Law often lags behind reality. This is a well-known maxim in legal theory: laws emerge, for better or worse, as responses to new and evolving social challenges. Politics, too, is meant to offer such responses—through negotiation among competing forces in search of what has been called “common ground.”

However, the rise of populist and demagogic movements has disrupted this process. In such contexts, “political facts” are no longer the product of pressing, undeniable realities, but often fabricated events—crafted to stir division and signal ideological belonging.

That is precisely where we find ourselves with a recent bill proposed by the far-right Chega party in Portugal. It aims to ban face coverings in public spaces—even when worn for religious reasons.

Though the bill is framed around public safety concerns—arguing that face coverings may hinder criminal investigations—it can be more accurately understood as an attempt to manufacture a political issue where none exists. On social media, party members have made it clear: this isn’t about all forms of face coverings; it’s specifically about banning the burka.

So, how is this a fabricated issue? Simply put: the burka is not a common sight in Portugal. One might argue that Chega is attempting to anticipate future problems. But in light of the party’s track record, it’s more plausible that this is part of a broader strategy to sustain a constant sense of cultural alarm. After the governing coalition (AD) took on the politically charged topics of immigration and citizenship law—triggering constitutional concerns and accusations of yielding to nativist pressure—Chega had to raise the stakes. What better way than to import a moral panic from other European contexts?

What’s telling is how the party justifies this measure: by positioning it as a feminist act, a defense of women’s rights against religious oppression. The bill states that anyone who forces another person to cover their face through threats, coercion, or abuse—specifically based on sex—should be punished under the criminal code for aggravated assault.

At the same time, the bill frames secularism as a justification for banning religious symbols in public institutions—schools, hospitals, public transport, and other state-run facilities. Here, Chega merges two traditionally contradictory lines of the radical right: an aggressive secularism aimed at Islam, and a nostalgic Christian nationalism seen in leaders like Viktor Orbán.

This rhetorical juggling act is part of a broader far-right strategy observed across Europe: embracing temporary “homonationalist” and “femonationalist” narratives—terms analyzed by Jean-Yves Camus and Nicolas Lebourg (2017), and by Sara R. Farris in In the Name of Women’s Rights (2017)—to defend so-called “civilizational values” against the threat of Islam.

This supports the view, articulated by theorists like Ernesto Laclau, that populism is less a coherent ideology than a flexible form of discourse and representation, built around a constant “us vs. them” logic. It is a political method that molds itself to the moment, always claiming to represent “the people” against elites, outsiders, or invented threats.

In the end, this bill is not about public safety, gender equality, or religious freedom. It is about staking ground in an imported culture war—and feeding the fire of identity politics with borrowed symbols. A classic maneuver in the ever-shifting playbook of the radical right.

Camus, J.-Y., & Lebourg, N. (2017). Far-Right Politics in Europe. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Farris, S. R. (2017). In the Name of Women's Rights: The Rise of Femonationalism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Laclau, E. (2005). On populist reason. Verso.

The reasons behind polarization are well known, and the literature has extensively documented them. They range from divergent social rhythms across regions of the West—even within countries, as seen in the contrast between urban America and the rural Midwest—with tensions between progressivism and a conservative cultural backlash around moral issues (the so-called culture wars), such as abortion, same-sex marriage, and the highly politicized issue of gender identity, to more material concerns related to migratory flows and cultural clashes.

The cultural dimension is the central node in this debate. Multiculturalism emerged as a concept aimed at explaining the dynamics of cultural encounters and hybridization resulting from the shift toward a “global village,” spurred by accelerated migration flows to the Global North. It became the natural consequence of cultural exchange and growing diversity that increasingly characterized Western societies—especially in major cities across Europe and North America. These were human flows and counterflows weaving new social fabrics.

However, critical voices emerged early on. In the 1970s, Alain de Benoist, architect of the European New Right (although far more philosophically sophisticated than today’s new right), raised concerns. In the 1980s, it was Alasdair MacIntyre, and in the 1990s, Samuel P. Huntington. They shared a common worry: the challenges multiculturalism posed to local identities and to a broader European identity. These ideas would later be taken up by others in the 21st century—Giovanni Sartori, for instance, who viewed multiculturalism as a dangerous illusion that underestimates the difficulties of integrating migrants from vastly different cultures; Renaud Camus, who developed the “Great Replacement” theory, now the ideological cornerstone of the post-Benoist New Right, based on the idea that there is an intentional political program to replace European populations with Muslim immigrants; and Roger Scruton, who regarded immigration as a threat to the stability and survival of liberal Western democracies, potentially leading to the erosion of the legal order and established social norms.

This line of thought stands in opposition to a counter-hegemonic perspective derived from the ideas of Antonio Gramsci, which have significantly influenced notions of “global citizenship” and cultural relativism. The Gramscian view, which sees hegemony as the cultural domination exercised by elites over subordinate classes, provided a theoretical foundation for challenging structures of power that promote cultural homogeneity and exclude marginal voices. Within this framework, multiculturalism—for Gramscian and postcolonial thinkers—is not seen as a source of social fragmentation or decline, but rather as a necessary response to Western cultural hegemony and imperialism.

Cultural relativism, as advocated by postcolonial thinkers such as Edward Said and Amartya Sen—both strongly influenced by postmodernism—argues that within multiculturalism, it is not enough to give voice and emancipation to those historically subjugated by Western imperialism. One must also adopt a relativistic stance toward the customs, norms, and social standards of migrant communities, even when these conflict with those of the host societies.

From this tension emerge two largely incompatible visions: on one side, a reactionary stance toward immigration and multiculturalism, advocating for the full assimilation of migrants and refugees into prevailing social norms, relegating religion to the realm of personal conscience and individual freedom; and on the other, an ultraprogressive view that sees hegemonic social norms as a continuation of Western colonial and imperial oppression, and is reluctant to acknowledge that large-scale migration poses inevitable challenges.

It is this tension that spills into the central café—through the television, the newspaper on the table, and the opinions exchanged at the counter. Their inherently reductive and simplistic nature is readily channeled by populist movements. Moral panic, sensationalist headlines on crime, and the visible presence of the “other” in spaces once marked by extreme uniformity all contribute to a rise in anti-immigrant sentiment.

However, research I conducted—whose results will be published in 2025—shows that among political elites, commentators, and other prominent figures, strongly polarized views are virtually absent. The clichéd portrayals of an “antinationalist left” committed to the Great Replacement and a reactionary right that rejects all immigration do not hold up. On the contrary, there is a clear concern with avoiding both extreme cultural relativism—which could be used to justify practices that violate human rights—and the rigid imposition of Western values that ignores the cultural particularities of migrants.

There is, therefore, an emerging consensus: immigration is necessary; peoples have the right to their cultural identities; but above all, human rights, the Constitution, and the legal framework must prevail. It is true that more radical actors feed the culture wars: on the left, by downplaying cultural differences and viewing capitalism as the source of all oppression; on the right, by pushing hard assimilationist narratives. But these are more the exception than the rule.

Nonetheless, one must recognize that once the issue enters the central café, it rarely leaves. And Portugal is only now taking its first steps into large-scale, culturally diverse migration. There are lessons to be learned—from both the successes and the failures—of countries that have already walked this path. Therefore, although the most radical political actors may have lost the culture war, even within their own camps, the situation can change rapidly if Portugal fails to implement a full, coordinated, and rights-based integration process—one that upholds the dignity of those who arrive, the primacy of human rights, and acknowledges legitimate concerns about local and national cultural identity. Letting the immigration debate slide into polarization means surrendering it to culture wars and populism. And nothing good ever comes of that.

After the forced invocation of the concept of “rebellion” to deploy troops to parts of California—politicizing a legal mechanism (Title 10; Section 12406 of the U.S. Code) for symbolic purposes, as a display of personal strength and a statement on the alleged “incompetence” of California Governor Gavin Newsom—in a dual maneuver of federal intimidation and political humiliation, any other president would be at risk. But not Donald Trump.

The situation escalated dramatically with the authorization of airstrikes on Iran’s nuclear facilities (Fordow, Natanz, and Isfahan) without prior Congressional approval, a clear and serious violation of the U.S. Constitution and the 1973 War Powers Resolution.

This unilateral decision reveals how Donald Trump understands the presidency: a fully unipersonal office, unchecked, unbalanced, and affirming his unmistakably illiberal and autocratic character—a Republican American version of the “Sun King.” With this move, Trump delivers a heavy blow to the principles of liberal democracy, particularly the essential separation of powers, established since Montesquieu as one of the foundations of modern constitutionalism.

Although voices have been raised—from Democrats like Bernie Sanders, who called the attack “alarming” and “grossly unconstitutional,” to some Republicans, like constitutionalist Thomas Massie, who also denounced its illegality—Trump, like all illiberal populists, seems capable of escaping unscathed, thanks to two structural and interconnected factors:
(i) the American electoral system, which is disproportionate and gives rural, MAGA-oriented regions outsized influence; and
(ii) the loyalty of his voter base, which relishes Trump’s shows of strength—whether in war or against American liberal institutions—following him like a charismatic evangelical preacher.

So, while there is a clear legal basis for initiating impeachment proceedings against Donald Trump, recent history shows that such efforts are ineffective. On the contrary, impeachment often serves only to reinforce his political capital, painting him as a victim of the establishment—that is, the political system that cannot tolerate men who claim to be “the voice of the people.”

With both the House of Representatives and the Senate in Trump’s grip, impeachment is unviable, further entrenching his image as untouchable and unremovable. For now, listening to the U.S. Secretary of Defense, one senses that the Trump Doctrine is a fusion of the Cobra Kai motto—“Strike first, strike hard, no mercy”—with Bush Jr.’s imperial illusion of a world under American moral surveillance. That imperial dream may well lead the United States down dangerous paths that could reshape global geopolitics.

In the end, it might well mark the political downfall of Trump. But until then, the American president seems unwavering—proud of his own reflection in the water. We shall see whether he ends like Narcissus—and what world he drags down with him into the waters where he so admires himself.