Trump in Washington and the Banality of Evil

Terms like fascism and totalitarianism frequently surface in discussions about Donald Trump. At first glance, this seems understandable: many traits associated with these concepts resonate with Trump’s political style and rhetoric. Yet in doing so, we may overlook a crucial opportunity to gain deeper insight into the Trump phenomenon—and the broader societal dynamics that enabled his rise. A more fruitful perspective is offered by Hannah Arendt’s analysis of evil in her groundbreaking work Eichmann in Jerusalem.

In this book, Arendt introduced the term “banality of evil” to describe the behavior and motivations of Adolf Eichmann. Eichmann, who oversaw the logistical coordination of the Holocaust, turned out during his trial not to be some sinister mastermind or sadistic psychopath. Instead, he appeared as a rather ordinary bureaucrat, obediently following orders, craving approval and professional success within the Nazi system.

Arendt observed that the court was asking the wrong questions, searching—like the philosopher Immanuel Kant—for what he called Radical Evil: an unfathomable, absolute kind of evil that transcends normal human understanding. For Kant, such evil was not just extreme—it was essentially inexplicable. We could never fully grasp why someone would commit such atrocities. This notion of radical evil often serves to reassure us: if evildoers are fundamentally different from “normal” people, then we can safely place ourselves outside that category.

The Idea of Radical Evil

This search for a deep, inherent evil continues to recur in modern society. Think, for example, of the fascination with brain scans of Kim De Gelder, in an attempt to prove that his brain functioned abnormally. Or consider Daniel Goldhagen’s controversial thesis in Hitler’s Willing Executioners, in which he argued that antisemitism and the Holocaust were uniquely German phenomena. Such analyses help us believe that evil is clear-cut and easily located—always happening “elsewhere,” never close to home.

Popular culture reinforces this belief: films portray heroes like Batman or John Wick triumphing over villains who are entirely, irredeemably evil. By externalizing evil—by turning it into a myth, as social psychologist Roy Baumeister suggests—we avoid confronting our own moral shortcomings. The media plays a role here too, often depicting “the enemy” as wholly depraved while “our side” remains above reproach.

Radical evil, then, is a comforting belief. It lets us see ourselves as morally upright individuals. We tell ourselves: I can’t be evil—evil people are born that way. This distancing absolves us from deeper reflection. The belief in one’s personal goodness (distinct from a belief in humanity’s overall goodness) becomes a psychological necessity. We like to say most people are good, but we often forget that those same people—including ourselves—are also capable of wrongdoing. Humanity is not inherently good or evil. Humanity is. And human beings are capable of both. Forgetting this truth is perilous.

The Banality of Eichmann

Hannah Arendt offered a radically new interpretation of evil. What she saw in Eichmann’s trial was not a monster filled with diabolical thoughts. She saw a pathetic little man. Eichmann simply wanted recognition from his superiors. He wanted a career. Above all, he wanted to be seen as a good German. It was precisely this ordinariness that unsettled everyone. The court searched for some radical evil and found only a man of utter insignificance. Evil did not arise from grandeur or megalomania, but from the mundane.

Importantly, Arendt did not excuse Eichmann. In fact, she repeatedly emphasized his guilt and even supported his death sentence. Her point was that great evil often results from small, seemingly insignificant actions. The ordinary choices we consider trivial may carry enormous consequences. That realization implies that we all carry the potential to do evil—and bear responsibility for it. To look away from injustice may be the gravest evil of all. How many of us dare to look a homeless person in the eyes?

Recognizing our own capacity for evil brings two benefits. First, it fosters understanding. Knowing that the so-called “evil person” is not so different from us can reduce personal hostility and shift our focus to actions and intentions. It becomes a battle of ideas, not people. Second, this awareness is a safeguard: by realizing that banal desires can produce horrific consequences in certain contexts, we can take precautions to avoid such outcomes.

Trump in Washington

These insights are crucial for how we think about Trump. Labeling Trump as some radical evil or fascist obscures a key point: the banality of his motivations. His behavior may be better explained through ordinary ambitions, recognition, power, wealth, the affection of his base. That thought makes us uncomfortable, because it forces us to confront the fact that we, too, harbor such ambitions. Trump forces us to reckon with the idea that, under different circumstances, we might not be so different.

Portraying Trump as a radical evil limits public discourse in two key ways. First, it gives us the illusion that removing Trump would solve the problem. Some even cheered when he survived an assassination attempt, as if his disappearance would be a cure-all. But this is naïve. Trump’s rise was not just the result of his personal traits. It was also born out of widespread societal frustration, disillusionment, and powerlessness; forces that won’t disappear when Trump does. The danger he represents will outlast him, because the underlying causes are so deeply human, so utterly banal, that they’ll continue without him.

Second, viewing Trump as a radical evil makes it impossible to take the concerns of his supporters seriously. People who follow a “radical evil” must themselves be irrational, morally bankrupt. But this isn’t true. When we dismiss these people as mere henchmen of evil, we alienate them further. It becomes nearly impossible to acknowledge that Trump might occasionally make valid points without being vilified yourself. This reduces the debate to a straw man. And isn’t that precisely the mechanism Arendt warned us about?

Accepting Arendt’s insights does not mean excusing Trump’s actions or downplaying their harm. On the contrary, it highlights how deeply rooted and widespread the potential for evil really is. It demands constant vigilance and moral introspection, even from ourselves. Trump’s banality is, in the end, a confrontation with our own. The evil nestled within our everyday desires. That’s why Arendt’s analysis deserves a central place in today’s political discourse—not just for nuance, but to prevent future injustices.