The dictators of old didn't have it easy. Maintaining their popularity meant staging military parades, hanging enormous portraits, and occasionally filling entire cities with cheering citizens. The enthusiasm, of course, was arranged in advance. Such matters were far too important to be left to the public's mood on any given day.
The method worked, although it was undeniably expensive. Tanks consumed a great deal of fuel, flags needed regular replacing, and those obliged to attend the parades did not always manage to display the appropriate degree of joy, especially in the rain. Besides, one could never be entirely certain whether the crowd was celebrating the leader or simply the fact that the ceremony was finally over.
Fortunately, modern dictators have kept up with the times.
There is no longer any pressing need to summon tens of thousands of people into the streets. A well-lit studio, a handful of dependable journalists, and a clever algorithm can often serve national unity far more efficiently. The entire production costs less than a military parade, and the audience figures are easier to measure. Applause has given way to likes, enthusiastic crowds to follower counts. The results appear in impressive charts, enough to satisfy even the most suspicious ruler, provided they have been prepared by sufficiently loyal hands.
The nature of power, of course, has changed very little. Prisons continue to operate, journalists who ask inconvenient questions occasionally encounter unexpected difficulties, and political opponents cannot always enjoy the full benefits of the rule of law. The old methods remain. Only the packaging has become more elegant.
The dictator has learned to smile. He knows his way around social media, understands audience metrics, and regularly reminds the people how fortunate they are to have him as their leader. Occasionally, he even offers a glimpse into his private life. He shows them what he eats, where he exercises, and which book he happens to be holding. Reading the book is not strictly necessary; it generally looks excellent in photographs.
Sometimes he even goes food shopping to demonstrate what an ordinary man he is. On such occasions, he pushes a shopping trolley through a carefully selected supermarket while the staff do their best to behave naturally among the cameras and security personnel. The visit is invariably a great success. The most reliable evidence of that success is usually produced by the communications department.
The people, meanwhile, can feel increasingly close to their leader, who is only too happy to return their affection. At least until his beloved people begin developing rather too many opinions of their own. Mutual affection can occasionally lead to unfortunate misunderstandings.
The modern ruler, after all, holds freedom of expression in high regard, particularly when the opinions expressed happen to coincide with his own. Criticism is another matter. An inconvenient question can sometimes disturb him more deeply than an economic crisis. The latter can always be blamed on external forces; the former raises the awkward possibility that someone might doubt his infallibility.
A political enemy is therefore a remarkably useful invention. Without one, the leader might occasionally have to discuss his own achievements, which in certain systems would constitute an unnecessary risk. A well-chosen enemy, on the other hand, can be held responsible for almost anything: inflation, poor harvests, economic hardship. And when an enemy begins to lose his appeal, another can simply be found. Fortunately, defending the nation is the sort of undertaking for which a suitable threat is never in short supply.
At the morning communications meeting, the press chief frowns at the charts. Yesterday's enemy is no longer generating enough outrage, and last week's scandal now circulates only among the most devoted supporters. The advisers, looking suitably grave, begin searching for a fresh threat, one that, by the afternoon, everyone will solemnly insist has been threatening the country for years.
Meanwhile, the citizen checks the news for an entirely prosaic reason: he wants to know what is happening around him. A few unpaid bills lie on the table, and a number of simple questions occupy his mind. What is happening to his taxes, his pension, and the healthcare system? And what becomes of the public money whose journey through the state budget sometimes proves remarkably adventurous?
The leader has once again put someone firmly in their place. The person in question was not present, naturally, but this in no way diminishes the victory. Experts are already analysing the leader's courageous stand, his supporters are praising it, his opponents are condemning it, and before long everyone is debating the historical significance of his remarks.
Historical significance, incidentally, is a wonderfully accommodating concept. Its chief advantage is that it can be established immediately and is rarely checked afterwards.
The citizen cannot remain indifferent. He forms opinions, leaves comments, enters arguments, and, when necessary, is perfectly willing to do battle with complete strangers in defence of common sense. In the comments section, fortunately, he is still free to choose whom to be angry with. Who chose the subject for him is another matter.
By the time his little political campaign comes to an end, he knows precisely whom he disagrees with, who ought to be removed from office, and which commenter's intellectual abilities deserve closer examination. Yet he knows no more about the decisions made by his country's leaders that day than he did when he first checked the news.
Political debate gradually becomes a form of entertainment in its own right, complete with a regular cast, recurring enemies, and carefully prepared waves of outrage. Whenever the audience's attention begins to wander, all that is needed is a fresh scandal, an old grievance, or an announcement that the very survival of the nation is once again at stake.
Invoking the nation's survival is particularly convenient. While people are worrying about the fate of their homeland, they are considerably less inclined to enquire about hospital waiting lists, the details of public procurement contracts, or other matters that may be less uplifting but considerably more uncomfortable.
The audience is outraged, the politician saves the country once again, and the following morning the press reports on the extraordinarily momentous day the nation has just experienced. The real decisions are often made at precisely such moments: quietly, buried deep within neatly arranged agendas and appendices that few people ever bother to read.
These days, distraction does not even require much of a conspiracy. The news feed is perfectly willing to favour a spectacular scandal over stubbornly unexciting facts. Those in power often need only take care not to interrupt its diligent work.
The censors of old had to confiscate books, ban newspapers, and shut down newsrooms. Today's rulers can sometimes simply wait for the truth to disappear beneath an ocean of trivial information. And where that proves insufficient, the old methods remain fully operational.
By evening, the citizen puts down his phone, tired but satisfied. Over the course of the day, he has defended democracy, corrected three people, blocked a fourth, and reached firm conclusions on several matters of public importance.
The bills are still lying where he left them that morning.
Meanwhile, in a studio, the leader studies the viewing figures with satisfaction.
Tyranny has not grown gentler. It has merely learned what the entertainment industry discovered long ago: there is no need to lock an audience in when it stays of its own accord.
The next episode starts automatically.
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