When Democracy Dies.

 Totalitarianism rarely arrives with a knock on the door. It does not usually announce itself with a declaration that freedom has ended, democracy has failed, or dictatorship has begun. More often, it emerges incrementally, one institutional change at a time, disguised as reform, public safety, social justice, equality, national security, or some other ostensibly virtuous objective. The danger lies not necessarily in any single development, but in the cumulative effect of many developments moving in the same direction.

There are a number of warning signs that should cause anyone concerned about individual liberty and constitutional government to pay attention.The first is the fusion of the media with the political and party elite. 

A healthy democracy requires an independent press capable of challenging those in power. When major media organizations increasingly become aligned with a particular political movement, journalism can gradually become advocacy, and advocacy can eventually become propaganda. The distinction between reporting events and instructing the public about how those events should be understood begins to disappear.

The second warning sign is the takeover of supposedly non-partisan institutions. Universities, regulatory agencies, professional organizations, scientific bodies, cultural institutions, and other organizations that were intended to operate independently can become increasingly politicized. Their formal structures may remain intact, but their internal cultures change. Hiring, promotion, funding, research priorities, and institutional policies can increasingly reflect the prevailing political ideology. Independence becomes more theoretical than real.

Once institutions have been captured, the next step is often the de-platforming of alternative views. Individuals do not necessarily have to be arrested or formally censored by the state. They can instead be removed from social-media platforms, denied access to public forums, blacklisted professionally, excluded from institutions, or economically punished for expressing opinions that fall outside an increasingly narrow ideological boundary.

A society that cannot tolerate dissent is already in trouble. This leads naturally to a war against critical thought as this requires questioning assumptions, examining evidence, identifying contradictions, and being willing to conclude that one's own position may be wrong. Totalizing political movements have little use for such intellectual independence. They prefer certainty to skepticism and ideological loyalty to open inquiry. The citizen is no longer encouraged to ask whether the prevailing narrative is true; he is encouraged to demonstrate that he is on the correct side of it.

The corruption of science is particularly dangerous because scientific institutions possess enormous public authority. Science is supposed to operate through observation, evidence, experimentation, skepticism, and the willingness to revise conclusions when the evidence changes. When scientific institutions become subordinated to political objectives, however, inconvenient findings can become threatening rather than informative. Once scientific conclusions are expected to conform to political requirements, science itself becomes diminished.

Another warning sign is the growth of the surveillance state. Modern technology gives governments and corporations unprecedented capacity to monitor communications, movements, purchases, financial transactions, associations, and online behavior. The danger is not simply that governments possess these capabilities. It is that citizens may willingly accept them because they have been persuaded that surveillance is necessary for safety.

This leads directly to the replacement of the family by the state. The family is one of the oldest institutions standing between the individual and the government. Families provide economic support, education, moral guidance, socialization, and emotional stability independently of the state. As the government assumes an ever-greater role in these areas, individuals can become increasingly dependent upon public institutions. Dependency creates leverage, and leverage creates power.

Once government officials, media organizations, educational institutions, corporations, and cultural institutions repeatedly promote the same interpretation of events, repetition itself begins to create legitimacy. Eventually, the narrative becomes treated as fact, and questioning it becomes evidence of ignorance, malice, extremism, or disloyalty.

The manipulation of language is an important part of this process. Language is transformed to serve new political goals. Words such as equality, justice, discrimination, tolerance, violence, safety, extremism, misinformation, and even freedom can be redefined. Once the vocabulary changes, the boundaries of acceptable political thought change with it. Actions that once would have been regarded as coercive can suddenly be described as compassionate; restrictions once regarded as censorship can be presented as safety measures.

We see this in the over-zealous use of security as an excuse for state intrusion. Genuine threats to public safety obviously require a government response. The danger comes when hypothetical threats become sufficient justification for extraordinary powers. The state may begin acting to avert possible future insurrections, false-flag attacks, terrorism, extremism, or other dangers before there is sufficient evidence that such threats actually exist. The concept of prevention can gradually become a justification for surveillance and intervention against people who have committed no crime.

At the same time, totalizing political movements frequently engage in the projection of their own authoritarian desires onto their opponents. The opposition is accused of wanting censorship, political persecution, authoritarianism, violence, or attacks on democracy, while the accusing side increasingly embraces measures that resemble the very conduct it condemns.

The logic becomes circular: They are dangerous because they oppose us.
Because they are dangerous, extraordinary measures are justified.
And because extraordinary measures are justified, opposition to them becomes further evidence of danger.

 

One warning sign is the deliberate weakening of the education system in the name of vague or nebulous goals of “betterment,” while simultaneously introducing ideological manipulation into the curriculum. Education should teach students how to think, how to evaluate evidence, how to understand history, and how to engage competing ideas. When it becomes primarily concerned with producing the desired political or social attitudes, education becomes an instrument of ideological formation.

This often accompanies a shift from equality of opportunity toward equality of outcome. Equality before the law and equal opportunity are compatible with individual liberty. Equality of outcome is fundamentally different because individuals differ in ability, motivation, circumstance, preference, and choice. Achieving predetermined outcomes requires increasing intervention into the lives of individuals and institutions.

That intervention can eventually lead to the forced stratification of class. Society becomes divided into increasingly rigid categories: privileged and disadvantaged, oppressor and victim, approved and disfavored, politically acceptable and politically suspect. Rather than reducing social divisions, the political system can institutionalize them. Identity becomes a determinant of status, credibility, opportunity, and even moral standing.

This inevitably produces increasing double standards.

Behavior that is condemned when committed by one group can be excused when committed by another. Language considered unacceptable in one context can be celebrated in another. Political violence may be condemned selectively. Institutional misconduct can become tolerable when committed in pursuit of an approved political objective.

Once citizens recognize that the rules are not applied equally, respect for the law begins to deteriorate. Politics then becomes increasingly binary: “Are you with me or against me?”
There is little room for neutrality, skepticism, or independent judgment. Compromise becomes betrayal. Political opposition becomes moral treason. Citizens are pressured to declare their allegiance rather than evaluate individual policies on their merits.

This binary mentality is reinforced by the constant culture of pathogenic fear—a society in which fear itself becomes a political instrument. Fear of disease. Fear of terrorism. Fear of climate catastrophe. Fear of economic collapse. Fear of extremism. Fear of racism. Fear of foreign enemies. Fear of domestic enemies.

The particular threat can change. The psychological mechanism does not.
A frightened population is generally more willing to surrender authority in exchange for protection.

Economic policy can further reinforce that dependence through the forced or engineered economic dependence of citizens upon the state. The more the government controls employment, housing, healthcare, education, financial assistance, taxation, and other essential aspects of life, the more difficult it becomes for individuals to remain politically independent. Economic dependence creates a powerful mechanism of social control.

A similar danger arises through attacks upon an independent judiciary. An independent judiciary is one of the principal barriers between the citizen and arbitrary government power. Courts must be capable of restraining government even when doing so is politically unpopular. When judicial independence is attacked, politicized, or subordinated to the prevailing political movement, one of the essential safeguards of liberty is weakened.

At the same time, governments and political movements can promote cultural apathy. A population does not have to be violently conquered if it can be distracted into indifference. Endless entertainment, consumerism, celebrity culture, digital stimulation, and political spectacle can occupy citizens while institutions accumulate power in the background. This is the modern version of bread and circuses.

Keep the population entertained, reasonably comfortable, and perpetually distracted, and many people will stop asking difficult questions about who actually controls the machinery of government.

The purging of military leadership—the military brass—on political grounds should be regarded with particular caution. A professional military must ultimately serve the constitution and the nation, not a political faction or individual leader. When professional competence and institutional independence are replaced by political loyalty, the military can become an instrument of partisan power rather than a national institution.

Inverted moralism occurs when traditional virtues are redefined as vices and traditional vices are presented as virtues. Strength can be characterized as oppression. Responsibility can become a privilege. Merit can become discrimination. Tolerance can be redefined as intolerance toward anyone who refuses to conform. The moral vocabulary is turned upside down until citizens are expected to regard conduct they once considered destructive as morally virtuous. This process can ultimately lead to a disregard for human life.

Whenever political objectives become more important than individual human beings, the moral foundation of a free society begins to crumble. People become statistics, categories, obstacles, or expendable units in pursuit of some larger political or social objective. Once human beings are reduced to abstractions, almost anything can be rationalized in their name.

There is also the danger of interference with the personal banking and financial system. Financial independence is an important component of individual independence. If access to banking, credit, payments, employment, or financial services can be restricted because of political beliefs or associations, the government and powerful institutions acquire an extraordinary mechanism of control. The dissident does not necessarily need to be imprisoned.He simply needs to become economically untouchable.

Taken individually, none of these developments necessarily proves that a totalitarian state is emerging. That distinction matters. Governments can make mistakes. Institutions can become politicized and later recover. Security measures can sometimes be justified. Educational reforms can be legitimate. Economic intervention can have legitimate purposes. Courts can issue controversial decisions without becoming political instruments. The danger lies in the pattern.

When many of these developments begin occurring simultaneously—and particularly when they consistently move power away from the individual and toward centralized institutions—the cumulative effect deserves serious attention.
The progression can become remarkably straightforward:
The media aligns with the political elite.Non-partisan institutions are captured.
Alternative voices are de-platformed. Critical thought is discouraged.
Science becomes politicized. Surveillance expands.The family and independent civil institutions weaken. The official narrative becomes indistinguishable from truth.
Language is transformed to accommodate political objectives.Security becomes the justification for intrusion.

That is the danger of an emerging totalitarian state. It may not look like the totalitarianism of the twentieth century. It may not require secret police on every street corner or soldiers stationed outside every home. Modern authoritarianism can be considerably more sophisticated. It can operate through algorithms, financial systems, bureaucratic regulations, employment structures, institutional gatekeeping, surveillance technologies, information control, and social pressure.

The citizen may remain technically free while discovering that exercising that freedom carries increasingly severe consequences. That may be the most dangerous form of all.
Because the final surrender of liberty may not occur when the government forces citizens to give it up.It may occur when citizens become convinced that surrendering it is reasonable.

And by the time the population recognizes what has happened, the institutions capable of reversing the process may already have been weakened or captured.

Totalitarianism, in other words, does not necessarily begin with the abolition of freedom.
It begins with the redefinition of freedom. It begins when obedience is called responsibility, censorship is called safety, conformity is called tolerance, dependency is called compassion, political loyalty is called patriotism, and dissent is called extremism.
Freedom is rarely lost all at once.It is surrendered incrementally.

And eventually, the citizens may discover that the state did not need to take their  freedom from them. They had already been persuaded to give it away.

What did the first decade of the 21st century have to offer?

The first decade of the 21st century was anything but quiet. It began with the illusion that the Cold War had been consigned to history and that the great ideological battles of the previous century were largely behind us. Instead, within a few short years, the West found itself confronting terrorism, war, economic upheaval, the rise of China, an increasingly assertive Russia, nuclear proliferation, globalization, and a rapidly changing political and cultural landscape.

And, of course, there was September 11, 2001.

The terrorist attacks on the United States on 9/11 transformed the decade—and arguably the century—in an instant. The attacks did not emerge from nowhere. The Clinton administration had already confronted Al-Qaeda through the Somalia experience and the bombings of the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, yet the threat was never dealt with decisively. Whether a different response during the 1990s could have prevented 9/11 will remain a matter of debate, but the consequences were unmistakable. George W. Bush—Dubya, for better or worse, and in my estimation mostly worse—was suddenly handed the enormous task of responding to a new kind of war. One immediate consequence was that commercial air travel would never again be quite the same.

The attacks also set in motion the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The invasion of Afghanistan and the fight against the Taliban became one of those seemingly endless sagas of modern geopolitics. The United States and its allies entered Afghanistan with overwhelming military power but, in my view, never demonstrated the sustained commitment necessary to finish the job decisively. The Taliban needed to be hit hard and early; afterward, perhaps NATO should have withdrawn and allowed regional powers such as Pakistan to deal with what was, fundamentally, a problem in their own backyard.

I was considerably more ambivalent about Iraq. Saddam Hussein was overthrown, and the regime that had ruled Iraq for decades disappeared, but the war always seemed to me to distract from the central struggle against international terrorism. Whether removing Saddam ultimately made the region safer remains questionable, and it would hardly be surprising if Iraq eventually produced another strongman to fill the political vacuum.

The broader Middle East provided little respite. Israel withdrew from the Gaza Strip, only to be rewarded with continuing rocket attacks from the territory. Both Bush and Obama administrations pushed, in varying degrees, for a two-state solution, while Israel's regional enemies continued to reject the legitimacy of the Jewish state. Meanwhile, Iran's Islamic regime became increasingly belligerent, pursuing nuclear capabilities while being governed by a political and religious establishment whose rhetoric frequently suggested an alarming willingness to contemplate confrontation with the West.

Iran also produced one of the decade's great missed opportunities. In 2009, ordinary Iranians took to the streets in the Green Movement, demanding greater political freedom and human rights. Their courage was remarkable. Yet the Obama administration's response appeared timid. Rather than embracing the democratic aspirations of the Iranian people, Obama seemed to repeat the mistakes associated with Jimmy Carter's approach to the Iranian Revolution rather than drawing inspiration from Ronald Reagan's more forceful opposition to authoritarianism.

And Iran was hardly the only nuclear headache.

North Korea continued to menace the international community, demonstrating that nuclear proliferation had not disappeared with the Cold War. The country's nuclear ambitions had deep roots, and the policies of previous American administrations—including the Clinton-era engagement strategy—were increasingly criticized as having failed to prevent Pyongyang from developing its capabilities. North Korea continued to combine nuclear brinkmanship, authoritarianism and international extortion with an apparent talent for irritating virtually everyone around it.

Pakistan was another source of anxiety. Corruption, weak political leadership, civil conflict and internal extremism would have been serious enough problems on their own. The fact that Pakistan also possessed nuclear weapons made the country's instability considerably more consequential for the rest of the world.

Russia, meanwhile, was undergoing its own transformation. Vladimir Putin emerged as the dominant figure in Russian politics and increasingly positioned his country as a counterweight to American power. Russia's intervention in Georgia demonstrated that Moscow was prepared to use military force to defend what it regarded as its sphere of influence. Putin's Russia was increasingly assertive, increasingly nationalistic and increasingly willing to challenge the post-Cold War international order.

South America also experienced its own political shift. The Bolivarian movement gathered momentum under Venezuela's Hugo Chávez, while Evo Morales became Bolivia's dominant political figure. Both leaders presented themselves as champions of the poor and opponents of American influence. Critics, however, saw something less romantic: populist leaders increasingly concentrating power while pursuing economic policies that threatened the long-term health of their countries.

In South Africa, voters elected Jacob Zuma as president, another controversial figure whose political career was accompanied by serious allegations and scandals. His subsequent leadership raised questions about whether South Africa might follow the same populist and economically interventionist trajectory being pursued elsewhere in the developing world.

If politics was turbulent, economics was scarcely more stable.

The decade ended with the spectacular collapse of some of America's most prominent financial and industrial institutions. Lehman Brothers went under. AIG required a massive rescue. The American housing and mortgage system, including Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, was placed under extraordinary pressure. General Motors and Chrysler collapsed into bankruptcy and required government intervention.

The causes were numerous and complicated. Political parties of both stripes bore responsibility, as did Wall Street greed, lax regulation, excessive leverage, distorted incentives and a political culture that increasingly assumed that somebody else would ultimately absorb the consequences of bad decisions. The housing bubble was not simply the product of one political ideology or one administration. It was the cumulative result of years of misguided incentives and collective irresponsibility.

The response, however, introduced another contentious doctrine: the idea that governments could spend their way out of economic crisis and that institutions deemed too important to fail should simply be rescued. The United States consequently became an even larger debtor nation, while the principle that failed institutions should bear the consequences of their own mistakes was increasingly subordinated to the perceived necessity of preventing systemic collapse.

Meanwhile, another economic giant was emerging.

China continued its remarkable transformation into an economic superpower, particularly in manufacturing. Western consumers became increasingly accustomed to seeing "Made in China" on virtually everything they purchased. Global manufacturing chains stretched across continents, while Western economies increasingly specialized in finance, services, technology and consumption. One could reasonably ask: Is there anything left that isn't made in China?

India followed its own very different path. Its enormous population—more than 1.1 billion by the end of the decade—continued to strain infrastructure and resources, yet the country experienced substantial economic growth. Technology, outsourcing and a highly educated professional class helped turn India into one of the decade's great emerging economic stories.

All of this was accelerated by globalization and, above all, by the Internet.

The Internet transformed commerce, communications, politics and culture at a speed that would have been unimaginable only a generation earlier. Information could now cross the planet almost instantaneously. Ideas, money, entertainment and political movements could travel globally with unprecedented ease.

Unfortunately, so could bad ideas.

Never in the history of our species had so many people been able to spread so many questionable ideas so quickly.

The decade also witnessed an increasingly intense debate over climate change. Considerable amounts of money, political capital, research and newsprint were devoted to what critics regarded as the increasingly politicized global-warming movement. The debate became less about scientific uncertainty and more about politics, economics and the redistribution of wealth between developed and developing nations. International agreements such as Kyoto became symbols of this larger struggle. Whatever one's position on the science, it was obvious by the end of the decade that climate policy would become a much larger political and economic issue in the decades ahead.

Environmentalism also became increasingly intertwined with the political left. To its critics, the emerging environmental movement sometimes appeared less like a narrow campaign for conservation and more like a comprehensive political ideology—an updated version of collectivist politics wrapped in the language of saving the planet. Just when you thought Communism was dead, some would argue, along came the sequel.

The political culture of the West was changing in other ways as well. Freedom of speech came under increasing pressure from political correctness, hate-speech legislation and institutional speech codes. Critics accused organizations such as the ACLU of sometimes defending restrictions on speech in the name of protecting people from offensive ideas. The underlying question was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid: where does the protection of individuals end and the suppression of unpopular opinions begin?

Education was another source of concern. Across parts of Europe and the broader Western world, critics complained about declining educational standards and the growing influence of ideological politics within educational institutions. To those critics, the intellectual legacy of the Enlightenment—reason, skepticism, debate and evidence—was increasingly being displaced by political fashion.

Meanwhile, one of the world's most devastating diseases continued to ravage Africa. AIDS remained a major killer, even as patients in wealthy Western countries increasingly benefited from life-prolonging combinations of antiretroviral drugs. The disparity was stark. The Bush administration deserves credit for substantially increasing American assistance to Africa through initiatives such as PEPFAR, although the perennial question remained: how much of the money and resources actually reached those who needed them most?

And then there was Barack Obama.

Obama's election in 2008 represented one of the most consequential political moments of the decade. His supporters viewed him as a transformative figure and, in some cases, almost as a political messiah. His presidency would certainly prove consequential, particularly through his efforts to reform the American healthcare system. Yet his foreign-policy credentials remained, in my view, considerably less impressive. The lofty rhetoric was there, but whether the substance matched it remained an open question.

By the end of the decade, the world looked considerably different from the one that had entered it in 2001.

The United States was fighting wars on two fronts, carrying enormous debt and struggling through its worst financial crisis since the Great Depression. China had become a manufacturing powerhouse and an increasingly important geopolitical player. India was emerging as a major economic force. Russia was once again asserting itself. Iran and North Korea remained nuclear concerns. Pakistan remained dangerously unstable. Venezuela and Bolivia were experimenting with populist economic models. The Middle East remained unresolved. The Internet had revolutionized global communication. Environmental politics had become a major force. And the boundaries of acceptable political speech were being vigorously contested throughout the West.

The first decade of the 21st century therefore ended much as it had begun: with uncertainty.

The optimistic assumption that the post-Cold War world would naturally become more peaceful, prosperous and liberal had collided with the messy realities of terrorism, authoritarianism, economic globalization, ideological polarization and technological change.

And if the first decade taught us anything, it was that history had not ended after all.

It had merely changed the channel.

What is Globalism?

 I have come to understand globalism as a worldview that places political action within an international framework rather than treating the nation-state as the primary or ultimate unit of political organization. At its core, globalism assumes that many of the problems confronting humanity are not adequately addressed within national boundaries and that broader international structures can provide greater utility than the traditional pluralism of sovereign nation-states.

This does not mean, however, that globalism is a single, unified ideology.

Like most political frameworks, it exists along a spectrum. Its principal variations can be understood, in broad terms, as having a left- and right-oriented dimension, with differences emerging particularly around economics, markets, equality, and the appropriate scope of governmental and institutional authority.

Right-oriented globalism tends to emphasize international trade, economic integration, and the universality of market mechanisms. Its underlying assumption is that markets can function across national boundaries and that the freer movement of goods, capital, and services can generate prosperity while reducing some of the economic ills associated with national protectionism and isolation.

The intellectual roots of this form of globalism can be traced to classical liberalism and the eighteenth-century development of ideas concerning free trade and international commerce. But the contemporary manifestation is considerably more complicated. What began as an argument for economic liberty and the reduction of barriers between nations has, in my view, increasingly become intertwined with large multinational corporations and forms of corporate capitalism that are considerably removed from the classical liberal tradition from which the ideas originally emerged.

Left-oriented globalism has a different emphasis. Its central concern is inequality—economic, social, and political—and it tends to regard populations as fundamentally interconnected rather than as discrete national communities. Its intellectual antecedents can be found in various forms of international socialism, including Trotskyist thought, although, as with right-oriented globalism, it would be a mistake to assume that everyone on the political left is necessarily a globalist.

The two traditions therefore begin from different premises. The right tends to emphasize the liberating potential of markets; the left emphasizes the need to reduce inequality and restructure social relationships.

At this point in history, I would argue that right-oriented globalism has retained a certain economic advantage, largely because many of the traditional economic models associated with the far left have failed to produce the outcomes their advocates anticipated. Yet the left has exercised considerable influence in the social and cultural sphere.

What has emerged from this interaction is what I would call modern globalism.

The older left-right distinction has not disappeared. Rather, the two strands have increasingly interacted, producing a kind of political synthesis. Modern globalism incorporates elements of both traditions, and the relative weight given to market economics, social equality, regulation, national sovereignty, and individual liberty helps determine where a particular political movement falls along the contemporary left-right spectrum.

Very few established political parties adhere to either extreme in its pure form. Most are hybrids.

The institutional expression of this broader globalist orientation can be seen in organizations and structures such as the United Nations, the World Economic Forum, and multinational trade and political blocs including the European Union, ASEAN, and Mercosur. These institutions differ enormously in their purposes, powers, and political structures, and I would not place them all into precisely the same ideological category. What they share, however, is an orientation toward international cooperation and institutional structures that operate across traditional national boundaries.

The empirical argument for globalism is relatively straightforward.

Many of the world's most serious problems do not respect borders.

Climate change, pandemics, international financial instability, migration, terrorism, environmental degradation, and international conflict can all produce consequences that extend beyond the jurisdiction of any individual nation. From this perspective, problems of global scale require mechanisms capable of operating at a comparable scale.

The nation-state can therefore be viewed by globalists as an important historical institution but also as a limitation—a political boundary imposed upon problems that frequently transcend those boundaries.

The disagreement begins when we ask what constitutes the "global problem" and what should be done about it.

Here, the left-right distinction becomes important.

A right-oriented globalist may see protectionism, restrictions on capital, or barriers to international commerce as the principal obstacles requiring international solutions. A left-oriented globalist may instead identify inequality, climate change, discrimination, or concentrations of economic power as the defining global problems.

The underlying international framework may be similar, but the diagnosis differs.

I am also skeptical of the way globalist initiatives can sometimes be advanced through the language of crisis.

A crisis creates urgency.

It changes the political calculation by making previously unacceptable forms of intervention appear necessary. The argument becomes that extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary coordination and that only institutions capable of operating beyond national boundaries can adequately respond.

The COVID-19 pandemic provided a particularly powerful example of this dynamic. Other issues—environmental degradation, international warfare, financial instability, restrictions on the movement of capital, and climate change—can similarly be framed as crises that require international solutions.

There is a legitimate argument here. Some crises really are global in their consequences, and international coordination can clearly be valuable.

My concern arises when the existence of a crisis becomes sufficient justification for a particular political response.

The danger is that crisis can become not merely a problem to be solved but an opportunity for institutional transformation. Once a population accepts the premise that the existing system is incapable of dealing with an emergency, the political space for rapid and fundamental change expands considerably.

In that sense, crisis can become equivalent to opportunity.

This helps explain, in my view, why globalism has accumulated considerable momentum. Modern communications technology makes international coordination easier than at any previous point in human history. Capital, information, ideas, and culture can move across borders at extraordinary speed. International institutions can therefore present themselves as natural extensions of the technological and economic evolution of modern society.

Globalism can consequently acquire the appearance of historical inevitability.

But history rarely moves in a straight line.

Globalist aspirations have encountered significant resistance from nationalism, localism, cultural pluralism, and competing conceptions of political sovereignty. People remain attached to their nations, communities, languages, traditions, and particular histories. The persistence of these attachments has meant that globalism has not simply advanced through persuasion or institutional development. It has also encountered genuine political opposition.

This is where I become particularly concerned about the role of identity politics.

Diversity, in its most constructive sense, should mean the coexistence of different perspectives, backgrounds, experiences, and ideas. A genuinely pluralistic society should become stronger when it accommodates a broad range of viewpoints.

But diversity can also become political.

When racial, ethnic, class, gender, or other identities become the principal organizing categories of political life, diversity can evolve into identity politics. The individual is then increasingly understood through membership in a collective category, and those categories can be mobilized politically against one another.

The result can be the construction of an "other."

The other becomes the perceived obstacle to the interests of one's own identity group.

Coalitions of identity groups can then be assembled around a shared political objective. From my perspective, one consequence is that traditional institutions and values can be portrayed as inherently reactionary simply because they emerged from an earlier social order.

This creates an interesting paradox.

A movement that speaks constantly about diversity can become intellectually intolerant of viewpoints that fall outside its preferred political framework.

That does not mean that every diversity initiative is inherently ideological or that every advocate of identity politics is attempting to weaken traditional institutions. The reality is considerably more complicated. Diversity can promote genuine inclusion and broaden social participation. But when identity becomes the dominant political lens, it can also undermine the individualism that historically occupied an important place within the classical liberal tradition.

Nor is this phenomenon confined to the political left.

Identity politics have increasingly influenced the corporate world as well. Large corporations have adopted diversity-oriented frameworks, language, and initiatives that extend beyond traditional questions of economics and commerce. In doing so, they have incorporated elements of the social philosophy associated with the contemporary left into institutions that are otherwise strongly aligned with global capitalism.

This has created an unusual synthesis.

The economic interests of global capitalism can coexist with social and cultural ideas traditionally associated with the political left.

That convergence is, perhaps, one of the defining characteristics of modern globalism.

I suspect this influence will continue to grow. Right-oriented globalists have, in many cases, either internalized the language of diversity or declined to develop a sufficiently persuasive intellectual response to it. In doing so, some have inadvertently abandoned important elements of the classical liberal tradition.

Classical liberalism was never simply an economic doctrine.

It contained a broader conception of individual liberty, intellectual freedom, open debate, universal principles, and the protection of the individual from excessive collective power.

If those principles are reduced to little more than free markets and international trade, then something important has been lost.

This is ultimately where my concern about globalism lies.

I do not reject international cooperation. Nor do I believe that national borders should prevent nations from working together to address genuinely international problems. The modern world is too interconnected for isolation to be a realistic philosophy.

My concern is with the assumption that internationalization is inherently synonymous with progress, or that the nation-state is merely an obsolete barrier standing in the way of historical development.

National communities provide more than economic organization. They provide culture, memory, language, identity, institutional continuity, and a sense of political belonging. They can certainly become destructive when nationalism turns into chauvinism or exclusion. But eliminating national identity does not necessarily produce a more harmonious world.

The challenge, as I see it, is therefore not to choose simplistically between globalism and nationalism.

It is to determine where authority should reside, what problems genuinely require international solutions, what responsibilities belong to national and local institutions, and how individual liberty can be preserved within an increasingly interconnected world.

Globalism is powerful precisely because it addresses something real: the world has become deeply interconnected.

But interconnectedness does not automatically require uniformity.

International cooperation does not necessarily require the abandonment of national identity.

And solving global problems does not require us to abandon the principles of individual liberty, pluralism, and intellectual diversity that made the modern liberal tradition possible in the first place.

The future, in my view, will depend upon whether we can reconcile these competing forces rather than allowing one to completely subsume the others.

The world is becoming more interconnected.

The question is whether we can become more interconnected without becoming less free.

What Science can and cannot tell us?

One of the greatest misconceptions about science is that it definitively proves things.

It does not. This may seem like a surprising statement, particularly because science is often portrayed as the ultimate arbiter of truth. But science is fundamentally an inductive enterprise rather than a deductive one. It does not generally begin with premises from which immutable conclusions can be derived. Instead, it observes the world, gathers evidence, identifies patterns, develops explanations, and continually tests those explanations against what nature reveals.

What science provides, therefore, are increasingly powerful models of reality.

A scientific model becomes more credible as it successfully explains observations and survives attempts to disprove it. Its strength comes not from someone declaring it to be true, but from the accumulated weight of empirical evidence supporting it. Ultimately, it is the evidence that matters.

This distinction is important because scientific knowledge is sometimes presented as though it were a collection of permanent facts etched into stone. In reality, science is much more dynamic. Our understanding changes as new evidence emerges. A theory that once seemed comprehensive can be modified, refined, or ultimately replaced when observations reveal its limitations.

That is not a weakness of science. It is one of its greatest strengths.

Science has built into itself a mechanism for correcting its own mistakes.

The distinction becomes particularly interesting in theoretical physics, where our mathematical imagination can sometimes move considerably faster than our experimental capabilities. Physicists routinely explore ideas that cannot yet be directly tested because the technology required to perform the relevant experiments does not yet exist.

In such circumstances, theoretical physics necessarily runs ahead of empirical confirmation.

This does not mean that speculation is absent from science. Quite the opposite. Science depends upon informed speculation. Scientists construct hypotheses, explore mathematical possibilities, and develop models based upon what they already know. The speculation, however, is not supposed to be arbitrary. It is constrained by mathematics, logic, existing observations, and the requirement that the resulting framework make meaningful predictions about reality.

This is one of the reasons mathematical sophistication can confer considerable status upon a theoretical framework even before its empirical consequences have been demonstrated.

String theory provides an interesting example. It represents an extraordinarily ambitious attempt to construct a deeper mathematical description of fundamental reality. Its mathematical development has generated substantial intellectual interest and has produced important insights across theoretical physics and mathematics. Yet the central difficulty remains empirical: direct experimental confirmation has proved extraordinarily challenging.

That distinction matters.

A mathematically elegant theory is not automatically a scientifically established theory.

Elegance can inspire scientists. Mathematical consistency can make an idea worth pursuing. Its ability to connect previously disparate phenomena can make it intellectually compelling. But ultimately, science demands contact with nature.

A scientific proposition must, at least in principle, expose itself to the possibility of being wrong. This is the importance of falsifiability. If a theory is constructed in such a way that no conceivable observation could ever count against it, then it begins to move outside the conventional boundaries of empirical science.

This is where science differs fundamentally from many other intellectual endeavors.

Science does not promise certainty. It promises a disciplined method for reducing uncertainty.

A model may survive one experiment, then another, and another. It may successfully predict phenomena that had never previously been observed. Its explanatory power may become so overwhelming that we regard it as one of the best descriptions of reality available to us. Yet even then, science retains the possibility that some future observation will reveal a deeper or more comprehensive framework.

When that happens, science does not regard the discarded model as a personal failure on the part of the scientists who developed it. The model served its purpose. It brought us closer to understanding.

Newtonian mechanics provides a classic illustration. For centuries, Newton's framework provided an extraordinarily successful description of physical reality. It did not suddenly become "wrong" when Einstein developed relativity. Rather, we discovered that Newtonian mechanics occupies a particular domain of applicability. Under ordinary conditions, it remains extraordinarily useful. Relativity extends our understanding into regimes where Newtonian mechanics is insufficient.

This is how scientific knowledge often progresses—not by simply replacing falsehood with truth, but by developing increasingly comprehensive models that reveal the limitations of those that came before.

The same principle applies to theoretical ideas that have not yet achieved empirical confirmation. Their proponents may receive considerable recognition because the mathematics is compelling, the conceptual framework is powerful, or the potential implications are profound. But acclaim is not evidence.

Ultimately, nature gets the final vote.

A beautiful equation cannot compel the universe to behave according to our expectations. A respected physicist cannot transform an elegant conjecture into an empirical fact merely through intellectual authority. And a theory does not become true because it is aesthetically pleasing.

It must survive contact with reality.

That is perhaps the most important lesson of science: we do not get to decide what is true. Nature does.

Our role is to construct the best models we can, test them as rigorously as possible, remain willing to abandon them when the evidence demands it, and accept that the boundary between what we know and what we merely suspect is itself an important part of scientific knowledge.

Science, at its best, is therefore not a declaration of certainty.

It is an organized form of humility.