Identity politics has always influenced elections. In 2024, it will pose a serious threat to liberalism—and to democracy itself.
The world is embarking on a critical year for the future of democracy. Elections in India, Indonesia, South Africa, and the United States—to name just a few prominent countries headed to the polls in 2024—would normally be routine affairs. But many of these democracies are at an inflection point. Can the strengthening tides of polarization, institutional degradation, and authoritarianism be reversed? Or will democracy reach a breaking point?
This article appears in the Winter 2024 print issue of FP. Read more from the issue.
Every democracy has its own particular set of characteristics. In each country holding elections this year, voters will judge incumbent governments on familiar issues such as inflation, employment, personal security, and a sense of confidence about their future prospects. But the foreboding that accompanies the world’s elections in 2024 stems from one singular fact: The uneasy accommodation between nationalism and democracy is coming under severe stress.
The crisis in democracy is in part a crisis in nationalism, which today seems to revolve around four issues: how nations define membership; how they popularize a version of historical memory; how they locate a sovereign identity; and how they contend with the forces of globalization. In each of these, nationalism and liberalism are often in tension. Democracies tend to navigate this tension rather than resolve it. Yet, around the world, nationalism is slowly strangling liberalism—a trend that could accelerate in a damaging way this year. As more citizens cast their ballots in 2024 than in any other year in the history of the world, they will be voting not only for a particular leader or party but for the very future of their civil liberties.
Let’s first discuss how societies set parameters for membership. If a political community is sovereign, it has a right to make decisions on whom to exclude from or include in membership. Liberal democracies have historically opted for a variety of criteria for membership. Some have privileged ethnic and cultural factors, while others have picked civic criteria that merely demand allegiance to a common set of constitutional values.
In practice, a range of considerations have guided the immigration policies of liberal democracies, including the economic advantages of immigration, historical ties to particular groups of people, and humanitarian considerations. Most liberal societies have dealt with the membership question not on a principled basis but through various arrangements, some more open than others.
The question of membership is increasing in political salience. The causes may vary. In the United States, a surge of migrants at the southern border has politically foregrounded the issue, forcing even the Biden administration to reverse some of its promised liberal policies. To be sure, immigration has always been an important political issue in the United States. But since the political arrival of Donald Trump, it has acquired a new edge. Trump’s so-called Muslim ban—even though it was eventually repealed—raised the specter of new forms of overt or covert discrimination forming the basis of a possible future U.S. immigration regime.
Europe’s refugee crisis—induced by global conflicts and economic and climate distress—is inflecting the politics of every country. Sweden has grown deep concerns about its model of integrating immigrants, ushering in a right-wing government in 2022. In the United Kingdom, Brexit hinged in part on concerns over immigration. And in India, the government of Prime Minister Narendra Modi will implement the 2019 Citizenship Amendment Act, which excludes Muslim refugees from certain neighboring countries from a pathway to seeking citizenship. For New Delhi, membership concerns are driven by the need to prioritize a large ethnic majority. Similarly, the status of migrants in South Africa is being increasingly contested.
The second dimension of nationalism is the contest over historical memory. All nations need something of a usable past—a story that binds its peoples together—that can be the basis of a collective identity and self-esteem. The distinction between history and memory can be overdrawn, but it is important. As the French historian Pierre Nora put it, memory looks for facts, especially ones that suit the veneration of the main object of recollection. Memory has an affective quality: It is supposed to move you and constitute your identity. It draws the boundaries of communities. History is more detached; the facts will always complicate both identity and community.
History is not a morality tale as much as it is a very difficult form of hard-won knowledge, always aware of its selectivity.
Memory is easiest to hold on to as a morality tale. It is not just about the past. Memory is a kind of eternal truth about one’s collective identity, to keep and carry forward.
Memories are increasingly being emphasized in the political arena. In India, to take the most obvious case, historical memory is central to the consolidation of Hindu nationalism. In January, Modi will open a temple to the god Ram in Ayodhya, built on the site where Hindu nationalists demolished a mosque in 1992. It is an important religious symbol. But it is also central to the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party’s narrative that the most salient historical memory for Indians should not be colonial rule by the British but a thousand-year history of subjugation by Islam. Modi declared Aug. 5, the day the foundation stone of the temple was laid in 2020, as being as important a national milestone as Aug. 15, the day of India’s independence from the British in 1947.
In South Africa, questions of memory may seem less pronounced. But the compromise of the Nelson Mandela years, which some now see as sacrificing economic justice for the cause of social solidarity, is increasingly being interrogated. Faced with continuing inequality, economic worries, and declining social mobility, many South Africans are questioning the legacy of Mandela and whether he did enough to empower Black people in the country. This reflects some disillusionment with the ruling African National Congress. But this reconsideration could also potentially redefine the memory in terms of which modern South Africa has understood itself.
An illustration shows a Western-style column broken in half with an ax stuck in it with debris on the ground.
ÁLVARO BERNIS ILLUSTRATION FOR FOREIGN POLICY
In the United States, the contest over how to tell the national story goes back to the Founding Fathers. But debates around this are more politically visible than ever, with politicians from Trump to Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis basing their candidacies in part on what it means to be American and how to “make America great again.” Florida, for example, created dubious standards for the teaching of Black history, seeking to regulate what students learn about race and slavery. This is not just a contest over the politics of pedagogy; behind it is a larger, anxious political debate about how the United States remembers its past—and therefore how it will build its future.
The third dimension in the surge of nationalism is the contest over popular sovereignty, or the will of the people. There has always been a close connection between popular sovereignty and nationalism, as the former required the formation of the concept of a people with a distinct identity and special solidarity toward one another. During the French Revolution, inspired by the ideas of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the popular sovereign was supposed to have a singular will. But if the will of the people is unitary, what explains differences? Furthermore, if there are differences among people, as there naturally are, then how is one to ascertain the will of the people? One way out of this puzzle is to see who can effectively perform the will of the able—and in doing so represent the other side as betraying that will, rather than as merely carrying an alternative interpretation of it. In order for such a performance to take place, one has to castigate anyone who represents an alternative viewpoint as an enemy of the people. In that sense, rhetorical invocations of “the people”—understood as a unitary entity—always run the risk of being anti-pluralist. Even when democracies around the world have embraced a pluralist and representative conception of democracy, there is a residual trace of unity that gets transposed to the nation. The nation is not a nation, or cannot acquire a will, unless it is united.
People rally around a unitary will by benchmarking their national identity: We are Indian by virtue of X or American by virtue of Y. Sometimes, this kind of benchmarking of identity can be quite productive; it is a reminder to citizens of what gives their particular community a distinct identity. Yet one of nationalism’s features is that it struggles to make room for its own contestation. The opposition is delegitimized or stigmatized not because it has a different point of view on policy matters but because its views are represented as anti-national. It is not an accident that the rhetoric of national populists is often directed against forces that are seen to challenge their version of the national identity or their benchmarking of nationalism. As national identities become more contested, there are increasing chances that unity can be achieved only by being imposed.
As a political style, national populism thrives not so much by finding enemies of the people but enemies of the nation, who are often measured by certain taboos. Almost all modern populists—from Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdogan to Modi, Orban, and Trump—draw the distinction between people and elites not in terms of class but in terms of who authentically represents the nation. Who gets benchmarked as the true nationalist? The cultural contempt for the elite gets its strength not just from the fact that they are elites but that they can be represented as elites who are no longer part of the nation, as it were. This kind of rhetoric increasingly sees difference as seditious rather than merely a disagreement. In India, for example, national security charges are deployed against students who question the government’s stance on Kashmir. This is seen not just as a contestation—or possibly a misguided view—but an anti-national act than needs to be criminalized.
The fourth dimension of the crisis of nationalism relates to globalization. Even in the era of hyperglobalization, national interest never faded away. Countries embraced globalization or greater integration into the world economy because they thought it served their interests. But a critical question in this year’s elections in all democracies is a reconsideration of the terms on which they engage the international system.
Globalization created winners but also losers. The loss of manufacturing jobs in the United States or premature de-industrialization in India was bound to prompt a reconsideration of globalization—and all of this was happening even before the COVID-19 pandemic, which accentuated a fear of dependency on global supply chains.
Countries are increasingly convinced that the assertion of political control over the economy—their ability to create a legitimate social contract—requires rethinking the terms of globalization. The trend is to feel more skeptical about globalization and to seek out greater self-sufficiency for national security or economic reasons. “America First” and “India First” are to a certain extent understandable, particularly in a context where China has emerged as an authoritarian competitor.
But the current moment seems like a much larger pivot in the politics of nationalism. Globalization, while seeking to advance national interests, also mitigated nationalism. It presented the global order as something other than a zero-sum game in which all countries could mutually benefit by greater integration. It was not suspicious of cosmopolitan solidarity. Increasingly, democracies are abandoning this assumption, with profound consequences for the world. Less globalization and more protectionism will inevitably translate to more nationalism—a trend that will also hurt global trade, especially for smaller countries that need the rising tide of open borders and commerce.
Each of the four features of nationalism described here—membership, memory, sovereign identity, and openness to the world—has shadowed democracy since its inception. All democracies are also facing their own profound economic challenges: inequality and wage stagnation in the United States, the crisis of employment in India, and corruption in South Africa. There is no necessary binary between economic issues and the politics of nationalism. Successful nationalist politicians such as Modi see their economic success as a means of consolidating their nationalist visions. And in times of stress, nationalism is the language through which grievance can be articulated. It is the means by which politicians give a sense of belonging and participation to the people.
Nationalism is the most potent form of identity politics. It views individuals and the rights they have through the prism of the compulsory identity to which nationalism confines them. Nationalism and liberalism have long been competing forces. It is easier to navigate the tension between them if the stakes around nationalism are lowered, not raised. Yet it is increasingly likely that in many elections in 2024, the nature of the national identities of these countries will be at stake along the four dimensions listed above. These contests could invigorate democracy. But if the recent past is any guide, the salience of nationalism in politics is more likely to pose a threat to liberal values.
Advancing forms of nationalism that do not allow their own meaning to be contested or that seek to preserve the privilege of particular groups generally produces a more divisive and polarized society. India, Israel, France, and the United States each face a version of this challenge. Issues of memory and membership are the least amenable to being resolved by simple policy deliberation. The truths they trade on are not about facts that could be a basis for a common ground. It is notorious, for example, that we often choose our histories because of our identity rather than the other way around.
Perhaps most importantly, assaults on liberal freedoms are often justified in the name of nationalism. For example, freedom of expression is most likely to discover its limits if it is seen to target a deeply cherished national myth. Every emerging populist or authoritarian leader who is willing to abridge civil liberties or pay short shrift to institutional integrity wears the mantle of nationalism. It allows such leaders to crack down on dissent by using the canard “anti-national.” In many ways, this year’s elections may well decide whether democracy can successfully negotiate the dilemmas of nationalism—or whether it will be degraded or crushed.
George L. Mosse, the great 20th-century historian of fascism, described this challenge in his inaugural lecture at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1979: “If we do not succeed in giving nationalism a human face, a future historian might write about our civilization what Edward Gibbon wrote about the fall of the Roman Empire: that at its height moderation prevailed and citizens had respect for each other’s beliefs, but that it fell through intolerant zeal and military despotism.”
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