The Middle Ages are back—and so is feudal power

History rarely repeats exactly—but sometimes it rhymes with eerie precision. Today, across multiple political systems and cultural contexts, the scaffolding of 21st-century governance is starting to resemble something far older. We are witnessing the return of medieval power logic: fragmented authority, sacral mythmaking, and personal loyalty displacing institutional trust. From Washington to Warsaw, Moscow to Manila, leaders and systems are behaving less like rational-modern bureaucrats and more like medieval lords, warrior-priests, or papal courts.

This isn’t about aesthetics or superficial symbolism. It’s structural. The institutional architecture of modernity—centralized governance, universal rights, secular law, nation-state sovereignty—is no longer holding as it once did. In its place, we're seeing the rise of hybrid regimes that resemble medieval mosaics of overlapping fiefdoms, faith-based governance, and informal allegiance networks. The state isn’t collapsing. It’s mutating.

And that mutation should concern us.

In the medieval world, power was rarely concentrated. Instead, it was diffuse—shared among monarchs, clergy, noble families, mercenary leaders, and merchant guilds. No single authority had a monopoly on law, force, or loyalty. Today’s political environment is drifting in a similar direction.

Across the globe, traditional state sovereignty is being hollowed out. In parts of Latin America and West Africa, cartels and non-state militias provide security and extract taxes. In Libya, Somalia, and Myanmar, multiple factions control separate territories, mimicking feudal-era fragmentation. Even in liberal democracies, city-states and regional governors now routinely defy central policy on issues like immigration, drug enforcement, or reproductive rights.

In the United States, red and blue states increasingly act like parallel realms—with their own legal systems, education rules, and even pandemic protocols. California and Florida might as well be governed under different constitutions. Meanwhile, global technology firms—Google, Apple, Meta, Amazon—exercise sovereign-like powers: regulating speech, access, trade, and even taxation through platform rules. These are not private companies in the classical sense. They are digital fiefdoms.

What’s driving this re-feudalization?
Globalization, inequality, and institutional failure have all chipped away at the nation-state’s promise of coherent order. Where the state recedes, informal authorities step in. Whether that’s tribal elders, warlords, corporate platforms, or religious courts, the effect is the same: power flows through private hands and personal networks, not through neutral institutions.

If the Enlightenment divorced politics from theology, today’s movements are remarrying the two—with gusto. Modern leaders are once again invoking divine right, sacred duty, and civilizational purity to justify authority. The parallels to the Middle Ages are striking.

Russia’s Vladimir Putin frames his war in Ukraine not merely in geopolitical terms, but as a spiritual struggle for the soul of Orthodox Christianity. His language is explicitly messianic, drawing from medieval Russian notions of Moscow as the "Third Rome." Similarly, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi invokes Hindu mythology to anchor a vision of national destiny—backed by temple construction and symbolic reclamations of past glories.

In the West, far-right movements drape themselves in Crusader iconography, turning medieval Christian knights into avatars of modern white nationalism. American Christian nationalists speak of "reclaiming" America not just politically but spiritually—pushing for theocratic governance models inspired less by Jefferson than by Constantine.

This resurgence of religious-political fusion isn’t fringe—it’s central to many governments' legitimacy narratives. Laws and policies are increasingly shaped by theological conviction rather than secular reasoning. Where modern states once promised neutrality, today’s power centers are choosing sides—and sanctifying them.

Why does this matter?
Mythic framing reduces space for pluralism. It creates political conditions in which disagreement becomes heresy, and dissent becomes betrayal—not of policy, but of the “sacred order.” Once politics becomes theology, compromise dies. This isn't just political nostalgia—it's ideological hardening.

In the medieval world, allegiance wasn’t to an abstract constitution or impartial law—it was to a lord. In exchange for protection, land, or access, vassals gave loyalty. The modern world was supposed to change this: transforming subjects into citizens with equal rights, duties, and legal protections. But cracks are showing.

Today, people increasingly define their civic identity through loyalty to political figures, parties, or ideological tribes—not shared institutions. Trumpism in the U.S., Duterte loyalism in the Philippines, Erdoğan’s cult of personality in Turkey—these aren’t anomalies. They’re symptomatic of a shift from institutional to personal power.

Even in corporate life, feudal logic has returned. Workers pledge loyalty to visionary founders or charismatic CEOs rather than companies or missions. The workplace, much like the court of a medieval king, operates on favor, informal networks, and visibility. Mentorship becomes patronage. Advancement becomes fealty.

What’s breaking down?
Institutional trust. Bureaucracies are widely seen as corrupt, inefficient, or captured. As a result, people seek belonging and protection through identity groups, strong leaders, or direct access to power. What we’re witnessing is a silent demotion—from citizen to client, from stakeholder to supplicant.

In medieval Europe, guilds controlled knowledge, commerce, and access to professional tools. They regulated apprenticeships, protected secrets, and enforced codes—often in ways that locked out outsiders.

Today’s tech platforms mirror this tightly controlled structure. If you’re an app developer, a Shopify seller, or a YouTube creator, your economic fate depends on opaque algorithms and platform policy. There is no due process—only Terms of Service. Like medieval guilds, today’s digital overlords extract value while gatekeeping opportunity.

Worse, enforcement is arbitrary. Accounts are banned without notice. Revenue streams vanish with a policy tweak. There’s no clear recourse—only appeals to unseen moderators or brand reps, like medieval peasants petitioning the court of a distant noble. This isn't capitalism as classically understood. It’s feudal capitalism—where access to land has been replaced by access to platform real estate. Economic security depends less on talent or capital and more on privileged access, visibility, and algorithmic favor.

Medieval lords built castles not just for defense, but to dominate the visual and psychological landscape. They reminded peasants who held power—looming over villages like divine fortresses. Today’s surveillance states and data-rich platforms do something similar.

Modern governments and corporations now collect unprecedented amounts of personal data—not to serve citizens, but to monitor, manage, and pre-empt dissent. Like medieval tax collectors or inquisitors, today’s AI systems assign scores, track reputations, and decide access. Whether it’s China’s social credit system or your Uber rating, you’re being sorted.

And the spectacle of control is everywhere. Politicians live-stream arrests, public shaming becomes a political tool, and loyalty tests are televised. In some cases, even apologies or retractions are demanded not in courtrooms, but on social media or state TV. What we’re watching is not governance—it’s theater, designed to reinforce hierarchy.

The Middle Ages are not returning—they’re being re-coded into our digital, political, and social systems. And not by accident. Power abhors a vacuum. As 20th-century institutions falter under the pressure of complexity, inequality, and mistrust, elites are reaching backward—not to reinvent, but to reassert.

But this nostalgia is dangerous. The medieval era was one of exclusion, arbitrary violence, and restricted mobility. Its revival is not a solution—it’s a warning. If we mistake personalized rule for leadership, divine framing for legitimacy, and tribal loyalty for citizenship, we are not building a post-modern future. We are walking backward into a digitally armored feudal age.

To stop the regression, modern institutions must evolve—quickly. Trust must be rebuilt not through spectacle or sanctimony, but through transparency, fairness, and competence. The past should be studied—not simulated. Because once we become vassals again, it may be a long climb back to citizenship.