Afterword: From Illusion to Awakening: The Fight for an Unfinished Democracy

In their evocative New York Times essay, Of Course They Gave Up On Democracy, Ivan Krastev and Stephen Holmes (2020) drew a striking analogy between Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion (1991) and the troubled global narrative of liberal democracy, revealing how liberal democracies, in their triumphalist post-Cold War moment, lost sight of their self-critical faculties. This oversight, they argue, has inadvertently created fertile ground for the rise of authoritarian populist reformers like Donald Trump and others across the globe.

Expanding on Krastev and Holmes’ essay through the lens of René Girard’s (1979, 1987) theory of mimetic desire offers a critical framework for critiquing democracy’s post-Cold War trajectory. As Carr, Rivas-Sanchez, and Thésée argue, democracy in its Western guise has often operated as “a steam-roller propaganda machine,” presenting itself not only as the only legitimate option but as the culmination of political and economic perfection. This self-aggrandizing narrative read through Krastev, Holmes and Girard, reveals how the West’s uncritical exportation of democracy has sown disillusionment, fostered resentment, and ultimately paved the way for the rise of authoritarian populism.

In Shaw’s Pygmalion (1991), Professor Higgins transforms a working-class flower girl, Eliza Doolittle, into a refined lady of high society, ostensibly elevating her status and identity. Yet, beneath the surface lies an unresolved tension: Eliza’s transformation is not fully her own, but one dictated by Higgins, who remains blind to the oppressive power dynamic embedded in his so-called benevolence. Her refinement, though dazzling, conceals a lingering resentment—a reminder that the act of imitation, when imposed, risks dehumanizing the imitators and alienating them from their own agency.

Krastev and Holmes (2020) apply this paradigm to the post-Cold War global order. Western liberal democracies, victorious after the fall of the Berlin Wall, assumed the role of Professor Higgins, presenting their political and economic models as universal templates of freedom and modernity. Countries in Eastern Europe and beyond, eager to emulate this ideal, embarked on their own transformations. Yet, just as Eliza Doolittle wrestled with the loss of her authentic self, these nations began to chafe under the asymmetry of their relationship with the West. Their democratization was guided not by their own cultural and historical contexts but by the dictates of an external model—one that often dismissed or ignored their unique complexities.

The concept of “Pygmalion Democracy” highlights a critical failure: while liberal democracies were busy remaking others into their image, they neglected to scrutinize their own shortcomings. The triumphalism of the 1990s lulled the West into complacency, fostering an uncritical idealization of its political and economic systems. This lack of introspection proved disastrous. By failing to address the growing inequalities, social alienation, and disillusionment within their own societies, Western democracies have weakened their moral authority and credibility. Worse, they left themselves vulnerable to charges of hypocrisy—an accusation eagerly exploited by authoritarian populists.

Krastev and Holmes argue that the West’s preoccupation with democratizing others came at the expense of understanding the power dynamics within democracies themselves. The assumption that elections and market economies could automatically ensure fairness and justice ignored the deeper asymmetries of power that exist in every society. This sanitized vision of liberal democracy became an easy target for populist leaders, who redefined politics as a zero-sum game of power, stoking distrust in institutions and undermining democratic norms.

The authors argue that in the early 1990s, the West basked in the laurels of victory, secure in its belief that its own political and economic systems were perfected, eternal, and immune to decay. While the East and South scrambled to remake themselves in the West’s image, the victors of the Cold War appeared frozen in time, their institutions unquestioned and their legitimacy unchallenged. This hubristic assumption—that democracy and capitalism required no further reflection or reform—blinded the West to the fragility of its own systems. The authors provide the example of American constitutional lawyers, busying themselves ghostwriting constitutions for fledgling democracies in Eastern Europe, devoting little thought to the widening cracks in the foundation of their own democracy. This neglect of self-reflection would become a critical flaw, for the West’s inability to adapt and confront its contradictions would later expose its models as far less exemplary than advertised.

The East’s enthusiastic adoption of Western liberalism, driven by a zealous desire to emulate its supposed path to freedom and prosperity, masked an implicit and deeply unequal power dynamic. Imitation, after all, is never neutral — it establishes a hierarchy between the model and the imitator. To emulate is to concede the superiority of the other, to accept one’s place as the student to a teacher who never doubts their authority. This dynamic bred resentment. The East and South, in imitating the West, were not merely adopting democratic capitalism but were also surrendering their historical narratives and cultural distinctiveness to the ideological uniformity demanded by the “end of history”. The West’s insistence that its values were universal felt less like an invitation and more like a command. The result was a simmering resentment, a feeling of humiliation that has, in hindsight, metastasized into the rise of authoritarian and illiberal movements.

The 2008 financial crisis was, according to Krastev and Holmes (2020), the moment when the West’s mask slipped, revealing the fragility and hypocrisy of its system. For nations in the East that had restructured their economies and societies around the Western model, the crisis was a betrayal. The model they had been taught to emulate was not infallible but riddled with contradictions. The global economic collapse shattered the aura of Western superiority and catalyzed a backlash against liberal democracy, which was now seen as a failed experiment rather than a path to salvation.

Shaw’s play (1991) initially presents imitation as an act of self-betterment, much like the West framed its post-Cold War democratization efforts. Yet, just as Eliza ultimately resents Higgins for remaking her into something alien to her true self, the East began to question the viability of Western models, especially in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis. The crisis exposed the fragility of the systems Eastern nations had so zealously emulated, leading many to see Western democracy not as an ideal but as an imposition.

In this way, Krastev and Holmes (2020) argue that Pygmalion gives way to Frankenstein (1818), as the imitation project mutates into a rejection of the very ideals it sought to emulate. Illiberal regimes in Poland, Hungary, and elsewhere have capitalized on this disillusionment, presenting themselves as defenders of “authentic” national values against the corrupting influence of Western liberalism. The West’s inability to reconcile its role as both model and critic has only deepened this rift, leaving liberal democracy vulnerable to the backlash it helped create.

The current wave of anti-liberalism sweeping the globe is, at its core, a reaction to the overreach of post-Cold War liberal order. It is the revolt of the humiliated imitators who now seek to reclaim their sovereignty by rejecting the values once imposed upon them. This backlash is not limited to the East; even within the West, populist and authoritarian movements have emerged, fueled by discontent with the unfulfilled promises of democracy and capitalism. The crisis of liberalism, then, is not merely a failure of the imitators but also a failure of the model itself. The West, in its arrogance, assumed that its systems were universally applicable and that their exports would bring about global harmony. Instead, it has created a world of disillusionment, resentment, and fractured identities. The Frankenstein monster has risen, and its wrath is a testament to the dangers of playing God in the theater of global politics.

The “Age of Imitation” that began in 1989, heralded as the triumph of liberal democracy, paradoxically eroded its very foundations. For three decades, argue Krastev and Holmes (2020), Western political elites, enthralled by the mission of exporting democracy, lost sight of the ongoing struggles within their own systems. As they worked feverishly to mold others in their image, they neglected the deep flaws in their domestic democracies. This external preoccupation numbed their self-critical faculties, allowing complacency to settle like a fog over the West. The result was a hollowing out of liberal democracy from within, making it increasingly vulnerable to charges of hypocrisy and cynicism. At the heart of this crisis lies a fundamental contradiction: while the West sought to democratize the world, it ignored the internal challenges to its own democratic principles. The uncritical idealization of “free-market democracy” created a sanitized and oversimplified image of liberalism that failed to account for its inherent struggles with inequality, corruption, and the asymmetries of power within society.

According to Krastev and Holmes (2020), institutions like the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) became potent symbols of America’s outward focus. Tasked with spreading democracy abroad, NED’s lack of a mandate to address democratic deficiencies at home highlighted a glaring blind spot: the belief that democracy in the West was unassailable. This selective engagement shielded Western democracies from much-needed introspection, while simultaneously exposing them to accusations of hypocrisy. How could the architects of democracy-building abroad overlook the erosion of democratic norms in their own backyards? A good question. But it happened. This oversight turned liberalism into an easy target for illiberal critiques. By preaching equality and justice abroad while tolerating structural inequities at home, the West inadvertently handed its critics’ ammunition. The idealized version of democracy exported bore little resemblance to the flawed and often struggling systems at home, a discrepancy that emboldened illiberal leaders to challenge the legitimacy of liberalism itself.

The West’s reluctance to confront the reality of power relations within democracies further weakened its position. Liberal discourse after 1989 focused heavily on authoritarian abuses and corruption abroad, while minimizing the importance of systemic power imbalances within democratic societies. By emphasizing individual rights and market freedom, liberal thinkers and policymakers painted an overly optimistic picture of democracy—one in which elections and free markets supposedly ensured fairness and equality.

This sanitized vision ignored a fundamental truth: every society, even a democracy, is shaped by asymmetries of power. When liberalism failed to address these inequities, it ceded the narrative to its illiberal critics. Leaders like Donald Trump and Viktor Orbán capitalized on this omission, declaring that all human relations are power struggles, and that fairness, impartiality, and institutional neutrality are illusions. Their cynicism resonated because it exposed truths that liberalism had long swept under the rug.

The illiberal backlash exploited the cracks in the liberal order, turning the West’s idealized image of democracy into a straw man. By claiming that liberalism’s promises of fairness and impartiality were naive or deceitful, illiberal politicians reframed democracy as a zero-sum game—a contest where power is seized, not earned, and where institutions serve interests rather than principles. This narrative, rooted in the very power dynamics liberalism ignored, gained traction among those disillusioned by unmet promises and growing inequities. The backlash was further fueled by the unrealistic expectations set by democracy promoters after 1989. The promise that politics and economics could become a “win-win game” ignored the inherently contentious nature of democracy. The assumption that elections would automatically ensure accountability, or that impartial institutions could eliminate societal inequities, underestimated the complexity of governance and the persistence of structural inequalities.

When these promises proved unattainable, disillusionment set in. The gap between liberalism’s ideals and its realities became a chasm, and into this void stepped illiberal forces. The ease with which liberalism’s illusions were dismantled, particularly in the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis, highlighted its vulnerabilities. By overpromising and under-delivering, the West unwittingly opened the door to the rise of populism, authoritarianism, and xenophobia, which the authors describe as helping to “bring about the wave of authoritarian and xenophobic anti-liberalism currently engulfing our world.” (Krastev & Holmes, 2020)

Krastev and Holmes (2020) write that at the euphoric dawn of the post-Cold War era, democratic capitalism emerged not merely as a system of governance or economics but as the very definition of modernity itself. To be “modern” now meant to mirror the West, to adopt its values, institutions, and worldview wholesale. Western liberal democracies became the standard-bearers of civilization, and the rest of the world—particularly the East and Global South—was cast as their eager students, tasked with shedding their historical identities in favor of an imported blueprint for prosperity and freedom.

But this grand act of imitation, heralded as a transition to a brighter future, has yielded instead a profound crisis. The authors note that what was envisioned as a graceful transformation akin to Shaw’s Pygmalion (1991)—a tale of refinement and upward mobility—has more closely resembled Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), a tragedy of overreach, unintended consequences, and hubris. Liberalism’s zealous architects, believing themselves the masters of history, now find themselves haunted by the backlash they helped create. In Shaw’s play, the transformation of Eliza Doolittle—the flower girl—into a “duchess” under the tutelage of Professor Henry Higgins exemplifies the seductive and perilous dynamic of imitation. The East, like Eliza, was drawn to the allure of Western democracy and capitalism, aspiring to replicate the West’s perceived sophistication and success. Yet, much as Eliza’s transformation reveals the tensions and inequalities embedded in the act of imitation, the East’s idealization of Western democracies ultimately set the stage for disillusionment and backlash, paving the way for authoritarian regimes.

Reading Krastev and Holmes’ analogy of Pygmalion (2020) as a way of mirroring the current backlash against liberal democracies in the East can be further adumbrated using Girard’s work on mimetic desire. The mimetic dynamic of the post-Cold War era has revealed its shadow side in the bitter cries of those who feel reduced to mere copies in a world dominated by Western models. Nowhere is this resentment more palpable than in Central and Eastern Europe, where the dream of democratization has soured into a disillusionment with its perceived paternalism. The Western project of exporting democracy, once a beacon of modernity, has inadvertently cast its imitators into the role of perpetual second-class Europeans. For those countries, democratization has come to symbolize not freedom but subjugation—a dance where the West calls the tune, and the East, however skillfully it steps, is never invited to lead.

Girard’s theory of mimetic desire offers a penetrating lens through which to view the political trajectory of Eastern European countries in the years following the Cold War. The post-Cold War era, often celebrated as a triumphant wave of democratization, can instead be understood as a fraught and destabilizing process of political imitation. In this narrative, Eastern Europe’s embrace of Western-style capitalism and democracy was not merely a pragmatic alignment but an act of mimetic desire, a longing to replicate what was perceived as the superior model of the West. However, as Girard’s insights warn, imitation is not a neutral process; it inevitably breeds conflict, resentment, and eventual disillusionment.

The slogan “We don’t want to be copies! We want to be ourselves!” encapsulates a profound rejection of the asymmetrical relationship between the model and the imitator. Girard’s insight into mimetic desire is prescient here: imitation fosters subtle violence, as the imitator’s quest to emulate is accompanied by a gnawing awareness of its inferior position. In the case of Eastern Europe, this tension was exacerbated by the process of European integration, where nations were ostensibly welcomed into the European fold, yet found themselves bound to rules and policies crafted in Brussels, often with little regard to local contexts or preferences.

Girard’s scholarship is a brooding, subterranean force—a seismic tremor beneath the landscape of modern thought, breaking through the crust of conventional wisdom to reveal the bedrock of human behavior: imitation. Like a master cartographer of the human psyche, Girard mapped the unseen currents of mimetic desire, currents that shape not only our personal yearnings but the tides of history itself. His insights, forged in the cloistered crucible of academia, emerged not as quaint intellectual curiosities but as thunderbolts of revelation, illuminating the primal dynamics of human rivalry and violence.

The arc of Girard’s thought is both epic and intimate, tracing a path from the playground scuffle to the battlefield, from the private envy of neighbors to the public theater of nations. In Violence and the Sacred (1979), Girard unveiled the ritual origins of sacrifice, likening it to an ancient alchemy that transmutes chaotic violence into fragile order. Then, in Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World (1987), he exposed the hidden machinery of human conflict: the scapegoating mechanism. Here was humanity’s dark genius laid bare—a communal purge of violence onto a chosen victim, whose death becomes the cornerstone of religion, myth, and social cohesion.

At the heart of Girard’s vision (1979, 1987, 1989) lies a single, resonant chord: We desire what others desire. Desire, in Girard’s hands, is not some internal, self-generated spark but a flame lit by the gaze of another. It is mimetic, born of our innate mimetic rivalry. My neighbor’s longing for an object—not the object itself — renders it desirable to me. This act of imitation, deceptively simple, is the fertile soil from which envy, rivalry, and conflict spring. Like a contagion, mimetic desire spreads, creating “mimetic doubles” — rivals who seek to differentiate themselves yet grow indistinguishably alike in their competition. Girard’s metaphorical theater of human life is one of spiraling envy and escalating tension, where the roles of antagonist and protagonist blur, culminating in crisis. The scapegoating mechanism resolves this crisis, redirecting collective violence onto a sacrificial victim, whose death restores peace. Yet this peace is fleeting, for mimetic rivalry, like a dormant virus, always reawakens.

Girard’s theory (1979, 1987, 1989), simultaneously haunting and luminous, resonates across disciplines and ideologies. Entrepreneurs see its relevance in market competition, politicians in the dynamics of power, and theologians in the origins of sacred rites. Its universality is its power: Girard’s mimetic desire is the thread that binds the petty quarrels of children to the bloody ambitions of nations. From the kindergarten to the Kremlin, desire’s shadow looms large. Desire, Girard argued, is inexorably tied to lack—a vacuum we seek to fill by emulating others. This emulation can inspire or destroy, depending on the model we follow. In a world rife with mimetic contagion, the theater of envy often becomes a theater of war. And here, Girard’s analysis takes on a chilling urgency: the infernal logic of mimetic desire underpins conflicts on a global scale.

Girard’s ideas (1979, 1987, 1989), though considered abstruse in the United States, where he taught for much of his life, have nonetheless captivated scholars across an astonishing range of disciplines: anthropology, religion, sociology, psychology, philosophy, and theology. His transdisciplinary appeal lies in the universality of his insights, which peel back the veneer of civility to expose the primal forces shaping human society. For Girard, the dynamics of mimetic desire and scapegoating are not relics of ancient cultures but persistent features of the human condition, as relevant in boardrooms and political chambers as they are in mythic rituals of sacrifice. If Girard offers a grim diagnosis of humanity’s propensity for rivalry and violence, he also offers a challenge: to confront the mechanisms of scapegoating, to resist the lure of mob unity forged through sacrifice, and to choose desires rooted in awareness rather than imitation. In doing so, Girard’s work becomes not only an academic theory but also a moral imperative, urging us to dismantle the structures that perpetuate cycles of violence and to imagine a world beyond the theater of envy and sacrifice.

Girard’s concept of mimetic desire (1979, 1987, 1989) asserts that human beings do not desire autonomously; instead, they desire what others appear to value. After the Cold War, the West’s triumph became the object of desire for Eastern nations, which saw liberal democracy as synonymous with modernity and prosperity. Like Eliza striving to adopt the manners and speech of the upper class, Eastern nations believed that imitating Western institutions, values, and economic systems would grant them entry into the “polite company” of global democracies. However, Girard teaches us that imitation is fraught with tension. The imitator inevitably confronts the hierarchical nature of the relationship, wherein the model (the West) remains superior, while the imitator (the East) is forever reminded of its perceived inferiority. This dynamic breeds resentment and a sense of indignity—a fertile ground for the rise of populist and authoritarian leaders, who promise to restore national pride by rejecting the model and demonizing its values.

The authoritarian backlash we see today—embodied by figures like Donald Trump—is a direct consequence of the failure of attempts to hold democracy to its promises. Populist leaders exploit the resentment generated by the West’s paternalistic approach to democratization, presenting themselves as defenders of authenticity and sovereignty. Their appeal lies in their ability to frame liberal democracy as an oppressive, elitist construct that imposes conformity while denying agency. In Girardian terms (1979, 1987, 1989), they emerge as mimetic rivals to the liberal order, turning its ideals of equality and freedom against it. The crisis of 2008 exposed the inherent contradictions of mimetic desire. It demonstrated that the model being imitated—the West’s vision of liberal democracy—was itself unstable, flawed, and unable to satisfy the desires it had inspired. In response, Eastern European nations began to turn away from imitation, seeking instead to differentiate themselves by rejecting the values they once idolized. This turn to illiberalism is not simply a rejection of the West but a reaction to the painful realization that the idealized model they emulated was never as perfect or attainable as it seemed. It is the tragic culmination of a mimetic cycle in which the desire to be like the other ultimately leads to conflict, disillusionment, and rebellion.

Populist leaders across Central and Eastern Europe have skillfully harnessed this sense of disenfranchisement, presenting themselves as the voice of those who feel betrayed by democratization as a process of imitation. Their rhetoric feeds on the grievances of those who perceive European integration as a project that erases rather than celebrates national distinctiveness. By framing their nations as victims of Western arrogance, these leaders offer a compelling narrative of resistance: a rejection of imposed values, a reclamation of sovereignty, and a return to the “authentic” self. This backlash, however, is not merely a rejection of European integration but a deeper critique of the Western liberal model itself. It reflects a profound disillusionment with the promises of democratization—promises that failed to account for the psychic and cultural costs of imitation. The East’s initial idealization of the West has curdled into a mimetic rivalry, with populist leaders turning the tables by branding the West as the oppressor and themselves as the true defenders of freedom and dignity.

The lesson for the West is clear: democratization cannot be imposed as a one-size-fits-all model. The project of European integration, while noble in its aspirations, must reckon with the complexities of identity, sovereignty, and agency. It must shift from a paternalistic approach to one of genuine partnership, recognizing that the East’s resentment is not an aberration but an inevitable response to the dynamics of mimetic desire. To rebuild trust, the West must embrace humility, acknowledge its own failures, and create space for the East to chart its own path within the democratic framework.  The cry, “We don’t want to be copies!” is not merely a populist slogan but a plea for recognition—a demand to be seen not as imitators but as equals. If the West is to stem the tide of authoritarianism and xenophobia sweeping the globe, it must heed this plea and transform its relationship with the East from one of dominance to one of mutual respect and collaboration. Only then can the promise of democracy be fulfilled in its truest sense.

Girard’s theory (1979, 1987, 1989) helps explain why disillusionment with Western liberalism in Eastern Europe is not rooted primarily in material decline but in symbolic and psychological fractures. The imitators’ envy of the model turned into contempt, a classic case of mimetic rivalry transforming admiration into antagonism. This resentment, born of unfulfilled desires and perceived moral hierarchies, has fueled the rise of illiberal populism, nationalism, and xenophobia in countries like Poland and Hungary.  In fact, Donald Trump idolizes the fascist politics of Viktor Orban, president of Hungary, whom he has invited to his golden palace in Florida, Mar-a-Lago.

The global financial collapse of 2008 serves as a dramatic pivot in this story, as reported by Krastev and Holmes (2020). Much like the “model” in Girardian mimetic theory (Girard, 1979, 1987, 1989), the West’s crisis destabilized those who had sought to emulate it. Poland, for instance, did not suffer economically during this period; its GDP tripled since the end of communism, social inequality decreased, and most Poles reported life satisfaction. And yet, the psychological and political ripples of the 2008 crisis undermined the idealized image of the West as a beacon of stability and prosperity. For nations like Poland, which had spent nearly two decades striving to mirror Western-style democracy and capitalism, the financial collapse revealed cracks in the façade of their chosen model. The very system they idolized began to seem fragile and hypocritical, giving rise to a crisis of faith in the ideals they had so fervently adopted.

This shock did more than erode confidence in Western liberalism; it catalyzed a shift toward illiberal populism. The West’s failure to live up to its promises disenchanted not only elites but also ordinary citizens, who felt betrayed by the system they had once revered. This phenomenon underscores a core dynamic of mimetic desire: the imitator’s disillusionment with the model often breeds resentment. For Poland and other post-communist states, this resentment was compounded by the inherently asymmetrical nature of political imitation. To imitate, after all, is to implicitly acknowledge the superiority of the model and the inferiority of the imitator. Over time, such asymmetry fosters feelings of humiliation, dispossession, and anger—fertile ground for the rise of authoritarian, anti-liberal forces.

The mimicry of Western liberal democracy also imposed a moral hierarchy that, while unspoken, was deeply felt. The West positioned itself as the exemplar of progress, while Eastern European countries, even as they adopted the West’s political and economic systems, remained cast in the role of “students” or “apprentices.”  This dynamic sowed seeds of resentment that germinated as the moral and institutional credibility of the Western model faltered. For many, the West’s hypocrisy—preaching democracy while succumbing to financial corruption and political polarization—rendered the act of imitation not only unfulfilling but also humiliating.

The paradox of post-Cold War democratization in Eastern Europe is that it has been experienced not as a flowering of self-determination but as its curtailment. While citizens were empowered to vote political parties in and out of office, the overarching framework of laws and policies remained untouched, dictated by the European Union’s acquis Communautaire (the collection of laws, regulations, treaties, and court decisions that make up the European Union’s legal framework). To many, this felt like democracy in form but not in substance—a theater of participation without genuine sovereignty. The resulting alienation has proven fertile ground for populist demagogues, who weaponize this resentment, casting Brussels as a faceless, unaccountable overlord and themselves as champions of “authentic” national identity.

Western democracies, in their self-appointed role as the architects of modernity, have indulged in a dangerous hubris: the over-idealization of capitalism and democracy. This ideological evangelism, born of the post-World War II order and amplified after the Cold War, positioned the West as the paragon of political virtue and economic rationality, radiating its values outward as universal truths. But beneath this façade of benevolence lies a legacy of coercion, indignity, and unintended consequences—a legacy that has sown the seeds of the very authoritarianism and xenophobia we now lament.

By extolling capitalism and democracy as the apex of human achievement, the West not only glorified its own systems but also imposed them as the ultimate models for others to emulate. This exported ideal was less a gift than a demand: to be modern, to be legitimate, non-Western countries were expected to conform. Nations that failed—or refused—to align with Western liberal democracy were dismissed as “illiberal,” their governments derided, their people shamed. This moral hierarchy, with the West perched at its zenith, created an asymmetrical relationship of power and influence, reducing the political and cultural complexities of other nations to mere inadequacies in need of correction.

Such over-idealization not only alienated non-Western societies but also blinded the West to its own flaws. The 2008 financial crisis, a catastrophic failure of Western capitalism, was a stark revelation of the contradictions embedded in the system it had long championed. For nations that had built their futures on mimicking Western ideals, this collapse was more than economic—it was existential. The West’s model, once heralded as unassailable, now appeared fragile, hypocritical, and deeply flawed. The moral high ground crumbled beneath its own weight. The humiliation imposed by this asymmetrical relationship further deepened the wound. To be an imitator is to be perpetually reminded of one’s perceived inferiority. Non-Western countries, having strived to adopt Western systems, found themselves not celebrated as equals but patronized as “students” of democracy—praised for progress yet subtly reprimanded for not fully measuring up. This dynamic has bred resentment, a simmering anger that has found expression in the rise of authoritarian and xenophobic movements. What the West viewed as benevolent guidance, others experienced as coercion, even cultural erasure.

In this light, the current wave of anti-liberalism is not an isolated phenomenon but a reckoning. The rise of strongman leaders, nationalist rhetoric, and xenophobic ideologies in both the Global North and South reflects a backlash against the West’s moral absolutism. By insisting on a singular path to modernity, Western democracies failed to appreciate the diversity of political cultures and the legitimate grievances of those marginalized by globalization and neoliberalism. Authoritarianism now engulfing the world is, in part, a reaction to this overreach—a defiant assertion of sovereignty and identity against a narrative of Western superiority. Thus, the West’s well-intentioned export of democracy and capitalism has become a paradoxical tragedy. By idealizing its own systems and imposing them on others, it unwittingly fueled the very forces it sought to contain. The lesson is clear: if liberal democracy is to endure, it must shed its triumphalist pretensions, embrace humility, and acknowledge that its ideals are neither universal nor immune to critique. Only by engaging with the world as an equal, rather than as a moral arbiter, can the West hope to rebuild the trust and legitimacy it has so gravely undermined.

The current crisis of liberal democracy is as much a failure of introspection as it is of overreach. The Age of Imitation lulled the West into a false sense of security, obscuring the urgent need for self-critique and renewal. Liberalism must reckon with its contradictions, confront the realities of power, and abandon the hubristic belief in its own inevitability. A more honest liberalism—one that acknowledges its flaws and grapples with the complexities of power—may yet reclaim its legitimacy. But it must first recognize the damage done by its uncritical exportation and its failure to look inward. Only by shedding the complacency of the post-Cold War era can liberal democracy hope to rebuild itself and resist the forces now arrayed against it. One direction would be to follow Senator Bernie Sanders and Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez to explore the promises and possibilities of democratic socialism and a strengthening of unions for everyday working people.

Trump and his global counterparts have indeed weaponized the grievances of those disillusioned with the liberal order, employing a form of political ventriloquism that allows them to project their divisive rhetoric onto a populace yearning for recognition and agency. By branding the promises of inclusivity and fairness as hollow, these populists have reframed democracy itself as a rigged system controlled by elites, perpetuating the myth of the “deep state” as a bogeyman for every perceived social and economic ill.

What makes this phenomenon so dangerous is its paradoxical structure. On the one hand, populists claim to dismantle a system of domination and exclusion; on the other, they replicate and intensify these same dynamics by fostering division and scapegoating. Their politics do not aim for liberation but instead manipulate disenfranchisement to consolidate their own power. The result is a dark parody of the democratic ideals they purport to defend—a zero-sum game of domination that rejects solidarity in favor of tribalism.

In this climate, educators, intellectuals, and activists working to challenge neoliberal policies are particularly vulnerable. Those fighting for media literacy programs, or whose teaching is informed by ecopedagogy or who are advocating for critical pedagogy in schools and universities, or who work with their students in Freirean circles or function as public intellectuals —they are all framed as ideological enemies and zealots. Populist leaders portray such individuals not as defenders of democracy but as threats to it, labeling them communists, terrorists, or “enemies of the people”. This rhetoric weaponizes the very tools of democracy—education, free speech, and civic engagement—against those working to protect them. The attacks on educators and critical thinkers serve a dual purpose. First, they distract from populist leaders’ inability or unwillingness to address systemic inequality. Second, they undermine institutions that could serve as sites of resistance to their authoritarian agenda. By delegitimizing schools, universities, and media, populists aim to erode the public’s capacity for critical thinking, making it easier to control the narrative and stifle dissent.

The strategic irony is profound: those who resist neoliberalism, who work tirelessly to expose its failings and defend the marginalized, are now under attack from both neoliberal establishments and authoritarian populists. Yet this irony also underscores the urgency of their work. In the face of a global backlash against liberal democracy, the fight for critical pedagogy and media literacy is more important than ever. It is through these tools that we can resist the post-truth era and reclaim democracy as a space for genuine inclusivity and fairness. To counter the populist narrative, educators and activists must continue to champion the values of critical thinking, empathy, and solidarity. This involves not only exposing disinformation but also creating spaces for dialogue and reflection, where individuals can grapple with the complexities of the world without succumbing to simplistic narratives of blame and division. It also means building coalitions across ideological divides, finding common ground in the shared commitment to justice and human dignity.

In pushing back against criticisms of critical pedagogy, I have referred to my work as critical patriotism.  The term itself resonates as a transformative approach—an insistence on truth-telling as an act of devotion to democratic ideals. By urging societies to confront uncomfortable histories, we can outline a path not only for reckoning but also for renewal, where the act of critique itself is a profound expression of love for one’s country. It indeed rests on the belief that love for one’s country is not blind allegiance but an active commitment to its potential for justice and equity. By confronting historical and present injustices—whether they stem from capitalist exploitation, systemic racism, or environmental degradation—nations have the opportunity to evolve. Critique, in this sense, is not an act of tearing down but of rebuilding, of holding a mirror to a nation’s ideals and asking how they can be better embodied.

It’s also about engaging citizens in collective moral courage, where truth-telling becomes a shared responsibility, not only to uncover the past but to chart a future aligned with democratic values. I see this as something that resonates on a global scale, or it can be primarily rooted in the specific histories of particular nations. The task is daunting, but the stakes could not be higher. The rise of authoritarian populism is not just a political crisis but an existential challenge to the very foundations of democracy. Those who resist this tide must do so with courage and conviction, recognizing that their work is not only necessary but transformative. By standing firm in the face of attacks, they embody the ideals of democracy, resilience, inclusivity, and the unwavering belief in the power of education to change lives.

As Trump and his counterparts continue to peddle their vision of politics as domination, those committed to critical pedagogy and social justice offer a powerful counter-narrative: a vision of democracy as a shared project, one that embraces complexity, values diversity, and strives for a future where all voices are heard. In this respect, the lesson of Pygmalion Democracy is clear: liberal democracies must embrace self-criticism if they are to survive. They must acknowledge the ways in which their triumphalism has alienated both their imitators abroad and their own citizens at home. This requires a radical rethinking of the democratic project—not as a one-size-fits-all export but as a living, evolving practice that is constantly attuned to its own flaws and limitations.

In Shaw’s play (1991), Eliza ultimately asserts her independence, challenging Higgins’ authority and reclaiming her agency. Similarly, the path forward for liberal democracy lies in a renewed commitment to humility, self-reflection, and genuine partnership. Only by confronting its own contradictions can the West hope to rebuild trust, both within its borders and beyond. As Krastev and Holmes (2020) warn, the alternative is bleak. Without self-critique, liberal democracies will continue to breed resentment, fueling the rise of populist reformers who thrive on division and disillusionment. The stakes are high, but the lesson of Pygmalion Democracy offers more than a glimmer of hope: the possibility of renewal through honest reckoning, where democracies transform not others, but themselves.

If there is a way forward, it begins with the West abandoning its triumphalist narrative. Liberal democracy and capitalism, for all their virtues, are not universal panaceas. Socialist democracy deserves consideration, as the West confronts its own flaws, listens to the voices of those it once patronized, and embraces a more pluralistic and humble vision of modernity. Only then can the cycle of imitation, resentment, and backlash be broken, and the Frankenstein it created be laid to rest.

The chapters of Pygmalion Democracy unfold as a searing chronicle of betrayal and longing, joining together a chorus of voices that narrate the unrelenting struggle for justice in a democracy that is more mirage than substance. The authors, drawing from their own experiences, peel back the veneer of democracy to reveal Sisyphean labor—an effort to carve equity and empowerment from a system designed to resist. Like brittle glass, the pretenses of neoliberal democracy shatter beneath the faintest pressure of critical inquiry, exposing a scaffolding of power built not for liberation but for control. Through these pages, the silent architects of hegemony are unmasked—those who have reimagined Empire not as a devourer, but as a gilded myth, seducing the working class and marginalized by illusions of co-authorship in their own subjugation. This is not merely a critique; it is an urgent ideological undressing of democracy’s chameleon nature, revealing it to be more spectacle than substance.

The book’s kaleidoscopic analysis dismantles the machinery of Empire, revealing it to be a master illusionist, whispering promises of collective destiny while tightening the chains of exploitation. The act of voting—celebrated as the pinnacle of democratic engagement—emerges as a hollow ritual, a shadow play in which power pretends to listen but never yields. At every turn, the narrative interrogates the tragic transformation of democracy, sculpted not to reflect the will of the people, but to perpetuate the unrelenting visage of power—unyielding, insatiable, and blind to justice. This is a work of profound urgency, demanding a wide readership as it challenges us to confront the seductive myths that bind us to our own oppression. Pygmalion Democracy gives voice to the voiceless in an age where neoliberalism’s iron grip tightens around the soul of the world, proclaiming democracy as its savior while shielding it from the mirror of self-critique. In this work, democracy emerges not as a noble ideal but as a chameleon, its form shifting to camouflage the unrelenting machinery of hegemony.

The authors unravel the insidious ways in which critique—the lifeblood of democracy—has been dulled and blunted by the corrosive forces of capitalism. What remains is a democracy unmoored, its promises hollowed out, its transformative power reduced to a spectacle that serves the few while silencing the many. This is a book about unveiling, about tearing away the gilded mask of democracy to reveal its complicity in perpetuating systems of inequality and about reigniting the fire of critical thought in a world that so desperately seeks to extinguish it.

References

Krastev, I. & Holmes, S. (2020, March 20). Of Course They Gave Up on Democracy. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/09/opinion/democracy-eastern-europe.html

Girard, R. (1979). Violence and the Sacred. Translated by Patrick Gregory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Girard, R. (1987). Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World: Research undertaken in collaboration with J. M Oughourlian and G. Lefort. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Girard, R. (1989). The Scapegoat. Hopkins Press.

Shaw, G. B. (1991). Pygmalion. Longman.

Shelley, M. (1818). Frankenstein. Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones.