I recently finished revising an article on democracy, a theme that has long been at the centre of my research. In recent years, however, I have been writing and thinking less about it. Partly this was feeling a bit done with the topic after my book (now available for free in PDF / ebook format), but also because it became a bit trendy to start penning pieces about all of democracy’s woes and flaws. I had no desire to contribute to a discourse that was rather overwrought, especially immediately after Brexit and Trump’s election. Now, five years later, the sky has not fallen, and these democracies continue to stumble along. Meanwhile, the same people forget about their previous op-eds and move onto new fears to inflate and problems to dwell on. This might be a good way of building a profile, less helpful in terms of trying to make sense of what is happening and where we might be collectively going. For some perspective, I recommend this great New Yorker piece that reflects on the state of democracy in the 1930s and 1940s, a time when modern democracy faced its most existential challenge. This provides some valuable perspective, as does my book, which points to the middle of WW2 as the nadir of democracy. That is what a real crisis looks like.
Certainly, one should not underestimate the considerable array of challenges that democracies face, nor their deeply mixed performance during the pandemic. Then again, COVID-19 has more been a case of ruthlessly revealing the strengths and weaknesses of different regimes and countries, some managing better than others, but with different costs and benefits, and contrasting moments of success and struggle. This also reflects that most of the big problems facing democracies - maintaining economic growth and managing debt, dealing with climate change, societal alienation, demographic trends and migratory pressures, finding ways to wrestle control of the tech sector - these are general governance problems that all states are having to respond to. From this comparative perspective, democracy might not be in such a bad position. It has had certain inherent strengths, in terms of its flexibility and adaptability, that might once again prove important. This is something David Runciman explores beautifully in The Confidence Trap, one of my favourite recent books on democracy. The image that comes through in it, which is one that matches my own work, is democracy being akin to that unlikely champion Rocky Balboa: a long way from perfect, not exactly pretty, often close to being knocked out, but somehow finding a way to survive and stay on top. The analogy is hardly perfect, and as Rocky ages, of course his capacity to fight and win declines. Perhaps that will be the case with democracy, and yet… one should be careful about losing hope too quickly. Be careful about betting against Rocky, he has a habit of coming back against the odds.
Democracy remains inspiring and frustrating, perpetually falling short of expectations, but never completely betraying our hopes. One of the distinguishing features of democracy, which separates it from the methods of rule that came before it, is that is a deeply human form of government. Rule is not legitimated by a higher power, it comes from the people themselves. And given the humanness of democracy, is it so surprising it is so beguiling?
Reflecting on ‘what is best and most distinctive about democracy’, noted democratisation scholar Guillermo O’Donnell concluded that it is its ‘intrinsic mix of hope and dissatisfaction, its highlighting of a lack that will never be filled’. It is this sense of lack, this dissatisfaction, which also gives democracy its energy and vigour. The gaps that define democracy – between the ideal and reality, the people and their representatives, power and accountability, governance and responsiveness – will never be closed, but democracy is precisely about the ongoing attempts to reconcile these tensions, and the productive energy that emerges from these efforts. It might be more appropriate to speak of democratisation rather than democracy, insofar as it is an ongoing project, an end that can never be fully and completely achieved, only in approximation. There will always be aspects of democracy that are dissatisfactory, things to complain about. Still, for the most part, these complaints are primarily made in the language of democracy, in reference to democratic expectations. The call is largely for different or better democracy, we are not yet at a point where significant groups of people want a different type of regime. And ask yourself, would rather live in a democratic or non-democratic country?
Perhaps the most we can hope for is recognising the limits and gaps of democracy, the perpetual dissatisfaction that attends it, while not forgetting its significant achievements and underlying value. Nor should we be too quickly seduced by the prophets (and profits) of doom, building careers and page views off presenting fearful futures, while never being held accountable for the veracity of their dark predictions. Indeed, it might be a matter of appreciating that the enduring strength of democracy ultimately – albeit perhaps paradoxically – comes from what it lacks: its inevitable imperfectibility, its constant incompleteness, that deeply flawed humaness that defines this human form of government.
Given that references to Sylvester Stallone are not exactly highbrow, to balance it out, let me finish with these words from T.S. Eliot, which are often on my mind when I am thinking about democracy, and echo some of the sentiments presented here:
Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.