A democratic minimalist’s response: in defense of democracy without preconditions

Abstract

I am grateful to the seven contributors for engaging so deeply with The Problem of Democracy. Each has offered a thoughtful analysis of democratic minimalism—my argument that democracy, defined by regular elections and rotation of power, should be valued in its own right, even if it produces illiberal outcomes. These responses come from different angles: some question whether democratic minimalism is enough to sustain itself, others worry it fails to deliver good governance or economic growth, and still others propose alternate frameworks to balance democracy with liberalism, religion, or communal autonomy. Taken together, they push me to clarify my position and address a fundamental question: Is democracy worth supporting, even when it comes “unbundled” from liberalism or immediate improvements in people’s lives? In this response, I will tackle the main critiques in turn—from the fragility of minimalist democracy and its capacity to deliver, to the trade-offs of U.S. policy, to deeper questions of state and pluralism—all while keeping with the spirit of frank, collegial debate that the symposium contributors exemplify. To begin, I should emphasize that democratic minimalism—understood as a system and means of governing and rotating power with no prejudice to substantive ideological outcomes—is not a panacea. It is, however, the starting point for any political order that aspires to legitimacy in a pluralistic society. The symposium authors raise valid concerns about the durability and desirability of stripped-down democracy. Here, I address their key insights while arguing that these challenges, though real, are best addressed through democratic practice rather than as preconditions for it.

Democratic minimalism and its discontents

Several contributors worry that my conception of democracy is too “thin” to sustain itself. Sam Mace warns that narrowing democracy to procedural minimalism risks opening the door for authoritarians to take power democratically and then erode democracy from within. In his view, without deeper normative commitment among citizens, a “minimalist” democracy invites its own undoing. Omar Sadr likewise critiques what he sees as the “monolithic” stripping away of liberalism and secularism from democracy, suggesting that my approach “argues that democracy prevails if we abandon liberalism and secularism,” thus ignoring ways to reconcile Islam with liberal norms (Sadr, 2024). Salih Yasun, for his part, notes that many Arabs define democracy in terms of tangible outcomes—jobs, services, dignity—and that recent democratic openings in the Middle East failed to deliver economic development, leading to disillusionment and authoritarian reversals (Yasun, 2024). A democracy that is merely procedural and does not perform for the public, he suggests, will be short-lived. These critiques share a common concern: is minimalist democracy too fragile or unresponsive for its own good?

I do not dismiss these concerns; history provides sobering lessons. We have seen illiberal populists come to power via elections and then chip away at institutional checks, with Viktor Orbán’s Hungary as perhaps the most notable case. We have seen voters grow cynical when democracy brings neither prosperity nor stability, as in Tunisia, where citizens soured on a chaotic transition (2011–2019) and chose to elect a populist strongman who then proceeded to dismantle democracy. The question is what follows from these lessons. For some, the answer might be to thicken democracy’s armor before allowing it to operate, insisting for example on entrenched liberal rights, secular constraints on religious parties, or economic safeguards that promise quicker material dividends.

My argument is the reverse. Precisely because democracy is fragile, we must give it the opportunity to take root and develop resilience by practicing it, not by waiting for perfect (or even merely good) conditions. Democratic minimalism is not a denial of liberalism’s importance; it is a sequencing choice born of humility about social engineering. Liberalism—understood as a set of non-negotiable substantive values like individual rights, personal autonomy, minority protections, and gender equality—is undoubtedly better for democracy’s long-term health. But when those values do not enjoy consensus support in a society, attempting to install them as prerequisites for electoral democracy is likely to backfire or prevent democracy from actually emerging in the first place.

As John Chin observes in his review, I reject the ‘sequencing paradigm’ that prioritizes liberalization before democratization (Chin, 2025). This is not because I oppose liberal ideals, but because in the Middle Eastern context, I see no plausible path to liberalism except through the experience of democratic contestation. The would-be arbiters of liberalism—western nations, secular autocrats, and “progressive” monarchs—have shown little ability or inclination to midwife tolerant, rights-respecting political cultures. More often, they use the promise of eventual liberalization as a fig leaf to indefinitely delay giving people a vote.

In his contribution, Sam Mace argues that democratic minimalism opens to the door for anti-democratic actors to attack and perhaps even destroy democracy from the inside (Mace, 2025). He cites the United States under Donald Trump as an example of this. But the United States has never been “minimalist” in this regard—it has been a fully-fledged liberal democracy for decades, including some of the most far-reaching constitutional protections of freedom of speech, expression, and religion of any world democracy. I would argue for a rather different lesson from the American experience: it was, if anything, the overreach of liberal elites and the Democratic Party—particularly during the Russiagate investigations which attempted to delegitimize Donald Trump’s 2016 electoral victory—that helped contribute to an anti-liberal and anti-democratic backlash from the right. This is not necessarily unique to the United States. The rise of populist parties is often the product of overzealous attempts to preclude them from power. In the European context, this has often taken the form of cordons sanitaires around the far-right, which have failed as well.

If the idea is to fully insulate or protect democracy from the rise of right-wing, illiberal forces to prevent them from rising in the first place, then liberal dominance and safeguards do not seem to be an effective means of doing so. It is also impractical to insist that democracy’s armor be so strong before people can be trusted to vote for alternatives. No such perfect democracy exists, and to insist on such greater levels of perfection the more people vote imperfectly is to create a set of internal contradictions that I worry are unsustainable.

Democratic backsliding is, of course, a real threat. But there is no way to guarantee that democratic backsliding does not occur. There is no “solution” to the problem of democracy. To return to the example of the Middle East, something like Hungary, a competitive authoritarian regime that still retains notable democratic features, would be far preferable to any of the dictatorship currently present in the region. For the United States to become like Hungary would be a tragedy. For the Middle East to become more like Hungary would be a great success.

This admittedly controversial statement prompts a fair question: Where exactly do I draw the line? At what point does “illiberal democracy” become something I can no longer defend, even if it’s merely a relative preference over the available alternatives? For me, the answer comes down to one core criterion—the possibility of alternation of power. As long as meaningful electoral competition persists, as long as today’s losers can imagine becoming tomorrow’s winners, the democratic game remains worth playing. When a regime forecloses that possibility—through systematic repression of opposition parties and candidates or the manipulation of electoral rules to guarantee particular outcomes—it ceases to be democratic in any meaningful sense. Short of threshold violations of this sort, I maintain that we must err on the side of tolerating illiberal outcomes as the price of genuine self-rule. This might be uncomfortable. But the alternative—preemptively deciding which outcomes are acceptable before people vote—is worse.

The false promise of waiting for an Islamic reformation

Nowhere is the debate over Middle East democracy sharper than on the role of Islam. Omar Sadr argues for what he calls “democratic pluralism” as a corrective to minimalism, insisting that we seek “compatible versions of liberalism and Islam within a pluralistic framework” as the path to reforming religion and politics in the Muslim world. In effect, he suggests that instead of decoupling democracy from liberalism, we must find a way to reconcile them—engaging in the theological and cultural labor to soften sharia, tame illiberal impulses, and achieve an ideological rapprochement that would make democracy safe for if not liberalism than at least a more liberal order. I applaud the spirit of pluralism in Sadr’s vision, but I take issue with the implication that the Middle East must wait for religious reform or liberal enlightenment before it can fully practice democracy. This claim gets the sequencing backwards. It is akin to telling a child that they cannot be allowed to swim until they have learned not to drown. How does one learn to live with ideological and religious difference, if not by actually living with it day by day in the messy give-and-take of democratic politics? It is democracy itself—imperfect, flawed, sometimes illiberal at the edges—that forces a society to confront its internal differences and, over time, to negotiate a live-and-let-live arrangement. Democratic practice is a more effective and just mechanism for accommodating deep ideological diversity than any enforced top-down consensus on religion’s role in public life.

A theological “reformation” in Islam, analogous to Christianity’s, is neither possible nor necessary, as I documented at greater length in my previous book Islamic Exceptionalism (Hamid, 2016). The historical contexts are very different, to put it mildly. European Christianity’s reformation and then enlightenment took centuries of violent conflict and social upheaval; they were not gentle seminars in pluralism. To demand that Muslim-majority societies first produce enough Martin Luthers or John Lockes before they earn the right to self-government is both unrealistic and fundamentally illiberal in itself. It means denying millions of people agency in the present based on a hope that, if we indefinitely postpone democracy, a more enlightened society will somehow emerge under the tutelage of enlightened autocrats or external powers. The evidence of the past decades counsels skepticism.

The Middle East’s secular autocrats have not, on the whole, nurtured liberal values in their societies. To the extent that they have, they have merely promoted a kind of blinkered and very narrow cultural or social liberalism, as exemplified in Saudi Arabia under Crown Prince Mohamed bin Salman. They have offered nothing in the way of political liberalism, whether freedom of speech or the right to assembly and political expression. As Haroun Rahimi notes, the very model of the centralized nation-state—inherited from colonial imposition—has proved ill-suited to managing the Muslim world’s moral heterogeneity (Rahimi, 2024). His provocative suggestion to “deconstruct the nation-state to make room for communal self-governance and moral heterodoxies” underscores a truth: diverse religious communities need mechanisms to govern their affairs without feeling that one side will capture the state and impose its will wholesale.

But my main objection with Rahimi’s proposal is more practical than substantive. In an ideal world, deconstructing the nation-state might be possible (but perhaps not even then). In the far less than ideal world in which we actually live, it is simply a non-starter, at least in the short-to-medium term. I’m always open to long-term hopes—who knows what the world will look like in, say, 100 years—but I’m not sure it’s very helpful in policy terms, so long as actually-existing human beings have to contend with the immediate and quite tragic costs of authoritarianism in the short run.

Rather than doing away with the centrality of the nation-state altogether, the practice of democratic politics within nation-states can serve a similar goal by devolving power, encouraging coalition-building, and compelling mutual toleration through the possibility of electoral defeat. This may not “deconstruct” the state, as Rahimi hopes, but it can temper it, and we should be willing to take that as a win. In other words, a genuinely pluralistic order is possible within nation-states. And that order is more likely to emerge as the result of democratic contention—including contention between Islamists and secularists—than as the precondition for it. Sadr is correct that we should “leverage pluralism,” but I see democratic elections and party competition as key instruments to do so, rather than rewards to be granted only after a culture of pluralism has been somehow realized in the hearts and minds of citizens.

Consider the experience of countries like Tunisia and Egypt during their brief democratic openings. As I detailed in my previous work (Hamid, 2016), drawing on extensive fieldwork and interviews with Muslim Brotherhood and Ennahda leaders, these transitions did not fail because ordinary citizens were irredeemably illiberal or incapable of compromise; they faltered because powerful actors—militaries, old-regime elites, and intransigent ideological factions — were unwilling to lose. But even in failure, those episodes taught valuable lessons and created, however fleetingly, a space of pluralistic debate. Tunisia’s Islamists and secularists, for example, negotiated a constitutional compromise in 2014 that neither side would have imagined a few years prior—a small proof of concept that political contestation can yield ideological accommodation. That experiment was cut short by a reversion to one-man rule, and indeed Sadr also points to Afghanistan’s experiments with democracy (2001–2021) as a case where democratic minimalism was not enough. But the lesson I draw is not that democracy was futile; rather, that young democracies imposed and maintained by external powers always come with an asterisk.

The Afghan state that collapsed in 2021 was, as Jennifer Brick Murtazashvili reminds us, a “minimal democracy” on paper but one missing the substance of governance and roots in indigenous self-governing traditions, of which Afghanistan had many (Murtazashvili, 2024). Thomas Barfield’s history of Afghan governance (Barfield, 2010) makes clear just how alien the centralized state model was to Afghan political culture; Astri Suhrke’s critique (Suhrke, 2011) of the international project which tried to transform Afghanistan into something it wasn’t—and probably could not be—underscores this point.

Afghans were asked to vote, but real authority often lay with warlords, foreign patrons, and an extremely centralized presidency that ignored local capacities. If anything, Afghanistan demonstrates that how democracy is done matters: Had there been greater recognition of communal forms of self-rule, devolution of power, and inclusion of all factions in a negotiated settlement, the outcome might have been different. In short, trying to impose a prefabricated liberal-democratic model failed; a more minimalist and locally driven democratic process—one that might have included power-sharing with various Islamist elements rather than their exclusion—could have yielded a more sustainable governing order. This reinforces my argument that we should push for “less” social engineering from the outside and allow societies to organically find their equilibrium between religion and politics, rather than insisting on liberal precepts and gender equality from day one.

The case of Afghanistan reinforces another point, and it’s a sobering one. Not all democracies will persist. Some will fail, but this does not—or at least should not—negate democracy itself. Historically, some democracies take hold, while others do not. To expect otherwise seems odd to me.

Democracy, governance, and performance

Several reviewers highlight that elections alone do not make a democracy durable or worthwhile unless accompanied by effective governance and attention to citizens’ needs including by delivering tangible economic benefits. Jennifer Brick Murtazashvili’s essay aptly makes the case “that governance remains especially significant to promote peace and prosperity in fragile states.” She worries that my focus on the who of government (who rules via elections) underplays the how of governance (what those rulers do and how capably they do it). Yasun’s analysis drives home a related point: in Arab Barometer surveys, large numbers of citizens judge democracy by its ability to deliver economic goods. For them, a democracy that does not improve their material conditions is not a real democracy. If the “ballot box alone” cannot curtail corruption, dismantle entrenched patronage networks, or jumpstart development, people may conclude the system has failed and yearn for the (illusory) certainty of authoritarianism.

These are fair warnings. Democratic minimalism was never meant to celebrate bad governance or to suggest that we should be content with incompetent or illiberal leaders so long as they are elected. Rather, it is about setting priorities: first, secure the basic principle that governments derive authority from the consent of the governed; then, work to improve what those governments do with that authority. I share Murtazashvili’s view that democracy has not “lived up to the promise” in cases where it was tried in the Middle East and Asia—indeed, expectations were often unrealistic or reforms half-hearted. One way of addressing this is to adjust expectations. Young democracies should not promise things that they cannot deliver or are beyond their control—and economic growth is not something that democracies, at least not in their first years, are particularly good at. The reason for this is that newly elected leaders are inheriting a basket of problems and dilemmas that bubble up during decades of brutal authoritarian rule. It is difficult to get economic results, when you are trying to cobble up a willing coalition to draft a constitution or design basic electoral institutions from scratch.

But I also worry about the potential implication that good governance should be prioritized over actual self-rule through electoral representation, an argument that technocrats and autocrats alike often default to. Good governance is not typically bestowed by “benevolent” autocrats or interventionist militaries. If it was, then countries like Tunisia and Egypt would not have experienced the very discontent that led to mass uprisings in the first place. Good governance, if it is to be sustainable, evolves through trial and error, accountability, and – yes – pressure of elections. But this takes time.

We should recall that even long-established democracies often started their journey mired in corruption and clientelism. The United States in the 19th century, or many early European democracies, were rife with graft and political machines. Over time, democratic competition and civic activism helped clean up politics and build state capacity. Voters learned to demand more than just patronage; institutions learned to respond or be voted out. A similar dynamic could occur in the Arab world. But it can only happen if the channel of accountability—elections—exists to begin with. Authoritarian regimes, by contrast, may be better at performative governance (grand projects, short-term handouts) while hollowing out institutions. When they do deliver growth, it comes at the cost of freedom; when they fail (as most have in the Middle East), they leave a wasteland of corruption with no obvious way to correct it.

So while I take Yasun’s point that “minimalist democracy may fail to respond to the aspirations of the masses” and thus risk reversal, the remedy is not to abandon democratic minimalism but to broaden our understanding of democratic practice once minimal conditions are in place. Democracy must become more than periodic elections; it should encompass political liberalism, vibrant civil society, public deliberation, and local governance where citizens are actually compelled to solve problems together. In this respect, I welcome Sam Mace’s call for thicker forms of deliberation that empower citizens. Democratic minimalism was never intended to celebrate civic minimalism. On the contrary, I argue that when politicians and ordinary citizens know they can change governments at the ballot box, they have greater incentive to engage in the civic and deliberative work of improving governance. If they know that no matter what they do, a strongman or unaccountable clique will remain in power, that incentive withers and cynicism prevails.

Whether or not citizens embrace such directions, however, is ultimately up to them. They can vote for parties and leaders that prioritize things like devolution of power and local governance, or they can vote for parties and leaders that do not. As for Mace’s suggestion of Athenian-style “lottocracy,” where citizens are chosen at random to participate in deliberative bodies, it’s a valuable idea in theory. But the only way to get to those sorts of innovative policies is through the ballot box. If enough voters want “lottocracy,” they can vote for it. That they probably will not is not a mark against “normal” democracy. They, like the rest of us, get the government—and policies—they deserve. To say that they should want things most of them clearly do not want yet (lottocracy has rarely been adopted on any real, nationwide scale) is fine as a matter of political theory. But is it practical or realistic for conflict-ridden societies, after decades of authoritarian rule, to skip all the intermediate steps and get straight to lottocracy, or some other ideal deliberative state?

Economic liberalism

One practical augmentation to my argument, suggested by Ilia Murtazashvili, is to consider the role of economic freedom and opportunity as part of the response to the problem of democracy (Murtazashvili, 2025). He notes that free markets and open economies can create a middle class with a stake in political stability and provide channels for people to improve their lives independent of the state. I agree that economic liberalism, in the classical sense of freer enterprise and less state domination of the economy, can bolster democratic resilience. Rentier economies and kleptocratic state sectors have been a bane on the Middle East, enabling regimes to buy off constituencies and entrench elite privilege. A democracy-first approach need not imply hostility to markets; on the contrary, breaking crony monopolies and encouraging entrepreneurship could both improve governance and undermine the “overriding interest groups” that Yasun notes are barriers to development.

In short, while I argue against social liberalism (the insistence on secularism and progressive values) as a necessary component of democracy, I see merit in pursuing economic liberalization alongside democratization. Doing so might help align the aspirations of unemployed youth and frustrated citizens with the success of the new democratic order, by generating jobs and reducing the corruption that flourishes in closed economies. This is an area where future policy thinking—perhaps a “democratic minimalism 2.0”—could indeed weave governance and development concerns more tightly into the agenda. My core thesis, however, remains that nothing motivates a government better than the knowledge it must win the real votes of real voters. Accountability is the bridge between democracy and good governance. But there’s a catch. This assumes that people vote their economic interests, which, as fledgling and old democracies repeatedly demonstrate, is not necessarily the case. In polarized societies—and I do not think there’s anything intrinsically wrong with polarization, since it’s born out of real, foundational differences—people often vote for their ideological or “emotional” self-interest. I’m not sure if there’s any real way around this, short of designing new voters from scratch.

Liberalism and the problem of political culture

At heart, The Problem of Democracy wrestles with the tension between liberalism and democracy—between the liberal worry that majority rule can threaten individual rights and the democratic insistence that people’s collective choices must be respected, even if illiberal. Several commentators probe this tension. John Chin succinctly summarizes one of my key claims: that liberalism and democracy, which many assumed would always advance hand in hand, are in fact “diverging” in various contexts. In Western democracies, we see growing illiberal populism; in the Middle East, we see that free elections (when they occur) empower parties with socially conservative or Islamist agendas. Chin questions whether liberal elements are truly separable from democracy’s survival, citing data from Varieties of Democracy showing a high correlation between electoral democracy and liberal rights protections globally. He also points to empirical research suggesting that societies imbued with liberal or “emancipative” values tend to sustain democracy better, whereas illiberal publics are more prone to accept authoritarian outcomes. In other words, critics are right to ask: if a culture is deeply illiberal, can its democracy endure? Isn’t there a cultural precondition lurking behind the facade of procedural minimalism?

My response is twofold. First, correlation is not causation. Yes, the world’s stable democracies today also happen to be broadly liberal in culture. But was it liberal culture that enabled democracy, or decades (even centuries) of democratic experience that nurtured liberal norms of tolerance and dissent? Likely it is a virtuous cycle: once democracy took hold (often in quite illiberal soil, as in 18th–19th century America or postwar Japan), it created space for liberal ideas to flourish, which in turn strengthened democracy. The Middle East’s tragedy is that this cycle never begins; seeds of liberalism cannot grow under the pavement of authoritarianism. If anything, politically illiberal norms have hardened under dictatorships that explicitly persecuted moderates and reformers. It is noteworthy that some of the most liberal-minded, pluralistic voices in the Arab world are precisely those activists who participated in the democratic experiments of the Arab Spring. They did not emerge from the salons of the Mubaraks and Assads; they emerged when given a chance to organize and debate freely. This suggests that democracy is a teacher of liberal values, not always their pupil.

Second, as I’ve already alluded to above, we must be careful about what we mean by “liberal values” in a non-Western context. Many Arabs and Muslims may harbor conservative social views (on matters of religion, gender roles, etc.), yet they also express strongly democratic aspirations—desires for voice, justice, and an end to tyranny. They may not phrase this in the language of John Stuart Mill, but the essence is a rejection of unchecked power. This is why I maintain that the “continued inability to accommodate competing conceptions of Islam’s role in public life” is the real problem, not Islam per se.

If a pious Muslim distrusts liberal secularists, and a secularist fears an Islamist’s agenda, the only fair mechanism to mediate their conflict is democracy— where both sides must compromise to win votes, and where neither can abolish the other. Chin quotes Adam Przeworski on the delicate balance required: democracy works when no side’s defeat is “excessively painful” or irreversible. In a deeply divided society, that balance is hard to achieve—the stakes feel existential. But again, how do the stakes become lower? Not by one side vanquishing the other’s worldview (which only heightens desperation), but rather by repeated alternations of power that prove to both sides that they can survive out of power. This is why I place so much emphasis on accepting illiberal democratic outcomes in the short term: to get to a long-term equilibrium where today’s losers believe they can be tomorrow’s winners, we have to allow for some governments that will implement policies Western powers and liberal Arab elites do not like. Yes, those may include policies restricting alcohol, or blasphemy laws, or conservative social codes.

I fully recognize the discomfort here; these are policies I, as a self-identified liberal, oppose on the merits. But I also recognize that many citizens in these societies support such policies. To preempt their preferences indefinitely is to all but ensure perpetual conflict. Far better to let contested policies rise and fall via democratic turnover. It is worth emphasizing that Islamist parties are rarely the primary cause of democratic breakdowns in Muslim-majority countries. In one study, Tarek Masoud found that out of 15 democratic breakdowns in Muslim-majority countries since 1974, zero involved an Islamist party winning elections then dismantling democracy. Out of 71 “democratic declines” since 1974, Islamists are implicated in only three (Masoud, 2021).

I should acknowledge that not everyone agrees with me on this, nor should they. Critics point to the Brotherhood’s majoritarian overreach in Egypt or argue, as Samuel Huntington did in a different era, that Islamist ideology makes democratic consolidation difficult, if not impossible. That said, the empirical record before and after the Arab Spring tells a different story. When breakdowns came (as in Algeria 1992 or Egypt 2013), it was because Islamists were blocked after winning, not because they succeeded in some illiberal master-plan. The “Trojan horse” fear is largely overblown. In short, you do not get to an embrace of liberal principles by barring illiberal parties from ever wielding power; you get there by subjecting those parties to the accountability of governing and the give-and-take of an open society.

The role of the United States: limits and responsibilities

Finally, these essays prompt reflection on what the United States and other external actors can and cannot do. Chin’s review engages with my critique of U.S. foreign policy’s “stability first” paradigm. He correctly notes that I call for America to “decouple U.S. support for democracy from U.S. support for liberalism” in the Middle East—meaning Washington should be prepared to accept illiberal democracies (including Islamist-led ones) rather than clinging to friendly autocrats who mouth liberal rhetoric. Several commentators implicitly ask whether this is realistic or wise. Chin interrogates the assumptions behind a democracy-first policy: Are U.S.-backed dictatorships truly so brittle? What about the trade-off between promoting Arab democracy and maintaining peace with Israel? And is the U.S. willing to pay the costs of alienating longstanding allies or seeing hostile forces elected?

These are legitimate questions, made all the more acute by recent events. As Chin observes, the October 7, 2023 Hamas attack on Israel and the ensuing war have cast a long shadow on hopes for democracy in the near term. Many will say that this tragedy proves the folly of empowering illiberal actors: they will use their freedom to wreak havoc. Yet I would argue the lesson is more complex. Hamas’s initial rise in Gaza was itself a product of a stifled democratic process — an election won, then a government boycotted and besieged, leading to desperation and radicalization. The status quo of “democracy last” in the Israeli-Palestinian context has yielded neither peace nor freedom; it has yielded periodic war and permanent occupation.

As horrifying as the violence has been, when this war finally ends, the fundamental moral and strategic calculus will remain: a sustainable peace will require legitimate governance by and for Palestinians, and that legitimacy can only come through democratic means, however messy. Chin cites the president of Freedom House, who argued after October 7 that for Israelis and Palestinians, “peace and freedom must go hand in hand.” I would extend that principle to the region as a whole: if we want a durable peace between states and peoples, it will have to be built on democratic legitimacy. Continuing to prop up dictators and indefinitely defer Arab popular sovereignty will only ensure that when change comes, it comes explosively.

Of course, the United States cannot impose democracy, and it certainly cannot dictate the character of another society’s democracy. But it can stop actively impeding democratization. It can cease indulging coup-makers and autocrats who overthrow elected governments. It can apply consistent pressure on allies and adversaries alike to respect basic political rights. It can offer carrots for reform, such as the “Multilateral Endowment for Reform” I and Peter Mandaville have proposed (modeled on the Millennium Challenge Corporation) to incentivize gradual liberalization in semi-authoritarian states (Hamid and Mandaville, 2013). It can, as Chin notes, use its leverage especially on friendly regimes like Egypt, Jordan, or Saudi Arabia, where U.S. support has long been a pillar of authoritarian stability. The obstacle is less a lack of tools than a lack of will and imagination. Washington has been locked in a mentality since Kissinger’s day that equates authoritarian stability with American interests. I argue that this mindset is not only morally dubious but strategically short-sighted. America has paid a price for its “sins of omission” in failing to support democratic movements, as I document with cases from the Bush and Obama years.

Those missed opportunities contributed to the cynicism and anti-American sentiment that plague our relations with Middle Eastern publics. Yes, there are risks to a democracy-first approach. A truly democratic Middle East might elect some leaders who are less friendly to U.S. interests or to Israel in the short run. But over the long run, a Middle East of illiberal democracies would, I contend, be more stable and less likely to produce transnational terrorism or war than a Middle East of “liberal” dictatorships. Why? Because governments that have to answer to their people are less likely to drive their societies to a boiling point. And critically, a democracy-first U.S. policy would erode the single most potent rallying cry extremists have: the claim that the West denies Muslims the right to govern themselves. As I write in The Problem of Democracy, and as Chin reiterates, America is never truly a “bystander” in the region. Even inaction is a form of action—tilting the scales toward the stale status quo. If that status quo is morally untenable and unsustainable (and I believe it is), then U.S. “realism” is in fact profoundly unrealistic. Eventually, the volcano will erupt again (as it did in the Arab Spring), and the longer genuine democratization is delayed, the more extreme and polarized the eruption may prove to be.

To be clear, a democracy-first policy is not a call for naive idealism or sudden regime change adventurism. It is, in a sense, a managed risk, based on a judgment that the risks of the current course (another generation of stagnation punctuated by revolts, civil wars, refugee crises, and extremist surges) are greater. Even if Washington cannot deliver democracy, it can refrain from actively undermining it. It can signal clearly that coups against elected governments will result in isolation rather than business-as-usual. It can align itself with the people’s legitimate aspirations, which is a better long-term bet than anchoring itself to ageing autocrats. And it can prepare for the contingencies of change: for example, if an Islamist-oriented government comes to power, engage it on the basis of behavior rather than rejecting it for ideology. The U.S. can also play a role by supporting the liberal habits of democracy (free media, rule of law, minority protections) even as it accepts the illiberal outcomes that a majority might initially choose. This is a subtle but important distinction.

Conclusion: learning to live with democracy’s risks

The contributors to this symposium have pushed me to acknowledge that democracy—especially in its minimalist form—comes with real risks and uncertainties. They have reminded me that values and cultures do matter, that governance and economics cannot be ignored, and that external actors like the United States face trade-offs in trying to foster democracy abroad. I have tried here to absorb those insights without yielding on my core conviction: that Arab and Muslim-majority societies deserve the right to govern themselves now, not at some distant horizon when they have ticked all the boxes of liberalism, secularism, or state capacity.

Democratic minimalism was never offered as a complete theory of justice or development; it was offered as a way out of the paralysis that has afflicted debates on Middle Eastern democracy. It says: let us start with first principles. Let people choose. Do not predetermine outcomes. Accept that we cannot agree on ultimate ends—be it an Islamic state or a liberal society—before we even begin the journey. Instead, agree only on the rules of competition. Some of the symposium’s authors would like to see more from democracy—more virtue, more deliverables—than my minimalist conception provides. I do not begrudge that. I too would like to see Arab democracies that are liberal, prosperous, and well-governed. The crux is how to get there. They worry I am selling the region short, “pushing for less” than what might be possible. I worry they may inadvertently be setting the bar so high that we never get started at all. Between these viewpoints lies a healthy tension.

Democracy is always a work in progress, always evolving beyond its minimalist origins. Indeed, as Sadr rightly notes, my argument ultimately is about the problem of liberalism as much as the problem of democracy. Liberal democracy, as an ideal package, is not taking root in the Middle East anytime soon. But democracy without liberalism might—if we let it. And from that unpredictable, at times uncomfortable experiment, more pluralistic and liberal tendencies may gradually emerge. There are no guarantees. Democracy will sometimes produce “bad” outcomes; it will sometimes scare us. But I submit that the absence of democracy has produced far worse outcomes in this region. Illiberal democracy is better than illiberal autocracy, both morally (because it respects people’s agency) and practically (because it contains a built-in course correction mechanism).

The symposium began by asking whether democracy should be pursued as an end in itself, even when it clashes with liberalism or other goals. I have argued, and continue to argue, that it should. This is a normative stance—I unabashedly believe in the moral right of peoples to self-government—but it is also an empirical wager on the future. If democratic minimalism is given a chance, I wager that over time it will not remain minimalist. As citizens gain voice, they will likely demand more rights, better governance, and yes, more freedoms. The path will not be linear, and some countries may backslide (as they already have). But unlike under autocracy, backsliding under democracy is not terminal; a society can find its footing again.

In closing, I return to the fundamental question I pose in my book: How do we respect democratic outcomes when the results threaten what we hold most dear? This is not just a question for Middle Eastern liberals frightened of Islamist victories; it is one that haunts Americans and Europeans as well, as populist movements challenge liberal norms at home. My answer, in all contexts, is that the alternative—disrespecting democratic outcomes—leads to a dead end of perpetual conflict. The only way out is through: through the hard work of politics, persuasion, and yes, defeat followed by renewal. I remain, after absorbing my colleagues’ critiques, more convinced that Arab and Muslim societies should not have to wait for some mythical reformation or enlightenment to enjoy the basic dignity of self-rule. They are ready now, as ready as any nation or people ever is. Our task, as scholars or as policymakers, is to help remove the man-made obstacles in their path. The rest is up to them. Democracy will not solve all problems—indeed, it will introduce new ones—but it will at least make those problems their own. And that, ultimately, is the first step to solving them.

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