Novel review: "Democracy, Silence, and Fascism" by Kostas Tziras:

By Erika Athanasiou – Published in Diasticho Literary Magazine https://diastixo.gr/kritikes/ellinikipezografia/24181-kostas-tziros-i-dimokratia-i-siopi-ki-o-fasismos

Through a particularly compelling plot, it reveals a society that easily shifts from democracy to fascism.

Lately, we often hear from various political thinkers that “democracy has no dead ends.” In his novel Democracy, Silence, and Fascism, recently released by Stegi Publications, Kostas Tziras avoids clichés. Instead, through a particularly compelling plot, he highlights a society that easily shifts from democracy to fascism, leaving it up to the reader to decide whether democracy truly has no dead ends.

The city Leo, the main character, chooses to settle in after inheriting a fortune that allows him to live without working, is Mesopoli—a town with no particular importance. Seeking to escape the suffocating capital, he opts for a seemingly insignificant city—its name, “Mesopoli,” evokes exactly that. A middling place that could be anywhere, populated by ordinary people. Yet from the moment Leo arrives, he realizes this city and its inhabitants are are anything but ordinary.

The story unfolds almost entirely over the span of a single day. Leo arrives in Mesopoli as a stranger and is immediately confronted by eccentric locals and oddly calm situations. As the day progresses, events become increasingly surreal, eventually spiraling out of control.

Leo initially intends to remain detached, but from the moment he sets foot in his apartment building, a young girl asks him to help her reach the elevator and her apartment. Soon, they are chatting on her couch, and he even receives a welcome gift. Despite her being just a teenager, their conversation becomes profound, touching on deeper meanings.

Although Leo wishes to isolate himself, he soon finds himself constantly surrounded by people seeking his company. His first instinct is to avoid conversation, but his curiosity gradually overcomes his reluctance, and he becomes entangled in strange dialogues—exchanges that wouldn’t normally occur between strangers, yet here feel entirely organic, as each new character carries a unique backstory that informs their actions. We encounter thought-provoking perspectives on today’s world: the role of social media, political systems, economic hierarchies, the need for culture, law, order, authority, and the function of art. The novel’s progression is absorbing, filled with moments that invite the reader to pause, reflect, and reconsider.

Leo feels different from most people, though this doesn't make him feel superior. It’s merely an observation: “Any confrontation with the seasoned initiates [of stupidity] inevitably leads to a tragicomic fiasco and defeat.”

Themes of mortality and death frequently surface. “Leo was never a deliberate worshipper of fear, unlike most, who use it as a suppressive tool to justify their poor choices. What can a person fear, when they’re bound to die anyway?”

Suicide as a choice looms large, as his new acquaintances quickly confide the suicides of people close to them. The city itself features a remarkable cemetery, with its own particular history.

Leo appears misanthropic, yet he’s the one who truly cares for others, while remaining fully human. “He saw these ages (adolescents, children) as insolent and incomplete, belonging solely to their parents and institutions for upbringing, so they might acquire the proper guilt necessary to integrate into civilization.” Nevertheless, he takes the troubled young Pericles under his wing—a boy who has developed his own theory on why it’s better to live in a well—and supports several other youths, albeit sometimes begrudgingly.

Curiously, Leo addresses everyone formally, even children, regardless of the situation. Equally peculiar are the detailed descriptions of his preferences in water, specific wine labels, and furniture styles. Yet as the narrative unravels, these details—like the reference to “Moet & Chandon” champagne—may seem out of place, yet simultaneously fitting, contrasting the markers of a certain world with its impending collapse.

Just when the reader assumes the story centers on eccentric characters and thoughts that echo the reader's own unspoken musings, a massive terrorist attack strikes, and the world begins to shift—unless, of course, it had always been this way. The author paints a dystopian reality that feels disturbingly close to our own, rendering the story even more unsettling.

“Every act of human solidarity today is subject to doubt, due to the lurking violence that waits in ambush. No one dares face the horrifying reaction of the one receiving the kindness, so we increasingly choose distance, growing accustomed to our inhumanity as a safe haven for survival.” is introduced early in the novel and is echoed throughout, culminating in its tragic conclusion.

But what do cicadas have to do with a political story? Surprisingly, cicadas dominate the novel—from phone ringtones and corporate logos to terrorist group symbols, decorations, and even a beautiful love legend tied to their endless song.

Despite its length and the abundance of philosophical reflections, the language, engaging plot, and well-drawn characters keep the narrative flowing effortlessly. One might ask:

“Can a fascist government rule a country of democratic citizens?”

“The human being is abolished—that is the future.” This is the line that opens the novel, eventually leading to its title: “…until now he had lived democracy, then silence, and from today, fascism. Maybe that wasn’t so little, after all.”