Author’s Note:
This piece departs slightly from my usual focus on American political history and policy. It began not as an essay, but as a real-time response to a moment of democratic tension—one that unfolded not in Washington, but in the comment section of a social media platform.

As a historian observing from abroad, I often write about institutions, elections, and long arcs of change. But democracy also lives in how we speak to one another—especially in moments of disagreement. This reflection is, in that sense, deeply political. Because if we cannot preserve dignity and dialogue at the smallest scale, we risk losing them everywhere else.

Thank you for reading.

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In the digital age, democracy does not live only in parliaments or on ballots. It also lives—and often suffers—on comment threads, livestream chats, and social media timelines. As a European historian who writes about American democracy, I recently found myself drawn into a heated online exchange surrounding the removal of a U.S. senator from a press conference. The debate quickly expanded beyond the event itself and into a wider question: who gets to speak, and who has the right to be heard, when democracy itself feels under siege?

The conversation began with a post of mine, expressing concern about what I saw as an act of intimidation: federal agents physically removing an elected senator from a press event for challenging a cabinet official’s narrative. I argued that silencing an elected representative—especially on camera—is not a show of strength, but a warning sign. The removal was not about protecting public order; it was about controlling the optics of dissent. And in any democracy, the optics of dissent matter deeply.

My comment prompted a swift and pointed reply: “Are you even an American citizen?” The implication was clear: my critique was less valid—or perhaps invalid altogether—because I was speaking from outside the American polity. Others in the thread quickly pushed back against that line of thinking, but the question itself deserves attention, because it reveals a deeper tension in today’s political discourse.

What qualifies someone to speak about democracy? Is it citizenship? Geography? Personal stake? I believe these are the wrong criteria. The better question is: are they informed? Are they principled? Are they speaking in good faith?

I responded by identifying myself as a historian and a European, and by affirming what I see as a shared responsibility among all defenders of democracy. When intimidation replaces debate in any republic, the whole democratic world should take notice. The erosion of democratic norms in one country—especially one as globally influential as the United States—inevitably affects others. Democracy is not a private club. And when a house is on fire, you do not need to be living inside it to see the danger, or to care that the flames might spread.

This response resonated with many participants in the thread, but it also led to a second wave of critique: if I am not American, what is my “skin in the game”? The answer to that question, I believe, lies not in passport status but in the duties of conscience and scholarship. History gives us perspective. Conscience gives us reason to speak. And when the principles we study—deliberation, dissent, accountability—are being hollowed out in real time, the responsibility to speak becomes not only legitimate, but necessary.

That said, I also understand where the skepticism comes from. In politically volatile times, people are rightly wary of misinformation, foreign manipulation, and agenda-driven commentary. The instinct to ask “where are you coming from?” is not inherently hostile—it can be a form of democratic self-protection. But when that question becomes a filter for exclusion rather than a prompt for dialogue, something is lost.

To her credit, the person who questioned me later returned to the thread and offered a thoughtful apology. She acknowledged the charged nature of the times and the flood of external voices weighing in on U.S. affairs. Her willingness to reflect, reconsider, and engage in conversation rather than retreat into division was genuinely moving. And it reminded me of something essential: the democratic impulse is not about never getting it wrong. It is about how we correct course together.

This exchange, with all its initial tension and eventual reconciliation, stands in stark contrast to the general tone of many online political spaces, where mockery, rage, and dehumanization have become the dominant currencies. Some in the thread hurled personal insults. Others responded with sarcasm or tribal loyalty. The speed with which discourse devolves into aggression is one of the most dangerous features of today’s fractured public square.

That is why I felt compelled, in the middle of the thread, to post a simple reminder: if we trade facts for insults, or questions for mockery, we’ll only end up shouting at walls. That’s not just a plea for civility—it’s a call for strategic clarity. Because in any democracy, disagreement is not the problem. Contempt is.

Contempt makes deliberation impossible. It transforms fellow citizens into enemies. And once that transformation happens, even good-faith disagreement becomes collateral damage in a broader war of identities. The result is a society that may still hold elections but has lost its democratic soul.

To be clear, this does not mean all ideas are equally valid or that all participants are equally sincere. Some arguments must be challenged forcefully. Some speech does real harm. But even in disagreement, the manner of engagement matters. Especially when it comes to the conduct of power.

The original subject of the thread—the physical removal of a senator—remains troubling. In a healthy democracy, elected officials must be allowed to speak up, even disruptively, when they believe power is being misused. That is not erratic behavior. That is their job. When their voices are silenced, not through rebuttal but through force, it sends a dangerous message: that power no longer needs to answer to anyone.

And when public officials invoke patriotism, order, or protocol to justify that silencing, we should remember how often in history those words have been used to mask fear of accountability.

I am not American. But I care about the American experiment deeply—because its fate affects the broader architecture of global democracy. I care because as a historian, I’ve studied how republics weaken: not with a single collapse, but through a slow erosion of trust, responsibility, and civic courage. I care because the ideas of liberty, deliberation, and accountability are not American inventions—they are human achievements, fragile and always incomplete.

So, to those who asked where I’m from: I’m from a place that still believes in reasoned argument. I’m from a tradition that values critical thinking over blind loyalty. And I’m speaking not to interfere, but to contribute—to the conversation, to the caution, and perhaps, to the conscience of a democracy wrestling with itself.

What gives us the right to speak is not where we were born, but whether we are willing to listen, reflect, and engage in good faith. In that sense, every one of us—citizen or not—has a stake in the outcome of this American moment.

Let’s not waste it shouting at walls.