Competitive Authoritarianism: Hungary's Election Exposes a Structural Flaw
The recent election in Hungary delivered an outcome many found difficult to conceptualize: the defeat of Viktor Orbán, the European Union's longest-serving Prime Minister. For over a decade and a half, Orbán had meticulously constructed a system of legalized autocracy, a model studied by aspiring strongmen globally. Yet, despite his entrenched power, the narrative of his invincibility has now been decisively broken.
Leading up to the vote, a palpable sense of defeatism permeated Hungarian society. Political philosopher Zoltán Miklósi articulated this paradox: rationally, the signs of opposition gains were clear, but emotionally, the idea of Orbán simply losing and stepping aside felt unimaginable. This sentiment was widespread, a hangover from past opposition disappointments and a deep-seated belief that Orbán would always find a way to triumph, perhaps through legal trickery or external intervention.
"Defeatism breeds defeat."
Miklósi's warning against this mindset is particularly salient. He argued that such defeatism, while understandable after years of setbacks, is one of the greatest dangers, as it strips citizens of their political agency. The inability to imagine a different outcome can become a self-fulfilling prophecy, reinforcing the very authoritarianism it seeks to resist.
What Orbán engineered in Hungary was not totalitarianism, but a form of competitive authoritarianism. This distinction is critical. Unlike North Korea or Azerbaijan, Hungary maintained the formal structures of democracy: elections were held every four years, and they remained, in a technical sense, competitive. Orbán leveraged a parliamentary supermajority to rewrite the constitution, stacked courts with loyalists, and implemented extreme gerrymandering. These were tools of autocratic legalism, designed to tilt the playing field overwhelmingly in his favor, but they stopped short of outright canceling elections or fabricating votes.
This structural characteristic is precisely what makes such regimes vulnerable, however rarely that vulnerability is exploited. Miklósi, in his analysis of democratic participation in "normatively illegitimate" regimes, consistently highlights that the outcome of these elections is "not entirely predetermined." Despite the immense advantages held by the ruling party, an opposition that adheres to the autocrat's own formal rules can, on occasion, prevail. This is a crucial point often overlooked by those who see competitive authoritarianism as an impenetrable fortress. The system relies on the appearance of legitimacy and the act of participation, which inherently leaves a sliver of agency for the electorate. When economic conditions falter, when corruption becomes too overt, and when a credible, albeit imperfect, alternative emerges, the carefully constructed facade can crack. The erosion of popular support, even for a leader who has systematically dismantled checks and balances, cannot be indefinitely manufactured or suppressed. This is where the model of "elected autocracy" differs fundamentally from outright dictatorship; it must still, however minimally, contend with the will of the people, even if that will is expressed through a heavily manipulated process. The Hungarian experience demonstrates that the tools of autocratic legalism, while powerful, are not absolute. They can create a significant bias, but they cannot entirely negate the cumulative effect of public dissatisfaction and a unified, if pragmatic, opposition.
And so, on election night, Hungarians witnessed what many had deemed impossible. Péter Magyar secured a clear majority, enough to command a two-thirds supermajority in Parliament. Orbán conceded. The streets of Budapest erupted in a spontaneous outpouring of national catharsis, a release of pent-up frustration and a celebration of agency reclaimed.
Magyar, the architect of this upset, is no conventional progressive figure. A former insider within Orbán's own party, he presented himself as a Hungarian "Everyman," skillfully navigating divisive policy questions by focusing on universal themes like rooting out corruption and restoring power to the people. His platform was a blend: pro-EU and anti-Putin, yet also socially conservative. He is, in many respects, a cipher, his appeal rooted more in his opposition to the established order than a clear ideological blueprint. This strategic ambiguity, however, proved highly effective in mobilizing a broad coalition of discontent.
The lesson here is stark: even the most cunning and ruthless politicians, adept at bending and breaking democratic norms, are not invincible superheroes. Orbán, for all his machinations, could not simply will popular support into existence. His system, while designed to entrench power, still required a degree of public acquiescence that eventually eroded. This holds implications beyond Hungary's borders.
For now, Magyar has pledged not to abuse his potential supermajority to unilaterally rewrite the constitution, a promise that echoes Orbán's own actions sixteen years prior. The true test of this new political landscape will be whether this commitment holds, and whether the structural vulnerabilities of competitive authoritarianism can be truly addressed, rather than merely exploited by a new strongman.
The fragility of assumed power is a constant.