‘Digital sovereignty’ has gone from a niche term to something invoked across the political spectrum, to everything from AI and semiconductors to data protection and disinformation. What exactly is it, what explains its rise, and why has it proven so attractive to many different policy areas?
Let me start by giving an overview of how our understanding of digital sovereignty has evolved. Indeed, the term has exploded over the past decade or so. Originally, the term ‘digital sovereignty’ was used by autocratic regimes such as Russia, which coined the phrase as part of an ambition to create a so-called national ‘internet’ in the 2010s. For these actors, sovereignty really refers to the idea of territorial borders and independence, which is not really compatible with the idea of a liberal, open World Wide Web. On the European side, Edward Snowden’s revelations about US companies’ everyday use of surveillance in cooperation with secret services motivated debates around digital sovereignty – first emerging in the German and French contexts – that emphasised greater independence from foreign technology. More recently, European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen has taken up the term to justify a host of EU initiatives. Moreover, we can observe how other terms such as ‘strategic autonomy’, ‘derisking’, and ‘decoupling’ are increasingly used within these same contexts. This is because, as I have pointed out in my work with Daniel Lambach, terms such as ‘derisking’ emphasise that complete ‘sovereignty’, or autarky, is actually impossible in the current globalised economy. Instead, the realistic aim can only be to become more resilient against supply-chain disruptions and decrease the influence of foreign tech companies.
So, why has digital sovereignty proven to be so attractive? I think that this is, at least in part, due to the fact that ‘digital sovereignty’ is a catchier moniker than ‘independence’ or ‘decoupling’. However, a more substantial reason lies in the feature that you mention in the question – digital sovereignty is attractive for a range of policy issues that may not be related at first glance, but can then all be connected under its umbrella. For example, securing supply chains for high-end computer chips and protecting children’s data may seem like separate topics, but under the heading of ‘digital sovereignty’, these policies become part of the larger agenda towards a strong, innovative, and economically secure European Union. It is precisely the openness of the concept that allows digital sovereignty to be used across different policy areas, even though we know that it is not really about ‘sovereignty’ in the traditional sense as control over territory and people.
You argue that digital sovereignty’s vagueness is part of its political usefulness – yet you’ve also warned that once it’s mobilised against 'foreign interference,' it becomes increasingly security-centric and risks taking on authoritarian connotations, even echoing the practices it claims to counter. Where do you see that risk materialising, and what’s at stake when it does?
As we already know from securitisation theory, branding a specific topic as a security issue reduces the space for democratic politics. This occurs because claims for more security usually evoke the need for a strong leader and extraordinary measures that must be implemented as soon as possible. Democratic politics is, however, based on slow deliberation and the protection of citizens’ rights. Democracy and security politics are thus in tension with one another.
Moves towards securitisation can be observed in current debates on digital sovereignty. In my work on TikTok with Fabio Cristiano, we argued that digital sovereignty is increasingly used as a vehicle to advocate for stronger global security politics, which take shape as greater control over digital technology and data flows. The debate about TikTok in the EU and the US is not only about the protection of children and about mental health concerns but is also tightly entangled with a security discourse in which China appears as the main threat. While there may be legitimate concerns about foreign interference in European technology, the discourse too often conflates issues such as the protection of children, economic concerns, public security, and the power of quasi-monopolistic tech companies. Part of this oversimplification might be inevitable in public debates in which differentiation is hard to achieve. However, the problem starts when security concerns overpower legitimate concerns about, for example, the power of Big Tech. This rhetoric can then help justify security measures – taken in the name of protecting children – that lack democratic legitimacy.
In the debate on TikTok and broader digital sovereignty, we can see how concerns about youth and mental health are also used to justify economic sanctions, thereby reinforcing the idea that China represents an existential threat to our children, economy, and livelihood. Under these conditions, the notion of digital sovereignty as a form of techno-nationalism where each nation has its own digital media becomes politically salient. This is despite the fact that such an idea of sovereignty or independence is impossible in today’s globalised world, as I explained above.
The EU portrays its digital sovereignty as a rules-based alternative to the US and Chinese models, but your recent research argues this debate is written from the European 'core' – Germany and France – while Central and Eastern Europe are largely absent. What can Brussels learn from how these 'semi-periphery' states engage with the digital sovereignty agenda?
To be clear, my critique may be less aimed at Brussels and more at academics and commentators who too often prioritise the stories emerging from core member states such as Germany and France. In my work on small states, I build on research from many thinkers before me who highlighted the need to look not only at postcolonial states but also at the semi-peripheral countries in Europe. The reason is clear: Politics is never only written by the core but is always an entanglement and power struggle between the core, semi-periphery, and periphery. That is why in our work on Central and Eastern Europe (CEE), Jakub Eberle and I aimed to collect a set of case studies from CEE states to better understand how the notion of digital sovereignty plays out in smaller member states. Based on this recent research, it is clear that digital sovereignty is indeed an (almost) empty signifier that can be used for many political purposes in these countries. For example, Asya Metodieva highlights how Orbán’s Hungary used the notion of digital sovereignty to justify quite autocratic policies around the control of data flows in the context of the Digital Services Act (DSA). In addition, my colleagues Jakub Eberle and Daniel Šitera demonstrate that Czechia selectively adopted, and then adapted, the digital sovereignty strategy coming from the EU core, thereby forcefully highlighting the need to look beyond the ‘noisy’ core of EU politics and into the peripheral realms.
For me, this speaks to the point you made in your first question: Digital sovereignty is not a static legalistic term, but a notion that can be adapted to fit a variety of political aims. The task for political scientists, then, is to assess these dynamics and understand what they mean for the larger European digital project. Ultimately, the argument to research small states in more detail is not only aimed at academia; it also spills over into policymaking, where more attention should be paid to how small member states are not only policy-takers but also policy-makers.
Linda Monsees is an Associate Researcher at the Institute of International Relations Prague, where she focuses on international security and how digital technologies impact not only security practices but also wider society.
Photo: Caleb Jack / Unsplash
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