The Generation That Lost the Future

Camilla Taylor, Senior Sub-Editor, BA International Relations

You do not have to look far to see someone struggling. A friend with a master’s degree, still living at home because rent is unaffordable. Another juggling two jobs to pay off student loans that were sold as ‘an investment in our future’. Or maybe even you, scrolling through job listings that all demand three years’ experience for an entry-level role. It is easy to dismiss this as the ordinary turbulence of youth. But what if it is not? What if the ‘safe harbour’ that our parents and grandparents built their lives around is slowly slipping beneath the waves? And what happens to democracy when the very class that is meant to uphold it feels betrayed? 

For decades, the middle class symbolised the promise of a fair life. It did not mean luxury, but security; a home, a steady job, and a car that started most mornings. The middle class was where trust in democracy lived, and where civic optimism took root. A 2019 OECD report observed that societies with strong middle classes tend to have ‘lower crime rates, higher levels of trust and life satisfaction, greater political stability, and better governance’. The middle class is democracy’s stabiliser: educated enough to demand accountability, secure enough to believe progress is possible. Since the 1950s, this promise seemed real. From London to Los Angeles to Tokyo, the middle class acted as a sturdy bridge between wealth and want, a space where hard work could buy dignity.

If you were to ask your grandparents about their 20s, chances are, their memories will sound like an ethereal dream. The years after World War II saw a rise of the meritocratic ideal: the belief that talent and effort, not inheritance, should decide your place in society. Governments invested in education, healthcare, and infrastructure. Jobs became stable, wages rose with productivity, and economic growth felt like a shared endeavour. For the first time, many could live without fearing poverty, unaffordable healthcare, or homelessness. The middle class became not just an economic category, but a symbol of collective progress. In the West, this stability was mirrored by democratic optimism. The establishment of universal suffrage, welfare states, and expanding rights suggested that class conflict may finally have met its match. It was not a revolution; it was an evolution. 

But then came the shock. The 2008 financial crisis did not just strike banks; it shattered the illusion that hard work guarantees stability. Austerity destroyed public services: jobs once secure became precarious, and wages stagnated, while housing costs soared. With this, the backbone of democracy began to ache. Technology then twisted the knife. Automation and now artificial intelligence (AI) are transforming industries faster than workers can adapt. Jobs that once defined middle-class identity, such as clerical work, journalism, and law, are increasingly exposed to algorithms. Consequently, what was once a blue-collar problem has now spread to the white-collar. AI is reshaping the labour market in ways few policymakers fully grasp. Whilst the owners of technology stand to make unprecedented fortunes, ordinary workers face squeezed wages and rising insecurity. Globalisation has also played its duplicitous role. Although it lifted billions out of poverty, it has hollowed out domestic industries in the West. Trade with China, for example, and other manufacturing giants, has slashed the costs for consumers, but undercut jobs in the very sectors that sustained the middle class. Even in Asia, where the middle class once seemed unstoppable, the story is changing. Between 2021 and 2024, 6 million Indonesians fell from the middle into what economists call the ‘aspiring middle class’, a polite way of saying they are one pay-cut away from poverty. Malaysia’s once rising activist middle class, which pushed for reform in the 1990s, is shrinking, and with it, its appetite for democracy, being replaced by resurgent identity politics. Therefore, the global picture is clear: the middle class is not just stagnating, it's fragmenting. 

However, when that belief dies, populism thrives. Across the world, we have seen it: anti-establishment movements, radical parties, and leaders who promise to smash the system rather than reform it. From Trump to Brexit, voters are expressing deep, simmering disillusionment. This is not just anger; it is apathy. Many young people no longer believe voting matters, with political promises sounding empty against the reality of unpaid internships and unaffordable rent. As the middle class shrinks, democracy loses its centre of gravity, drifting towards instability. 

We were told a story: work hard, get the grades, go to university, and you will be fine. You will live better than your parents. You will have choices. However, that story has unravelled. Graduate salaries have fallen by roughly 4% over the past two decades, while minimum wage has risen by over 60%. On paper, it seems like progress, but in reality, it’s too little too late. 20 years ago, a typical graduate job paid about 2.5 times the minimum wage; now it is only 1.6. Jobs we dreamed of; journalism, design, NGOs, barely pay enough to move out. Meanwhile, house prices and rent have skyrocketed beyond reason. Even ‘doing everything right’ feels like running on a treadmill that only speeds up. Many of us are working more hours for less, while paying off debts that feel endless. We scroll through articles about AI 'revolutionising productivity’, whilst wondering if we will ever own a home. The result is not just economic anxiety, but existential fatigue. We were promised mobility, purpose, and dignity. Instead, we got subscription bills, burn-out, and the creeping suspicion that the system stopped working just as we entered it. If democracy depends on hope, what happens when a generation stops believing it is worth the effort? This is a question our parents did not have to ask themselves, but we do.  

History teaches a grim lesson: when the middle class feels betrayed, societies tilt towards extremes. Economic despair becomes political anger, which becomes social fracture. As wealth concentrates at the top, the rest turns inward. When ordinary citizens lose faith in democratic fairness, they look for strongmen, not systems. Fukuyuma’s famous ‘end of history’ thesis, declaring liberal democracy ‘the final form of government,’ feels painfully naïve now. The middle class dream is eroding, and with it, democracy’s most loyal constituency. 

However, this does not have to be the end of the story. Across the world, new forms of activism are emerging. From climate movements to labour unions, people are reimagining what fairness might look like in the 21st Century. The middle class may never return to its old form, but its values can. Governments can help by investing in education and re-skilling, ensuring technology’s rewards are shared, not hoarded. This is not about nostalgia for a vanished golden age; it is about re-establishing the trust that effort still counts for something. After all, democracy is not just a system of government, but a collective belief that tomorrow can be better than today. However, that belief needs nourishment, with decent wages, fair opportunity, and a sense of dignity. The middle class once carried that belief for all of us; now it is up to us to carry it back