Picture a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Officials stand before cameras, scissors poised, while a new factory gleams in the background. Flags ripple, speeches crescendo, promises fill the air. Six months later, the factory lies idle: the electricity grid is unreliable, the roads impassable, the permits incomplete, the financing evaporated. The scene is not rare; it is a recurring emblem of the gap between symbols and systems.
This tension haunts much of contemporary politics. National pride is repeatedly invoked as the fuel for development, but pride cannot replace predictable rules, efficient logistics, or functioning institutions. “You can’t eat patriotism,” wrote James Baldwin, reminding us that rhetoric does not feed families nor power economies. Yet governments often treat nationalism as a substitute for state capacity, mistaking performance for substance.
The paradox is glaring: why do countries overflowing with patriotic fervor often struggle to generate sustainable economic growth, while quieter nations, less preoccupied with grandiose displays, steadily build prosperity? South Korea’s transformation into an industrial powerhouse owed less to slogans than to a bureaucracy capable of enforcing contracts. Venezuela, despite oil wealth and endless patriotic oratory, slid into collapse because institutions crumbled.
This essay is an attempt to unpack that paradox. It is not only a matter of economics but also of dignity. Real patriotism cannot be measured by the number of flags raised or parades organized, but by the reliability of hospitals, schools, and factories that serve citizens daily. If these reflections resonate with you, I invite you to support this project with a paid subscription. Your contribution makes possible the kind of long-form analysis that resists the seductions of spectacle and insists on substance.
Nationalism thrives on spectacle: flags raised against the sky, anthems sung in unison, parades staged to remind citizens of belonging. These are powerful tools of emotion, but they are not substitutes for the hidden infrastructure of prosperity. A nation may wave its banners with pride, yet without functioning institutions the very foundations of daily life remain fragile. The image of a new factory inaugurated with pomp, only to stand empty months later, captures this tension perfectly.
The paradox is both simple and devastating. Political rhetoric can mobilize crowds but cannot power grids; speeches can promise prosperity but cannot enforce contracts. Citizens soon discover the difference between theatrical pride and the quiet dignity of working systems. James Baldwin once observed, “You can’t eat patriotism.” His warning lingers in every community where symbols have been offered as nourishment but systems fail to deliver.
State capacity is a dry phrase for a living reality. It is the ability of a government to collect taxes, enforce contracts, issue permits efficiently, build and maintain infrastructure, and regulate markets with predictability. Without it, factories stall, entrepreneurs hesitate, and citizens lose trust. National pride may rally people, but institutions are what hold their future together.
History provides sharp contrasts. South Korea, once poor and agrarian, became a global industrial power not by waving flags alone but by investing in bureaucratic competence, education, and infrastructure. Contracts were enforced, policies predictable, and firms could thrive in an environment of reliability. Patriotism was present, but it was anchored in systems that worked.
Venezuela tells the opposite story. Rich in oil and drenched in rhetoric, it allowed institutions to decay. Contracts were disregarded, inflation spiraled, corruption thrived, and citizens fled. The flag still flew, but the lights dimmed, and factories closed. The difference between rhetoric and reality could not be starker.
This pattern repeats across the world. Singapore, dismissed early as too small to matter, built efficient institutions and became a financial hub. Meanwhile, countries with abundant resources but weak institutions falter. The determinant is not the volume of slogans but the capacity of the state to act with consistency.
Economists explain this in terms of transaction costs. Where rules are predictable, contracts enforceable, and permits transparent, the cost of doing business falls, and investment flows. Where uncertainty reigns, risk rises, and growth stalls. National pride does nothing to reduce these costs. Only functioning institutions can.
Ironically, the louder the anthem, the weaker the bureaucracy often is. Governments compensate for institutional fragility with symbols, drowning dysfunction in ceremonies. Citizens are invited to partake in rituals of pride, even as their power grids fail and their hospitals crumble. The more fragile the state, the more spectacular the performance.
The result is corrosive. Firms avoid investment in unpredictable systems; workers migrate in search of stability; citizens grow cynical about promises. Pride curdles into distrust, and the very symbols meant to inspire unity become hollow. Patriotism, stripped of delivery, becomes a mask for decline.
The problem is not nationalism itself. Pride can be productive when channeled into institution-building. Japan’s postwar miracle and Germany’s economic rebirth were stories not just of morale but of bureaucratic and industrial reconstruction. Pride worked because systems worked.
But nationalism without institutions is an illusion that sells dignity cheaply. It creates the appearance of strength while citizens experience weakness in their daily lives. A nation that relies only on spectacle leaves its people with ceremonies instead of paychecks, flags instead of functioning factories.
The deeper philosophical question is what it means to love one’s country. Is it to wave its flag, or to ensure that schools teach, hospitals heal, and roads endure? Vaclav Havel wrote that “truth and love must prevail over lies and hatred.” In politics, the equivalent may be that functioning institutions must prevail over empty symbols.
For citizens, patriotism is lived not at parades but in neighborhoods: when electricity flows, when wages are paid, when contracts are respected. Pride is daily, not occasional. It is the quiet relief of systems that deliver, not the noise of spectacles that distract.
There is a moral dimension too. Leaders who invoke nationalism without building capacity deceive their citizens. They offer pride while withholding dignity. They sell identity while neglecting substance. Such patriotism is a performance, not a service.
If patriotism is to be measured, let it be by a different dashboard: diversified exports, reliable jobs, rising life expectancy, functioning schools, efficient hospitals, trustworthy courts. This is a quieter pride, harder to parade but more enduring. It cannot be staged in a single day; it is accumulated through decades of institutional discipline.
Symbols, of course, matter. They inspire sacrifice, create cohesion, and remind us of shared identity. But symbols without scaffolding are empty shells. They impress from a distance but collapse under scrutiny. Real patriotism requires that symbols point to functioning systems.
Dani Rodrik’s reminder that development is about “getting institutions right” may sound banal, but it is radical. For without functioning institutions, strategies collapse into rhetoric. With them, even poor nations can rise. Nationalism must therefore be redirected: not as a substitute for capacity, but as its ally.
True patriotism is less visible than leaders would like. It is not theatrical but functional, not ceremonial but infrastructural. It is the hospital ward with medicine, the classroom with books, the factory with power, the road that endures. It is quiet pride that manifests in trust.
Flags don’t build factories. Institutions do. To honor a nation is not to wave banners but to ensure that when the lights switch on, they stay on. The truest patriotism is not in spectacle but in service, not in words but in systems, not in rhetoric but in results.