Antonio Navalón
When Ludwig van Beethoven composed “Ode to Joy,” he originally dedicated the last movement of his Ninth Symphony to Napoleon Bonaparte, the man who was reforming Europe with his codes and a new form of government. Napoleon represented for Beethoven the symbol of transformation, the break with an old order, and the rise of a leadership that, at least in appearance, promoted the values of liberty, equality, and fraternity that the French Revolution had promised. However, some time later, Beethoven changed that dedication and chose verses by Friedrich Schiller—for reasons known only to him—creating the melody that has been the official anthem of the European Union since 1972.
Beyond its harmony and orchestration, the Ode to Joy reflected the transition from warrior to statesman, from a conqueror who imposed his strength to a leader who organized societies and civil codes, representing the desire for freedom and solidarity in an era torn apart by wars, ambitions, and instability. This story reveals something profound: even the most sublime art arises from political decisions and historical contexts marked by ruptures and transformations. Music, like politics, is a testimony to its time.
Today, in a world saturated with news, scandals, statements, and information overload, we run the risk of accepting the extraordinary as normal. The fact that something is common does not make it any less alarming. Living surrounded by excess, abuse, injustice, and absurdity does not mean we should normalize it. The normalization of tragedy, corruption, and abuse of power is the precursor to social resignation, and resignation is the worst enemy of democracy.
In Napoleon’s time, it was not external forces that threatened the idea of the republic in Europe, but its own poor management. The same logic is repeated today: it is not external enemies that are dismantling democratic systems, but their internal inability to generate trust, results, and direction, almost always justified in the name of the vote, formal legitimacy, or the defense of supposed stability.
We are living a paradox in North America: the two major powers lack real political alternatives. In Mexico, the Fourth Transformation has consolidated its power despite its limitations, contradictions, and accumulated challenges, thanks to a disjointed and visionless opposition, as well as a communication apparatus that has turned any minimal government action into an epic. To the north, the “Woke Agenda” has distanced the Democratic Party from its traditional base of middle-class voters, unionized workers, and rural communities, weakening its leadership and leaving the way open for Donald Trump and his movement, which has masterfully appropriated the narrative of frustration and resentment.
Thus, while Morena concentrates political activity and the Mexican opposition is diluted by internal disputes and its inability to articulate a national project, in the United States, the Republican Party has become more of a vehicle for Trump than a party with a vision, strategic proposals, and collective leadership. The Democratic division and Morena’s concentration ultimately produce the same phenomenon: the absence of real competition, stagnation in public debate, and the construction of political systems without alternatives, where citizens vote more out of fear than conviction, more out of inherited loyalties than proposals for the future.
It is the inevitable cycle of monopolistic systems, whether single parties or hegemonic movements: they feed on expectations until, without real competition, they collapse under their own weight. Broken promises, people’s frustration, and internal corruption make the structure increasingly cumbersome, inefficient, and detached from reality, until its downfall is inevitable.
Today, US politics is defined by a handful of seats. Elon Musk, for example, has already donated $283 million to finance Trump’s campaign. All he would need to do is decide to support six congressmen and three senators to redefine the majority in Capitol Hill. His influence is so great that, if he were to reach an agreement with Gavin Newsom and moderate the “Woke Agenda” in California, he could place three congressmen in that Democratic state, undermining Trump’s hegemony without even formally touching the Republican Party.
These are not fanciful conspiracies, but the new reality of politics. The new Napoleon no longer needs armies; he needs algorithms, money, and digital platforms that amplify his will and strengthen his control. It is no longer essential to conquer territories with weapons; it is enough to colonize minds, trends, and discourse, and to finance those who defend one’s own interests, regardless of the parties to which they belong.
A significant problem with living in countries without viable political alternatives is that, unless there is self-discipline, internal regeneration, and genuine institutional reform, the only way to change the trend is through institutional violence. This is not military violence or open social confrontation, but rather the internal collapse of the system, a product of its own paralysis, corruption, and disconnection from society. It is the silent implosion of political structures incapable of generating prospects, trapped in their own labyrinth of power and loyalties, where every decision is made to preserve spaces rather than solve problems.
While Trump takes advantage of this fragmentation and Morena consolidates Mexican politics, as even the PRI was unable to do in its heyday, both countries are exposed to their own contradictions and structural weaknesses. The United States, with a broken two-party system captured by radicalized minority interests, faces the risk of normalizing politics as a spectacle without accountability. Mexico, with a hegemonic party that controls not only the executive and legislative branches but also the public narrative and social morality, faces the danger of confusing popular support with a license to govern without limits or accountability.
Trump and Morena share a common destiny: the rapid erosion of their legitimacy. When the political alternative disappears, the only thing that happens to the ruling hegemonic force is that the struggle between factions, petty interests, impunity, protection, and, above all, the existence of a leader above all else—who punishes and rewards—becomes its only fuel. First, to maintain internal control. Second, to create a political offer that allows it, at least for a while, to continue winning elections, even if no one knows what for.
Nothing lasts forever. What we see today, amid this drunken binge of abuse, misfortune, and absence of justice and security, is giving birth in some corner to an alternative to a system that, despite appearances, has only one activity left: internal implosion, as always happens with single-party systems, destined to administer and live off the hopes of the people. Monopolistic systems, such as single-party states, thrive on expectations… until they collapse.
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