There is something strange about how quickly we accept the idea of authority. We listen to people because they wear uniforms, because they hold microphones, because they sit behind desks with polished nameplates. Some tell us they were born to lead. Others say they’ve been chosen. But if we pause for just a moment, we might ask: Who gave them that right? And what makes it right at all?

In our view, this question becomes not just academic, but essential to how we live together. We are invited to see that no one has a natural right to rule over others. There is no divine stamp on anyone’s forehead, no eternal truth inscribed in bloodlines or institutions. Authority, in truth, is a human invention. It is something we’ve collectively agreed to, and which we can just as easily reshape or withdraw.

Power, then, is not a gift or an inheritance. It is simply a tool—like a hammer or a pen. In the hands of someone responsible, it can build homes, write laws, and protect the vulnerable. But in the hands of someone careless, it can destroy. We should be slow to glorify power, and quick to question those who wield it. The right to lead must never be assumed; it must be earned and continually re-earned.

This leads us to the idea of the mandate. Mandate is not inherited status or raw force. It is what makes authority legitimate. Mandate does not come from history books or sacred scrolls. It comes from people—from their free, informed, and ongoing consent. We allow others to lead us not because they are better, but because they have shown they are worthy of our trust, at least for a time.

And even then, the mandate is fragile. It is not a one-time permission slip; it is a continuous dialogue. Those who lead must listen. They must explain. They must respond when things go wrong, and be willing to step down when they can no longer serve. Authority that forgets this becomes stale, corrupt, or even violent.

To know whether a leader truly has a mandate, we can look for certain signs. Is their process open and clear, or hidden behind closed doors? Are they willing to be questioned, or do they silence critics? Do they make space for everyone, especially the quiet and the excluded? Do they act with a sense of care—not just for those who voted for them, but for those who didn’t, and even for those who cannot vote at all?

True authority, if it exists, must always serve something larger than itself: the common good. It is not simply about serving people’s preferences. It is about protecting their dignity, their freedom, and their ability to thrive together. It is also about protecting the planet that sustains us. If a leader acts only for a few, or for today alone, they do not have a mandate. They have simply grabbed the steering wheel of the bus we all ride, without asking if we agree on the destination.

This is why skepticism toward hierarchy is not cynicism. It is care. It is the belief that power needs limits, because no one, no matter how wise, should be trusted without question. The more someone holds, the more they must be watched. We do not watch out of hate, but out of love for what could be broken.

These ideas are not new. Rousseau, for instance, imagined something called the “general will”, the shared desire for the good of all. He warned that this is not the same as just adding up everyone’s wishes. Sometimes, it means doing what is fair even when it is unpopular. Rawls asked us to imagine designing society from a place where we didn’t know who we would be in it—rich or poor, powerful or weak. From that place, we might choose justice that is fair, not just convenient.

In the modern world, we often think elections give a mandate. But that only works if the elections are really open, fair, honest and responsive. When they aren’t, the idea of mandate becomes a mask for tyranny. Some communities have tried something else: citizen assemblies, where people discuss and decide together. Others turn to grassroots movements where ordinary people rising up when power forgets its place.

Technology, too, can play a role. It can spread awareness and shift mindsets, though it must be used with care. We have seen how easily it can divide us. But we’ve also seen how it can amplify unheard voices and connect those working for justice.

The future, perhaps, belongs not to those who take power, but to those who are trusted with it. Power should be shared, not hoarded. The best leaders will not be those who shout the loudest, but those who listen, who welcome difference, and who are brave enough to step aside when others must lead.

At the heart of this lies a simple idea: No one owns the world. We walk it together. To lead is not to dominate, but to guide, gently, with love. The planet is not a resource to be consumed, but a companion to be cared for. Authority, if it is to mean anything at all, must be humble. And we, as citizens, must be awake. For not to fight every authority, but to ask the right questions. Thus, when power is given, it is given wisely, and when it is used, it serves us all.