The Debt We Owe June 6, 1944

On D-Day, Democracy, and the Sacred Trust We’ve Broken

Photo by Duncan Kidd on Unsplash

This is, after all, a philosophy blog.

But today—June 6th—we must speak of something more fundamental than philosophy. We must speak of blood and sacrifice. Of young men who died in the surf at Omaha Beach so that we might live free. Of a generation that understood, with crystalline clarity, that democracy is not a given but a gift that must be earned, defended, and preserved through the ultimate sacrifice.

Eighty years ago this morning, as Allied forces prepared to storm the beaches of Normandy, Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower penned a message to his troops:

“You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.”

The eyes of the world were indeed upon them. And what the world saw was America at its finest hour—not perfect, not without flaws, but rising to meet the ultimate test of its founding principles. What the world saw was a nation that understood democracy was worth dying for.

What would those eyes see if they looked upon us today?

At Omaha Beach alone, American forces suffered over 2,400 casualties. Boys from Iowa and Alabama, from Brooklyn and Wyoming, bled out in the sand and surf. They died not for abstract principles but for a concrete understanding: that a world where might makes right, where strongmen crush dissent, where democratic institutions become mere stage-dressing for authoritarian rule, is a world not worth living in.

They died so that future generations could govern themselves. So that power would flow from the consent of the governed rather than the barrel of a gun. So that institutions would constrain authority rather than enable its abuse. So that America could remain what Lincoln called “the last best hope of earth”—a place where human beings could determine their own fate through democratic deliberation rather than submission to autocratic will.

Consider the weight that rested on Eisenhower’s shoulders as he wrote those words. He knew that failure meant not just military defeat but the potential collapse of democratic resistance to fascism. He knew that success would come at a terrible cost in young American lives. He knew that the future of human freedom hung in the balance of the next twenty-four hours.

In his pocket, he carried a second message, one to be released only if the invasion failed: “The troops, the air and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt, it is mine alone.”

This is leadership. This is what it looks like when someone understands that democracy requires not just courage but accountability—that those who wield power must answer for its use, that authority comes with responsibility, that the ultimate test of leadership is willingness to sacrifice for principles greater than oneself.

They fought against fascism—not as a historical curiosity, but as a living threat. The cult of the strongman. The belief that democratic deliberation is too slow, too messy, too inefficient for the challenges of modern life. The promise of order through submission, efficiency through the elimination of dissent, greatness through the surrender of self-governance to those who claim special competence to rule.

Fascism tells people that democracy has failed, that institutions are corrupt, that only a leader who stands above law and constitution can save the nation from decline. It wraps itself in patriotic symbols while betraying patriotic principles. It claims to represent “the people” while systematically dismantling the mechanisms through which people actually govern themselves.

This is what American soldiers died fighting in 1944. This is what they understood as an existential threat not just to America but to the possibility of human freedom anywhere on earth.

And now, eighty years later, what do we see? An American president who explicitly promises to be “a dictator on day one.” The systematic dismantling of civil service protections. The weaponization of law enforcement against political opponents. The open defiance of court orders and constitutional constraints. The merger of private oligarchic power with public authority.

We see, in other words, the emergence of exactly the kind of authoritarian system that American boys died fighting on the beaches of Normandy.

How did we get here? How did a nation whose finest generation gave their lives to defeat fascism end up flirting with fascism itself?

We forgot. We forgot what democracy costs. We forgot what it requires. We forgot why it matters. We treated the freedom purchased with blood as an inheritance rather than a responsibility. We allowed comfort to breed complacency, prosperity to breed entitlement, peace to breed the dangerous illusion that democracy maintains itself.

The generation that stormed Normandy understood something we have lost: that democracy is not a spectator sport. It requires active citizenship, moral courage, and the willingness to sacrifice comfort for principle. It requires understanding that freedom is not free—that it must be earned by each generation through vigilance, engagement, and the determination to hold power accountable.

They understood that democracy’s greatest enemies are not foreign invaders but domestic forces that corrupt institutions from within—oligarchs who capture regulatory agencies, politicians who place personal loyalty above constitutional duty, citizens who trade freedom for the promise of security or prosperity.

Most importantly, they understood that democracy is not about efficiency or convenience but about human dignity—about the principle that free people should govern themselves rather than be governed by those who claim to know better.

Walk through the American cemetery above Omaha Beach and you will see 9,388 white crosses and Stars of David stretching toward the horizon. Each marker represents a life cut short, a future never lived, a family forever scarred by loss. But each marker also represents a promise—a sacred trust between the living and the dead.

They kept their promise. They gave everything for the principle that human beings should govern themselves rather than be governed by tyrants. Now it falls to us to keep ours.

Today, as we commemorate the 81st anniversary of D-Day, we face our own test of democratic resolve. Not on the beaches of Normandy, but in the voting booths and courtrooms and civic institutions of America itself. The question is whether we will rise to meet those challenges with the same moral clarity and courage that carried American forces across the killing fields of Omaha Beach.

Will we honor the sacrifice of those who died for democracy by defending it ourselves? Will we remember that the freedom they purchased with their blood is not ours to surrender to oligarchs and strongmen? Will we understand that democracy, like freedom itself, is not a destination but a journey—one that requires constant effort, eternal vigilance, and the courage to resist those who would trade our birthright for the false promise of authoritarian efficiency?

The eyes of the world are upon us once again. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with us once again. The question is whether we will prove worthy of the trust placed in us by those who gave their lives so that we might live free.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And democracy is worth dying for—which means it is certainly worth living for, defending, and preserving against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

The center must be held. Not because it is easy, but because it is ours to hold. Not because it is perfect, but because it is sacred. Not because it is guaranteed, but because it is the gift of those who gave everything so that we might be free.

Today we remember D-Day. Tomorrow we get back to the work of proving ourselves worthy of the sacrifice made on our behalf.

The debt can never be fully repaid. But it must never be forgotten. And it must never, ever be surrendered to those who would trade away what others died to preserve.

“The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.”

They still are. They still do. The question is what they will see.