Democracy and Harmonism
Democracy and Harmonism
A Harmonist engagement with democracy — the political form that enshrines consent while systematically eroding the conditions under which consent is meaningful. Part of the Architecture of Harmony and the Applied Harmonism series engaging the Western intellectual traditions. See also: Liberalism and Harmonism, Governance, Freedom and Dharma.
The Democratic Claim
Democracy makes a claim that no previous political form had made with such force: that the legitimacy of government derives from the governed. Not from God, not from the sword, not from lineage or caste or priestly sanction — from the people themselves. Popular sovereignty, the consent of the governed, the formal equality of citizens before the law, the right to choose and replace rulers through regular elections — these constitute democracy’s foundational wager. And the wager, in its deepest register, rests on an intuition that Harmonism recognizes as partially correct: that the human being possesses an inherent dignity that no political arrangement may legitimately override, and that a system which ignores the will of those it governs has severed itself from one of the conditions of legitimate authority.
The intuition is partially correct because it grasps one dimension of what makes governance Dharmic — the dimension of consent, accountability, and the protection of individual sovereignty against coercive power. Where the intuition becomes structurally incomplete is in what it omits: that consent without discernment is not sovereignty but drift, that equality of political right does not imply equality of political wisdom, and that a system which treats every preference as equally valid has no mechanism for distinguishing the voice of Dharma from the voice of appetite.
What Democracy Gets Right
Where other political forms concentrate power and hope for virtue, democracy distributes power and assumes self-interest — and in doing so, it provides structural protections that no concentration of power, however virtuous in theory, can reliably guarantee.
The first achievement is accountability. A ruler who can be removed from power by those he governs has a structural incentive to serve rather than to plunder. This is not a moral achievement — it is an architectural one. It does not require that rulers be good; it requires only that bad rulers face consequences. Every political form in which power is hereditary, self-appointing, or self-perpetuating lacks this mechanism, and the empirical record is unambiguous: unchecked power degrades. Not sometimes, not usually — structurally. The second law of political thermodynamics: power concentrated without accountability tends toward corruption as surely as heat tends toward entropy.
The second achievement is the protection of dissent. Democratic culture, at its best, creates a space in which error can be identified and corrected — because criticism is permitted, opposition is legitimate, and the ruling consensus can be challenged without the challenger being imprisoned or killed. This is not a trivial good. Civilizations die more often from the suppression of corrective feedback than from the presence of dissent. A governance system that silences its critics has blinded itself to the information it most needs.
The third achievement is the institutional expression of consent. However imperfect the mechanism, democratic elections perform a function that no other political form achieves at scale: they make the governed party to their own governance. The act of voting — even when the choices are poor, even when the system is manipulated — preserves a principle that Harmonism holds as Dharmic: that the human being is not an object to be administered but a sovereign agent whose participation in the structures that govern him is a condition of those structures’ legitimacy.
Harmonism honors these achievements. They correspond to genuine Dharmic principles: accountability serves transparency; the protection of dissent serves the self-correcting function that Logos requires of any living system; consent preserves the sovereignty of the individual soul. The question is not whether these goods are real — they are — but whether democracy, as an institutional form, can sustain them without the ground it has systematically removed.
The Ancient Diagnosis
The structural vulnerability of democracy was identified before the form had existed for a full generation. Plato, in The Republic, diagnosed the pathology with clinical precision: democracy arises when the poor overthrow the oligarchs and distribute political power equally, but the principle of equality, once installed, metastasizes. It becomes indiscriminate — extending from the political domain into the moral, the epistemic, and the cultural. In a democracy, Plato observed, every preference is treated as equally valid, every desire as equally legitimate, every opinion as equally authoritative. The philosopher and the fool carry the same vote. The disciplined citizen and the appetitive consumer exercise the same political power. The result is a civilization organized around the satisfaction of desires rather than the cultivation of virtue — and since desires multiply without limit while virtue requires discipline, the trajectory is always downward: from freedom to license, from license to chaos, from chaos to the demand for a strongman who can restore order. Democracy’s telos, in Plato’s analysis, is tyranny.
Plato did not merely diagnose. He proposed: the philosopher-king — the ruler whose authority derives not from popular election, not from hereditary succession, not from military conquest, but from philosophical wisdom: direct apprehension of the Forms, which is to say, of the structure of reality itself. The proposal is easily caricatured as ivory-tower fantasy, and the caricature has shielded modern political thought from engaging with what Plato actually identified: that governance is a discipline requiring formation, like medicine or navigation, and that distributing its practice to the unformed is as reckless as distributing surgery to the untrained. The philosopher-king is not a tyrant who happens to read books. He is a soul who has undergone the complete ascent from the cave — who has disciplined appetite, purified will, and attained direct vision of the Good — and who governs not because he desires power but because the community needs what only genuine wisdom can provide. The proposal fails not in its diagnosis but in its institutional form: it assumes a single individual can embody the necessary wisdom, offers no mechanism for succession or accountability, and provides no protection against the inevitable moment when the philosopher-king’s successor is merely a king. But the underlying principle — that the qualification for governance is inner development, not popular appeal — is the same principle that Harmonism articulates through meritocratic stewardship.
Aristotle refined the diagnosis. In the Politics, he distinguished between polity — the rule of the many in the common interest — and democracy — the rule of the many in their own interest. The distinction is not institutional but moral: the same constitutional form produces polity or democracy depending on whether the citizens govern for the good of the whole or for the advantage of their faction. And since faction, in the absence of shared orientation toward a common good that transcends factional interest, is the default mode of collective political behavior, democracy tends toward its own degenerate form as reliably as an unmoored ship tends toward the rocks. Aristotle’s solution was the mixed constitution — a blend of democratic, aristocratic, and monarchical elements, each checking the others, each contributing what it does best: democracy contributing consent, aristocracy contributing wisdom, monarchy contributing decisiveness.
The Anti-Democratic Tradition
The Greek critique did not die with Athens. It runs as a continuous thread through the history of political thought — resurfacing whenever thinkers with sufficient philosophical seriousness observe democracy in practice rather than in theory. Joseph de Maistre, witnessing the French Revolution’s descent from the Declaration of the Rights of Man to the Terror in under five years, concluded that popular sovereignty without transcendent authority is not self-governance but organized delusion — the masses do not govern; they are governed by whoever captures their passions. Thomas Carlyle, in Past and Present (1843), drove the point into the economic register: democracy produces government by “the Collective Folly of the Nation,” rewarding the demagogue and punishing the statesman, because the mechanism selects for those who tell the crowd what it wants to hear rather than what it needs to know. Erik von Kuehnelt-Leddihn, in Liberty or Equality (1952), articulated the paradox that democratic theory cannot resolve: liberty and equality are not complementary but structurally opposed. Every advance in enforced equality — of outcome, of opinion, of cultural authority — narrows the space within which liberty can operate. Democracy, committed to equality as its organizing principle, tends toward the suppression of the very liberty it claims to protect.
The Russian Slavophiles — Alexei Khomiakov, Ivan Kireevsky, Ivan Aksakov — mounted an anti-democratic argument from an entirely different register: not that democracy empowers the unqualified, but that democracy atomizes what should be organic. Their concept of sobornost — the free unity of persons bound by love, faith, and shared spiritual life — named a mode of communal existence that democratic procedure cannot produce and actively destroys. Democracy replaces the living communion of persons with the mechanical aggregation of votes, the spiritual bond of a people with the contractual arrangement of individuals, the organic authority of elders with the elected authority of faction leaders. The Slavophile critique converges with Harmonism’s own insistence that Community is an ontological formation — not a contract between autonomous agents — and that the atomization produced by liberal-democratic culture is not a correctable side-effect but a structural consequence of the form itself (see the Liberalism article on the autonomous individual and the missing anthropology).
The critique extends beyond the Western and Russian traditions. The Confucian political tradition — the most developed non-Western alternative to democratic governance in human history — rests on the principle that legitimate authority derives from cultivated virtue, not from popular consent. The imperial examination system, sustained for over a millennium, institutionalized selection-by-cultivation at civilizational scale: governance as a discipline for which one qualifies through demonstrated moral and intellectual formation, not through electoral competition. The Mandate of Heaven provided a legitimacy criterion that is neither democratic nor autocratic: the ruler governs by alignment with the cosmic order, and the mandate is withdrawn — manifest in natural disasters, social unrest, and civilizational decline — when that alignment is lost. The convergence with Harmonism’s own criterion is direct: legitimate authority derives from alignment with Logos, and the mechanism of accountability is ontological rather than procedural. In the Islamic tradition, Ibn Khaldun’s cyclical theory of political rise and decline through asabiyyah — group solidarity forged by shared hardship and spiritual cohesion — maps onto the arc-of-depletion argument with uncanny precision: civilizations are founded by cohesive groups with strong inner bonds, rise through the moral capital of their founders, and decay as luxury, comfort, and the loss of unifying purpose erode that solidarity across three to four generations. The concept of shura — consultation — represents a governance model that is deliberative without being democratic: authority consults the wise, not the aggregate.
In the twentieth century, the critique deepened across multiple registers. Friedrich Nietzsche — who had identified democracy as the political expression of herd morality, the institutional triumph of the leveling instinct that reduces all excellence to the mean — was taken up and transformed by Carl Schmitt, whose The Concept of the Political (1932) argued that liberal parliamentarism rests on a structural contradiction: it tries to be both liberal (protecting individual freedom from state power) and democratic (grounding state power in the collective will) — but these are different and ultimately incompatible logics. Liberalism depoliticizes by reducing political questions to procedural negotiation; democracy politicizes by asserting that the people’s will is sovereign. The liberal democracy is not a synthesis but an unstable compound, and its dissolution — visible in the polarization, paralysis, and institutional capture of contemporary democratic states — was structurally predicted by Schmitt’s analysis nearly a century ago. From the theological register, John Milbank and the Radical Orthodoxy movement — particularly Milbank’s Theology and Social Theory (1990) — attacked the secular liberal foundation on which modern democracies rest, arguing that the modern social sciences, including democratic political theory, presuppose a secular ontology that is itself a theology — a rival account of ultimate reality that systematically excludes the transcendent and then treats that exclusion as neutral ground rather than as the metaphysical commitment it is. The convergence with Harmonism’s diagnosis of the vacant center is direct: what liberalism calls “neutrality” is not the absence of metaphysical commitment but the presence of one — secular materialism — that has made itself invisible by declaring itself the default.
Two and a half millennia of anti-democratic analysis — Greek, Counter-Enlightenment, Russian, Confucian, Islamic, Nietzschean, Schmittian, theological — converge on three doctrines, each of which Harmonism engages on its own terms: the common person’s lack of formation for governance (correct — but remediable through Education understood as cultivation), the title of the qualified to rule (correct — but the qualification is inner development, not birth or wealth), and the necessity of authority grounded in something that transcends the human aggregate (correct — and that something is Logos). The anti-democratic tradition grasps the structural flaw with precision. Its failure is not diagnostic but constructive: it identifies what democracy lacks without building the architecture that could supply it.
The Structural Flaw
Democracy’s structural flaw is not corruption, dysfunction, or institutional decay — these are symptoms. The flaw is the silent presupposition at the heart of the democratic project: that an informed, wise, and virtuous citizenry will show up to sustain the system, without the system itself having any mechanism for producing that citizenry.
The presupposition was explicit at the founding. Thomas Jefferson insisted that democracy requires an educated populace: “If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be.” John Adams was blunter: “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” The irony runs deeper than these quotations suggest. The most successful “democracy” in history was designed by founders who explicitly distrusted democracy and avoided creating one. James Madison, in Federalist No. 10, warned against “the violence of faction” inherent in pure democracy. Alexander Hamilton called democracy a disease. The American founders built a republic — a system armored with anti-democratic filters: the Electoral College, the appointed Senate, the independent judiciary, property qualifications for voting — precisely because they shared Plato’s and Aristotle’s diagnosis. The progressive dismantling of those filters across two centuries, in the name of democratic expansion, is itself evidence for the article’s central thesis: the democratic principle, once installed, metastasizes. Each filter removed is hailed as a democratic achievement; each removal brings the system closer to the unmediated popular sovereignty that the founders judged ungovernable.
The omission of any mechanism for citizen formation was not accidental. It followed from liberalism’s founding commitment to state neutrality on questions of the good life (see Liberalism and Harmonism). A state that takes no position on what constitutes human flourishing cannot design an education system that cultivates flourishing. It can teach skills. It can certify competencies. It can optimize for economic productivity. What it cannot do — because it has forbidden itself from doing it — is form citizens: human beings with the moral discernment, the emotional maturity, the capacity for long-term thinking, and the orientation toward truth that democratic self-governance requires.
The result is predictable. Each generation inherits democratic institutions without inheriting the inner formation that animated them. The forms persist; the substance thins. Voter turnout becomes a metric of civic health while the capacity of voters to evaluate what they are voting for degrades. Information explodes while understanding contracts. Choice proliferates while the wisdom to choose well erodes. The democratic machinery runs faster and faster, processing more and more inputs, producing less and less governance — because the quality of the inputs has fallen below the threshold at which the machinery can function as designed.
Bryan Caplan, in The Myth of the Rational Voter (2007), documented what democratic theory had assumed away: voters are not merely uninformed — they are systematically biased. They exhibit consistent errors on economic, scientific, and policy questions, and these errors are not random (which would cancel out in the aggregate) but directional. The wisdom of crowds requires that individual errors be independent; systematic bias violates this condition. Democratic aggregation under these conditions does not approximate truth — it amplifies shared error.
Jason Brennan, in Against Democracy (2016), pushed the analysis to its institutional conclusion: if democratic outcomes are degraded by the systematic incompetence of the electorate, then the principle of political equality — one person, one vote, regardless of knowledge, wisdom, or civic formation — is not a moral axiom but a design choice, and a poor one. His proposed alternative, epistocracy — the rule of the knowledgeable — correctly identifies the problem (political equality without epistemic equality produces governance by aggregated ignorance) but offers a technocratic correction that misses the deeper issue. The question is not who knows more policy facts. The question is who sees reality more clearly — and that is a question of state of being, not of information.
The flaw crystallizes into a paradox that no procedural reform can resolve: democracy depends for its functioning on qualities that its own logic undermines. It depends on an informed citizenry — but its commitment to equal voice regardless of knowledge provides no incentive for becoming informed. It depends on civic virtue — but its commitment to neutrality on questions of the good provides no basis for cultivating virtue. It depends on long-term thinking — but its electoral cycles structurally reward short-term gratification. It depends on deliberation — but its competitive party system structurally produces polarization. It depends on leaders of wisdom and integrity — but its selection mechanism rewards charisma, factional loyalty, and the capacity for fundraising. This is not a contingent failure of this or that democracy. It is the structural expression of a form that enshrines the right to choose without cultivating the capacity to choose well.
The paradox explains why mature democracies exhibit a characteristic arc: a founding generation of unusual formation — usually forged by crisis, war, or revolutionary struggle — builds institutions that reflect their own inner seriousness. These institutions function well for a generation or two, animated by the moral capital of their founders. Then the capital depletes. The institutions persist; the animating spirit departs. And the citizenry, no longer formed by the disciplines that produced the founders, operates the machinery without understanding what it is for — like inheritors running a family business whose founding purpose they have forgotten. The machinery still runs. It no longer produces what it was designed to produce.
The Inner Determines the Outer
This is the diagnosis that neither democratic theory nor its critics can make, because both operate within the same materialist-proceduralist framework: the quality of governance is determined, more than by any institutional design, by the state of being of those who participate in it.
A democracy of citizens operating primarily from the 1st and 2nd chakras — survival and reactive desire — produces a politics of fear and appetite. Every election becomes a contest between rival anxieties. Every policy debate reduces to “who gets what.” Demagogues flourish because they speak the language the electorate is calibrated to hear: threat and promise, enemy and savior. The constitutional architecture may be exquisitely designed — separation of powers, independent judiciary, free press, robust checks and balances — and it will still produce governance organized around the lowest common denominator of its participants’ inner development. The institution cannot rise above the consciousness of those who inhabit it.
A democracy of citizens operating from the 3rd chakra — will, ambition, self-assertion — produces a politics of competition and factional dominance. Political parties become power-seeking machines. Governance becomes the art of winning rather than the art of serving. Institutional capture accelerates because the 3rd-chakra orientation sees institutions as instruments of will rather than instruments of alignment.
A community whose members operate from the 4th chakra — the heart, where self-interest and world-interest begin to converge — produces cooperative governance almost regardless of its formal institutional structure. Deliberation becomes genuine rather than performative. Compromise becomes possible because the participants can perceive the common good. Leadership emerges from demonstrated service rather than from competitive self-promotion. The institution begins to function as designed — not because the design is better, but because the people within it have the interior capacity to animate it.
This is the insight that transforms the democracy question entirely. The debate between democrats and their critics — Should we have more democracy or less? Direct or representative? Epistocratic filters or universal suffrage? — is a debate about the container while ignoring the contents. The container matters. But it matters far less than what is inside it. A well-designed democracy populated by unconscious citizens will produce unconscious governance. A crudely designed governance structure animated by citizens with genuine inner formation will produce something closer to Dharma than any constitutional masterpiece operated by sleepwalkers.
The practical implication is not that institutions are irrelevant but that they are secondary. The primary lever is Education — understood not as information transfer or skill certification but as the cultivation of the human being in all dimensions: physical, emotional, volitional, intellectual, ethical, and spiritual. The democracy that Jefferson said required an educated populace was asking for something deeper than literacy and civics. It was asking for formation — the cultivation of citizens whose inner development enables them to exercise political judgment wisely. That this cultivation was never institutionalized is not an accident. It is the structural consequence of a civilization that removed the teleological anthropology — the account of what the human being is for — that would make such cultivation intelligible.
Quantity Over Quality
The second structural pathology of democracy is the substitution of quantity for quality — a pathology that René Guénon identified as the defining signature of modernity itself.
Democratic legitimacy rests on numbers. A policy is legitimate if a majority supports it. A leader is legitimate if more people vote for him than for his opponent. A position is politically significant if enough people hold it. The mechanism is quantitative at every level — and quantitative mechanisms are structurally incapable of distinguishing between an informed majority and a manipulated one, between genuine consensus and manufactured consent, between the convergence of wisdom and the herding of opinion.
Alexis de Tocqueville, observing American democracy in the 1830s, identified the deeper consequence: the tyranny of the majority. Not merely political tyranny — the majority outvoting the minority — but cultural and psychological tyranny: the pressure to conform that democratic culture generates from within. In an aristocracy, the minority that dissents from popular opinion can appeal to an independent source of authority — birth, learning, spiritual depth, demonstrated excellence. In a democracy, no such appeal is legitimate, because democracy has declared that no source of authority outranks the aggregate will. The dissenter is not merely outvoted; he is delegitimized. His dissent is read as elitism, arrogance, or contempt for the people. Democratic culture produces what Tocqueville called a “soft despotism” — not the tyranny of the despot who commands by force, but the tyranny of the crowd that commands by social pressure, until the citizenry internalizes the pressure and begins to police itself.
Hans-Hermann Hoppe, in Democracy: The God That Failed (2001), identified a mechanism by which democracy accelerates the quantitative degradation from within: the systematic increase in social time preference. A monarch, whatever his faults, treats the state as private property — an asset to be maintained and passed to his heirs. This creates a structural incentive for long-term stewardship: the king who depletes the treasury, debases the currency, or exhausts the population’s productive capacity diminishes his own estate. A democratic leader, by contrast, is a temporary caretaker — a renter, not an owner. He has no stake in the long-term value of what he administers. His incentive is to extract maximum benefit during his term and distribute it to the coalition that elected him. The result is structurally elevated time preference across the entire civilization: rising public debt, currency inflation, expanding redistribution, the consumption of capital accumulated by previous generations, and the progressive “infantilization” of the citizenry — Hoppe’s term for the cultural consequence of a system that rewards present consumption over future investment at every level. The critique is libertarian in its framework — Hoppe’s alternative is a natural order of competing private jurisdictions, not a Dharmic civilization — but the diagnosis of democracy’s temporal pathology is structurally sound: a system that selects for short-term thinking will, over time, erode the civilizational capital that long-term thinking built.
Julius Evola traced the civilizational descent through four political ages: sacred kingship, aristocracy, democracy, mass society. Each stage represents a further remove from transcendent principle — a further substitution of quantity for quality, of procedure for substance, of the many for the best. Democracy is not the terminal stage; it is the penultimate — the form in which the pretense of legitimate authority still operates, albeit grounded in nothing deeper than numerical majority. The terminal stage is mass society: the dissolution of all qualitative distinctions, including the distinction between citizen and consumer, between political participation and market behavior, between the commons and the feed. The trajectory from democracy to mass society is not a corruption of democracy. It is its completion — the logical endpoint of a system that recognized no qualitative hierarchy among human judgments and therefore had no principled basis for resisting the reduction of all judgments to preferences, and all preferences to data points in a market.
Harmonism does not endorse the Evolian nostalgia for sacred kingship, the Traditionalist rejection of modernity as such, or Hoppe’s anarcho-capitalist alternative. But it recognizes the structural accuracy of the convergent diagnosis: a political form that has no criterion for quality — that treats the vote of the wise and the vote of the manipulated as formally identical, that selects for short-term extraction over long-term stewardship, that measures legitimacy by numerical majority rather than by alignment with anything that transcends the human aggregate — cannot prevent the progressive degradation of its own deliberative function. And a civilization that measures legitimacy by quantity will eventually lose the capacity to recognize quality at all.
The Harmonist Position
Harmonism does not oppose democracy. Nor does it endorse it. It evaluates democracy — like every political form — by a single criterion: does this governance structure, for this community, at this stage of its development, move the civilization closer to alignment with Dharma?
This is the form-agnosticism articulated in Governance. Harmonism does not prescribe democracy, monarchy, aristocracy, or any other institutional form as universally correct. It prescribes a direction — toward greater subsidiarity, meritocratic stewardship, transparent accountability, restorative justice, and individual sovereignty — and recognizes that different communities, at different stages of their evolution, will instantiate this direction through different institutional forms. A young community recovering from fragmentation may need concentrated leadership. A mature community with robust civic culture may sustain genuine democratic self-governance. The form serves the principle; the principle does not serve the form.
What Harmonism adds to the democracy debate — and what neither the democrats nor their critics possess — is the missing variable: the inner dimension. The entire discourse, from Plato to Brennan, oscillates between institutional design and epistemic competence, between constitutional architecture and voter rationality, without ever arriving at the deeper determinant. The quality of governance is downstream of the state of being of those who govern and those who are governed. No institutional design compensates for a population whose consciousness operates at the registers of survival, appetite, and factional competition. No amount of epistocratic filtering substitutes for the cultivation of citizens whose inner development enables them to perceive the common good. The Harmonist prescription is therefore not primarily institutional but pedagogical. The path to governance worthy of the name runs through Education — not the credentialing apparatus that modern democracies have substituted for cultivation, but the integral cultivation of the human being across all dimensions of the Wheel.
The empirical evidence supports the principle. Singapore under Lee Kuan Yew demonstrated that meritocratic governance — leadership selected for competence, integrity, and long-term vision rather than electoral popularity — can produce first-world outcomes from a third-world starting point within a single generation, with explicit philosophical rejection of Western democratic universalism. The Republic of Venice sustained stable governance for over a thousand years through anti-democratic selection mechanisms — sortition combined with election, deliberately designed to prevent faction — outlasting every democracy in recorded history. China’s imperial examination system, for all its rigidities, institutionalized the principle that governance requires cultivation at a scale no democracy has attempted. These are not arguments for authoritarianism. They are empirical demonstrations that the correlation between democratic form and good governance is far weaker than democratic universalism assumes — and that the variable that actually determines outcomes is the quality of the human beings within the system, not the system’s institutional architecture.
The Architecture of Harmony integrates democratic goods — consent, accountability, the protection of dissent — into a more comprehensive architecture. Governance is one pillar among seven, not the architectonic domain that shapes all others. The liberal insistence on checks against concentrated power is preserved — because Dharma requires the protection of individual sovereignty. What is added is the center that democracy lacks: Dharma as the criterion against which governance is measured, Education as the pillar that produces citizens capable of self-governance, and the recognition that the inner and the outer are not two separate domains but two expressions of the same civilizational alignment — or misalignment — with Logos.
The question that democracy cannot ask — because its founding commitment to neutrality forbids it — is the question that determines whether any political form succeeds: what kind of human being does this civilization produce? A civilization that produces human beings of genuine inner development can govern itself through almost any institutional form. A civilization that produces consumers, spectators, and factional partisans will fail at self-governance regardless of how brilliantly its constitution is designed. The form follows the being. The being follows the cultivation. The cultivation follows the vision of what the human being is and what it is for. The answer to the democracy question is not more democracy or less democracy. It is deeper human beings — and therefore a deeper civilization.
See also: Governance, Evolutive Governance, Liberalism and Harmonism, Conservatism and Harmonism, The Future of Education, Architecture of Harmony, The Western Fracture, Communism and Harmonism, Post-structuralism and Harmonism, Freedom and Dharma, State of Being, Applied Harmonism, The Landscape of the Isms, The Human Being, Harmonism, Logos, Dharma]