Donald Trump's decision to impose retaliatory tariffs on Brazil in response to Jair Bolsonaro’s prosecution marks a new escalation in the international campaign against Lulism—understood here not only as a political programme, but as a global symbol of a threatened progressive order. To grasp the depth of this confrontation, it is necessary to look back at the history of Brazil–US relations, shaped by geographic proximity and longstanding ideological alignments.

Beginning in the so-called “age of nationalisms,” particularly during the Getúlio Vargas era (1930–1945) and later under President Eurico Gaspar Dutra (1946–1951), Brazil began its long journey of political alignment with the United States. Dutra’s presidency marked the start of a doctrine positioning Brazil as a key player in Washington’s “backyard” during the Cold War. American interference took on more explicit contours with the 1964 military coup that ousted João Goulart—an operation supported logistically and politically by the United States under President Lyndon B. Johnson, known as “Operation Brother Sam.”

This U.S. involvement was rooted in Cold War logic, aimed at curbing the spread of communism—particularly in what Americans viewed as their strategic “southern garden.” It reflected the Monroe Doctrine’s hemispheric hegemony and the National Security Doctrine, which justified interference in sovereign states under the guise of defending democracy and U.S. interests abroad.

With the fall of the Berlin Wall and the wave of democratisation across the globe, Brazil entered a new phase in its relationship with the U.S. during the administrations of José Sarney, Fernando Collor de Mello, Itamar Franco, and Fernando Henrique Cardoso. This was a period marked by cooperation, economic liberalisation, and adherence to the principles of the Washington Consensus, as Brazil embraced globalisation.

The era of Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva ushered in a new chapter. Brazil gained significant symbolic capital both within the BRICs—where it emerged as a rising economic power and a voice of the Global South—and during Barack Obama’s presidency, in which Lula was seen as a progressive democratic icon with a strong labour-oriented ethos.

Donald Trump's rise to power amid a broader wave of right-wing illiberalism across the West paved the way for Jair Bolsonaro’s ascent in Brazil. This established a new American–Brazilian ideological axis rooted in shared illiberal values. In the Brazilian case, this was compounded by an explicit nostalgia for the military dictatorship and a symbolic rehabilitation of authoritarianism as a tool of “order” and “patriotism.”

It is within this context that Trump’s new 50% tariffs on all Brazilian imports—set to take effect on 1 August 2025—must be understood. These tariffs, framed as retaliation for Bolsonaro’s prosecution, which Trump has denounced as a “witch hunt,” are not purely economic—they are profoundly political.

This move serves a dual purpose. On one hand, it is an attack on multiculturalism and “cultural Marxism,” of which Lula is a prominent global representative. Brazil has become fertile ground for this ideological clash. On the other, the sanctions appear designed to bolster Bolsonaro’s possible return to power—a figure wholly aligned with Trump’s worldview—reinforcing an American-led axis of political and cultural hegemony in the region. In this way, the use of economic sanctions becomes a tool of ideological coercion, reflecting the increasing overlap between economic warfare and cultural warfare in illiberal regimes.

Brazil is once again a stage for global ideological confrontation. On one side stands the nationalist, autocratic right—Trump, Orbán, Le Pen, and, in different circumstances, Putin and Xi. On the other, multiculturalism and the globalist agenda, now maintained more by institutions than individual figureheads. Within this dynamic, Brazil is not just a mirror, but a laboratory where the battles between liberal democracy and contemporary authoritarianism become more visible—and more acute.

A separação entre Estado e Igreja inaugurou o que Max Weber chamou de “desencantamento do mundo”. Mas a ausência de uma religião civil nas democracias ocidentais não eliminou a necessidade de sentido transcendental. Pelo contrário, abriu espaço para novas formas de espiritualidade — ora centradas no indivíduo, ora projetadas em ideologias políticas que reencenam o sagrado sob novas roupagens.

A separação entre Estado e Igreja, enquanto marco fundacional das democracias liberais, abriu caminho à secularização das sociedades e àquilo que Max Weber denominou de desencantamento do mundo. Com o declínio da religião institucional como fonte dominante de sentido, assistiu-se à emergência de novos itinerários espirituais — desde a adesão a comunidades religiosas alternativas até experiências individuais de espiritualidade holística, moldadas pelo liberalismo moderno e pela autonomia do sujeito.

É nesse contexto que surge o despertar espiritual da Nova Era: uma espiritualidade personalizada, híbrida, centrada na experiência subjetiva do “eu” como entidade espiritual em constante reinvenção. Aqui, a religiosidade não é institucional, mas vivencial; não é dogmática, mas estética; não é coletiva, mas individualizada e sensível às dinâmicas do mercado espiritual global.

Contudo, paralelamente a esse despertar imaterial centrado no “sujeito-alma”, emergiu um outro tipo de reencantamento — desta vez, político. Nele, o sujeito percebe-se como oprimido ou opressor, e a salvação vem pela denúncia, pela exposição e pela purificação social. Este reencantamento dá origem a formas de religiosidade secular que, embora desvinculadas de Deus, mantêm intacta a estrutura simbólica da religião. O movimento woke é talvez o seu exemplo mais emblemático: confessional, redentor, escatológico.

A sua estrutura remete diretamente ao cristianismo: a culpa como motor de autoflagelação, a expiação como purificação moral, a boa nova que precisa ser pregada aos “ignorantes”, o impulso missionário, o ritual coletivo das marchas e o rito individual das redes sociais, a presença de profetas e eleitos, dogmas incontestáveis e um sentido de pertença espiritual. Não se trata apenas de política, mas de uma liturgia com vocação transformadora e transcendência imanente.

Paradoxalmente, o mesmo padrão pode ser identificado do lado oposto do espectro ideológico. O populismo de direita — sobretudo na sua vertente iliberal — encena igualmente uma religiosidade política: o líder messiânico, o povo eleito, a decadência moral como sinal dos tempos, a nação como corpo sagrado, o inimigo externo como demónio. A retórica política ganha tons apocalípticos. A promessa já não é apenas de ordem ou segurança, mas de redenção.

O que une essas manifestações é precisamente a sua natureza confessional. A política transforma-se num campo espiritual, com as suas ortodoxias, heresias e sacramentos. Em vez de desaparecer, a estrutura simbólica do cristianismo parece reaparecer em novas roupagens — seja nas margens urbanas da Nova Era, nos altares do woke, ou nas catedrais populistas do ressentimento nacionalista.

O reencantamento do mundo é, portanto, um processo em curso. Ele não se limita ao regresso às igrejas por parte dos conservadores, nem se esgota na luta progressista por justiça social. Inclui também o retorno da religião como forma simbólica, como matriz arquetípica, como mecanismo profundo de pertença e identidade. E talvez nos ensine que, por mais secular que se torne o mundo, a necessidade de transcendência — e de liturgia — nunca desaparece. Apenas muda de lugar.

Cultural appropriation is one of the central post-material battlegrounds of the contemporary world. It mobilizes questions of identity and culture, while often overlooking a foundational principle of culture itself: hybridity.

At its core, the concept of cultural appropriation refers to the use of cultural elements—symbols, clothing, hairstyles, cuisine, religion—originating from a minority group by members of a dominant culture. This usage is commonly seen as a form of disrespect and, implicitly, as a claim of ownership over those elements. In a time when culture is highly politicized, the subject demands careful and nuanced analysis.

The very notion of appropriation entails two problematic assumptions:
(i) that there exist authentic, untouched cultures;
(ii) that any use of minority cultural elements by dominant groups is inherently a violation and a sign of oppression.
Let us take each in turn.

Cultural hybridity can be systematically understood as a continuous and dynamic process of mutual fertilization and re-symbolization. It generates new cultural objects, often at the cost of tradition, while preserving the memory of the original ones. But the encounter of cultures—seldom peaceful—is part of the human story. Catholic imagery of saints, ex-votos, and pilgrimages, for example, owes much to Roman civic religion and Celtic spiritual practices. In this light, “authentic” or “pure” cultures—an idea explored early on by Afro-Brazilian scholar Roger Bastide—are a myth. Inauthenticity is, in fact, the hallmark of all cultures. Claims of purity are political acts, rooted in collective memory and identity, and “authenticity” is a social construct.

The second problem—the assumption that dominant groups using minority cultural elements is necessarily an act of oppression—stems from the rise of Critical Theory, particularly its Gramscian threads, which frame all relations in terms of systemic domination and emancipation. Taken to extremes, this perspective fosters a doctrine of absolute and eternal Western guilt. This is particularly evident in the asymmetry of the discourse: the term “cultural appropriation” is rarely invoked when a minority group adopts or reinterprets elements from the dominant culture.

In Woke Racism, John McWhorter notes the contradiction: white people are expected to respect, praise, and elevate minority cultures—but not touch them. This resembles a form of secular religiosity: cultural objects are placed on sacred altars, to be venerated but never used. Yet a white person can (legally and morally) incorporate cultural elements into artistic reinterpretations, culinary fusion, or aesthetic appreciation without necessarily committing a cultural offense. The only justification offered for the claim that a Black person may wear an Italian suit or a Scottish kilt, but a white person must not wear dreadlocks (a hairstyle that has existed in various forms across many non-African cultures throughout history), is that of historical oppression—an idea then crystallized in the notion of cultural appropriation as inherently disrespectful.

That said, the issue is not black and white. Cultural appropriation can indeed constitute symbolic violence. It becomes problematic, for example, when white supremacist movements adopt minority cultural symbols (such as dreadlocks) as emblems; or when dominant groups temporarily borrow minority elements purely for commercial gain; or when Western New Age movements adopt non-Christian religious symbols and strip them of their original meanings. Even pop culture is not immune—consider Marvel’s use of Thor as a superhero, which many argue trivializes a religious deity.

In conclusion, we must draw a necessary distinction between:
(a) a puritanical and politicized idea of cultural ownership, which holds that cultures and their elements belong exclusively to certain groups, and that usage requires permission—thus denying the inherently hybrid nature of culture; and
(b) genuine cultural appropriation, in which the use of cultural elements is so detached or commodified that it distorts or desecrates the dignity and meaning of the original culture.

“Wherever coffee is served with a certain elegance, there exists an idea of Europe.”
— George Steiner

Eighty years after the surrender of Nazi Germany, Europe finds itself again in a moment of reckoning. What was once celebrated as the “end of history” now seems like a fragile interlude between disasters. In cafes from Lisbon to Krakow, where democracy once felt mundane, the sound of distant tanks and the shadow of authoritarian ideas remind us that the project of Europe—democratic, social, pluralistic—is once again under siege.

This isn’t merely a geopolitical crisis. It is an existential one. Across the continent, democratic institutions are eroding from within, while external threats reawaken the ghosts of territorial conquest. As war returns to Europe’s soil, populist movements rise at its heart. The idea of Europe—as a civilizational promise grounded in peace, rule of law, and shared identity—is faltering.

What does it mean to be European today? Is Europe still a community of values, or has it become just a geographic convenience, fragmented by economic asymmetries, cultural anxieties, and mutual suspicion? This article revisits Europe’s civilizational arc—not nostalgically, but critically—to ask what remains of its moral project, and whether it can still be saved.

The idea of Europe predates the continent's political geography. It was once synonymous with Christendom, a spiritual and territorial unity under Rome, expanded through crusade and conversion. From Charlemagne to the Habsburgs, the continent was held together not by borders but by the invisible bonds of faith and fealty. The Reformation and the Peace of Westphalia (1648) fractured that order, giving way to a continent of sovereign states and shifting alliances. Europe became a chessboard of power rather than a cathedral of unity.

The Enlightenment promised a new coherence—rooted not in religion, but in reason and rights. Philosophers like Kant imagined a perpetual peace built on republican values and international cooperation. That vision persisted, in varying forms, through the French Revolution, the liberal revolutions of 1848, and the postwar reconstruction of 1945. Each epoch, despite its violence, contributed to the forging of a common civic ideal: that Europe might someday become more than the sum of its parts.

Yet that promise has always been vulnerable. The 2008 financial crisis exposed deep fault lines—not just between creditors and debtors, but between northern and southern Europe, elites and citizens, cosmopolitans and rooted locals. Resentment festered, fueled by austerity, unemployment, and the perception that the EU served markets better than people. That resentment was neither ephemeral nor irrational: it gave voice to a growing skepticism toward the liberal consensus.

What followed was not a rejection of Europe per se, but a rejection of the way Europe was being built. Populist parties from Hungary to Italy, from Poland to the Netherlands, capitalized on this mood. They channeled anger not only toward Brussels, but toward migration, multiculturalism, and the erosion of traditional identities. The continent’s political grammar shifted: sovereignty, security, and cultural preservation became dominant themes.

Then came war. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 reintroduced tanks, trenches, and terror to the European landscape. For decades, Europe imagined itself a post-war space; now it funds weaponry, debates conscription, and reconsiders strategic autonomy. NATO expanded, Germany rearmed, and Finland and Sweden abandoned neutrality.

But even as Europe responded with a show of unity, the war exposed its moral confusion. Is Europe defending democracy, or merely its own borders? Can it be the bastion of human rights while accommodating regimes that challenge them from within? The line between defending liberal order and becoming fortress Europe has grown perilously thin.

The real threat, however, may not come from Moscow—but from within the Union. Illiberal democracies, judicial capture, media manipulation, and academic censorship are no longer the exception. They are part of the European reality. From Viktor Orbán’s Hungary to Giorgia Meloni’s Italy, a new political common sense is emerging—one that prizes identity over pluralism, tradition over rights, and national will over supranational law.

Worse still, these regimes often invoke “European values” to justify their illiberalism. They claim to protect Europe’s soul from decay, even as they dismantle the institutions that sustain it. Meanwhile, segments of the radical left, in their postcolonial fervor, challenge the very legitimacy of European universalism, framing it as a colonial imposition rather than an emancipatory project.

Europe thus finds itself trapped between two extremes: a reactionary nostalgia that weaponizes heritage, and a cynical relativism that undermines shared norms. Both threaten the fragile architecture of rights, law, and reason that defines the liberal European tradition.

To speak of the “death” of the idea of Europe is not to predict collapse, but to warn of erosion. Projects like Europe do not end with an explosion; they fade into irrelevance. When citizens no longer feel represented, when borders become walls instead of bridges, and when pluralism is viewed as weakness, the soul of Europe is already in retreat.

And yet, there is still time. The idea of Europe is not dead—but it is endangered. Its survival depends not only on treaties or budgets, but on imagination, courage, and recommitment. We must recover the sense that Europe is not merely a market or a currency, but a moral and political space where differences coexist under the rule of law. A space where history is neither erased nor weaponized.

If the war taught us anything, it is that peace cannot be taken for granted. Nor can Europe.

Not anymore.

The path Viktor Orbán took from liberal democracy to democratic illiberalism was neither abrupt nor improvised. It was a cold and calculated march—along the ground cleared by the political merits of populism and the rising tide of illiberal values that Orbán anticipated and, by embracing, helped consolidate.

Broadly and clearly, democratic illiberalism rests on a reversal of the principles of political liberalism that once defined the rule of law, democratic pluralism, and constitutionalism. These principles include respect for institutional checks and balances, the safeguarding of political pluralism as a mechanism of representation, and the protection of fundamental rights as the constitutional bedrock of modern democracies.

Illiberal democracy, by contrast, elevates what might be called hyperdemos—a symbolic and operational hypertrophy of “the people” (demos) as the sole and ultimate source of political legitimacy. In this model, constitutional, institutional, and liberal frameworks that normally balance popular sovereignty are hollowed out. The people are invoked as a homogeneous and infallible entity, whose direct will justifies the dismantling of counterpowers, the marginalization of minorities, and the erosion of the deliberative public sphere.

Orbán—and other populist politicians, whether from the radical right or left—claim to be the “voice of the people,” but their definition of the people is narrow. It is the “pure people,” or “righteous citizens,” whose values align with their own narratives. Everyone else is suspect.

In the case of right-wing illiberal democracy, the people are equated with the national body—majoritarian by nature and intolerant of dissent. This includes structural machismo, radical moral conservatism, and significant doses of xenophobia and racism. Sexual, ethnic, racial, and national minorities are cast as the other—the threat to the sacred values of the nation.

And yet, on Saturday, June 28, something remarkable happened. In Budapest, approximately 200,000 people took to the streets to mark the 30th anniversary of the city's Pride March—defying police restrictions and Orbán’s illiberal agenda. Whether one personally supports Pride or not is beside the point. What mattered was the symbolic weight of the event: it was a mass act of resistance against moral uniformity and the assault on pluralism that the Hungarian government so clearly embodies.

There are lessons to be learned here. Western societies may be increasingly polarized, fed by populist narratives and social media-driven echo chambers, where outrage and alienation thrive. But the defeat of liberal democratic values is far from inevitable.

Resisting illiberal regimes—whether Orbán’s or Trump’s—is not about denying majoritarian will. It is about opposing those who, under the guise of representing the “authentic people,” unravel societies and corrode institutions in pursuit of autocracy.

The people of Budapest understood that the Pride March was not just about LGBTQ+ rights. It was about democratic diversity, political pluralism, and the foundational pillars of constitutional democracy.