True greatness doesn't lie in a mythical past, but in building a future that's fair, inclusive and just. But then again, the alternate choice is no saint either
As Donald Trump strides back into office, it's clear that the Make America Great Again (MAGA) has transformed from a slogan into a creed, a kind of civil religion for those who long for sepia-toned visions of an America that might never have existed.
This revival raises a nagging question: When, exactly, was America ever truly great? Was it during the post-World War II boom, when economic prosperity skyrocketed, mostly for white Americans, while Black families were systematically sidelined by redlining? Or perhaps it was during the Vietnam War, when young Americans were sent to drop napalm on civilians, all in the name of containing a threat that never materialised, while the government concealed the true cost of the war?
For MAGA devotees, however, America reached its "greatness" on January 6, 2021, when rioters stormed the Capitol in service of a single man: the very man who now once again holds the highest office in the land. To them, that day wasn't an attack on democracy, it was a revival, a righteous defence of an America they feel is slipping through their fingers. It is but a warped narrative that paints the violent insurrection as a noble act of rebellion rather than a direct assault on the foundations of the American republic.
At its core, MAGA and Trump embody the "us" versus "them" mentality. The "us" can do no wrong, exempt from the rules and standards that apply to "them." Take, for instance, the double standard on age. Joe Biden's advanced years are relentlessly criticised by Trump supporters, with "Sleepy Joe" caricatured as too frail to govern. Yet Trump, who will be 82 when his second term ends, faces no such scrutiny from his base. Why? Because in the MAGA universe, truth is malleable. It's not about logic or consistency, but loyalty to the tribe. If Biden stumbles, he's senile; if Trump does, he's relatable, even charming in his vulnerability. This is the beauty of the cult of personality.
MAGA thrives on the belief that America is being stolen from its true heirs. The America that was never quite theirs in the first place. It tells them the American way of life is under siege. These supposed threats conveniently include people of colour, LGBTQ+ members, women and immigrants. Essentially, anyone who stands outside the white, Christian, heteronormative ideal that MAGA cherishes. It's no surprise that the saviours of these supposed threats are often billionaires, mega-corporations, conservative elites and any other entity that thrives on the systemic inequalities inherent in the American way of life. Take for example, yet another commodification of religion. Trump intends to make school prayers and bibles mandatory in schools. But not just any bible, it has got to be the "Trump endorsed Bible".
This isn't a matter of personal judgement; it's supported by empirical data. As outlined in his policies, Trump advocates for lowering corporate taxes and imposing tariffs, which ultimately passes the cost to the consumers. When asked about making health care more affordable, he claims to have "a concept of a plan," but offers little substance beyond that. The reality is that MAGA is a mirage, an illusion of greatness that thrives on fear and division. Trump's return to power isn't a revival; it's a reckoning. It serves as a reminder of what happens when a nation falls for the oldest trick in the book: selling nostalgia to those too desperate to demand something real.
Not to mention, the MAGA crowd might just have the most perfect shade of rose-tinted glasses I have ever seen. They somehow manage to overlook the fact that a man with children from three different women, a history of pending legal cases, a known sexual assaulter and a convicted felon is not only running for president but is also leading the charge for a return to "traditional values."
Then there is the sheer commodification of patriotism, a phenomenon Trump has mastered. From MAGA branded hats to Trump-branded NFTs, the movement has turned loyalty into a marketable product. It is not just about political allegiance; it's merchandise, rally tickets and exclusive clubs where belonging comes with a price tag, turning political engagement into a transaction, where loyalty to a leader is measured by how much you can spend. In this twisted version of democracy, influence is not earned through ideas or ideals; it is bought and sold. The inevitable result is that MAGA supporters are left with little more than a hollow, overpriced trinket to mark their allegiance, a symbol of devotion that costs more than it is worth.
Elon Musk's involvement in Trump's return to power takes this narrative a step beyond. By funnelling $200 million into America Pac, Musk didn't just fund a campaign; he rewrote the rules of engagement entirely. Musk's reward? A $60 billion surge in his net worth and a front-row seat in shaping a second Trump administration. For Musk, power isn't just political; it's incredibly profitable. His financial influence has blurred the line between political power and corporate interests, creating a toxic cocktail where the rich shape the fate of the nation, while the masses are left in the dust. His involvement underscores just how much democracy has been captured by the elite, where a single individual can tilt the scales of justice with a few hundred million dollars and little regard for the truth.
For those who yearn for an America that truly fulfils its promises, the challenge is clear. True greatness doesn't lie in a mythical past, but in building a future that's fair, inclusive and just. But then again, the alternate choice is no saint either. The greatest country in the world, the land of freedom, yet it never quite figured out how to practise what it preaches. Caught in its own contradictions, an outsider might feel both sympathy and perhaps offer a gentle critique, which is something I've tried to do throughout this piece.
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