Democracy in the Crosshairs: Reflections on America and January 6th

By Suhlle Ahn, Director, Content, Platform, and User Experience at Tidal Equality

As the resident American on our mostly Canadian Tidal Equality team, I didn’t want to let the anniversary of the assault on the U.S. Capitol a year ago January 6th pass without a word of acknowledgement.

But what does what happened in America on January 6th, 2021 have to do with tackling problems of bias and inequality?

I like to think anyone who cares about bias and inequality, and the myriad manifestations of these in the world, would also care about democracy as an ideal—i.e., that system of government which most closely (if imperfectly) allows power to be balanced, shared, diffused—equalized, if you will—among the many (the people, or demos), rather than allowing it to become concentrated among the few (oligarchy) or one (autocracy). 

But I realize not everyone feels comfortable talking about democracy—or the current threat to its survival in America—because in doing so we broach that most uncomfortable of topics: politics.

For what it’s worth, I’m the child of a political scientist. And while I haven’t always followed politics closely, it’s sometimes hard for me to avoid thinking in political terms. I was schooled pretty early on in thinking about questions of power and authority. Who holds it? Who might be withholding it? From whom? And thinking about justice. And fairness. And the meaning of both.

I first wanted to “get more involved” in social justice issues a few years back because I was angered by what I saw Donald Trump stirring up in America: old-school bigotry; a license for some to channel their frustrations into hostility against Blacks, Muslims, Mexicans, immigrants from “sh*thole countries”—in short, pretty much anyone of non-European descent. Well before “China virus” became Trump’s term of choice for COVID, it felt personal to me.

But also, I feared the wider meaning of what he was ushering in under his barely-coded “America First” creed: a backward pendulum swing toward that earlier period of “America First” sentiment, which became synonymous with nativism and anti-Semitism through its best-known proponent, American icon and Nazi-sympathizer, “Lucky” Charles Lindbergh. I worried, in other words, about the threat of fascism.

And the threat to democracy.

Like many Americans of non-Western descent, I grew up with a tangential understanding of what it must mean to live under a non-democratic regime: countries where dictatorships (all-too-often—let’s not be naïve—propped up by Western governments, in opposition to communist or socialist regimes) were the norm. Places where the freedoms of an open society were hardly assured. 

For many mid-to-late 20th-century immigrant arrivals, in particular—especially at a time when Cold War politics tended to create a schismatic divide between the capitalist, democratic U.S. and communist, autocratic U.S.S.R. or its satellites—the embrace of their adopted country often meant an embrace of the whole package: America as a beacon of democracy and bastion of free enterprise.

In my house, though, this wasn’t quite the case. More politically progressive, we looked to the U.K. or Scandinavia as models where socialist economic elements (i.e., universal healthcare) could be combined with constitutional government and the rule of law, political pluralism, a system of checks and balances, universal suffrage, the peaceful transfer of power, and elections where outcomes weren’t pre-determined.

To this day, I sometimes think the threat of being branded a “socialist foreigner” or “communist outsider” (a label once directed at Jews and laced with anti-Semitism) can hang in the air like a silent litmus test for non-Western immigrants, as if to gauge their level of loyalty.

Personally, I have mixed feelings about capitalism as a system. At its best, it can lead to creativity, ingenuity, and pluck. At its worst (“unbridled”), it is exploitative, greed-driven, and heartless. (Like most progressives, what I tend to support is the idea of a market economy, but with strong regulations and a robust social safety net—like what my Canadian colleagues enjoy!)

But I have no doubt about where I stand on democracy. I’m a die-hard defender.

I detest autocracy and authoritarianism in any form, because I detest the suppression of voice and thought and the oppression of will that it inevitably entails. I dislike being bullied and cowed into submission. And I dislike seeing abuses of power, and power misused. 

And while it’s certainly true that autocracy has too often gone hand-in-hand with leftist regimes in practice, it is by definition the very essence of fascism. 

As historian Ruth Ben-Ghiat, an expert on Italian fascism, Mussolini, and modern authoritarians  so aptly shows, fascism wants a strongman. And it relies precisely on bullying, intimidation, and threats of mob violence as tools of coercion and control, using racial myth-making, quasi-religious symbolism, and scapegoating of an “other” at its core. 

But again, what does any of this have to do with concerns about inequality?

In defending democracy, what is it we are trying to protect and promote?

For me, over the past year, it has become increasingly clear. Thinking about systemic inequality forces you to think about…systems. Systems of economy. Systems of government. Causes and sources.

In America, as we know, democracy in theory has not always meant democracy in practice. 

Or to put it more pointedly, America began as democratic governance for some. And only a civil war, decades of social activism, cultural dialogue (and often, arguments), and, most importantly, passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, have led us closer to the goal of democracy for all, although the Supreme Court’s gutting of this law in its 2013 Shelby County vs. Holder decision initiated a rapid backsliding into voter suppression laws and redistricting (i.e., Gerrymandering), which continues to this day.  

Those same groups that have had to fight to expand the franchise—women, African Americans and other non-whites—anyone for whom the creed “equal rights under law” has not always fulfilled its promise; anyone who has ever had less than full rights or less than full participation; or less than full protection under the law—interracial couples; same-sex couples; people with disabilities—these are the same voices that have been pushing to expand their power and influence in the everyday world of work, organizations, industries, and sectors, under the banner of diversity, equity, and inclusion.

And when we speak about building diversity, equity, and inclusion, aren’t we are essentially talking about creating new forms of power-sharing, expanding the (figurative) franchise, promoting pluralism, and advancing participatory decision-making? Aren’t we talking about democracy in principle and democracy in action? About allowing everyone’s voice and vote to be counted?

By the way, it might be worth asking: if your diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts are not leading to forms of power-sharing and democratic decision-making, what exactly are they intended to accomplish? 

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Today, the same political forces that have long pushed back against democracy for all (for decades, these were primarily Democrats, or Dixiecrats; after 1965, they mostly switched allegiance to the GOP) are pushing back against democracy itself, as if to say,

“If you would have us share power with all, we would rather upset the apple cart altogether, and use whatever means necessary to hold on to power.”

We would rather back an autocrat. Or help install one.

At the time of the storming of the Capitol, anyone with some knowledge of what a political coup is, understood that this was in essence what they were witnessing: a leader who has come to power by legitimate means, who subsequently loses power through an election (even with the arcane methods of the Electoral College, which tip the balance in his favor), tries to interrupt the legal process by which power is transferred from him to the next legitimate power holder—in this case, by blocking the final step in the process—a formal session of the Senate, House of Representatives, and Vice President to count Electoral College votes and officially certify the election results.

Toward this objective, he incites a mob of loyal followers to go in and halt the proceedings (“Stop the Steal”). And they oblige, with threats of violence and intimidation (“Hang Mike Pence”) and actual physical force. 

Credit: @little_plant

Likewise unmistakable on that day were the fascist trappings of that very mob that supported the strongman and did his bidding: the Camp Auschwitz t-shirts; the medieval Crusader symbolism; the Confederate flags. 

Now, a year later, we have an even fuller picture of what that attempted coup involved (for instance, a PowerPoint, suggesting Trump declare a national security emergency and declare all electronic votes invalid, on the pretext of foreign election interference), and we are seeing what an entire political party, but for a handful of holdouts, appears to have cast its lot in support of, despite having once claimed to be democracy’s most vocal and ardent champions.

How can this be? 

Was it never really about democracy, after all? Or was it only about democracy for some?

If you have been watching this past year, you know that democracy in America is not less at risk but more, even with Trump out of office. (If you haven’t been watching, Democracy Docket is a good place to start.)

As Marc Elias explains it, using a sports analogy, two of the main tactics being carried out now to guarantee a win are to “change the rules of the game” and to “choose the referees and umpires.”

In his new book Unthinkable, Maryland Congressman Jamie Raskin compares not having talked about suicide to his beloved son Tommy, who committed suicide on New Year’s Eve, 2020, to not talking to a teenager about sex. And he thinks not talking about fascism is the same. So I think it’s important that we start speaking the word aloud. And confronting the fact of its presence at America’s doorstep. 

And it makes me want to ask: where are all the business leaders? Where are all the corporate c-suiters who claim to support equity and inclusion, but who don’t seem willing to speak out against, nor stop giving donations to, a political party and so many of its elected officials who have committed themselves to an authoritarian movement, full tilt?

If you care about justice, and fairness; if you are bothered by discrimination and exclusion, I hope you will give urgent thought to this fight to save democracy before it is too late. In my mind, these are inextricably linked. (In a New York Times opinion piece just out today, author Rick Hasen gives some suggestions on a few angles of attack.) 

As I’ve said before, what good are a couple of internal equitable gains if we lose the whole democratic ball-game?

Suhlle Ahn

Director, Content, Platform, User Experience at Tidal Equality.