Do you have to understand something down to the last detail before you can contribute to it? Do you have to be a scientist to become interested in science? Do you have to know everything about nature to take pleasure in it? No. And it’s no different with politics. You don’t need to be a politician to have the right to participate in political life. You don’t need special training or any special skills. You don’t even need to be able to get on well with other people. Each of us has the right to become involved in politics just because we feel like it. If I book a trip to Rome, I don’t have to know everything about the history of Italy or the culture of the ancient Romans. I can just go there to enjoy the beautiful weather.
I’m often asked whether being mayor is difficult. The question shows the kind of image we have of politics and politicians—and thus how easily we fall into a vicious circle: Politics is difficult and therefore only certain people can be politicians. People who can think fast and talk fast, people who are robust and can stand the heat. A bit like superheroes. The ideal politician has everything under control, is never at a loss for an answer, and shows foresight, determination, and know-how. No matter how much the media are sniffing around him, he always remains cool. There is nothing he doesn’t know or understand, he never bursts into tears and never has any doubts. Unfortunately, he has hardly any human traits either.
Why have our politicians turned out like that? Who made them this way? The answer is: We did. All of us. We have neglected democracy, we haven’t been paying attention and in some ways we’ve let ourselves get taken for a ride. Only a hair-thin line runs between the worlds of finance and politics. In the financial market, people are considered resources; in other words, the financial moguls have simply bought up the politicians. An investment like any other. Donors with money to burn invest in parties and politicians.
Experts and professionals are good and important, but they shouldn’t be overestimated. We can’t leave the schools to teachers, we can’t leave science to scientists, and we can’t leave democracy to politicians. We’re so focused exclusively on success that we’ve forgotten how to enjoy things. And that’s understandable. We live in an extremely success-oriented society. We want success in our professions, we want success for our children at school, and we want to learn about the successes of our government in the media. But success has its price. That price, in part, is joy in life. Because ultimate success does not exist. There’s always a bit more to do. You need to go ever higher, faster, further, better. Success is easily addictive. As the saying goes: “For the alcoholic, one glass is too much and a hundred glasses are not enough.” Man has flown to the moon—a decisive step, to be sure. But once he was up there, he made a disturbing discovery: there was nothing to do. That’s why nobody’s been back to the moon. Now they want to send a manned spacecraft to Mars, and there’s nothing wrong with that either, as long as it’s fun. As soon as something is no longer fun, it’s worthless, pointless, and sick.
If someone gives you a brand new iPhone, you’re happy of course, and that happiness lasts maybe a few days. But after a month, the phone is no longer quite so new, and eventually, when it breaks down, the happiness evaporates. But the person who gave you the iPhone is happy for maybe years to come. Because he’s one of the good guys, and has given something. And that makes him proud and glad. The same is true for active participation in a democracy. It is high time that we get involved, not because we’re obsessed with success—but because we want to have fun.
The political arena is a tough place. Success is based mainly on quick wit, charisma, and tricks. Rough-and-tumble is de rigueur on the political stage. On television we get to see the banter of parliamentarians every day, and we experience firsthand how they finish each other off. We see how a politician, even when he’s just getting out of his car, is besieged by a horde of journalists and bombarded with questions—which he breathlessly answers. It’s also a popular ploy, obviously, to trap the politician after a long and tiring session and to force him to give an interview.
What halfway sensible young man is so fascinated by the TV news that he thinks to himself, “Hey, great, I’d like to do something like that! I’ll go into politics”? Surely very few. After all, most politicians don’t cut a particularly sympathetic figure. Those who advocate a better society and want only the best for its citizens are just wimps. But should the slightest suspicion arise that they might have skeletons in their closet, people start pointing a finger of accusation. And not everyone is made to survive in such a world. This in turn has the consequence that when we hear the phrase “professional politician” these days, we usually imagine a skilled, well-trained expert.
Although this “profession” requires no special training, it does require special qualities. The professional politician is, as I said, a lightning-fast thinker with robust self-confidence and an answer to everything. Glimmers of humor can’t hurt him so long as he uses them to pull one over on his opponents. In politics, a sharp wind blows, and only a few can stick it out. Here it’s the typical male characteristics and values that are needed, which is why it’s not surprising that female politicians often adopt a somewhat masculine persona.
If we want to change politics, we need to change this entire frame of mind, to rethink what is really required to be a politician. To save democracy, politics must attract a wider range of people. We need scientists. We need artists. We need quite ordinary people who think slowly instead of quickly. People who admit it when they don’t know something, instead of pretending they know everything so they won’t be ousted from their jobs. We need shy people. We need the overweight, the stutterers, and the disabled. Punks, bakers, and manual workers. And above all, we need young people. We must make our politics more interesting, exciting, and cool, so that everyone will feel like getting involved.
After all, politicians are no different from the rest of the population. Strictly speaking, a politician is nothing more than a baker. There are good and less good bakers. Some are quite excellent bakers, others get nothing baked. The vast majority lie somewhere in between. Middling bakers, as it were.
In interviews I always arouse irritation when I openly admit that I don’t know something. Or when I turn my interviewers’ words against them. Sometimes I turn up at official occasions in drag or some such outfit. This too sometimes creates a bad impression, as it stirs up the suspicion that I lack seriousness. But it’s just the opposite: I take my job very seriously, and am just trying to turn it into something a bit more entertaining. This is my way of standing up for the changes that I think necessary.
It’s sometimes happened that a journalist interviewing me has been left helpless with laughter at my answers. In the TV news, that kind of thing obviously gets cut. News is a deadly serious affair—a phenomenon, by the way, that’s not limited to politics. News programs are usually nothing more than a succession of horrors. It often reminds me of a church service, a deadly serious ceremony, which always follows the same pattern.