Defying the Death of Democracy at the Capitol

On October 18, 2025, I stood among thousands of fellow Americans outside the U.S. Capitol as chants of “No kings! No fascists!” echoed across the National Mall. The sky was gray and the mood charged. Just a few blocks away, heavy machinery was tearing into the East Wing of the White House, a jarring backdrop that underscored why we were here. Many of us believe our democracy is in mortal danger — “Democracy is dying and protest is the last safeguard,” as one organizer put it — and this No Kings Day rally was our act of defiance and hope.

Democracy on the Brink

The No Kings Day protests were a nationwide response to what many see as an existential threat to American democracy. In Washington, D.C. and over 2,500 locations around the country, millions rallied to reject creeping authoritarianism. The movement’s very name, No Kings, signals a reclamation of democracy without the need for a king — a direct rebuke to a president who seems to think his rule is absolute. This was the second coordinated No Kings protest this year. Organizers say the first, in June, drew more than 5 million Americans, making it one of the largest single-day demonstrations in U.S. history.

The issue at large is President Donald Trump’s conduct since taking office for his second term in January. Trump has pursued what critics describe as repeated authoritarian power grabs, openly musing about serving a third term — essentially crowning himself President for Life and “already acting like a monarch” as one protest statement put it. From deploying federal forces in democrat-led cities to attempting censorship of dissenting media, Trump’s actions have flouted norms and eroded democratic checks and balances. The country is currently in the midst of a grinding federal government shutdown, which has furloughed hundreds of thousands of workers — a crisis many demonstrators see as a deliberate stunt. 

“Shutting down the government is another authoritarian power grab by this administration,” warned the nation’s largest federal workers’ union while urging its 820,000 members to join the marches.

Above all, protesters fear the fundamental American principle of peaceful, regular transfers of power is under attack. “President Trump has openly said he wants a third term and is already acting like a monarch … But the American people don’t bow to kings,” read a statement on the No Kings movement’s website. The sentiment was echoed on rally stages: Senator Bernie Sanders, addressing the D.C. crowd, reminded everyone that “People fought and died throughout the history of this country to preserve our democracy. And we’re not going to let Trump or anybody else take it away.”

In other words, the stakes could not be higher. We came to the capital to mourn what’s being lost, but also to assert — loudly — that we will not let democracy go without a fight.

No Kings Day: Voices from the Rally

By noon, Pennsylvania Avenue and the Capitol grounds were teeming with citizens of all ages and backgrounds. Many wore bright yellow bandanas, scarves, and shirts — a color the organizers chose as a “visible optimistic banner that carries the weight of democratic struggle,” meant to symbolize hope amid the turmoil. Homemade signs bobbed above the sea of people, bearing slogans like “No Thrones, No Crowns, No Kings” and “We the People > King Donald.” 

Despite the serious message, the atmosphere had moments of positivity. Just as organizers promised, the tone was passionate but peaceful, and even festive with drummers leading chants, spontaneous bouts of dancing, and protest songs ringing out. An undercurrent of urgency ran through the crowd, and there was a feeling that this was a last stand.

As one Washington resident told me, “Mass protest movements are super important, and anyone who is physically able to go into the streets … We need to be doing that as frequently as possible.” Her friend, a young man named Jordan from D.C., put it even more bluntly: “I believe it’s important to stand up against fascism while we still have the opportunity.”

I spoke with a small group of friends who had traveled to the rally together — two from D.C. and one from New York. “We’re here with each other,” they laughed when I asked if they represented any organization. Jordan, a 20-something wearing a faded American flag bandana, said he came out because the rise of authoritarian rhetoric frightened him. 

“It feels like history is repeating. We have to stop it,” he said, before repeating that standing up to fascism now is vital while we still can. Another demonstrator next to him nodded in agreement, citing the need for relentless public pressure through protests. Kyle, a former D.C. resident who took the train down from Brooklyn, described himself as “a version of a leftist” who might have different politics than some liberal attendees. However, party lines didn’t matter on that day. 

“When people have the energy and are activated to resist fascism on the right, we have to come together on the left — the liberals, moderate Democrats, all of that,” Kyle told me. “That’s why I’m here.” In this moment, unity against a common threat transcended the finer points of ideology.

It wasn’t just young progressives in the crowd, either. Standing near me was Sean Howard, a gray-haired former Marine in a VFW cap, holding a banner for the organization American Veterans in Defense of Democracy. Howard, who also spent 20 years working for the CIA, had a somber, resolute look. He told me he never imagined needing to protest in the streets, but felt he had no choice. 

“I feel like we’ve reached the point in this country where regular, everyday people — people of every political stripe — need to stand up and reject the extremism and division tearing us apart,” he said. “I truly think our democracy is in crisis. All Americans need to come together and defend our most cherished values.” 

For Howard, those values aren’t abstract. He is referring to the basic civic norms he fought for in uniform, like free and fair elections and the peaceful transfer of power. “Every four years we vote, we have a president for four years, and then that president steps down and transfers power peacefully to the next. That’s how our country works — always has. That’s what I’m fighting for,” he explained, his voice steady and strong. 

Hearing a veteran speak so plainly about the fragility of the system was poignant. It brought home the fact that this struggle crosses party and background. The crowd around us broke into applause after Howard spoke, and a few people patted him on the back in thanks for his service and his stance.

As the rally program commenced, a series of speakers fired up the demonstrators. Besides Senator Sanders, there were speeches from civil rights leaders, labor organizers, and even a few celebrities. Each drove home the same theme: American democracy was worth saving. They warned of Trump’s attacks on the rule of law — from promising to punish political opponents and undermining the free press to pardoning loyalists who had been convicted of crimes. The name “No Kings” itself was invoked repeatedly. One speaker reminded us that the United States was founded in revolt against a king, that “the original No Kings protest was 250 years ago when we decided we didn’t want George III,” as actor Robert De Niro had quipped in a video message. Now, in 2025, the crowd cheered at the assertion that we will not live under a wannabe King Donald.

Through it all, the mix of emotions in the crowd was palpable. I felt mournful that it had come to this point, that we had to rally in an effort to demand our basic democratic norms be respected. Some around me wiped away tears during a folk singer’s rendition of “America the Beautiful.” Yet, I also felt inspired seeing thousands of strangers supporting one another, united by a shared love of country and a determination to protect it. There was hope in our togetherness. “This is what democracy looks like!” we chanted, not just as a protest slogan, but more likened to a prayer. For a day at least, we ordinary people were the authors of our national story, not the would-be tyrants.

One of the most striking aspects of the rally was the creativity on display. Activists had brought giant puppets, theatrical props, and art installations to drive the message home. I encountered Monica Curca, director of group Activate Labs, moving through the crowd with an armful of bright, silk-screened protest banners. Curca’s organization specializes in using art and culture to support social movements around the world, and she’s been bringing creative visuals to marches for years. She handed me a beautiful poster that read “They Wanted to Bury Us, But They Didn’t Know We Were Seeds.” 

“We try to break the binaries in our work,” Curca told me, explaining why they use art to spark imagination. In her view, activism shouldn’t be only about resisting what we’re against, it should also paint a picture of what we’re for. 

“It’s not just anti-this or anti-that,” she said, “but about reimagining the world we want to build together.” Even the protest’s more surreal elements carried meaning. At one point, I found myself face-to-face with a towering figure in a grotesque monster mask weaving through the march. Later, Curca laughed when I asked about it, pointing to a quote from Italian philosopher Antonio Gramsci emblazoned on her jacket: “The old world is dying, the new world is being born. This is a time of monsters.” In other words, when an old order collapses, strange and dangerous creatures emerge in the in-between. “We’re living in that time of monsters right now,” Curca said, referring to the forces of fear and hatred in our politics, but knowing that also means we’re on the cusp of a new world. Her art — the Masks of Collapse project as she calls it — is about confronting those monsters and imagining something better beyond them. It was a poignant reminder that even in a protest sparked by anger, there is room for creativity, joy, and vision for the future.

The President and the People’s House

As we rallied at the Capitol, another drama was unfolding up Pennsylvania Avenue at the White House. President Trump, unswayed by public outcry, had begun making literal physical changes to the seat of government — changes that many find symbolic of his disregard for democracy. Just two days after the nation’s protest, crews with excavators and cranes descended on the East Wing of the White House, knocking down walls and ripping out the facade. This was the start of construction on Trump’s long-touted pet project: a $250 million, 90,000-square-foot private ballroom he intends to add to the White House complex. 

Trump had previously vowed that his ballroom plan “wouldn’t interfere with the current building.” In July, he promised it would be built “near it but not touching it” out of respect for the historic structure. However, by October, that promise rang hollow. Demolition on the East Wing had already begun, even though it meant tearing apart a 123-year-old wing that housed the First Lady’s offices and other longstanding facilities. The sight of hard-hatted workers hacking away at the People’s House has been stunning and dismaying. Photos and videos show part of the East Wing entrance facade being torn down. ABC News and other outlets reported on this development, and many Americans reacted with shock and outrage. 

“So any president can just start destroying portions of the White House? Is that how this works?” quipped former CNN anchor Jim Acosta, actively voicing on social media what so many were thinking but not many were saying out loud.

Trump celebrated the demolition and construction. During a White House event, he crowed that “they’ve wanted a ballroom for 150 years, and I’m giving that honor to this wonderful place”. As reporters and dinner guests literally heard the rumble of demolition in the background, Trump smiled and called the noise “music to my ears … when I hear that sound, it reminds me of money.” He has repeatedly stressed that the lavish project is funded by private donors (including major corporations and tech billionaires) and “won’t cost the taxpayer a dime,” as if that makes it unassailable. To critics, the issue was never just the money — it’s more about the hubris and the secrecy hiding behind the project. 

The White House quietly circumvented the usual oversight and approval processes to push the ballroom through. In fact, the body that normally reviews major changes to federal property — the National Capital Planning Commission — was effectively bypassed. In September, Will Scharf, the Trump-appointed chair of that commission (and a White House aide), declared that the panel only has authority over “vertical construction” and thus has no say over demolishing existing parts of the White House. It was a convenient loophole, and the administration exploited it: no public hearings, no congressional funding approval, just wrecking crews arriving on a Monday morning to smash a piece of American heritage. The National Trust for Historic Preservation urgently wrote to government officials “urging a pause to demolition until plans … go through the legally required public review,” warning that the project violates longstanding norms as launched. Thus far, those pleas have been ignored.

For those of us protesting on No Kings Day, the spectacle of the East Wing coming down felt like a grim vindication of our fears. One liberal commentator, while watching footage of the bulldozers, remarked bitterly that: “First, Trump’s mob attacked the Capitol for the first time since 1812, and now Trump is doing more damage to the White House than the British did in 1814.”

Indeed, it is hard not to see parallels to the War of 1812 when a foreign army set fire to the White House and Capitol. This time, the threat comes from within. 

In 2021, a violent mob whipped up by lies about a stolen election stormed our Capitol to overturn a democratic vote. Now, in 2025, we watched as a president empowered by a compliant Congress and big-money allies tore down part of the White House itself to build a gilded ballroom for his personal glorification. The East Wing may not have the iconic profile of the main White House residence, but it has stood since 1902 and hosted countless tours, events, and offices. Seeing it reduced to rubble feels like watching our democratic traditions themselves being bulldozed. 

A president isn’t supposed to throw the crowd (many saw it on their phones or heard it from speakers on stage). There were widespread gasps and heads shaking in disbelief. Some protest signs directly referenced the ballroom project: “No Palace for a President” read one; “Our White House, Not Trump’s Party House” read another. It struck a nerve because it made tangible the abstraction of democratic erosion. As one speaker shouted into the mic, “He thinks he’s a king who can just knock down our White House walls and build himself a throne room!” The crowd booed loudly at that statement. 

The ballroom scheme felt like an outrageously literal metaphor for everything we were protesting: the concentration of power, the disregard for rules, the ego of one man placed above the institutions of the republic. “No kings! No kings!” the crowd roared in response, turning toward the White House down Pennsylvania Avenue. In that moment, our chant had a distinctly mournful tone, mourning the idea of the White House as the people’s house as well as an undercurrent of defiance.

Protest as the Last Safeguard

As evening fell, the No Kings Day rally in D.C. wound down with a candlelight vigil near the Capitol Reflecting Pool. Thousands of tiny flames flickered in the dusk, each held by someone who refused to give up on democracy. We stood in silence for a time, thinking of what had been lost and what could still be saved. I thought about how generations before us had fought to expand the promise of American democracy — from Revolutionary War soldiers to civil rights marchers, and how the looming task now falls to ordinary citizens to defend that promise anew. It was a heavy realization, but looking around at the diverse crowd, I also felt a surge of hope. These people were not ready to surrender their country to despair or authoritarian rule.

When I left the Capitol that night, I was physically exhausted — my legs sore from hours of marching, my throat hoarse from chanting — but inwardly I felt oddly rejuvenated. The urgency that had driven us into the streets had transformed into determination. Yes, we were angry and yes, we were anxious about the future, but we were also united in a way that gave me confidence. Democracy may be wounded, but it is not dead yet. As long as Americans are willing to stand up, speak out, and come together as we did on No Kings Day, there remains a pathway to renewal.

Driving away from Washington, I passed the White House one more time. In the darkness, floodlights illuminated the half-demolished East Wing, casting long shadows across the South Lawn. It looked haunting — a strange scar on an otherwise familiar silhouette — yet I imagined that in those jagged edges and construction cranes I could also see the silhouettes of the people who had stood with me that day, determined to hold the line. In a way, the wrecked wing was a testament to what we were up against, and the mass of citizens in the streets was a testament to what is still possible. If democracy is dying, then we — the people — will be its living will, its last guardians. We left D.C. with a solemn vow: America has no kings, and as long as we draw breath, we will not let democracy die in darkness.

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