Donald Trump has always blurred the lines between power and possession. He treats the presidency not as a public trust, but as a personal enterprise—behaving less like an elected leader and more like the CEO of America Inc. From cancelling military contracts on a whim to halting foreign aid when countries don’t praise him, Trump’s instinct is to act as if the institutions of the United States are his to command, control, or cut off.
When universities criticise him or fail to align with his views, he threatens funding. When states or cities refuse to echo his policies, he punishes them by withholding federal support. This isn’t governing—it’s managing a business portfolio where loyalty is rewarded and dissent is penalised. He signs off on billions in aid or slashes it entirely depending on whether he sees personal benefit. Allies are not partners, they’re clients. And American citizens? In his world, they’re customers—some welcome, others expendable.
Trump talks of “my military,” “my judges,” “my people,” as though the country is a personal estate he inherited rather than a democracy he temporarily serves. He doesn’t negotiate with institutions—he terminates contracts. He doesn’t engage with critics—he sues them, insults them, or attempts to erase them. He has tried to make patriotism synonymous with loyalty to him personally, not to the Constitution.
This behaviour reflects a deeper misunderstanding of what public office truly means. The presidency is not a real estate deal. You can’t fire a state governor like an apprentice. You can’t cut off federal funding to punish a political disagreement without undermining the entire principle of democratic governance.
His approach has hollowed out public trust. Universities—centres of learning and critical thinking—have found themselves in his firing line simply for encouraging open debate. Aid agencies have been strong-armed. Military and intelligence communities have been politicised. It’s the behaviour of someone who believes the entire machinery of state exists to serve him—not the people.
But the United States is not a corporation, and Trump is not its owner. The power he exercises is borrowed. The White House is not a crown—it is a temporary lease, granted by the voters and returned by the ballot.
America is not a company. It is a country. And no matter how many contracts Trump tears up or institutions he tries to bend, he cannot privatise democracy.
In the end, the people still hold the deed.
And they’re the only shareholders that count.
