Журналистка из Боулдера призывает местные сообщества проявить гражданскую смелость и не замалчивать нарушения ради сохранения статуса

By Deborah Conley I recently finished Tim Miller’s “Why We Did It,” and came away grateful for his honesty and disturbed by what he revealed. Miller, a former Republican political operative, does something unusual: He turns the examination on himself. He acknowledges ambition, the desire for proximity to power and the human ability to rationalize behavior we know conflicts with our values. There were passages that were stomach-turning. I respected Miller’s willingness to tell the truth, yet wanted to ask: How could you know something was wrong and continue doing it? We often imagine moral failure as one dramatic decision between right and wrong. Miller describes something more ordinary and dangerous: one rationalization, one silence, one career calculation, one decision to remain in the room. Eventually, something once unthinkable becomes acceptable. It would be easy from Boulder to look toward Washington and condemn people who traded principle for access, ambition or power. The harder question is what Miller’s account asks of us here. Washington does not have a monopoly on ambition, belonging or silence. Every community has rooms we want to remain inside, people whose approval matters and relationships we hesitate to jeopardize. Boulder takes pride in being compassionate and civically engaged. We volunteer, serve on nonprofit boards, donate and advocate. But believing we are a caring community does not exempt us from examining our willingness to look away. Decisions made in Washington eventually arrive here. A debate about the “safety net” becomes a neighbor wondering how to buy groceries. A change in health care becomes someone deciding whether they can afford treatment. A reduction in disability services becomes a person struggling to remain independent. Decisions about war become someone’s child, spouse or parent being sent into danger. For political operatives, these issues can become strategy, polling and elections. For everyone else, they are life. Miller describes a culture in which remaining inside the room can become more important than remembering the people outside it. That temptation exists here, too. It exists whenever belonging becomes more important than speaking — whenever maintaining a friendship, position, reputation or professional relationship becomes a reason to remain silent about something we know is wrong. Reading Miller also made me think about willful blindness around powerful people. In a vastly different and far more horrific context, we continue to ask how people could move within Jeffrey Epstein’s world without confronting what was happening around them. The circumstances and conduct are not equivalent. But they raise a common human question: What happens to moral judgment when telling the truth threatens status, belonging, ambition or proximity to power? Perhaps what we are witnessing nationally is the uncovering of humanity’s oldest shadows: greed, fear, ambition, tribalism, self-preservation and the intoxicating pull of power. Trumpism did not invent those weaknesses. It exposed and exploited them. There comes a point when behavior becomes so visible that looking away is no longer passive. Looking away becomes a choice. Miller’s willingness to say, essentially, I participated; these were my rationalizations, does not erase his participation. Confession is not absolution. But it allows us to see how the machinery works. Democratic institutions are weakened not only by corrupt or dangerous people, but by ordinary acts of accommodation — people who know better but remain silent because speaking carries a personal cost. That lesson belongs in Boulder as much as Washington. The harder courage is telling the truth while there is still something to lose. It is required from elected officials, business and nonprofit leaders, board members and citizens who may find themselves standing apart from their own tribe. We should be proud when Boulder responds compassionately after people are harmed. But generosity after harm cannot substitute for the courage to speak before it happens. Miller titled his book “Why We Did It.” He has helped answer that question. Perhaps the question for Boulder — and every community — is: What will we do when we recognize those same human impulses in our institutions and ourselves? Democracy is sustained in our communities and in conversations among neighbors and friends. The most valuable courage is not admitting the truth after the consequences are known. It is speaking while there is still something to lose. And it begins closer to home than Washington. Deborah Conley lives in Boulder. To send a letter to the editor about this article, submit online or check out our guidelines for how to submit by email.