Truth & Treason in the Era of Trump
A reflection on the power of true stories and the cost of silence in an age of lies
The Theater of Revelation
I didn’t expect to get emotional in the movie theater that afternoon. But as the credits rolled on Truth & Treason, I sat in the dark with my wife, profoundly moved.
The film chronicles the real-life courage of Helmuth Hübener, a German teenager who defied Hitler’s propaganda by distributing leaflets of truth. He was executed for treason at seventeen.
It’s one of the best films I’ve seen in a long time.
Watching it, I realized it wasn’t just about Nazi Germany. It was about what happens when fear, fatigue, and convenience persuade decent people to stay quiet while bad things happen around them. In that sense, it was a message to me about what I need to do as a filmmaker, a business owner, and as an American.
That is why I’ve decided to violate one of my Cardinal rules of business with this article.
For years, I’ve believed in civility. Diplomacy. I built a career around respect, meeting people where they are, avoiding politics, and finding common ground.
My diplomacy-first approach has served me well for most of my life. But I also know that my tendency for conflict avoidance is a fault.
Lately, I’ve started asking a harder question:
At what point does restraint, conflict avoidance, and staying silent become complicity?
My work these days centers on helping people take control of their stories. But watching Truth & Treason made me realize something deeper: stories don’t just reflect who we are, they shape who we become. And in an age where lies move faster than light, maybe telling the truth is the most radical act of all.
My Documentary Director's Perspective
That sense of history repeating itself has haunted me since I began directing Steak Guerrillas: The Dr. Arturo M. Taca Story. The documentary follows the extraordinary life of Dr. Arturo M. Taca, a Filipino physician who fled the Marcos regime, resettled in St. Louis, and devoted his life to pushing Filipinos to stand up against dictatorship.
Having worked in politics and lobbying, I was drawn to Dr. Taca’s story because I wanted to understand how democratic disagreement can transform into hate and how political opponents can turn into enemies.
As a physician, Taca swore the Hippocratic Oath to do no harm, yet he found himself fighting a dictator who weaponized lies and fear. He got to the point that he advocated for the use of violence and then helped secure explosives, guns, and money to help wage a guerrilla war. I wanted to understand what drove him there.
“When you deal in politics, it’s difficult to separate the personal from the political,” Taca once told a reporter after a pipe bomb exploded outside his Illinois clinic. That wasn’t a lament—it was a statement of fact. He lived his convictions even when they carried a cost.
That quote has been playing in my head of late, especially as we work to finish the film.
Through Taca’s story, I’ve come to understand how easily a democracy can collapse from within. Ferdinand Marcos didn’t seize power overnight; he dismantled institutions piece by piece. He used fear to justify censorship, rewarded loyalty over merit, enriched himself while imprisoning opponents, and replaced truth with propaganda until millions believed him.
The story of Dr. Taca isn’t just about the Philippines. It’s about the fragility of freedom everywhere. It is about how democracies die slowly, through polite silence and exhausted consent. Fascism rarely arrives with fanfare. It comes disguised as patriotism. I used to think that couldn’t happen here in the United States. Now, I’m not so sure.
When I hear calls to punish the press, when I see academic freedom dismissed as elitism, when public broadcasting—the soul of civic storytelling—is defunded, I think of dictators like Marcos. He, too, rebranded censorship as “national unity.”
Like Hitler, he made truth the enemy.
Lügenpresse was the Nazi-era predecessor to the “fake news” moniker popularized by Trump. The tactic behind the approach is part of the propagandist playbook.
We are asked daily to prove our loyalty—to party, tribe, or algorithm—rather than to principle. But democracy isn’t a spectator sport. It survives only when enough people refuse to play along with the lies.
When Silence Stops Feeling Safe
My friend, let’s call him David (name changed for his family’s safety), understands this better than most. David’s a gifted storyteller I’ve worked with over the years.
Last year, the day after the election, we filmed together at his place, working on our pitch video for Steak Guerrillas.
Before that day, we were both hopeful about the future. The industry felt alive, the country uncertain but resilient. But this was the day after the election, and we all felt different now.
I remember David telling me that he and his wife had decided to move to Canada before their kids started school. Their youngest child is transgender, and before the election they were increasingly uneasy about the direction of the country.
After the election they felt their fate was sealed and moving was no longer a choice but an imperative.
He said it matter of fact - almost apologetically, like someone saying something they weren’t sure they were allowed to feel.
At first, I thought it was temporary anxiety—something that would pass when things calmed down. But over the next several months, I watched him turn fear into a plan. He rented his house, packed his family, and moved to Canada.
They started over from scratch in a new country because they believed it was the only way to keep their child safe and have peace of mind.
David isn’t paranoid. He’s Jewish. History has taught him that when powerful people begin to dehumanize others, it’s time to pay attention.
When anyone like David feel they must flee their own country, something fundamental is broken. I support his decision completely, but I’m heartbroken that he had to make it.
His departure feels symbolic of something bigger—a quiet exodus of good people from the public square, pushed out not by persecution but by exhaustion, cynicism, and fear. When anyone feels they must flee their own country, something fundamental has broken.
The Power of Art to Warn
I used to believe art and politics were separate spheres. Films could “rise above” ideology. I don’t believe that now. I believe every story carries moral DNA. Even neutrality has consequences.
“To not speak of evil is to speak. To not act is to act.” — Truth & Treason
There comes a point where we must all act. Helmuth Hübener’s moral compass came down to a single line of faith: “Do what is right; let the consequence follow.”
To make films about truth in an era of disinformation is inherently political, whether we admit it or not. The question is not if our work takes a side, it’s which side of history it chooses.
Director Matt Whitaker spent two decades fighting to bring Truth & Treason to life. Watching his persistence reminds me why I became a filmmaker in the first place.
Matt’s work affirmed that my own creative shift—from fee-for-service storytelling to independent truth-telling—is the right one.
The world doesn’t need more content. It needs more courage. And it needs more truth.
America’s Rapid Descent
We like to think authoritarianism happens elsewhere, or that we’d recognize it before it arrived. But it doesn’t work that way. It creeps in quietly through fatigue, fear, and the small compromises we tell ourselves are harmless.
What’s most alarming about our current moment is how fast it’s happening. I see the military presence in our cities, the assault on academia, the hollowing out of journalism, the consolidation of media and tech—all within a year.
Over the last few years, I’ve also experienced a bullying presence of mean-spirited, ignorant angry mobs of highly opinionated “friends” on social media pushing people into corners. It is a troubling fact of life.
I’ve watched the takeover of cultural institutions, the purging of dissenting voices, and our fragile documentary ecosystem brought to its knees. Today, the documentary economy looks like the east wing of the White House. It is sad.
When I study Marcos, I see how easily power and wealth merge into something toxic. He turned government into a personal fortune machine, using fear and greed to control his opponents. Trump has done the same, wielding tariffs, lawsuits, and political theater to reward loyalty and punish dissent. He allows cronies and foreign investors to buy influence and control in industries once thought untouchable.
The pattern is always the same: leaders erode accountability by eroding empathy. They make cruelty feel normal. They make truth feel optional. They teach us that there are different rules for different people, until no one is safe.
It’s alarming to see respected institutions—law firms, universities, corporations—capitulate to power in real time. It’s as if they’ve internalized the words of that great Canadian philosopher from our “51st state,” Geddy Lee:
“Conform or be cast out.”
While I empathize with their Rush to kiss Trump’s ring, I’m reminded of another insight by the Canadian rocker that speaks to the acquiescence that enables authoritarianism to take hold.
“Choosing not to decide, you still have made a choice.”
That insight drives my shift from sitting on the sidelines to speaking out. When you see something, say something. Morality matters.
Tell The Truth – Let the Consequences Follow
For years, I told myself that avoiding politics was professionalism. I didn’t want to alienate clients or collaborators. I convinced myself my role was to help others tell their stories, not to insert my own. It was my lawyer mindset, stepping in as an advocate.
But silence tells a story too, and I’m not proud of the one mine has told.
I’ve come to believe that the antidote to fascism isn’t politics—it’s storytelling. True storytelling. Because stories humanize what fear dehumanizes. They remind us that truth isn’t an abstraction; it’s lived experience.
Every time we record a testimony, preserve a family’s legacy, or finish a documentary like Steak Guerrillas, we’re doing more than making art. We are defending truth itself. In a time when institutions are collapsing, individual storytellers must become the new press corps of conscience.
Courage rarely looks cinematic. It’s not a grand speech or a final stand. Most days, it’s quieter. It is the decision to speak honestly in a meeting or to tell a hard truth even when it risks comfort or revenue.
Successful filmmaking, like democracy, depends on collaboration and integrity. Both falter when fear dictates the script. We need independent creators willing to let truth, not approval, be their metric for success.
That’s why at STORYSMART® we’re building a studio model where artists share ownership and responsibility for truth-telling alongside those who lived the stories.
If we want honest stories, we must build honest, equitable systems to make them.
At its core, storytelling is an act of empathy. It asks us to inhabit lives not our own, to feel what others feel, to remember what power wants us to forget. That’s why tyrants fear artists—not because art is partisan, but because empathy is destabilizing. Seeing from another perspective can shift your own.
When we tell Dr. Taca’s story, or David’s, or Helmuth Hübener’s, we’re not just preserving history, we’re interrogating our own comfort to reach a universal truth.
The future of democracy may depend less on politicians than on storytellers.
The public square has migrated from town halls to social platforms. Narratives, true or otherwise, now shape reality faster than policy does. That’s a terrifying power if left to algorithms or angry mobs with agendas alone.
We need independent creators, journalists, filmmakers, and citizens who treat truth as a collective inheritance, not a commodity.
That’s why it is important to help people own their true stories before someone else weaponizes them or exploits them for their own gain or agenda.
Truth-telling can’t just be reactive. It must be aspirational, helping us make sense of things while envisioning what we still can become.
Every authentic story, no matter how small, plants a flag for empathy. Empathy is the key ingredient to storytelling and our shared humanity. Without it, what do we have? How do we relate to one another or even co-exist?
I return to a question that haunted me in the theater that day:
What would I have done in 1930s Germany?
Or 1970s Manila? Or today in the United States of America?
The answer, I hope, is this: I would tell the true story.
That’s what Helmuth Hübener did with his leaflets.
That’s what Dr. Taca did with his memoirs.
That’s what filmmakers like Matt Whitaker have done on screen.
Storytelling won’t topple tyrants overnight, but it can fortify the human spirit that outlasts them.
I agree with Matt Whitaker when he says, “art leads culture, and culture leads politics”.
If we want a politics grounded in truth, we must first create a culture brave enough to tell it. We may not all hold cameras, but we all hold stories. And each story told truthfully is a strike against the darkness.
Truth may be treason in an empire of lies, but it’s the only kind worth committing.
--Ron Watermon
About the Author
Ron Watermon is a filmmaker, author, and founder of STORYSMART®, a story development film studio that helps individuals preserve, protect, and profit from their true stories.
He is currently directing Steak Guerrillas: The Dr. Arturo M. Taca Story, a documentary exploring courage, truth, and the cost of resistance. Learn more at storysmart.net, ronwatermon.com and steakguerillas.com



