Dictators have an old trick to assess the strength of their

In the words of Barry Gardiner we are warned of a trick as old as tyranny itself: “Dictators have an old trick to assess the strength of their opposition: they say something patently untrue, and then look to see who mindlessly repeats it. Those who do, they recognise as their true supporters.” This is no small observation, but a revelation of the mechanics of power. For the tyrant does not seek truth—he seeks submission. And what greater proof of submission is there than the willingness to speak a lie as though it were truth?

The dictator’s lie is not designed to deceive the wise; it is designed to test loyalty. It is a shibboleth, a password of obedience. When the falsehood is spoken aloud, all hear it. The bold may scoff, the cautious may remain silent, but the faithful repeat it without question. In that repetition, the tyrant sees his strength: he knows who will not merely obey, but who will embrace madness if he commands it. Such is the dark brilliance of this ancient art.

History gives us countless examples. Consider the reign of Joseph Stalin. He demanded that the people believe and proclaim that harvests were abundant even when famine starved millions. Those who repeated his lie, knowing it to be false, marked themselves as loyal beyond reason. Those who dared to question paid with their lives. Thus, the lie became not only a weapon of deception, but a test of devotion. In such moments, truth itself is held hostage, and the measure of a man is not what he knows, but what he dares to say.

The ancients, too, understood this peril. In the court of the Persian kings, subjects were expected to cry out that their monarch was divine, even when they knew he was but flesh. To speak the lie was to secure favor; to resist was to risk death. The same pattern arises again and again across the centuries: when power rests on fear, it demands not only silence from its people, but the active parroting of falsehoods. In this way, the tyrant fashions a world where lies ring louder than truth, and loyalty is proven by the abandonment of reason.

From Gardiner’s words we learn that the danger of such lies is not only political but spiritual. For when a person repeats what they know is false, something within them begins to die. Conscience is weakened, truth is dimmed, and the soul becomes accustomed to corruption. A man who repeats one lie for safety may, in time, embrace many lies for power. Thus the tyrant’s test not only reveals loyalty—it reshapes it, binding the speaker ever tighter into chains of complicity.

What, then, is the lesson for us? It is this: guard your tongue, for to repeat the lie of the powerful is to offer them your freedom. Even silence may be wiser than obedience to falsehood. And where courage permits, speak the truth, though it be dangerous. For every age has its untruths paraded as doctrine, and every society its voices tested by falsehood. To resist is not merely an act of defiance—it is an act of preservation for your very soul.

Practically, this means cultivating discernment and courage. Question what you are told, especially when it demands unthinking assent. Do not repeat what you know to be false, not even in jest, for each word spoken strengthens the chains of deceit. Instead, be a guardian of truth in small things as well as great, so that when the day comes that falsehood is demanded, you will stand ready to resist.

So let us remember Gardiner’s wisdom: the tyrant’s trick is the lie, and the measure of his strength is the chorus of its repetition. But the measure of freedom is truth, spoken with courage. Let no man sell his conscience for safety, nor his reason for favor. For though lies may thunder for a season, truth endures, and the one who clings to it stands free, even in chains.