Government & politics, explained.
Denmark's Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen opens the People's Meeting (Folkemoedet) in Allinge, on the Danish Baltic island of Bornholm, 11 June 2026 (Sebastian Elias Uth via Getty Images)
Perhaps take a leaf from the tens of thousands of Danish voters who descend on the island of Bornholm to debate the country’s future.
Subscribe to The Informer for monthly expert analysis, and to Events for advance notice of visiting world leaders and distinguished guests.
You may unsubscribe from Lowy Institute newsletters at any time. For information on our privacy practices and how to unsubscribe, see our Privacy Policy.
Could a democracy festival take the agro out of Australian politics?Could a democracy festival take the agro out of Australian politics?
Swapping her usual suit for denim jeans, a relaxed Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen is up on stage singing a love song with 10,000 voters of all political stripes, on Denmark’s sunshine island, Bornholm.
Welcome to the Folkemødet – a three-day democracy festival where Danish movers and shakers, political parties, top CEOs, lobbyists, voters, pensioners, farmers, youth and charity groups mingle and respectfully debate issues important to Danish society and the world.
About 1% of Denmark’s population of six million is here for a “Glastonbury for politics”.
The charming fishing village of Allinge is the backdrop for more than 3,500 talks, panels and workshops – the setting an echo of far-off Tasmania with its lichen rocks.
A Danish frigate sails in the Baltic Sea behind Frederiksen on stage, a reminder that we’re about 360 kilometres from the Russian territory of Kaliningrad – but otherwise the vibe is low-key and jovial with minimal security. Even the climate change activists holding protest signs are singing along to Frederiksen’s song choice - Lyse nætter (Bright Night), which recently won a radio top 100 countdown (Opens in new window).
“Over these three days, we will do what Danes do best”, the newly re-elected Frederiksen told the crowd. “We shall speak together, we shall listen, we shall discuss, we shall disagree and also find common ground”.
“When we meet, we build bridges,” she later wrote on Instagram (Opens in new window).
Scenes from the Folkemødet festival (Lisa Martin)
Jakob Lave, a former schoolteacher turned businessman, is proud of the festival and says it helps ground Danish politics in the middle of the political spectrum.
“I really love listening to all these different opinions,” he said.
“It’s about trust … We actually trust each other even though we disagree about a lot of things.”
The Folkemødet concept was borrowed from Sweden’s Almedalsveckan (Opens in new window) (Democracy Week), which began in 1968. Norwegians have Arendalsuka, (Opens in new window) while there’s the Lampa festival in Latvia (Opens in new window) and the Arvamusfestival in Estonia (Opens in new window). The Germans, Texans and Japanese are also looking to stage their own versions.
The first Danish edition in 2011 was five tents, not enough food or toilets. Organisers had anticipated 2,000 attendees, but 10,000 people showed up. These days, the festival has grown in popularity and professionalism, but it faces some criticism that it’s become a playground for the elite because of high travel and accommodation costs and exclusive lobbyist parties and dinners.
The Folkemødet crowd in the fishing village of Allinge on the island of Bornholm (Lisa Martin)
Unlike Australia, which frequently ties itself in knots over cancel culture and boycotts at writers’ festivals (Opens in new window), free speech seems to be thriving here in Denmark.
“Woke culture is not a thing here,” says Scottish-born, Bornholm local Fiona Ross, who works as a Folkemødet project manager, adding that rage-baiting isn’t the Danish way.
The festival’s magic is being able to chat to people you would never see in your daily life, Ross said.
“It’s made in a way that creates space for that,” she said.
Ross is helping to launch an inaugural event in her homeland next May and says it’s important that replicated festivals take on a strong local flavour.
One of the issues the Scottish version will have to grapple with is the United Kingdom’s class system, Ross said.
“Class. Forgot that existed, living in a nice Danish, classless society,” Ross joked, adding that it will also be an uphill battle convincing some Scottish political parties to share a stage with others.
Unlike Australia, which frequently ties itself in knots over cancel culture and boycotts at writers’ festivals, free speech seems to be thriving here in Denmark.
Australian Jessica Andersen, who runs the Penyllan Beer Brewery with her Danish husband, says the idea of setting up a Scandinavian-inspired democracy festival back home would be “incredible”.
“You’ve got all of these people, all in the one spot, debating in a controlled environment and it lets people see so many different (perspectives) and ask so many questions,” she said.
“No one hates each other over which party they vote for.”
Another Aussie on Bornholm – Archibald McKenzie, who has a Danish wife and was an artistic director of a music festival on the island – says the Folkemødet is held “in a spirit of essential Danish solidarity”.
Even though the Australian political culture is traditionally more adversarial, he is optimistic that it could be a useful model to adapt for a “civilising effect on Australian politics”.
“As everyone is noticing, the general political discourse is increasingly shrill, based on emotions such as anger, fear and indignation rather than rational perspective,” McKenzie said. “Often more about short-term point-scoring than about the rather pressing need for governments to address issues to do with geopolitical conflict, AI, climate change, kleptocracy, failing social cohesion.”
Later that night, as a dreamy evening light snakes across the sky, the Danish PM is up on stage with the band at the Toga Tent, bantering with the crowd who are many beers in, enjoying yet another sing-along session.
Skål (cheers) to Danish democracy. Kind of hard to imagine Australian pollies pulling out some “beerability” and charisma to be that spontaneous.
About the author
Lisa Martin
Lisa Martin is an Australian journalist based in Copenhagen. She is a four-time Walkley Award finalist.
The most-pressing world events explained by Lowy Institute experts and global contributors, in your inbox, every Thursday.
You may unsubscribe from The Interpreter at any time. For information on our privacy practices and how to unsubscribe, see our Privacy Policy.
