A liberal critique of the attempt to dissolve Chega.

In October 2025, lawyer António Garcia Pereira filed a complaint with the Public Prosecutor's Office, requesting the dissolution of Chega based on Article 46, paragraph 4 of the Constitution of the Portuguese Republic. In his view, the party violated fundamental principles of the constitutional order by promoting hate speech and ideologies contrary to human dignity.

This case is more symbolic than legal: it forces us to rethink the limits of political freedom and the internal coherence of a system that proclaims itself democratic and pluralistic, but which simultaneously prohibits certain forms of ideological organization. If political freedom is, as they say, one of the pillars of democracy, to what extent can the State decide which ideals are admissible?

The Constitution enshrines broad fundamental rights and freedoms, although many of them are subject to limits expressly stated in the Constitution itself or to restrictive interpretations by the Constitutional Court. In the case at hand, we are dealing with a limit of the second category.

Specifically, the freedom of association — recognized in Article 46 — is restricted by paragraph 4, which states: “Armed associations, nor those of a military, militarized or paramilitary type, nor racist organizations or those that espouse fascist ideology are permitted.” The rule has a clear historical root: the trauma of the Estado Novo (New State) regime and the fear of a possible return to authoritarianism.

However, this exception reveals a paradox: to protect freedom, the Constitution accepts limiting freedom itself. Democracy thus becomes a regime that defends preventively, not only against violent acts, but also against ideas. This is what Karl Popper called the "paradox of tolerance": the need to not tolerate the intolerant in order to preserve an open society.

But to what extent is it legitimate for the State to assume this paternalistic role, deciding what citizens can or cannot defend politically?

From a political science perspective, Chega cannot be strictly classified as a fascist party. Historical fascism – as a revolutionary totalitarian movement – ​​presupposed the abolition of pluralism, the “corporatization” of the State, the cult of violence, and the denial of “representative democracy.”

Chega, in turn, is a right-wing nationalist political party, operating within the parliamentary system, within the limits of the rule of law, and whose ideology is more moralistic and security-oriented than truly totalitarian. Its positions on immigration, minorities, or crime may be controversial and even demagogic, but they do not represent a project to destroy democracy.

To prohibit its existence would therefore be a conceptual and political error: it would confuse radical criticism of the system with an attempt to overthrow it – something that, in the liberal tradition, must be combated with arguments, not with prohibitions.

Classical liberalism is based on the idea that freedom of expression should be limited when it causes actual harm to others. Punishing merely ideas or words is incompatible with a truly free state.

The contemporary expansion of “hate crimes” reflects a moralistic drift in criminal law – a “criminal law of feelings” that transforms symbolic offenses into public offenses. A liberal state does not exist to protect citizens from feeling offended, but to protect their lives and property from real harm.

Therefore, even if a party adopts provocative rhetoric, the legitimate limit of punishment should be the action, not the intention. Punishing words is the first step towards punishing thoughts.

Interestingly, while the Constitution prohibits fascist organizations, it does not prohibit communist organizations, despite historical experience showing that both movements gave rise to totalitarian regimes. The Portuguese Communist Party, which claims to be the heir to an ideology responsible for millions of deaths and the suppression of rights and freedoms, is a fully legitimate force in the Portuguese political system.

Contemporary “liberal democracy” presents itself as a regime of freedom, plurality, and ideological neutrality. However, when we observe its practices, we realize that this neutrality is often only apparent.

As Carl Schmitt observed, every political order is founded on an essential distinction between friend and enemy. Democracy, in its apparent attempt to be universal and inclusive, ends up creating its own internal enemies – those who “do not share its values.” Paradoxically, “liberal democracy” defends freedom by excluding those who interpret it differently.

The same state that proclaims freedom of thought is the one that defines which thoughts are acceptable. Institutionalized fascism thus transforms itself into a kind of official dogma – a modern religion where certain political beliefs are sacred and others heretical.

This trend is not unique to Portugal. Across Europe, legal and cultural anti-fascism has become an instrument of moral conformity, used to define the boundaries of what is acceptable and silence dissent. The result is a democracy that is increasingly moralized, less rational, and more intolerant in the name of tolerance.

As I mentioned before, Karl Popper argued that a tolerant society cannot tolerate intolerant people, under penalty of self-destruction. This thesis is frequently invoked to justify the prohibition of extremist movements.

But there's a problem: who defines who is "intolerant"? If political power holds this criterion, it opens the way to moral absolutism, where any radical opposition can be labeled "anti-democratic."

Hannah Arendt, in studying totalitarian regimes, showed that the danger lies not only in ideology, but also in the fusion of morality and politics – when the State begins to punish deviant thought in the name of the common good. In this sense, European anti-fascist constitutionalism, in attempting to prevent evil, risks reproducing its mechanisms: censorship, surveillance, and punishment of ideas.

If we truly believe in political freedom, then we must accept the right of someone to be anti-democratic – as long as they do not resort to violence.

Freedom that excludes error is a feigned freedom. Democracy that does not tolerate its negation is, at its core, a tyranny of good manners.

In a truly liberal state, the fight against extreme ideas is waged through debate, not judicial dissolutions. It is argument, not the court, that should defeat the political opponent.

Dissolving Chega (or any other party) based on moral criteria would be a Pyrrhic victory for democracy – democracy would win, but its soul would be lost.

The request to dissolve Chega represents more than just a legal episode: it reflects a profound dilemma of modern democracy.

The Portuguese Constitution, by prohibiting fascist ideologies and allowing communist ideologies, shows that state neutrality is a useful fiction. And by punishing hate speech without actual harm, it risks transforming freedom into a conditional privilege.

Portuguese liberal democracy, born from fear of the past, still lives under the shadow of that trauma – protecting itself so much that it forgets to breathe.

Perhaps the true test of democratic maturity is allowing even its critics to exist. Because, as Mill reminded us, "truth arises from the clash of opinions, not from the silence of some in the name of others."