The New Federalist

The holy war of the post-American century

Benedikte Svendsen — 2026-10-13T14:28:17Z

Brussels still believes wars are fought over territory, trade routes, deterrence and rational state interests. Washington, Teheran and Jerusalem no longer do. The ongoing war that we are witnessing in Iran is not merely geopolitical; it is theological. Not because Christianity, Judaism and Islam are inherently violent religions, but because political movements inside all three are increasingly interpreting history itself through sacred destiny. What we are witnessing is the gradual collapse of secular realism and the return of apocalyptic politics.

The post-Cold War fantasy that religion had been permanently subordinated to liberal economics is disintegrating in real time. Across the Middle East and increasingly inside the United States itself, political legitimacy is once again being fused with prophecy, civilisational identity, and eschatology. The modern world is drifting back toward a pre-modern mindset where war is not simply strategic, but sacred. And sacred wars obey different rules.

Iranian revolution has always been religious

The regime in Iran already defines itself through sacred struggle. Since 1979, it has fused Shia martyrdom theology with anti-Western revolutionary politics. Resistance against Israel and the United States is not presented merely as strategy, but as a religious obligation. Yet, Western observers consistently underestimate the power of martyrdom in Shia political culture.

Throughout much of Islamic history, Shia communities existed as minorities surrounded by larger Sunni powers. This historical experience helped create a political theology centred not primarily on triumph, but sacrifice. The righteous minority stands against overwhelming force, and death in defence of truth becomes a victory rather than a defeat.

Every Israeli strike and every American threat strengthens precisely the factions within Iran that interpret the conflict through jihadist and messianic frameworks. Tehran's rulers understand that external pressure radicalises the population and restores ideological legitimacy to a regime that would otherwise struggle under economic stagnation and social exhaustion. But this dynamic is not unique to Iran.

The theology of imperial decline

The most uncomfortable reality lies in Washington. The United States is behaving less like a confident superpower and more like a late-stage empire confronting the limits of its own power. Like many declining empires before it, America increasingly compensates for weakening legitimacy through moral absolutism and mythological self-understanding. Empires in ascent tend to be pragmatic. Empires in decline become theological.

The United States can no longer dominate the global economy the way it once did. It can no longer decisively win prolonged wars. Its political system is paralysed internally. Its social cohesion is fraying. Its prestige has been damaged by decades of military overreach. Yet, declining powers rarely acknowledge decline. They seek symbolic victories to restore purpose and narratives to transform uncertainty into destiny. This is where religion enters.

American politics is becoming deeply religious

The most influential force pushing confrontation with Iran is not the military-industrial complex nor the most hardline, neo-conservative members of Congress. It is the alliance between the pro-Israel lobby that provide funding in crucial Senate races to Democrats and Republicans alike on the one side, and various groups of evangelical Christians who assess the conflicts in the Middle East through biblical prophecies.

For millions inside the American evangelical movement, Israel is not simply an ally. It is the stage upon which the final act of history will unfold. Within influential strands of dispensationalist theology, war in the Middle East is not viewed solely as a tragedy to avoid. It is part of a prophetic sequence leading toward the Second Coming of Christ. Conflict surrounding Jerusalem, regional chaos and escalating confrontation with hostile powers are read as signs that biblical prophecy is unfolding.

In this worldview, peace itself can become spiritually suspicious because indefinite peace delays prophecy. This is no longer a fringe theology operating in distant isolation from political power. Over the past two decades, televangelists, apocalyptic pastors, and Christian nationalist ideologues have moved closer to the centre of Republican politics. They now have a major influence over the public, the media, and mainstream political narratives.

Armageddon has entered American foreign policy

The result is a powerful symbiosis where the most extreme Zionists gain unconditional support for Israel's foreign policy, while evangelical movements gain a geopolitical theatre upon which their apocalyptic theology can unfold. The relationship is mutually reinforcing: one side seeks strategic supremacy and the other seeks prophetic fulfilment. Conflict in the Middle East is interpreted not as diplomatic failure, but as prophetic inevitability.

Escalation becomes spiritually meaningful. War ceases to be something to avoid and becomes something that confirms belief. The most alarming possibility is not that governments officially adopt apocalyptic doctrines. It is that enough people in positions of power genuinely believe them to shape the environment in which decisions are made. When military confrontation begins to be discussed as part of a divine plan rather than merely a strategic calculation, the line between statecraft and eschatology starts to disappear.

The most extreme believers always win

Once politics becomes eschatological, there remains no room for moderation. The logic of apocalyptic movements is always the same. The most radical factions eventually set the agenda because they are the only actors psychologically prepared for unlimited escalation. Moderates think in terms of compromise, diplomacy and equilibrium. Apocalyptic actors think in terms of destiny, purification and final confrontation. Over time, the moderates lose influence because they appear weak, faithless or naïve inside systems increasingly driven by existential fear.

Every Israeli bombing campaign and every American escalation validates the Islamic Republic's narrative that the West is conducting a civilisational war against Islam itself. The harder Washington leans into biblical rhetoric, the easier it becomes for Tehran to mobilise Shia apocalypticism and jihadist sentiment in return. Each side radicalises the other. American Christian apocalypticism strengthens Iranian religious militancy. Iranian militancy strengthens Israeli siege mentality. Israeli nationalism strengthens evangelical prophecy culture. And the cycle accelerates.

Europe still thinks geopolitics is secular

This is why the ongoing conflict is so dangerous. The escalation is no longer purely military. It is psychological, theological and civilisational. Europe remains intellectually unprepared for this transformation because European elites still operate within a post-religious framework created after the Second World War and seemingly confirmed by the end of the Cold War.

This framework assumes all actors fundamentally seek stability, prosperity and institutional equilibrium. But civilisations entering periods of decline often stop seeking stability. They seek meaning. And meaning is infinitely more dangerous than oil. European policymakers continue interpreting religious rhetoric metaphorically even as many of the actors involved increasingly mean it literally.

It also assumes that the world operates according to the scientific method and rational modes of liberal thinking. But much of the world has already moved into a post-rational period that is driven instead by identity, mythology and sacred history. What will it mean for geopolitics and Europe's role if rational self-interest no longer contains conflict and the actors driving world affairs see themselves as participants in a sacred history?

The road ends in Jerusalem

Every major eschatological tradition involved ultimately converges on Jerusalem, which raises many uncomfortable questions. Could this end with the destruction of the Al-Aqsa Mosque? Could a regional war create the political conditions for the construction of a Third Temple on the Temple Mount? Most policymakers dismiss such questions as fantasy, but throughout history events considered impossible often became inevitable only a few years later.

The danger is not everyone believing in these prophecies. The danger is that not enough people take them seriously. If Jerusalem is allowed to serve as the centre of a confrontation between competing messianic movements, the world will find itself closer to war on a global level than at any point since 1945. The twentieth century was defined by ideological wars. The twenty-first may be remembered for the return of sacred ones.

La bola negra and the Spanish inheritance

Fermín Zabala — 2026-10-12T19:42:54Z

La bola negra has been snatching awards left and right after a breakthrough premiere that has taken viewers from across cinema and film by surprise. The film is set during the Spanish Civil War and modern Spain through the lens of three gay men affected by intertwined struggles. The film takes us to several places and years: Granada, Andalusia, 1931, right before the Spanish Civil War; Comillas, Cantabria, 1936, in the middle of the conflict; and Madrid, 2017.

Across these three scenarios, these three gay men find themselves struggling with external validation in conservative societies, the traumatic weight of war, and generational struggles being passed down. These issues are connected struggles that feed into one another, framed in the wider challenges of a divided Spanish society.

Unlike other European countries with similar episodes in their contemporary history, the Spanish have lacked a proper synthesis or closure for their internal conflicts—continuing to haunt the country to this day. But what has made this film different from others set in this time period and other forms of queer cinema? And why is it becoming famous for making loads of people leave the cinema in tears?

Comillas, 1936

The first scenario introduced is that of Comillas in 1936. Sebastián, (played by Álvaro Lafuente Calvo, known professionally as Guitarricadelafuente), a small-town boy who, after losing his entire family to an air raid, is forced into conscription by the insurgent right, despite not grasping entirely what he is even fighting for. When, during service, he meets Rafael (played by Miguel Bernardeau), a republican lieutenant captured by the fascist rebels, he faces the harsh reality of conflict.

Sebastián had become infatuated with the man he was forced to hold prisoner and, later, execute. He lives through an experience difficult to understand for anyone who, like most viewers, have not lived through full-blown war and the lack of choice and freedom the most vulnerable individuals lose in conflict. His role highlights how, at wartime, it does not matter who you are or what you want to do, but only if you are useful or an inconvenience.

Personal preferences make room for survival, and any new motivation stems from fear. A lot of people involved in the Spanish Civil War had their choices made by where they lived, who they were neighbours with, or what their family believed, especially in a time where most people lacked a political conscience in the same way that we do in today's digital world.

Granada, 1931

Talking about family struggles, the viewer is also introduced through the story of Carlos (played by Milo Quifes) in the Granada of 1931: a young boy from an aristocratic family who, under pressure from his father, tries to join the city's casino social club. He gets rejected, or “black balled” (hence the film's name), which has already become code for every time queer people get rejected from somewhere for simply being queer.

Carlos ends up dying in a bombing in the casino right after begging for a second opportunity and publicly renouncing his sexuality. He literally dies the moment he rejects his identity. It is then revealed to us that, after the Spanish Civil War and during the fascist regime, Sebastián forms a family with a woman and has a daughter, Teresa, but abandons her before she is born after he falls in love with a man.

The pressure of patriarchal expectations leads Sebastián to leave behind his family to live in the countryside with his true love, accepting his queerness but also abandoning Teresa, who would struggle without her father and have the rest of her life shaped through addiction and resentment towards her father. Yet, he lived in an ultraconservative society under a fascist regime that heavily criminalised queer people. This faces us with the question: is he responsible for his daughter's trauma?

Madrid, 2017

When Alberto (played by Carlos González) seeks help from Isabelle (played by Glenn Close), a historian specialising in Federico García Lorca's literature, she replies: “You have an inheritance and you don't know what to do with it. You're Spanish”. A perfect encapsulation of what it means to be Spanish, especially after the Spanish Civil War and the dictatorship, but also a demonstration of how many problems run across generations.

Spain as a society is just like this. We are the product of a tumultuous history we have not quite got over yet. The Spanish have a very complicated relationship with their contemporary history and their national identity. The current political system is increasingly questioned by both left-wing and right-wing groups outside of the establishment. It is not uncommon to see people talk about a so-called “‘78 regime”, criticising the democratic credentials of the 1978 constitution.

On the left, people have questioned the legitimacy of this framework because it was approved as a result of the Francoist institutions allowing it to happen under an undercover ‘gentlemen's pact'. On the right, nostalgia and a new wave of romanticisation of the dictatorship, along with a disregard for the democratic system, have resonated with younger generations who are far detached from those who actually lived through it.

Spain, 2026

Multiple studies this year have shown that as many as one-third of Spanish young people would prefer a dictatorship to a democracy. As obvious as it seems, it is worth noting that the rising cost-of-living and the housing crisis have a big impact on this. People are not happy with the cards they have been given, and they are looking for answers. The easiest answer? Blame it on democracy, the only system that tolerates dissent, and the vulnerable and minority groups protected most by it.

While some buy into the aesthetics of war, La bola negra exists to remind us that war and illiberalism are not how you fix a system that is clearly not working. And, in doing so, it invites us to sympathise with one of the most impacted figures by war: gay and queer communities. In wartime, queer people are the first to be stripped of their rights, with all sorts of liberal, democratic boundaries being overstepped if they are deemed to be non-essential.

We now live in a world of niches, where everything comes tailored to ourselves. The media is careful to only show us what we already agree on and what we already like. Algorithms, artificial intelligence, and staying at home have made us recede within ourselves, impacting our critical, reading and social skills. We have developed the worst crisis of all: an empathy crisis.

It is not only about fighting for a fair system, but also about acknowledging and getting to know who is next to us. When Federico says to Rafael, “in this country, there are tons of love stories buried in the ground. We need to dig with our hands to let more come out”, it is not only a reference to the search for mass burials from the Spanish Civil War, which continue to this day. It is also talking about the countless stories that were erased or shadowed by the pretext of war.

The link from 1931 to 2026

In 2017, Rafael's family does not want to talk to Sebastián's grandson, Alberto, because they only knew that Sebastián shot him dead, but not that he was forced to do so and forgiven by Rafael himself, who knew that Sebastián would simply join him in a mass grave if he refused. The leitmotif throughout La bola negra is that freedom of choice is what makes us alive. Sebastián could not hold onto a fake life after what he went through, and Carlos died in the casino right after giving up.

In the final moments of the film, Carlos begs “the snow” (a distant voice symbolising the afterlife) to come back to life. He cries that he had not been given the chance to start his life. He realises that until now, he had been living to fulfil other people's expectations. His whole life now felt like a waste of time. When Lorca shows Carlos' story, the original La bola negra, to Rafael, he says that it is meant to help others like them in the future. It is a lesson to find meaning in life by living authentically.

But are the oppressed the ones who need to watch the film? When I left the cinema, one of my friends pointed out the sad truth: “the people who need to watch it the most won't”. I replied: “and if they do, would they even get it?”. While time will tell if we were right, it is still our responsibility to hold on to what we have left: hope and the will to fight for what ours is. We may or may not get out of this, but if we do not try then we will certainly not. For now, let us simply toast to being alive.

The end of Europe's energy illusions

Paul Brachet — 2026-10-02T09:19:52Z

Since oil became the dominant energy resource, the energy link between Europe and Asia was largely driven by commercial convenience and regional stability. Today, it has become a matter of strategic survival for non-oil-producing countries, particularly in Europe. As the smoke rises over the Gulf, and the Strait of Hormuz remains a chokepoint following the War in Iran, a new geopolitical reality is forming.

From the Berlaymont in Brussels to the cabinet rooms of New Delhi and Tokyo, the realisation is the same: the age of fossil fuel dependence is not just an ecological suicide pact, but a strategic vulnerability. Europe first learned this lesson in February 2022 following Russia's invasion of Ukraine. The invasion served as an awakening, forcing the EU to confront its reliance on oil and gas from Russian pipelines.

In response, Brussels conjured up the concept of “derisking”. Unlike the American concept of “decoupling”, which implies a total break, derisking is a strategy of reducing critical dependencies on systemic rivals through supply chain diversification and domestic production, focussing especially on the energy chain supply. However, this strategy of derisking has had an unintended side effect.

When the EU pulled away from Russian oil and gas by imposing sanctions, it created a vacuum that countries like India and other Indo-Pacific states were more than happy to fill. Throughout 2024 and 2025, India significantly increased its imports of Russian crude, effectively acting as a refinery that laundered Russian oil for the world market, believing that cheap, diverted Russian energy could shield it from global shocks.

From derisking to a green exit

The War in Iran shattered India's illusion that cheap Russian energy would shield it from the world. When the Strait of Hormuz was effectively closed in March 2026, roughly 20% of the world's oil and gas supply vanished overnight. In addition to the “Yemeni risk” with the Houthis' semi-control of the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, which once was a nuisance, it became a total blockade of the two major energy trade corridors of the world.

The impact across the EU has been damaging—across Asia it has been catastrophic. In India, people faced the worst gas shortage in the state's history, with the government forced to release emergency reserves as West Asia supply lines snapped. Prime Minister Modi has been navigating a political minefield as petrol prices hit record highs, calling for a “patriotic great restraint [on petrol use activities]”.

In Japan, with 93% of its oil dependent on the Strait of Hormuz, Tokyo was forced to release 80 million barrels from its national stockpile, equivalent to 45 days of demand, in order to prevent an industrial collapse. The same has occurred in South Korea, which is facing a “triple shock” of record inflation, a 17-year low for the South Korean won, and 26 ships stranded in the Gulf.

These disruptions have exposed the vulnerability of the semiconductor and petrochemical industries, both of which play strategic roles in global supply chains. Both Indonesia and the Philippines declared national energy emergencies by May 2026, imposing governmental control on activities utilising oil and a four-day week in the public sector to restrain petrol consumption. This shared trauma has created a shared interest in going beyond derisking—and towards a permanent “green exit”.

The architecture of a new approach

While governments are responding to the immediate crisis, a quieter revolution has been unfolding in the legal architecture of international trade. The EU's recent free trade agreements (FTAs) have evolved from simple tariff reduction instruments into sophisticated mechanisms for enhancing energy security. For instance, last year's EU-Australia FTA included a specific chapter that prohibits export duties on critical minerals like lithium and nickel.

Similarly, the EU-India FTA is what Prime Minister Modi and European Commission President von der Leyen called the “Mother of all Deals”. It does not just slash tariffs; it establishes a Joint Hydrogen Council, integrating research on smart grids, sustainable urbanisation, and sources of energy like solar panels. The EU is no longer looking east just for markets. It is searching for allies in an emerging post-carbon world.

But this Eurasian convergence faces a "dragon” in the room: China. For years, Europe lived under the illusion that it could lead the green transition while outsourcing the manufacturing to Beijing. The coronavirus pandemic was the first crack in this facade, revealing that a green transition dependent on a single supplier is just as dangerous as a dependency on Russian gas.

China has aggressively positioned itself as the unavoidable partner. Beijing already controls over 80% of the global solar supply chain and it is rapidly expanding its market share in Europe and Asia by undercutting local manufacturers. This is not just trade, but a bid for energy and industrial hegemony. In response, the EU has taken the unprecedented step of blocking funding for specific Chinese solar technologies to protect the digital security of the European power grid.

A Eurasian alternative to China and Russia

India has doubled down on its production-linked incentive schemes to build a domestic solar industry that can compete with the Chinese behemoth, with the help of shared technology with the EU in the Mother of all Deals. Yet, the increasing demand for clean energy, especially since the beginning of the oil crisis, has boosted Chinese exports of wind turbines and solar panels, creating an even larger trade imbalance between China and the rest of the world.

This has created a delicate solar paradox. Europe and Asia need Chinese technology to decarbonise quickly enough to slow down global warming and weather the storm of the oil crisis caused by the War in Iran. But, at the same time, they need to build walls to prevent Beijing from becoming the new hegemon. It has become clear that oil is no longer an asset—it is a liability that can be weaponised at any moment.

While fossil fuels still dominate the energy mix in 2026, the political will has shifted irrevocably. The interests of the European Union and the democracies of Asia have never been more aligned. We are witnessing the birth of a new kind of global logic that spans continents, now based on a shared need for energy strategic autonomy. A green alternative to the 21st Century Maritime Silk Road is being paved, and it could create a path for a Eurasian alternative to China and Russia.

Libertarians should be European federalists

Michael Haiden — 2026-10-01T12:21:53Z

It is easy to forget that rigid national borders have not always been the European norm. Those who read novels set before World War I will experience a time when passports were largely unnecessary. Joseph Roth's The Emperor's Tomb or Stefan Zweig's The World of Yesterday explore the Hapsburg Empire before the war and the nationalist wave that followed it.

Of course, those who live in today's democracies should not look back at this period with naive fondness. The era of Zweig and Roth was far from ideal; Roth's novel also deals with the emancipation of women who enjoyed little freedom in the Hapsburg Empire. Still, it is difficult to deny the nostalgic appeal of these stories. For the reader, they prove that a more cosmopolitan world is not only possible—but that it used to be real.

The promise of European federalism is that we can combine modern, liberal democracy with open borders between states. Today, European citizens can move around the Union with little bureaucratic hassle. It is strange, then, that the political ideology which puts the strongest emphasis on individual freedom, libertarianism, seems to have a particularly negative view on the EU.

Among libertarian think tanks and publications, it is hard to find appreciation for the EU. Some, like the Cato Institute, point out that free movement of goods, capital, people, and services are accomplishments that should not be taken for granted. Still, one finds little beyond support of the EU as a lesser evil to protectionism. More regularly, libertarians view the EU as a bureaucratic nightmare that stifles freedom instead of fostering it. But does that mean they should reject European federalism?

Beyond two concepts of liberty

Libertarianism is not a widespread ideology in Europe. Most nation-states on the continent, along with the EU, pride themselves on widespread regulation, progressive taxation, and a comprehensive welfare state. In Isaiah Berlin's famous post-war essay, Two Concepts of Liberty, he made a distinction between what he termed “positive liberty” and “negative liberty”. Europe is far more preoccupied with the former.

For Berlin, negative liberty defined freedom as the absence of coercion by others. Positive liberty, on the other hand, defined freedom as being the true master of one's life. For instance, someone in poverty may not be coerced by others, but their choices are still limited by their circumstances. They have the right to buy a house – but they don't have the means. Most of Europe has chosen to enhance positive liberty and fund welfare states, even if that means reducing the freedom of the highest earners through taxation.

Libertarians, however, believe that prioritising positive liberty over negative liberty is unjust. Beyond flat taxes for the most basic operations of the state, and a small safety net, how one spends their income should be their own choice. Excessive taxes and regulations tip the balance dangerously towards freedom via coercion. However, stopping at this critique does little to help promote libertarian goals. To become a more attractive political movement, libertarians need a positive vision. In Europe, they might try to blend libertarianism with European federalism.

A libertarian vision of European federalism

European federalism is mostly a left-wing, progressive movement. Some of its biggest advocates, such as Jürgen Habermas, have advanced it as being both a pacifist project and a way of taming free markets. Libertarians cannot get behind such a vision, but it is not—or does not have to be—the only one. European federalism can and should be a place where different political ideologies coexist. It is time libertarians shape what a federation will look like.

What would a libertarian vision of European federalism look like? We can start by looking at Robert Nozick's seminal text, Anarchy, State, and Utopia. In this book, Nozick argues for what he terms a “minimal state”. A minimal state only features a military, an executive force and a judiciary system. He establishes—in opposition to anarchists—that it is possible to build such a state without violating anyone's rights. So, the state itself cannot be rejected because it violates rights.

Yet, for Nozick, nothing more coercive than the minimal state is allowed if one takes rights seriously. A minimal state that protects people from external and internal enemies and upholds contracts can arise without violating rights, but a comprehensive welfare state cannot. The reason lies in Nozick's entitlement conception of justice, defined as spheres of decision-making where only someone's personal preferences matter. Whether two people decide to marry each other or when someone decides to retire is only their decision.

However, other members of society have a stake in those decisions. By marrying, two people are taking away other people's choice to marry them. Likewise, if the head of a company was to retire or sell it off to someone else, it could potentially lead to people becoming unemployed. Still, Nozick insists that it is only their preferences that matter. Nozick defends the idea that people should be free to make decisions in their own spheres, free from coercion by others who may not like the decisions they make.

In other areas, this idea appears less straightforward—especially when it comes to money—but Nozick argues that there is no difference between deciding who one wishes to marry and how to spend the money that one earns. Attempts to introduce a more equal distribution of wealth can only be maintained through restricting freedom, either by preventing people from consuming the goods and services they desire, or by taking the earnings of those who provide it.

The minimal state is not an inspiring vision or an uplifting call. One cannot organise masses by arguing that we should all leave each other alone. Yet, Nozick is not opposed to the formation of communities that voluntarily implement a cooperative way of living. What Nozick is preoccupied with is the ability to freely join and leave communities. This offers the basis for a libertarian European federalism.

A careful balance of different interest groups

Under this vision, a European federation could guarantee security, legal equality, and individual rights, while ensuring that people could freely join and leave the communities that it consists of. Such a political order could restrain political leaders flirting with coercion or unjust policy-making, because they know that taxpayers could easily move to other communities. In doing so, it could prevent the dangers that are inherent in the centralisation of power – a centralisation that European federalism also entails.

This is precisely why the tenth Federalist Paper by James Madison, one of the American founding fathers, outlined that the American republic had to prevent centralisation of power, ensuring that different interest groups compete against each other. That way, no group could dominate another. Freedom can be best guaranteed by keeping the holders of power in a careful balance against each other.

While this is an inspiring vision, it has faced challenges when applied to the real world. Obviously, people cannot vote with their feet all the time. People may want to leave communities that enact policies they want to escape, but are unable to do so because of lack of funds, familial ties, or language barriers. The libertarian vision of European federalism would not immediately undo the nation state. But it can provide a positive vision for doing so in the long run.

The seeds of a libertarian revival exist in Europe

There is clearly an appetite for a vision that prioritises freedom. While the welfare state has undoubtedly improved the living standards of European citizens, states that provide an extensive safety net also reduce people's feeling of agency. In Free Market Fairness, John Tomasi argues that people are increasingly resentful of overzealous welfare states, restricting their economic freedom and undermining their feeling of being the author of their own lives.

As Nozick writes, “we are distinct individuals, each with his own life to lead”. While we all have an interest in living as comfortable a life as possible, people also care about feeling like they are actually the ones steering the course of their lives. This is not to say that the welfare state should be abolished altogether in a European federation. But it is a reminder that beyond material wellbeing, the feelings of freedom and agency also matter to people.

European federalism cannot simply replicate the American example. Clearly, the formation of a more libertarian Europe will require a movement that is tailored to the continent's particular history. The US built a federation out of many individuals. The EU has to build one out of many nations. It has achieved the hard part by breaking the nationalist view of shutting oneself off. Today, Europeans know that their neighbors in the Union can be trusted.

European governments enact solidarity every day. This is not just a political spectacle. People have undoubtedly moved closer together. What the EU has achieved is a large, post-nationalist bloc in which people are now freer than ever to voluntarily choose where they want to live their lives—with the people they choose to live with. This is a big step towards Nozick's minimal state.

And, yet, the future of Europe is still contested. Political movements battle over the right to shape how the continent will develop in the next years, decades, and even centuries. What is missing right now on the right-wing is a strong libertarian voice to challenge those nostalgic for a return to nationalism. One that champions people's autonomy and agency. One that welcomes people who weren't born here but voluntarily choose this continent as their home. And one that reminds us that Europeans do not only want to live good lives—they also want to lead them.

Between Knafeh and Challah : Mixed Families Between Identity, Pain, and Hope

Eden Rassuly — 2026-09-29T15:34:00Z

When people talk about Israel and Palestine, the conversation usually focuses on war, politics, occupation, terrorism, governments, fear, and anger. The media is filled with headlines, arguments, and clashing narratives. But within all this noise, very little is said about what is not always visible to the eye: mixed families. Families that live between two worlds, like mine.

On one side, there are Jewish roots shaped by Europe, the Holocaust, Yiddish culture, traditional foods like matzo balls, Zionism, and a deep connection to the Land of Israel.

On the other side, there are Palestinian citizens of Israel carrying the memory of the Nakba, Palestinian identity, cultural traditions like maqluba, and the ongoing complexity of belonging, discrimination, and historical pain.

And yet, within all this complexity, there is also a home. A home that holds love, shared lives, and quiet moments that continue to exist despite the tension outside. A small light that still carries hope.

“Objection!”

Both Israeli and Palestinian society often struggle to accept mixed couples and families. In many ways, this reaction comes from generations of trauma, fear, and political conflict. The media, political systems, and public discourse often reinforce division and suspicion.

A Jewish woman in a relationship with an Arab man may be called a traitor or worse and judged harshly by society. A Palestinian or Arab woman with a Jewish man may face accusations that she abandoned her identity or community.

These judgments do not affect only the couples themselves. They also shape the lives of children before they are even born, forcing them to deal with questions of identity, belonging, and legitimacy from a very young age.

So is it Knafeh or Challah?

If you ask me, I choose both.

Because in a mixed home, there is room for both knafeh and challah. For both Arabic and Hebrew. For both Ramadan and Hanukkah candles. There are homes where Purim songs play loudly while families also wake before sunrise during Ramadan to share dates and tea before the fast begins. Homes where children grow up listening to Israeli childhood songs alongside traditional Palestinian dabke music. Homes where identity is not defined by choosing only one side, but by the ability to hold both. And maybe in these homes where people learn to embrace two cultures, two languages, and two historical narratives a deeper form of humanity is created.

Between Shelter and Routine

During times of war, everything becomes more complicated. Even a simple trip to the supermarket can feel emotionally heavy. Fear enters the home, the conversations, the phone calls, and everyday life.

Within this reality, mixed families are often required to do something many societies struggle to achieve: to hold complexity without losing their humanity.

I will not lie, even I, coming from a mixed family, was afraid to ride the light rail in Jaffa during tense times. “Light” was not exactly how it felt. There were fears, suspicions, and suddenly, during an active war, members of the extended family began falling back into old fears and divisions. The wound reopened once again. In moments like these, I would sit with myself and try to contain the unbearable reality, telling myself: It does not mean agreeing on everything. It does not mean erasing pain or giving up identity. It means understanding that love can exist even where there is no full agreement. It means accepting disagreement while still recognizing the humanity of the other. It is possible to acknowledge Palestinian suffering while also understanding the fear and trauma carried by Israeli society.

Beyond politics, there are human beings on both sides living with pain, fear, memories and hope.

Beyond Politics

Mixed families may not solve the conflict. But their very existence carries an important message: even within a reality filled with separation, fear, and hostility, people still choose partnership, love, and shared lives.

And maybe, in homes where both knafeh and challah are placed on the same table, there is also the possibility of imagining a different future.

At the end of the day, we come from dust and to dust we shall return. These conflicts existed before us and will probably continue after us.

But before all the divisions, before politics, borders, and ideologies, we are human beings. We are made of emotions, disappointments, love, and hope.

We are the excitement of a child's first step and the quiet comfort of the first rain of winter. We carry memories, fears, dreams, and the simple desire to belong and to be loved .Before the conflict, we are human. Maybe remembering this simple truth is the safest place of all. We are dynamic beings. Without change and movement, there is no ability to survive.

Maybe this time, I hope there will be a small change in a closed room: inside the heart.

When democracy promotion backfires

Ali Mohebi — 2026-09-28T14:29:19Z

The practice of democracy is not passed down through the gene pool. It must be taught and learned anew by each generation of citizens.

Sandra Day O'Connor

For decades, successive American administrations have pursued policies aimed at weakening or transforming the Islamic Republic of Iran, often under the banner of promoting a free and fair democracy. Yet, the results have consistently fallen short of those ambitions. The most recent cycle of confrontation between Washington and Tehran, culminating in military escalation, severe economic pressure, and growing regional instability, has once again demonstrated the limits of its foreign policy.

Rather than advancing democratic development, these policies have imposed significant economic hardship and human costs on Iranian society, while further destabilising the conditions necessary for democratic change. Under the Trump Administration, democracy promotion has evolved into one of its most militarised, coercive, and ultimately superficial forms. In doing so, the Trump Administration has failed to strengthen democratic forces inside Iran.

Worse, still, the Trump Administration has undermined the principles that have formed part of the democratic tradition, both in Iran and the US. Although most modern Republican administrations have incorporated democracy promotion into their foreign policy, there has been a gradual shift in approach from post-war American conservatism, to neoconservatism, and lastly to America-first conservatism that has corroded the democratic institutions it pledged to defend.

From American conservatism to America-first conservatism

Post-war American conservatives such as Russell Kirk argued that the US should primarily promote democracy through example rather than intervention. In his view, America's greatest influence came not from military power but from demonstrating the success of its institutions, civil society, and political culture. Under this framework, if democracy is attractive then other nations will seek to emulate it.

Neoconservatism departed from this tradition by placing a greater emphasis on military power and intervention as tools for reshaping external political systems. America-first conservatism inherited the coercive instruments that were developed by neoconservatives under the Bush Administration, without a clear democratic vision of its own. The result is a foreign policy speaking the language of democracy but prioritising pressure and confrontation, regardless of the consequences.

History repeatedly demonstrates that democratic systems depend upon strong civil societies, educated populations, functioning institutions, social trust, and a political culture capable of sustaining pluralism. These are precisely the foundations that military confrontation and economic collapse tend to erode. The true strength of democratic states has never rested solely on hard power. It rests just as much on their soft power to attract, persuade, and inspire.

The lack of an approach to promote democracy in Iran

Throughout his first term, President Trump's statements often suggested a limited understanding of the distinction between the Iranian state and Iranian society. Unlike President Obama, who sought to create incentives for moderation within the political system through diplomacy and targeted pressure, Trump's “maximum pressure” campaign imposed some of the broadest sanctions in modern history.

The underlying assumption was that economic pain would become so severe, ordinary Iranians would either overthrow the regime or force it into changing direction. Yet, this strategy overlooked a fundamental reality of political change. Populations experiencing severe economic insecurity often become less, not more, capable of sustained civic engagement. When survival becomes one's primary concern, democratic mobilisation becomes increasingly difficult.

During his second term, President Trump's approach became even more contradictory. Initially, he attempted to normalise relations with the Islamic Republic of Iran without addressing the deeper historical and strategic roots of hostility between the two countries. After those efforts failed, policy shifted once again toward pressure and confrontation. Economic sanctions intensified, military operations expanded, and regime change re-entered the public discourse.

At various points, figures as ideologically different as Reza Pahlavi, the exiled son of Iran's last monarch, and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the populist former President of Iran, were mentioned as potential transitional figures. Such discussions revealed a striking inconsistency. If democracy was truly the objective, why was so little attention devoted to the actually existing pro-democracy movements? Evidently, democracy itself was not the primary goal. Winning the confrontation with Iran was.

Iran has become a more fragile and radical society

One of the most significant effects of President Trump's approach has been the weakening of the social foundations necessary for democratic development. The “maximum pressure” campaign produced neither regime change nor democratic reforms. Instead, it accelerated economic deterioration, shrank the middle class, and encouraged the emigration of many educated and politically engaged Iranians.

As reformist and moderate voices lost influence, more radical alternatives gained visibility. Monarchism, once a relatively marginal current within the opposition, attracted greater support, while protest movements increasingly adopted more confrontational rhetoric and tactics. A comparison between the Green Movement of 2009 and more recent waves of unrest suggests a broader shift toward political polarisation and radicalisation.

President Trump's rhetoric and actions strengthened one of the Islamic Republic's most enduring narratives: that foreign powers seek not merely political change but the weakening or even dismemberment of Iran. His statements regarding the arming of protesters through Kurdish groups, coupled with threats of military action and discussions of regime change, reinforced this perception. Concerns about national sovereignty and territorial integrity became more immediate than reform.

The consequence of President Trump's approach has been to inadvertently strengthen the Islamic Republic's claim to be the defender of Iran, while weakening the credibility of prominent dissidents who initially supported the US intervention. He has ultimately reinforced the Islamic Republic's position while undermining many of the social and political forces necessary for a transition to democracy.

Is there still hope for Iranian democracy?

In this situation, Europe faces both an opportunity and a responsibility. Rather than following the American model of coercive democracy promotion and adding more ineffective and counter-productive sanctions, the EU and its member states and partners should invest more heavily in providing education, academic exchange, cultural engagement, civil society partnerships, and people-to-people connections.

Democratic values are not transmitted through sanctions, missiles, or military operations. They are learned through institutions and discussions between people from different backgrounds.. Universities, research collaborations, cultural initiatives, and professional networks can all play a role in strengthening democratic norms among individuals without attempting to impose political outcomes.

The goal should not be to engineer political change inside Iran. It should be to expand opportunities for Iranians to engage with democratic institutions. Sustainable democratic development emerges when citizens internalise democratic values and possess the organisational tools necessary to pursue change peacefully. The experiences of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya illustrate a fundamental lesson: the long-term political fate of a nation ultimately depends on its own society.

Democracy requires time. Instead of strengthening democracy, policies that weaken the middle class and radicalise political discourse undermine these prerequisites. Trump's approach toward Iran often had precisely this effect. Instead of creating conditions favourable to democratic development, it has significantly pushed back the push for Iranian democracy. But there is still hope. Democracy cannot be imposed upon a nation—but it can be built by its people.

The EU is a payer but not a player

Elisa Bocconcino — 2026-09-25T13:41:32Z

The EU is the largest provider of aid to the Palestinian Authority. It passed a €1.6 billion support package for 2025–2027, while simultaneously remaining one of Israel's biggest economic partners. Yet, this economic power has not translated into political leverage. Since the 1970s, the EU (and formerly the EC) has attempted to play an independent, diplomatic role in the region, but it has been consistently and intentionally constrained in doing so.

Firstly, the deliberate marginalisation by the US and Israel has systematically excluded the EU from political negotiations while accepting its financial contributions. Secondly, the EU's own institutional structure: internal fragmentation, the unanimity rule, and a persistent gap between the rhetoric of strong declarations and its operational power through sanctions and coercive diplomacy, has left it unable to respond. But how did the EU's position as a “payer” but not a player emerge?

The origins of Europe's “payer” role

The first significant involvement of the EC in the region followed the 1973 war between Egypt and Israel. The Brussels Declaration called for Israel's withdrawal from the territories it had occupied after the Six-Day War, and it aimed to establish a European role in the peace process. Washington and Israel interpreted this as a pro-Arab stance, which opened an opportunity for Euro-Arab dialogue and positioned the EC as a potential mediator.

The Venice Declaration of 1980 went further. It recognised the Palestinian people's right to self-determination and acknowledged the Palestine Liberation Organisation as a legitimate political actor. This position contrasted even more sharply with that of the US and Israel. However, this did not produce the intended outcome of a greater European role. The US, investing in the Camp David framework, viewed European involvement as a disruption, while Israel opposed it outright.

The EC was effectively excluded from negotiations throughout the 1980s. The Madrid Peace Conference in 1991 marked a turning point, but not in the EC's favour. It was only granted observer status, and instead assigned leadership of the Regional Economic Development Working Group, supposedly tasked with demonstrating the benefits of economic cooperation. This role was not an accident. Both the US and Israel recognised Europe's financial capacity and wished to limit its involvement strictly within the economic sphere.

The EU assumed the EC's role of a financial supporter, effectively accepting its own diplomatic marginalisation. The Oslo Accords of 1993 reinforced this trajectory. It became the primary financier of the Palestinian Authority and took a leading role in economic coordination. While this support was crucial to sustaining administrative structures, it also deepened the EU's confinement to a financial role. This dynamic was convenient for other actors: it reduced their financial burden while keeping the EU away from political decision-making.

How the EU undermines its own influence

The EU's influence peaked in the early 2000s. Following the outbreak of the Intifada, the EU joined the Quartet alongside the US, the UN, and Russia. For a moment, it appeared to have secured a seat at the table. Yet, this inclusion did not translate into real influence. The US retained agenda-setting power, Israel remained sceptical of the EU's intentions, and the EU itself was internally divided. As a result, Europe continued to fund initiatives without shaping them.

External exclusion explains only part of the problem. The EU's marginalisation is also self-inflicted. Internal fragmentation remains a decisive obstacle. With 27 member states, each pursuing its own priorities, achieving a coherent foreign policy is inherently difficult. Even when it had fewer members as the EC, coordination was challenging. Today, the difficulty is structural. Under the Common Foreign and Security Policy, unanimity is required. This ensures that any single member state can block decisions, leading to chronic paralysis.

One government can veto sanctions, another can oppose a joint statement, while others pursue their own independent, bilateral policies. Israel's military campaign in Gaza following Hamas's attack in October 2023 exposed these divisions clearly. While the EU called for humanitarian pauses, a two-state solution, and eventually a ceasefire to this aim, individual member states adopted divergent positions. This is not merely political disagreement, it is an institutional limitation.

The creation of the High Representative for Foreign Affairs was intended to unify Europe's voice, but in practice, it has multiplied representation and added complexity. In response to the crisis, the EU reverted to familiar patterns: increased humanitarian aid, support for UNRWA, and vague calls for the violence to end. However, on decisive issues, such as leveraging trade agreements, imposing sanctions, or immediate recognition of Palestinian statehood, the EU remained inactive due to its internal disagreement.

This pattern extends beyond crisis management. The EU formally supports a two-state solution, yet its policies often do very little to support this objective. Continued heavy economic partnership with Israel, despite ceasefire violations in Gaza and settlement expansion in the West Bank, illustrates the gap between principle and practice. The result is a persistent paradox: the EU possesses the resources and normative framework to act, but lacks the institutional cohesion and political will to translate them into influence.

From an economic actor to a political actor

Despite these limitations, the EU retains the potential to redefine its role. Gaza represents not only a humanitarian catastrophe but a strategic disaster. Instability directly affects European security through migration pressures, increased terrorist activity, and weakened Arab relations. The EU must start by aligning its economic instruments with its political objectives and its trade agreements and financial assistance should be conditioned on compliance with international law. Without such conditionality, economic power cannot become political leverage.

Institutional reform is more essential now than it ever had been. Moving from unanimity to qualified majority voting in foreign policy would reduce paralysis and enable more consistent action. The EU must reduce its reliance on the US as the primary diplomatic actor. While transatlantic cooperation continues to hold merit, European interests and values require greater independence.

This means building partnerships with regional actors such as the Gulf states, Turkey, and Egypt, and strengthening its own diplomatic initiatives on the ground. None of this will be simple or easy. Yet, the alternative is clear: to remain what the EU has been for decades—a financial contributor without political influence. The EU has the capacity to shape outcomes in other parts of the world. The question is whether it is willing to move beyond its role as a payer and finally become a player in world affairs.

Three years since the mass exodus of Artsakh

Thea Jürgensen — 2026-09-23T12:49:30Z

The 19th September marked the three-year anniversary of the bombardment of the Armenian population in Artsakh (known internationally as Nagorno-Karabakh). For over 2,000 years, their descendants had been living in the region. And now all signs of Armenian life have been erased. For me, this was not just an isolated event in another corner of the world. In March 2023, I moved to Yerevan to work for a humanitarian aid organisation—a random decision that changed my life.

I moved with little knowledge of a country that very quickly felt like home. I had vaguely heard about the Armenian Genocide by the Ottoman Empire and snippets of the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War had made it into the Danish news in 2020. Armenia was still largely unknown to me and I had no idea what to expect. I was 20 years old, and I had a strong appetite for life.

The first person I met in Armenia was a girl from Artsakh. She proudly told me about her home, the beautiful landscapes, the mountains, the traditions of Artsakh, and the churches that had been there since the 4th century. Then she turned serious. At that time, she wasn't able to get back to Artsakh. She never got to go back. She never got to say goodbye to the land she grew up in. The land her ancestors came from. The land she called home.

The day that everything changed

I remember the 19th September like it was yesterday. I had been at work the whole day and I was waiting for the bus when I saw the news. The first thing I saw was videos of the bombings. It took me one hour to get home and I was updating my news feed religiously for more information. In the following days, Yerevan was filled with protests and journalists.

On Instagram, you could see footage of the cars leaving Artsakh for Armenia. In total, over 120,000 people were forcibly displaced. Kornidzor, the nearest village to Artsakh, was flooded with people who had no idea what to do now. Because what do you do when you lose your home, your livelihood, your everything, from one day to the next?

From March until September, I had been working with vulnerable people and people living in poverty all across the country. Suddenly, I was also working with forcibly displaced people. We handed out humanitarian aid packages to them and I visited refugee camps, organised activities for the children, and documented the life stories of Artsakh families. To understand the story of Artsakh, you have to understand its history.

The history of Artsakh's struggle

Artsakh, or Nagorno-Karabakh, is a region located within the territory of modern-day Azerbaijan. For centuries, the region was inhabited by an Armenian majority. Christians churches and monasteries serve as living proof that Armenian life has always been present in the region. But, in 1921, the Soviet Union decided to place Nagorno-Karabakh under Azerbaijani rule.

The relationship between the Armenian majority and their Azerbaijani authorities was mostly peaceful throughout the duration of the Soviet Union. But after its dissolution, the First Nagorno-Karabakh War broke out between the newly-independent states of Armenia and Azerbaijan. They fought over who would gain power over the territory. During the Armenian Genocide, it had already lost a large amount of its land to Turkey. It was unwilling to allow Artsakh to be taken too.

In 1994, Armenia won the war. The Republic of Artsakh was proclaimed and acted as an Armenian self-governing state. But the international community continued to recognise it as a part of Azerbaijan, even though Armenia had won the war and the vast majority of the people living there were Armenian. They had made clear their wish to be self-governing, but their right to self-determination was not respected by the international community.

For almost 30 years after the war, the Republic of Artsakh existed, inhabited by Armenians, supported by Armenia, but with its own government, currency, flag, dialect, and education system. Artsakh was connected to Armenia through the Lachin corridor, the only road between Armenia and Artsakh. The people had Armenian passports with a special country code expressing that they were from Artsakh.

Azerbaijan attempted to take over Nagorno-Karabakh several times. This resulted in several casualties and eventually the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War in 2020. Supported by Israel who supplied them with weapons and Turkey who provided Syrian mercenaries to fight for them, Armenia was forced to surrender after 44 days and laid down their arms. They never had a chance of survival.

The humanitarian blockade and what followed

Some of my friends fought in that war. They are just a few years older than me. One of them even still has a permanent injury from the war. Another told me that he was the only one from his unit who survived. They were just 19 and 20 years old when they had to defend their homeland. After the war, Azerbaijan took control over several villages of Nagorno-Karabakh. Other villages resisted and remained Armenian.

In December 2022, Azerbaijan blocked the Lachin corridor. This meant that food supplies, humanitarian aid, medicine, and gas were not able to enter into Artsakh. People were starving. The road to civilization was closed. I remember one mother telling me how she had to give birth to her baby without any painkillers, because there simply were not any painkillers left.

They did not let anyone in and they most definitely did not let anyone out. This is the reason why my dear friend, who I met on my first day in Armenia, was never able to come home. The blockade went on for 10 months. Then, on the 19th September 2023 the bombings started. Everyone fled because no one wanted to be left alone with the enemy. On the first day of 2024, the Republic of Artsakh was dissolved.

For the last three years, Artsakh and what is left has been completely in the hands of Azerbaijan. I talked to a lot of people from Artsakh. I always sensed that they were proud to be from there. My friend told me that she will speak to her children in the Artsakh dialect to keep it alive. A part of me wishes that I had arrived in Armenia early enough to visit the land that means so much to so many of the people I met. The land that they fought so hard to keep. The land that they love so passionately.

We forgot about the EU-Belarus migration crisis

Alyaxandar Stukanaŭ — 2026-09-22T11:15:58Z

The migration crisis between Morocco and the Spanish enclave of Ceuta has largely concluded as quickly as it emerged. Its lasting effects on the EU's internal and external discourse on migration are already being widely discussed. Yet, this discussion often ignores that there has been a migration crisis unfolding for more than five years involving hundreds of thousands of people. And this one is not confined to an enclave—it covers the entire 1,250 kilometre EU-Belarus border.

Lukashenka's regime in Belarus orchestrated the crisis as a retaliation tactic against the EU for its support of the democratic protests unfolding in 2020 and its sanctions on individuals and organisations involved in the regime's subsequent suppression and extreme violence against protestors. Lukashenka, with the help of the Russian secret service, attracted tens of thousands of both genuine asylum-seekers and economic migrants from the Middle East and North Africa.

In many cases, people were lured by false advertising, propagandist tour agencies, and even channelled through human-trafficking networks. After being transported to the forests and swamps of the EU-Belarus border, these people were left stranded and with no other choice than to illegally cross the border after Lukashenka's soldiers confiscated their documents.

Of course, this was not the first time migration flows had been used as a weapon; similar tactics were previously used by authoritarian regimes in Libya, Cuba, and Turkey. But the EU-Belarus crisis is unique because it was the largest artificial border crisis in Europe in decades prior to Ceuta, and unlike Ceuta it targeted several countries simultaneously. Understanding the continued threat that weaponisation of migration holds is of vital importance for Europe's geopolitics.

The EU-Belarus migration crisis has not stopped

As the crisis is used as a pressure tool against the EU, all three EU member states bordering Belarus (Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia) are targeted. Since 2021, an estimated 210,000 crossing attempts have been recorded, with Poland alone accounting for 137,000 of them. While the absolute peak of 2021-2022 has passed in terms of numbers, the border remains a constant pressure point to this day, with around 10,000 further crossing attempts in the first months of 2026 alone.

Yet, if we look at the migratory trends, we can see that the channelling to different destinations, as well as the intensity of the pushes, serves the regime's interests at any given moment. As a sign of goodwill to the Trump administration during negotiations over political prisoners, both Poland and Lithuania have seen a sharp decline in border activity. Latvia, increasingly seen by the Russian regime as the most hostile of the Baltic states, is experiencing its highest numbers to date.

One of the most unfortunate aspects of this crisis is the deterioration of human rights standards among the member states involved, and the overall humanitarian catastrophe in the border regions. Faced with daily attempts at physical border breaches, Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia underwent a rapid securitisation at both the infrastructural and legislative levels.

Pushbacks of people—and their human rights

The scale and intensity of the pressure, especially during the 2021-2022 peak, resulted in hundreds of documented cases of unauthorised violence, torture, unlawful detention, and other ill-treatment of migrants by the member states' border security forces. Even more violent treatment is recorded on the Belarusian side, where Lukashenka's security forces have carte blanche for any level of cruelty.

Both Belarus and EU member states' border security forces heavily abuse what is called the “pushback” mechanism—or in plain English, physically forcing a person out of the country and back into the neutral zone on the border. Human rights organisations and special monitoring groups assess that no fewer than 20,000 “pushbacks” have occurred since 2021, with some people caught in an endless cycle of being pushed between the two sides.

According to the same monitoring groups, at least 107 deaths have occurred in what they have called the “death zone” between the two borders, where the most vulnerable people have been left without any support and stripped of their most basic human dignity and the resources needed to live—and unable to fight back against their dehumanisation.

Many leading human rights organisations describe the “pushback” mechanism as inhumane and unlawful, which is even more concerning given the fact that all three EU countries have already enshrined it into law. As a result, activists and human rights observers are actively being detained for providing help to the migrants. Monitoring groups also point out the deteriorating transparency and reporting from the border authorities, so the numbers may be far greater than published.

What is the solution to the EU's border security?

Even before the migration crisis in Ceuta, the EU-Belarus border crisis was overshadowed by more threatening crises such as Russia's invasion of Ukraine, Israel's military campaign in Gaza, and the subsequent US-Israel war on Iran. But the real answer as to why the topic was silently dropped and affected member states were left alone is not distraction, but the systematic failures and absence of leadership from the EU on border politics.

The EU's system of shared competencies has resulted in the usual consequences: free-riding, lack of accountability, and distrust between member states. While every other member of the Schengen Area is insulated from the migration crisis because of the actions of Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia, the failure of the European Commission to provide logistical support and meaningful financial backing means that they are going to more extreme lengths to contain the crisis.

Since external border controls are left to the member states, any attempt at systemically implementing a new approach faces the challenge of navigating different legal frameworks in each country. In turn, this kills the effectiveness of any such system. Meanwhile, a lack of any real cooperation between national and supranational agencies kills transparency and accurate reporting. And, ultimately, any real accountability becomes impossible—at a huge human cost.

As the migration crises on the EU-Belarus border and in Ceuta both showcase, the current system fails to create any sense of solidarity between member states. It is no surprise that they are increasingly eager to jump at any opportunity to impose temporary border checks or call for expelling members from the Schengen Area altogether. The only sustainable, long-term solution to migration crises is a system where there is one strong EU border—not 27 vulnerable ones.

21st century democracy will only end by popular demand

Sianna Zewdie — 2026-08-19T20:22:38Z

Democracy in Europe is not being strangled by the iron fist of the strongman or the sudden thunder of tanks; it is perishing in the stifling air of a parlor room, dying the agonising death of boredom and neglect. This is a continent that has weathered the storm of fascism, outlived totalitarian regimes, and watched dictatorships crumble under the sheer, stubborn will of the masses. And yet, the contemporary European psyche is undergoing a remarkable shift.

No longer does the concept of a dictatorship evoke the same dread or censure it did in the wake of the Second World War. Rather, in the right cases, 22% of people would actually prefer one over the democracies of today. One must ask, then, what these right cases are, and the answer does not require much searching. Right-wing populism is surging in popularity, finding its footing in the precise mud where liberal democracy has failed to plant its flag.

The ‘us vs. them' rhetoric that characterises these factions finds purchase not because the voter is inherently irrational, but because, for many of them, the threat is not imaginary. To someone who cannot afford rent or envision a future for their children, democratic ideals seem less like sacred principles than exhausted platitudes. But a sentiment is difficult to quantify, and a 22% statistic is easy to dismiss as equivocal.

What is harder to deny is what is actually happening at the ballot box. The Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) continues its surge in the polls of fascism's most infamous home. Last year's federal elections saw them double their seats, cementing them as the second largest party in the country. Even more striking than its scale is the shift in its composition — the AfD's voter base is no longer confined to the old and the rural.

It is the young who are flocking to these banners, seeking a salve for the biting anxieties of housing, economics, and identity. This is not a German anomaly but a continental pattern. We see it in the UK, where Reform became the largest party in this year's local elections. We see it in France, where the Rassemblement National is the favourite in the upcoming Presidential elections. And we see it in Italy, where the post-fascist Fratelli d'Italia has presided over the parliament for several years.

When liberal democracy stopped functioning

To those turning towards authoritarianism, it is not a move towards something dangerous: it is a turn away from a system that has already failed them. The bargain that post-war liberal democracy proposed was political participation and consent in exchange for promised open markets, political stability, and the assurance that each generation would flourish even more than the one that preceded it. And, at least for a while, this held.

The decades following the Second World War delivered something close to what had been advertised: rising wages, expanding homeownership, and welfare states that acted as a safety tether in the abyss. The argument made in favour of liberal democracy in this period was the economic one, and increasingly it seemed to be working. But over the years, the economic case, once its greatest shield, has become its primary vulnerability.

Since the turn of the millennium, decisions have quietly been made without the consent of the governed. The shadow of the 2008 financial crisis and the following decade's subsequent austerity measures have resulted in the “upward mobility” that had been promised to Europe's youth being replaced by a newly-formed precariat. A life defined by the insecure, low-wage gig economy and the crushing weight of a housing market that treats the basic right to shelter as a market opportunity.

When a young man in the east of Germany or a student in the suburbs of Paris looks towards the future, they no longer see the flourishing their grandparents were promised. Instead, they are faced with a world where they must pay up to 40% of their income in rent to a faceless landlord while competing for ‘flexible' jobs that offer no dignity, no union, and no traversable path towards middle-class stability. Liberal rhetoric about “institutional integrity” and “checks and balances” feels rather like conversation about upholstery on a ship that is rapidly taking on water.

This growing resentment is sharpened by a sense of institutional abandonment. For decades, the political spectrum seemed to encompass a wide range of ideas: the left advocated for state ownership and wealth redistribution, and the right advocated for traditional values and free-market capitalism. Voters were able to choose between radically different visions for their nation's future. But the end of the Cold War dissolved the ideological battle.

With no systemic alternative to argue for or against, the left and right gradually stopped arguing over the fundamental shape of society and started competing over who was the better manager of the existing system. Both sides reached a consensus on globalised capitalism. Whether you voted left or right, the core economic policies of privatisation, free trade, and fiscal restraint remained almost identical. The age of grand ideologies had died, and in its place came the administrators.

The gradual erosion of political power

The technocratic era was heralded by the slogan that “there is no alternative”, famously used by Margaret Thatcher but later adopted by the centre-left to suggest that liberal capitalist policies were not only favourable, but in fact the only viable system. Certain policies, such as austerity or unrestricted globalisation, were no longer choices to be debated, but rather necessities dictated by markets. To the average voter, the faces on the poster would change, but their country would continue marching on in the same predetermined direction.

Key powers were therefore depoliticised, removed from the hands of elected parliaments and into those of independent bodies. Interest rates shifted from being set by politicians to being determined by unelected central bankers in an attempt to preserve stability. Vast swathes of regulation were drafted by career bureaucrats and sent off to simply ‘rubber-stamp' into law. Trade agreements that would reshape entire industries were negotiated behind closed doors by lawyers and economists and only later presented to the public as fait accompli.

The justification in each was the same, that these decisions were too important, technical, and consequential to be left to the turbulence of democratic politics. This is not entirely without merit: removing certain decisions from the whims of electoral cycles provided a degree of stability that political management might not have. But it came at a cost that was rarely acknowledged. It divorced the act of voting from the experience of being governed.

A large part of the indignity stemmed from the fact that, despite all the rhetoric pushing these policies from both ends of the political spectrum as the only real possibility, the benefits of globalisation were not being felt by the masses. While the urban, university-educated elite saw the borderless world as a playground of opportunity, those on the periphery saw it as a demolition site.

For the worker whose sense of dignity and place was tied to a local industry now outsourced to a lower-cost market, the technocratic promise of ‘efficiency' was merely a polite word for their own obsolescence. Their decline, they were told, was a mathematical necessity, an unavoidable byproduct of a government that they could no longer vote for and no longer influence.

However, to suggest that this shift is merely a phenomenon of mismanaged economics would be a sanitisation of the truth. The ‘us vs. them' rhetoric of modern populism frequently relies on the oldest and crudest of human impulses: the scapegoating of the outsider. As the promise of prosperity vanished, it was replaced by a politics of cultural protectionism that targeted immigrants, religious minorities, and the ‘other' as the architects of national decline.

How the political centre failed to stop populism

The tragedy of the liberal response was that it used this moral condemnation as a shield to avoid the material decay that had planted the seeds of resentment and allowed such racism to flourish. By labeling an entire demographic as ‘deplorable', the political centre did not cure the prejudice, but merely weaponized it. It signalled to the voter that their economic pain was irrelevant because their cultural anxieties were incorrect.

This created a feedback loop of mutual radicalisation. The more the elite dismissed the voter as a bigot, the more the voter viewed liberal values such as tolerance and pluralism as code for their own displacement. In this environment, racism was no longer a sentiment but a badge of rebellion against a system that prioritized the ‘other' over its own. It was in this vacuum left behind by liberal capitalism that modern populism found its place.

The voters flocking towards populism do not necessarily believe they are eroding democracy; they believe they are finally participating in it after decades of being spectators to its decline. The structural failures of the present explain why the fires of populism have been lit, but not why the fire-breaks and the historical taboos that once made authoritarianism unthinkable in Europe have failed to contain it. To understand that, we must look at the cemetery.

For eighty years, the “never again” that underpinned the European project was not a mere slogan or a dry piece of civic branding; it was bone-deep, visceral trauma. It was a guardrail maintained by a generation that did not have to read about the consequences of authoritarian logic because they could still smell the smoke of 1945 on their clothes. This collective living memory served as a societal immune system: no matter the depth of the economic scars, the alternative remained locked behind a door of absolute moral horror

But today, we are witnessing this immune system reach its expiration date. The veterans of the Resistance, the survivors of the camps, and the children who hid in the rubble of Dresden and London are gone. With them vanishes the embodied knowledge of what happens when a society trades its messy, boring, democratic parlor room for the high-octane drama of the street and the rally.

Democracy on the verge of collapse

We have entered a post-memorial era where history is no longer a warning but a museum exhibit — static, distant, and increasingly easy to ignore. To a young voter today, the mid-century dictators are not ghosts of a cautionary tale; they are distant historical relics, no more relevant than Napoleon or Caesar. In this vacuum of experience, the populist politician seems less like a harbinger of chaos but a return to normalcy.

We often imagine the end of democracy as a cinematic explosion: a Reichstag fire, a midnight coup, or a general's address to a nation. But in the 21st century, the light of liberty is not dramatically extinguished; it is slowly dimmed, one slight adjustment at a time. This is the era of constitutional hardball. It begins with the hollowing out of judicial independence by filling it with loyalists. It continues with the gentle squeeze of the press, where libel laws bleed independent outlets dry. And it culminates in an election that is free but no longer fair.

The danger of this incrementalism is its tolerability. Each new step like a law on NGOs, a change in electoral boundaries, or a smear campaign against a prominent academic is small enough to seem like minor administrative corrections rather than warning signs of a systemic emergency. The institutions that were designed to protect the citizens therefore become instruments of their enclosure.

We end, then, where we began: in the stifling air of the parlor room. But it looks different now. The furniture is the same, the elections are being held, the parliaments still sit, the constitutions still exist in their glass cases — and yet something has shifted in the atmosphere and in the quality of the light. The procedures of democracy remain; it is the spirit of it that has grown thin.

The historians will argue, as they always do, about when exactly it happened and what marked the point of no return. But there is no single moment, only a long, unbroken sequence of small surrenders, each alone survivable but put together too much for any constitution to bear. Europe has survived its tyrants. What remains to be seen is whether it can survive its own disillusionment. And if it cannot, democracy in Europe will not have been defeated — it will have been discontinued by popular demand.