Introduction and Contribution

Nearly half of the world (46%) lives in authoritarian regimes that hold regular elections — compared to 28% who live in autocracies without elections and 26% who live under democracy. In these “electoral autocracies,” the ruling party can theoretically lose power, but its ability to repress and co-opt its opponents makes defeat unlikely. Incumbent executives and parties in electoral autocracies have become increasingly sophisticated in their repressive techniques and increasingly connected to other regimes that share similar fears of democracy. “How can electoral authoritarianism be resisted?” is thus a pressing question for domestic opposition parties and civil society organizations (CSOs) as well as international actors seeking to promote democracy, including governments, nonprofits, think tanks, and academics. 

In “Opposition strategies and electoral challenges under autocracy,” Oren Samet analyzes five strategies opposition parties use to fight electoral authoritarianism during campaigns, on election day, and after polls have closed. These are: joining multiparty coalitions, strengthening their party organization, mobilizing mass protests, boycotting elections, and seeking international assistance. Samet shows that each strategy entails tradeoffs, increasing opposition competitiveness while making authoritarian repression more likely or efficient. For example, joining a multiparty coalition can both increase the incumbent’s likelihood of defeat and increase his propensity to repress — insofar as he perceives the opposition as popular and threatening.

Samet offers several prescriptions for international democracy promoters. First, they must collaborate with domestic opposition parties, because only they — and not CSOs — can win elections. Yet many international actors avoid this approach; for instance, some opposition parties may care more about power than democracy, or collaborating with them may invite criticism that democracy promotion is partisan. While these risks cannot be ignored, neither can political parties.

A second prescription follows from the fact that oppositions have at least five tools at their disposal: there can be no single “best practice” in democracy promotion; it requires flexibility, adaptability, and an integrated approach. Finally, because autocrats continue to become more sophisticated, democracy promoters must take steps to prepare for the repression of their partners. 

Five Approaches and Their Pitfalls

Otherwise effective strategies for winning democratic elections — such as running savvy campaigns on primetime television that are informed by public opinion polling — will not work for opposition parties under electoral autocracy. This is because the system is structurally biased toward incumbents. As such, one common approach has been for individual opposition parties to join together in a coalition: sharing policy platforms, endorsing joint candidates, and merging their party organizations. And indeed, multiparty coalitions are statistically associated with higher vote shares and a higher likelihood that autocrats are defeated. At the same time, however, such coalitions are difficult to form and sustain due to ideological differences and polarization. In especially repressive electoral autocracies, such as Ethiopia or Cambodia, incumbent parties are often able to neutralize or eliminate coalitions. Finally, when coalitions pose a serious challenge on election day but without winning, autocrats may repress even harder.

A second strategy involves strengthening party organization, for example, by improving its geographic reach or recruiting more professional candidates. These efforts can increase competitiveness and popular appeal, but they risk providing the incumbent with a large amount of information that he can use to more efficiently target his opponents. This includes formal lists of members, candidates, and party branch locations. Meanwhile, more organized opposition parties may inadvertently legitimize the system by affording it some semblance of democracy.

Encouraging mass protests is a third strategy available to opposition parties. As the number of protesters grows, authoritarian repression becomes more costly and more likely to backfire, while the incumbent’s allies become more likely to defect and join the opposition. Parties help with this process by translating protester demands into coherent party platforms. However, and especially after the 2010-12 Arab Uprisings, electoral authoritarian regimes have become highly sensitive to and ready to combat protests. This may be accomplished via surveillance or assistance from powerful third parties such as China or Russia.

A fourth, common strategy has been for parties to boycott the autocrat’s electoral facade. Doing so signals to the international community that the playing field is skewed and the system illegitimate. Yet boycotts can lead to missed opportunities for the opposition to build electoral strength, influence policy change as legislative minorities, or monitor the autocrat from inside government. In addition, they rob oppositions of the chance to take advantage of the autocrat’s miscalculations, which may even lead to his defeat. 

Finally, opposition parties can reach out to international actors for support. This may involve requesting that they sanction the regime or intervene in the name of democracy. International pressure can indeed encourage political openings and is especially useful for oppositions with low visibility. However, autocrats are adept at demonizing those who use this strategy as agents of malign foreign influence. These appeals can strengthen the autocrat’s domestic support base among those who see him as protecting the nation. In all, these tradeoffs suggest that effective democracy promotion requires a deep understanding of the political context in which oppositions operate.

*Brief prepared by Adam Fefer.

Introduction and Contribution

Since coming to power in 2002, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and his Justice and Development Party (AKP) have significantly undermined Turkish democracy. This has most visibly involved police repression, systematic prosecutions of the AKP’s critics, and partisan control and censorship of the media. Although opposition persisted in parliament, municipalities, campuses, and professional associations, the playing field is rigged against the AKP’s opponents.

Yet these visible forms of repression are only part of a broader process of Turkey’s autocratization. In “The Capture of Turkey’s Universities Under the AKP,” Ayça Alemdaroğlu shows how the regime has, through a host of less spectacular but durable mechanisms, used its control over higher education to turn universities into channels for distributing opportunity, disciplining dissent, and cultivating loyal staff and students. These mechanisms — including baseless investigations and dismissals of academics, online citizen reporting against faculty, and patronage around university jobs — have weakened academic life and transformed Turkish higher education into a key instrument of the AKP’s governing project.

Importantly, Turkey’s democratic erosion has accelerated in tandem with the massive, rapid growth in colleges and student enrollment. For Alemdaroğlu, this should temper any assumption that higher education is automatically a space of democratic resistance. Universities can produce critique, organization, and dissent, but the higher education system can also facilitate authoritarian consolidation through appointments, disciplinary procedures, funding, surveillance, and patronage. Comparable processes to subordinate universities have unfolded in India, China, and Russia. Instructors may publish or teach critical material while students may organize against the state, but autocrats can hedge against these risks by capturing the university system writ large. In the United States, where universities have become central to “culture wars,” Alemdaroğlu’s article serves as a cautionary tale about how quickly institutional autonomy can erode, especially in the absence of protections against executive encroachment.

The Growth of Turkish Higher Education

The AKP did not eviscerate higher education in one fell swoop but did so incrementally, building on the efforts of its predecessors. For example, after the 1980 coup d'état, Turkey’s military government centralized key aspects of university appointments, which the Erdoğan regime has expanded. In addition, the country’s 1980s neoliberal turn refashioned universities as instruments of profit and efficiency rather than spaces of academic freedom. Since the AKP attained power, higher education has grown at an unprecedented scale: there were 76 universities with 1.7 million enrolled students in 2002, compared to 206 universities and 8 million students in 2020. This has afforded the regime vast new terrain on which to exercise control.

Unsurprisingly, such rapid growth has increased quantity at the expense of quality. From a political standpoint, however, this is not especially costly for the AKP. For example, meager investments in research capacity have served to weaken the independence of academics and their ability to criticize the regime. Meanwhile, university hiring processes reflect the preferences of AKP loyalists, thus expanding the scope of co-optation. These are not unintended consequences but core features of a system geared toward patronage.

University expansion has helped the AKP widen its reach across social groups and economic sectors. Lucrative construction projects, public-sector jobs, faculty appointments and access to scarce resources have become channels through which the party awards supporters and cultivates loyalty.  In other words, higher education has served as a means of patronage, ideological inculcation and political control. The government framed expansion as a democratizing challenge to secular urban privilege and as part of a project to cultivate a more conservative, religiously grounded youth.

Waves of Capture

Alemdaroğlu periodizes the AKP’s higher education agenda into three waves that illustrate the shift from episodic intervention to routinized control. The first wave, which began soon after the AKP came to power, was not immediately visible to international observers as part of a broader authoritarian turn. Though it was clear to those targeted. For example, a 2005 penal code criminalized the “denigration of Turkishness,” which state prosecutors used to target faculty in literature and journalism, particularly those who had published on the Armenian genocide and the systematic mistreatment of Kurds.

By contrast, the second wave, beginning after the failed 2016 Turkish coup d'état attempt, was much more dramatic. The AKP government presented the coup attempt, which it attributed to the Gülen movement, as a national emergency requiring sweeping state action. Faculty and employees were dismissed and suspended en masse, while Gülen-affiliated universities were shuttered and had their assets frozen. In addition, investigations were conducted against those who signed a 2016 “Academics for Peace” document, which called for an end to state violence against Kurds. Turkey’s Constitutional Court found the investigations illegal in 2019, but by which time many academics had already lost their positions, passports, income, and professional standing.

The final, ongoing wave has “shifted toward a permanent institutional model, moving control and coercion into the everyday governance of the university.” Faculty are routinely disciplined for “verbally disrespectful speech” or conduct incompatible with “public morality and decency,” while AKP loyalists are appointed to senior academic posts by direct presidential decree. In addition, online citizen reporting through the state’s communication system has created another channel for targeting faculty. Although the rise from 130,000 applications in 2006 to 6 million in 2020 reflects the system as a whole, it shows how citizen complaints became part of everyday state monitoring, including at universities.

Ultimately, the Turkey case shows how democracy erodes through both dramatic ruptures and quiet, cumulative transformations. Alemdaroğlu emphasizes that the degraded condition of Turkish higher education does not merely reflect AKP’s autocratization but has actively enabled it.

*Brief prepared by Adam Fefer.

Introduction and Contribution:

Indigenous peoples constitute at least 8% of Latin America's population, well over 40 million in total, depending on whether one measures this by self-identification or proficiency in an indigenous language. Over the five centuries since Latin America’s colonization, indígenas have been subjected to myriad injustices, from genocide and linguicide to dispossession, forced assimilation, and political exclusion. However, during the last two decades, indigenous identities have entered Latin America’s political mainstream, indigenous candidates and parties have grown in popularity, and traditional political debates — for example, over fair economic development — have been increasingly addressed using the language of indigenous rights and autonomy.

Social scientific knowledge about indigenous peoples has improved considerably, and in ways that reflect many of these ongoing processes. Yet gaps persist, partly owing to the neglect of scholarship written by indigenous peoples (and in non-English languages) as well as the shoehorning of indigenous life into categories such as “peasants” or “poor masses.” The time is thus ripe for a critical examination.

In “Original Peoples Count,” Alberto Díaz-Cayeros and Irma Alicia Velasquez Nimatuj systematically review current scholarship on indigenous peoples in Latin America. The authors demonstrate how much has been learned about trends in indigenous language use, the virtues of indigenous political institutions, the dangers of indigenous environmental activism, and much more. Looking ahead, the authors call for greater attention to the threats posed by the rapid growth of artificial intelligence, as well as to the persistence of disparities in indigenous health outcomes.

Counting Indigenous Peoples and Languages:

One important cause of indigenous marginalization is that many colonial and post-colonial governments simply refused to recognize their existence. Nation-building elites privileged Spanish and Portuguese and made deliberate choices about which identities to include in censuses. Relatedly, the very category “indigenous” reflects colonial efforts to homogenize millions of diverse peoples, and many indigenous peoples do not identify as such. There is tremendous variation in terms of the languages that indigenous peoples speak and the demographics of where they live. Not only do these territories cut across national borders, but many indigenous peoples have a distinctive understanding of borders, as representing sacred — rather than merely administrative — divisions.
 

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Figure 2. Unceded Territories of Indigenous Peoples in Latin America
 

Despite the visibility of language loss and extinction, panel data collected since the 1990s paint a more nuanced picture. Diaz-Cayeros and Nimatuj highlight several important trends along these lines. For one, the number of indigenous language speakers has increased across every age cohort. Second, there was a dramatic increase in indigenous language speakers around age 40 in the 2000s, followed by an increase in speakers under 40 in the 2010s. What this suggests is not that more people are learning indigenous languages, but that more speakers are willing to reveal their identities to surveyors. The latter is itself a political phenomenon that reflects growing indigenous consciousness.
 

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Figure 1. Identity Revelation in Latin American Census Data
 

Indigenous Politics and Economics:

Over the last two decades, indigenous politics has moved from street protests to the highest levels of government, with Evo Morales winning Bolivia’s presidency. Yet these improvements in indigenous peoples’ descriptive representation have not always produced substantive reductions in poverty and discrimination. This is one reason why indigenous parties cannot automatically rely on indigenous vote blocs; understanding why these parties enjoy more or less consistent support is a key question for future research.

Outside of mainstream politics, traditional institutions such as indigenous assemblies have grown in number and prominence. Scholars have documented cases where these institutions exhibited highly democratic properties. These include high competitiveness and turnout, which arguably produce greater accountability to ordinary people. Indigenous governance may thus provide insights into how Latin American politics can become more encompassing and participatory, moving beyond simply electing and removing candidates once every few years.

In terms of socioeconomic trends, indigenous rates of poverty, infant mortality, and school enrollment lag behind the rest of the population. These outcomes are usually worse for women, partly owing to the persistence of indigenous patriarchal norms. Meanwhile, indigenous economies have been substantially reshaped by large-scale industrial activity, especially mining and logging. The authors caution, however, against assuming that indigenous peoples uniformly oppose these activities. At the same time, local efforts to rein in industrial activity are often met with extremely punitive state action — leading to the imprisonment or death of key indigenous leaders. Latin America is now the world’s most dangerous region for environmental activism.

Directions for Future Research:

One likely cause of indigenous marginality is ‘historical trauma,’ or rather the ways that colonialism and post-colonial discrimination have transmitted social and psychological harm across generations. The authors call for greater attention to the varied political effects of historical trauma, including depressed indigenous participation, lower levels of trust in political institutions, and worse life outcomes. Similarly, despite visible efforts by Latin American governments to undertake health interventions, substantial gaps persist within indigenous communities, particularly in mental health.

Another topic for further research concerns the lives of indigenous youth, especially those who migrate to urban centers for work. Migration generates multiple overlapping challenges, including cultural adjustment, political marginality, and economic precarity. Finally, the growth of ‘digital colonialism’ demands greater attention. Artificial intelligence has generated a host of injustices, such as environmental degradation, algorithmic discrimination against indigenous languages, and the nonconsensual extraction of indigenous knowledge. The authors close by noting that indigenous peoples may use AI to make their histories ever more visible. In all, “Original Peoples Count” is an ambitious review that will likely inform the next generation of scholarship on indigenous politics.

*Brief prepared by Adam Fefer.