Political Narratology. How Stories Shape Power and Compliance

A collective ‘we’ cannot be infinite. Without boundaries, it loses its form. If it includes everyone, it ceases to mean anything.

Therefore, every political narrative, in creating a ‘we’, simultaneously, if not always explicitly, answers another question: ‘Who does not belong?’

It is this question that makes politics tense, painful, and dangerous because inclusion offers protection and meaning, while exclusion brings vulnerability and silence.

Exclusion as an Invisible Operation

Exclusion is rarely declared outright. It is almost never spoken of openly. It happens through language, implication, tone, emphasis, word choice, repetition, and silence. Some are labelled ‘authentic’, others as ‘questionable’, ‘temporarily misguided’, ‘not fully’, ‘too much’, or ‘not quite’.

This is how a zone of ambiguous status is formed: people who are technically within society but not fully within the story. This zone is the most vulnerable.

Inclusion as a Privilege

Belonging to the ‘we’ is never unconditional. It comes with terms: loyalty, language, gestures, agreement with the story, acceptance of symbols, and observance of rituals. A person can be a formal citizen, yet narratively excluded. They can live within the state, but outside its ‘we’. They can speak but not be heard.

Politics rarely punishes directly. Far more often, it simply ceases to recognise.

The Categories of Others’ as a Construct

In every political narrative, a recurring set of exclusionary figures can be found. Their names change, but the structure remains: the outsider, the traitor, the parasite, the elite, the marginal, the agent, the rootless, the illegitimate. And the ‘crown of them all’: the enemy of the people.

It is crucial to understand: these categories do not describe real people. They describe functions within the story, and their purpose is to reinforce the boundary of the ‘we’.

When the narrative needs consolidation, the number of the excluded expands. When it is confident, the boundaries may temporarily widen.

External Exclusion: Them

The simplest form is external: ‘them’. Another people, another culture, another bloc, another world.

An external enemy is convenient: they are distant, abstract, and easily demonised. They can be blamed without immediate risk of internal social conflict. They are used to explain failures, delays, fears, and restrictions.

The external enemy is a way to keep the internal ‘we’ in a state of tense unity.

Internal Exclusion: The Most Dangerous

Far more dangerous is internal exclusion. This is the moment when the ‘others’ are close by.

This is where the figures of the ‘fifth column’, ‘enemies within’, ‘doubters’, ‘the overly complex’, ‘the disloyal’ emerge. Their difference is not always in actions but more often in their interpretation.

They are dangerous not for what they do, but for explaining events differently. Consequently, the struggle against them is almost always narrative, not judicial.

Language as a Tool of Exclusion

Notice: exclusion is rarely formulated through direct prohibition. It is enacted through language.

A person may not be arrested but simply no longer invited. Not silenced by law, but no longer quoted. Not declared an enemy, but labelled as ‘controversial’, ‘toxic’, or ‘problematic’.

Language sets the social temperature. And if that temperature drops, a person finds themselves in a chilling space, without the need for formal exile.

The Excluded as a Mirror of Fear

The figure of the excluded always reflects the fears of the ‘we’ itself. Insecurity about identity, anxiety about change, fear of losing control.

By excluding the other, the collective confirms itself. By punishing deviation, it soothes its own doubts.

Therefore, exclusion is rarely linked to a real threat; it is linked to the psychological vulnerability of the narrative.

Why Exclusion Seems Necessary

Every story strives for coherence. And coherence struggles with complexity.

Differences interfere with simplicity, ambivalence disrupts mobilisation, and multiplicity weakens clarity. Therefore, the narrative seeks to simplify reality, which means reducing the number of permissible positions.

Exclusion is a way to lower a society’s cognitive load.

The Silent Majority of the Excluded

The largest excluded group are those no one names. They are neither enemies nor heroes. They simply don’t fit.

People without a clear identity, without a voice, without symbolic capital. They are absent from the stories, not debated, and do not become characters.

This is no accident. A narrative needs outlines, not nuance.

Exclusion and Violence

Not all exclusion leads to physical violence, but all mass violence begins with narrative exclusion.

First, a person ceases to be considered ‘one of us’, then ‘equal’, then ‘necessary’. And only at the end – ‘human’.

This process is almost always gradual and thus imperceptible from within.

Is It Possible to Manage Without Exclusion?

Completely – no. Any identity implies a boundary.

But there is a difference between a permeable boundary and an absolute one. Between exclusion as distinction and exclusion as annihilation.

A society’s political maturity is measured by whether its narrative allows for the possibility of disagreement without exile.

What Understanding the Mechanism of Exclusion Offers

By becoming aware of how inclusion and exclusion work, a person gains a rare resource – the ability not to confuse belonging with subordination.

One can be part of the ‘we’ and still see how it is constructed. One can participate without surrendering the capacity to question. One can understand that every narrative has a shadow – and avoid becoming its victim.

Political narratology does not abolish boundaries. It makes them visible.

And a visible boundary is no longer an absolute one.

Chapter 7. Language, Symbols, and Memory

The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.

Ludwig Wittgenstein

Politics Begins with Language

No political reality exists before language. The word comes first; action follows.

Before a law is enacted, there is a formulation. Before an enemy is identified, there is a name. Before a society begins to remember, it is told what to remember. Politics does not use language as a tool; politics exists within language.

Language Does Not Describe – It Organises

We are accustomed to seeing language as a neutral vehicle for information. In politics, this is a dangerous fallacy.

Language places emphasis, creates causality, assigns responsibility, sets the emotional tone, and defines permissible formulations.

Consider: ‘reform’, ‘optimisation’, ‘reduction’, ‘cutback’, ‘deprivation’. The underlying fact may be the same; the realities constructed are different.

Political language is not a reflection of the world; it is its architecture.

Words with Lost Innocence

In politics, there are no ‘pure’ words. Each key concept carries the trace of prior use.

Words like ‘freedom’, ‘security’, ‘order’, ‘tradition’, ‘the people’, ‘the state’ seem self-evident, but are in fact containers for meaning. Their contents change, but the form remains, which is precisely what makes them so effective. A political narrative does not invent new words; it rewires the old ones.

Language as the Boundary of Permissible Thought

It is not only what can be said that matters, but also what cannot be said. Every stable political narrative creates a zone of the unthinkable: topics that seem strange, dangerous, absurd, or ‘inappropriate’. Not because they are false, but because there is no language to discuss them.

When a question cannot be framed in words, it disappears from public consciousness. This is one of the softest and most effective forms of power.

The Symbol as a Condensed Narrative

If language is the fabric of the story, the symbol is its knot. A flag, a coat of arms, a monument, a date, a gesture, a melody, a colour – these are not mere ornaments but concentrations of meaning. A symbol does not explain; it includes the narrative.

A person may not understand a manifesto, know the facts, or grasp the arguments, but a symbol works directly through emotion, the body, and habit.

A symbol is a narrative experienced without words.

Why Symbols Provoke Such Strong Reactions

A rational argument can be discussed; a symbol cannot.

Try ‘calmly debating’ a symbol, and you will see the reaction is disproportionate. This is because the challenge is perceived not as criticism but as an invasion of identity.

Symbols answer the question, ‘Who are we?’ They store not information, but belonging.

Rituals as Body Language

Political rituals are the language through which the body of society speaks. Elections, parades, moments of silence, oaths, ceremonies, anniversaries – these are not formalities. They are means of synchronisation.

A ritual habituates: it creates a sense of normality, repeatability, and stability.

Through ritual, a narrative ceases to be a thought and becomes a habit.

Memory as a Political Arena

Collective memory is the product of selection. A society cannot remember everything; it remembers what has been narrated and repeated. Everything else dissolves and disappears.

Therefore, memory is always political. It is not distorted; it is structured.

What is recalled as a feat, what as a tragedy, what as an error, and what as a necessity – this is decided not by the past, but by the present.

Forgetting as a Form of Power

Equally important is the question: ‘What is forgotten?’ Forgetting is not an empty space; it is the result of silence, the absence of rituals, the absence of language.

If an event receives no symbol, no date, no name, it ceases to exist in collective consciousness, even if it was traumatic.

In this sense, power governs not only memory but also amnesia.

Rewriting Without Rewriting

Modern politics is not inclined to crudely rewrite history; that is too conspicuous.

More often, the frame of interpretation changes: the same events begin to ‘mean’ something else.

Victory becomes a ‘complex victory’; defeat, an ‘inevitable stage’; violence, a ‘response’; and resistance, ‘chaos’.

The facts remain; the plot changes.

The Language of Crisis and the Language of Stability

Every political regime has its dominant language. In a crisis, the language of threat, urgency, mobilisation, and exceptionalism prevails; in stability, the language of order, development, normality, and gradualism.

A shift in language always anticipates a shift in politics. When the lexicon changes abruptly, it means the story into which people are being prepared has changed.

Why the Struggle for Language is a Struggle for Reality

Whoever determines how things are named determines how they are experienced. To call a protest ‘disorder’ is one thing; to call it an ‘uprising’ is another. To call it a ‘movement’ is a third.

None of these words is neutral: each immediately proposes a role, an emotion, a conclusion. Therefore, political struggle begins with terminology, not with actions.

Media as a Language Amplifier

Modern media accelerate and simplify language. Complex constructions vanish, leaving short formulas, images, clichés, and repeated phrases.

This makes narratives more viral but less stable: they capture attention rapidly but burn out faster.

In such an environment, symbols and concentrated words become even more crucial.

When Language Breaks Down

The most alarming moment is not a lie but a complete loss of trust in words themselves. When all words seem like manipulation, when any statement is perceived as having a hidden agenda, language ceases to connect people; it begins to divide them.

This state we call cynicism, and a separate chapter will be dedicated to it.

What Understanding Language, Symbols, and Memory Provides

Political narratology does not offer ‘correct words’; it teaches one to hear the structure. Understanding which words work like hooks and traps, which symbols switch emotions on, which memories are activated and which are suppressed – this is not protection from the influence of politics, but protection from dissolving into it.

As long as a person can notice the language, they remain a subject, not merely a carrier of history. From this understanding, we move on to how political narratives unfold over time.

Chapter 8. National History as Narrative

Traditions are often invented.

Eric Hobsbawm

History as a Story About Ourselves

Every society lives not merely in the present but within a story about itself. This story need not be precise; it must be comprehensible.

National history is a narrative in which a society answers several fundamental questions: ‘Where did we come from?’ ‘What have we endured?’ ‘What sets us apart?’ ‘What are we proud of?’ ‘What has traumatised us?’ ‘Where are we going?

Without this narrative, the ‘we’ cannot hold.

Why History is Always Simplified

The real past is chaotic, contradictory, and multi-layered. The collective consciousness cannot contain it. Therefore, national history is always reduced: complex processes become a few turning points, multiple causes become a single line, contradictory figures become heroes or villains.

This is not falsification but a psychological necessity. A society, like an individual, requires a coherent biography.

History as a Justification for the Present

The national narrative almost always explains why the current state of affairs is ‘the way it is’. Through history, borders, institutions, hierarchies, traumas, fears, and expectations are justified; the past becomes an argument.

The phrase ‘it has always been this way with us’ is one of the most powerful political formulas. It absolves the present of responsibility and transfers it to the realm of fate.

The Myth of Origin

At the centre of any national history lies a myth of origin. This is not necessarily a lie; it is the assembly point of the entire narrative.

The myth of origin answers the question: ‘Who were we at the moment of our birth – victims, victors, the chosen, survivors, pioneers, martyrs, liberators?’

This image scarcely changes, even if details are adjusted, because it sets the emotional tone for all subsequent history.

Great Victories and Great Traumas

The national narrative is built around two types of events: victories and traumas. Victories provide a sense of dignity, exceptionalism, and strength. Traumas provide a sense of justified suffering, suspicion, and the moral superiority of the victim.

Interestingly, societies often cling to their traumas as firmly as to their victories. Trauma more readily explains fears and mobilises loyalty.

History as a Moral Map

National history is always moralised; it clearly assigns roles: who was right, who was guilty, who betrayed, who saved, who suffered needlessly, and whose sacrifice was ‘necessary’.

This forms a moral map of the world by which society orients itself in the present. Political conflicts may appear to be disputes about the future, but at their core, they are all about the past and its meaning.

Characters of the National Narrative

History demands heroes, and real people are transformed into archetypes: the founder, the liberator, the martyr, the reformer, the tyrant, the traitor. Their human complexity vanishes; only their function remains.

The simpler the character, the more stable the narrative; the more complex, the greater the threat to the story’s integrity.

This is why the reassessment of historical figures always provokes a painful reaction: it shatters the familiar dramaturgy.

Textbooks as Scripts

A school history textbook is a script for national identity. It teaches not so much facts, events, and dates, but intonation: what to be proud of, what to sympathise with, what to consider shameful, what to mention in passing, and what to repeat constantly.

This is why debates over school curricula are always political. The issue is not the past, but what kind of citizens are being formed for the present and future.

Monuments and Dates as Narrative Anchors

A monument is often an art object. But in politics, it is a materialised fixation of an interpretation. A date is not a calendar mark; it forms the rhythm of memory.

Through monuments and dates, society continually reproduces its narrative in space and time. They sustain the story, preventing it from disappearing.

The demolition of a monument or the abolition of a date is perceived as an assault not on stone or a calendar, but on identity itself.

Competing Versions of the Past

There is no single national history. Usually, several versions of it coexist within a society: official, alternative, traumatic, marginal, regional, or familial.

As long as they can coexist, the society remains alive. When one version is declared the only permissible one, a hard politics of memory begins, and history turns into a battlefield.

Why the Past Cannot Be Left in Peace

It is often said, ‘Why dredge up the past? We must look to the future.’ This is astonishingly naïve. The past does not lie somewhere behind us; it is embedded in language, institutions, fears, and expectations.

An unprocessed past returns in the form of symptoms: aggression, suspicion, recurring conflicts.

The Manipulation of History Without Falsification

Contemporary politics rarely distorts facts crudely; it is far more effective to change the emphasis.

Amplify some episodes, reduce others to footnotes, add emotional valuation. The history remains ‘the same’, but functions differently.

History and the Image of the Future

The national narrative always looks not only backwards but also forwards. The past is used as proof that the future is either possible or dangerous. ‘We have been through this before’ is a powerful argument against change. ‘We have always risen again’ is an argument for endurance.

Without an image of the future, history loses its mobilising force and turns into a pantheon.

The Danger of a Static Narrative

The most dangerous form of national history is a static one: when the past is declared complete and interpreted once and for all, and any new reading is perceived as a threat.

At this moment, history ceases to be a dialogue and becomes dogma. And dogma, too, always demands protection.

Why It Is Important to Understand the National Narrative

Political narratology does not offer a ‘correct history’. It proposes seeing how history is constructed; understanding where fact ends and narrative begins, where memory turns into a tool, and where pride leads to blindness.

A person cannot live without history. But they can choose how consciously they participate in it. We will return to a more detailed study of national history’s influence on mass behaviour in Part Three.

Our next step now is to understand how history functions not only in the past but in time itself.

Chapter 9. Time in Political Narrative

Domination exists insofar as it is believed.

Max Weber

Political Time Does Not Coincide with the Calendar

In the common understanding, time is a linear sequence: the past has gone, the present is happening, the future has not yet arrived. In politics, this is not the case.

Political time is not chronology but a construct. It stretches, compresses, loops, accelerates, or freezes depending on which narrative is currently required.

Politics does not manage events in time; it manages the experience of time.

The Past as a Resource

In a political narrative, the past is not ‘what happened’ but ‘what it means’. The same historical events can serve as a source of pride, a justification for fear, proof of greatness, an argument against change, a warning, or a promise.

The past is always used selectively: some fragments are brought into the light, others remain in shadow, and others are simply rewritten.

What matters is not what happened but what function it serves today.

The Present as a Point of Pressure

The present is the most vulnerable part of a narrative because this is precisely where people live. And it is here that they feel fatigue, anxiety, lack, and irritation. A crucial, constant function of the political narrative is to explain the present.

If the present is difficult and heavy, it is called transitional; if it is unjust, it is called necessary. If it is anxious, it is temporary; if it is a failure, it is the result of others’ mistakes.

The present is never described as final; it is a ‘bridge’ to another story.

The Future as the Primary Object of Politics

Politics does not govern the present directly; it governs through the image of the future.

The future can be a promise, a threat, a catastrophe, a rebirth, stability, a leap, a surge, or simply ‘so it doesn’t get worse’.

Even the rejection of a future is also an image of the future: the future as a repetition of the present. People are willing to endure much if they believe it is leading them somewhere.

The Temporal Asymmetry of Narrative

Political narrative is asymmetric in time. The past is depicted as saturated with meaning, the present as tense, and the future as redemptive or threatening. This creates both direction and movement.

Without this dynamism, the narrative freezes and ceases to mobilise.

The Politics of Acceleration

One of the most dangerous techniques is the acceleration of time. When people are told that ‘there is no time’, ‘decisions must be made urgently’, ‘the window of opportunity is closing’, or ‘now or never’, then reflection is disabled. Accelerated time leaves no room for doubt. Doubt appears as sabotage because any question becomes a threat to momentum.

The Politics of Deceleration

The opposite technique is deceleration. Power speaks of complexity, the need for caution, the danger of sudden steps, historical responsibility, and the prospects of a long road. Time is stretched.

Deceleration lowers expectations, dampens momentum, and transforms the energy of protest into patience. But this only works as long as people believe that movement still exists.

Cyclical Time

Some political narratives are built as a cycle. ‘We have always been like this’, ‘History repeats itself’, ‘Nothing new’, ‘That’s how the world works’.

In cyclical time, the possibility of an alternative disappears. If everything repeats, any effort seems naïve, and such a narrative is very convenient for preserving the existing order.

Linear and Messianic Time

Other narratives, conversely, appear linear and directed. History is depicted as a path to a goal: liberation, justice, greatness, prosperity, purification.