Consider this puzzle: in 1919, Americans democratically chose to ban alcohol through constitutional amendment. Fourteen years later, they democratically reversed that decision. But what if, during Prohibition, a simple majority had wanted to legalize alcohol? They couldn't have done it without a supermajority—the Constitution bound them to their earlier choice.

This reveals democracy's central paradox: the most democratic societies deliberately limit what democracy can do. They bind themselves with constitutional chains, place certain rights beyond majority reach, and make some decisions nearly impossible to reverse. Yet somehow, these self-imposed restrictions don't weaken democracy—they make it stronger.

Imagine you're designing rules for a club. You know that someday, in a moment of passion or fear, members might vote to exclude certain people, silence dissenting voices, or dissolve the club entirely. So you create bylaws that require more than a simple majority to change fundamental rules. You're not being anti-democratic—you're protecting the club from its own worst impulses.

Constitutional democracy works the same way. When the U.S. Constitution requires two-thirds of both houses of Congress and three-fourths of state legislatures to amend it, it's creating what political philosophers call precommitment devices. Like Odysseus binding himself to the mast to resist the Sirens, democracies tie their own hands to prevent temporary majorities from destroying permanent values.

This seems contradictory only if we think democracy means 'whatever 51% want, goes.' But constitutional democracy recognizes a deeper truth: some decisions are so fundamental that they shouldn't swing with every election. The right to vote itself, freedom of speech, due process—these aren't just policies to be debated. They're the preconditions that make democratic debate possible.

Why should today's majority be bound by what people decided decades or centuries ago? The German Constitutional Court provides a striking answer: some rights are so fundamental that they cannot be amended at all. Human dignity, democracy itself, the rule of law—these are eternal and untouchable, even by unanimous vote.

This might sound profoundly undemocratic. But consider what happens without such entrenchment. In 1933, the Weimar Republic—one of the world's most progressive democracies—voted itself out of existence when the Nazis gained power through legal means. They used democratic procedures to destroy democracy. Modern Germany's 'eternity clauses' exist precisely to prevent democracy from committing suicide again.

The philosophical justification runs deep. John Rawls argued that certain rights create what he called the 'constitutional essentials'—the basic liberties that enable citizens to develop and exercise their moral powers. Without free speech, how can citizens deliberate? Without voting rights, how can they choose? These rights aren't subject to democratic bargaining because they're what make democratic bargaining possible. They're not limitations on democracy but limitations for democracy.

But here's where the paradox gets interesting: even these restrictions must themselves be democratically legitimate. A constitution that could never change would become a tyranny of the dead over the living. Thomas Jefferson worried about this, arguing that no generation should bind another indefinitely. He even proposed that constitutions should expire every nineteen years.

Modern democracies solve this through amendment procedures that are difficult but not impossible. The U.S. Constitution has been amended 27 times. Post-apartheid South Africa redesigned its entire constitutional order. These processes require extraordinary consensus—supermajorities, multiple readings, sometimes referendums—but they remain fundamentally democratic.

This creates what theorist Stephen Holmes calls 'gag rules that enable speech'. By taking certain questions off the table (like whether minorities have rights), constitutional democracy actually enables more productive democratic discourse about everything else. Citizens can debate tax policy without fearing their opponents will strip them of citizenship if they lose. They can argue about healthcare knowing the losing side won't be silenced. The restrictions create a 'safe space' for democratic conflict.

The democracy paradox reveals something profound: the strongest democracies are those wise enough to limit themselves. Like a river that gains force from its banks, democracy becomes more powerful when channeled by constitutional constraints.

This isn't about distrusting the people or fearing majority rule. It's about recognizing that democracy's greatest enemy is often democracy itself—its tendency to devour its own foundations in moments of fear or passion. By binding ourselves to fundamental principles, we ensure that democracy remains not just a procedure for making decisions, but a system for protecting human dignity and enabling genuine self-government.