What Comics Taught Us About Power (And Why We’re Noticing Now) | By: David Gibbens

Comics have always used large organizations to express fears that feel too big for one person to fight. Groups like HYDRA, AIM, and The Hand represent systems that seem hidden, distant, and unstoppable. They aren’t frightening only because of what they do, but because of what they symbolize: a world where decisions are made far away from the people who live with the consequences.

At the same time, comics have never been neutral about power. Captain America was created to confront fascism. The X-Men were shaped by civil rights struggles and the fear of being hunted for who you are. Batman has spent decades fighting not just criminals, but corruption and institutions that fail the people they’re meant to protect. Superhero stories have always carried social meaning beneath the costumes.

That history matters when we look at how people are now talking about U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

Not because ICE is a fictional organization, and not because real life is a comic book—but because the emotional experience of confronting a powerful institution can feel similar to the stories we’ve been telling for generations.

Fear Has a Narrative Shape

In comics, HYDRA feels frightening because it’s faceless. AIM hides behind uniforms and authority. The Hand operates in secrecy and ritual. These organizations feel less like groups of people and more like forces—things that arrive, act, and disappear without explanation.

For many communities, ICE has begun to feel the same way: not as individuals, but as a presence. Something that wears masks. Something that appears suddenly. Something that takes people away. Something that leaves families waiting for answers.

When people reach for comic-book language, they aren’t saying reality is fiction. They’re trying to describe a feeling:
the fear of power that feels distant, emotionless, and impossible to speak to.

The Sentinel Program and Lawful Fear

Marvel offers another important example in the Sentinel Program. Unlike HYDRA or AIM, the Sentinels are legal. They are government-funded. They are justified as protection.

And yet, they often become terrifying.

Not because they operate outside the law, but because they reduce people to categories. They see threats instead of stories. Targets instead of families.

This is where the comparison deepens. HYDRA and AIM represent fear of secret enemies. The Sentinels represent fear of something else:
what happens when enforcement becomes automatic and morality becomes secondary to procedure.

A system does not have to be illegal to feel dangerous.
It only has to feel indifferent.

Why the Accusations Appear

When people feel harmed or unheard, they search for a narrative that can carry what they’re experiencing. Comic books provide that language. An institution that feels faceless, untouchable, or unresponsive can begin to resemble the kinds of forces comics have long warned us about—not as a literal villain from the page, but as a symbol of power that feels disconnected from empathy.

This isn’t just about policy.
It’s about emotion.
It’s about distance.
It’s about whether people feel seen by the systems that govern them.

And comics, more than almost any medium, have talked about what happens when power loses sight of the people beneath it.

Not a Villain Story — a Power Story

The most unsettling truth in superhero fiction is that many villainous organizations don’t believe they are evil. They believe they are necessary.

HYDRA claims order.
AIM claims knowledge.
The Sentinels claim safety.

What makes them frightening is not intent, but what gets lost along the way.

That’s the tension people are wrestling with when they draw these parallels. Not whether institutions should exist—but whether they still reflect the moral purpose they were built for.

Final Thought

Comics have always warned that power without morality becomes something to fear - not because it defies rules, but because it forgets the people it touches. And when those stories begin to feel uncomfortably close to real life, they whisper a harder question back to us: whether order can still call itself just when compassion has begun to fade.