Between Europe and America. I carry the histories of both continents in my mind. Born and raised in Europe, I was taught to admire the Belgian Revolution, to study European Parliament debates, and to take pride in the postwar order that secured peace on our shores. Yet from childhood I was also drawn to stories of American democracy – to the Founders’ bold language about liberty, to the vitality of towns like Boston and Philadelphia, and to the sense of possibility that history reboots in a new world. As a young student of history, I wondered why people from such distant places seemed to sing the same virtues of freedom and justice, and yet lived them so differently. This dual perspective – shaped by admiration on one side and healthy caution on the other – has made me, in a sense, a citizen of two worlds. I often feel the pull of both traditions and the burden of comparing them.

Being “from Europe” has not stopped me from loving America’s democratic experiment; if anything, it has sharpened my devotion. America symbolizes liberty and innovation; it has fought tyranny abroad and inspired revolutions. I cannot help but admire the optimism and confidence with which Americans approach politics and life. But Europe taught me another lesson: that democracy can be fragile, easily betrayed by pride or grievance. I grew up hearing stories of young countries that fell to dictatorship, of old empires that stole men’s souls, of complacency that led to war. My European caution whispers that grandeur carries a shadow. The United States embodies both sides of this truth: it is a beacon to many, and yet it grapples with deep contradictions – inequality, polarization, and sometimes a tempting slide toward authoritarianism.

One day, while discussing politics with a close friend, he asked me a question that lingered long after our conversation ended:
“Can you really write about America if you’re not American?”. It wasn’t a challenge, just an honest curiosity — the kind of question that cuts to the core of what I do. For a moment, I had no clear answer. His words made me pause and think about my own position. Who am I, after all, to love and critique a country that is not mine? That question stayed with me because it revealed something essential about how I see the world. To belong to the democratic tradition, I realized, does not depend on passports or parades. It depends on the willingness to care deeply, to study history honestly, and to join the conversation in good faith. I write as a historian and as an admirer — someone still learning, still reflecting, still drawn to the story of liberty wherever it is told. That question helped me understand what I’ve been doing all along: building an identity not rooted in geography, but in ideals. I belong wherever freedom is cherished and questioned — and that, I believe, includes me.

I. Rediscovering Tocqueville: An Old Guide for a New Time

One of the most surprising sources of comfort in this dual role has been a Frenchman from the 19th century: Alexis de Tocqueville. When I first encountered Democracy in America, I did so as a student fascinated by history. Tocqueville’s journey felt uncanny: another European who sailed to America to understand democracy. He, too, was seeking the image of democracy itself. Reading his words was like looking into a mirror that reflected both the past and future. He noted Americans’ boundless energy and local activism, and he warned of the perils of restless individualism and the tyranny of the majority. Tocqueville’s balance – his friendship with American ideals and his sober critique of their potential darkness – gave me a model for how to think and write.

In today’s turbulent times, Tocqueville remains a guide. He famously wrote that the greatness of the American spirit lies not in being more enlightened than others, but in its ability “to repair its faults.” Those words echo in my ear. They remind me that genuine patriotism, or admiration for another nation, is not blind adoration. It is the humility to acknowledge imperfection and the determination to learn and improve. Tocqueville saw America’s vibrant town halls and newspapers as the glue of democracy, and he feared the erosion of those civic ties. He explored the promise of equality but cautioned that unchecked majorities could crush dissent.

I rediscovered Tocqueville in late-night reading sessions, looking for perspective. His observations helped me frame the contradictions I saw: a nation proud of freedom that still wrestled with injustice; a people optimistic about tomorrow even as they grew wary of each other. He showed that to love a democratic country is also to confront its faults. In re-reading Tocqueville, I found a mirror not just for America, but for myself. I realized that I, like him, am drawn to democratic life across an ocean. His method – careful observation, modest humor, and a historian’s patience – taught me to temper my own judgments.

II. From Combative Impulses to Thoughtful Dialogue

When I first began writing about U.S. politics, I must confess, I was eager – even combative. I came to my computer with strong opinions, ready to declare truths. After all, I had studied revolutionary speeches and recent news from afar, and the injustices and zealotry I saw sometimes made me angry. It felt natural to fire off tweets or passionate social media posts railing against corruption, hypocrisy, or demagoguery. Like many others, I thought that intensity equals authenticity.

But over time, my approach changed. I remember one of my early posts: it was a short, fiery reaction to an injustice I saw in American policy. It got a lot of attention – but also a lot of anger back. I recall even accusing people of betraying American ideals; the instant replies included corrections and some scorn. A friend noted gently, “Passion is good, but you ended up shouting.” That stung. It made me wonder: Was I really being helpful, or just adding to the noise?

Gradually, I learned to pause before writing, to gather facts, and to listen more. I taught myself to ask questions rather than issue ultimatums. Instead of declaring “This is wrong!” I began to write, “It seems to me that X is happening, and I worry it could lead to Y.” Instead of a quick retort in a comment thread, I sometimes stepped back and researched deeper. I even found a certain humility in uncertainty: acknowledging that I might not fully understand some piece of American life, because I hadn’t lived it.

The turning point was a conversation where I typed something too bluntly. A person in the thread replied calmly, challenging my certainty. Initially, I wanted to snap back. But then I realized we had at least one shared value: both of us loved democracy. I took a breath and asked a question: “What about this issue troubles you most?” The answer that came back was complex and human. That exchange reminded me of why dialogue matters. Instead of winning a fight, I learned it was wiser to understand motivations.

So my writing shifted, I started this blog. It is still driven by urgency – what scholar would deny that democracy feels urgent today? – but it tries to be more thoughtful. I strive for conversation, not combat. When I publish an essay or engage in debate, I imagine an ideal commenter responding: not with mockery or rage, but with a follow-up question or even a quiet nod. This is not me preaching compromise – I still firmly call out dangerous ideas – but I aim to invite readers into a conversation. I grew convinced that if democracy is a conversation among citizens, then my role as a non-American writer is to speak carefully, not to shout.

III. Writing for Clarity and Honesty

Why write at all? This question came up more than once. My answer is simple: I write to think. Putting words on the page forces clarity. Often I sit at my desk with a jumble of thoughts – half-formed criticisms, memories of history classes, news articles half-remembered – and only when I struggle to shape them into a coherent post do I actually understand what I believe. Writing is my lantern in the dark. Each essay refines my own opinions, sometimes altering them.

But I also write to offer something honest to others. In an age where social media rewards the loudest voices, I want my contributions to feel like honest conversation with a friend. When someone reads a post of mine in 2025 or 2045, I hope they sense the person behind the words. That’s why I never try to pretend I have no biases or flaws – I openly admit mistakes, or uncertainties, when I catch them. I write not as an infallible pundit but as a person still learning.

This honesty extends to my motives. I am not writing to sell books or rally partisans. I’m writing because, at heart, I believe that when democracy falters, even a small clarifying light can help. If I can lay out what I think in simple terms – a fair question, a historical lesson, a possible solution – and then walk away and sleep, I consider that a success. I often say: “I write to give myself an honest account, and if it helps someone else think clearly, all the better.” Civic engagement need not only be marching or lobbying; to me, thoughtful commentary is also a form of participation. My blog becomes a civic space where analysis meets responsibility – where, as the banner says, “democracy deserves better than outrage.”

IV. Embracing AI: A Creative Partnership

Perhaps it surprises some readers when I mention this, but in practice, modern tools help my writing. I remember the painstaking hours of pen-and-paper essays in school; today I have an unlikely ally in writing: artificial intelligence. At first I was skeptical. How could a machine help with something so human as reflection on politics and history? But in practice, AI has become a valuable assistant, not a master.

Between my family, day job, and the constant news cycle, time and focus can be scarce. There are ideas I want to capture in real time but can’t always get down coherently. This is where AI tools have stepped in. I use them to brainstorm outlines when I’m blocked, to suggest alternative phrasing when I’m stuck on a sentence, or to quickly summarize a complex law or historical event I’ve only skimmed. It’s like having a helpful co-editor who never tires. Importantly, the final voice is always mine. I feed the AI rough thoughts or a draft, and it helps me tidy them up. But the arguments, the conclusions, and the passion come from my own mind.

Using AI this way has taught me something about authorship. The creative spark – the “authorial voice” – still resides in me. The AI simply carries some of the workload. In fact, it feels oddly in line with how historians have always worked: scholars share knowledge and peer review one another’s drafts. My AI assistant is just a very fast peer, helping me check facts and polish writing. I’m careful, of course: I don’t rely on it for analysis or research I wouldn’t trust, and I always verify its suggestions.

This partnership with technology has given me more freedom to write in spite of life’s constraints. I don’t have to wake up at 4 AM to fit in writing; I can jot a few lines into an app or chat with an AI and come back later to refine. If anything, embracing AI has underscored the idea that writing is about ideas, not tools. Whether with an old typewriter or cutting-edge software, the mission remains to engage the reader’s mind and heart. In our fast-moving world, using AI to serve that mission is just another way of reconnecting analysis with responsibility, and debate with decency.

V. Vitality and Restraint: Observing Two Cultures

It would be dishonest to talk about democracy and not mention something fundamental I’ve seen: the cultural differences between American vitality and European restraint. These differences are broad strokes, so please forgive the generalization. But living in Europe, one learns that people here often lean into caution. Conversations are polite. Before speaking up, Europeans might pause to consider how others will react, often striving for consensus. When it comes to government, Europeans generally expect it to play a role in guaranteeing social welfare; liberty in daily life is balanced by a web of rules for stability.

In contrast, Americans are more open in their enthusiasm and sometimes their anger. At a town hall meeting in the U.S., anyone can stand and speak their mind, and many do so passionately. In Europe, a similar meeting might end with more nods and far fewer standing ovations or finger-wagging tirades. Americans are quick to view life through the lens of “I agree” or “I disagree,” while Europeans may find shades of “maybe” or “on one hand… on the other hand.” This is not a criticism – it’s just a different default. I admire the American willingness to speak up and innovate; I also value the European tendency to deliberate cautiously and check every assumption.

This tension shows up in how politics is done. In the U.S., change can come fast – revolutions in technology, entrepreneurship, even bold political shifts – because people are encouraged to take risks. In Europe, change often comes more slowly, one small policy step at a time, because of historical experience with upheaval. Both approaches have merit. The American model fosters creativity and a spirit of challenge: you hear slogans like “reinvent!” or “disrupt!” everywhere. The European model tries to preserve what works and tweak where it fails, to avoid ruin. I’ve learned from Americans to embrace possibility, to cheer progress even if it feels messy. And I’ve learned from Europeans the value of humility – that sometimes a measured pause prevents disaster.

In writing about U.S. politics from my desk in Europe, I see how these temperaments color my perception. I am thrilled by civic engagement – those buzzing election nights, street campaigns, local activism. But I also cringe at the overheated rhetoric and partisan branding that sometimes serve more as weapons than as policy tools. Europe’s tradition reminds me that cooler heads and historical memory can help a nation reflect on its mistakes. America’s tradition reminds me that too much caution can make people apathetic or resigned. I try to bring the best of both: American vigor for change, European patience for process.

VI. Civic Engagement Grounded in Humility and History

Over the months, I have come to view this blog as more than a personal outlet. It has become my method of civic engagement. Yes, I am just one person tapping keys, thousands of miles away, but each post feels like sending a message across the Atlantic with hope that someone listens. The blog’s tagline – that democracy deserves better than outrage, and history more than nostalgia – reflects values I hold dear.

First, humility: I acknowledge that I do not have all the answers. Every essay I write includes a little voice that says, “You could be wrong. Maybe there are facts you don’t know, perspectives you haven’t heard.” This voice comes from history. As a historian and student of human affairs, I’ve seen how often people in power presume they’ve “solved” things, only to be humbled later by events. I’ve learned to respect complexity. Before I criticize a policy, I remind myself of the global context that shaped it. Before I celebrate a reform, I remember how easy it is for enthusiasm to fade or for unexpected consequences to emerge. History teaches patience and doubt as much as judgment.

Second, responsibility: I take seriously the notion that one who studies democracy has a duty to speak up. The very first post on this site declared that we must reconnect analysis with responsibility. That phrase guides me daily. It means I try to be careful: I cite facts (where needed), I admit uncertainties, and I avoid the intellectual laziness of soundbite politics. I also feel responsible for encouraging decency. Too often I see comment sections descend into anger or worse; this blog strives to model something different. I have listed some of our core principles in earlier posts: respect, curiosity, and the assumption that everyone cares about the country’s future, even if they disagree on how to achieve it. A short bullet list of what I aim for in civic engagement might look like:

• Debate with decency: Challenge ideas, not people. Assume good faith even when it’s hard.
• Reflect with responsibility: Base arguments on history and facts, and stay open to being corrected.
• Serve humility: Remember that our knowledge is limited, and that listening is as important as speaking.
• Act with purpose: Write and vote with the long term in mind, not just the next news cycle.

These aren’t just words on a virtual mission statement; they guide every post I publish. I’m still learning them, too. Every time I make an argument, I recall that I’m accountable to readers – maybe to that teacher, that veteran I once conversed with online.

History grounds all of this. When I write about present issues – elections, protests, legislation – I almost always weave in a historical thread: a founding principle, a past crisis, or a precedent from another era. This is because I believe democracy only thrives when citizens remember where it came from. My European heritage means I saw for myself how forgetting history can lead to repeated mistakes. That’s why a single blog post often starts with a date or a quote: it connects the dots from past to present. The goal is to show readers that their concerns are not isolated; they echo stories of the past, and future decisions will become tomorrow’s history. By writing with humility and history, I hope I’m engaging not just minds, but also consciousness.

VII. Looking to the Future: A Letter to My Sons and Others

Much of what I write feels like a conversation with an audience I haven’t yet met. I think about the readers years from now – students, citizens, maybe even my own children – and what these words will mean to them. I have two young sons, and I imagine them stumbling upon this blog one day. Will they see a father who worried too much, or one who did his best to understand a troubled world? My hope is that this record shows them my commitment to ideas bigger than myself.

To my sons, I would say: This blog is a labor of love for democracy. I don’t write for clicks or fame; I write because I believe in a better conversation. I hope you understand that history is not some dusty book but a living guide. The stories of people who came before, the sacrifices and the victories, are the inheritance I want to pass on to you.

In these pages I also want you to feel the warmth of human concern. The world can be scary, and sometimes I write about fear. But more often I write about hope. I hope you see that, despite our differences, people on different continents can care about each other’s futures. If you read that I defended someone’s right to free speech, or mourned the loss of civility, I want it to teach you empathy and courage. And if you find these essays preachy – well, forgive your old man. Know that it comes from wanting you and your generation to inherit something better than contempt and slogans.

Most of all, I hope you learn this: that writing matters. It matters because it enshrines ideas, it encourages reflection, and it connects us. Perhaps one day you will write your own thoughts for the world. If so, remember this humble start – a blogger trying to make sense of politics and history – and know that every voice has a place in the story.

VIII. Redefining Liberty: Reciprocity, Humility, and Dialogue

I want to end by circling back to an idea dear to me: liberty. We throw this word around a lot, but what does it mean to me personally? One of the greatest lessons of living between two worlds is that freedom is richer than it might first appear. I would define liberty not as the absence of constraints, but as a set of relationships and responsibilities. In my view, true liberty is built on three pillars: reciprocity, humility, and dialogue. Each of these could be a conversation on its own, so I’ll offer them as guiding points:

• Reciprocity: Freedom in one person should not mean disregard for another. I have reflected on this many times. For example, in a democracy, I am free to speak my mind – but I am also obliged to ensure others can speak theirs. My liberty ends where another’s begins. An American might express it as “you have your rights, and so do I” – but I see it deeper: to be truly free, each person must help the other stay free.
• Humility: Liberty means admitting that no one person or group has a monopoly on truth. I define humble freedom as the willingness to have my opinions changed. When I impose my will thinking I alone am right, I actually diminish liberty: I start to resemble the bully I oppose. Both America and Europe have stories of liberators who became dictators, often by losing humility. In our daily lives, this might look like saying, “I may be wrong,” or listening before speaking. My model for this was not an American hero but a European writer who said: “I came as a stranger, I remain as such.” That stranger’s humility – recognizing he’s still learning – is what I consider a truly liberated spirit.
• Dialogue: Liberty thrives in conversation. Talking across differences, not shutting them out, is essential. This blog itself is an experiment in dialogue. Democracy depends on it: a speech you don’t like should still be allowed so that the clash of ideas can happen. At times I’ve seen too much talk dismissed as “just talk,” as if speaking were pointless. I disagree. Every discussion where facts meet critique and concern meets answer is an exercise of freedom. I try to practice this by welcoming comments, by writing questions instead of dictums, and by reading viewpoints that disturb me.

Put simply, I do not see liberty as a solitary castle; I see it as a shared garden where everyone must tend and respect the others also in it. In that garden, where I stand shoulder to shoulder with fellow citizens – whether in Boston or Brussels – is where I feel truly free. When my sons are older, I hope they inherit that garden, not as an inherited right alone, but as a common trust.

Conclusion

In writing these reflections, I realize something: to be a citizen of two worlds is a perpetual balancing act. I celebrate American dynamism but apply European caution. I cherish liberty but bind it in duties of respect. I write with the urgency of the moment but anchor it in the wisdom of history. All this might seem contradictory, but perhaps that is the point: democracy itself is a work of beautiful contradiction. It is, like me, both hopeful and wary, expansive and humble, vibrant and thoughtful.

My journey from an eager outsider to a considerate interlocutor has taught me that belonging to the democratic community means continuous learning. It means engaging not because I am “qualified” by birth, but because I am willing to be held accountable to others, and to be changed by them. As Tocqueville reminded us and as I keep in my heart, America’s experiment remains just that: an experiment. It may never be perfect, but it offers the world a living case study of freedom’s possibilities and limits. Watching it, writing about it, and still calling it home in spirit – that is my transatlantic devotion.

I do not claim to know where this journey of democracy will end. I only know that I will continue writing – clarifying, questioning, learning – because I believe that nurturing a democracy across an ocean is not folly but hope. This blog, imperfect though it is, is one small act of that hope. In it, I remain, always, a citizen of two worlds: restless and grounded, critical and caring, forever searching for the true meaning of democracy and belonging.