As empirical scholars of comparative democracy, we sometimes must remind ourselves of the obvious: Democracy, the rule by the people, is a normative concept. Its core
principles of equality and liberty stand against those that have ruled human societies during most of our collective existence: hierarchy and oppression. The set of modern
representative institutions we describe as democratic strive to put those principles to practice: constitutional government, individual rights and liberties, the rule of law, competitive elections, representative legislatures, civil society, and mass media. Democracy requires those institutions. Without them, it cannot be said to exist. Yet, democracy also requires
behavior which is consistent with its principles and institutions. It requires active compliance. Otherwise, its principles are empty rhetoric, its institutions empty shells. Which, then, are the basic behavioral demands that democracy puts on political actors?
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5.1 Democratic support
The softest demand the democratic game places on its players is to support the game itself in public speech and writing.
15 In its most narrow version, this implies the ideological demand to support democracy and reject its systemic alternatives. Yet, due to the formal or informal sanctions which most contemporary democracies put on anti-democratic speech, anti-democratic actors will seldom declare open hostility to democracy. Today, in the age of democracy, where everyone is supposed to profess at least lip service to liberal democratic values, even dictators have learnt to speak the language of democracy. Generic public declarations of democratic commitment have thus become worthless. They fail to distinguish democrats from anti-democrats.
In consequence, actors who are “structurally suspicious”, be it because of their violent past (such as former authoritarian rulers and former guerrilla fighters) or their illiberal ideologies (such as communist parties and religious movements), face persistent suspicions that their public discourse and behavior is deceptive. In an analogous way to the subjects of oppression under authoritarianism, they are suspected of engaging in strategic “preference falsification” (Kuran
1995; Havel
1985). Almost invariably, critical debates about their democratic convictions revolve around distinctions like appearance vs. reality, mask vs. face, front stage vs. backstage (see e.g. Driessen
2012; Richards
2001).
Accordingly, we often demand that democratically suspicious actors do more than to profess
general support for the fundamental rules, institutions, and principles of liberal democracy. We ask them to support the
concrete rules and institutions that happen to govern their real existing democracy (see e.g. Booth and Seligson
2009; Higley and Gunther
1992). If they fail to do so, they do not reveal themselves as unequivocal enemies of democracy. But they do reinforce existing suspicions. They kindle the question whether they might eventually be willing to abandon, breach, or attack democratic institutions.
Such motivational suspicions have haunted debates on populism. Populist actors exploit the structural distance that separates citizens from their representatives in liberal democracy. They play a game of calculated ambiguity. While they present themselves as champions of democracy, they declare established democratic elites and institutions to be the source of all evil that befalls ordinary citizens. Given their ambivalent high-wire act between abstract support and concrete condemnation of democracy, the democratic commitments of populist actors have been subject to persistent controversy. Scholarly assessments span the whole range of possibilities. Populists have been analyzed as illiberal threats to democracy (Müller
2017; Weyland
2013), semi-democratic actors (Schedler
1996), democrats with exclusionary ethnic conceptions of the demos (Mudde
2010), democrats with alternative conceptions of democracy (Mounk
2018), and democrats with selective definitions of liberal democracy (Slater
2013; Rovira Kaltwasser
2012).
Since the early days of his presidential nomination campaign, Donald Trump has been identified as “the perfect populist” (Lind
2016). Surely, during his electoral campaign, he cherished to invoke “the people”, “the forgotten ones”, and portrayed existing democratic institutions as sites of treason and corruption. Yet, in office, he has clearly situated himself on one side of interparty competition. The central political conflict he mobilizes is not the populist cleavage (people vs. elite) but the partisan cleavage (Republicans vs. Democrats). Aside from playing the tunes of interparty polarization, he embraces a combination of ethnic and economic nationalism (older immigrants vs. more recent ones, ethnic Americans vs. all other nations) and has adjusted his self-description accordingly.
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Still, even though Donald Trump may not qualify as a populist, he does partake in the typical discursive ambiguities of populism. While various critics have labeled him a “fascist” or “aspirational fascist” (Beinhart
2018; Connolly
2017; and Tucker
2016), he fully embraces the existing democratic order. He professes nothing but pride in the history of American democracy. He does not promise a fascist
Führerstaat or the formal transformation of the US into a hereditary oligarchy. In contrast to other democratically ambiguous actors, he is not suspected either of dissimulating his authoritarian convictions. He has been accused of falsifying objective facts, but
not his personal preferences. Even his critics see him as an open book. Due to his apparent lack of an ideological core and his “radical honesty” (Bruni
2018) about his own evolving thoughts and emotions, he has not been suspected of pursuing a hidden anti-democratic agenda.
Yet, while refraining from attacking democracy in the abstract, Donald Trump frequently criticizes
specific democratic actors and institutions. Their appreciation seems to be strictly contingent on their conformity with his personal and political ambitions. If they serve his purposes, fine. If not, he showers them with contempt. This can be seen in his recurring rhetorical attacks against the media, judicial actors, and the electoral process. Much has been written about his hostile attitude towards critical news media, which are a central pillar of liberal democracy according to all democratic theory and “the enemy of the American people” according to Trump.
17 Notoriously, the 45th US president has also been harshly dismissive of judicial actors he dislikes (be it courts, judges, prosecutors, the
fbi, or the justice department) (see e.g. Baker
2017; Levitsky and Ziblatt
2018, pp. 178–179). In the closing weeks of the campaign, he started denouncing the presidential election as being “absolutely [] rigged”, “one big fix”, “one big, ugly lie” (Martin and Burns
2016), without offering even a hint of empirical evidence.
When political actors fail to pay honor to democratic institutions, the consequences are seldom direct. Their verbal attacks may induce others to reject and weaken these institutions, or else, to defend and strengthen them. In and by themselves, they do not impair institutional performance. Despite his rhetorical attacks on the press, Donald Trump has not been restricting freedom of opinion in practice. Despite his attacks on judicial actors, he has been heeding the limits they have set on his policies (see e.g. Posner
2018). In the first instance, the discursive denial of institutional respect is what it is: a discursive breach of democratic obligations. Its initial relevance is primarily diagnostic. It reveals the speaker’s weak attachment to democratic values.
5.2 The renunciation of violence
The primary behavioral imperative of liberal democracy is its absolute ban on political violence. Violence is “the greatest enemy of democracy as we know it. [It] is anathema to its spirit and substance” (Keane
2004, p. 1). For the demos to speak and to be heard, arms must remain silent. Democracy prohibits the use of violence as an instrument of accessing state power (coups and rebellions), competing for state power (electoral and ethnic violence), exercising state power (political repression and the selective enforcement of law), influencing state policies (terrorism and coercive corruption),
18 and settling political conflicts among citizens (hitmen, paramilitary forces, lynching mobs).
Democracy, however, demands more from political actors than refraining from exercising violence in person. Democrats need to do everything in their power to prevent others from doing so. Political actors have a wide spectrum of possible strategies at their disposition through which they can induce others to commit political violence without bloodying their own hands. They can command, delegate, license, invite, encourage, condone, conceal, deny, belittle, and gloss over acts of political violence. Democrats must avoid any of this, unambiguously. They must show zero sympathy with the perpetrators of violence, regardless of who they are, and full solidarity with its victims, regardless of who they are. Their responsibility extends to their formal and informal agents as well as to their actual and potential allies. It also includes the obligation of recognizing their opponents as legitimate participants in the political process, rather than treating them as enemies who are legitimate targets of political violence.
Spanish political scientist Juan Linz, who saw the Spanish civil war break out at the age of ten, had been deeply troubled about ambiguities in the face of violence. “What”, he asked in his seminal 1978 reflections on elite attitudes towards democracy, “would be an effective ‘litmus test’ of loyalty to a democratic regime? An obvious possibility is public commitment to legal means for gaining power, and rejection of the use of force. Ambiguities in such public commitments are certainly prima facie evidence of semiloyalty” (Linz
1978, p. 29). To exemplify, he cited the “willingness to encourage, tolerate, cover up, treat leniently, excuse, or justify the actions of other participants that go beyond the limits of peaceful, legitimate pattern of politics in a democracy” (Linz
1978, p. 32).
The democratic ban on political violence thus imposes a broad set of negative and positive obligations on political actors. How does the 45th president of the US fare in this regard? The picture is mixed. In contrast to the global avant-garde of illiberal presidents, his personal involvement in domestic repressive violence has been close to zero. He has not conducted a wave of mass arrests against journalists, civil activists, politicians, and public officials, as Recep Tayyip Erdoğan has done after the 2016 coup attempt (see e.g. Kingsley
2017). He has not unleashed a campaign of extrajudicial killings against sellers and consumers of psychoactive drugs, as Rodrigo Duterte has done in the Philippines (see e.g. Berehulak
2016). Still, in his rhetoric, he has shown some of the ambiguities Juan Linz identified as symptoms of democratic semi-loyalty.
Above all, Donald Trump has been permissive towards the violence of ideologically proximate third parties. On numerous occasions, he has been seen as encouraging or condoning illegal violence. At campaign rallies, he invited his followers to “beat the crap” out of protesters and promised to cover their legal defense bills. Once, he obliquely suggested arm owners might recur to legitimate self-defense in case Hillary Clinton would restrict access to fire arms (indeed, in a context of deep partisan division over gun control, his advocacy of “gun rights” ensures that his political supporters control an immense and disproportionate arsenal of assault weapons—which they may never use for political purposes but can at any time).
19 After his election victory, he hesitated to condemn attacks against Jewish institutions or deadly violence by neofascists in Charlottesville, Virginia. He deems the notion of holding police officers accountable for the use of lethal violence unpatriotic and has invited immigration officers to do their job without undue respect for human dignity (“please, don’t be too nice”).
20 Together with his trademark rhetorical aggressiveness against adversaries, Donald Trump’s rhetorical ambiguities towards violent allies and agents are bound to breed consequences in the so-called real world.
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5.3 Electoral integrity
Since the end of the Cold War, the most common form of dictatorship are not military and single-party regimes anymore, but electoral autocracies which hold multiparty elections, yet subject them to severe and widespread manipulation (see e.g. Levitsky and Way
2010; Schedler
2013). Accordingly, as noted above, the most common form of democratic termination are not military coups anymore, but gradual, government-led transitions to electoral authoritarianism (see e.g. Bermeo
2016; Svolik
2017). Governments have a variegated “menu of manipulation” at their disposal which allows them to preserve the formal façade of competitive elections, while hollowing out their democratic substance (Schedler
2013, Ch. 3). In the transition to electoral authoritarianism he commandeered, Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez, for example, deployed the entire arsenal. He rewrote the constitution to his liking; captured judges and electoral authorities; ruled by decree, through repressive laws, and the transgression of laws; colonized the state bureaucracy and civil society; stifled private media and created his own propaganda machine; harassed, banned, and prosecuted opposition parties, sacked their elected officials, or stripped them of formal authority (see e.g. Corrales
2015,
2011, Ch. 2).
What has Donald Trump done so far to threaten the integrity of the electoral process? During his campaign and after, he repeatedly denounced “the system” and “the election” to be “rigged” (see e.g. Martin and Burns
2016; Wines and Haberman
2018). He is right, of course.
22 For a long time now, US democracy has suffered deep, structural damage from its radical openness to the influence of money (see e.g. Winters
2011) and the partisan manipulation of electoral rules (district boundaries and voter identification) (see e.g. Anderson
2018; McGann et al.
2016; Klaas
2017, Ch. 5; Schaffer
2008, Ch. 2). Donald Trump, though, has not been the creator of these structural flaws, only their beneficiary.
Has he further harmed the democratic integrity of American elections? Not that much, actually. Having lost the popular vote to Hillary Clinton, he kept complaining, as he had done during the campaign, about “serious voter fraud” (Shear and Haberman
2016), a rhetorical phenomenon that has eluded empirical documentation. He continued to play on the topic through his short-lived Presidential Advisory Commission on Election Integrity (see Wines and Haberman
2018) and took it up again after the 2018 midterm elections (see Thrush and Peters
2018). Yet, as in other spheres, the main harm done was discursive. Rather than undermining the integrity of elections, he has been undermining the credibility of elections.
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5.4 Constitutional constraints
In the 1990s, in early debates on the institutional foundations of democratic stability, Latin American countries were thought to inhabit the worst of all worlds. Combining presidential systems of separation of powers and fragmented multiparty systems, they seemed condemned to engender irresolvable confrontation between minoritarian presidents and legislative majorities, inviting the military to step in and play the arbiter (see e.g. Linz
1990; Mainwaring
1993). Subsequent empirical studies have qualified or shed doubt on “the perils of presidentialism” (see e.g. Negretto
2006; and Cheibub
2007), just as subsequent empirical events have increased confidence in the conflict-solving capacities of presidential democracies. Since the early 1990s, Latin American countries have solved recurrent “presidential crises”, not through military intervention, but through the constitutional ousting of presidents who had lost the public trust (see e.g. Hochstetler
2006; Pérez-Liñán
2007).
In the light of preceding debates, it is not without irony that current dangers to democracy do not seem to arise from minority presidents who attack hostile legislatures, but from presidents who command legislative majorities and use them to redefine the rules of the political game. Juan Linz identified the tendency to produce “unified” rather than “divided government” as one of the core “virtues of parliamentarism” (Linz
1990). Today, executive control of the legislature constitutes the Archimedean point for hegemonic projects of “executive aggrandizement” (Bermeo
2016).
Putin, Chávez, Erdoğan, Orbán, and company have all followed the same basic script. Act one: they gain control over rule-making after winning legislative majorities. Act two: they extend their controlling powers to the final settlement of conflict by subjecting supreme courts to partisan control. Act three: once they are in control of the legal system (the content, implementation, and adjudication of law) they are (legally) free to colonize the entire state bureaucracy (including the management of elections) and to domesticate the media and civil society.
How does Donald Trump fit the picture? In his first two years in office, he enjoyed the relative comforts of “unified government”. Even though Republican majorities in both chambers were rather slim, and the internal discipline of the party allowed for certain lapses, he used his legislative majorities to work towards effective partisan control of the judiciary.
24 The contentious nominations of Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court locked in a conservative majority at the peak of the judicial system. Democrats viewed them as part of a “Republican strategy to capture our judicial branch of government” (Senator Richard J. Durbin) (Stevenson
2017). The aggressive, sustained, and successful campaign by the president and his party to appoint ideologically proximate judges to federal appeals courts has been validating their fears (see e.g. Savage
2017; Hulse
2019). Of course, the degree of formal control which ruling parties and sitting presidents exercise over judicial appointments has always been a deep anomaly of US democracy. Their power to shape the ideological profile of the judicial system would be perceived with great apprehension in any other democracy.
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5.5 Linguistic accountability
Liberal democracy is not a measurement machine, a mechanism for registering the spontaneous, pre-reflexive preferences of citizens. It is a system for defining, debating, and deciding collective problems and conflicts within a community of free and equal citizens. Abjuring violence, abhorring violence, its core medium is language. Against the power of stones, swords, and guns, it poses the power of words (see e.g. Touraine
1988). It is only through our shared language that, “we, the people”, know who we are, what we have in common, what divides us, what afflicts us, where we want to go. Liberal democracy requires elections, but the institutional core of popular sovereignty is not the electoral arena, but the public space that gives meaning to the electoral arena (see Habermas
1998). Its democratic quality hinges centrally on the integrity of public language, its responsible and accountable usage.
As users of language, we make claims—about the world, about others, about ourselves. As responsible language users we take these claims seriously. We accept the commitments they carry, and we accept being called to account for these commitments. Linguistic accountability involves the duty to clarify and explicate our claims (their meaning) in case of doubt, and to answer critical questions about their rationality: their truthfulness (when we make factual claims about objective realities), their appropriateness (when we articulate normative claims about social relations), their sincerity (when we put forward subjective claims about our inner world), and their consistency (with other things we say and do) (see e.g. Brandom
2000; Habermas
1984).
Linguistic irresponsibility comes in many faces. Donald Trump is the carrier of an extreme form. Numerous observers have noted traits of linguistic poverty, even pathology, in his public discourse, such as his simple syntax and limited vocabulary, his delight in transgressing rules of courtesy and decency, his fondness of personal insult, his habitual substitution of adjectives for arguments, the coarse nature of his rhetoric, his impatience with caution and precision, his corresponding love for hyperbole and over-generalization, and last but not least, his general contempt for language (“just words”). Donald Trump has been called “a serial norm breaker” (Levitsky and Ziblatt
2018, pp. 146, 195). He surely is a serial breaker of linguistic norms.
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Within this context, the primary public concern about Donald Trump’s political language, first as a candidate and then as president, has been his shallow commitment to truthfulness. While Bill Clinton faced impeachment charges over a single lie, Donald Trump has been generating an ever-growing list of lies, half-truths, and distortions of reality, creating “alternative facts” and “alternative lies” alike.
27 Critics and adversaries alike have been describing him as a “compulsive” or “pathological liar” (Willingham
2016) and he has co-inspired a whole new genre of literature on democratic politics in “the post-truth era” (e.g. d’Ancona
2017).
Donald Trump not only generates an unending stream of arbitrary claims which are not (or only loosely) constrained by empirical realities or the rules of language. He fully commits himself to these claims with public displays of emotional certainty (often through the use of superlatives) and dismisses all pretensions of holding him accountable for them (often through repetition). His conception of truth is private and declarative: he tells the truth because he says so, his critics are liars, all fake, full point. He leaves no legitimate space for public argumentation. Herein lies the double core of his linguistic irresponsibility: in his demonstrable contempt for truth and his demonstrative rejection of linguistic accountability.
Linguistic responsibility may seem to belong to the luxury department of democratic quality. As a matter of fact, students of deliberative democracy have been analyzing it as such: as essential to the quality, but not to the very existence, of democracy (see e.g. Gutmann and Thompson
2004). Yet, Donald Trump made us realize that linguistic responsibility is just as essential to democratic conflict resolution as it is, for instance, to judicial conflict settlement. In judicial proceedings, judges are called upon to apply rules to facts as they are established before court. If they get the facts wrong, they get everything wrong. Without truth, no justice. Modern judicial systems accordingly treat false testimony not as a stylistic mishap but a criminal offense. Democracies protect the truthfulness of public debate through informal norms and practices of accountability rather than penal law. Still, their existential vulnerability to linguistic abuse is similar. Irresponsible and unaccountable speech dissolves the twin democratic assumption of a shared reality and a shared language. By turning politics into a cacophony of unintelligible voices, it destroys the public sphere, the virtual meeting point of the demos. Irresponsible speech is antidemocratic speech—not in substance, but in form. “If words fall into disrepair, what will substitute? They are all we have” (Judt
2010, L 1523).