Thinking of Majority Privileges

In every country, and especially in those marked by division, there is an urgent question we must ask: What are majority privileges? It is not a question meant to accuse, but to understand. Because wherever there is a dominant group, be it by ethnicity, religion, language, class, or even culture, there is also a pattern of unspoken advantage. And if we are to build a society that honors dignity and safety for all, we must learn to see the unseen privileges that shape the everyday lives of those in the majority.

Majority privilege is often quiet. It hides in language that doesn’t need translation, in rituals that are considered “normal,” in holidays that require no explanation. It is present in laws that assume certain ways of life and in institutions that mirror only one version of history. It is the comfort of seeing oneself reflected in the symbols of the nation: flags, anthems, textbooks, uniforms. It is walking into a room and assuming it was designed with you in mind.

These privileges are not always earned. They are inherited, extended, and repeated through habit more than intent. That is what makes them so powerful and so difficult to notice. When you are part of a majority, it is easy to confuse what is familiar with what is fair. But comfort is not the same as justice.

Democracy, in its deepest sense, is not simply the rule of the majority. It is the protection of all. It is the careful work of making sure that power, even when it flows from numbers, does not crush those who are fewer or different. The danger of ignoring this is what political thinkers have long warned against: the tyranny of the majority.

This tyranny is rarely dramatic. More often, it is slow and procedural. It happens when public policies reflect only one story, when laws reinforce a single worldview, when belonging depends on assimilation, and when dissent is painted as disloyalty. It is a tyranny not always of violence, but of silence: of muffled voices, of invisibility, of being told that your pain is an inconvenience to national unity.

The antidote is not to reverse the hierarchy, replacing one dominance with another. Nor is it to flatten society into sameness. The goal is subtler and braver: to build a society of shared dignity, where difference is not merely tolerated but respected, where no one is asked to shrink themselves to fit the mold of belonging.

This requires that we look at power not as a possession, but as a relation. It shifts with context, and so must our attention. In some rooms, someone’s voice is always louder. In others, someone is always first to be questioned. Understanding majority privilege means noticing how the floor tilts in our favor or against us, not to assign blame, but to reimagine balance.

A just society is one where agency is preserved. That is, where every person, regardless of background, has the ability to speak, to act, to refuse, and to belong without begging. Agency is not about getting what one wants, but about being taken seriously, having choices that matter, and being able to shape the world one inhabits.

But agency without safety is fragile. And safety without agency is suffocating. The two must walk together. True political friendship begins here, not in agreement, but in mutual regard. It means we listen not to convert but to understand. It means we hold space for others without demanding they disappear into our expectations.

Political friendship asks something rare in our time: that we care not only for the people who resemble us, but also for those who challenge our assumptions. It asks that we stay loyal to those not like us, not out of guilt or fear, but because the common good is never common if it excludes.

In a divided country, these ideas may sound idealistic. But perhaps they are the most practical things we can reach for. Because where division runs deep, so must the commitment to fairness. And where there is fear, there must also be room for courage: not the courage of dominance, but the courage of humility.

So let us ask: What privileges do I carry without realizing? What histories have I inherited without questioning? Who remains unseen in the spaces I move through with ease?

These are not accusations. They are invitations: to become gentler with power, to become more precise in our ideas of justice, and to become more generous in our vision of who belongs in the story of “us.”

Only then can we begin to build something that lasts: not merely a system of rules, but a culture of dignity. A way of living together that honors agency, that defends safety, and that holds the door open for political friendship to grow.