Baskadia

Democracy, in Montesquieu's perspective, through The Spirit of Laws, is a condition of possibility for communal life. Discussing democracy means penetrating its institutional surface and entering a deeper layer: the ethical layer that determines whether a system truly lives as a democracy, or merely resembles one.

Ancaman itu menjadi konkret dalam ruang akademik.

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Montesquieu, by distinguishing between nature and principle, is actually demonstrating that every form of government has a body and a soul. Nature is the body—the structure, the separation of powers, the legal mechanisms. Meanwhile, principle is the soul, the driving force that gives the body life. In democracy, that soul is virtue. Without virtue, democracy loses its interiority; it remains as a form, but empty of meaning.

However, virtue here cannot be reduced to prescriptive morality. It is closer to an ontological disposition, a mode of being that determines how the subject positions itself within a network of relationships with others. In democracy, this virtue operates as an internal constraint on the most elementary human tendency, namely the urge to affirm oneself as the center.

In this light, simplicity must be understood as a negative moment in political existence: a negation of excess, a rejection of the absolute claim of the self. Simplicity is not a deficiency, but a deliberate reduction, an asceticism that restrains the subject from infinite expansion. It is a form of awareness that the self's existence always already shares space with the existence of others.

At this point, simplicity is no longer just an attitude, but a structure of consciousness. It carries a radical implication: that no subject has the right to claim itself as the final source of legitimacy. Every claim to truth must pass through an intersubjective space, a space where others are present not as objects, but as fellow centers of experience.

It is from this structure of consciousness that equality acquires its deepest meaning. When there is no longer a single center, what remains is a plurality of centers—a field in which every subject stands on equal footing: equally limited, equally open to correction. Equality, then, is the experience of shared infinity, an existential experience of being-with, where the other cannot be reduced to instrumental categories. In this experience, power relations lose their primordial legitimacy, and are replaced by relations of recognition.

The threat becomes concrete in the academic space.In such conditions, knowledge loses its dialogic nature and transforms into a monologue of power. The lecturer speaks as the source of truth, while the student listens as a passive recipient. What is operating is no longer communicative rationality, but symbolic authority. And at this point, the academic space ceases to be a space for truth-seeking; it becomes a mechanism for the reproduction of legitimacy.

Interpreted within Montesquieu's framework, this situation demonstrates the absence of virtue as a principle. Structures may remain in place, classes remain, and the curriculum continues to be delivered, but the spirit of democracy has disappeared. What remains is merely a simulation: form without content, procedures without meaning. Therefore, implementing democratic principles on campus does not mean dismantling the structure, but rather transforming the relationships that sustain it. What is required is not the elimination of roles, but the suspension of the absolute claims inherent in those roles. Lecturers continue to teach, but no longer as untouchable authorities. Students continue to learn, but no longer as silenced subjects.

In this configuration, legitimacy shifts from position to rationality. What is recognized is no longer who speaks, but how something is thought and justified. Argument replaces position as the source of authority. And with that, the academic space returns to its essence as a field where truth is not possessed but constantly sought. However, this transformation demands something that cannot be institutionalized: a suspension of self. It requires lecturers to resist the temptation of symbolic domination, and students to transcend epistemic passivity. It requires both to enter a space that is equally vulnerable: a space where every claim is open to question.

Ultimately, democracy on campus is not a state that can be achieved once and for all, but a practice that must be continually renewed. It lives as long as virtue lives, and dies when virtue is abandoned. In this sense, the question of democracy always returns to the most fundamental question: are humans willing to de-center themselves? If the answer is no, then no institution can save democracy. But if the answer is yes, if humans are willing to suspend themselves, then even in the simplest structures, democracy can find its possibility. And perhaps, therein lies its hope.