“Contempt and violent language serve to strip the Right of the values it represents”—Polish Philosopher Ryszard Legutko

Ryszard Legutko is a Polish philosopher, political thinker, and former Minister of Education. He is a professor of Philosophy at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków and a former prominent MEP representing Poland’s conservative Law and Justice (PiS) party. An expert in ancient philosophy and political theory, Legutko is known for his critical stance on liberal democracy and progressive ideology. He is the author of The Demon in Democracy and The Cunning of Freedom, in which he analyses the parallels between liberalism and communism in modern Europe.

Would you agree with the view that Polish politics, over the past two years, has in many respects come to resemble the so-called freak fights—that is, spectacles in which serious debate is replaced with trash-talk, political rivalry with the brutal demolition of one’s opponents, while politicians from Donald Tusk’s camp behave in a bizarre fashion, recording infantile videos and engaging in public brawls on social media?

The brutal language and behaviour you describe have long been a hallmark of Mr Tusk and his supporters—whether they find themselves in government or in opposition. These tendencies did not arise merely two years ago. I recall the extraordinary and sustained campaign against the late President Lech Kaczyński from 2005 onwards—remarkable for its sheer ferocity—and the subsequent excesses that followed.

What distinguishes the last two years is a new stage in this aggression: an attempt to criminalise the opposition. This is something unseen in Poland since 1989 and utterly incompatible with any civilised political order. This criminalisation proceeds hand-in-hand with a mixture of brutality and infantilism—idiotic videos, the antics of the minister of justice or the prime minister—which turn the collapse of political standards into a sort of grotesque farce, as though the whole sorry business were merely a lark. Had anyone told me, a quarter of a century ago, that post-Communist Poland would descend to this, I should not have believed it. It is not merely dispiriting; it is alarming.

Moreover, the war against the political Right is conducted on many fronts, not only within the formal institutions of political life. It has spread to other realms—universities, schools, cultural institutions, even corporate structures.

Is this phenomenon unique to Poland?

No, it is not a Polish speciality, though in our case it displays an extraordinary intensity. The assaults on President Trump in the United States, the attempts to criminalise him; the treatment of Rassemblement National in France or of the AfD in Germany—all illustrate the same global tendency: the endeavour to eliminate political opposition by whatever means prove practicable, whether crude or merely underhand.

You spoke of brutality and aggression towards political opponents, especially in the use of language. What is the function of these personal attacks?

The purpose is to dehumanise one’s opponent and to discharge one’s own negative emotions. Brutal language—language designed to wound—is but one step removed from physical elimination. It is the surrogate for it: if one cannot destroy someone physically, one may at least heap abuse upon him.

Contempt and violent language serve to strip the other side—the Right—of the values it represents: respect for tradition, for decorum, for continuity. This is evident in the attacks on religion and the Catholic Church. The language is deliberately vulgar in order to shatter the aura of dignity, gravity, and respect that religion confers upon institutions and upon those who serve them.

In the realm of language, what is occurring today—and the present wave of anti-clerical rhetoric is immense—surpasses even what the Communists once directed at the Church. I stress: this concerns language, for in deeds the Communists were far more brutal. Yet even now, we witness the arrest of priests, their detention in degrading conditions, and threats directed at others. It is the collapse of any political decency—a new form of barbarism. And the paradox is that those who employ this language imagine themselves to be enlightened and progressive. As such, they feel entitled to look down upon their opponents, whom they relegate to the dustbin of history; and with them, the entirety of the past.

People, after all, grow accustomed to such language; even if they do not share the opinions expressed, they cease to be shocked. What long-term effect does this systematic defilement of others exert on society?

A disastrous one. Decorum is indispensable to political order. Once destroyed, it is as though a dam has burst; the waters flood ever more domains. This language has entered public life and made itself at home. Everyone now employs it—publicly and without embarrassment. When such behaviour is adopted by the elite, or by a substantial part of it, the process will continue and expand, because it is the elite who shape the young.

An elite ought to defend decency and civilised language. Instead, we witness the reverse. Poland has acquired a lamentable distinction in the history of political manners: an election was won here on the strength of the slogan—the vulgar chant—of “eight stars.” [Since 2020, certain anti-PiS-government protests in Poland popularised an eight-asterisk slogan “**** **,” universally understood as an obscene epithet directed at the previous government translated as “f** PiS”. It later became a central—yet unofficial—campaign slogan of the liberal-left opposition.]

What is one to think of the state of mind of those who were enthralled by it? I recall professors who assured us that the slogan possessed freshness, originality, even authenticity. The crudest, most primitive vulgarity—an act of intellectual lobotomy reducing political reflection to a single obscene cry—was defended and ennobled by part of our elite. And even where it was not defended, no one stood against it. I do not recall any protest from the Conference of University Rectors, though they protested repeatedly against conservative clergy or supported the so called Women’s Strike, where such slogans abounded. But when it came to the brutality of language itself, silence. Either they identify with it, or they are afraid.

What do you think, which one is it?

Probably both. After Communism fell, one might have hoped that the intellectual class would reflect upon its duties. Instead, its members promptly denied their complicity. They have never stood, nor will they ever stand, in the first rank of the defence of human dignity, truth, or decency. I say this with great sorrow, having spent decades among them. In my later years, I must conclude that this pessimistic diagnosis is correct.

Do you see any chance of reversing these trends?

It is easy to shatter a fine porcelain set; it is quite impossible to reassemble it from shards. Sir Roger Scruton observed that the Left profits from the fact that good things are easily destroyed, but exceedingly difficult to build. I do not know whether the tide can be reversed, but we must at least strive to arrest it within the sphere over which we have influence. And we certainly must not give up.

One of the great follies of twentieth-century—and contemporary—intellectuals is their belief in the inevitability of change in a single direction.

Above all, we must not participate. Under Communism people said: do not lie; do not participate in the lie. Found institutions; do not destroy those the regime controls. Build; do not burn.

These old strategies still apply: do not lie, do not take part in the lie, do not employ this barbarous language, do not consort with it. And, secondly, create spaces where decorum prevails, where the language used is worthy of well-formed human beings. Such people need not possess university degrees; but they must possess character.