The word “democracy” is everywhere. It echoes through the chambers of power, spills from the mouths of politicians, and adorns the banners of revolutions. We are told that democracy is the highest good, the foundation of freedom, and the inevitable destiny of all societies. But what if it isn’t? What if the word itself has become an incantation, a hollow mantra that conceals something else—something darker?
Alain de Benoist is not interested in the comforting fables of liberal democracy. In The Problem of Democracy, he tears away the façade, exposing the contradictions and illusions that underpin the modern world. His thesis is simple: what we call democracy today is not democracy at all, but a system of control masked as popular rule. The great paradox is that democracy, which claims to empower the people, has instead made them passive, atomized, and impotent.
This was not always the case. In ancient Athens, democracy was direct. The citizens—those who belonged to the polis, by blood and by tradition—gathered to debate and decide on the fate of their city. There were no representatives, no distant bureaucrats. To be an Athenian was to participate; to abstain from politics was to be an idiot in the classical sense—a private person, disconnected from the life of the community. But this democracy was not universal. It was bound by identity, by shared heritage, by a sense of belonging. And it was fragile. The Athenians, guided by the demagogue Cleon, made a fatal mistake. They listened to those who flattered them, who told them they could rule the world, who said that democracy was for everyone. And so, driven by hubris, they waged war on Sparta, and in the end, their empire crumbled into dust.
But history is not a straight line. Democracy did not “evolve” into something better, more advanced. It changed, twisted, became something else. The Renaissance thinkers did not dream of democracy—they admired monarchy, the rule of the wise. Even the great Enlightenment philosophers, who spoke of reason and rights, were cautious. Montesquieu, one of the fathers of modern political thought, believed the people should be able to watch the government, but never govern themselves. The American and French Revolutions, which we are told birthed modern democracy, were in truth revolutions of elites. The men who designed the American system built it to prevent direct democracy, fearing the rule of the mob.
The French revolutionaries, in their fanatic pursuit of equality, replaced one form of tyranny with another—the guillotine, the scaffold, the reign of terror.
And yet, despite all this, democracy became the sacred word of the modern age. By the 19th century, the illusion had set in. The Industrial Revolution shattered old societies, tearing people from their villages, their traditions, their gods. In their place, the new rulers offered the myth of progress. Democracy became not a practice, but an idea, an abstract ideal floating above history. Governments no longer needed legitimacy from lineage or divine right. Now, they claimed legitimacy from “the people”—even when the people had no real power at all.
This is the paradox de Benoist explores. Modern democracy tells us that we are sovereign, that we decide our fate through the ballot box. But this is an illusion. Elections do not give power to the people—they merely legitimize those who already rule. The act of voting is not participation, but a ritual, a performance that allows the system to continue unquestioned. The rulers change, but the structure remains. And within this structure, real decisions are made not by voters, but by unelected bureaucrats, corporate lobbyists, and international institutions.
At the heart of this deception is the myth of representation. We are told that since modern societies are too large for direct democracy, we must have representatives to speak for us. But representation is a trick—it is the delegation of power, which is another way of saying the loss of power. Once the people surrender their sovereignty to politicians, they are no longer rulers, but subjects. And so, democracy, instead of being the government of the people, becomes the government in the name of the people.
The evidence is all around us. Voter turnout declines year after year. Trust in politicians collapses. No matter who wins elections, policies remain largely the same. The economy is controlled by multinational corporations, not by elected officials. Wars are waged, not by public mandate, but by private interests. The media, which claims to hold power accountable, is itself an arm of the system, shaping public opinion rather than reflecting it. And yet, despite all this, democracy remains untouchable. To question it is to be labeled a reactionary, an extremist, an enemy of freedom.
But freedom is another word that has lost its meaning. To the Greeks, liberty was not about the absence of restraint, but the ability to participate in the life of the community. A man was free because he was a citizen, because he belonged to something greater than himself. Today, freedom means something else—it means isolation, the right to be alone, to consume, to obey without coercion. Modern democracy does not unite people; it dissolves them into individuals, each with his own interests, his own desires, his own truth. And so, the people, fragmented and divided, are easily controlled.
This is why democracy, as it exists today, has become a machine, an impersonal system that operates regardless of who is in charge. It is no longer a political ideal, but a technique of governance, a way of managing populations through illusion. It does not require citizens, only voters. It does not require participation, only consent. And so, the spectacle continues. The debates, the campaigns, the scandals—none of it matters. The system endures, because it has made itself the only alternative.
But what if there is another way? De Benoist does not reject democracy entirely. He calls for something different, something older and deeper—an organic democracy. A democracy not of isolated individuals, but of communities, rooted in culture, tradition, and shared identity. A democracy where participation is real, where decisions are made at the local level, where power is decentralized and accountable. In this vision, democracy is not a universal ideology to be imposed on all, but a practice, a way of life that must emerge naturally from a people and their history.
This is a dangerous idea. It challenges the foundations of modern politics. It suggests that the problems of democracy cannot be solved by more democracy, by greater inclusivity, by better institutions. It suggests that the very structure of the modern world—the global economy, the bureaucratic state, the mass media—must be dismantled. It suggests that democracy, in its current form, is not the final stage of history, but a temporary illusion, a fragile construct that, like Athens, like Rome, like all empires before it, will one day collapse.
And perhaps that day is coming sooner than we think. The signs are everywhere—social unrest, political polarization, the growing sense that something is deeply wrong. The center cannot hold. The promises of democracy ring hollow. The people, who for so long have been told they rule, are beginning to realize they do not. And when that realization spreads, when the illusion finally shatters, what will remain?
History moves in cycles. Democracies rise, and democracies fall. What comes next is uncertain.
But if de Benoist is right, then the real question is not how to save democracy, but how to go beyond it—how to build something new from its ruins.
