In recent years, democracy’s foundations have been tested in ways both dramatic and subtle, from the sweeping constitutional overhauls in El Salvador to the quiet but consequential reshaping of local government in Ontario, Canada. Though thousands of kilometers apart, both stories reveal the same unsettling trend: the steady concentration of power in the hands of a few, often justified as necessary modernization or efficiency, but at the expense of the very checks and balances that define a healthy democracy.
El Salvador’s journey toward centralized authority reached a new milestone at the end of July 2025. According to reporting by The Atlantic, the country’s Legislative Assembly, dominated by President Nayib Bukele’s party, passed constitutional changes that abolished presidential term limits, extended presidential terms from five to six years, and eliminated runoff elections. This was not a sudden coup, but the culmination of years of incremental change. Back in May 2021, Bukele’s majority in the Assembly dismissed all five Constitutional Chamber Supreme Court judges and the attorney general, replacing them with loyalists. By September of that year, the restructured court authorized Bukele’s bid for a second consecutive term—a move previously barred by the constitution.
Bukele has consistently framed these moves as efforts to “modernize” governance. His popularity remains sky-high, with a June 2025 CID-Gallup poll showing an approval rating of roughly 85 percent, largely attributed to dramatic reductions in gang violence. In this climate, constitutional amendments that centralize authority are not seen as power grabs but as the fulfillment of "what the people want." Yet, as The Atlantic notes, this is a textbook case of autocratic legalism: using the law to systematically dismantle democratic safeguards from within.
What’s striking is how such changes can unfold with broad public support, making them harder to resist. Each step—removing term limits, extending terms, eliminating runoffs—can be justified as reasonable, even necessary, when viewed in isolation. But together, they fundamentally alter the balance of power. The institutions designed to protect democracy—courts, legislatures, elections—become tools for its undoing once they fall under the control of a determined leader.
This pattern is not unique to El Salvador. Around the world, leaders have learned that the most effective way to cement their authority is not through force, but through the very institutions meant to check their power. In Turkey, President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan followed a similar playbook. After serving as prime minister, Erdoğan became president in 2014 and, in April 2017, secured a constitutional referendum with 51.4 percent of the vote, transforming Turkey’s parliamentary system into a hyper-presidential one. Following a failed coup attempt in July 2016, Erdoğan declared a state of emergency, arrested tens of thousands, and dismissed or suspended over 100,000 civil servants, academics, and judges. The judiciary, media, and military—once independent—fell under direct presidential control. Elections continued, but with press freedoms curtailed and opposition parties systematically disadvantaged, competitive democracy was hollowed out.
Hungary offers another example. Since 2010, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán has restructured the constitution, installed supporters in the courts, and brought media outlets under government-friendly ownership. Orbán himself describes his system as an “illiberal democracy,” but political scientists call it a competitive autocracy: the trappings of democracy remain, but genuine protections and competition have been stripped away. His strategy—leveraging electoral wins to entrench permanent control—has inspired leaders from Ankara to San Salvador.
Even in India, the world’s largest democracy, Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s leadership has prompted alarm among watchdog groups. Media freedoms have been eroded, law enforcement has targeted opposition figures, and new laws have limited dissent. While India has not crossed into outright authoritarianism, the growing concentration of power and shrinking space for civil society are warning signs of institutional weakening.
The rhetoric used by leaders to justify these changes is remarkably consistent. Electoral victories are wielded as blank checks for sweeping transformation. Opponents are painted not as defenders of democracy, but as obstacles to the popular will. As The Atlantic points out, this manipulation of democratic language makes institutional destruction particularly difficult to resist. Citizens who might rise up against a coup can be persuaded that eliminating checks and balances is simply the result of voter-mandated reform.
Closer to home, Canada faces its own, quieter experiment with concentrated power. According to Troy Media, as of August 2025, Ontario’s government has granted “strong mayor” powers to municipal leaders, allowing them to override council votes, veto decisions, and pass bylaws with as little as a third of council support—even in small towns like Springwater, population 22,000. Previously, Canadian mayors had just one vote, like any other councillor. Now, they can bypass the usual democratic process and directly manage senior city staff.
This shift did not come after constitutional reform or robust public debate. Instead, it was a “heavy-handed shift in how local government works,” as one columnist put it. The rationale? To fast-track housing and infrastructure decisions. Yet, according to Troy Media, there’s little evidence these powers are being used for that, especially in smaller communities. Councils in Kingston and Guelph have pushed back, preferring consensus and community input over centralized decision-making. “Democracy, even the slow, messy kind, is still popular,” the columnist observed.
The risks of such powers are not hypothetical. In Springwater, the mayor used new authority to negotiate away part of the township in a deal with neighboring Barrie, all without public input. Barrie claims it needs land to grow but hasn’t used up what it already has, leaving Springwater residents questioning transparency and accountability. The concern? If one province can centralize power in every mayor’s office, others might follow, eroding local voices across Canada.
It’s tempting to see these stories as isolated—one a national drama, the other a local spat. But the underlying lesson is the same: the gradual concentration of power, whether through sweeping constitutional changes or the quiet expansion of executive authority, poses a profound threat to democratic governance. The process rarely arrives with fanfare or violence. Instead, it unfolds through calculated, lawful steps, often maintaining enough public support to avoid meaningful opposition—until the damage is done and reversal becomes daunting.
Even in the United States, some see echoes of this trend. Project 2025, a conservative blueprint, proposes restructuring the executive branch, eliminating civil service safeguards, and expanding political influence over agencies meant to operate independently. Advocates claim it will “make government work again”—a refrain that should sound familiar to anyone watching events in El Salvador, Turkey, or Hungary.
What’s clear is that democracy’s greatest strength—its responsiveness to the people—can also be its Achilles’ heel. When leaders exploit popular mandate to dismantle institutional safeguards, the result is a system that maintains democratic vocabulary but operates under increasingly authoritarian principles. Protecting democracy, whether in El Salvador, Ontario, or anywhere else, requires vigilance, transparency, and a commitment to shared decision-making over concentrated power. The fate of democracy rests not just in the hands of leaders, but in the willingness of citizens to recognize the warning signs and demand accountability before it’s too late.
