning. This covered how it gains emotional weight — how soft words can mask hard realities. The challenge now is to listen more carefully. Not just to what is said, but how it’s said. And what’s being hidden beneath the surface.

In the final part of this series, I’ll explore what happens when language is pushed past its breaking point — when truth itself becomes flexible, and entire realities can be rewritten. Because in the end, the war on meaning is a war on reality.