Institutional power has, for long, been regarded as an unassailable force. It has been regarded as a monolith of order and authority, yet, institutions do not just possess this inherent power in themselves—they must be believed in and carried out by individuals. In other words, their power, authority and functions rest entirely on the shoulders of those who inhabit them. The myth of institutional legitimacy is a mask worn by people. When those people act without virtue, the mask slips—and we are reminded that power is never inherent, only performed, maintained and observed by the respectable and honourable, or not at all.

The first thing we have to do in our discussion of institutional power is to establish the exact avenues through which these institutions appear to derive their power from. We can largely split these methods into two broad and more or less interdependent categories, namely symbolic power and material power. The former gives institutions their outward appearance of legitimacy—their story, their influence, or their historical justifications. The latter gives institutions the material capacity to enforce decisions, maintain order, and compel obedience. This is, in a sense, quite similar to the concepts of “soft power” and “hard power” used to characterize international relations, in that for both, the former is used more for co-opting and entities subject to such power usually choose to cooperate more willingly, while the latter uses more force and coercion to compel entities to obey. However, this is not to say that either form is necessarily good or evil, since, as previously argued, the institutions who exercise such powers are only as just as those who operate them.

The first foundation we deal with is the symbolic power carried by institutions. This is the authority that they derive not from force, but from beliefs, history, and performance. Institutions present themselves as timeless: monarchies drape themselves in centuries-old rituals, religions proclaim their holy scriptures as dogmas of faith, courts wield gavels and robes, and governments invoke constitutions as sacred texts. But these symbols are, in most cases, not inherently powerful. Instead, the power and authority they wield only exist insofar as there remain individuals who believe and embody their values, and their existence will also often be viewed as “truly legitimate” only if they retain the respect and well wishes of the wider population. Crucially, this symbolic framework is what enables the most important, yet fragile, ingredient of institutional survival: the consent of the governed. In a lot of cases, people willingly comply not out of fear of some threat to their physical liberty or autonomy, or do so simply because they must. Instead, they do so because they believe that the institution is just, necessary, or, at the very least, functional.¹ They do so, because they respect the structures of power, and believe that “they have the right to dictate appropriate behaviour and are entitled to be obeyed.”² This belief and compliance they offer towards these institutions, however, are not inherent to them. Say, for instance, that a government starts implementing a wide array of policies that significantly disenfranchise the population. They restrict certain economic liberties, civil rights, and personal freedoms, based on the argument that “they know better” than the population. At first, such measures may be tolerated, especially if they are cloaked in the language of stability, national security, or public good. The symbols of the state—flags, anthems, courtrooms, official speeches—may still carry enough residual legitimacy to command obedience. People may grumble, protest quietly, or rationalise the new policies as temporary necessities.

But over time, the symbolic power of the institution begins to erode. The gap between the institution’s claim to authority and its actual performance widens. Rituals that once evoked reverence start to feel hollow. The courtroom’s robe no longer commands respect; the constitution begins to appear less sacred and more selectively interpreted. The foundational myth—that this government rules in the interest of its people—comes under increasing scrutiny. And then, crucially, the consent of the governed, which once silently sustained the institution, begins to unravel. People no longer comply willingly, not because they suddenly crave disorder, but because the institution has failed to uphold its end of the symbolic contract. What once seemed legitimate now appears arbitrary. What once demanded respect now invites resistance. At that point, no amount of tradition, ceremonial pomp, or appeals to authority can easily restore the original order. Such is this symbolic power: while it depends on a legitimacy that is both immensely powerful and inherently contingent, the moment people stop believing in the institution’s right to govern—when symbols fade, when flags burn—the legitimacy that the institutions once rode upon—crumbles to dust.

This type of symbolic and legitimating power also hinges not upon the coercion of a party, but instead depends, quite heavily, on the cooperation of different individuals and institutions. Imagine a country where the legislature passes a controversial, but nevertheless lawful, budget. The president, disliking the bill but unable to veto it due to constitutional or procedural constraints, simply refuses to sign it or release funds, daring the civil service and central bank to act without executive direction. Meanwhile, the judiciary orders the executive to comply. But the president ignores the ruling. No one arrests him, because the police answer to the executive. The courts have no army, and the legislature has no enforcement power. The constitutional order exists only on paper. What unfolds is a slow-motion collapse of the rule of law—not because anyone fired a shot, but because the tacit agreements holding the system together have been abandoned. Judges write opinions, lawmakers pass laws, but no one is listening. The entire institutional structure becomes theatre—a ghost of legitimacy that depends on respectful participation more than any written statute. We see this in the political genius of Chief Justice Marshall’s authoring of Marbury v. Madison, where Marbury (one of the midnight judges nominated by the outgoing Adams) was unable to receive his commission before the end of the Adams administration and sued Madison (the incoming Secretary of State) for refusing to deliver it. While the court did rule that Madison was in the wrong, they also declined to issue a remedy, opining instead that the statute enabling them to do so was unconstitutional. If Marshall had simply granted Marbury’s petition for a writ compelling Madison to deliver the commission, the Jefferson administration would likely have just ignored it, making the court look impotent and weakening the already shaky legitimacy the early American judiciary stood on.³ This collective willingness of institutions to abide by the implicit agreements that sustain their authority is especially important in the case of institutions that wield no hard enforcement mechanisms. As Marshall once aptly noted, such institutions “can will nothing”, and their power, as such, lies not in force, but in the continued respect and cooperation of the other branches.

Yet this is all just half the equation. When the symbolic and legitimating power are no longer able to sustain the authority of an institution, they turn to their material means. Most common of this is their coercive power—the capacity to enforce rules through punishment, surveillance, restriction, and control. Courts issue fines or prison sentences. Police detain. Armies deploy. This is the visible machinery of power—what people often think of when they imagine a “strong state.” Just like symbolic power, however, coercive authority does not operate in a vacuum. It, too, requires willingness and restraint from those who wield it, and recognition from those upon whom it is exercised. In this sense, coercive power is not just about the exercise of force; it also depends on how such force is received, resisted, or normalised.

At first blush, such power may appear absolute. A state that desires the detention of an individual under a law enacted in the name of “internal security” will often succeed in doing so without much resistance. If a ministry deems a post to be “false” or “contrary” to the public interest, it disappears from the public sphere. If a school expels a student for egregious conduct, that student is left without recourse, removed from the institutional system with no path to return. These actions, however, are only as enduring as the cooperation of those tasked with enforcing them. The detention order only becomes real when officers execute it. The censorship only succeeds when platform administrators comply. The expulsion only matters when other schools honour it. When that cooperation falters—when police refuse to arrest, when moderators defy censorship directives, when other institutions open their doors to the expelled—what once seemed like unshakable power crumbles. The illusion of force collapses without willing hands. The capability of such a power to compel compliance also stops right where it starts: such a power can, and may perhaps very well succeed, at suppressing dissent and coercing behaviour, but insofar as commanding loyalty is concerned, it falls short of any desirable goals. It is a power so fragile that its legitimacy withers the moment it is questioned, for it governs not by the consent of the governed but by the silence of the subdued. It breeds fear, not allegiance or consent. Over time, this fear breeds resentment—and resentment, when it reaches a critical mass, becomes explosive. The institution may survive in form, but not in meaning. The Romanian Revolution of 1989 makes this fragility quite obvious. For decades, Nicolae Ceaușescu’s regime held power through an extensive network of secret police, party officials, and military forces—the full machinery of a totalitarian state. On paper, his power seemed absolute: protests could be crushed, dissidents detained, entire cities silenced. Yet when protests erupted in Timișoara, something shifted. The very institutions that had sustained the regime—the army, the bureaucracy, even some of his own officials—began to turn away. Soldiers defected, orders were ignored, and within days the dictatorship collapsed. Ceaușescu, once untouchable, was summarily convicted and executed by his own forces. His life and power crumbled, simply because he was no longer respected. His institutions ceased to be one of legitimacy and became instead a hollow shell, and was quickly overthrown.

Coercive power does also have a more benevolent cousin. One of French and Raven’s six bases of power, reward power is described as “power whose basis is the ability to reward.”⁴ Unlike symbolic legitimacy, which co-opts through belief, and coercive authority, which commands through fear, reward power maintains institutional order by offering benefits. Promotions, subsidies, titles, contracts, endorsements, and access—these are the invisible carrots that incentivize obedience and buy silence. Institutions do not merely compel or persuade; they entice. The civil servant who enforces an unpopular policy may do so not because they agree with it, nor because they fear punishment, but because loyalty may be rewarded with advancement. The legislator who toes the party line may receive committee appointments, publicity, or re-election support. In this sense, institutional compliance is not simply a question of legitimacy or coercion, but of calculated interest. The system endures because it rewards those who obey.

But this too is a precarious foundation. Reward power is fragile precisely because it is transactional. It assumes that obedience can be bought—and, crucially, that the institution has the resources or legitimacy to keep paying. When those rewards begin to dry up, or when alternative reward structures emerge—be it from rival institutions, populist uprisings, or foreign actors—the web of incentives unravels. A bureaucracy that once remained loyal due to perks may begin to defect if new political winds promise better opportunities. A state’s media landscape may fracture when journalists, once rewarded for toeing the line, find more prestige or profit in dissent. Just like coercion without compliance, and symbolism without belief, reward without value ceases to be persuasive. It becomes a hollow bribe.

This reward-based framework also helps explain why some institutions appear stable for so long, even in the face of deteriorating moral or symbolic authority. For a while, the benefits of playing along outweigh the costs of dissent. But the moment that equation flips—when obedience no longer guarantees reward, or worse, brings reputational cost—people begin to leave. The machine begins to sputter. It is no surprise that many authoritarian collapses are preceded not just by moral crises, but also by economic ones: as the state’s ability to distribute rewards contracts, so too does its hold on power. This often also serves as a weathervane—its erosion often foreshadows the decline of the institution itself.

Ultimately, the strength of any institution lies not in the grandeur of its symbols, the might of its coercive apparatus, or even the allure of its rewards—but in the belief of its people. The trust, consent, and respect that sustain it are fragile and contingent, susceptible to erosion when those who hold power neglect their duty, when symbols lose their meaning, when coercion no longer garners compliance, or when rewards fail to fulfill their promises.

The myth of institutional permanence—that institutions are impervious to change, immune to decay—is precisely that: a myth. Institutions are not eternal structures set in stone; they are living, breathing entities, shaped by the interactions, choices, and beliefs of those who uphold them. When these beliefs fracture, when cooperation falters, the very foundation of power begins to crumble. We see this in history, time and again—in revolutions, in the slow disintegration of once-mighty regimes, in the moment when the facade of legitimacy shatters and the institution reveals itself to be nothing more than a hollow shell.

It is a sobering reality: power, in the end, is never truly unassailable. Whether it is an institution built on symbols of sacred authority or one fortified by the mechanisms of coercion, it is only as strong as the faith and cooperation it commands. The moment that trust dissolves, or when coercive power fails to command allegiance, the institution’s hold is lost.

This recognition, while unsettling, also presents a vital opportunity for renewal. If institutions are only as strong as the belief in them, then they are always capable of transformation. A new vision, a restored commitment to justice, or a renewed respect for the legitimacy of authority—these can reforge institutions and restore their legitimacy. But such renewal requires more than the mere maintenance of tradition or the quiet acceptance of coercion. It demands a fundamental reconnection between the institution and the people it serves—an honest accounting of its failings, a commitment to moral and ethical action, and the courage to let go of the hollow trappings of power when they no longer resonate with the truth.

In the end, institutional power is not an unyielding force to be wielded; it is a fragile and dynamic construct, dependent on the ongoing consent of the governed and the honour of those who hold it. When those foundations falter, so too does the power that once seemed unassailable. And when those foundations are rebuilt, with respect, justice, and accountability, power can once again be legitimate—not through coercion, but through the voluntary support of those who believe in it.