From Washington to New Delhi, from Budapest to Jerusalem, a new political logic is reshaping democracies from within. It does not march under the old banners of fascism but it revives its core impulses: fear, exclusion, and the concentration of power.
Politics rarely begins with doctrine. It begins with emotion — fear of decline, anger at perceived injustice, the quiet suspicion that the nation is slipping away. Across the United States of America, India, Israel, Hungary, and parts of Europe, these emotions have been harnessed into a coherent political force. The leaders who have mastered this terrain — Donald Trump, Narendra Modi, Benjamin Netanyahu, and the now ousted Viktor Orbán — do not openly reject democracy. They claim to embody it. Yet their political projects share a deeper structure: the systematic redefinition of democracy in ways that echo the logic of 20th-century fascism.
This is not a return in the literal sense. It is a mutation — subtler, more adaptive, and arguably more difficult to confront.
In India, Modi’s political project fuses electoral legitimacy with civilisational ambition. Democracy is not abandoned; it is reinterpreted. Elections become instruments through which the ‘true nation’ — implicitly Hindu — is said to reclaim its rightful place.
This transformation operates on multiple levels. Economically, India’s rapid growth has produced both aspiration and inequality. The promise of prosperity is intertwined with a politics of recognition, particularly among the Hindu middle classes. Culturally, the narrative of historical grievance — of a civilisation long suppressed — provides the emotional fuel. Institutionally, the shift is visible in the recalibration of citizenship, the marginalisation of dissent, and the tacit normalisation of majoritarian violence. The relationship between the State and organisations like the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh creates a diffused architecture of power in which formal legality and informal coercion coexist. The result is a system that retains democratic procedures while narrowing the definition of who fully belongs within the political community.
Trump’s approach is different in style but similar in structure. His central claim — that he alone represents ‘the people’ — collapses the distance between leader and electorate. Institutions that mediate this relationship — the courts, the media, electoral bodies — are recast as obstacles rather than safeguards.
This is not merely rhetoric. It is a reconfiguration of democratic legitimacy. If the leader embodies the will of the people, then opposition becomes illegitimate by definition.
Economically, Trump’s policies — tariffs, deregulation, nationalist industrial strategy — offer symbolic reassurance rather than systemic change. Yet their political effectiveness lies elsewhere. They reinforce a narrative of national revival.
The emotional payoff is decisive. Supporters are invited to see themselves not as participants in a complex economy but as members of a besieged community fighting for survival.
In Israel, Netanyahu’s politics is anchored in the language of security. Yet this language has expanded beyond its original domain to reshape the broader political order. The State is presented as perpetually under threat, requiring exceptional measures.
This logic has profound implications. Emergency becomes normalised. Legal and institutional constraints are reframed as impediments to survival. The boundary between defence and domination becomes increasingly blurred.
The consequences are visible in the intensification of conflict, the erosion of judicial independence, and the growing centralisation of executive power. The rhetoric of existential threat — while grounded in real security concerns — also functions as a political resource, enabling the consolidation of authority.
If there was a laboratory for the new authoritarianism, it was Hungary under Orbán. Orbán did not dismantle democratic institutions. He re-engineered them. Electoral laws, media regulation, judicial appointments — each was recalibrated to ensure the control of ruling power.
The ideological justification was straightforward: liberal democracy has failed to protect the nation’s identity and interests. A stronger, more unified, State is required. In this vision, pluralism is not a virtue but a vulnerability. Hungary demonstrated how democratic forms can be preserved even as their substance is transformed. It is not the abolition of democracy, but its domestication.
Across Europe and in the United Kingdom, the dynamics are more diffused but no less significant. The language of crisis — particularly around immigration and national identity — has moved from the fringes to the centre of political discourse.
What was once the vocabulary of the far-Right is now echoed, in moderated form, by mainstream actors. This shift does not produce immediate authoritarianism. But it alters the parameters of debate. It normalises the idea that the nation is under siege, that extraordinary measures are justified. The result is a gradual recalibration of democratic norms. Rights become conditional. Inclusion becomes negotiable. The political centre absorbs the logic of the extremes.
Underlying these developments is a deeper structural condition. Liberal democracy promises equality; capitalism produces inequality. This tension has intensified in the era of globalisation. The 2008 financial crisis exposed the fragility of the system. Recovery has been uneven. In many societies, wages have stagnated, public services have eroded, and economic security has declined. In such conditions, political anger is inevitable. But its direction is not predetermined.
What distinguishes the contemporary Right is its ability to redirect this anger. Instead of challenging economic structures, it identifies cultural and demographic enemies. Immigration, minority rights, gender norms — these become proxies for deeper anxieties. This is the sleight of hand at the heart of the new authoritarianism. Structural problems are translated into moral conflicts.
The infrastructure of this politics is digital. Social media platforms amplify outrage, reward polarisation, and enable direct communication between leaders and supporters.
The consequences are profound. Political discourse becomes fragmented and volatile. Conspiracy theories proliferate. The boundary between truth and falsehood blurs.
In this environment, authoritarian narratives thrive.
The temptation to label these developments as fascism is understandable. The parallels are real: the emphasis on unity, the identification of enemies, the erosion of democratic norms. Yet the differences matter. Contemporary leaders do not seek to abolish elections or establish totalitarian regimes in the classical sense. Their project is more incremental, more adaptive. It is perhaps best understood as a new form of authoritarianism — one that operates within democratic frameworks while steadily transforming them.
But this distinction should not reassure. If anything, it should heighten concern. A system that dismantles democracy from within is harder to recognise and more difficult to resist.
Can liberal democracy survive its own contradictions?
The answer will depend not only on institutions but also on political imagination. The appeal of the new authoritarianism lies in its ability to offer simple answers to complex problems, emotional clarity in a fragmented world.
Countering it requires more than procedural defence. It requires addressing the underlying conditions — economic inequality, social fragmentation, loss of trust — that make such politics possible.
History does not repeat itself. But it evolves. The fascism of the 21st century, if it is to be called that, will not look like its predecessor. It will be quieter, more procedural, more embedded in everyday politics.
And precisely for that reason, it may prove more enduring.
Debashis Chakrabarti is a political commentator and Commonwealth Fellow (UK)