EDITORIAL: Al Green Expelled from Congress Live on Air — When American Democracy Devours Its Own Children

What the State of the Union Address Was Supposed to Be

The State of the Union address is one of the most solemn rituals of American democracy. Enacted in the Constitution, it is the moment when the President of the Republic addresses the entire nation, before a joint session of both houses of Congress, to take stock of the past year and outline the major directions for the future. It is, in theory, a moment of institutional grandeur, rising above ordinary partisan squabbles, where the Republic contemplates itself in all its collective dignity. In theory. Because in practice—and especially since Donald Trump’s election—this address has become something very different: a political arena where each side tests its strength, gauges its dividing lines, and seeks to seize control of the national narrative for the months ahead.

The 2026 session was no exception. Even before Al Green took the stage, the atmosphere was electric. Democrats, who had been in the minority in both chambers since the 2024 elections, were looking for visible ways to signal their opposition to policies they consider dangerous to the very foundations of the Republic. Some had chosen not to attend. Others wore discreet symbols—a pin, a color, a gesture. Green, for his part, chose his voice. A loud voice, at the risk of everything.

When the most solemn Republican ritual becomes a televised spectacle of confrontation, it means that something profound has cracked in the American civic pact. And that crack did not begin on February 24, 2026.

Trump, the Stage, and the Art of Reverse Victimization

From Donald Trump’s perspective, Al Green’s ejection was greeted—according to witnesses present in the chamber and immediate reactions on Republican social media—as a form of validation. Trump, whose entire political rhetoric for the past decade has been based on the idea that he is being persecuted by a corrupt elite, was once again able to portray himself as the target of opponents incapable of respecting the basic rules of the democratic game. His supporters immediately amplified the scene: look at what the Democrats are doing, look at this lack of respect, look at who these people really are who claim to defend democracy. It is a narrative reversal that Trump masters with unsettling skill, and whose effectiveness depends not on its factual truth, but on its emotional resonance with a base that expects exactly this kind of confirmation.

The Rules Governing Congress

The expulsion of a member of Congress during a session is not a trivial matter. It is governed by specific rules that date back to the founding of the United States. The First Amendment guarantees freedom of speech, but this protection does not apply without limits within the legislative chambers themselves, where specific rules of procedure govern the conduct of elected officials. The Speaker of the House—or, in this case, the officials presiding over the joint session—has the authority to call a member to order and, in the event of persistent disruption, to expel the member from the chamber. It was this authority that was exercised against Al Green two years in a row.

But the legality of a measure does not exhaust the question of its political legitimacy. What Green did was a violation of the rules of procedure. What the presiding officers did in expelling him was legally correct. And yet, millions of Americans watching the scene live felt something deeply unsettling—whether it was shocked approval or indignant solidarity. This collective unease, which cuts across partisan lines in ways more complex than one might think, speaks volumes about the true state of American democracy in 2026.

The law is on the side of those who expelled Al Green. Legitimacy, however, is an open question that neither the law nor the rules of the House of Representatives can resolve on their own.

Historical Precedents and Eloquent Comparisons

The history of the U.S. Congress is marked by moments when elected officials have chosen disruption as a tool of political resistance. One thinks of Senator Strom Thurmond’s long filibuster in 1957—admittedly, on the wrong side of history—or, more recently, the protests by members of Congress during the electoral certifications. Every era produces its own forms of parliamentary resistance, and every era subsequently debates their legitimacy in hindsight. What is remarkable in Al Green’s case is the deliberate repetition. This is not a one-time outburst driven by emotion. It is a repeated, prepared, and deliberate act—which radically changes its nature and significance.

A country split in two, a chamber split in two

Looking at the Congress chamber during the 2026 State of the Union address is like looking at a cross-section of the United States. On one side, Republicans standing, applauding, wearing the caps and waving the flags that symbolize their loyalty. On the other, the Democrats, seated, their faces impassive, some wearing silent symbols, others choosing ostentatious stillness. And in the midst of it all, Al Green’s voice shattering the ceremonial silence—followed by the heavy silence that ensued after he was escorted out. This scene is no anomaly. It is an accurate snapshot of a country whose political divide has reached a level that few analysts would have predicted twenty years ago.

The data is there, stubborn and overwhelming. According to the latest polls from the Pew Research Center, more than 70% of Americans say they do not trust supporters of the opposing side to manage the country’s affairs. More than 60% believe that their political opponents pose a threat to the values that define America. These figures—unthinkable in the 1990s—paint a picture of a country where political disagreement is no longer experienced as a difference in priorities or methods, but as an existential incompatibility. In this context, Al Green’s expulsion is not merely a parliamentary incident. It is yet another symptom of a democratic illness for which no one seems to have a cure.

When 70% of the citizens of a democracy view their political opponents as a threat to their country, we are no longer dealing with a simple disagreement. We are dealing with two nations that share the same territory but no longer share the same narrative.

The Media’s Role in Amplifying the Divide

Al Green’s expulsion was covered in real time by dozens of American networks—and each delivered a different version, tailored to its audience. On Fox News, the dominant narrative was that of a disrespectful and disruptive Democrat. On MSNBC, it was that of a hero of democratic resistance in the face of Trumpist authoritarianism. These two narratives are not merely editorial biases. They reflect a fragmented media ecosystem that no longer produces a shared space of common facts, but rather airtight narrative bubbles where each side finds confirmation of what it already believes. In this environment, even a fact as simple as a parliamentary expulsion becomes a political Rorschach test in which everyone sees what they want to see.

An Opposition Searching for Its Voice and Courage

Beyond the individual act, the events of February 24, 2026, raise a broader question about the state of the U.S. Democratic Party. Since Trump’s reelection in November 2024, Democrats have been navigating a zone of profound strategic discomfort. As a minority in both the Senate and the House, lacking executive power, and faced with a militant base that demands vigorous opposition but watches with concern as their elected officials make repeated tactical errors, they are searching for a guiding principle with visible awkwardness. Some advocate for head-on resistance—visible and theatrical if necessary—which is Al Green’s line. Others advocate for discreet institutional obstruction, coalition-building with moderate Republicans, and a long-term strategy. These two lines are at odds without the party having made a decision, and this hesitation is evident in every session of Congress.

What is troubling about the Green episode is the lack of a clear position from the Democratic leadership. Neither Hakeem Jeffries, the House Minority Leader, nor the most prominent Democratic senators have formulated a coherent and unified response to the expulsion of their Texas colleague. Some have expressed solidarity, others have maintained an eloquent silence, and still others have discreetly hinted that they would have preferred a different form of protest. This internal discord is perhaps the most revealing lesson of this entire affair.

An opposition party that does not know whether its own most visible act of resistance is a strength or a weakness is a party that has not yet understood what war it is fighting.

The Strategy of Martyrdom and Its Diminishing Returns

There is a logic to Al Green’s strategy—the logic of visible political martyrdom. By getting himself ejected in front of the cameras, he transforms his expulsion into a message, his humiliation into a symbol of resistance. This strategy has worked in American political history. It fueled the civil rights movement; it produced iconic images that shifted public opinion. But it relies on one essential condition: that the society in which it is employed is still susceptible to being shocked by the image of institutional repression. In the America of 2026—a nation deeply numbed by years of successive political shocks, where every scandal is immediately absorbed and neutralized by the next media cycle—this condition can no longer be taken for granted. The image of Al Green being deported will be forgotten within 48 hours, replaced by the next episode of the American political soap opera.

A president who has turned disruption into electoral fuel

To understand why Al Green’s expulsion benefits Donald Trump more than it does the Texas representative himself, one must understand the unique political mechanics that Trump has perfected since 2015. Trump exists politically only in and through controversy. Every attack strengthens him. Every protest justifies him. Every expulsion of an opponent becomes further proof—for his base—that he is a strongman surrounded by hysterical enemies who cannot tolerate the change he embodies. This political alchemy, which his opponents have still not figured out how to neutralize after ten years of trying, transforms every confrontation into a victory for the Trump camp, regardless of the actual outcome.

For Trump, the State of the Union address is the ideal arena for this dynamic. It is a national stage, a massive audience, and an institutional ritual steeped in solemnity. Being publicly challenged there does not weaken him—it elevates him in the eyes of his supporters. For the second year in a row, Al Green gave him exactly what he needed: an image of Democratic disruption that he can use for months in his perpetual campaign speeches, proof that the opposition is uncontrollable and disrespectful, and the perfect foil to consolidate his base ahead of the 2026 midterm elections.

Challenging Trump in a space he controls perfectly, according to rules he masters better than anyone else, almost always amounts to handing him the opportunity he needs to strike harder. Al Green knows this. And yet he does it anyway. This is where the question of the meaning behind his gesture becomes truly mind-boggling.

The normalization of the abnormal: a troubling process

Perhaps what is most troubling about this episode is not the expulsion itself, but the gradual normalization of this type of incident. In 2025, Al Green’s expulsion had sparked a significant wave of media outrage. In 2026, the same event—identical or nearly so—was met with a certain weariness by some in the press. “Green again, expelled again”—that’s more or less the subtext of some opinion pieces, including those by liberal commentators. This growing acceptance of institutional dysfunction is precisely what should alarm us. When the abnormal becomes routine, we have lost something essential in our collective perception of what is acceptable and what is not.

Texas, Civil Rights, and a Weighty History

Al Green is no ordinary elected official. He represents Texas’s 9th District, a predominantly African American area in the suburbs of Houston—a region that embodies the complex and painful history of the civil rights struggle in the American South. When Green stands up and protests, he does so with the weight of that history behind him—the history of Black Americans who have been silenced for centuries, excluded from institutions, deprived of their rights, and who, generation after generation, have had to invent new forms of resistance to make themselves heard in a system designed to ignore them. This historical dimension of his gesture is rarely mentioned in mainstream political analyses, which are too preoccupied with short-term tactical calculations to pay attention to the underlying currents driving the actors.

For the communities he represents, Al Green isn’t putting on a show. He is bearing witness. He is saying: we are here, we see what is happening, and we refuse to be silent even when the system forces us into silence. That message—as uncomfortable as it may be for Democratic strategists who would prefer a less vocal opposition—has a moral and historical legitimacy that no one should be able to dismiss so easily.

There are actions that cannot be understood through the lens of electoral strategy. They are understood through the long memory of a people who have learned that silence does not protect. Al Green speaks that language. And we would be wrong not to listen to him.

Who else speaks for these millions of Americans?

The question that naturally arises after Al Green’s expulsion is this: if this Texas representative has chosen this form of protest, it is also because he believes—perhaps rightly so—that the usual forms of political opposition are no longer enough to give voice to the communities he represents. When institutional channels seem blocked, when cross-party coalitions seem out of reach, and when the national press covers the concerns of Houston’s disadvantaged neighborhoods only marginally, shouting in the House chamber becomes one of the few forms of political communication that guarantees immediate national coverage. This observation, as bitter as it may be, should give pause to those who criticize Al Green’s method without offering a credible alternative.

Congressional Rules as a Tool for Suppressing Dissent

Al Green’s expulsion was legally sound. No one seriously disputes that. But the strict application of procedural rules can itself become a political tool when used selectively or exploited for political ends. The debate over rules of decorum in Congress is nothing new. For decades, both parties have alternated between protest and procedural repression depending on whether they were in the opposition or in power. What the Green episode illustrates is how these rules—intended to protect the proper functioning of institutions—can be used to silence uncomfortable voices at the very moment those voices are seeking to be heard on substantive issues.

The question is not: Did Al Green have the right to do what he did under the rules of procedure? The answer is no. The real question is: In a healthy democracy, what mechanisms allow a political minority to effectively voice its opposition when all the usual institutional levers are locked down by a majority that has no interest in listening? This question—far more profound than the incident itself—lies at the heart of what the United States has been experiencing since November 2024.

Rules exist to ensure that democracy functions. But when rules become the primary tool for silencing the opposition, we have entered a gray area that the founders of the Republic did not fully anticipate.

International precedents that should give us pause

The removal of opponents from official sessions is not unique to the United States. It has occurred in stable democracies as well as in regimes transitioning toward authoritarianism. The fundamental difference lies in the regularity and systematic nature of these practices. An isolated expulsion, in a context of extreme tension, may be acceptable within a robust democracy. Repeated expulsions of the same elected official, in the same context, for the same type of protest, begin to reveal a pattern that deserves more serious analysis than that afforded by the mainstream media, which is too preoccupied with the immediate spectacle to grasp its structural implications.

From the Republican camp: triumph and contempt

On the Republican side, reactions to Al Green’s removal followed a predictable script. Elected officials applauded the security forces’ intervention. Official statements highlighted the Texas representative’s “disrespect.” Activist hashtags celebrated the restoration of order in the House. Marjorie Taylor Greene, a symbol of the party’s most radical wing, posted triumphant comments on social media. These reactions, as predictable as they may be, speak volumes about the Trumpist camp’s view of legitimate opposition: it is acceptable as long as it remains silent and conforms to the rules set by those in power.

What is striking about these Republican reactions is the total absence of unease. Not a single voice in the Republican camp seemed troubled by the image of an elected representative—the representative of hundreds of thousands of Americans—being physically expelled from the chamber where he serves. This absence of collective unease is, in and of itself, a powerful indicator of the level of polarization that has been reached: the legitimacy of the political opponent has been so eroded that his physical removal no longer causes any cognitive dissonance within the majority camp.

When the physical removal of an elected official elicits joy in the opposing camp rather than even a modicum of institutional unease, it means that something important in our shared democratic culture has been irrevocably shattered.

From the Democratic camp: hesitant solidarity and silent calculations

On the Democratic side, reactions were more nuanced—and that nuance itself is revealing. The solidarity shown toward Al Green was genuine but measured—Democratic elected officials know that any image of a turbulent opposition can be turned against them in the pro-Trump media. Some praised the Texas representative’s courage. Others cautiously referred to the “different methods” that can coexist within a diverse opposition. And a few, off the record, suggested that repeating this episode was a strategic mistake that provided Trump with exactly the ammunition he needed to fuel his rhetoric about order being threatened by uncontrollable Democrats. This internal ambivalence within the opposition party may be the real story of the evening of February 24, 2026.

The 2026 midterm elections are also being decided in this room

It is February 2026. The midterm elections will take place in November. Every political action taken in the coming months—every vote, every protest, every expulsion, every silence—is scrutinized, analyzed, and repurposed by the electoral machines of both parties in the run-up to this crucial election. For the Republicans, the image of Al Green being ejected is a gift: it reinforces the narrative of the hysterical and irresponsible Democratic opposition. For the Democrats, it’s a double-edged sword: a symbol of resistance for their most militant base, but a turn-off for the moderate independent voters they absolutely must win back if they want to retake at least one chamber in November.

In this context, the question of the political effectiveness of protest actions like Al Green’s becomes urgent. Not because the moral legitimacy of resistance is in question, but because politics is also—and perhaps above all—a matter of results. And if visible protest costs more votes than it wins, if it strengthens the opponent more than it weakens them, it must be evaluated for what it is: a strategic choice with real electoral consequences that neither a clear conscience nor individual bravery can erase.

One can admire Al Green’s courage and at the same time wonder whether that courage serves the cause he defends or whether, unintentionally, it undermines it. These two questions do not cancel each other out. They must be asked together, and honestly.

Can American democracy still be repaired?

The question that has haunted American political analysts for several years—and which the events of February 24, 2026, raise once again with particular urgency—is whether the American democratic system can be repaired. Do its institutions still have the capacity to absorb the tensions running through them without fracturing permanently? Are the mechanisms of compromise and negotiation that allowed the Republic to survive its most serious crises—the Civil War, the Great Depression, the Vietnam War, Watergate—still operational in the America of 2026? Or have we entered a phase of institutional decay where no one yet knows where the bottom lies?

There are no simple answers to these questions. American institutions have demonstrated remarkable resilience in the past. But that resilience required a minimum of shared faith in the common rules of the democratic game. And it is precisely this shared faith that seems to be crumbling, on both sides of the political divide, to an extent that few historians would have deemed possible even a decade ago.

After the Eviction, the Silence That Remains

When Al Green left the House chamber on February 24, 2026, escorted by security agents, his seat remained empty. This image—simple, concrete, unadorned—embodies the full complexity of what we have just examined. An empty seat in the most powerful chamber in the world. An elected official absent from the place where he should be. A voice silenced—temporarily, yet visually—in the institution meant to be the temple of American political free speech. That empty seat is both a symbol of resistance—it was occupied by someone who refused to be silenced—and a symbol of failure—that person is no longer there to represent their constituents during the most important moment on the annual political calendar.

Both interpretations are true. Both interpretations are necessary. And it is precisely because both are true at the same time that this episode tells us something essential about the state of American democracy at the start of 2026: we are at a moment when the most significant political acts are also those whose meaning is the most profoundly ambiguous, the most contested, and the most fraught with contradictions that neither goodwill nor bad faith can resolve on their own. America needs far more than empty seats or high-profile expulsions. It needs a fundamental political conversation about what it wants to be, about the rules it sets for itself to live together, about how majorities respect minorities and how minorities challenge majorities without destroying one another in the process. No one has yet figured out how to seriously launch that conversation. And time is running out.

The America I’ve been observing for years has weathered crises that would have shattered less resilient nations. But it has never come so close to forgetting why adversarial debate—even when it’s loud, uncomfortable, or embarrassing—is the very condition of its own democratic survival. That empty seat worries me. Not because Al Green used to sit there. But because no one seemed to really want him back.

What We Must Take Away, Beyond the Spectacle

In the days following the episode of February 24, 2026, the world will move on. The media cycle will swallow this incident just as it swallows all the others, digest it in a matter of hours, and cast it into the background of collective memory, ready to be dredged up again during the next controversy. But for those who are seriously concerned about the health of liberal democracies—not just the American one, since what happens in the United States reverberates throughout the entire Western world—this episode deserves to be preserved, reflected upon, and incorporated into a broader discussion of what we are collectively losing, and how we might still, perhaps, find the resources to prevent losing it entirely.

Al Green will be back in his office the very next morning. Trump will continue to govern. The Republicans will continue to control Congress. And the millions of Americans who watched the scene unfold live will continue to live their lives, pay their rent, worry about their children, and hope for a tomorrow that is a little less fractured than the day before. It is for them—for those millions of ordinary Americans who deserve a democracy that lives up to their hopes—that this fundamental question must continue to be asked, loud and clear, relentlessly, and without pandering to either side.

Signed, Jacques Pj Provost