Ignacio Morales Lechuga
Modern democracy suffers from a dangerous disease: indifference. We act under the conviction that politics is the exclusive territory of others. We have become accustomed to viewing public life as a distant arena where only political parties, governments, the most fervent activists, or the fanatics of the moment participate. We live convinced that they are the sole architects of our daily lives and that our participation is limited to that of mere observers.
In this apparent comfort arises the most corrosive phrase in our civil language: “It’s the government’s fault,” an evident criticism that actually functions as internal absolution, as a defense mechanism that seeks to exempt us from all responsibility and keep the sphere of our private life intact even as the public space crumbles around us. If everything is the responsibility of others, nothing really concerns us.
This moral shield is fragile because the idea that we are not responsible for what happens in the public sphere is profoundly false. No political order, however authoritarian or inefficient, can sustain itself without social consent; and by consent I do not mean only that which is manifested by applause, but also that which takes the soft and silent form of indifference. Passivity is never neutral; the act of remaining silent, the decision not to participate, the willingness not to be bothered by injustice, and the habit of saying nothing produce political effects as real and tangible as the vote itself.
This reality becomes evident when we observe how easily anti-democratic discourses circulate and take root without encountering resistance. These narratives despise citizens, consider the people a mass incapable of deciding for themselves, and justify abuses when committed by “their own.” This perverse logic is not imposed by force; it becomes normalized when it encounters societies that are weary, distracted, or, in the worst cases, resigned.
We condemn—and rightly so—dictators such as Videla or Pinochet, but we overlook the crimes of figures such as Maduro, Ortega, or Díaz-Canel. This dissonance is sustained not only by blind ideological fanaticism but also because many prefer to avoid confronting their own sympathies. It is easier to look the other way than to accept that something has gone rotten around our own convictions.
An uncomfortable truth then emerges: as political subjects, we have an existential responsibility for what happens in the common space. It is not a question of demanding epic heroism or permanent militancy from every citizen. It is simply a matter of not abdicating our ability to judge and act; of ceasing to pretend that politics is someone else’s spectacle, a theatrical performance whose costs, sooner or later, will always be paid by someone else.
Giving up on engaging with the political phenomena that surround us is not only an act of civic irresponsibility; it is, in essence, a form of personal mutilation that denies our essential dimension as social beings. When citizens withdraw into themselves, whether out of fatigue, cynicism, or fear, they leave a vacuum of power and meaning that will always, without exception, be filled by someone less scrupulous, more ambitious, and much more determined to impose their will on others.
The degradation of democracy does not begin with repression in the streets. It arises when silence becomes a collective habit, when resignation is confused with common sense, and when comfort outweighs conscience. There is no innocence in omission, but there is shared responsibility. Recognizing our connection to the public sphere should not lead to paralyzing guilt, but rather to the last gesture of political dignity that we still have time to exercise: the recognition that the fate of the polis is, ultimately, our own fate.
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