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Every generation believes it is immune to tyranny. We flatter ourselves with the idea that fascism belongs to the past — a mistake made by less informed, less democratic societies. We see grainy photos of marching boots and assume we’d have done better. But tyranny doesn’t always come with jackboots and torchlit rallies. Sometimes, it arrives with a smile, a viral slogan, and the promise to “take back control.”
From Vladimir Putin’s imperial nostalgia to Donald Trump’s electoral comeback bid, from Hungary’s Viktor Orbán to Belarus’s Alexander Lukashenko, we are watching — again — the slow erosion of democratic norms in favor of strongman politics. The rise of authoritarian populism isn’t just a warning from history. It’s a crisis unfolding in real time.
So why do we keep falling for them?
Authoritarianism sells certainty in an age of confusion. Liberal democracies are complicated, slow, and frequently messy. They depend on participation, consensus, and restraint. Dictators offer a shortcut: “I alone can fix it.” Whether the problem is inflation, immigration, inequality, or identity, the autocrat’s solution is simple — usually involving a scapegoat, a promise, and a purge.
This is the emotional root of modern populism. In both the United States and Europe, large segments of the population feel left behind by globalization, threatened by cultural shifts, and betrayed by political elites. Populist movements feed off this resentment, offering clear enemies: immigrants, “woke” elites, globalists, the media, international institutions — take your pick. They turn politics into a culture war and frame opposition as treason.
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And nowhere is this more visible than in the growing mistrust toward the European Union. To many, the EU has become a symbol of bureaucracy without accountability — a slow, opaque, and often incomprehensible machine that governs across borders with barely a nod to local context. It’s a brilliant target for populists: a so-called “deep state” that controls lives from afar, insulated from national electorates and wrapped in layers of jargon, commissions, and regulatory processes. The more the EU tries to do — regulate tech, manage migration, coordinate climate policy — the more it opens itself up to the accusation that it is overriding the democratic will of the people.
This is the populist paradox: the EU’s complexity and caution, designed to preserve peace and cooperation, become the very traits that make it look undemocratic. In response, authoritarian populists offer a seductive counter-narrative: simpler, more nationalistic, more direct — and ultimately more dangerous.
Populism and authoritarianism are not the same thing — but the former often opens the door to the latter. Populists claim to represent “the real people” against corrupt elites. That alone isn’t authoritarian. But when populists gain power, their next step is often to weaken the very institutions meant to check them: the courts, the press, the rule of law. They insist they are not attacking democracy — only “restoring” it to its rightful owners.
We’ve seen this pattern clearly in Russia. When Vladimir Putin came to power in 1999, he was widely popular — not because he was an autocrat, but because he brought stability and economic growth after the chaos of the Yeltsin years. Many Russians saw real improvements in their standard of living. But alongside that progress came a systematic dismantling of democracy. Independent media outlets were bought out, harassed, or shut down. Regional governors lost autonomy. Civil society was pushed to the margins. And dissent became not just unfashionable, but dangerous.
Today, Russia is a dictatorship in all but name. Elections are tightly controlled, opposition leaders are imprisoned or exiled, and investigative journalists are routinely threatened — or killed. Putin didn’t seize power overnight. He used the tools of democracy to erode it from within, gradually centralizing control until there was nothing left to check him.
In Hungary, Orbán’s Fidesz party gerrymandered voting districts, muzzled the press, and packed the judiciary. He still holds elections — but they are tilted heavily in his favor. In the U.S., Donald Trump attempted to overturn a legitimate election and is now running on a platform openly hostile to constitutional checks and balances. Across Europe, authoritarian-minded parties are gaining ground not just in national elections, but in the EU itself. Ironically, they use the very structures of liberal democracy to dismantle it from within.
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While the faces and flags may change, the authoritarian playbook remains remarkably consistent. Step one: divide. Exploit identity politics, manufacture culture wars, and present yourself as the only one who can defend “our values.” Step two: discredit. Attack the media, the courts, international institutions, and civil society. Step three: dominate. Use legal tools to tilt the playing field — restricting dissent, changing constitutions, jailing opponents, and rewriting history.
We’ve seen it before. And yet, each time, many people fall for the idea that this strongman is different — more modern, more relatable, more democratic in style, if not in substance. The truth is, most modern autocrats don’t ban elections — they just make sure they never lose them.
If the 20th century was the age of totalitarian propaganda, the 21st is the age of algorithmic manipulation. Social media doesn’t just reflect public opinion — it shapes it, amplifies it, and weaponizes it. Autocrats have learned to play this system better than democrats.
They are not bound by the truth. In fact, their entire strategy often hinges on its collapse. Democracies struggle to correct disinformation; autocracies flood the zone with it. While fact-checkers write detailed rebuttals, authoritarian regimes move on to the next viral lie. This asymmetry gives autocrats a decisive edge in the information war: they can say anything, promise anything, deny everything — and never have to look back.
Bots, trolls, and deepfakes blur the lines between fact and fiction. Influencers and fringe media push disinformation faster than truth can catch up. This constant flood of content doesn’t have to persuade everyone — it just has to confuse enough people to make truth subjective and trust impossible. Once the public is overwhelmed, authoritarian actors can step in to “restore order.”
Moreover, digital technology enables new forms of repression. Authoritarian regimes have always understood the power of information — not just as propaganda, but as surveillance and control. In East Germany, the Stasi kept exhaustive files on millions of citizens, monitoring conversations, friendships, and thoughts to crush dissent before it could form. Today, those methods have gone digital. China’s surveillance state uses facial recognition, data aggregation, and AI-driven monitoring to track every movement of its population. Russia floods the internet with alternate realities, manipulating both its own citizens and foreign publics.
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And even in democracies, the architecture of control is taking shape. As recently reported by The New York Times, the Trump administration is working with Peter Thiel’s Palantir to compile an unprecedented database on U.S. citizens — a vast system combining social media data, consumer behavior, government records, and biometric information. Under the banner of “national security,” a surveillance-industrial complex is emerging that echoes the worst instincts of authoritarian governance, only now powered by far more sophisticated tools.
Resisting authoritarianism isn’t just a matter of taking to the streets or publishing exposés. It begins with vigilance. It means reinforcing democratic institutions before they’re tested, not after. And it demands education — not only in the mechanics of democracy, but in its history. Because when collective memory fades, democracy begins to unravel.
But above all, it’s about storytelling.
Authoritarians win when they control the narrative — when they erase the past, distort the present, and monopolize the future. That’s why defenders of democracy need to tell better stories: stories that inspire, that explain, that warn. Stories that speak to real grievances without scapegoating others. Stories that make freedom feel personal — not abstract.
And those stories must start in schools.
Education must do more than teach laws and dates. It must tell the truth about what happens when dictators gain total power: the Holodomor, when Stalin engineered a famine that starved Ukraine; the gulags, where political dissidents were worked to death in Siberian camps; Mao’s Cultural Revolution, where millions were persecuted, starved, and killed in the name of ideological purity; the Holocaust, where bureaucracy and propaganda enabled the systematic extermination of millions.
And yet, even these facts are now under attack. In today’s Russia, school textbooks are being rewritten to remove mention of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact — the secret agreement between Stalin and Hitler that led to the joint invasion and partition of Poland in 1939. The goal is clear: to replace historical truth with national myth. To raise a generation that knows only glory, not guilt. That forgets that authoritarianism once marched in both red and brown.
These aren’t distant tragedies. They are the logical endpoint of unchecked power and abandoned truth. Every generation must be repeatedly reminded what authoritarianism costs. Not just politically, but humanly.
We need a democratic culture that prizes open debate, critical thinking, and moral courage — and that means building it not just in institutions, but in minds. Because it’s not enough to call populists dangerous. We have to understand why they are popular, and address the failures that made their rise possible.
Storytelling isn’t decoration. It’s defense. It’s how we build resilience — not just against propaganda, but against forgetting.