“Democratic systems may hold elections, but those elections are largely
ceremonial, moments in which the public is invited to endorse decisions already
taken by small groups.”
— John Ralston Saul, Voltaire’s Bastards, p. 52.
Donald Trump’s victory in the 2024 U.S. presidential election marked a seismic shift in American politics. Regardless of one’s political alignment, the outcome of this race signified a departure from traditional electoral dynamics. Trump not only clinched the presidency but consolidated Republican control over both the Senate and the judiciary, securing an unabashed mandate for his agenda. The defeat of Kamala Harris, who had seemed poised to carry the torch for progressivism, underscores a broader trend in voter priorities that increasingly focus on cultural identity, perceived authenticity, and media presence, rather than the substance of policy debates. Harris’s campaign, while groundbreaking in some respects, faltered amidst strategic missteps, tone-deaf responses, and a world of crises that seemed to overwhelm her ability to connect with a deeply disillusioned electorate. In this context, her defeat reveals a political reality where emotion and personal resonance too often overshadow rational discourse.
The Democratic Party’s struggle against Trump’s seemingly irrational yet potent appeal reflects a profound philosophical crisis—a clash between the rational, technocratic approach of modern liberalism and the raw emotional forces it has increasingly failed to understand, let alone address. John Ralston Saul’s critique in Voltaire’s Bastards illuminates this tension, where the unchecked expansion of instrumental reason, detached from any deeper purpose, transforms into a form of tyranny. The Democrats’ data-driven strategies, though well-intentioned, often seem distant and impersonal, reinforcing the perception of a detached technocratic elite, out of touch with the visceral concerns of the masses.
In stark contrast, Trump thrives in a paradoxical space: his embrace of impulsive gestures, defiance of fact, and performative antagonism against the “system” not only masks irrationality but exudes a form of emotional authenticity. This authenticity, though not in any conventional sense, resonates with many voters precisely because it stands in stark contrast to the calculated, reasoned discourse of the Democratic establishment. Saul might argue that Trump’s apparent irrationality is, in fact, a natural reaction to a society increasingly governed by structures of reason that have lost their human grounding. In this light, the polished, data-driven language of the Democratic Party appears to many as a closed, self-justifying system, impervious to dissent and indifferent to the lived experiences of ordinary people.
From a philosophical standpoint, Trump’s appeal can be seen as a flawed critique of instrumental rationalism. In Nietzschean terms, his approach may represent a ‘revaluation of values,’ dismantling established norms in favor of something raw and untamed, even if deeply troubling. The technocratic approach championed by the Democratic Party offers stability but fails to capture the existential resonance that Trump’s supporters find so compelling. Trump’s speeches and rallies foreground themes of freedom, power, and agency—archetypal narratives where emotion supplants reason. In this space, grievance is valorized, and the hero’s journey is framed as a fight against an oppressive elite. The “Bro Vote” is a perfect example of this—Trump’s support among alienated young men, many of whom feel neglected by the Democratic Party’s policies and rhetoric.
As domestic issues came to the forefront in the 2024 election, cultural and social debates overshadowed traditional economic concerns. Harris, whose platform was grounded in progressive issues such as defending transgender rights, police reform, and reproductive freedoms, found herself caught in the crossfire. While these issues resonated with her liberal base, they alienated critical segments of the working-class electorate. The Democratic Party’s “woke” agenda became a central point of attack for Trump, who framed Harris as a champion of a radical left-wing ideology disconnected from mainstream American values.
Trump’s mastery of media, coupled with his relentless tapping into public grievances, gave him a decisive edge. His nontraditional media tour during the 2024 race—including his appearances on podcasts targeted at young men seeking the “Bro Vote”—reinforced his image as a strong, masculine protector. His campaign tapped into global anti-gender sentiments and reactionary social movements, framing progressive gender equality efforts as threats to tradition and national identity. This rhetoric, which aligns with toxic masculinity, bolstered Trump’s appeal to a base that feels left behind by progressive social policies and elites. His populist messaging, amplified by anti-establishment rhetoric, positioned him as a defender against an evolving social landscape that questions traditional gender roles and values. He would claim to be a protector and say: “I am your warrior. I am your justice. And for those who have been wronged and betrayed, I am your retribution. I will obliterate the deep state.”
Tone-Deaf Messaging
The Democrats’ reliance on expertise and reason reveals the dangers of unchallenged rationality—something John Ralston Saul warns against in Voltaire’s Bastards. The party’s commitment to policy precision, data analysis, and elite credentialing often created an intellectual fortress, cold and impersonal, devoid of emotional resonance. Their reliance on technocratic solutions inadvertently sidelined the raw power of narrative—the values that connect across class and geography. Harris’s campaign, trapped in this technocratic ethos, faced a crisis of disconnection. In an election year defined by global violence and conflict, including the genocide in Gaza, Harris’s reluctance to speak out against U.S. foreign policy left her campaign vulnerable: an echo chamber where self-censorship and groupthink conspired to drown out the urgent, messy calls for a more human political voice. In a year defined by a global reckoning on violence and conflict, including Gaza Genocide, Harris found herself unprepared to address the cries of the disillusioned and the disenchanted. Amidst this turmoil, two anti-war movements rose from the shadows: the “uncommitted movement” and “no vote for genocide“—rallying cries against endless conflict and unanswered pleas for a moral reckoning. But Harris’s reluctance to engage openly and call for genuine ceasefire negotiations may echo for the longest in public memory. Her silences, her careful words on the Middle East, seemed hollow against the backdrop of escalating violence and humanitarian crises. Ironically, Trump, despite his transactional, hardline stance on Israel during his first term, found himself painted as the more peaceful candidate.
Harris’s campaign, initially buoyed by strong fundraising and favorable media coverage, ultimately faltered. In a race dominated by perception, her attempts to present a compelling vision of her own were overshadowed by the well-worn strategy of casting Trump as the greater danger—a tactic that failed Hillary Clinton in 2016. Her shifting stances on key issues, including fracking, only deepened perceptions of inconsistency, while her tone-deaf responses, such as her infamous remark on The View, alienated voters looking for authenticity and introspection. Her response—”There’s not a thing that comes to mind, and I have been part of most of the decisions”—became a flashpoint, amplified by social media and seized upon by critics. It was a line that encapsulated her greatest vulnerability in a single moment: a perceived lack of introspection, a refusal to acknowledge the administration’s missteps. To the public, it felt like an evasion, a polished answer from a candidate determined to avoid accountability. Within hours, conservative voices latched onto the exchange, with a Trump aide quipping that “Sunny Hostin killed Kamala Harris’ campaign” with that question alone. One viral post went further, remarking that Hostin “thought she was giving Harris a layup question, and Harris undermined the entire premise of her campaign.” The viral criticism of her appearance on the show, where she failed to acknowledge any mistakes in the Biden administration, encapsulated her vulnerability: a refusal to engage with public frustration in a meaningful way.
The outcome was a campaign that, despite its data-driven sophistication, lacked the emotional resonance necessary to connect with voters. The Democratic Party’s over-reliance on expert analysis and bureaucratic language alienated as much as it sought to persuade, creating a perception of a cold, impersonal elite. Harris’s failure to embody a compelling narrative of connection and courage ultimately contributed to her downfall. As the 2024 election showed, Trump’s blunt, often incendiary rhetoric found fertile ground in an electorate disillusioned with a system that seemed increasingly distant and impervious to their struggles.
Assassination Attempt
As Donald Trump took the stage on the night of his improbable victory, his voice – resonant, solemn – rang out with words that seemed to hang like a prophecy over the crowd: “God saved my life for a reason.” It was the line that no speechwriter could ever craft, yet it was perfect in its raw, mythic simplicity. Trump, a man known for defiance and spectacle, was now recast as something more: the wounded victor, bloodied but unbroken, a symbol of survival in an era that thirsted for icons. His words, simple yet profound, reflected a transformation: no longer just a political figure, Trump was now a cultural martyr, a man who, in his bloodied moment, seemed to embody the nation’s deepest anxieties and aspirations.
The assassination attempt against Trump—though it failed to take his life—changed the trajectory of his campaign. Overnight, he became more than a politician; he morphed into an archetype of resistance, a reflection of the perceived threats to American identity, tradition, and soul. His defiant stance, blood streaking across his face as he raised a clenched fist, became a defining image—a moment of American spectacle captured by cameras and immortalized on social media. This image, like a visual manifesto, would be etched into the collective memory, reflecting a polarized society’s hunger for heroes who rise from suffering.
Sara Ahmed., a cultural theorist, offers insight into why this image resonated so profoundly. She suggests that emotions are not merely individual feelings, but socially constructed and shaped by historical narratives. Through this lens, Trump’s bloodied visage was not simply a mark of his physical resilience, but a symbol deeply intertwined with the emotions and grievances of his supporters. His near-death experience reflected not just survival, but a broader cultural narrative: one of defiance in the face of perceived persecution and of a nation that had lost its way.
The United States, like many countries, has long had a fraught relationship with political violence. From the civil unrest of the 1960s to the radical confrontations of the 1980s, political life was shaped by a constant undercurrent of threats, assassinations, and civil disobedience. As America finds itself once again divided, the political landscape has grown similarly volatile. The return of ideological conflict, rallies teeming with chants, and media narratives steeped in conspiracy echo the turbulence of earlier decades. Trump’s bloodied image, emerging amidst this turmoil, ignited a powerful emotional response—one that reflected a moment of defiance and survival, ripe for mythologizing.
In his victory speech, Trump invoked divine intervention, positioning himself as the beneficiary of a higher purpose. His narrative was not just one of political triumph but of spiritual destiny—a distinctly American form of secular messianism. His near-martyrdom lent him an aura of legitimacy, casting him not only as a political leader, but as a vessel of a nation’s deepest fears and longings. His message was clear: survival was not just a personal victory, but a collective one.
Yet, this image—the bloodied face and clenched fist—was far more than a political statement. It tapped into a raw emotional truth that transcended the specificities of fact. As Ahmed suggests, emotions are inseparable from culture; they shape—and are shaped by—the narratives we hold dear. For Trump’s supporters, his survival story was not just about one man’s battle with fate, but a mirror reflecting their own struggles in an increasingly fractured America. It was an affirmation that, against all odds, their grievances mattered. This was not simply a political battle; it was a cultural and emotional one, where the stakes were nothing less than identity itself.
This powerful intersection of emotion, politics, and culture is emblematic of the wider American condition. In an era where political spectacles dominate, emotional appeals often eclipse reasoned discourse. Trump’s appeal resides precisely in his ability to reject conventional politics and rationality in favor of a narrative built on emotional resonance. His defiance against “the system” and embrace of irrational gestures are not simply expressions of rebellion; they speak to a deep dissatisfaction with a political establishment that has become too detached from the lived realities of everyday Americans. In his embrace of emotion over reason, Trump becomes a critique of a system that, as philosopher John Ralston Saul suggests, has lost its humane grounding.
For Saul, reason without humanity becomes tyrannical. In the Democratic Party’s reliance on technocratic governance—rooted in expertise, data, and bureaucratic logic—he sees a disconnect from the people it purports to serve. This rationalism, Saul argues, has become self-justifying and impenetrable. The result is a political establishment that, in its pursuit of efficiency and progress, has failed to address the emotional needs of its constituents. It is here, in this void of empathy, that Trump thrives. His brand of politics, which bypasses the language of reason and embraces the language of grievance, resonates deeply with those who feel alienated from the technocratic elites.
Philosophical and Political Challenge
The fallacy of Western democracy lies in the gap between its ideal and its reality. In theory, democracy promises power to the people. In practice, however, it has become a spectacle dominated by money, media, and elite interests. As a result, elections have become less about genuine public choice and more about manipulating public perception. Campaigns now focus on targeted messaging and media spectacle rather than meaningful engagement, reinforcing a sense of exclusion and manipulation among voters. The entanglement of money in politics, epitomized by decisions like Citizens United, has turned political discourse into a game of wealth and influence. Meanwhile, electoral systems like gerrymandering have further distorted representation, ensuring that power remains concentrated among the few.
This spectacle-driven approach to democracy has eroded public trust. Citizens, disillusioned by a system that seems to serve only the established powers, grow apathetic. Voting, once a cherished civic duty, has become a hollow exercise for many. Without meaningful reforms that re-center elections on genuine engagement, Western democracies risk becoming performative exercises—far removed from the democratic ideals they claim to uphold.
Modern democracies often uphold rationalized systems that claim objectivity but mask biases and inequities. Citizens become increasingly frustrated with a system that speaks in the language of efficiency, expertise, and progress while delivering, to many, insecurity and stagnation. This world is where decisions impacting millions are often made in closed rooms, rationalized through elaborate metrics and data but seemingly devoid of empathy or moral clarity. For those excluded, these systems feel more like faceless arbiters than democratic institutions; they begin to see the elite who manage them as disconnected and, worse, uncaring.
In this context, populists step in, promising to “break” these systems, unmask the technocrats, and return control to “the people.” They offer a mythic alternative to bureaucratic rationalism, presenting themselves as anti-systemic champions, rallying the disenchanted around grievances and a shared feeling of exclusion. Figures like Trump or Modi or European populist leaders present themselves as disruptors of an elite order, railing against “the establishment” even if their claims are only superficially true. Populist leaders often capitalize on emotional appeals to unity, strength, and traditional values, prioritizing loyalty over open debate or reasoned critique. They appeal to what Saul describes as an instinctual resistance against institutionalized, dehumanized systems of reason, positioning themselves as the voice of authenticity, emotion, and agency.
The philosophical challenge for the Democratic Party is profound. To counter Trump’s appeal, they must reframe their reliance on reason as an end in itself and instead focus on human purpose. This means shifting away from technocratic governance and re-engaging with values that resonate with ordinary people: justice, dignity, and the freedom to be heard. Saul argues that reason must serve humanity rather than the interests of those in power. The challenge is to balance rational policy with empathy, intellect with emotion, and expertise with humility—fostering a political discourse that speaks to the whole person, not just the abstract citizen.
In this context, the rise of populism and authoritarianism represents a reaction against a system of reason that has lost its moral clarity. As John Ralston Saul argues, reason, when divorced from human purpose, becomes a tool of exclusion, alienating the very people it was meant to serve. Populist leaders, like Trump, capitalize on this disillusionment, offering visceral, emotional responses to the systemic failures of rational governance. Yet, this rejection of reason can swiftly slide into authoritarianism, where the populist leader becomes a charismatic figure who enforces loyalty and suppresses dissent. The authoritarianism that arises in response to failed rationalism is a dangerous paradox—rejecting intellectual elitism only to replace it with an equally rigid and authoritarian regime.
In the wake of the election, the collapse of policy-driven campaigns, typified by Harris’s loss, underscores the diminishing influence of reasoned discourse in an era dominated by spectacle and cultural polarization. Observers like Douglas Massey and Francis Fukuyama in the New York Times see Trump’s ascension as a referendum on democracy itself, where a disaffected majority cast ballots against the “cultural elite” of the left, embracing a populist ethos over democratic safeguards. Fukuyama, warning of a descent into Orban-style governance, sees the nation’s governing structures as vulnerable to a slow, deliberate erosion. Political scientists like Julian Zelizer and Bruce Cain suggest Trump’s coalition is no aberration; it is a powerful, resilient force drawing from diverse demographics, evolving as a multiethnic working-class stronghold. The ideological realignment has profoundly shifted rightward, indicating a lasting party system recalibration, reminiscent of the shifts marked by America’s most transformative elections.
The antidote to this cycle lies in grounding reason in humane values. Democracies must reconnect reason with empathy, ensuring that policies serve the welfare of the people rather than self-perpetuating elites. Only then can democracy fulfill its promise: to be a system that listens, responds, and truly represents the people.
The ramifications of this shift will shape future political strategies and challenge the resilience of American democracy itself.
Narendra Pachkhédé is a critic, essayist and writer who splits his time between Toronto, London and Geneva.
