I think Russian people are learning that democracy is not an

Hear the voice of Garry Kasparov, grandmaster not only of the chessboard but also of thought, who proclaimed: “I think Russian people are learning that democracy is not an alien thing; it’s not a western invention.” These words, though spoken in the tongue of his time, carry the weight of an eternal truth—that freedom belongs to no single nation, no single people, no single age. It is not the private treasure of the West, nor a luxury bestowed by kings, but a birthright woven into the very soul of humankind.

Kasparov speaks of the Russian people, long tested by the yoke of autocracy and the harsh winters of tyranny. For centuries, their story was shaped by czars, by commissars, by rulers who claimed authority as though ordained by fate. And yet within them, as within all people, the ember of democracy glowed, waiting for the breath of courage to stir it into flame. His words remind us that no empire, however mighty, can forever silence the human yearning to be heard, to choose, to govern oneself in dignity.

It is a grave mistake, he warns, to see democracy as a Western invention. For though Athens gave us the word, and though the Enlightenment gave it new garments, its spirit is as ancient as humanity itself. Among the tribes of the Iroquois, councils of elders chose leaders by consent. In the councils of medieval Novgorod, Russian merchants and citizens once raised their voices together in assembly. Even in the distant steppes, decisions of nomadic clans were often guided by the consent of many, not the whim of one. These memories, though buried by centuries of despotism, prove that freedom is no stranger to the East, nor to Russia herself.

History gives us a mirror in the story of post-war Japan. After the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, many declared that democracy would never take root in such a land, bound by hierarchy, tradition, and the sword. Yet in time, the people made democracy their own—not as a foreign garment ill-fitted, but as a living fabric woven into their culture. They proved that democracy, when nurtured by the will of the people, can flourish anywhere. So too may Russia, and any land, find its own path to freedom, not by imitation, but by awakening what already lies within.

The emotional force of Kasparov’s words is this: democracy is universal. It is not a gift granted by others, nor a mask borrowed from another land. It is the natural flowering of human dignity, the moment when people rise and declare: “We are not subjects; we are citizens.” To see it otherwise is to belittle humanity, to pretend that some are born for chains while others are born for liberty. Kasparov rejects this lie, affirming that the Russian spirit, like all spirits, is capable of freedom.

The lesson, O listener, is clear: do not see freedom as foreign, nor justice as imported. Look instead within your own history, your own community, your own soul, for the roots of dignity lie deep in every land. Democracy may take many shapes—village council, tribal assembly, modern parliament—but its essence is always the same: the people’s voice made sovereign.

What then shall you do? First, resist the voice that says freedom is not meant for you, that it belongs to others. Second, study your own history, and see how your ancestors sought fairness and voice, for their stories prove that liberty is your inheritance. Third, nurture democracy not only in the state but in your home, your work, your community—wherever people gather, let respect and consent rule, not domination.

And remember always: democracy is not alien. It is not the gift of the West, nor the creation of a single people. It is as universal as fire, as ancient as the rivers, as enduring as the human soul. Kasparov’s words are both reminder and prophecy—that wherever hearts yearn for freedom, democracy will rise, not as an import, but as a rebirth of what was always there.