Resignations, Protests, Corruption: There Is No Magic Pill

Ukraine’s information space resembles the interlocking time loops of Christopher Nolan’s film ‘Tenet’, with one storyline giving way to another before the previous one has time to end. A change of Government with nol public explanation of the reasons for it, new appointments, protests, a lack of dialogue at every level, interviews, political statements, discussions about elections and corruption scandals pile up so quickly that individual events almost lose their contours or pass unnoticed. Each new story seems decisive for the country’s future for a few days, only to be displaced almost immediately by the next one.

In this torrent, it is very easy to lose one’s sense of stability: the human brain simply cannot process the sheer volume of information, so it seeks simplification and looks for magic pills. This is where mythmaking begins. Not necessarily as outright fabrication, but rather as a way of reducing complex realities to a comprehensible image, or a set of images, that creates a sense of order and stability. A multitude of causes is replaced by a single one. Specific names and personalisation take the place of institutions and sound bureaucratic processes. A series of complex, multi-layered processes is reduced to one decision. Uncertainty is replaced by the promise of a universal remedy or a hero-saviour. This creates the belief that this particular person will finally transform or fix ‘the system’, that one institution is enough to defeat corruption, for example, or that one particular reform or the adoption of a draft law will solve a problem that others have been unable to resolve for years. In the short term, such a construct can indeed be reassuring, because it restores the feeling that chaos can be ordered and explained. As though there were a loose end somewhere that only needs to be pulled to unravel the entire knot.

Unfortunately, political reality almost never lives up to such expectations. For years, names, parties, slogans and structures have changed in Ukrainian politics, while the roles we ask them to play change far less often. Or, rather, what changes far less often is the mythical image of a father or saviour whom we, as a society, keep searching for and whom each of us imagines differently. It may be the role of a strong steward, a powerful commander-in-chief, a reformer, a convincing activist, an effective manager, a reliable volunteer or someone who will restore order and punish those responsible. Preferably all at once — anything to keep the state machinery functioning properly and steadily. Season after season, political figures try on these ready-made images, while society tests whether this time the person will finally live up to the expected archetype of ‘perfection’.

Finding that kind of combination is almost impossible. So, when reality falls short of the expected image, we often begin, unconsciously, to build a myth around it. We attribute qualities to a person that they have not yet had the chance to demonstrate, capacity to an institution that it does not possess and consequences to decisions that they may not be able to guarantee or deliver. Gradually, reality gives way to the myth we have created. We assess not what is actually in front of us, but what it would have to become to satisfy our need for order, predictability and a sense that the situation is under control. And the greater the distance between this construct and reality, the sharper and even more painful the collision between expectations and reality becomes — especially when the trust invested in it ultimately proves misplaced.

One decision or position that contradicts commonly accepted rules, beliefs or preferences — and society reverses its attitude by 180 degrees, calling into question almost everything that a particular person or institution had done before. This is not because a particular decision cannot or should not be criticised. On the contrary, political maturity requires criticism. But if one decision brings down the entire previous construct, that is a sign that we had invested in a myth rather than assessed the reality before us.

Modern political myths are powerful and, at the same time, extraordinarily fragile. Today, a few decisions approved by the majority, effective public communication and the reputation of a person or institution that is ‘finally doing things differently’ may be enough for a myth to take shape. Nor is this always solely a product of public imagination. The myth of an effective manager, a wise administrator or a progressive institution may itself be a consciously constructed mask. It is a quick way to gain support, trust or political capital in pursuit of personal ambitions and objectives that are often at odds with the public interest.

At the same time, the very speed at which myths emerge is what makes them vulnerable. They often fail when confronted with contradictions, mistakes, conflicts of interest and the real limits of influence. The more we have idealised an image, the stronger the temptation to explain away discrepancies with reality in order to protect it. This is why it can sometimes be difficult to identify exactly where the myth begins to diverge from reality and why. Sometimes it really is an honest mistake, or the expected results fail to materialise because of unforeseen external factors. At other times, however, it is because something entirely different was hidden behind the mythical mask from the outset.

The same applies to political decisions. In a state of constant instability, the temptation to find a simple answer that will explain and solve most problems is particularly strong. A change of Government, for example, might be expected to reboot the state. Or a new minister is assumed certain to reform an entire sector. Perhaps dismissing one particular person is enough to make an institution independent. Or elections are presented as a way to renew the authorities and ease social tensions. Each of these instruments may be necessary in particular circumstances, but the risk arises when one possible instrument is turned into a panacea and becomes part of political mythmaking.

Simple, universal solutions look especially attractive in such circumstances. At first glance, they create a sense of clarity and control: if a particular approach or procedure has worked somewhere, surely it is enough simply to replicate it everywhere. This gives rise to the mythical idea of a solution that can be applied to almost anything, with little regard for differences in environments, functions, resources, institutional culture or the socio-political context. But in politics, one size fits all almost never works. Copying an approach does not guarantee a result and usually ignores the very factor on which success depends: context.

Real solutions are usually less attractive. They may be complex, multi-layered, slow and politically unpopular. Nor do they promise rapid results, and they almost never fit into a single elegant formula. This is particularly true in Ukraine, where institutional problems are compounded by war, resource constraints and legislative and security restrictions, meaning that solutions are rarely linear.

Political myth gravitates towards grand images, while democracy rests on smaller and sometimes even boring details: rules for appointments and dismissals, parliamentary oversight, a professional civil service, independent bodies capable of scrutinising those in power while themselves acting within established rules and the law, courts that are not dependent on the interests of those in authority and adherence to procedure. Institutions themselves rarely look bright or spectacular, because their function is to provide a foundation that allows the state to keep working despite human imperfection. The strength of that foundation depends, among other things, on mutual respect, the ability to cooperate, to share responsibility and to recognise the limits of one’s own role.

We should value talent and integrity, as well as every person whom the current system has squeezed out of public administration. Such people are rare, and many of them were indeed among the best. Their lack of loyalty to the system was often precisely why they were pushed out. At the same time, this is also a consequence of our own short-sightedness: as a society, we do not always assess the qualities and results that really matter but instead follow media trends or the support of particular activist groups which, let us be honest, are hardly beyond reproach themselves. We will all have to acknowledge many mistakes that we have made together.

At its core, the point is simple: we need to be able to recognise the competence and strength of others and let them move ahead, giving them room to act and, at times, even stepping aside ourselves. That requires a great deal of self-assurance, maturity and ethical balance.

True resilience is not one face or one surname. It is not a single point holding up the entire state, but a framework made up of many supports. Those supports are unquestionably people: the military and the home front, public officials and MPs, communities, representatives of law enforcement, civil society, journalists, judges and many others. At the same time, for these supports to endure, the people behind them must be backed by strong institutions, rules and procedures. That is what enables a system not to collapse every time someone makes a mistake, proves unworthy of their role or simply drops out of it.

The more reliable this framework becomes, the less need there is to compensate for instability with political myths. Myths take root particularly easily where real institutional foundations are lacking: then we want to believe in at least something as the one point capable of holding everything together. Myths survive for as long as we keep feeding them with our expectations. That is why it is useful, from time to time, to ask questions first of ourselves. To what extent is my view actually my own, rather than the product of other people’s moods and interpretations or the influence of the information environment? Do I change my position when new facts emerge? Or do I instead force those facts into a picture I have already constructed? Can I separate my personal sympathy or dislike for someone from my assessment of their actions?

This ability to reflect critically on our own views is itself part of political maturity. It begins when we stop needing myths to believe in the viability of our own state, despite all the complexity and trauma of reality.