Democracy Doesn't Just Fall — It's Dismantled

The most dangerous authoritarian isn't the one who storms the palace. It's the one who wins the election, then quietly locks the doors.

That's the central argument running through a February 24 webinar hosted by The Conversation, featuring two scholars with front-row seats to democratic erosion. John Shattuck, who spent seven years as president of Central European University in Budapest — defending academic freedom against Viktor Orbán's government — and Oliver Kaplan, whose research tracks how communities worldwide protect themselves under repressive conditions, sat down to compare notes. What emerged wasn't just a diagnosis. It was a field guide.

What Authoritarianism Actually Looks Like

Strip away the political theory, and Shattuck's definition of authoritarianism is almost medieval: centralized, unlimited power; no independent courts; no checks and balances; rule by fear, and when needed, by force. Individual rights exist only at the ruler's pleasure — and only for the loyal.

But the modern twist is what makes it so difficult to counter. Today's authoritarians don't seize power through coups. They win elections. And then they use the legitimacy of that democratic mandate to hollow out the institutions that might constrain them. The constitution gets amended. The judiciary loses its independence. The media landscape gets reshaped. By the time the transformation is visible, the tools to reverse it have often been blunted.

Kaplan pointed to the 2026 Varieties of Democracy (V-Dem) report, which no longer classifies the United States as a liberal democracy. Instead, it places the U.S. in the category of "competitive authoritarianism" — characterized by executive overreach and the erosion of legislative and judicial checks. The report's most striking finding: U.S. democratic backsliding is occurring at a speed unprecedented in modern history.

The signs Kaplan identifies are specific: power concentration in the executive branch, disregard for court orders, militarization of law enforcement, surveillance of citizens, and what scholars call the "dual state" — a government that serves some while actively oppressing others. What hasn't happened yet, he notes, is a complete shutdown of civic space. People can still protest. Conversations like this one can still happen. That window matters enormously.

The Hungary Playbook

Shattuck didn't learn this from textbooks. He watched it happen in real time.

When he arrived in Budapest in 2009, Hungary was a fragile, 19-year-old democracy built on the ruins of seven decades of fascism and communism. The word "volunteer" carried a toxic connotation — too closely associated with collaborating with the old regime. Civil society was thin.

Into that vacuum stepped Viktor Orbán, a cynical populist-nationalist who understood grievance politics with precision. The 2008 global financial crisis had hit Hungary harder than any other Eastern European country. Urban elites were resented by rural majorities. Orbán named the villains — migrants, foreigners, media, the elite — and offered himself as the solution. Once in power, he amended the constitution, restructured parliamentary rules, and systematically dismantled judicial and media independence.

CEU survived longer than most institutions because it received no Hungarian government funding. But the pressure was relentless: attempts to shutter migration studies and gender studies programs, efforts to censor the history department. Shattuck eventually moved the university to Vienna.

The parallel he draws to the United States is not casual. Trump publicly admired Orbán. And the policy blueprint known as Project 2025 mirrors, in significant ways, the Hungarian model Orbán refined over more than a decade.

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What Actually Works: Lessons from the Field

The more instructive question isn't how democracies fall — it's how communities fight back.

Kaplan's research spans Colombia, Chile, El Salvador, Guatemala, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Ukraine, and now the United States. The patterns that emerge across wildly different contexts are surprisingly consistent.

In Colombia, pro-democracy movements and community protection networks developed in parallel — political parties pushing for democratic opening while local networks kept people safe under repressive conditions. In Chile, El Salvador, and Guatemala, communities built food assistance networks and trust infrastructure that allowed them to operate independently of hostile state power. In the DRC, villages created radio networks to share early warnings. In Ukraine, sophisticated drone-strike alert systems emerged from community organizing.

In the United States, Signal-based early warning networks have appeared. In Minnesota, residents built community barricades to monitor federal law enforcement vehicles — a tactic with direct parallels in Mexico, Colombia, and Northern Ireland. Clergy have begun visiting at-risk communities in an accompaniment role that mirrors church-based protection networks documented across Latin America.

Kaplan identifies the common denominator: repression plus strong social capital produces these strategies. When communities have both the pressure and the relational infrastructure, they innovate. And in every case, clearly communicating the nonviolent nature of the movement is critical — it removes the pretext for escalated crackdowns.

The Two Rules of Resistance

Shattuck distills decades of experience into two principles: build a diverse coalition, and develop a unifying narrative.

Neither is simple. A diverse coalition requires agreement on goals and values across groups that may disagree on almost everything else. A unifying narrative — typically grounded in economic concerns and anti-corruption — has to be honest, positive, and legible to people across the political spectrum.

Poland is the proof of concept. In 2023, a broad coalition spanning left, right, and center united around a single value: judicial independence. They won. An authoritarian government was voted out. The coalition held because the narrative was specific enough to be meaningful and broad enough to be inclusive.

Hungary is now attempting the same. In April 2026, Orbán faces a fifth-term bid. The opposition coalition, led by Péter Magyar — once an insider of the regime — is running on economic grounds, with a moderate tone and cross-ideological membership. Whether it works remains to be seen. Orbán controls the state apparatus and most of the media. But the Polish precedent exists. That matters.

The Fraying, and the Rebuilding

One of Shattuck's more counterintuitive observations concerns civil society itself. The United States has a long tradition of volunteerism, community organizing, and what he calls "barn raising" — neighbors showing up for neighbors. That tradition is a genuine asset that Hungary never had.

But decades of economic deregulation and consumer individualism have worn it down. The social fabric has frayed. People bowl alone, as the sociologists say.

The irony Shattuck identifies: the authoritarian threat may be reconstituting exactly what it needs to defeat itself. The Minneapolis barricades. The clergy networks. The Signal groups. These aren't just tactics. They're the re-emergence of community as a political force.

Whether that re-emergence is fast enough, broad enough, and durable enough is the open question.