Not so long ago, democracy felt like the future. In 1989, the Berlin Wall fell. In the years that followed, from Europe to Asia, symbols and structures of authoritarianism crumbled as countries moved toward democracy. Back then, democracy felt like the way forward.
Today, we’re swimming in acronyms, DOGE, MAGA, DEI, each signaling a different strand of discontent or desire. The social and political fabric of the United States feels frayed, often not from outside pressure but from within. It’s easy to forget that just a few decades ago, a very different story seemed to be unfolding. For this article of The Citizens’ Table, I’d like to revisit a time, not that long ago, when the world felt a bit different. Not perfect, for sure, but I’d argue, more hopeful.
In the early 1990s, history appeared to reach a turning point. The Cold War had ended and the Soviet Union had collapsed. For many in the West, particularly in the United States, it felt like the end of a very long chapter and the beginning of something new. Liberal democracy and market capitalism weren’t just dominant; they were ascendant. The future looked open, prosperous, and peaceful.
Across Europe, new institutions were forming, most notably the European Union. In the U.S., talk of a potential “peace dividend,” the anticipated benefits of reduced military spending and greater stability, replaced Cold War anxiety. Markets expanded, trade intensified, and exports from Apple to Warner Brothers seemed to broadcast not just entertainment but a model of modernity. States such as China and Russia were experimenting with economic liberalization and, in the latter case, the language of political reform. For many, it felt like a global consensus was taking shape.
Fukuyama’s Hope, and His Hesitation
It was in this context that political scientist Francis Fukuyama published his now-famous book, The End of History and the Last Man. Fukuyama’s title was provocative and often misunderstood. He wasn’t claiming that events would cease, conflict would vanish, or that democracy had permanently arrived. Rather, his argument was more philosophical: that liberal democracy may represent the final ideological form of government and the last stop in the evolution of political systems.
By “liberal democracy,” Fukuyama meant a political system that combines free elections, the protection of individual rights, the rule of law, and typically a market economy. Importantly, Fukuyama’s use of ‘liberal’ referred to classical liberalism: individual rights, limited government, and economic freedoms. It did not refer to contemporary political liberalism in the partisan sense. In his view, this combination had emerged as the most successful model for governance, capable of delivering prosperity and dignity.
Yet, Fukuyama wasn’t triumphant. He was cautious, and even a bit ambivalent. Drawing on ideas from Hegel and Nietzsche, he worried about the rise of what Nietzsche called “the last man,” a citizen who, satisfied with comfort and consumption, loses a sense of purpose and civic ambition. Fukuyama acknowledged that liberal democracies could be spiritually thin and focused on material wealth rather than meaning. But he believed they had no serious ideological rival left.
Many misread him as declaring that democracy had won permanently. But Fukuyama’s argument was more cautious: even if liberal democracy had no external rivals, he warned that it could still become fragile over time.
What Happened to that Future?
While liberal democracy may have emerged as the ideological “winner” of the 20th century, its victory turned out to be more brittle and complicated than it first appeared. As the 1990s gave way to the early 2000s, the momentum that seemed unstoppable began to stall, and more recently, has begun to fray. Beneath the surface of integration and expansion, cracks were already forming. The question is: How did it begin to unravel?
Markets and Dislocation
The same economic liberalization that fueled global growth also generated deep disruptions. Global trade expanded rapidly, and many industries moved production to lower-cost countries. The result was economic efficiency on a global scale, but at a steep local cost. Many manufacturing jobs vanished, especially in towns and regions long reliant on those industries. For millions of Americans, the economic future that once seemed stable now felt precarious.
Crisis of Public Confidence: 9/11, War, and 2008
A series of shocks eroded public confidence. After 9/11, the U.S. entered wars that lasted for decades. Many believed they had been misled by leaders. Then came the 2008 financial crisis, which devastated families and communities while powerful institutions were bailed out and few were held accountable. Each of these moments chipped away at the idea that democratic institutions were competent, fair, or responsive.
Information Fragmentation
Meanwhile, the media landscape fractured. Cable news splintered us into partisan silos. Social media transformed how we consume information, reshaping not just what we know, but how we see ourselves and others. Instead of building a shared public square, these systems have often deepened our divisions. Even basic facts have become contested terrain.
Further Erosion of Trust
As institutions faltered and information fragmented, so too did trust. Social trust, the belief that others are generally fair, honest, and cooperative, declined. Trust in government, media, and each other fell to historic lows. Shared assumptions that make civic life possible, about elections, expertise, and compromise, began to fade. When trust disappears, democracy becomes harder to practice and even harder to believe in.
Higher Education Divide
At the same time all of these changes were occurring, the cost of higher education skyrocketed. College, long seen as a path to upward mobility, became a dividing line. It now shapes not only income but social belonging, worldview, and even trust in institutions. This divide influences everything from voting patterns to media habits.
These are some of the forces that reshaped the democratic horizon. The result has been a slow erosion of the liberal consensus. The future no longer feels inevitable. Instead, democracy often feels deadlocked: not just in Washington, but around kitchen tables where people no longer know how to talk to one another.
New Answers Emerge
When democratic optimism gave way to economic insecurity, institutional mistrust, and cultural fragmentation, new answers emerged: some technological, some political, some emotional.
DOGE and the Techno-Fix
One response comes from technology, where frustrations with democracy were met with the promises of code. For some, the answer isn’t civic reform but bypassing traditional institutions and structures. Why rely on institutions when you can replace them with algorithms? Why trust states when you can trust networks? The rise of Elon Musk’s DOGE has been framed in terms of promoting efficiency, but its broader goal is imagining governance as a problem to be solved by data.
Thiel and Elite Rule
Another response comes from elites disillusioned with liberal democracy. For example, Peter Thiel, a co-founder of several companies including PayPal and Palantir Technologies, has critiqued universities, pluralism, and post-war liberalism. In its place, he has hinted at rule by the talented, the contrarian, the select. This isn’t a populist revolt so much as a credentialist fix, a rejection of the messiness of democratic negotiation in favor of intellectual hierarchies.
Trump and MAGA
Then there’s the visceral response, rooted in both resentment and recognition. Trump’s rise didn’t come primarily from policy but from a narrative and a movement, MAGA, for those who felt without a voice or left behind economically or culturally. For many, he became a conduit for backlash against institutions and elites they no longer trusted. His populism isn’t about rebuilding civic participation but about reshaping democracy into a contest of loyalty and disruption.
These aren’t just personalities; they’re proposals. Each offers a vision of how to respond to frustrations with democracy. But they sidestep a harder, more enduring challenge: what does it mean to repair democracy?
Returning to the Table
If the 1990s were marked by confidence, and the years since by disillusionment, then the question isn’t just what went wrong, but what we do now. What would it take to return to that democratic promise? To build a civic culture where disagreement isn’t a threat but a starting point? Where institutions aren’t worshiped or trashed but tended to, reformed, or revitalized? Where sitting at the table doesn’t mean agreement, but only that we’re willing to show up?
The Citizens’ Table is a small attempt to make room for that kind of reflection. It’s not a finished blueprint but a space to think out loud. To revisit the ideas that once animated democracy. And to ask, honestly and together: what do we do now?
Perhaps we can begin to listen again to each other and to the possibilities of democratic life. If you’re reading this, I’d love to hear from you:
When was the last time you had a conversation across differences that surprised you? What made it possible?
© 2025 Allison Berland