Liberal Haunting
Posted: Mon Sep 22, 2025 8:37 am
Global politics now moves inside a theatre of illusions. On one side, Alain de Benoist insists that liberalism is modernity’s sickness. It dissolves communities into markets, flattens politics into technocracy, reduces people to utility calculators. He folds Marxism into the same Enlightenment universe and declares both finished. What remains is not policy but identity, a cultural revolt promising rootedness in a world of flux. On the other side, Jeremy Waldron says rights are not dreams but law. They are duties written into treaties, cases, and statutes. They exist so that individuals can stand against states, markets, and majorities. His voice is careful, precise, but fragile. Because lists of rights without economic guarantees are thin armour, easily bent into tools of power.
Both positions circle the same wound. Liberal universalism offers dignity but slips into legalism. Anti-liberal metapolitics offers meaning but amputates redistribution. Neither resolves the hollow centre where politics once lived. And so, in practice, rights become provisional, bent by executive discretion, narrowed by courts that operate on emergency timelines. The law itself starts to move in the shadows, rulings that are interim but final in effect. Freedom becomes a slogan, not a condition.
In Washington the theatre is open. Republicans hold hearings about Europe’s platform rules, but the real censorship comes from home. Trump sues the press, bans books, intimidates critics. His allies call it protecting free speech. Nigel Farage is flown in as a witness, styling himself as defender of liberty, but flees when confronted with his own record of silencing reporters and praising autocrats. The contradiction is naked: those who shout loudest about censorship are the ones practising it. Free speech becomes propaganda, a badge worn by those who strip others of the same. The assassination of Charlie Kirk folds into this narrative war, violence reframed instantly as symbol, accelerating demands for exceptional measures. In the echo chamber, tragedy is not mourned but mobilised.
Across the Atlantic, Keir Starmer governs as the image of stability. The tone is managerial, the language procedural. Yet a quiet authoritarianism thickens around the edges. Statutory lines about online harms harden into administrative discretion. Public debate narrows, not with the spectacle of repression but with the slow constriction of space. Rights are clipped in increments, defended in speeches but eroded in practice.
In Britain the loop is tighter. The country lives inside stories it once told about itself. In the 1980s leaders embraced Hayek’s myth that markets could replace politics. They declared that the future was unknowable, so best to let the price system decide. But markets do not run alone. They are engineered, stage-managed by laws and bureaucrats. While governments claimed to retreat, they were constructing a vast experiment: tearing away protections, atomising communities, leaving the solitary individual connected only by receipts and database entries.
Chantal Mouffe calls this post-democracy: voting without choice. Red and blue blurred into one another, all promising modernisation. Then the crash of 2008 smashed the illusion. People wanted enemies, they wanted friends, they wanted to know who had stolen their future. Intellectuals called it the populist moment. Mouffe saw a chance to radicalise democracy. De Benoist said it was only a mood. In Britain both are right. Anger is real but containers are broken. Labour is hollow, the unions weak, new movements collapse into mistrust. Corbyn and Sultana, once icons of hope, become symbols of dysfunction. Online streams show the mess in real time. Trust evaporates. If a movement cannot keep its own mailing list safe, how can it govern a nation?
The far right steps in. One hundred thousand march, maybe more, waving flags, shouting about migrants, belonging to something at last. Clive Lewis admits a childhood friend was there. Not a racist in his own eyes, just hungry for pride. That is the trick: the left offers policy, the right offers belonging. Immigration becomes the vessel because it is close, tangible, mythic. Technocrats describe efficiency, GDP growth. Farage tells a simpler story: blame Europe, blame the elites, blame the outsiders. It sticks. Now Britain speaks in parallel monologues: the left with structures and crises, the right with pride and invasion. Beneath both lies the hollow field of market rule, four decades deep. Populism fills the gap with conflict and drama, but without organisation it devours itself. The country is still haunted by Hayek’s ghost, pretending the future cannot be planned while planning endlessly for markets. The left cannot build trust. The right offers identity without answers. Millions drift in suspicion, waiting for a story that makes their lives cohere.
This hollowing is not local. It belongs to a global battlefield of perception. The U.S. Marine Corps University calls it political warfare. Information becomes weapon. States and mercenaries deploy bots, deepfakes, troll swarms. The goal is not persuasion but destabilisation: degrade trust, sow doubt, fracture alliances. Tragedies like assassinations are instantly folded into this warfare, images of chaos reinforcing the sense that only strong hands can restore order. Sun Tzu’s maxim holds: the highest victory is to win without fighting. Now it means subduing populations by corrupting their sense of reality itself.
The resolution, if any, cannot come from law alone, or from culture alone, or from economics alone. It needs all three at once — and something else. A resilience against the permanent condition of influence warfare. Transparency around emergencies. Guardrails against executive shortcuts. Platform governance that protects integrity rather than ideology. Civic institutions that reduce the precarity on which manipulation feeds. Without this, the triangle hardens: right-wing metapolitics without Marx, liberal legalism without economics, managerial centrism without democracy. Each claims freedom while unravelling it.
Both positions circle the same wound. Liberal universalism offers dignity but slips into legalism. Anti-liberal metapolitics offers meaning but amputates redistribution. Neither resolves the hollow centre where politics once lived. And so, in practice, rights become provisional, bent by executive discretion, narrowed by courts that operate on emergency timelines. The law itself starts to move in the shadows, rulings that are interim but final in effect. Freedom becomes a slogan, not a condition.
In Washington the theatre is open. Republicans hold hearings about Europe’s platform rules, but the real censorship comes from home. Trump sues the press, bans books, intimidates critics. His allies call it protecting free speech. Nigel Farage is flown in as a witness, styling himself as defender of liberty, but flees when confronted with his own record of silencing reporters and praising autocrats. The contradiction is naked: those who shout loudest about censorship are the ones practising it. Free speech becomes propaganda, a badge worn by those who strip others of the same. The assassination of Charlie Kirk folds into this narrative war, violence reframed instantly as symbol, accelerating demands for exceptional measures. In the echo chamber, tragedy is not mourned but mobilised.
Across the Atlantic, Keir Starmer governs as the image of stability. The tone is managerial, the language procedural. Yet a quiet authoritarianism thickens around the edges. Statutory lines about online harms harden into administrative discretion. Public debate narrows, not with the spectacle of repression but with the slow constriction of space. Rights are clipped in increments, defended in speeches but eroded in practice.
In Britain the loop is tighter. The country lives inside stories it once told about itself. In the 1980s leaders embraced Hayek’s myth that markets could replace politics. They declared that the future was unknowable, so best to let the price system decide. But markets do not run alone. They are engineered, stage-managed by laws and bureaucrats. While governments claimed to retreat, they were constructing a vast experiment: tearing away protections, atomising communities, leaving the solitary individual connected only by receipts and database entries.
Chantal Mouffe calls this post-democracy: voting without choice. Red and blue blurred into one another, all promising modernisation. Then the crash of 2008 smashed the illusion. People wanted enemies, they wanted friends, they wanted to know who had stolen their future. Intellectuals called it the populist moment. Mouffe saw a chance to radicalise democracy. De Benoist said it was only a mood. In Britain both are right. Anger is real but containers are broken. Labour is hollow, the unions weak, new movements collapse into mistrust. Corbyn and Sultana, once icons of hope, become symbols of dysfunction. Online streams show the mess in real time. Trust evaporates. If a movement cannot keep its own mailing list safe, how can it govern a nation?
The far right steps in. One hundred thousand march, maybe more, waving flags, shouting about migrants, belonging to something at last. Clive Lewis admits a childhood friend was there. Not a racist in his own eyes, just hungry for pride. That is the trick: the left offers policy, the right offers belonging. Immigration becomes the vessel because it is close, tangible, mythic. Technocrats describe efficiency, GDP growth. Farage tells a simpler story: blame Europe, blame the elites, blame the outsiders. It sticks. Now Britain speaks in parallel monologues: the left with structures and crises, the right with pride and invasion. Beneath both lies the hollow field of market rule, four decades deep. Populism fills the gap with conflict and drama, but without organisation it devours itself. The country is still haunted by Hayek’s ghost, pretending the future cannot be planned while planning endlessly for markets. The left cannot build trust. The right offers identity without answers. Millions drift in suspicion, waiting for a story that makes their lives cohere.
This hollowing is not local. It belongs to a global battlefield of perception. The U.S. Marine Corps University calls it political warfare. Information becomes weapon. States and mercenaries deploy bots, deepfakes, troll swarms. The goal is not persuasion but destabilisation: degrade trust, sow doubt, fracture alliances. Tragedies like assassinations are instantly folded into this warfare, images of chaos reinforcing the sense that only strong hands can restore order. Sun Tzu’s maxim holds: the highest victory is to win without fighting. Now it means subduing populations by corrupting their sense of reality itself.
The resolution, if any, cannot come from law alone, or from culture alone, or from economics alone. It needs all three at once — and something else. A resilience against the permanent condition of influence warfare. Transparency around emergencies. Guardrails against executive shortcuts. Platform governance that protects integrity rather than ideology. Civic institutions that reduce the precarity on which manipulation feeds. Without this, the triangle hardens: right-wing metapolitics without Marx, liberal legalism without economics, managerial centrism without democracy. Each claims freedom while unravelling it.