In episode 2 of the Alliance for Securing Democracy’s Ballots & Bagels series, Elections Integrity Fellow David Levine speaks to Seth Bluestein, city commissioner for the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Board of Elections, about what we can learn from Pennsylvania’s May 17 primary election.
Protesters gather as Harvey Weinstein arrives at a Manhattan court house on January 06, 2020 in New York City.
Each time a major sexual assault case comes to light, the public conversation follows a familiar pattern. Awareness campaigns are launched. Safety tips are shared. People are reminded to watch their drinks, walk in groups, and trust their instincts. The focus quickly turns to what potential victims should do differently.
But the harder question remains: Why does sexual assault continue to happen on such a large scale?
Recent headlines make that question impossible to ignore. The world continues to grapple with the legacy of the Jeffrey Epstein case, which exposed how wealth, influence, and institutional failures allowed sexual abuse to continue for years despite repeated warnings. At the same time, new allegations involving César Chávez have forced communities to confront painful questions about power, loyalty, and silence within movements built on justice. Survivors in those cases have described years of fear, retaliation, and disbelief, underscoring a truth that extends far beyond any single individual.
Consider also the recent case in France involving Gisèle Pelicot. For nearly a decade, her husband drugged her and invited dozens of men to rape her while she was unconscious in her own home. Investigators later identified more than ninety assaults committed by multiple perpetrators over several years. This was not a stranger in a dark alley. This was a husband, a home, and a network of men who chose to participate. The case shocked the world, yet it reflects a pattern that has existed for generations.
Sexual violence is rarely random. Research from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention consistently shows that the perpetrator is often someone the survivor knows, such as a partner, coworker, neighbor, or family member. These environments are built on trust, authority, and power.
I wrote previously about prevention in trusted spaces and continue to stand by that recommendation. Prevention should be directed toward people known to us, not only toward strangers. But the second most important priority is accountability. Without accountability, prevention becomes a promise without protection.
The scale of sexual violence raises uncomfortable questions. Is the problem a lack of awareness or a lack of consequences? Is it a failure of education or a failure of systems to act when harm occurs? Sexual violence is not only about individual behavior. It is deeply connected to the misuse of power and control, particularly in environments where authorities go unchecked and reputation is protected.
To be sure, men can also be victims of sexual assault. Their experiences deserve recognition, support, and justice. Yet the reality remains that sexual violence is shaped by social structures that normalize dominance and entitlement. These dynamics often place men in positions of authority and influence, making them more likely to be perpetrators and making institutions more hesitant to hold them accountable. This is not an accusation against individuals. It is an acknowledgment of patterns that have persisted across generations.
Breaking the silence has become a rallying cry in recent years. Survivors who come forward are often described as courageous, and rightly so. Speaking about sexual violence requires extraordinary strength. But courage should not be a prerequisite for safety. Reporting harm should not feel like stepping into uncertainty without protection.
Many survivors never report sexual assault. Studies have shown that fear of retaliation, disbelief, stigma, and institutional inaction are among the most common reasons survivors remain silent. Silence is often interpreted as weakness or shame, but in many cases, it is a rational response to systems that have historically failed to deliver justice.
Recent revelations across sectors have reinforced this reality. In the Epstein case, records showed that warnings about abuse surfaced repeatedly before meaningful action was taken. In the emerging allegations surrounding César Chávez, survivors have described remaining silent for years out of concern that speaking out would harm a movement they believed in. These stories differ in context and geography, but they share a common thread: power without accountability creates risk.
The persistence of sexual violence is not evidence of moral failure among survivors. It is evidence of structural failure within institutions.
If society is serious about preventing sexual violence, safety can no longer be treated as an individual responsibility. It must be treated as an institutional obligation. Prevention cannot depend on survivors being vigilant. It must depend on systems being accountable. Policies alone do not create safety. Enforcement does. Action does. Consequences do. Institutions must do more than write procedures and conduct training. They must respond decisively when harm occurs. They must protect those who report misconduct. And they must accept responsibility when failures happen. Real prevention requires reporting systems that survivors can trust without fear of retaliation, consistent enforcement of policies regardless of status or reputation, leadership that is held responsible for safety outcomes rather than procedural compliance, independent oversight when misconduct is alleged, and consequences that are timely, transparent, and unavoidable. These are not aspirational goals. They are the minimum standards of any institution that claims to protect people. Safety is not created by awareness alone. Safety is created by accountability.
Sexual violence will not end through awareness campaigns alone. It will not end through training sessions or policy statements. It will end when institutions demonstrate that harm carries consequences and that power does not shield perpetrators from responsibility.
Prevention begins with education. It continues with accountability. It becomes real only when systems are willing to act.
Stephanie Whack is a survivor of domestic violence, an advocate at the intersection of victimization and homelessness, and a member of The OpEd Project Public Voices Fellowship on Domestic Violence and Economic Security. In 2024, she was awarded the LA City Dr. Marjorie Braude Award for innovative collaboration in serving victims of domestic violence.
Democratic party donkey symbol
The country has been suffering under the thumb of Trump now for more than a year. So much of our country and people's lives are in shambles because of his actions. He has broken his promises to his middle-class and rural supporters (see my article, "Listen Up, Trump Supporters!"). He has disabled government agencies that protect the people. He has not only taken America to war against Iran without much of an explanation or the approval of Congress, but clearly the war and all the billions that have been spent and will be spent have not and will not result in anything that improves the interests of the United States in the region, and may in fact worsen them.
Trump controls, in large part, by being the most forceful presence, not just in the United States but in the world. In his king-like demeanor, he constantly takes action to undermine or destroy the government's traditional roles; he is a congenital liar, and he is so revered by his followers that he controls the airwaves and the media. The Democratic Party—the loyal opposition—has had no forum to act since Trump has mostly side-stepped his totally subservient Congress in moving his policy agenda forward.
Individual Democratic politicians have certainly made statements about Trump's actions from the sidelines. But the Party itself has not developed a structured, regular format for providing the American people with a counterweight, to let them know its take on what is happening in Washington. It has been missing in action.
Since there is no anointed leader of the party at this point, it falls to the Party leadership, both in Congress and at the DNC, to create a media vehicle to provide this information to the people and to be a regular presence in their lives. Trump provides his information and is present every day. For the sake of the country and the Party, it must provide its information and presence regularly and dependably, probably weekly, with social media posts during the week.
There is precedent for such a media vehicle. I can't think of anything recent, but in the 60s, the Everett Dirksen/Charles Halleck show was the Republican answer to the Kennedy and Johnson administrations. From the moment Kennedy took office in 1961 until Dirksen's death in 1969, the Republican leaders of the House and the Senate met weekly for a televised chat about what had been going on in the government over the previous week. Known as the "Ev and Charlie Show," it was well received and widely viewed and provided the Republican Party with a voice and presence when they were in the minority, as the Democrats are now.
This Democratic media vehicle must be more than a way to provide clear and focused criticism of Trump and his policies; the Party must use this forum to present to the people its vision of what the government should be doing to fulfill its various roles—including securing the rights of all people—grounded always in its take on our founding principles as expressed in the Declaration of Independence. And it must explain those principles clearly to the people because Trump and MAGA have fostered a perverted version of those principles. (See my articles, "Where Is the Democratic Party's Clarion Voice," and "The Far-Right's Biggest Lie.")
It could well be that disapproval of the war and high gas prices could result in Democrats winning both the House and the Senate in the upcoming midterm elections. But the party cannot leave that to chance. They must give people a reason to vote Democratic, rather than just registering disapproval of Trump.
Why? If Democrats win, they will have to present a united front against Trump's policies for the remaining 2 years of his presidency. They can only do that successfully if they have been given a mandate by the people. But their winning the election will only be considered a mandate for them if they have presented their proposals to the people. And so the election becomes not just a rebuke of Trump but an affirmation of the people's support for Democratic policy positions grounded in our founding principles.
Ronald L. Hirsch is a teacher, legal aid lawyer, survey researcher, nonprofit executive, consultant, composer, author, and volunteer. He is a graduate of Brown University and the University of Chicago Law School and the author of We Still Hold These Truths. Read more of his writing at www.PreservingAmericanValues.com
George Washington saved the American Revolution not by winning battles, but by refusing defeat. From the daring 1776 Brooklyn evacuation to lessons for the 2026 US-Iran conflict, this story explores how wars are won through endurance, not just victory.
Many wars are remembered for decisive battles. The American Revolution survived because one army refused to be destroyed.
George Washington understood that reality during the darkest months of the Revolutionary War. In 1776, the American rebellion stood on the edge of collapse. The Continental Army had been defeated repeatedly, and the British believed the conflict might soon end with a single decisive blow.
On the night of August 29, 1776, George Washington had not slept in two days.
His army, 9,000 men, was trapped on Brooklyn Heights. British forces had driven them there after a crushing defeat, routing the Continental Army through the undefended Jamaica Pass and shattering its forward lines in a matter of hours. Now the survivors were pressed against the East River, the Royal Navy controlling the surrounding waters, British troops digging siege lines just 600 yards away. Captain Sir George Collier, commanding HMS Rainbow off Long Island, recorded in his journal that all of Washington's men "must be killed or taken prisoners. . . . If we become masters of this body of rebels, the war is at an end."
Washington had other plans.
He ordered a silent evacuation. Through the night, Colonel John Glover's regiment of Marblehead fishermen and sailors rowed small boats back and forth across the East River in darkness and rain. Oars were muffled in cloth. Washington himself rode the lines through the night, then stood at the landing to supervise each embarkation, cheering, calming, and encouraging his troops through what one historian called one of the most difficult trials a soldier can endure.
By dawn, the army was still not fully across.
Then the fog came. A thick morning mist settled over the harbor so dense that one soldier wrote you could scarcely discern a man at six yards distance. The final battalions crossed under its cover. Washington was the last man to board the last boat, with British forces already closing in on the shore behind him.
In London, bells rang across the city, candles were lit in windows, and King George III awarded General Howe the Order of the Bath. The rebellion, it seemed, had been broken.
It had not.
The fog that morning was luck. The decision to cross was strategy.
What Washington understood that Howe did not was this: the army was the revolution. Lose it, and everything collapsed. Keep it alive, and the rebellion could survive any number of battlefield defeats. As he wrote to Congress during the campaign, "We should on all occasions avoid a general action, or put anything to the risk, unless compelled by necessity."
Over the following months, his forces were pushed across New Jersey toward the Delaware River. Soldiers marched without proper shoes. Enlistments were expiring. Thomas Paine described the moment as "the times that try men's souls." Yet the rebellion refused to die.
Henry Clinton's own narrative of the campaigns returns again and again to the same frustration: the Americans would not be brought to a decisive engagement. The British captured New York and Philadelphia. They won nearly every engagement. But as long as Washington's army survived, Britain faced another campaign season, another round of ships and soldiers and money crossing 3,000 miles of Atlantic. The conflict widened as France entered the war in 1778, followed by Spain and the Dutch Republic. Winning battles did not end the war. They lost because they could not convert battlefield success into strategic closure.
The British controlled the battlefield. The Americans controlled time.
Washington's endurance strategy depended on one condition: the army had to survive. That condition is worth keeping in mind as the United States wages war against Iran in the spring of 2026.
When this piece was first drafted, the US-Iran confrontation looked like a recognizable asymmetric contest. Iran possessed missiles, drones, and regional proxy networks designed to complicate and prolong any conflict with a technologically superior adversary. The strategic logic seemed familiar: not battlefield dominance but cumulative cost and political attrition.
Events since February 28 have, if anything, deepened the parallel.
US and Israeli forces launched surprise airstrikes killing Supreme Leader Khamenei and numerous other Iranian officials. Iran's missiles, nuclear infrastructure, air defenses, navy, and proxy command networks have all been severely degraded. Yet US intelligence assessments suggest Iran's regime will likely remain in place, weakened but more hard-line, with the IRGC exerting greater control. Atlantic Council analysts warn that Iran's long history of asymmetric conflict suggests the kinetic portion of this war could be just a start.
Washington lost battles, too. He kept fighting.
This is where Washington's lesson bites hardest. The British did not lose because Washington outfought them. They lost because they could not end the war on terms that justified its cost. Destroying Iran's conventional military resolves one question and immediately raises another: what does strategic closure actually look like, and is the United States prepared for the long, irregular campaign that may follow the airstrikes?
That question, as of this writing, has no public answer.
Strategic success is not always about imposing outcomes. Sometimes it is about denying them.
Washington's campaign offers a reminder that wars can turn not on moments of victory but on the refusal to accept defeat.
Some conflicts are not decided by who wins but by who cannot be defeated.
Edward Saltzberg is the Executive Director of the Security and Sustainability Forum and writes The Stability Brief.
U.S. President Donald Trump on March 11, 2026.
In moments of war, a president’s words carry enormous weight. They can steady markets, reassure allies, and signal strategic clarity — or they can do the opposite. President Donald Trump’s handling of the 2026 conflict with Iran has been a case study in the latter: a torrent of contradictions, self‑justifications, and evasions that leave the public less informed and the world less stable.
Across the political spectrum, reporting paints a consistent picture. Even as U.S. and Iranian negotiators scrambled to establish a cease-fire framework, Trump continued to insist the conflict was “limited,” “short,” or “nearly wrapped up,” despite ongoing strikes and regional spillover. Diplomats described the situation as “fragile” and “volatile,” yet the president publicly framed it as a minor dust‑up rather than a major regional crisis. Minimizing a war’s scope doesn’t make it smaller — it simply obscures its costs.
Members of Congress, including Republicans, raised serious concerns about whether Trump’s authorization for the initial strikes complied with U.S. and international law. Rather than address those questions directly, Trump dismissed them as “nonsense” and “political attacks,” sidestepping the core issue: whether the United States entered a major conflict without a lawful basis. A president who cannot articulate the legal foundation for war invites both domestic backlash and international instability.
The absurdity of Trump’s wartime messaging has not gone unnoticed. The Guardian highlighted Jon Stewart’s blistering critique, in which he skewered Trump for treating the Iran conflict like a branding exercise — alternating between bravado and victimhood, claiming total control one moment and blaming unnamed advisers the next. Comedy often reveals what official statements try to obscure, and here it exposes a commander‑in‑chief whose public posture resembles improvisation more than strategy.
Trump’s public comments about the war have been riddled with contradictions. He has alternated between threatening overwhelming force and insisting he seeks peace; between claiming Iran is “on its knees” and warning that they remain a “grave threat”; between promising swift victory and suggesting the conflict could last indefinitely. It’s inconsistency — and inconsistency in wartime is dangerous.
Wars are not branding opportunities. They are not campaign rallies. They are not opportunities for improvisational rhetoric. They demand clarity, honesty, and seriousness — qualities that have been conspicuously absent from Trump’s public handling of the Iran conflict. The president cannot or will not communicate coherently about a war he initiated. That should alarm anyone who believes that military power must be paired with responsible leadership.
We deserve a president who treats war as a solemn responsibility, not a stage for contradictory sound bites.
Hugo Balta is the executive editor of The Fulcrum and the publisher of the Latino News Network.
