I did not set out to become a writer. But I have always believed that ideas matter — that behind the noise of headlines and social feeds, history is still being made, often in silence, often in struggle. And I believe that democracy — real democracy — is neither an inheritance nor a convenience. It is a fragile, unfinished promise. It must be chosen, again and again.

I am a historian by training. A Belgian by birth. A political observer by temperament. I have spent years watching the slow corrosion of democratic life in the United States with a mixture of alarm and fascination. This is not distant curiosity. The fate of American democracy touches us all — culturally, economically, geopolitically. But more than that: it is a mirror. What happens when a republic loses its balance, when elites drift into self-service, when debate collapses into tribalism? These questions are not American. They are human.

And so, I write.

Not to moralize. Not to perform. But to make sense of what I see — and to share the conviction that we can do better.

I. The Compass: Between History and Responsibility

I approach the present with the eyes of a historian. This means I trust complexity more than slogans, structure more than surface, and context more than momentary outrage. The patterns of power, the crises of legitimacy, the dance between liberty and order — none of this is new. But each generation must face it in its own terms.

What I see in the United States today is a system in drift. A democracy whose institutional architecture remains formally intact, but whose spirit is under siege — from oligarchic capture, from technological disinformation, and from the cynicism that tells citizens their voice no longer matters. This is not a left-right issue. It is a civic emergency.

And this is where personal responsibility begins.

I am not a politician. I do not pretend to offer solutions to every problem. But I know this: silence is complicity, and clarity is a form of resistance. As a European who believes deeply in democratic values — and in the American experiment at its best — I cannot watch this crisis unfold without responding.

II. Where I Stand

Labels are cheap. But positions matter.

I believe that democracy must be more than procedure. It must be meaningful — which means transparent, accessible, and accountable. I defend the idea of a strong public sphere, where citizens can genuinely shape the decisions that affect their lives, rather than being managed by algorithms and marketing departments. I believe in a republic of responsibility, not of spectatorship.

I am suspicious of power that hides — whether it wears the robes of a judge, the suit of a CEO, or the mask of a populist. I believe in institutional integrity, but I also believe institutions must serve the people, not fossilize against them. That’s why I support democratic reforms: a more participatory system, stronger controls on lobbying and campaign financing, and a rebalancing of power between capital and the public good.

Economically, I am not hostile to markets — but I am fiercely critical of an order where markets devour all meaning. Work must be more than survival; it must be dignity. Wealth must be more than accumulation; it must be responsibility. I stand for an economy that serves people, not the reverse — one that recognizes labor, care, and sustainability as central, not peripheral.

Culturally, I believe in depth. In reading. In disagreement. In curiosity. I oppose both the flattening of history and the dogmatism of some identity discourses when they turn complexity into orthodoxy. As a father, as a citizen, and as someone who believes in the power of education, I reject the idea that culture is a battlefield to be won. It is a common house to be repaired — together.

III. A European Looking West

Some may wonder: why this focus on the United States, when I am not American?

The answer is simple. Because America still matters. Not as an empire, but as an idea.

No other modern republic has tried — with such scale, violence, beauty, and contradiction to build a nation. It has failed, again and again. And yet, it still matters. Because what happens in Washington shapes what is possible in Brussels, in Warsaw, in Nairobi, in Taipei. Because the soul of American democracy is not just its Constitution. It is its citizens — diverse, contentious, capable of greatness.

But America today is being hollowed out — not only by bad actors, but by despair. I want to write against that despair. Not with naïveté, but with history as my witness: republics fall when cynicism becomes more comfortable than courage.

IV. From the Page to the Polis

In another life, I might have been a university lecturer in political history. But I chose a different path. I manage a store. I raise a family. I write in the early morning hours or late at night, not in the name of theory, but of conviction.

Writing, for me, is an act of attention — a form of civic practice. It is how I resist the trivialization of thought. It is how I try to reconnect the dots between past and present, between power and meaning. Each article I publish is meant as a small act of orientation: a way to offer context in a culture drowning in comment.

I do not write for trends. I write for those who still believe democracy is a moral commitment. That justice is not a performance. That clarity is not elitism. That citizenship begins with intellectual honesty.

V. The Long Discipline of Democracy

There is nothing flashy about my convictions. They are not “hot takes.” They are steady, rooted, coherent. But in today’s world, that kind of coherence has become radical. To believe in the republic. To believe in the people. To believe that power must be answerable to the many, not hoarded by the few — that is now a subversive idea.

So be it.

My hope is not in saviors. It is in citizens. In those who read, reflect, vote, organize, build, and disagree with honor. In those who know that democracy is not a hashtag, but a discipline.

That is why I write. And that is where I stand.

Welcome to the conversation.