The United States of Trump, Mourning a Lost Ideal

The United States of Trump, Mourning a Lost Ideal

I’ll just say this: the other day, the United States of America was my favourite foreign country. This thought came first to mind when Donald Trump threatened Iran in these words last week: “A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again. I don’t want that to happen, but it probably will.” This annihilation has been postponed for two weeks while the world’s most powerful leader broods over his options and rejoices over what he has already annihilated. It is hard to believe that this man is the President of the United States and not a megalomaniac ruling some tiny, totalitarian outpost in the backwoods of the world. Yet, he is the President. And the country that once stood as a “shining city on a hill” has elected an illiterate, crass vulgarian as its leader and Commander-in-Chief. This column does not usually concentrate much attention on geopolitics or foreign wars, but Trump has achieved the astonishing feat of making his war on Iran a domestic issue for too many countries. In India, more so than others. For those of us who grew up admiring America—its Coca Cola, its Hollywood, its Bob Dylan, its liberal democracy, its free speech, its free markets—the Trump presidency is not just a political disappointment. It is a personal betrayal. It is the shattering of an ideal. It is the unmasking of an ugliness that was always there, but that we chose not to see.

The America of Childhood: Coca Cola, Hollywood, and Bob Dylan

The United States has been my favourite foreign country from the days of my childhood. I remember vividly that one of my most cherished toys then was a tiny bottle of Coca Cola. These toy Cokes were given to us children by uncles who were privileged enough in those socialist times to afford foreign travel. Aunts would bring back tiny bottles of French perfume, and uncles would bring us those little bottles of Coca Cola. They were treasures, these tiny bottles—symbols of a world that was distant, glamorous, and impossibly free.

Then there was Hollywood that seduced us with films like Ben Hur and The Sound of Music that we watched in elegant cinemas in Connaught Place called Odeon and Plaza. These were not just movies; they were windows into a different kind of life—one where individuals mattered, where dreams could come true, where the pursuit of happiness was not a slogan but a lived reality. When the sixties arrived in Delhi, albeit a bit late, I remember falling in love with Bob Dylan’s songs and dreaming secretly of going one day to America. Foreign travel was impossible in those days because the Government of India seemed permanently short of foreign exchange. But the dream persisted. America was the place where you could be whoever you wanted to be.

When I became politically conscious, I found myself more drawn to the United States than any other country because liberal democracy, freedom of speech, writing, and thought define my political ideology. To this day, free markets define my economic ideology. The United States represented the antithesis of everything I disliked about India’s socialist shabbiness—the license raj, the bureaucratic controls, the suspicion of private enterprise, the reverence for state planning. I became an admirer of certain American presidents. I have watched President Kennedy’s “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech many times and always been bewitched. I have been as bewitched by Ronald Reagan’s speech in Berlin, famous for the line: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.”

The Soviet Contrast: Understanding India’s Socialist Shabbiness

In 1990, when Mr. Gorbachev was still president and when the Soviet Union still existed, I went to Moscow for the only time under Soviet Russia. I was surprised by the fact that the Prime Minister’s press party stayed in Hotel Rossiya near Red Square. It was built like a prison with spartan, cell-like rooms. Large ladies who looked like prison wardens sat on every floor. We bribed them with little packets of cheese and chocolates that the Air India crew had given us, just to be able to get a cup of tea in the morning. It was when I saw Moscow’s empty shops, its desperately poor people, and its rickety fax machines that I understood where India’s socialist shabbiness came from. But I failed to understand why our leaders chose the Soviet Union as a role model and not the United States.

The contrast could not have been starker. The Soviet Union was a society of scarcity, surveillance, and fear. The United States was a society of abundance, openness, and opportunity. One built walls; the other tore them down. One imprisoned its citizens; the other celebrated their freedom. One suppressed speech; the other protected it as a fundamental right. Why would any nation choose the former over the latter? The answer, I now realise, is complex. It has to do with the Cold War, with non-alignment, with a post-colonial suspicion of Western capitalism, and with a certain romanticisation of socialist planning. But the choice was a mistake. And India paid for it with decades of slow growth, widespread poverty, and a stunted private sector.

The America I Still Love: Universities, Cities, and the Spirit of Insolence

The truth is that I would like in my lifetime to see India build fine universities modelled on American universities. And cities and villages that resemble American cities and villages. I admire the spirit and insolence of American people who lampoon and criticise their president without looking over their shoulder. In India, we are still learning this art. We still look over our shoulders. We still hesitate. We still fear. The American people do not. They have a constitutional culture that protects their right to dissent, and they exercise that right vigorously, sometimes rudely, always passionately. That is a muscle that needs to be exercised, and the Americans have built it over centuries.

I also admire the American can-do spirit. The belief that problems can be solved, that obstacles can be overcome, that the future can be better than the present. This is not naive optimism; it is a pragmatic faith in human ingenuity. It is the spirit that built the transcontinental railroad, that put a man on the Moon, that created the internet, that sequenced the human genome. It is the spirit that, despite all its flaws and failures, has made the United States the most dynamic economy in human history.

The Ugly American: Trump and the Shattering of the Ideal

How did this country that Reagan once described as a “shining city on a hill” elect an illiterate, crass vulgarian as their leader and Commander-in-Chief? Is there a side of the United States that can only be understood by Americans? Perhaps. The ugliness was always there. The racism, the nativism, the anti-intellectualism, the violent frontier mentality, the brutal exploitation of labour, the systemic oppression of Black Americans, the genocide of Native Americans, the imperial adventures in Vietnam and Iraq and elsewhere—these are not new. They are part of the American story, too. But they were not the parts we chose to see. We chose to see the Statue of Liberty, not the Trail of Tears. We chose to see Martin Luther King Jr., not the assassins who killed him. We chose to see the Apollo missions, not the napalm dropped on Vietnamese children.

Trump has forced us to see the other side. He has made it impossible to ignore. His threats to annihilate an entire civilization are not hyperbole; they are statements of intent. His admiration for authoritarian leaders is not a quirk; it is a revelation of his own authoritarian instincts. His contempt for the rule of law, for the free press, for the independence of the judiciary, for the norms of democratic governance—these are not aberrations; they are the logical expression of a man who believes that power is the only value that matters.

The Hindutva connection adds an Indian dimension to this tragedy. As my friend and fellow columnist, Vir Sanghvi, pointed out last week, Trump was something of a Hindutva hero till just the other day. Last year, the Hindutva lunatic fringe assembled religious gatherings to pray for his victory in the American election. They proudly posted videos of posters and banners of Trump fluttering over the fires of Hindu rituals. We like building temples to political leaders we revere, and I remember fearing then that there were probably the foundations of a Trump temple being laid already in some Indian city or town. The affinity is not accidental. The ideology of Hindutva shares with Trumpism a contempt for liberal democracy, a崇拜 of strong leaders, a demonisation of minorities, and a nostalgia for a mythical past that never existed. Birds of a feather flock together.

Signs of Hope: The No Kings Protests and the Artemis Mission

What gives me hope is seeing that Trump’s poll ratings are abysmal and that millions of Americans came out in the “No Kings” protests. These protests, which erupted after Trump’s threats to Iran and his increasingly authoritarian rhetoric, are a reminder that the America I admire still exists. It is battered, bruised, and demoralised, but it is not dead. The spirit of insolence—the refusal to bow, the determination to speak truth to power—is still alive. It is expressed in the streets, in the media, in the courts, and in the voting booths.

What gives me hope is this extraordinary mission to the Moon—Artemis II—which without question represents that America that I still love and admire. The successful launch, the flawless free-return trajectory, the safe splashdown—these are not just technological achievements. They are affirmations of a certain kind of American exceptionalism: the belief that big things are possible, that the future is worth investing in, that human ingenuity can overcome any obstacle. The Artemis mission is a reminder that the America of JFK and Reagan still exists alongside the America of Trump. It is a reminder that the country is not defined solely by its worst impulses.

Just as I never believed that tyrannical theocrats represented Iran, I do not believe that Donald Trump represents America. He is an aberration, a symptom, a warning. But he is not the whole story. The America that gave us Coca Cola and Hollywood and Bob Dylan, that built great universities and great cities, that defended liberal democracy against fascism and communism, that put a man on the Moon—that America is still there. It is wounded. It is embattled. It is struggling to reclaim its soul. But it is not dead.

Conclusion: Mourning and Hoping

The United States of America was my favourite foreign country. It still is. But my relationship with it has become more complicated, more painful, more ambivalent. I mourn the America that seems to be dying—the America of liberal democracy, free speech, and free markets. I fear the America that seems to be rising—the America of authoritarianism, nativism, and brute force. But I also hope. I hope that the “No Kings” protesters will prevail. I hope that the Artemis mission is a portent of a different future. I hope that the American people will remember who they are and what they stand for.

The United States of Trump is a tragedy. But tragedies can have redemptive endings. The question is whether the American people will write that ending. The world is watching. And hoping.

Q&A: The United States of Trump and the Shattered Ideal

Q1: The author describes the United States as his “favourite foreign country” from childhood. What specific memories and influences shaped this admiration?

A1: The author recalls several formative influences:

• Coca Cola: Tiny bottles of Coca Cola brought by uncles who could afford foreign travel in socialist-era India. These were treasures—symbols of a distant, glamorous, impossibly free world.

• Hollywood: Films like Ben Hur and The Sound of Music watched in elegant cinemas (Odeon and Plaza) in Connaught Place, Delhi. These were windows into a different kind of life where individuals mattered and dreams could come true.

• Bob Dylan: Falling in love with Dylan’s songs in the sixties (arriving late in Delhi) and dreaming secretly of going to America.

• Political ideals: Liberal democracy, freedom of speech, writing, and thought defined his political ideology; free markets defined his economic ideology.

• American presidents: Admiration for JFK’s “Ich bin ein Berliner” speech and Reagan’s “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall” speech.
  The author wanted India to build fine universities, cities, and villages modelled on American ones, and admired the “spirit and insolence” of Americans who lampoon their president without looking over their shoulder.

Q2: What did the author learn from his visit to Moscow in 1990, and how did it shape his understanding of India’s policy choices?

A2: The author visited Moscow in 1990, when Gorbachev was still president and the Soviet Union still existed. He stayed at the Hotel Rossiya near Red Square, which was “built like a prison with spartan, cell-like rooms.” Large ladies who looked like prison wardens sat on every floor. They bribed them with cheese and chocolates just to get a cup of tea in the morning. He saw Moscow’s empty shops, desperately poor people, and rickety fax machines. It was then that he understood where India’s “socialist shabbiness” came from—the license raj, bureaucratic controls, suspicion of private enterprise, and reverence for state planning. But he failed to understand why Indian leaders chose the Soviet Union as a role model instead of the United States. The Soviet Union was a society of scarcity, surveillance, and fear; the United States was a society of abundance, openness, and opportunity. The choice was a mistake, and India paid for it with decades of slow growth and widespread poverty.

Q3: The author asks, “How did this country that Reagan once described as a ‘shining city on a hill’ elect an illiterate, crass vulgarian as their leader?” What answer does he suggest?

A3: The author suggests that the ugliness was always there, hidden beneath the idealised image. The racism, nativism, anti-intellectualism, violent frontier mentality, brutal exploitation of labour, systemic oppression of Black Americans, genocide of Native Americans, and imperial adventures (Vietnam, Iraq) are not new—they are part of the American story too. But admirers of America chose not to see them. They chose to see the Statue of Liberty, not the Trail of Tears; Martin Luther King Jr., not his assassins; the Apollo missions, not the napalm dropped on Vietnamese children. Trump has forced the world to see the other side. He has made it impossible to ignore. The author notes that Trump’s admiration for authoritarian leaders, contempt for the rule of law, and belief that power is the only value that matters are logical expressions of a man who embodies America’s ugliest impulses.

Q4: What is the “Hindutva connection” mentioned in the article, and why does the author find it significant?

A4: The author notes that Trump was “something of a Hindutva hero” until recently. Last year, the “Hindutva lunatic fringe” assembled religious gatherings to pray for his victory in the American election, posting videos of posters and banners of Trump fluttering over the fires of Hindu rituals. The author had feared that the foundations of a Trump temple were being laid in some Indian city or town. The affinity is not accidental: the ideology of Hindutva shares with Trumpism a contempt for liberal democracy, a崇拜 of strong leaders, a demonisation of minorities, and a nostalgia for a mythical past that never existed. The author implies that birds of a feather flock together, and that the rise of authoritarian populism in India and the US are connected phenomena.

Q5: Despite his despair, what gives the author hope about America’s future?

A5: The author finds hope in two things:

• The “No Kings” protests: Millions of Americans came out to protest Trump’s authoritarian rhetoric and threats. This demonstrates that the spirit of insolence—the refusal to bow, the determination to speak truth to power—is still alive. The America the author admires is battered but not dead.

• The Artemis II mission: The successful lunar mission represents the America the author still loves and admires—the belief that big things are possible, that the future is worth investing in, that human ingenuity can overcome any obstacle. Artemis is a reminder that the America of JFK and Reagan still exists alongside the America of Trump.

The author concludes that just as he never believed that tyrannical theocrats represented Iran, he does not believe that Donald Trump represents America. Trump is an aberration, a symptom, a warning—but not the whole story. The America that gave the world Coca Cola, Hollywood, Bob Dylan, great universities, great cities, liberal democracy, and the Moon landing is still there. It is wounded, embattled, and struggling to reclaim its soul, but it is not dead. The question is whether the American people will write a redemptive ending to this tragedy. The world is watching and hoping.