Confederalism: A term we confuse too often

In today’s political landscape, terms like “confederation” and “federation” are often used interchangeably, even though their meanings, rooted in political theory, are quite distinct. To the casual observer, the European Union, Switzerland, and even the United States might all appear to be “confederations” of sorts, but a closer look reveals that the nature of confederation, as understood in its original sense, has largely disappeared. What, in truth, is a confederation? And why has the idea become so difficult to define in our time?

These questions take us beyond technical institutional design. They touch on deeper concerns: how much power should political communities entrust to a central authority, and what degree of autonomy do they require to preserve their identity and self-government?

In its classical form, a confederation is a voluntary association of sovereign political communities—states, nations, or peoples—that choose to collaborate for certain common purposes, typically security, diplomacy, or economic exchange. It is, by design, a fragile balance: each member retains the final word on its own sovereignty, while the central body remains strictly limited in scope and power.

The hallmarks of confederalism are these:

• Decision-making is consensual, often unanimous.
• Withdrawal is possible—indeed, often formalized.
• The center does not govern citizens directly but acts only through the member units.

A confederation, then, is not a state but a treaty-based association. Its authority is delegated, not derived from the people as a whole, and its cohesion depends on trust rather than law. It represents, in essence, a form of political friendship among sovereign equals.

In practice, however, confederations rarely last. History offers us only fleeting examples. The early United States, under the Articles of Confederation, lacked the ability to tax or enforce laws—an experiment in radical decentralization that gave way to a stronger federal constitution within a decade. The German Confederation of the 19th century was similarly short-lived, ultimately replaced by a unified state.

Even the Swiss Confederation, whose name suggests otherwise, abandoned the confederal model in 1848, transforming into a robust federal democracy. Today, Switzerland may be one of the world’s most decentralized federations, but it is no longer a confederation in the theoretical sense.

The pattern is instructive. Where confederations arise, they either dissolve or evolve into federations. Why? Because the challenges of common action—whether war, trade, or migration—demand capacities that loose associations struggle to provide.

And yet, there is a lingering desire for the confederal idea, particularly in our era of globalization. Consider the European Union. It is neither a state nor a mere alliance. It possesses a common currency, a parliament, a court, and a bureaucracy. It legislates across borders, but its member states retain national sovereignty and identities.

Is the EU a confederation? Some argue it is—a new kind of post-modern confederalism. Others see it as an emerging federal order. But perhaps the better answer is that the EU embodies a third category: a supranational polity, one that blurs the line between statehood and alliance. It represents a pragmatic answer to an ancient question: how can communities cooperate deeply without surrendering themselves?
The confusion arises because political language has not caught up with political reality. “Confederation” once meant a specific legal arrangement; today, it is often used normatively, to express a preference for loose integration, mutual respect, and local autonomy.

There is no universally agreed-upon definition of confederalism today. And maybe that’s fitting. For the term has become less a description and more a political aspiration—a vision of unity without domination, of power shared rather than imposed.

But aspirations are not blueprints. When peacebuilders propose confederal arrangements in conflict-torn regions, or when secessionist movements use the term to soften demands for independence, they are not always clear on what they mean. Is the goal shared governance? Parallel sovereignty? Coordination without coercion?

We must ask this. To what extent can political communities be bound together by choice, and not by force? And what does genuine autonomy look like in a world where interdependence is inescapable?

Perhaps we should stop asking whether a political order is a confederation and begin asking how much confederal logic it contains. Imagine a spectrum:

• At one end, the unitary state, in which all authority flows from the center.
• At the other, the confederation, where all authority remains with the parts.
• In between, a range of arrangements—federations, unions, coalitions—each balancing unity and autonomy in different ways.

Confederalism, then, is not a fixed model but a moral and political idea: a call for governance that honors the dignity of distinct communities while acknowledging the goods of cooperation. It reminds us that political unity must be earned, not imposed. In a time when both authoritarian centralism and secessionist fragmentation threaten the public good, the spirit of confederalism—its humility, its commitment to mutual recognition—may be more valuable than its institutional form.