The Price of Apathy: Why Good People Must Not Look Away

These days, when I think about politics, I feel a lot of pain. What is going on - is it just me, or are my thoughts reflected in others' concerns? The timeless warning, often attributed to Plato, I feel, to borrow a quote from Gladiator, "echoes across eternity" with chilling clarity: “The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.” This is not merely a historical observation but a fundamental principle of civic life, a stark equation where apathy is the down payment for the tyranny of absolutism. The world is in turmoil, which, thanks to modern communications, enters our lives every day. And that turmoil is not just out there; it is in our very own country and society.

Our current time provides a grim testament to the enduring truth of that quotation from Ancient Civilisation. The turnout at the 2024 general election stood at just 59.7%, the lowest since 2001 and representing the largest drop between elections in over two decades. This troubling trend did not reverse but deepened in the May 2025 local elections in England, where estimated turnout continued a long-term decline, likely hovering around a mere 30%. These are not abstract statistics; they are the measurable indication of a citizenry stepping back. This retreat cannot be said to be born out of contentment, but from a profound and multifaceted crisis of trust that feeds the very apathy, which threatens to undermine the democratic system itself.

At its core, this quote dismantles the comforting illusion of neutrality. It argues that when decent, capable people disengage from the political process—whether driven by discomfort, cynicism, or a retreat into private concerns—they do not create a neutral void. As we know, nature, and also politics, abhors a vacuum. The space abandoned by the conscientious is inevitably filled by those propelled by raw ambition, greed, or malevolence. Here, the “evil” is seldom theatrical villainy; more often, it is the relentless pursuit of power, a lack of ethical constraint, a governance that serves narrow interests at the expense of the common good, enabled by an absent electorate. Does this ring bells with you? The present dynamic is exacerbated by the very reasons people disengage in the first place: a pervasive belief that politicians are a self-enriching elite, a sense that promises are mere tools for election, and a spectacle of polarised performance that substitutes tribal warfare for substantive deliberation.

The logic behind this carries profound implications. First, it imposes a positive duty upon citizens of conscience, a duty made more difficult by a climate of suspicion. The responsibility of the “good” extends far beyond the occasional casting of a ballot. It demands the harder, continuous work of staying informed amid an information crisis of overload, engaging in reasoned discourse across chasms of polarisation, information bubbles and fake news, supporting just institutions that feel distant and inert, and when called upon, stepping forward to lead despite the personal costs. It is the cultivation of civic virtue as a daily practice, a necessary counterbalance to the pull of disengagement. Second, it defines the exact cost of indifference. The “price” is the forfeiture of self-determination. One surrenders agency and must subsequently live under rules, systems, and leaders shaped entirely by others, often those whose values are diametrically opposed to one’s own. The quiet life sought through disengagement becomes a life governed by the designs of the most aggressive and least scrupulous, who face ever-weakening checks from a disillusioned public.

Furthermore, the saying serves as a powerful warning against the poison of cynicism. It directly challenges the defeatist notion that “all politics is corrupt” and therefore unworthy of participation. This mindset, the quote reveals, is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Withdrawal on these grounds ensures that only those content with corruption or adept at exploiting it will remain to shape the public arena. By abdicating the field, the disillusioned citizen inadvertently certifies their own bleak diagnosis, creating the very political reality they claim to despise. This vicious cycle is potent: disillusion breeds disengagement, which cedes ground to extremes and opportunists, whose subsequent governance then validates the original disillusion, deepening the crisis of trust in a downward spiral.

The modern relevance of this ancient wisdom is now acute. Contemporary societies are gripped by political polarisation that exhausts and alienates the moderate centre, pushing them toward the very disengagement the data now confirms. We face information overload and a crisis of trust, which can paralyse even the well-intentioned with doubt or nihilistic cynicism. It is precisely in this fragmented and weary environment—where institutions seem unresponsive, where social media amplifies outrage over understanding, and where many feel their voice is irrelevant—that demagogues thrive. Their ascent is facilitated by weakened institutional guardrails and a disengaged, disillusioned citizenry. The low and declining turnouts are not a symptom of contentment, but of a dangerous and growing disconnect.

In essence, this enduring insight reminds us that governance is not a passive force that happens to us, like the weather. It is a system we collectively either sustain through active, vigilant participation or neglect at our profound peril. The preservation of a just society is not guaranteed; it is a relentless project requiring the constant, attentive effort of its citizens. As the philosopher Edmund Burke succinctly echoed, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” To be indifferent is not to be neutral; it is to cast a silent vote for those we would least wish to hold the reins of power. The price of that silent vote is the world we leave behind, a world shaped unmistakably by our absence and forged in the vacuum our apathy created. Rebuilding trust is, therefore. not merely a desire for a more pleasant politics; it is the essential groundwork for recruiting the engaged citizenry that is democracy’s only true bulwark.

As has often been said, democracy is imperfect, but that imperfection is precisely what makes it both resilient and worth defending. It’s a system built on the assumption that humans are fallible, diverse, argumentative, and capable of changing their minds. As the late Christopher Hitchens argued, democracy is not a harmonious consensus but a perpetual argument. He saw this as a strength: a society that tolerates and even encourages disagreement is healthier than one that demands obedience and stifles dissent. Instead of pretending otherwise, democracy channels all that messiness into a structure where disagreement becomes a feature rather than a crisis. We must keep disagreeing

and voting if we wish to remain free!