How Constitutions Win (Or Lose) The Public

Constitutions aren’t museum pieces; they’re battlegrounds for who gets to govern—and who gets governed. Across democracies, what matters most is where a change must clear its final hurdle. Whether at a national vote, before a high court, or in a supermajority parliament, that deciding forum often shapes the result more than the rhetoric. Chile, Israel, and Hungary are just a few examples where the struggle over who decides has been most visible. These three questions frame the odds: Who holds the final say, under what conditions, and how hard is it to undo once decided?

Chile’s use of the ballot box is one instance of how the forum can overrule the draft. After months of nationwide street protests that began in late 2019, about 78 per cent of Chileans voted to launch a constitutional rewrite. An elected, 155-member convention drafted an ambitious, rights-heavy text. On September 4, 2022, the proposal lost a mandatory vote 62-38. A year later, a right-leaning council advanced a shorter, more conservative text. On December 17, 2023, under compulsory voting, voters rejected that proposal too.

The decisive variable was the forum. The contrast between the proposals mattered less as the national ratification under mandatory ballot shifted power from drafters to the electorate. The convention itself was chosen through voluntary voting in 2021, and turnout was only about 43 per cent, drawing in a narrower slice of the country to draft the text. However, neither of the subsequent referendums was voluntary, pulling the full electorate into a binary yes/no decision—and they said no twice. The result was paradoxical continuity of the status quo, leaving the repeatedly amended 1980 constitution in force by default. A mandatory electorate allowed for greater participation, but it ultimately led to less constitutional change.

Unlike Chile, Israel lacks a formally written charter, so constitutional fights run through the Knesset (Israel’s parliament), the Basic Laws, and the High Court. In 2023, the Israeli government pushed for a judicial overhaul that triggered widespread protests and mass mobilization. 

On July 24, 2023, the Knesset approved an amendment to a Basic Law, restraining the Supreme Court’s use of “the reasonableness” doctrine—a tool for reviewing executive decisions. The law blocked courts from applying that standard to governmental matters, effectively closing the line of review. The opposition walked out, leaving the tally 64-0.

On January 1, 2024, sitting en banc, the Supreme Court struck down that change by an 8-7 majority. It held that the government could not erase the judicial review of executive actions. In the same decision, a 12-3 majority affirmed the Court’s authority to review and, in rare cases, annul the amendments to Israel’s Basic Laws. Instead of the compulsory referendum that decided the outcome in Chile, Israel’s forum was a courtroom—its strength amplified by a mobilized public. 

Where Chile ran its rewrite through the ballot box and Israel through the bench, Hungary kept the call inside the parliament. Its gatekeeper for constitutional change wasn’t voters at a ratification gate nor judges in a courtroom; it was a supermajority in the chamber.

In 2011, Viktor Orbán, Hungary’s Prime Minister, used his government’s supermajority to replace the old, post-Cold War constitution with the Fundamental Law. At the same time, the government passed a wide set of “cardinal laws” that themselves require two-thirds to pass or amend—binding future governments lacking supermajorities. 

Subsequent amendments, most notably in 2013, narrowed constitutional review and entrenched the new order, making reversal by an ordinary majority impractical. The design was the consequence: elections could change governments, but without two-thirds, they had no power over the rules. 

External pressure has nudged but did not unwind the design. Whereas street mobilization in Israel helped the court hold the line, but EU leverage in Hungary fell short. Brussels released some frozen cohesion funds for development projects after judicial tweaks in 2023, yet the threshold remained. Once the supermajority passed the locks, ordinary elections couldn’t reopen them. Chile’s no came from voters and Israel’s from judges, but Hungary’s stayed with a two-thirds parliament, and even external pressure couldn’t shift it. 

These cases trace three different paths to the same question: who gets to say no. In Chile, a compulsory and binary referendum served as the gate, leaving two ambitious drafts rejected. In Israel, it wasn’t a public vote but the High Court that drew the line. And in Hungary, a two-thirds parliament rewrote early and raised the costs of reversal through cardinal laws. 

Taken together, they show that constitutions are most vulnerable at the point where approval is concentrated. Whether a change can survive is shaped by where the process ends—at the polls, in court, or in parliament. Those rules set the ceiling for reform and the floor for backlash. 

These aren’t grand theories so much as mechanisms. What decides the outcome is the endgame, who holds the veto, and when they get to use it. In Chile, voters said no twice; in Israel, it was the court that took the final word; and in Hungary, a supermajority kept control. Constitutions don’t just announce rules; they choose a gatekeeper. The next time a country opens the door to a constitutional change, watch who’s holding the keys.

Edited by Adele Torrington 

Featured image: “Chilean Protests 2019 Puerto Montt 12” by Natalia Reyes Escobar is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0.