Author name: 胡思

Since the 19th century, many newly independent countries have viewed the U.S. Constitution as a blueprint for democratic success. The principles of separation of powers, presidential systems, federal structures, and written constitutions appear rational and modern, carrying the aura of success. However, history repeatedly shows that this path often fails to lead to stable democracy, instead sliding towards authoritarianism. The issue lies not in the quality of the U.S. Constitution itself, but in the misunderstanding that it can be directly transplanted as a plug-and-play democratic system.

This phenomenon of ‘institutional transplantation’ is particularly evident in Latin America. Mexico’s 1824 Constitution incorporated American experiences in its federal structure and executive design, formally establishing a republic. Yet, for over a century, it experienced cycles of strongman politics, military interventions, and constitutional interruptions. Argentina’s 1853 Constitution openly modeled itself on the United States, designing a centralized presidential system, which resulted in prolonged cycles of coups and military rule. The institutions existed, but democracy never took firm root.

By the 20th century, the trend of imitation continued. The Philippines established a presidential republic under American influence, with a complete constitutional text and an electoral system in place, yet it could not prevent Ferdinand Marcos from imposing martial law under the guise of ‘constitutionalism’, turning the system into a tool for personal rule. Brazil similarly adopted a system design highly reminiscent of the United States, but oscillated between elected governments and military intervention for decades. The commonality among these countries is not that their constitutions were insufficiently progressive, but that the institutional capacity and political culture supporting democratic operations were not developed in tandem.

Ultimately, a constitution is merely a framework for power, not democracy itself. The U.S. Constitution functions not because of any inherent magical power in its text, but because it is built upon long-accumulated political habits. Traditions of local autonomy, an instinctive wariness of power, the professionalization of the judiciary and bureaucracy, and the self-restraint of losers in accepting electoral outcomes are crucial conditions that do not automatically emerge simply from being written into a constitution. When these foundations are weak, the constitution can easily be manipulated, becoming a legitimate facade for power expansion.

Presidential systems inherently carry structural risks. Executive and symbolic power is concentrated in one individual, and elections often present a zero-sum competition where the winner takes all. In contexts where party systems are weak, society is highly fragmented, and the legislature and judiciary are not yet mature, presidents can easily equate ‘popular mandate’ with unlimited power, viewing opposition as enemies rather than legitimate competitors. Once checks and balances fail, political crises can swiftly escalate into extraordinary measures, even providing excuses for military intervention in politics.

These failures are not merely stories from other countries. Even the United States itself is not inherently immune to authoritarian backsliding. If institutions are taken for granted, if political norms continue to erode, and if the populace no longer actively defends the rule of law, checks and balances, and electoral outcomes, then a presidential system can similarly become a conduit for power concentration. Two and a half centuries of democratic history can be viewed as a deep institutional accumulation, or merely as a series of fortunate escapes from collapse.

As the 18th-century politician John Philpot Curran stated in a speech in 1790, the condition for the existence of freedom is eternal vigilance. This sentiment is often distilled into the phrase ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty’: the cost of freedom is perpetual awareness.

The universe is vast, and with so many stars, it seems improbable that we are alone. Yet, despite extensive searches, we see no evidence of extraterrestrial civilizations. This discrepancy forms the crux of the Fermi Paradox: if civilizations are not rare, then where has everyone gone?

In discussions of this issue, the Drake Equation is often invoked. Its significance lies not in providing answers but in highlighting the vast uncertainties involved. Each parameter can fluctuate by several orders of magnitude, leading estimates of communicable civilizations in the Milky Way to range from nearly zero to thousands. Consequently, some argue that the universe is inherently quiet, while others suggest that this silence itself is anomalous.

However, the true sharpness of the Fermi Paradox lies not just in ‘how many civilizations’ exist, but in another often underestimated factor: time and expansion.

Consider a highly conservative, even benevolent assumption. Imagine a technological civilization that did not emerge in the early universe but appeared merely 10 million years ago. Relative to the universe’s age of approximately 13.8 billion years, this is less than a thousandth of a moment. Further assume that its expansion capability is not aggressive, with interstellar travel at only one-tenth the speed of light, far below the typical settings found in science fiction.

Under these conditions, the results remain astonishing. At 0.1c, 10 million years is sufficient to traverse about 1 million light-years. This means that within a sphere of 1 million light-years radius from its home planet, all potentially habitable planets should theoretically have been explored, colonized, or at least marked by clear traces. For comparison, the entire Milky Way has a diameter of only about 100,000 light-years. In other words, such a ‘not too early, not too fast’ civilization would have long had the capability to cover the entire galaxy, even spilling over into nearby galactic clusters.

This calculation does not require assumptions of faster-than-light travel, a unified galactic empire, or that every star is inhabited by aliens. As long as a civilization crosses a certain technological threshold and possesses the basic motivation for survival, its expansion is almost a matter of time. This aligns perfectly with human historical experience: from migrations out of Africa to the expansion of agricultural societies, and from modern transcontinental colonization to globalization, technological civilizations have never been static.

Thus, the true unsettling aspect of the Fermi Paradox is that even if such a civilization has existed only once, we should have already seen it. Anomalies in infrared radiation, traces of stellar energy use, artificial astronomical structures, or even just the debris of probes scattered across interstellar space would suffice to reveal its presence. Yet what we observe is a clean and indifferent universe.

This reality pushes the question directly towards the ‘Great Filter’ theory. If civilizations tend to expand, yet the universe remains so silent, the most reasonable explanation is not that civilizations do not arise, but that most cannot survive long enough. Perhaps they went extinct before mastering interstellar capabilities; perhaps internal risks erupted after rapid expansion; or perhaps the average lifespan of civilizations is simply too short to leave any observable traces.

Bringing this reasoning back to humanity makes the implications sharp. Nuclear weapons, biotechnology, artificial intelligence, and climate disorder are all byproducts of civilizations gaining immense power in a short time. They are not external threats but rather the internal injuries of civilization growth. If the Great Filter is indeed ‘failing to learn self-restraint before expansion,’ then the silence of the universe is likely not a coincidence but a statistically inevitable outcome.

Thus, the Fermi Paradox is not merely an intriguing question of astronomy but a civilization-level arithmetic problem. Given time, civilizations will expand; if we see no traces of such expansion, we must question whether civilizations can endure the test of their own power. The issue has never been just ‘where are the aliens?’ but rather ‘why has no civilization succeeded in reaching a point where we can observe them?’

And this question quietly points towards our future.

The International Energy Agency’s (IEA) Announced Pledges Scenario (APS) is not an aggressive environmental blueprint; rather, it is a model that incorporates the climate commitments that various countries have announced and claim they will implement. Even so, the conclusion remains clear: by 2050, global oil demand will fall to around 50 to 60 million barrels per day, nearly halving from current levels. Oil will not disappear overnight, but its historical peak has already passed.

In this context, discussions about ‘building new pipelines’ appear increasingly out of touch. Pipelines are not flexible assets; they are heavy infrastructure with lifespans of 40 to 50 years, and their commercial premise hinges on one factor: long-term, stable, and predictable demand. The world depicted by the APS fundamentally contradicts this premise.

Alberta, Canada, serves as a microcosm of this issue. For years, local politicians have periodically raised concerns about ‘pipeline shortages,’ claiming that without new pipelines, oil sands would be trapped inland, missing out on export opportunities. Such discussions have become almost a cyclical political maneuver, surfacing around elections, yet they have consistently failed to overcome the reality threshold—capital no longer believes this is a viable business.

The completed Trans Mountain Expansion (TMX) exemplifies the problem. The project was ultimately completed not because the market was optimistic, but because the federal government took over, with costs ballooning from the initial estimate of CAD 7.4 billion to over CAD 30 billion. It can operate, but the returns are highly uncertain; its existence resembles a policy choice rather than a successful investment.

As for those projects still ‘under discussion’ but unable to materialize, their fate is already sealed. Whether it is the former Energy East or the rejected Northern Gateway, they share a common assumption: that oil demand would exist long-term, even expand. With the advent of the APS, this assumption is no longer valid; future iterations will only become more challenging, not easier.

Turning to the United States, the situation is equally clear. Keystone XL has become a symbol of long-term political controversy, yet it has never truly addressed a core issue—who will bear the risk of declining long-term demand. Donald Trump repeatedly endorsed the pipeline, but political rhetoric cannot replace financial decision-making; under the premise of stagnant demand growth, insurance, financing, and long-term contracts all fail, and projects naturally remain on paper.

This does not mean that North America lacks pipelines. The extensive network from the Permian Basin to the Gulf of Mexico is still operational, the Dakota Access Pipeline continues to transport oil, and the Colonial Pipeline maintains refined product supply. However, these are existing, amortized assets, not new bets in the APS era. Their logic is to be used until they can no longer be used, rather than to reinvest for another forty years.

The only projects that may still pass approval are ‘replacement’ or ‘lifespan extension’ projects, such as the Line 3 Replacement. These projects are not intended to increase throughput but to mitigate risks and update aging facilities; they are defensive rather than offensive. This represents the limit of pipeline investment permissible in an APS world.

Proponents of rebuilding pipelines often invoke ‘energy security’ and ‘jobs,’ but this misplaces short-term political pressures onto long-term infrastructure decisions. The risks pointed out by the APS are not about a lack of oil but about an excess of unused pipelines. Once the pace of demand decline outstrips the payback period, assets will swiftly turn into liabilities, ultimately borne by public finances.

Oil will still be used for some time, but the investment window is closing. In a world of structurally contracting demand, laying new long-lived channels for high-cost, high-carbon intensity crude oil is neither forward-looking nor pragmatic; it is a refusal to confront reality. Oil will eventually phase out, and building new pipelines in the interim can only be described as folly.

Fascism is never born overnight. It does not emerge from a coup, a slogan, or a madman’s epiphany; rather, it is rationalized step by step in an atmosphere of fear, disorder, and disappointment, ultimately brought to power by the masses themselves.

Historically, fascist movements share a common starting point: societies undergoing severe upheaval. Economic recession, humiliating defeats, widespread unemployment, and institutional failure create conditions where the existing order can no longer explain reality or improve lives. People begin to stop asking how to repair the system and instead seek to identify who is to blame. At this juncture, reason recedes, and emotion takes center stage.

The first step of fascism is to simplify the world. Complex issues are distilled into a single narrative: the decline of the nation is not due to policy errors, structural imbalances, or global changes, but rather because ‘someone is holding us back.’ This ‘them’ can be outsiders, minorities, intellectuals, the media, opposition parties, or even the entire existing elite. As long as it remains sufficiently vague, it can bear the weight of public discontent.

The second step is the politicization of emotion. Fascism is not adept at governance but excels at mobilization. It does not offer solutions but provides emotional outlets. Anger is framed as justice, fear is packaged as crisis, and doubt is denounced as betrayal. Rational discussion is viewed as weakness, and compromise is depicted as treachery. The masses are not persuaded; they are incited.

Next comes impatience with institutions. When democratic processes are described as ‘slowing efficiency’ or ‘hindering reform,’ when judicial independence is labeled as ‘protecting the guilty,’ and when media oversight is dismissed as ‘fake news,’ fascism begins to dismantle checks and balances. It does not outright deny elections but claims they are ‘manipulated’; it does not immediately abolish courts but first attacks the motives of judges. The institutions remain, but their credibility is hollowed out.

The crux of fascism lies not in the strength of its leader but in the willingness of followers to abandon judgment. When people start saying, ‘This is not the time for procedures,’ or ‘Extraordinary times require extraordinary measures,’ they have already accepted a premise: that power can be unchecked as long as the purpose is ‘just.’ And this ‘just’ is always defined by those in power.

It is important to note that fascism does not necessarily appear in the form of military boots and salutes. It can don a suit, rise to power through voting, and concentrate authority in the name of democracy. It can even exalt the term ‘people’ while gradually stripping away their choices. Historical examples have long shown that when dissent is stigmatized, when minorities are seen as the problem itself, and when violence is rationalized as a necessary means, the escape routes often vanish.

The most successful moment for fascism is not the day it seizes power, but the moment when the majority begins to think, ‘This might not be so bad after all.’ It is not imposed on society but tacitly accepted; not because everyone believes in it, but because too many choose to remain silent.

The question is never merely whether fascism will re-emerge, but whether we will still be able to recognize its form when the same conditions arise again. For the true nourishment of fascism is not hatred itself, but the fatigue of relinquishing thought.