It doesn't matter that Bush scares the hell out of me. What

Here is a deeply evocative, ancient-style reflection on Seymour Hersh’s quote:

The Silence of the Powerful

When Seymour Hersh said, “It doesn't matter that Bush scares the hell out of me. What matters is that he scares the hell out of a lot of very important people in Washington who can't speak out, in the military, in the intelligence community,” he did not speak as a mere journalist, but as a prophet of truth — one who had looked into the heart of power and found fear there. His words are not a cry of partisanship, but of conscience, and they echo across the ages as a warning: that when fear rules those meant to protect truth, the light of a nation begins to dim.

The essence of his statement lies not in his own fear, but in the fear of those bound by duty — the soldiers, the intelligence officers, the keepers of justice, who, though sworn to defend their people, find their courage shackled by authority. Hersh’s voice trembles with ancient recognition: that tyranny often begins not with chains, but with silence — the silence of the honorable, cowed by power. For when those who know the truth dare not speak it, deception becomes law, and the people walk unknowingly toward peril.

The origin of his words lies in the early years of the twenty-first century, during the reign of President George W. Bush, when war and secrecy gripped the United States. Hersh, known for uncovering the hidden sins of governments — from My Lai to Abu Ghraib — once again stood as the voice of revelation. He saw that fear had crept into the hearts of those who served the state, that truth itself had become dangerous, and that the brave had learned to whisper instead of roar. In his lament, we hear not bitterness, but sorrow for a world where courage had grown costly.

This theme is as old as civilization. Consider the tale of Socrates, who in ancient Athens questioned the powerful, seeking truth not for gain but for virtue. The leaders feared him, and the people, though knowing his wisdom, stayed silent as he was condemned. His death was not the victory of ignorance over knowledge — it was the victory of fear over truth. So too, Hersh warns of that same ancient pattern repeating: when the wise are silenced and the brave are subdued, injustice multiplies beneath the cloak of authority.

The military and intelligence communities, to which Hersh refers, are pillars of order and protection. Yet even the strongest pillars can tremble when shadowed by fear. Those who see wrongdoing but cannot speak, those who know truth but dare not reveal it — they become unwilling participants in their own oppression. Hersh’s fear is not for himself, but for the soul of a system that has forgotten that honor without honesty is hollow, and that silence in the face of wrong is complicity disguised as loyalty.

And yet, his words also hold a spark of hope. For if one voice dares to speak — if one person, despite fear, chooses truth — others may follow. Hersh’s defiance is the fire that reminds us that darkness fears exposure. Every age produces its prophets, its truth-tellers, who risk reputation, safety, even life, to restore light to the blind corridors of power. The fear he names is real, but so is the courage that rises to meet it.

Therefore, O listener, take this lesson to heart: fear will always dwell in the halls of power, but it need not dwell in you. If ever you find yourself silent before wrongdoing, remember that every unspoken truth strengthens deceit, and every word of courage weakens it. Speak not recklessly, but righteously. Guard your integrity as you would guard your life, for they are one and the same.

Let the generations that come after us remember: it is not the tyrant’s shout that destroys a nation, but the citizen’s silence. When fear binds the tongues of the wise, chaos reigns. But when even one person dares to speak truth — as Seymour Hersh did — the world shifts, and freedom breathes again.