Across headlines and political speeches, we hear constant warnings about the “end” or “collapse” of democracy. The assumption is clear: democracy is a fixed, universally understood system now under threat. But this framing obscures a deeper reality. Democracy has never meant one thing. Across history, it has carried different meanings for different people, at different times, and has often been used to serve very different—and sometimes contradictory—purposes.
By Dennis Redmond and David Andersson
At its best, democracy implies collective self-rule: the idea that people should have real power over the conditions of their lives. Yet democracy has often functioned less as a lived practice and more as a legitimizing language—invoked to authorize states, consolidate authority, or justify exclusion behind claims of popular consent.
I am not a historian, but in the West, democratic ideas seem to have developed alongside the formation of modern states and republics. As these institutions expanded—often through conquest, colonization, or territorial consolidation—democracy became intertwined with the needs of the state itself. Rather than asking how people might govern themselves, democratic mechanisms were frequently designed to stabilize governance, manage populations, and secure legitimacy. In this sense, democracy has often served power as much as it has challenged it.
The phrase “We the People,” introduced in the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution in 1787, captured a radical aspiration: that political authority derives from the people rather than from a monarch. Yet democracy or the founding fathers meant very different things depending on who you were. Voting rights were restricted to white men, typically over the age of 21, who owned property or paid taxes. Women, Indigenous peoples, enslaved Africans, free Black people, and many others were excluded altogether. The language was universal; the practice was selective.
This pattern—expansive ideals paired with narrow application—has repeated itself across time and place. Democracy has been used to justify wars, sanctions, regime change, and economic oppression, even as millions living under “democratic” systems experience little real control over the political or economic decisions that shape their lives.
Today, these contradictions are becoming harder to ignore.
In a hyper-connected world, the forces shaping daily life—climate systems, supply chains, financial markets, migration flows—operate far beyond national borders. Yet democratic participation remains largely confined to the nation-state. Institutions designed for another era struggle to address planetary-scale crises, while citizens are urged to defend democracy even as their ability to meaningfully influence outcomes diminishes.
Listen to the news today and you’ll see this tension everywhere.
Progressive movements in the West have often supported governments like Iran’s primarily because of their opposition to U.S. hegemony. Yet this position collides with the reality of popular uprisings met with violent repression, including the killing of protesters by the thousands.
A different but equally revealing contradiction appears in Greenland. Here, two long-standing democracies—the United States and Denmark—are increasingly positioned as competing over who will shape Greenland’s future. Strategic interests, security concerns, and access to resources dominate the discussion. Yet Greenland is home to roughly 57,000 people, primarily Indigenous Inuit. If democracy is truly about self-determination, shouldn’t they be the ones deciding their future?
Venezuela raises yet another dimension of this same tension. By what democratic mechanisms does the international community accept, reject, or intervene in political outcomes beyond its own borders? Who decides when an election is legitimate, when sanctions are justified, or when external pressure is warranted—and who bears responsibility for the human consequences of those decisions?
Taken together, these cases suggest that democracy, as practiced globally, is not a neutral or universally applied standard. It is shaped by power, interests, and strategic narratives—even when invoked by states that formally define themselves as democratic.
So when we talk about democracy, what are we actually talking about? Is it a set of procedures, a moral ideal, or a lived experience of power? Does democracy for you include political, economic, social, and international dimensions—or has it been reduced to periodic elections within rigid state boundaries?
What does representation mean in an age of mass migration and overlapping identities? Is it democratic for expatriates who have lived abroad for decades to vote in their country of origin—sometimes while also voting where they now reside?
Is China’s one-party system more or less representative than multiparty systems elsewhere—and by what criteria do we decide? Participation? Stability? Outcomes?
Has democracy been reduced to an occasional vote, or can it be understood as an ongoing human practice? Should political decisions be shaped primarily by those most directly affected, rather than by distant state structures or international economic institutions?
Rather than framing our moment as the “collapse of democracy,” today’s crises may reveal something deeper: democracy has always been an unfinished, uneven, and contested process. Many of us may never have fully experienced what genuine collective self-rule could look like.
Is “We the People” still the most useful frame for democratic life today? Or do we need new language—and new forms—to reflect interdependence, diversity, and global responsibility? When New Humanism speaks of a Universal Human Nation, how might that vision translate into democratic practices rooted in everyday life rather than abstract ideals?
As technology and social movements reshape political possibilities, the challenge may no longer be to defend democracy as it has been, but to clarify what we mean by it—and to imagine forms that serve human beings rather than states or narrow interests.
As youth-led movements continue to challenge entrenched power and redraw political horizons, it may be future generations who redefine democracy for us. Hopefully, we have seen very little of what democracy could yet become.
Dennis Redmond is a longtime nonviolence advocate, currently serving as Coordinator for the Community for Human Development in the United States and as a co-founder of the Hudson Valley Park of Study and Reflection. As Coordinator for the Community for Human Development, Redmond has played a central role in organizing and advancing initiatives that promote nonviolence, social justice, and ethical engagement in communities—most notably in events such as the New York City Walk for Nonviolence.
