Which Democracy?

“When a word stops connecting to practice, it starts meaning everything — or nothing.”

“I believe in democracy.”
It sounds clear — until someone asks:
“Which one?”

We grow up hearing the word. It’s in textbooks, speeches, protest signs, job descriptions. We’re told to believe in it. Defend it. Be proud of it.

But ask what democracy actually feels like in everyday life, and the answers get blurry.

• Is it voting?
• Having rights?
• Being heard?
• Having a say in decisions that matter?

We say “democracy,” but we’re not all talking about the same thing.

It’s a bit like saying “I believe in God.”
Everyone nods — until someone asks:
“Which one?”

Or maybe it’s more like saying:
“I like apples.”

Do you mean crisp and green? Soft and sweet? Baked into pie? Pressed into cider?

We think we’re saying something clear — until someone asks for detail. And then we realize: we’re not naming a single thing. We’re naming a whole range of meanings.

Democracy is like that.

When use disappears, meaning fades

Wittgenstein once said:
“Don’t ask for the meaning, ask for the use.”

Words don’t live in dictionaries. They live in how we use them — in what they let us do, and how they show up in practice.

If “democracy” once meant shared authorship, collective responsibility, and the right to shape what shapes you, then its meaning relied on people actually doing those things.

Now? We use the word for:

• A vote, every few years
• A survey with no follow-up
• A classroom where rules are explained, not made
• A workplace that listens, but doesn’t respond

The word is still here. But the practice has gone quiet.

When students grow up inside shallow versions of democracy

They’re taught democratic ideals — but rarely invited to experience them.

They might vote for a class representative,
but they don’t help design the rules that govern them.

They might be asked for their opinion,
but not included in the decisions that follow.

They learn the word.
But not the practice.

And so the word becomes thinner. Familiar, but vague.

And yet, we keep using it

In George Orwell’s 1984, language is controlled by force. The state doesn’t just dictate action — it rewrites meaning.

Words are bent into their opposites:

• War is peace
• Freedom is slavery
• Ignorance is strength

It’s deliberate. Terrifying. Heavy-handed.

But things didn’t go that way with democracy.

There was no Ministry of Truth.
No one redefined it overnight.

Instead, the word wore down slowly — through habit, repetition, and a quiet drifting away from lived experience.

Now we say:

• “Democracy is voting every few years.”
• “Democracy is saying your opinion and being thanked.”
• “Democracy is watching someone else decide.”
• “Democracy is giving feedback that changes nothing.”
• “Democracy is bureaucracy.”

And eventually —

Democracy becomes the word we use for something we no longer expect to shape.

It still sounds good.
It just doesn’t point to much anymore.

So what do we do?

We start by noticing.

By asking what democracy really means — not in theory, but in practice.

By looking closely at the distance between the word and the experience.

Because even if the details differ — like with God, or apples — most of us still sense what democracy is supposed to mean.

And when that meaning is left unused, others are always ready to reshape it — sometimes subtly, sometimes not.

In the next post, we’ll explore the different ways people interpret democracy — and why even the most well-meaning version starts to fail when participation fades, feedback disappears, and people are no longer part of shaping their shared lives.