The New Federalist

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.

Where is Europe's hard power?

Drakoulis Goudis — 2026-08-11T13:41:55Z

The unprecedented images that have flooded news outlets and social media alike over the past few days, showing approximately 60,000 Moroccans attempting to swim into the Spanish exclave of Ceuta, have triggered a wave of reactions across Europe. Most, however, have fallen somewhere on the spectrum between opportunistic, disjointed, and, most importantly, weak.

Many prominent pro-European voices have already highlighted the hypocrisy of the Italian-Danish initiative to gang up on Spain, using the crisis as an opportunity to air long-standing grievances primarily held among center-right and right-wing governments against Spain's center-left Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez. Such behaviour is selfish, hypocritical, and ultimately undermines European unity.

Yet, the most important issue has received almost no attention. There have been no serious articles, no pressing questions, and barely any discussion about identifying the perpetrator of this act of aggression against the European Union, or about what consequences should follow to ensure such an antic is not repeated. The answer to the first question is rather straightforward. Morocco orchestrated the events that unfolded in Ceuta.

Migration weaponised

Beyond the political narratives and media spectacle, dozens of people lost their lives after being used as pawns in a geopolitical game played by the Moroccan regime. But there has not been a single statement from the European Union or its member states, including Spain for that matter, explicitly acknowledging Morocco's responsibility for this crisis and human tragedy.

Instead, official statements speak of “cooperation with the Moroccan authorities” and “working together with our Moroccan partners” to manage the aftermath and facilitate the return of migrants. As if 60,000 people simply materialised on the beaches right outside Ceuta, independently decided to swim into European territory, while Morocco just stood by as a surprised spectator.

Let us dispense with the pretense. This was an act of coercion directed against the European Union by a neighboring state that weaponised migration to extract concessions. Morocco is blackmailing the European Union and its member states for additional funding, political support in its rivalry with Algeria, favourable trade arrangements, and expanded work permit quotas, among numerous other demands.

Morocco is not unique in using this strategy against the European Union. Turkey has repeatedly used the same tactic. Belarus did the same during the Polish border crisis. Libya and Tunisia have employed similar methods. Weaponising migration has become a familiar instrument of leverage against Europe. And yet there have been virtually no meaningful consequences for these states.

States can violate agreements with the European Union, facilitate or encourage irregular migration across European borders, and then demand even greater concessions in exchange for stopping it. Europe complies time and time again. There is no deterrence, no retribution, and no meaningful punishment for governments that openly engage in this political blackmail.

Europe's addiction to restraint

Part of the explanation is Europe's chronic disunity. These countries feel emboldened to target Spain, Italy, or Greece, precisely because too many European governments continue to treat migration as the problem of frontline states rather than of the Union as a whole. Solidarity remains à la carte. As last week's reactions demonstrated, many governments prefer to exploit such crises for domestic political gain with unreasonable demands.

But an equally troubling explanation is that this is a consequence of Europe's complete reluctance to exercise hard power, pairing diplomacy with credible coercion and the imposition of tangible costs on rogue actors. The reasons are numerous. Some policymakers fear the optics of European nations exerting pressure on African or Asian countries with colonial histories. Others are paralyzed by concerns over short-term economic consequences.

There are also those who genuinely and naively believe that Europe's moral superiority requires it to reject power politics altogether, convinced that responding forcefully would mean abandoning its values. But regardless of the motivation, the outcome is the same. Europe increasingly projects the image of a wealthy, elderly man, reclining in an armchair while his neighbour repeatedly smashes his windows and sets fire to his garden, handing over yet another bag of money.

The international environment has changed dramatically. Civility, gentleman's agreements, and appeals to international norms are no longer universally viewed as strengths. Increasingly, they are interpreted as signs of weakness. From major powers such as the United States, to revisionist powers like Russia, to regional actors including Turkey, Azerbaijan, Morocco, Libya, and others, governments have learned that Europe's instinct is restraint.

Deterrence requires consequences

Hard power, of course, takes many forms. Nearly 60% of Morocco's exports are destined for the European market. Would the Kingdom have reconsidered its actions had the European Union responded the following day with a comprehensive trade embargo on Moroccan goods, enforced by naval means? Would future attempts at migration blackmail become less attractive if they carried immediate and painful consequences?

The same question applies elsewhere. Would Belarus have repeated its strategy of flying migrants to Minsk and transporting migrants to Poland's border had it faced significantly harsher consequences the first time, including European action within Belarusian territory? The precise form such responses should take is open to debate, but the broader point remains: deterrence is only credible when adversaries believe there are real costs for crossing certain red lines.

And because we live in the age of social media, deterrence must also be communicated through actions that are visible and immediately felt. Consequences cannot be confined to diplomatic exchanges, or policy shifts whose effects unfold years later and remain invisible to the wider public. They must be blunt, unmistakable, and highly visible.

In an era where narratives are shaped by images, viral clips, and instant reactions, deterrence must resonate emotionally as well as strategically. Europe has chosen a foreign policy centered on diplomacy, economic cooperation, and rules-based international relations. That is a legitimate strategic choice. But the rest of the world has increasingly mistaken that choice for incapacity.

Europe has become reluctant not merely to use harder instruments of power, but even to remind others that such instruments exist. They need a reminder that Europe is a force to be reckoned with, not an actor that can be endlessly exploited for money while its historical guilt and commitment to international law are treated as guarantees that it will never respond decisively.

If not respect, then fear

Too many regimes have come to assume that Europe's respect for treaties, conventions, and the ‘rules-based international order' mean they can act with impunity, confident that the response will stop short of imposing truly painful costs. That perception must change. Deterrence does not require constant confrontation, but it does require credibility.

States are far less likely to exploit their relationship with the European Union if they know it is both capable of and willing to employ anything from economic coercion to “gunboat diplomacy” or, as internet slang would put it, the “FAFO doctrine” when sufficiently provoked. Only when those costs are seen as both real and unavoidable, will many think twice before attempting to weaponize migration or coerce Europe again.

Unity and solidarity among Member States remain indispensable. The problems of Spain, Italy, Greece, or Poland are European problems and must be treated as such. But unity alone is insufficient. Europe must also rediscover the willingness to project strength, impose consequences, and defend its interests with credibility and ruthlessness. Those who do not respect Europe, should ultimately fear it.

Why Bombs Fail Where Coalitions Are Needed

Sander Van Isacker — 2026-07-10T12:38:38Z

When Israeli American escalation against Iran began, parts of the opposition briefly saw opportunity. After years of repression, economic decline, and violent crackdowns, the regime looked vulnerable. Reza Pahlavi, the exiled son of the former Shah, was again pushed forward as a symbolic figure of transition. But months later, little has changed.

The Islamic Republic remains in place, hardliners became even bigger hardliners, and the opposition abroad is as fragmented as before. What looked like an opening turned out to be another reminder of a recurring mistake: the Iran opposition mistook external pressure for genuine change. And The US and Israel, they mistook bombing campaigns with peace building. Yet neither form of pressure translates automatically into internal change without a broadly organised idea to carry it.

Why pressure does not break the system

Authoritarian regimes like Iran's rarely collapse under pressure alone. They adapt and often they become more cohesive when threatened. External strikes and escalation tend to strengthen that cohesion, and a state loves to reframe conflict as national survival. Dissent became easier to present as foreign interference rather than domestic opposition.

That is what happened again. Military tensions in the region allowed the regime to present itself as the only force capable of defending the country: even when pressure weakens the system, it can strengthen its political narrative. And now Iran has found a perfect way to harm and destabilize the global economy: by occupying the Strait of Hormuz.

Civilian harm during the strikes, including the widely reported bombing of a girls school in southern Iran during the early phase of the US Israel air campaign, reinforced this dynamic.

Yes, the suffering was real and the wild bombing campaigns did weaken the regime. But in the end, it did reinforce the ayatollah narrative of victimhood and survival.

The problem inside the opposition

Outside Iran, opposition politics also increasingly revolved around symbols rather than structure. Reza Pahlavi has become less a participant in a political movement and more a reference point for it. But symbolic figures do not replace organisation. Real political change requires networks, coordination, and the ability to survive pressure over time. Without that, opposition politics becomes reactive: it appears visible but remains politically weak.

The Woman Life Freedom protests in 2022 showed what broader unity could look like. Women's rights activists, students, working class people, ethnic minorities, and secular groups came together in a powerful moment. But that unity was temporary: once the protests faded, mistrust and fragmentation returned. Visibility did, sadly enough, not become structuralized.

A conservative diaspora that looks outward

A particularly visible part of the exile opposition, especially monarchist and conservative networks, have increasingly turned toward political allies in Europe and the United States. In these circles, regime change is often framed as something that can be accelerated from the outside. The focus lays on urgency, external pressure, and one charismatic leader rather than long-term organisation inside Iran. The result is a political strategy that depends heavily on visibility abroad but remains weakly connected to organisation inside the country. It is politics mostly performed in international spaces, rather than connected with domestic ones.

What Europe shows, in a different context

Europe after the Second World War is often misunderstood as a story of unity of vision. It was not. It began with limited cooperation between former enemies, especially in coal and steel. The key was not only trust or shared identity, but it was also the creation of rules that made cooperation possible even when trust was low.

Over time, this created something more durable than political moments or slogans: it created structure. Countries that had fought devastating wars learned to bind parts of their decision making into shared institutions. The important lesson is simple: political change lasts when it is built into rules and when it is organised, not when it depends on moments of alignment or sudden pressure. That is what is missing in much of the Iranian opposition: not the dedication, not the visibility, but structure that survives disagreement.

Coalition Failure as Structural Weakness

The underlying problem is thus the absence of shared political architecture. Effective opposition requires minimal but binding points of convergence, coalition-building and organising a broad grass-roots base.

No movement can replace a regime of Iran's scale without a minimal shared framework that brings together workers, students, women's movements, ethnic minorities, reformists and secular activists. This does not require ideological unity: it requires political maturity and shared ground rules. Imagine how a broad Iran opposition could have looked if they rallied for a couple of ground rules: the end of the regime (1), free election (2), a new constitution (3) and institutional rights for minorities (4).

Without such a framework, opposition politics tends to fragment into competing legitimacies rather than cumulative strength. But sadly, in the current vacuum, politics has become a contest over authenticity. Who represents real Iran, who is legitimate, and who is excluded, etc. This dynamic produces high symbolic energy but has low institutional capacity. The result is an opposition that is expressive but not effective.

Illusions of quick change

Some opposition currents, especially within monarchist and conservative networks abroad, assume that disruption alone can produce transition. In their way of thinking, pressure from outside will eventually force collapse and open the way for a new order.

But history rarely works that way. When there is no internal architecture ready to absorb change, pressure tends to produce fragmentation. Power does not disappear, it just reorganises. The European example shows the opposite logic. Change was slow, constrained, and built through rules that limited everyone equally. It was about a constructed future.

A movement without architecture

Protests can create moments of visibility, and in some cases, they can even place real pressure on a regime and force it to react. But without a structure that can survive repression, internal disagreement and time itself, that energy tends to disappear before it can be translated into lasting political influence.

The Iranian authoritarian state, by contrast, is built for durability. It is structured, layered, and able to absorb shocks while sustaining control through fear. That imbalance is the central reality. Not a lack of legitimacy and not a lack of mobilization by the opposition, but a lack of political architecture capable of turning moments of unity into something that can beat the state.

Visibility can unsettle power in the short term, but only organisation can replace it over time. That is why each crisis brings both real possibilities and clear limits. The main limits were the small coalition it represented, and its positive attitude towards the wild US-Israeli bombing of Iran. Only in a later phase, Reza Pahlavi, became more critical about President Trump, accusing him of sending “mixed signals” when he was threatening to destroy Iran's civilisation. On the contrary, from the start he accused European government of “appeasement” and “making concessions” when they were just stating International Law and the concept of sovereignty.

If Reza Pahlavi adopted a more coalition-based and diplomatically consistent approach on both fronts, the outcome for the broader opposition would likely be more positive. A clearer distance from external military pressure and a stronger focus on building internal and international alliances would have increased his credibility and made it easier to expand support beyond a narrow base.

So yes: Bombs fail where Coalitions are needed.

The vote is not enough for Europe's youth

Asfandiyar — 2026-07-07T15:34:30Z

There is an increasing level of distrust in democracy among young people in Europe, with a growing cost-of-living crisis leading an increasing number to the far-right. But a closer look at the data and the stories of the individuals that make up the figures demonstrates that they simply want democracy to reach them and their daily lives. Europe in the World editor Asfandiyar investigates.

Lena Hoffmann is 24, studies political science in Berlin, and has voted in every election since she turned 18. She has also never trusted a single political party. “I vote because I feel I have to. But I do not believe anything changes.” Hoffmann is not unusual. Across Europe, a generation that grew up after the Cold War is renegotiating its relationship with democracy.

Hoffmann's generation is not rejecting democracy outright. But it is redefining what it should look like. And the institutions built in the 20th century are struggling to keep up. The 2024 European Parliament elections produced record turnout among young voters. Around 42 percent of Europeans aged 18 to 24 cast a ballot, up from 28 percent in 2019, according to post-election data from the European Parliament.

On paper, this sounds like good news, but turnout and trust are different things. A Eurobarometer survey in 2023 found that only 40 percent of Europeans aged 15 to 24 said they trusted the EU as an institution. Confidence in national parliaments was even lower. Among the same age group, 53 percent said they felt their voice did not count in their country's politics. This is not apathy — it is estrangement.

The cost-of-living is their primary issue

For many young Europeans, democracy is not an abstract principle. It is measured in rents, wages, and job contracts. Marco Ferri, 27, delivers food in Milan on a zero-hours contract. He has a university degree. He cannot afford to move out of his parents' apartment. “Politicians talk about democracy and values. But I am 27 and I share a room with my brother. What does democracy give me, practically?”

Ferri's situation is common. Housing costs in European cities have risen sharply over the past decade. In Amsterdam, average rents doubled between 2015 and 2023. In Lisbon, young workers spend more than 60 percent of their income on rent, according to Eurostat figures. And in Germany, the share of people under 35 who own a home fell by nearly 10 percentage points over the same period.

Young Europeans are not withdrawing from politics because they are uninterested. Many are withdrawing because mainstream parties have not answered these material questions. And some are finding answers elsewhere. One of the most documented shifts in European politics is the movement of young voters toward far-right parties, but how big of a phenomenon is this?

What is the far-right's appeal to them?

In France's 2024 European Parliament elections, Rassemblement National won around 30 percent of the vote among voters aged 18 to 24, according to Ipsos exit polling. In Germany, Alternative fur Deutschland polled higher among voters under 30 than in any other age group. In Italy, Fratelli d'Italia drew significant youth support before and after its 2022 general election victory.

These parties are often described as anti-democratic. But they are winning young voters, partly by making a democratic argument: that existing institutions are closed, corrupt, and unresponsive. They offer simplicity and anger. For a generation let down by centrist consensus, that is an effective offer.

Tomas Kovac, 25, studies journalism in Warsaw. He does not vote for the far right. But he understands why others do. “The mainstream parties had 30 years since 1989 to make democracy work for people here. They did not. So people are looking for something else. That is not surprising. It is logical.” Poland's recent political history sharpens the picture.

Between 2015 and 2023, the Law and Justice government systematically weakened judicial independence and restricted press freedom. The European Commission opened multiple infringement procedures. In 2023, young Poles turned out in high numbers and removed Law and Justice from power. Their message was clear: democratic instincts remain strong when the stakes are visible.

The threat of climate instability looms large

No single issue defines young European political identity more than climate change. And no issue has exposed the limits of representative democracy more sharply. The Fridays for Future movement began in August 2018 when Greta Thunberg, then 15, sat outside the Swedish parliament demanding climate action. Within a year, millions of young people across Europe had joined.

The movement was explicitly democratic in its logic: that elected governments were failing their constitutional duty to future generations. That argument has entered courtrooms. In April 2024, the European Court of Human Rights ruled in the case of Verein KlimaSeniorinnen Schweiz v. Switzerland that Switzerland had violated the European Convention on Human Rights by failing to take adequate climate action.

The principle that inaction on climate is a rights violation is now established in European law. Amara Diallo is 22 and studies law in Paris. She has attended climate marches since she was 16. “For us, democracy means the government protects the future. Not just the economy today. When they ignore the climate, they are ignoring us as people who will live for 60 more years.”

Diallo's view reflects something broader. Young Europeans increasingly see democracy not as a procedure, with elections held every few years, but as a substantive commitment to rights, representation, and the long-term interest. A vote cast in 2024 that does not bind governments to 2050 feels incomplete.

How institutions shape trust in modern democracy

The European Parliament has run its EU Youth Dialogue since 2010. The Conference on the Future of Europe, which ran from 2021 to 2022, involved citizens' panels including young people and produced 49 reform proposals (although as of 2024, most remained unimplemented). And some governments have lowered the voting age to 16.

Austria, Scotland, Wales, and Germany for European elections now allow 16 and 17 year olds to vote. Research from Austria, where the lower voting age has been in place since 2007 shows that this has led people to be more inclined to remain politically engaged throughout their lives. These are genuine steps, but they are also insufficient answers to structural problems.

A housing market that excludes the young; a labour market built on precarity; a climate emergency that is only getting worse; and institutions that young Europeans perceive as being run for older and wealthier voters. Young Europeans are not abandoning democracy. They are demanding a version of it that works. The question is whether European institutions and national governments will move fast enough to meet that demand.

If institutions do not find a way to shape trust in modern democracy, then a generation shaped by economic stress, algorithmic information, and climate anxiety will continue to find its most coherent political language in movements, protests, and, too often, parties that offer simple answers to complex failures. The vote is not enough, says Lena Hoffmann. She is right. And, still, she is voting.

Names of interview subjects in this article have been changed to protect their privacy. The views expressed are representative of positions documented in Eurobarometer surveys, European Parliament youth polling, and field interviews conducted.

To belong or not to belong: European identity in rural Finland

Wilhelmiina Hietalahti — 2026-07-02T15:59:46Z

Finland sits on the border between Europe and Russia, both being staunchly anti-Moscow and still suspicious of being told what to do by politicians in Brussels. European Society editor Wilhelmiina Hietalahti looks at her experience growing up in rural Finland and speaks to educators and young people about their perspectives on Finnish and European identity.

As a 21-year-old, I belong to the first generation of Finns who have never known a time before Finland's accession to the European Union in 1995. I have grown up with a sense of ease when it comes to moving around Europe: swimming in freezing Slovenian rivers one day and walking the streets of Venice the next, arranging to meet a friend somewhere in the middle of the continent, and crossing borders to participate in youth projects alongside people from twenty different nationalities.

As my memories and connections have spread across Europe, I have come to realise that many of my experiences are living proof of the successes of the European project. The thought crossed my mind one summer day walking the streets of Prague with my German friend discussing the political state of the world. It returned one evening in Strasbourg, laughing with Greek girls I had met only two days earlier.

Perhaps, I thought, we are indeed the first truly European generation. A generation that not only enjoys the freedoms created by political integration for their practical benefits, but also recognises the deeper value of a shared European identity. Yet, such an assumption can quickly be challenged. It risks overlooking the many factors that shape how different people understand Europe beyond simply belonging to the same age group.

According to political scientist Theresa Kuhn, European identity is formed through meaningful transnational interactions with other Europeans. Such interactions are most common with the rather small group of urban, internationally oriented, and highly educated young people.

It is therefore fair that my optimistic view of European identity is shaped by the social bubble I occupy. I am a middle-class, second-generation university student, raised by parents with a distinctly ‘cosmopolitan' mindset. But outside of this bubble, many Finns continue with a tradition of emotional distance from the concept of “Europeanism”.

Between Finland and the rest of Europe

Although Finnish attitudes towards the EU are generally positive and trust in European institutions remains comparatively high, many Finns still struggle to identify as European. Finland is often imagined as a far northeastern “island,” standing apart from the traditional imagery of Europe associated with Central European cities and cultures.

This feeling persists even among young people who have enjoyed the freedoms of EU citizenship since birth. It remains visible in the discourse surrounding the European community where I come from, a rural area in the Pirkanmaa region of southern Finland.

The voting area of Viljakkala, in the countryside of the city of Ylöjärvi, illustrates the political landscape. The area has traditionally shown a heavy leaning towards the Eurosceptic, right-wing populist Finns Party. Even in a relatively prosperous region close to the growing Tampere metropolitan area, there remains an underlying sense of protest.

Often, this manifests itself through demands for lower fuel prices, but it can also take the form of scepticism towards deeper European integration. Agricultural concerns, as well as identity-driven anxieties about globalisation, continue to shape attitudes in many rural communities.

The role of education and environment

Jarno Leppänen, a social studies teacher at Viljakkala comprehensive school, explains that students often feel indifferent about European questions, which receive limited attention in the curriculum. Feelings of disconnection emerge particularly easily in an atmosphere where liberal internationalism is viewed as pretentious or even threatening.

Another characteristic of the region is the preference for vocational education over higher education, an attitude often inherited from home. If Kuhn's findings are correct, this may reduce opportunities later in life to develop a stronger sense of European identity through international experiences. Leppänen also points to young people's tendency to follow social media influencers and populist figures, sometimes repeating their opinions without much critical reflection.

Combined with values absorbed from family and community, this can contribute to polarised views and create a false opposition between national and European identities. When schools devote little time to European issues and public discourse presents only narrow narratives, such attitudes can easily persist into adulthood.

This is not to say that opportunities for cross-border engagement are lacking. Sofia Tomperi and Leevi Haapalainen, students at Hämeenkyrö Upper Secondary School, highlight Erasmus+ projects and short-term language exchanges as important efforts to broaden young people's horizons. Tomperi also participated in the Euroscola programme, which brought her to the European Parliament in Strasbourg earlier this year.

These experiences undoubtedly matter. Yet, it remains unclear whether short-term exchanges alone are enough to foster a lasting sense of European belonging. Perhaps identity is built less through occasional educational programmes and more through everyday encounters, meaningful relationships, and a deeper understanding of how Europe shapes daily life.

A European identity without uniformity?

Even when the European Union is viewed positively, or more maturely as a complex institution with both strengths and weaknesses, there remains a distinction between being a European citizen in a legal sense and genuinely feeling part of a broader European community.

National and European identities do not have to be mutually exclusive. Ye, for some people, especially those with strong patriotic convictions, identification with a wider European community can still appear as a challenge to national unity. The absence of a strong common European identity remains a reality across the EU, including among generations whose entire lives have unfolded within an integrated Europe.

This raises an important question: should a stronger European identity even be the goal? A shared identity could strengthen the democratic legitimacy of the Union and represent a significant symbolic achievement for a peace project approaching its eightieth year. At the same time, a Union that prides itself on diversity must be careful not to reduce that diversity in pursuit of an artificially constructed sense of unity.

Perhaps, European identity does not emerge through grand declarations of belonging, but gradually and almost unconsciously, in the spaces where borders begin to matter less in everyday life. For many young Europeans, that process may already be underway. The challenge is that it is unfolding unevenly.

While some experience Europe through travel, study exchanges, friendships, and professional opportunities, others encounter it only through political debates, social media narratives, or distant institutions in Brussels and Strasbourg. The bigger question, therefore, is not simply whether Finnish youth feel European. Rather, it is under what conditions they come to feel European, and how those conditions can be expanded without undermining national identity.

Wanted in Riga, welcomed in Minsk

Alyaxandar Stukanaŭ — 2026-06-29T14:49:37Z

The case of Alexei Roslikovs, a Latvian politician who was welcomed in Minsk, has highlighted a growing trend of Western refugees in Russia and their allies. Authoritarianism Watch editor Alyaxandar Stukanaŭ investigates what led him to present himself as a political dissident in Belarus —and if this is something Europe should pay greater attention towards.

On April 9th, Latvian pro-Russian politician Alexei Roslikovs held a press conference in Minsk, Belarus, where he targeted Latvian and European leaders, while praising the Belarusian and Russian regimes as the true friends of Latvia's citizens. With a criminal trial and potential prison time back home, Roslikovs hinted at staying in Belarus and continuing his political work from exile, while collaborating with Lukashenko's regime.

Since then, Roslikovs' future as an exile propagandist in Belarus seems imminent. Although the motivations of Roslikovs-type figures are often quite trivial, an analysis of their communication reveals an interesting evolution in the way propaganda narratives respond to challenges in the Baltic states.

Just one of many

Of course, Roslikovs' trajectory is far from unique. Since 2022, amid the securitisation of the EU's eastern flank, growing scrutiny has been directed at politicians and public officials linked to pro-Russian financial interests or to ethnic and regionalist parties that traditionally mobilised around minority-rights issues, particularly within Russian-speaking communities in the Baltic states.

Such investigations often lead to criminal allegations of corruption, inciting hatred, or illegal financing — all very persuasive signals for Roslikovs-type characters to leave the jurisdictions of their home countries and the EU. Edikas Jagelavičius (Lithuania), ex-MEP Andrejs Mamikins (Latvia), and Polish judge Tomasz Szmydt all fled to Belarus or Russia under similar circumstances.

The media infrastructure to receive them is in place: Belarusian and Russian state media quickly organises press conferences, grants state housing, and integrates new arrivals into existing propaganda or fake “neighbourhood” forums that operate as legitimising centres. Propaganda typically frames these departures as a “mass exodus” from Baltic “Russophobia”, despite actual migration numbers suggesting otherwise.

Old narratives and new approaches

The foundational narrative of the inherent repressive “Nazi-like” nature of the independent Baltic states has remained untouched since the early 1990s. Mobilisation around issues of the Russian language, Russian-speaking schools, and political representation of Russian-speaking communities stays central to the platforms of these politicians, especially in Latvia, which receives the most hostile coverage from Russian media and officials.

Following the 2022 full-scale invasion, which was broadly condemned across Baltic societies, even the most openly pro-Russian politicians in the region were compelled to moderate their rhetoric. Instead of expressing direct support for Russia, they increasingly framed their positions around opposition to military assistance for foreign wars and redirected political debate toward economic hardships and social concerns.

Narratives of economic struggles, inflation and the “unfairness” of national and EU funds distribution are especially effective on Russian-speaking Baltic communities, which are typically more economically depressed and already ostracised on language/ethnic issues.

Previously more or less ignored by pro-Russian politicians in the Baltic states, Belarus has, since 2022, become a major talking point and an idealised example of how a country can maintain close ties with Russia. Lukashenko's Belarus fits this narrative framework across all three key issues: Ukraine, language and ethnic relations, and economic policy.

Lukashenko's regime managed to distance itself from its involvement in the war to the point that the idea of a “neutral” Belarus could be sold to Russian-speaking audiences in the Baltics, while an official state two-language policy and unlimited Russian financial and energy support are used as arguments in its favour. Of course, in reality, language policy heavily favours Russian and represses Belarusian, while cheap energy is paid for by handing over political and military sovereignty, but these aspects are never covered by Roslikovs and similar political actors.

What changes is the way in which these narratives are handled by the exiled propagandists. Looking at Roslikov's case, we see an approach that differs from what we could expect from a desperate propagandist inside a neighbouring, but ultimately foreign country. For now, Roslikovs engages with mostly “non-political” actors — people who can't be immediately identified as regime functionaries.

He may discuss cheap energy with the director of the Belarusian Nuclear Power Plant, or language policy with Belarusian “bloggers”, but he is unlikely to appear alongside high-ranking officials or at government political rallies. His comments rarely engage with themes such as the “imperial West”, “Nazi-gay Europe”, or NATO expansionism (rhetorical tropes commonly associated with Russian and Belarusian state propaganda), but instead focus on economic and cultural support from “Slavic neighbours.”

All this constitutes a new approach to how these “exiled” European politicians are presented to the public. The idea is to minimise the toxicity you typically expect from someone working with the Belarusian or Russian regimes in the media sphere, and instead to present them as “insiders” disillusioned and betrayed by the West. These “heroes” then share their “insider” knowledge of “rotten” Europe and present Belarus and Russia as alternatives, which benefit marginalised communities back home.

Bleak present and future threats

However, the propaganda utility of Baltic exiles tends to have a short life: they generate initial media impact but quickly become repetitive voices in an echo chamber, reaching audiences already converted while failing to penetrate the mainstream. Lack of physical access to their political base, funding, and electoral influence also leads to them transitioning into glorified bloggers, while the agenda/context gap between them and their base inevitably widens.

Their situation resembles limbo, as the Baltic states cannot extradite them from Belarus or Russia, while the regimes that support them don't value their informational capital enough to provide anything more than a basic living and a glorified blogger job.

The most serious threats from these actors are long-term. If the situation on the Eastern flank worsens, or if a Ukraine settlement creates pressure to “normalise” with Moscow and Minsk, these exiled networks could rapidly gain relevance as ready-made interlocutors, making today's marginal figures tomorrow's useful intermediaries, not at all a favourable outcome for a free and a democratic Baltics.

The sterilisation of Greenland

Thea Jürgensen — 2026-06-16T16:29:00Z

Greenland has found itself at the centre of attention due to its natural resources, with the US belief that it should have a claim to the entire Western hemisphere being widely criticised. But before its land and minerals were threatened with exploitation, it was the Inuit people themselves whose lives were controlled from afar. European Politics editor Thea Jürgensen looks into the “spiral campaign”, which is increasingly perceived as an act of genocide.

Greenland made international headlines at the beginning of this year when US President Donald Trump renewed his ambition to purchase the island. The proposal sparked mass demonstrations and solidarity events across Denmark. Greenlandic and Danish flags were displayed side by side, symbolising the close ties between the two nations and a shared commitment to Greenland's right to self-determination.

Yet, the relationship between Greenland and Denmark has not always been defined by solidarity. Their shared history contains darker chapters marked by colonial rule, forced assimilation policies, and attempts to control Greenland's population through the sterilisation of Inuit women.

From colony to autonomy

Once a Danish colony, Greenland is today an autonomous territory within the Kingdom of Denmark. The majority of its population is Inuit, with their own language, Kalaallisut, and a distinct cultural heritage rooted in traditions such as hunting and fishing. Following a referendum in 2008, Greenland gained expanded self-government while remaining part of the Danish Realm.

The roots of the sterilisation scandal lie in the post-war transformation of Greenland's political status. In 1953, Greenland ceased to be a colony and was formally integrated into Denmark. At a time when decolonisation movements were reshaping the world and the United Nations increasingly criticised colonial structures, Denmark sought to modernise Greenland and raise living standards to match those of mainland Danish citizens.

This process of modernisation, however, presented challenges. Greenland's population was growing rapidly, with families often having significantly more children than their Danish counterparts. The Danish state struggled to keep pace with the demand for schools, housing, healthcare, and public services. Rather than expanding support proportionally, authorities increasingly viewed population growth itself as a problem to be managed.

The spiral campaign

Today, Greenland's population stands at approximately 56,500 people. That figure could have been considerably higher had it not been for what later became known as the “spiral campaign”. From the 1960s through the 1990s, Danish authorities oversaw a programme in which intrauterine devices (IUDs), commonly known as spirals, were inserted into Greenlandic women and girls. An IUD is a contraceptive device placed inside the uterus to prevent pregnancy.

In many cases, these procedures were carried out without meaningful consent. Some girls were reportedly as young as twelve years old. Many did not fully understand what was being done to them, while others were never properly informed at all. The consequences were dramatic. Between 1965 and 1970 alone, Greenland's birth rate was effectively cut in half.

Historians estimate that around 4,500 women and girls, roughly half of the island's fertile female population at the time, received IUDs during the campaign. The spiral campaign was not an isolated incident. It formed part of a broader pattern of policies imposed on Greenland by Danish authorities. In 1951, for example, 22 Inuit children were removed from their families and sent to Denmark in what became known as the “Little Danes Experiment”.

The goal was to raise the children in Danish households and educate them as culturally Danish citizens. Behind the initiative lay the belief that Inuit families were insufficiently modern and that Danish culture represented a superior model of development. These policies left deep scars that continue to shape Greenlandic-Danish relations today. Many Greenlanders still report experiences of discrimination and unequal treatment within the Danish state.

“Denmark colonised my body”

For decades, the stories of the women affected by the spiral campaign remained largely unknown outside Greenland. That began to change in 2017, when Naja Lyberth, who had been fitted with an IUD at the age of thirteen, publicly shared her experience. In a widely circulated Facebook post, she described the lasting impact of what had happened to her and wrote: “I felt like Denmark had colonised my body”.

Her testimony resonated across Greenland and Denmark, encouraging other women to come forward with similar stories. As more accounts emerged, pressure grew for an official investigation. In 2022, following demands from the Greenlandic parliament, authorities launched a comprehensive inquiry into the programme.

The investigation revealed disturbing testimonies. Women described being taken to doctors without understanding why, undergoing procedures without informed consent, and suffering severe physical pain afterwards. Many also spoke of the long-term psychological consequences, including feelings of powerlessness, shame, and grief.

Greenlandic political leaders, including Aki-Matilda Høegh-Dam and Mute Bourup Egede, have strongly condemned the campaign, with some describing it as a form of genocide against the Greenlandic people. Both have been prominent advocates for uncovering the full extent of the programme and ensuring accountability.

In August 2025, Danish Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen formally apologised to Greenland. Acknowledging the suffering caused by the campaign, she stated that while the past cannot be changed, there is a responsibility to ensure such abuses never happen again. From April 2026, women affected by the programme became eligible to apply for compensation. Around 4,500 women are believed to qualify.

But compensation alone cannot erase decades of trauma. For many, the loss goes beyond financial harm. It is the loss of choice, of trust, and, in some cases, of the opportunity to build the family they had hoped for. The spiral campaign remains one of the most painful chapters in the history of Greenland and Denmark, a reminder that the legacy of colonialism is often carried not only by nations, but by individual bodies and lives.

Welcome to Spain — we were just leaving

Valeria Obispo — 2026-06-15T17:01:12Z

For young people in Western Europe, Spain offers career opportunities, a better climate, and a lower cost-of-living. Yet, young people in Spain are finding themselves unable to start a career and priced out of their own communities. European Society editor Valeria Obispo investigates the brain drain that threatens Spain's economic development — and the principle of freedom of movement itself.

Browse through a Spanish housing group online, and you are bound to stumble across a series of short posts from professionals seeking to relocate, mainly from Germany or the UK. Cheerfully introducing themselves with a mention of their love for good food and nice weather, any local will be stopped mid-scroll at the sight of the maximum monthly rent they are prepared to pay. Not because it is low — because it is a sum no twenty-something Spaniard could even dream of paying.

The responses in the comments will reflect the other side of this push to emigrate to Spain: friends tagging each other with a dark humour that masks their exhaustion. A generation that shares a flat with multiple strangers to afford a room that they can live in, if they are lucky; much of this generation are stuck in their childhood room. In just one post, two realities are found — the aspiration of one side and the disappointment of the other.

For young people in Spain, this startling story is one that is about sums simply not adding up. Someone on the minimum wage in Germany would take in around €2,343 per month. In Spain? It does not even reach €1,300. A difference of almost €1,000, almost half of what people just a few borders away are taking in. This is not just statistics on a page for Spaniards. It is the reason that so many have decided it is time to pack up and leave their home country.

It is also the reason that, when a remote worker from Munich lands in Málaga earning their German salary, they are not just a new face in a crowd. Whether they realise it or not, they become a walking reminder of what the Spanish job market cannot offer. Worse, they are seen as just one more reason why the gap between what locals earn and what they need to get by just keeps growing. As long as someone is willing to pay, prices have no reason to stop rising.

An economy built on sunshine and service

Every year, Spain invests time, energy, and public funds in educating some of its brightest minds, only to watch many of them head elsewhere. Not always because they want to leave home, but because when they open a spreadsheet, staying just does not add up. Picture a newly qualified ophthalmologist, trying to decide their next move. In Spain's public health system, they will make about a third of what they could earn abroad. This is not a rare exception; this is the norm.

This is the quiet calculation behind what politicians like to call “brain drain”. The phrasing of it almost makes it sound like an inevitable, natural phenomenon, like rainfall or the changing of seasons, but the truth is far more pointed. Spain's economy, like much of Southern Europe, is built mainly around tourism and the service industry — seasonal, unstable, and poorly-paid.

The sectors that offer bigger paychecks and steadier careers stay undeveloped by comparison. They never really took off at the same scale, because the sunshine was always easier to sell. This has left Spain with a job market where the most qualified people are undervalued, and nearly everyone else is underpaid.

The consequences of this are written into the quiet ambitions and the silent resignation of an entire generation. There is even a name for it: Spaniards call it ‘el puesto fijo' (the secure public job). Because when the private sector offers little more than low pay and instability, aspiration shrinks down to the best remaining option: a permanent contract.

So, instead of launching start-ups or leading research, waves of talented young people end up studying for civil service exams. Not because they lack drive or ideas, but because the system has shown them that security is the most they can realistically hope for. That is not a failure of individuals. It is a deep and profound failure of the system itself.

Closing the gap, not the borders

The cruel irony is that the very underinvestment that held these economies back is now what makes Southern European cities so attractive to remote workers from the north. Lower living costs, endless sunshine, rich culture, cheap food. All the side effects of an economy that never quite caught up with its competitors. Digital nomads did not create this gap. They are just fortunate enough to thrive under it because of where they were born.

The real answer is not to resent the people who move into our cities. A German professional choosing Barcelona over Berlin is just making a smart, personal choice, no different from a Spanish doctor picking Amsterdam over Madrid. The issue has never been the movement itself; it is the gap that turns one person's adventure into another's reluctant goodbye.

What Spain really needs — and what Southern Europe as a whole deserves — is an economy that can actually compete. That means genuine, long-term investment in fields that create quality jobs like technology, research, green energy, or advanced manufacturing. That would mean universities do not have to wave off their best graduates as they leave, degree in hand, in pursuit of opportunities abroad.

That would mean building a private sector ambitious enough that el puesto fijo stops being the ceiling on an entire generation's dreams. But Spain cannot solve this alone. This is where Europe needs to take a hard look in the mirror. The EU's proudest achievement, the freedom of movement for its citizens, could quietly end up draining its southern member states to benefit its northern ones, unless matched by real economic convergence.

Freedom of movement in more than name

The tools are already there: cohesion funds could be targeted more strategically, focusing on building competitive industries instead of just infrastructure alone; Horizon Europe's research funding could be more intentionally directed at narrowing the innovation gap; and the EU's digital transition could ensure that Southern European economies are genuine participants in this revolution, not just consumers of it. These are choices that the EU is currently choosing not to make.

If a doctor can earn three times as much in the north as in the south, then it is not really a union of equals — it is a union of convenience. True freedom of movement is about having a real choice: to stay or to go, to arrive somewhere new, but also to build a future where you already are. Right now, that kind of choice is not available to every citizen; it is a privilege that is unevenly distributed across Europe.

It is difficult to celebrate a European identity based on freedom of movement when, for some, moving is not about curiosity or adventure, but about necessity. Europe has always taken pride in being a project of integration, a promise that would take us all toward a shared prosperity. But until this gap closes, that promise will be unfulfilled. Because Southern Europeans will keep doing the numbers, and the numbers will keep pointing them elsewhere.

Time for a European wealth cap?

Marina Alcázar Cid — 2026-06-12T12:59:38Z

Across the world, the results of extreme wealth disparity are clear: an increasing number of authoritarian regimes that trade in favours with billionaires and CEOs. The rise of right-wing populism across Europe shows that we are not far behind this trend. Marina Alcázar Cid argues that the only way to avoid this is for the EU to introduce a limit on how much wealth an individual can possess.

Across Europe, polarisation dominates public debate. Trust in institutions is fragile, social tensions are rising, and many citizens feel disconnected from political and economic decision-making. Yet, paradoxically, Europe is living in one of the wealthiest eras in human history. Despite persistent inequalities, technology, healthcare, and education are more widely accessible than ever before, expanding access to knowledge, services, and opportunities.

The issue is simple: millions of Europeans feel excluded from the seemingly rising prosperity. This contradiction raises a crucial question: why does economic progress coexist with deep social dissatisfaction? One powerful explanation lies in the growing concentration of wealth: one of the strongest predictors of democratic erosion is economic inequality. When wealth accumulates in the hands of a small minority, influence over politics, the economy, and society tends to concentrate too.

While the richest grow ever-richer, the rest of society increasingly grows disconnected from the decision-making process. The result is a deepening social, economic, and democratic crisis. Europe therefore faces a fundamental choice: continue to allow wealth and power to concentrate, or to take action to protect democracy, fairness, and social cohesion — the very values on which the EU was founded.

The staggering scale of wealth concentration

The scale of global inequality today is striking. According to the latest World Inequality Report, the richest 10% of humanity hold 75% of global wealth, while the poorest 50% share just 2%. Oxfam International similarly found that the top 1% owns nearly half of all global financial assets.

A key driver of this concentration is the ability of the ultra-rich to use legal mechanisms to minimise taxation. For example, billionaires frequently borrow against their stock holdings rather than selling them, allowing their wealth to grow without triggering taxable income. This translates to fortunes expanding far faster than ordinary wages.

Take another example: if wages for a typical worker had grown at the same rate as CEO compensation over the past fifty years, their earnings would look dramatically different. As a result, in the US, wealth is now concentrated in the hands of a tiny minority at levels comparable to those seen when France was ruled by monarchs claiming divine right. The dynamics of extreme wealth accumulation and political influence are almost just as visible in Europe.

Wealth, the media, and the roots of political power

Extreme wealth also shapes public discourse. On the one hand, rising personal inequality in Europe helps fuel recent populist movements. On the other hand, the concentration of media ownership among the ultra-rich gives them disproportionate influence over public opinion and political debates.

In the UK, three companies control around 90% of national newspaper circulation. In France, approximately 90% of the economic press is owned by four billionaires. Such concentration of media ownership allows wealthy individuals to shape the public narrative, influence policy debates, and marginalise alternative perspectives. It gives them political power.

Economic inequality is not just about money, it is changing how democracy works, and Europe is not immune. As the gap between rich and poor grows, trust in institutions falls, social cohesion weakens, and people start to feel that democracy no longer serves them. When citizens see governments favoring elites, their engagement drops, confidence fades, and the European project itself is put at risk.

Political influence extends beyond media ownership. Lobbying and campaign financing enable wealthy individuals and corporations to shape legislation directly. In countries like Germany and France, significant donations from individuals to political parties remain legal, allowing the ultra-rich to exercise disproportionate influence over public policy. In reality, a minor, wealthy elite hold more political power than the millions of ordinary voters put together.

The persistent myth of meritocracy

Wealth is rarely created in isolation. It is produced within a social system that includes public services, education, infrastructure, legal institutions, and the labour of countless individuals. Yet, the rewards of this collective system are distributed unequally. The popular narrative of the “self-made man” often obscures how policy frameworks, tax systems, and inheritance structures shape wealth accumulation.

Much of the justification for extreme wealth rests on the idea of meritocracy, the belief that wealth primarily reflects talent, effort, and innovation. However, evidence suggests a different story. Critically acclaimed economist Thomas Piketty demonstrated that the share of inherited wealth in total wealth has grown steadily since the 1970s. In France, inherited wealth accounted for roughly two-thirds of private capital in 2010. Without intervention, extreme fortunes are proven to reinforce themselves across generations and consolidate political power in the hands of a small elite.

The huge social costs of inequality

The consequences of inequality are visible across Europe. In 2024, almost 100 million people in the European Union — that is 21% of the population — were at risk of poverty or social exclusion. Nearly one in four children in Europe face similar risks, not protected any longer by the existing welfare systems. These figures do not reflect a lack of resources. Instead, they point to a lack of prioritisation in how wealth is distributed and invested.

Beyond the unfairness of this situation, the failure to address child poverty entails significant long-term social and economic losses. The result is a Europe where economic growth exists, but prosperity is unevenly shared. Social mobility declines, public services struggle with underfunding, and the promise of equal opportunity weakens. Extreme wealth concentration threatens not only economic fairness, but also the solidarity and cohesion that bind European societies together.

The growing gap between the super-rich and ordinary workers raises a striking question: if poverty is widely seen as a social problem, why is extreme wealth not? Economist and philosopher Ingrid Robeyns offers one answer with the idea of limitarianism. She argues that there should be a ceiling on how much wealth a person can have. Beyond that point, extra wealth does not just harm society at large, it no longer even improves a person's life in any meaningful way.

A political and a social challenge

Philanthropy alone has not managed so far to offset the widening gap. There is sound evidence that the richest individuals are not necessarily the most charitable. Wealthy individuals often contribute proportionally less to the public good than middle-income taxpayers.

At the same time, public opinion consistently favours stronger redistribution. Polling across countries shows broad support for higher taxation on extreme wealth, reflecting a widespread recognition that reducing inequality is essential for maintaining a fair and functional society. Extreme wealth concentration is proving to be not only an economic issue, but a political and a social challenge as well.

Historically, governments have taken steps to curb extreme inequality. Between 1932 and 1980, top marginal income tax rates reached 81% in the US and 89% in the UK. These policies kept extreme wealth in check even as the economy boomed. However, the wealthy no longer contribute with such amounts.

Could a wealth cap really be the answer?

Today, wealth itself is barely taxed, ten EU countries have no inheritance tax, and only Spain has a net wealth tax. Research suggests that the ultra-rich often face lower effective tax rates than the general population. Against this backdrop, several ideas have appeared. At present, economists such as Gabriel Zucman have proposed stronger wealth taxation, including his well-known proposal for a 2% annual global wealth tax on the ultra-rich.

More ambitious perhaps, building upon the philosophy of limitarianism, is the idea of a wealth cap. A wealth cap would place a limit on the accumulation of extreme wealth, preventing any individual from amassing fortunes large enough to dominate economics or politics. The Wealth Cap Project is a Europe-wide initiative advocating for a standardised limit on extreme wealth accumulation at the European level.

Through our Wealth Cap Declaration, we are calling on citizens, policymakers, and institutions to work together to restore balance in European societies. Rooted in the founding aims and values of the EU of solidarity, democracy, and social cohesion, this initiative aims to ensure that prosperity benefits society as a whole. A wealth cap, in this sense, is not simply a fiscal policy: it is a statement of values.

Prosperity must be shared, democracy must be protected, and European societies must remain inclusive, sustainable, and fair. For Europe to thrive, wealth must serve society, not simply allow a few to dominate it. Europe now stands at a crossroads: will wealth and power continue to concentrate in the hands of a few, or will policymakers do what it takes to protect democracy, social cohesion, and the common good?

Is the European flag the new ‘it girl' of pop culture?

Fermín Zabala — 2026-06-10T11:14:05Z

Historically, one of the biggest barriers to European integration has been a belief that pan-European identity is being imposed upon people. Fermín Zabala argues that the end of American hegemony is leading to an unexpected development — European citizens finally rallying around the flag.

The European flag is quietly becoming something it was never designed to be: a pop culture symbol. Not long ago, the idea would have sounded absurd. The twelve stars were associated with parliamentary buildings, Erasmus brochures, and official ceremonies. Today, they are showing up in places where political symbols usually go to reinvent themselves: fashion, music, and sport.

German pop artist Kim Petras recently appeared on the cover of Detour wearing a blue shirt, decorated with stars strongly reminiscent of the European flag. The Swedish licence plate visible on the cover of Zara Larsson's Midnight Sun: Girl's Trip edition prominently features the familiar Euro band.

In Spain, the captains of La Liga's twenty teams brandished armbands with the EU emblem during the Europe Day match week. Fashion brands such as Scuffers have incorporated the circle of stars into their collections. And pop artists like Rosalía increasingly build bold, cosmopolitan universes that move comfortably between languages, traditions, and symbols that could be interpreted as embracing a pan-European identity.

At first glance, these might seem like isolated cultural references. None of these examples would amount to much on their own. Together, however, they suggest something far more significant: that the symbols of European integration are finally beginning to escape the institutional sphere and enter popular culture itself.

A flag that once represented bureaucracy

On 29 May 1986, the European flag was raised for the first time in front of the Berlaymont, the headquarters of the European Commission. Forty years later, those same twelve stars are appearing in places their creators could never have imagined: on album covers, football pitches, streetwear collections, and social media feeds.

For decades, one of the central weaknesses of the European project was its inability to generate emotional attachment. Europe could regulate markets, coordinate policies, and negotiate treaties, but it struggled to inspire people. Critics often contrasted the EU with other political entities whose influence extended far beyond politics.

The US, for instance, did not become a global power solely because of its economic or military strength; Hollywood, pop music, fashion, and consumer culture transformed American identity into a global aspiration. In Europe, the UK and France exercised a similar influence through music, design, and cultural exports that far exceeded its demographic or economic weight.

The rest of Europe, in contrast, produced world-class culture without producing a recognisably European culture. Italian fashion remained Italian. Spanish music remained Spanish. The adjective “European” rarely described a cultural movement. It described a political framework. That may be starting to change.

The new generation of European-made divas

What is particularly striking about the current moment is that European symbolism is no longer confined to official representation. The flag itself is only part of the story. More often, what emerges are fragments: the circle of stars, blue-and-gold colour palettes, multilingual lyrics, references to cross-border mobility, or aesthetic influences drawn simultaneously from different corners of the continent.

In other words, Europe is increasingly functioning not as a political institution, but as a cultural reference point. The rise of pop artists such as the French-Malian Aya Nakamura, the Belgian Angèle, or the British PinkPantheress reflects this evolution. Their success cannot be understood through traditional national categories alone.

These pop artists belong to a generation shaped by Erasmus exchanges, low-cost travel, Schengen mobility, streaming platforms, and digital communities that operate across borders — and shared values. Their audiences are often continental before they are national. Their cultural references move effortlessly between languages, identities, and traditions.

This does not mean that national cultures are disappearing. On the contrary, the appeal of many of these artists lies precisely in their ability to combine local authenticity with transnational accessibility. What is changing is the scale at which culture circulates. Increasingly, young Europeans are consuming, remixing, and sharing cultural products within a common space.

This development matters because culture is never politically neutral. Throughout history, symbols have played a decisive role in shaping collective identities. Flags, songs, myths, and visual references help transform abstract political communities into lived realities. It is probably the reason that American imagery is falling apart. The US flag has changed its meaning.

Europe's problem was never the absence of symbols. The EU had a flag, an anthem, and a motto for decades. The problem was that these symbols remained largely confined to institutions. They belonged to Brussels rather than to Europeans themselves. Today, it turns out the European flag is also changing its meaning.

But is it all fun and sparkle?

Yet, there is also a danger in this newfound visibility. Aesthetic power is always contested. As European symbols become more culturally relevant, different political actors will compete to define their meaning. This is already visible online. Across social media, various nationalist and identitarian movements have embraced a highly stylised vision of Europe.

Under slogans such as “Save Europe”, they deploy images of cathedrals, marble statues, and crusaders to advance exclusionary narratives such as a supposed civilisational decline. Their Europe is not a political community based on citizenship, democracy. and shared values. It is an ethnic and cultural fortress.

Paradoxically, this trend confirms the same underlying reality: Europe is becoming emotionally meaningful. The disagreement concerns what Europe means. That is why the emergence of a European cultural imagination should not be viewed as a trivial matter of branding or aesthetics. It is part of a broader struggle over the future identity of the continent.

The timing is a paid actor

While American culture increasingly reflects a society marked by political polarisation and strategic retrenchment, British cultural influence post-Brexit no longer occupies the dominant position it once held within Europe. For the first time in decades, there is space for new cultural narratives to emerge. A generation raised inside the European project is beginning to fill that space with its own references, symbols, and stories.

The European flag is therefore more than a flag. It is a reminder that political projects do not survive on institutions alone. They require myths, emotions, and cultural expression. Forty years after it was first raised above the Berlaymont, the circle of twelve stars may finally be acquiring something that no treaty could ever provide: a place in everyday culture. The challenge now is ensuring that this emerging cultural Europe remains open, democratic, and pluralistic.

If Europeans want the next generation to believe in Europe, they cannot leave its symbols exclusively to institutions or allow them to be monopolised by those who seek to turn them into tools of exclusion. European popular culture is beginning to emerge. The question is no longer whether Europe has symbols. It is whether Europeans are willing to make them their own. And on that note, #StreamDetour.