The Day After the Revolutions: What the Civic Mobilisation Movements of 2024–2026 Teach Us About Democracy — and About Timor-Leste

By: Dionísio Babo Soares

Political transformations rarely occur when protesters return home. It is often in the subsequent phase that the most demanding and decisive part of democratic life unfolds: the task of converting the energy of change into institutions capable of giving it meaning, continuity, and substance.

Between 2024 and 2026, the world witnessed a wave of popular mobilisation on a scale not seen in several respects since the Arab Spring. From Bangladesh to Nepal, from Sri Lanka to Pakistan, across countries in Africa and Latin America, and even in established European democracies, millions of citizens took to the streets to demand transparency, justice, the fight against corruption, economic opportunities, and, above all, a different way of exercising political power.

At first sight, we might regard this dynamic as an unequivocal demonstration of democratic vitality. Moreover, to some extent, that is precisely what it represents: societies that are better informed, more demanding, and less willing to accept models of governance as inevitable that no longer correspond to their expectations.

There is, however, a second reading, perhaps a more important one. Historical experience teaches us that bringing down governments is often easier than building institutions capable of responding to the expectations generated by political change. The true test of any profound political transformation therefore begins the day after.

As Samuel P. Huntington observed in Political Order in Changing Societies (1968), the fundamental challenge facing societies undergoing transformation lies not merely in their capacity for political mobilisation, but above all in their ability to institutionalise that mobilisation. When social expectations outpace institutions’ capacity to respond, a space for frustration emerges that can undermine the transformative impulse itself. Recent experience offers lessons that deserve careful consideration.

Bangladesh provides a particularly telling example. The student-led civic movement of July 2024, which led to Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s departure in August of that year, opened the way to a new political phase that culminated in the February 2026 elections, in which the Bangladesh Nationalist Party secured a substantial parliamentary majority. For many observers, the process represented a significant democratic victory.

The reality, however, is more complex. The exclusion of the Awami League from political life—the party was prevented from contesting the election—the judicial proceedings against former leaders, the persistence of social polarisation and the cooling of relations with India remind us that a political transition does not end when elections are held. Elections are indispensable, but they are not sufficient. When one of a country’s principal historical political forces is no longer fully participating in the political process, a fundamental question remains open: how can a democracy be built that is sufficiently inclusive to accommodate the diversity of society and sufficiently robust to survive changes in political power?

This, ultimately, is one of the most consistent lessons of contemporary democratic experience: enduring democracies do not live by free elections alone. They require institutions capable of simultaneously ensuring justice, inclusion, security, accountability and public trust.

Nepal is following a path with some similarities. The so-called Gen Z uprising in September 2025 brought down the government of K. P. Sharma Oli. It led to elections in March 2026, in which voters clearly punished the traditional parties and opened space for new political forces—the Rastriya Swatantra Party, founded only in 2022, secured a substantial parliamentary majority, the first such majority in the country in almost three decades. It is still too early to know whether the renewal of political actors will be accompanied by the institutional transformation many citizens expect. However, the Nepalese case raises a question that warrants close attention: to what extent can changing political actors produce lasting change in how the state functions?

Sri Lanka offers a complementary reflection. Despite the gradual recovery of macroeconomic indicators following the severe crisis of 2022—with the World Bank estimating a return to growth after a significant cumulative contraction in previous years—questions persist concerning the quality of governance, institutional transparency and the opportunities available to younger generations. Economic stabilisation was, naturally, a necessary condition. However, it has not, by itself, proved sufficient to restore political trust.

This is perhaps one of the most interesting features of the current transformation of political legitimacy. In Latin America, in several African countries, and even in established European democracies, citizens increasingly appear to assess governments less by their programmes or electoral results alone and more by their concrete capacity to deliver. This phenomenon reflects a legitimate demand from citizens for effectiveness, transparency, and proximity from the government.

As Francis Fukuyama and, more recently, Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson—awarded the 2024 Nobel Prize in Economic Sciences—have emphasised, the strength of democracies rests on fundamental pillars: an effective state, the rule of law, institutions subject to accountability mechanisms and, the latter authors add, inclusive institutions capable of distributing opportunities with reasonable fairness and limiting excessive concentrations of political and economic power. When one of these pillars weakens, confidence in institutions also begins to decline. The civic mobilisations of recent years appear, to a considerable extent, to confirm these concerns. In most cases, the protests did not represent a rejection of democracy. Rather, they expressed the perception that democratic institutions were not sufficiently fulfilling their promise to represent and serve the majority.

There is, however, a new element in this wave of mobilisation that deserves particular attention. Generation Z has emerged as a political protagonist on a global scale. It is a generation that grew up in a digital environment, with relatively high levels of education and permanent connectivity. Information circulates in real time, and governments’ ability to control the public narrative has diminished considerably. Along with it, citizens’ patience has diminished in the face of what they perceive as inefficiency, opacity or distance from those in power. Political legitimacy has therefore ceased to depend exclusively on electoral representation. It increasingly depends on performance. The democracies of the twenty-first century will inevitably be democracies in which the quality of outcomes will matter as much as the quality of processes.

For Timor-Leste, these transformations contain lessons that would be prudent to follow—not with apprehension, but with the confidence of a country that recognises that a young democracy has the advantage of learning from others’ experience.

The first lesson is that democratic stability is not exhausted by the regular holding of elections. Above all, it depends on the quality of public institutions. Independent courts, a professional public administration, effective mechanisms to combat corruption, politically impartial security forces and transparent systems of accountability constitute much more than technical requirements of good governance. They are part of the true heritage of a consolidated democracy. Timor-Leste has, in this respect, an experience that should not be underestimated. Timor-Leste’s democratic construction took place under particularly demanding conditions, and over the past decades the country has demonstrated a remarkable capacity to resolve differences through political dialogue and institutions. It is precisely this experience that can now be deepened.

The second lesson concerns young people. Timor-Leste still possesses a valuable demographic window of opportunity. The fundamental question will not simply be how many young people the country will have, but what opportunities it can offer them. Quality education, vocational training, innovation, productive employment and civic participation should not be viewed as isolated sectoral policies. They are components of a single national strategy. A young population that finds opportunities can become the principal engine of Timor-Leste’s development. A young population that does not find them may, naturally, transform legitimate expectations into frustration. The difference between these two scenarios will depend, to a considerable extent, on institutions’ capacity to anticipate and respond to the aspirations of a new generation.

The third lesson concerns economic diversification. Many of the civic mobilisations observed between 2024 and 2026 emerged from persistent economic difficulties, perceived inequalities, and a lack of sufficiently clear prospects for younger generations. Excessive dependence on a single resource tends, in any society, to increase economic vulnerability and, indirectly, political vulnerability. For Timor-Leste, accelerating economic diversification—through modern agriculture, sustainable tourism, the blue economy, renewable energy, the digital economy and manufacturing suited to the country’s scale—is not merely a growth strategy. It is also a policy for strengthening social cohesion and, in that sense, democratic consolidation.

There is, finally, a fourth lesson, perhaps the most important. Democracy becomes stronger when it can create institutions robust enough to accommodate differences, manage conflicts, and preserve citizens’ trust. Political inclusion, institutional dialogue and respect for the rule of law have proved, in virtually all democratic experiences, to be far more solid instruments of stability. This is a conclusion worth recalling in a world where politics has become, in many places, more polarised and less patient.

Timor-Leste’s full accession to ASEAN, formally completed in October 2025, adds a particularly interesting dimension to this reflection. In a region where different political models and development trajectories coexist, Timor-Leste has an opportunity to play a discreet but constructive role. Its own experience of reconciliation, dialogue and institution-building can constitute a useful contribution to a regional culture based on stability, cooperation, good governance and inclusive development. This is not about seeking models to export. Rather, it is about sharing an experience whose value lies precisely in the difficult circumstances under which it was built.

The waves of mobilisation that swept across different societies between 2024 and 2026 should therefore not be viewed merely as a succession of protests against governments. They are also a sign of a deeper transformation in the relationship between the state and society. Citizens are demanding governments that are more capable, more transparent and closer to the people. They are asking for institutions that work and for results that are perceptible in their daily lives. This demand is not a threat to democracy; ultimately, it is an opportunity for democracy to renew itself.

For Timor-Leste, the message emerging from these international experiences is therefore less one of warning than one of confidence. The future of Timor-Leste’s democracy will depend not only on its capacity to win elections. Above all, it will depend on its capacity to build institutions that outlast governments, withstand political change, inspire citizens’ confidence and transform economic development into opportunities that are genuinely shared.

This is necessarily a gradual task. There are no perfect institutions and no finished democracies. There are, rather, democracies that learn, correct their mistakes and seek to become better. Perhaps this is the true lesson of the day after revolutions. Political change may open a door, but it is institutions that determine how far a society can travel after passing through it. Moreover, Timor-Leste, given its recent history, has reason to believe that it can continue along this path with confidence, prudence and ambition.

In the decades ahead, it will be this institutional capacity—more than simple alternation in power—that will distinguish genuinely resilient democracies from vulnerable ones.

*This article reflects the personal views of the author exclusively and is intended for purposes of reflection and academic debate. It does not necessarily represent the positions of the institutions with which the author is affiliated.