What People in Germany Don’t Know – The Forgotten Americans

Veronica Taylor lives in a wooden house on a hill in McDowell County, West Virginia. No doctor for miles, no bus, no taxi, no signal. She knows the internet only by hearsay. She has never owned a computer – and wouldn’t even know how to turn one on. She is 73 years old, can no longer drive, and rarely leaves her house. If she’s lucky, someone will take her to the grocery store. The trip takes an hour, maybe more. If she’s unlucky, she stays home – where it’s warm if the heater comes on, and quiet if no one calls.

For years she has struggled through what remains of the American welfare state. But now she’s supposed to do something that seems impossible: starting March 31, 2025, the Trump administration requires all social benefit recipients to verify their identity either online or in person at a distant office. A phone call is no longer enough. And email? Many people in her area don’t have one – and even if they wanted to, it wouldn’t help: in many valleys of McDowell County there simply is no internet. Veronica sits at a table in the town’s senior center. In front of her: green beans, mac and cheese, and fried fish. Around her are other retirees, many older than she is. “If that’s the only way I had to do it – how would I do it?” she asks. And her voice is not defiant but calm. Like a fact. “I would never get nothing done.”

What the government sells as a measure to combat fraud and increase efficiency is, for people like Veronica, a new barrier. An invitation to resignation. Access to Social Security isn’t being cut – just made complicated. And those who can’t find their way through the jungle of digital applications, identity verifications, and address change forms are left behind. Not because their right is taken away, but because it is placed behind a wall they cannot climb. In Germany, such places are unknown. People know New York, they know Los Angeles, they know the election maps in red and blue. But what lies beneath the surface – that is easily forgotten. In McDowell County, one third of the population lives below the poverty line. Around 30% receive Social Security benefits. And 20% have no access to the internet. The local newspaper has been gone for years. The radio has gone silent too. The bridges to the world have fallen – and no one seems to have noticed.

Donald Reed, the director of the Commission on Aging, a non-profit that runs two senior centers, sees the disaster coming. “I’m not anti-Trump, really,” he says. “But I don’t think the public understands what these measures mean.” Reed receives federal funding to provide elderly people with meals, rides to the doctor, or trips to the grocery store. A stop at the Social Security office would be theoretically possible. But the money is already not enough. Last year, Reed had to draw from his organization’s reserves during the last three months just to keep the rides going. This year that won’t be possible. And then, last week, the news came: an expected grant of nearly one million dollars was cut. More budget cuts. More austerity. Another blow to those who already have nothing. Reed had planned to use the money to renovate one of the centers – a 1980s-era doublewide trailer with rusty chairs and a broken heater. Now it stays as it is: overcrowded, old, too small.

But this is about more than infrastructure. It’s about dignity. About the feeling of not being left alone. Every weekday, dozens of seniors gather here. They play cards, bingo, eat together. It is the last place where people still talk. Where not everything is digital. And on this day, our visit turns into a political discussion. Many of those present are Trump voters. McDowell County supported him in all three elections. And yet they feel that something is no longer right. “I don’t understand a lot of what’s going on anymore,” says Brenda Hughes, 72. She usually goes to the Social Security office in person because she can’t get anyone on the phone. Mary Weaver, the same age, is even more blunt: “He wants to be president – but he lets others tell him how to run the country?” she asks, referring to the cooperation between Trump and Elon Musk. For her it’s clear: the cuts aren’t helping McDowell County. They’re destroying what still works. And what they leave behind is uncertainty. Others see it differently. Barbara Lester, 64, says she would love to thank Trump and Musk personally. “With all the money they’re saving by fighting fraud, they could afford to give us seniors a raise.” Her words sound sincere. Maybe because sometimes hope is all that’s left.

But for Veronica Taylor, even hope has become a burden. Her son died at 39. Her daughter lives in Roanoke, Virginia. She rarely sees her grandchildren. The walk to the Social Security office: six miles. On foot. Along winding country roads. She says: “If I ask someone more than twice to take me somewhere, that’s like begging. And I don’t beg. Never.” But that’s exactly what the new system demands: that you ask. That you explain. That you justify yourself – for your poverty, your need, your circumstances. That you prove your data, as if it weren’t real until entered digitally. And when it rains, or storms, or snows – the app will show the weather. But only if you have a signal. The idea that the state is there for its citizens is fading. Not with a crash. But slowly, quietly. Like a sunset over a forgotten valley. In Germany, there are buses, Newspapers, Neighbors with cars. In McDowell County, there are only memories of such things.

And while the structures are crumbling in the hills of West Virginia, farther south, in Arizona, the desert is burning – quietly, but unmistakably. Sun City was once a symbol. A retreat for those who had worked all their lives. Golf carts instead of SUVs. Newspaper instead of tablet. Peace instead of chaos. But now it’s a barometer. The capitalism that once provided stability here is showing another side. The invisible hand of the market – now has a face: Donald Trump. Susan Hemphill lives here, was once a union organizer, voted for Kamala Harris. Today she cries when she talks about her savings. Not out of weakness. But out of exhaustion. Trump imposed tariffs, unsettled the markets, attacked trade. The ETFs she invested in lost value. The medications she depends on got more expensive. And the screen of her TV no longer shows an America she recognizes.

Paul Estok sees it differently. He votes for Trump. Three government pensions, a sack of onions he lifts into his truck. “Finally someone says: Enough is enough.” For him, economic pain is the price of national strength. For Karl Feiste, a Vietnam veteran, it’s a warning sign. 20% loss after the last tariff announcement. “Only on paper,” he says. But even paper can burn. Hans Vinge used to be a Republican. Now he no longer believes. “It takes ten, fifteen years for companies to come back – Trump wants it in a year.” His retirement lost 23,000 dollars – enough for a year without worries. Or a used car. Eleanor McKinley, 78, was never political. But now she can’t sleep anymore. Her savings are tied to Asian supply chains. The tariffs brought the fund down like a tired bird. Her daughter-in-law is angry: “What do people think, where the damn medicine comes from? Out of Trump’s chicken coop?” Eleanor simply says: “The president used to be far away. Now he lives in my wallet.” And Robert Daniels, 81, sits on his porch and peers through his hunting binoculars in the direction he imagines the Dow Jones might be. He used to believe in the market. Today he believes only in chance. “Maybe I won’t live to see the comeback,” he says. He’s never voted. But even he feels this time: something is shifting.

The numbers are dry. Reality is not. Every point the Dow drops makes a heart beat faster. Every delayed Social Security payment slows down time. People are hoarding their tax refunds. They’re no longer buying dreams, but supplies. And the government no longer feels like a guarantor – but like an adversary. George Orwell would have described this country: as a society that has forgotten its elderly – and unlearned how to listen. And that then wonders why trust runs dry. What remains is a sentence. A whisper. A wish. “I just want to grow old in peace.” But the president doesn’t hear it.