Diplomacy & Crisis News

Gradual institutional socialization and internalization of the US-led deterrence identity—fostered by the ‘peace through strength’ doctrine—brings greater unity and satisfaction to the free world, symbolized by Trump’s successful breadwinning at the NATO table.

In the cacophonous return of great power competition, where authoritarian states test the margins of the liberal international order, a curious pattern has emerged: allies of the United States are not peeling away under pressure, but rather pulling closer. At the center of this gravitational force is not merely the United States itself, but a particular brand of American leadership—unapologetically transactional, muscular in posture, and deeply committed to the premise that peace is most credibly kept through strength. U.S. President Donald J. Trump’s foreign policy approach, long derided in elite diplomatic circles as reckless or unsophisticated, may be enjoying a quiet vindication. More than a foreign policy instinct, “peace through strength” is emerging as a functional mechanism of alliance synchronization and deterrence—one that modern international theory is now beginning to better explain.

The evidence is no longer anecdotal. The recent NATO summit in 2025 delivered one of the most historic shifts in alliance behavior in decades: European and Canadian allies committed to raising defense spending to 5% of GDP, a staggering leap beyond the long-disputed 2% threshold. More notably, this was not an isolated gesture of appeasement but part of a broader cascade of synchronization. Allies also agreed to tighter planning protocols and robust compliance mechanisms, echoing the kind of coordinated institutional behavior more commonly associated with wartime unity than peacetime policy.

While critics of Trump-era strategy warned that his bluster would alienate partners and destabilize norms, the opposite may now be unfolding: under the stress of external threat and internal hesitation, allies appear not only to follow Washington’s lead but to internalize it. What once looked like grudging compliance is morphing into institutional socialization. Supporting American leadership is not just a matter of obligation—it is becoming an expression of identity.

Much ink has been spilled on hegemonic stability theory—the idea that a single dominant power underwrites international order through the demonstration of force and economic leadership. Trump’s doctrine fits snugly here, particularly with regard to his use of military signaling to reinforce deterrence. Case in point: the targeted U.S. operations against Iranian nuclear sites, conducted with surgical precision, significantly delayed Iran’s enrichment capabilities and delivered a costly signal not just to Tehran but to the broader international community. The message was clear: U.S. resolve was real, and its capabilities unmatched.

Yet to stop there would miss the deeper story. Unlike traditional coercive frameworks, the Trump-led realignment reveals patterns consistent with institutional socialization. As current international relations theory suggests, allies that routinely engage with a capable and consistent hegemon begin to internalize that hegemon’s norms—not just because they fear reprisal, but because they gradually come to see alignment as beneficial, legitimate, and even identity-defining.

Several conditions amplify this process. First, Trump-era diplomacy, for all its rhetorical volatility, has offered clarity of norms. There was no ambiguity about expectations: contribute more to collective defense, or face a reckoning. Second, by presenting NATO as both a burden and a benefit, the Trump administration forced allies to grapple directly with questions of institutional utility. Third, the repeated engagement—both in summits and behind-the-scenes military coordination—built the kind of social interaction that fosters shared identity.

The shift was subtle but real. Allies who once rolled their eyes at Trump’s demands are now aligning policy with Washington not out of compulsion, but conviction. And unlike more delicate forms of diplomacy that rely on endless consensus-building, the Trump doctrine seemed to understand a basic psychological principle of alliance politics: clarity and resolve, however brash, are often more persuasive than soft ambiguity.

Beyond socialization, another theoretical frame further illuminates the Trump-era alliance realignment: resilience through interdependence. This model rejects the zero-sum lens of alliance politics and instead views security as a networked, shared good—dependent on the collective strength of interconnected actors.

In this context, Trump’s policies operated as a catalyzing force. By making credible demonstrations of U.S. capability, the administration reminded allies of their own reliance on the integrity of the transatlantic system. The 5% GDP commitment is not merely a concession to American pressure; it reflects a recognition that prosperity and stability are deeply intertwined with a robust and assertive alliance structure.

Moreover, interdependence is not merely functional—it becomes emotional. Solidarity emerges from crisis management and shared sacrifice. In this way, Trump’s pressure campaign—while confrontational—sparked an internal reckoning among allies. Do they wish to be passive observers in a system increasingly shaped by revisionist powers? Or will they reaffirm their place in what one might call the “House of the Free World”?

They chose the latter. This is not just compliance. It is contribution.

When we map Trump’s approach onto the modern theoretical landscape, we see a surprising convergence. Hegemonic stability theory explains how his bold use of power coerced alignment. Signaling theory validates the credibility of actions like the Iran strikes. But it is institutional socialization and interdependence theory that give the most profound insights: they explain why the alliance is cohering more tightly now than at any time since the Cold War’s zenith.

To be sure, this realignment is not without risk. Overreliance on coercive tools can breed resentment, especially if leadership appears inconsistent or narcissistic. A purely transactional view of alliances can erode the kind of trust and shared identity that underwrite long-term solidarity. But Trump’s surprising strength was that, through the smoke and fire of confrontation, he clarified the stakes of membership in the liberal order. He didn’t merely ask, “What have you done for us lately?”—he forced allies to ask, “What happens if we don’t stand together?”

The answer, increasingly, is that fragmentation leads to vulnerability. In an age of networked threats—cyberwarfare, gray zone tactics, economic coercion—the collective is only as resilient as its weakest node. The Trump administration understood this, even if only instinctively, and the resulting behavior among allies suggests that a deeper transformation is underway.

The world’s geopolitical landscape in 2025 is choppier than ever. China’s ambitions in the Indo-Pacific, Russia’s continued provocations on NATO’s eastern flank, and Iran’s regional adventurism all paint a picture of sustained instability. And yet, amid this turbulence, there is one surprising constant: the House of the Free World is not splintering. It is consolidating.

This is not a nostalgic return to postwar liberalism, but a more hard-edged, updated form of Western unity—less about Wilsonian idealism and more about a shared recognition of threat and mutual benefit. Trump, for all his breaches of etiquette, reminded the alliance that it is a house worth defending. More than that, he showed that defense requires clarity, commitment, and consequence.

Of course, the success of this model is not guaranteed. It depends on continued U.S. credibility, the institutional health of NATO and its adjunct bodies, and a commitment to the kind of routine engagement that sustains identity and interdependence. It also requires a leadership style that, while perhaps confrontational, is not capricious. Trump’s strength was his resolve; any future leader seeking to emulate his success must preserve that credibility without descending into chaos.

Peace through strength may once have sounded like an anachronism of Cold War thinking. But today, in an age of hybrid warfare and global fragmentation, it may be the only language that hostile actors and hesitant allies alike understand. Trump’s ability to extract historic concessions from NATO allies—and more importantly, to catalyze a shared sense of strategic identity—is not an aberration. It may be the blueprint for what comes next.

In this blueprint, power is not the opposite of persuasion—it is its precondition. Strength is not the negation of diplomacy—it is its amplifier. And leadership is not merely a seat at the table—it is the resolve to set the terms. If Trump has taught the free world anything, it is that the architecture of freedom is not self-sustaining. It must be funded, defended, and yes, demanded.

As the new strategic normal unfolds, the United States remains the anchor. And with Trump’s model—however polarizing—as the template, the House of the Free World appears ready, willing, and increasingly able to follow.

The concept of generic fascism helps understanding Russia’s war against Ukraine

Andreas Umland

The use of the term “fascism” in connection with the modern Russian state and its actions has at least three dimensions. First, it is a historical analogy used to guide public interpretation of current events in light of well-known developments in the recent past. Second, it is a Ukrainian code expressing the lived experience of millions of Ukrainians today. Third, “fascism” is an academic umbrella term that serves scientific classification, enables comparisons across time and space, and highlights differences and similarities between historical fascism, on the one hand, and Putinism, today on the other.

Fascism as a historical analogy

Most public references to Putin’s regime as fascist serve as a diachronic analogy or metaphorical classification to better understand recent developments in Russia and its occupied territories. Such historical comparisons and verbal visualizations of current phenomena with events and images from the past help to identify key characteristics and challenges of today’s Russia. The attribution of “fascism” to Putin’s regime serves to illustrate to the general public what is happening in Russia and the Russian-occupied Ukrainian territories.

This comparison is justified insofar as there are numerous parallels between the political rhetoric and actions of Putin’s Russia, on the one hand, and Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany, on the other. By mid-2025, many political, social, ideological, and institutional similarities will have accumulated. These range from increasingly dictatorial and partly totalitarian features of the Russian regime to revanchist and increasingly genocidal features in the Kremlin’s external behavior. Against this backdrop, the use of the term fascism serves to guide debates in mass media, civil society, and educational institutions.

Fascism as lived experience

The use of the term “fascism” to describe Putin’s regime by outside commentators aims to give audiences outside Russia and Ukraine an impression of current Russian domestic and foreign affairs. In contrast, the Ukrainian use of the term “fascism” and the neologism “rashism” – a combination of “Russia” and “fascism” – is primarily an expressive act. In Ukraine, describing Russia as fascist has, since 2014, articulated the collective shock, deep grief, and ongoing despair at the Kremlin’s morbid cynicism toward ordinary Ukrainians—especially in the last three and a half years of war.

“Fascism” or “rashism” also serves as a battle cry for the Ukrainian government and society to mobilize domestic and foreign support for resistance against Russian aggression. These terms are intended to draw the outside world’s attention to the serious consequences of Russia’s war of expansion and destruction for Ukraine. The adjectives “fascist” and “rashist” indicate that Russia’s military expansion is not just about conquering Ukrainian territory. Russia’s revanchist adventure, especially since 2022, aims to destroy Ukraine as an independent nation-state and a cultural community separate from Russia.

The words and deeds of the Russian government are largely consistent in this regard. Statements by Russian government officials, parliamentarians, and propagandists, especially since February 24, 2022, indicate that Russia’s intentions toward Ukraine go beyond merely redrawing state borders, restoring regional hegemony, and preventing the Westernization of Eastern Europe. Moscow has already since 2014 been ruthlessly suppressing Ukrainian identity, culture, and national sentiment in Crimea and the Donbas.

It would be going too far to equate Russian Ukrainophobia with the biological and eliminatory anti-Semitism of the Nazis. With its irredentist war, Moscow “only” wants to destroy the Ukrainians as a self-confident nation and integrated civil society. The Kremlin does not aim to physically eliminate all Ukrainians, as the Nazis attempted to do with the Jews. Nevertheless, the Russian agenda goes beyond “mere” expulsion, harassment, deportation, re-education, and brainwashing of Ukraine’s inhabitants. It also includes the expropriation, terrorization, imprisonment, torture, and murder of those Ukrainians (as well as some Russians) who oppose Russia’s military expansion, political terror, and cultural dominance in Ukraine in word and/or deed. It is therefore hardly surprising that many Ukrainians, as well as some Russian observers, spontaneously describe Russia’s genocidal behavior as “fascist.”

Fascism as a scholarly concept

A growing number of prominent experts on Central and Eastern Europe today describe Putin’s Russia as fascist. In contrast, many contemporary historians and political scientists who work with comparative methods have so far avoided using the term fascism to categorize Putinism. This has to do with the narrow definitions of generic fascism used by many of these academics. According to these definitions, the key feature that distinguishes fascists from other right-wing extremists is their goal of political, social, cultural, and anthropological rebirth.

Fascists often refer to a supposed Golden Age in their nation’s distant past and use ideas and symbols from this mythologized prehistory. However, they do not want to preserve or restore a past era, but rather to create a new kind of national community. Fascists are right-wing extremists, but they are more revolutionary than ultra-conservative or reactionary. Today, many comparativists would be cautious about applying the term fascism to Putinism, as Putin seeks to restore the Russian Empire rather than create an entirely new Russian state and people.

Admittedly, Putin’s transformation of Russian domestic and foreign policy over the past 25 years has had a clear direction. It has meant a continued increase in rhetorical aggression, internal repression, external escalation, and general radicalization, which now culminates in monthly Russian threats of world war. For most comparative historians, nevertheless, these and similar changes in the last quarter-century of Russian history would still be insufficient to classify Putinism as fascism.

Ukraine as Russia’s interior

On the other hand, Russia’s policy in the occupied Ukrainian territories could be classified as quasi-fascist in a more direct sense. The ruthless Russification campaign that the Russian state is carrying out in the annexed parts of Ukraine through targeted terror, forced re-education, and material incentives aims to achieve a profound sociocultural transformation of these areas. Admittedly, such irredentist, colonizing, and homogenizing policies are not seen as necessarily fascist in comparative imperialism studies. However, the instruments used by the Kremlin to implement its Ukraine policy and the desired outcomes are in some respects similar to those of the fascist revolutions attempted by Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany.

Moscow wants to fundamentally reshape the conquered Ukrainian municipalities and turn them into cells of a culturally and ideologically standardized Russian people (russkii narod). Russian imperial ultra-nationalists regard most parts of Ukraine as originally Russian territory and refer to them as “New Russia” and “Little Russia” (Novorossiya, Malaya Rossiya). Ukrainians – insofar as the term is accepted at all – are thus merely a sub-ethnic group of the greater pan-Russian people, whose Ukrainian language is merely a Russian dialect and who have regional folklore rather than a national culture.

According to the Russian irredentist narrative, the western Russian border dwellers were misled by anti-Russian forces in order to form an artificial nation, “the Ukrainians.” Foreign actors such as the Catholic Church, imperial Germany, the Bolsheviks, and/or the West today have divided the larger pan-Russian people. They have alienated the “Great Russians” (velikorossy) of the Russian Federation from the “Little Russians” (malorossy) of Ukraine.

Moscow’s occupation policy in Ukraine, aimed at reversing this supposedly artificial division of Russian civilization allegedly caused by foreign powers, could be understood as an attempt to give new birth to “Little Russia.” The Kremlin’s goal is to bring about a local political, social, cultural, and anthropological revolution in the Ukrainian territories annexed by Russia. The Russification policy in Ukraine is thus sufficiently similar to classic fascist domestic and occupation policies, so that Moscow’s transformative goals and actions with regard to Russia’s Ukrainian “brothers” could be classified as, at least, quasi-fascist.

Dr. Andreas Umland is an analyst at the Stockholm Center for Eastern European Studies (SCEEUS) in the Swedish Institute of International Affairs (UI).

This article is the summary of larger chapter forthcoming in: Ian Garner and Taras Kuzio, eds., Russia and Modern Fascism: New Perspectives on the Kremlin’s War Against Ukraine. Stuttgart: ibidem-Verlag, 2025.

June 20, 2004—South Korean national Kim Sun Il was brutally beheaded by an al-Qaeda-linked extremist group, a tragedy that underscores how the spread of Islamic extremism—fueled in part by Iran’s 1979 revolution and, as Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman has acknowledged, the export of radical ideology—continues to claim the lives of innocent civilians simply because of their countries’ alliances.

On June 22, 2025, in a moment of blistering clarity, the Iranian regime stripped away the last fig leaf of plausible deniability. In a declaration broadcast on state television, Tehran vowed that “every American citizen or military personnel in the region is now a target.” This was not a coded message, nor a vague allusion—it was a direct threat against innocent civilians, a calculated act of rhetorical terrorism from a regime unraveling in the wake of its own miscalculations.

The context is clear: mere hours before this pronouncement, US-led strikes had decisively disabled critical components of Iran’s nuclear infrastructure. It was a blow aimed at halting Tehran’s march toward nuclear armament—one that, in the absence of good-faith diplomacy from Iran, had become necessary. But instead of addressing its own provocations, the regime lashed out with characteristic fury, scapegoating Americans—military and civilian alike—as acceptable collateral in its campaign of revenge and propaganda.

Let’s not mistake this for a novel turn. Iran’s leaders are not new to the politics of terror. Since the Islamic Revolution of 1979, they have deployed violence not just as a defensive tool, but as a primary mechanism of statecraft. Whether through the brazen hostage crisis of 1979, the devastating Beirut bombings of 1983, or the countless proxy attacks on US troops across Iraq and Syria in the decades since, the Islamic Republic has honed a consistent strategy: when diplomacy falters or its ambitions are thwarted, it targets the innocent.

This is not the tactical desperation of a beleaguered nation. It is the doctrine of a regime that views terrorism not as a shameful aberration but as a legitimate expression of power. And with this latest threat—an open call to murder civilians—it has once again reminded the world of its moral bankruptcy.

The regime’s calculus is cynical but revealing. It cannot defeat the United States militarily. Its conventional forces are outmatched, its economy is strained, and its legitimacy is eroded both domestically and abroad. So it falls back on its tried-and-true method: asymmetrical terror. It empowers proxies, radicalizes militias, and weaponizes fear—hoping that the West, weary of endless conflict, will trade justice for quiet, and leave tyrants to rule without consequence.

What Tehran perhaps failed to calculate is how utterly this declaration confirms everything its critics have said for decades. For years, some insisted that Iran’s aggression was reactive, that its support for groups like Hezbollah and Hamas was strategic rather than ideological, that it could be coaxed into moderation through economic engagement. But threats to murder civilians—for the crime of holding a blue passport—leave no room for such illusions. This is not realism. This is raw, unreconstructed terrorism.

And yet, this moment must not be wasted on outrage alone. The United States and its allies must recognize that this is more than a rhetorical shift; it is a declaration of intent. Every American in the Middle East is now living under a threat sanctioned by a sovereign government. That is an extraordinary—and extraordinarily dangerous—development.

It also places an urgent burden on the international community. The rules-based order cannot survive if state actors are allowed to incite violence against civilians without consequence. The targeting of innocents must remain a red line—not just in theory, but in enforcement. If the regime in Tehran is allowed to get away with this, it will not be the last to abandon international norms in favor of the politics of fear.

Ultimately, the Iranian regime has revealed what it truly is: not a misunderstood player seeking regional autonomy, but a paranoid, theocratic oligarchy whose first instinct in crisis is to threaten murder. That instinct—nurtured over decades, bolstered by proxy wars, and now made explicit on national television—should end any remaining debate about its nature.

The world has been warned. Now it must respond

By Rachel Avraham

It might not have caught the attention of Westerners, but people in the Global South noticed it long ago: Europeans exhibit a double standard when it comes to violations of sovereignty and civilian lives. What does that mean? In Europe, it’s customary to support a particular side in a military conflict based on the defense of a specific value. For example, a country whose territory has been invaded by soldiers from another nation can be supported in the name of defending territorial integrity, the right to sovereignty, or the right to life, and so on.

However, every now and then, we notice a phenomenon where European countries choose to support nations that don’t represent the very values they championed when it came to other countries. This exposes the hypocritical and sycophantic self-interest of the “enlightened” Western nations. This double standard is one of the reasons many countries in Eurasia and Africa are not taking sides in the Russia-Ukraine war. While many European countries engage in this demeaning and hypocritical behavior, one country acts this way most overtly: France.

When the Russia-Ukraine war broke out, France gave its absolute and unequivocal support to Ukraine, claiming that Russia had invaded its legal territorial boundaries and that Ukraine had the right to defend its independence and sovereignty over its lawful territories. The truth? There’s some truth to what the French say. However, what’s infuriating about this story is that France is playing favorites when it comes to supporting countries that need to defend their territories and sovereignty from external attacks by other nations. The most striking example of this is France’s support for Armenia in its military conflict with Azerbaijan. Why, in the Caucasus war, does France support the aggressor who initiated the illegal occupation of territory legally belonging to another country, rather than the one defending its sovereign territories?

Let’s take a step back. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union, two countries disagreed with the territorial division for each nation that separated from the Soviet Union: Russia and Armenia. According to the division, each Soviet Republic that became an independent state received its territorial area as a country based on its territory as a Soviet Republic. This fundamental division was agreed upon in the Alma-Ata Declaration on December 21, 1991. From Russia’s perspective, its leaders have always viewed the post-Soviet Eurasian countries as semi-independent states, allowing them (the Russian leadership) to act in these countries as they please. As for Armenia, it decided not to be content with its original territory and forcibly conquered the Azerbaijani region of Karabakh. Thus, Armenian nationalists managed to create “Greater Armenia” from the territory they seized from Azerbaijan in the “First Karabakh War,” a territory that constituted a fifth of Azerbaijan’s landmass.

According to the French moral compass, as demonstrated by France’s support for Ukraine in its war against Russia, we would infer that France would also support Azerbaijan, whose territory was shamefully occupied. But no. Not only does France not support Azerbaijan but Armenia, it also tried for years to prevent Azerbaijan from reclaiming its occupied territory and intensified its opposition to Azerbaijan after the “Second Karabakh War” in 2020, in which Azerbaijan regained its occupied land.

As mentioned, it seems France wasn’t content with just standard diplomatic support for Armenia but engaged in direct external intervention in an issue not directly related to it (and frankly, not even indirectly so much). France is a member of the OSCE Minsk Group (Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe). This organization was established in 1992 to resolve the conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan, with France being one of the three co-chairs of the group, along with the United States and Russia. It’s important to note that each of these three countries has a large and politically powerful Armenian lobby. The OSCE Minsk Group largely failed in all its endeavors for three decades, not only in the Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict but also in conflicts created by Russia in Moldova, Georgia, and Ukraine in 2014-2021. Furthermore, the group failed to negotiate a peace agreement between Armenia and Azerbaijan based on the Alma-Ata Declaration, which would have forced the Armenians to withdraw militarily from Karabakh. Beyond that, the group achieved no breakthrough in resolving the conflict.

Over time, questions arose about France’s participation in the group and its role as a co-chair. Firstly, as mentioned, France has the third-largest Armenian diaspora in the world (after Russia and the United States), which constitutes a strong political force. You tell me, what French politician would want to disappoint such a large number of potential voters over some conflict that doesn’t concern their private life in any way? I imagine none.

Secondly, in recent years, France has been grappling with large-scale Muslim immigration, which is not sitting quietly and is shaking the streets of France and French politics. Today, many French people understand that opening their country’s doors to anyone seeking assistance from the Middle East was not the best decision made in Paris, leading to a significant political shift across France towards the far-right. Based on the anti-Muslim sentiment that has become so prevalent in France, the decision to support Christian Armenia over Muslim Azerbaijan is the only decision supported across the entire French political spectrum. Politicians like Le Pen use crusade-like terminology to defend the Christian Armenian population from the Muslim Azerbaijanis, even though Azerbaijan is a completely secular country, and its conflict with Armenia has nothing to do with religion or any particular civilization, but rather with international law. And frankly, it’s ludicrous to portray Azerbaijan as an evil Muslim country, given that one of its greatest allies is the Jewish state of Israel. Thirdly, France also supported (Christian) Greece against its conflict with (Muslim) Turkey, so it’s not surprising that France would not support Turkey’s close and significant ally—Azerbaijan.

In November 2020, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Both French parliaments unanimously voted for French recognition of the independence of the separatist enclave of Artsakh (the Armenian name for Karabakh), mirroring the positions of Russia and Armenia. Subsequently, a frustrated Azerbaijan called for the closure of the OSCE Minsk Group.

The conflict between France and Azerbaijan is not just a conflict between two countries but a mirror image of a larger conflict between the West and the Global South, ignited by double standards and justice. Western countries will not gain the support of the Global South, even on substantive issues like the Russia-Ukraine war, as long as justice is not served and Western countries stop supporting other occupiers who act against international law, similar to the case of the Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict. We must not normalize double standards regarding separatism, the sanctity of states’ territorial integrity, and colonialism. Countries like France must not continue to behave in such a despicable manner, dictating the “right” and “wrong” sides of conflicts between different countries based on their political interests. Only in a political world like the one countries such as France are trying to bring us into, does it make sense to support Ukraine but vehemently oppose Azerbaijan.

A German Gepard in unique camo colours, popular in both games and in drone defense in Ukraine.

The era surrounding 2014 was one where life in some parts of the world could not have been more different than life in the West. Around 2014, when the Syrian Wars became very hot and violent, most people were sitting in their homes, playing games like Call of Duty with actual combat being the farthest thing from their mind. While the following years gave way to some youth in the West becoming ISIS fighters, the average family hardly felt this effect or were plagued by their children going abroad to brutalise people in Iraq and Syria.

Despite that era being one where some of the oldest communities in the Middle East were almost completely wiped out, things in Europe and North America changed very little. Even when returned ISIS fighters came back to the West, little was done in many cases to charge them, seek justice for their victims, or even take actions to protect communities in Western countries from future attacks. Even today, there is little mention of it or measures to compensate victims of acts done by Western citizens in Iraq and Syria, despite the world being a much more divisive place in 2025.

Post-Covid seemed to change the norm in many of these formerly peaceful communities. They still played games and watched similar media, still ignored many of the horrors abroad, and did little to think they would be in a dire situation themselves. The 2022 War in Ukraine took young video game players, ones with online friends in your town who played the same games and had similar lives to their team members in the West, and put many of them in the front of actual combat.

Some successes of these formerly peaceful game players and average kids were mentioned on the battlefield. In a well known incident, caught mostly on video, two Ukrainian operated American Bradley armoured personnel vehicles were able to disable one Russian T-90M tank, the most modern Russian tank on the battlefield. The tactics and knowledge they used against the ultra modern T-90M was claimed by one of the Bradley crews to be the result of playing the game War Thunder, a simplified war vehicle simulator. To improvise during the tense situation, the Bradley did something he often did in game when he targeted the sensors of an enemy tank. With the experience he had fighting against other real players online, he took to damaging the equipment of the enemy tank so he could stop the enemy from firing on the two Bradleys. While the game is not exactly designed to be a proper simulator for the Bradley or the T-90M, it enabled the driver to have a tactical mind and improvise an idea learned from their earlier days playing one of their favourite games. To note, the T-90M did not make it, and it is not clear if the Russian crew survived.

A simplified simulation of many of the systems used in Ukraine and in other parts of the world may train this generation in quick responses in actual combat. Many weapons designs are often based on control mechanisms for an XBox or Playstation, and playing something like the game mentioned above may introduce soldiers in how to manage the targeting system of a Gepard or ZSU-23-4 radar in shooting down drones attacking cities in Ukraine. It is likely the case that drone systems have already benefitted from controls and imaging seen in many modern games, drones which have changed the face of battle since 2022.

The unfortunate reality of combat in Ukraine and other parts of the world is that such technological advancements also make it very difficult to survive a war. There are estimates of thousands of young men losing their lives weekly in Ukraine, and the total number of deaths of soldiers in the war is approaching levels of losses not seen since the Second World War. Quick and rapid defeats have been recently seen in the air conflict between Pakistan and India, where many pilots likely lost their lives in the first few hours of combat with little chance to survive modern weapons technology. An advanced and well planned attack may remove the defense of military targets without a means of response, weighting one military’s strength to such a great degree that it would mirror the strategic victory at Pearl Harbor. The reality of modern warfare is that most will not survive, and for many of those on the battlefield who are more alike than different, it would be best if they were challenging each other online instead of using those skills to massacre each other on the battlefield.

Leftist pundits should remember: God answered Abraham’s own sacrifice. The sin of sacrificing another’s child is eternal—and paid in hell. (Image generated by ChatGPT-4o-)

Whether it’s the weight shouldered by members of the vulnerable population—Emma Sulkowicz’s mattress, George Floyd’s last breath, Breonna Taylor’s bedroom, or Alan Kurdi’s shoreline—each was made into a symbol not by their own will, but by the myth-making impulses of leftist punditry and media machinery eager to construct heroes out of hurt. Their pain was aestheticized, their names invoked, their images distributed. But in many cases, they and their families suffer—not only from the original violence, but from the relentless symbolic labor they are forced to perform. Some are harassed, surveilled, erased. Others are iconized so completely that they are never seen again as people. Their public meaning grows while their private agency collapses. They become scaffolding for a morality play in which they never auditioned. Their liberation is recited, never lived.

This transformation from person to parable is not incidental—it is embedded in the moral economy of contemporary wokeism. Liberation is not a shared project but a transaction, sealed through sacrifice. Political legitimacy is won not by organizing for freedom, but by offering up a body to be injured, a voice to be silenced, or a subject to be mythologized. These figures are not truly seen. They are deified, consumed, and converted into liberal cautionary tales—fetishized icons whose pain is preserved but whose personhood is discarded.

This is the tragedy of postmodern identity: real lives become metaphorical instruments. The dead speak only through curated remembrance, and the living suffer as placeholders for unredeemed history. Heidegger might call this the reduction of being to utility: the human as object, politically visible only when useful to others’ narratives. In this way, ontological erasure becomes functional visibility—a form of legibility that only emerges through subjugation, when pain becomes performance. This seamlessly echoes Michel Foucault’s notion of biopolitics, where power does not merely repress but regulates the conditions under which life is allowed to be seen, counted, and managed. In a world where not all lives are equally protected, the bourgeoisie monopolize not only the payoffs from the moral economy of contemporary wokeism, but the full expression of life—safety, rest, and the dignity of emotional bandwidth. Others are permitted only visibility through trauma, and even that is selectively allocated.

Even that visibility, however, often comes posthumously. The sacrificed individual is remembered, not lived. Their death becomes an ethical signal; their life is a discarded draft. The real horror lies in this economy of symbolic compensation, where systemic injustice is aestheticized, not remedied. Tragedy becomes theater, and mourning becomes moral capital. In many cases, the market absorbs these symbolic deaths with stunning efficiency. Grief becomes brandable, pain becomes a hashtag, and corporations don the colors of solidarity while continuing to exploit those very lives behind the scenes. The commodification of trauma thus becomes the final act in the ritual: mourning not as a reckoning, but as marketing.

Hannah Arendt saw the mechanics of evil, not its texture. Her account of the “banality of evil” captured bureaucratic amorality, but did not dwell in the suffering it produced. Her reflection is Lacanian: a cold mirror without skin. It renders evil comprehensible, but not felt. In effect, Arendt displaced the burden of suffering—transferring it from analytical engagement to symbolic abstraction, a form of ethical outsourcing that left the pain of victims intellectually acknowledged but existentially untouched. She succeeded in anatomizing the structures of evil, but left unexplored how suffering is lived, fragmented, and erased within those very structures. Arendt gave us the ethics of the thinking subject, but not of the suffering one. Perhaps for Arendt, that suffering was not just analytically elusive—it was something unspeakable, something she refused to represent precisely because its intimacy defied conceptual containment. In this absence, suffering becomes an epistemic object, not an ethical imperative. Diagnosis arrives without embodiment; politics speaks without contact. Her refusal to descend into the phenomenology of pain was not philosophical neutrality—it was an ethical omission. To map evil without feeling its tremor is to risk normalizing it anew, in cleaner language.

Thus, suffering is neutralized into mythology. The wounded are sainted but silenced. Pain becomes proof of virtue—an untouchable credential that resists criticism and political transformation. The sacred victim cannot be questioned, only mourned or idealized. And here lies the ethical stagnation: trauma becomes a closed loop, an immutable symbol, rather than an impetus for structural change. When political identity is secured by suffering, liberation becomes a performance endlessly rehearsed but never concluded.

If pain merely confers symbolic status, then the living are doomed to repeat the dead’s script. The suffering subject’s current life becomes unlivable. Their future is overwritten by a demand to represent trauma, indefinitely. Woke politics, in this form, enshrines suffering without transforming it. It is a politics of infinite repetition, not release. And it leaves no room for agency beyond grief.

Contrast this with the figure of the Bodhisattva: in Mahayana Buddhist philosophy, the Bodhisattva is one who, despite being capable of entering nirvana, voluntarily delays personal liberation to remain in the world and accompany others in their suffering. They sense suffering and remain with it, not to define others by it, but to transmute it. The Bodhisattva does not use pain to confer meaning. They use presence to restore it. Their compassion is not forensic, but existential—a form of dwelling. The Bodhisattva is not merely compassionate; they are co-present. Their ethics emerge not from abstraction, but from dwelling beside. Where liberal politics universalizes suffering into policy, the Bodhisattva particularizes it into presence.

But presence is not enough without structure. In political terms, presence must be accompanied by material reparation. The craftsman—an ethical architect—must build beyond reflection. But craftmanship is no longer ethically sufficient if it only judges who deserves repair based on performative pain. This is where the symbolic economy of sacrifice collapses: those who have suffered must not merely be honored or remembered—they must be structurally equalized. They must be permitted to live lives as full and rich as those who now consume their memory as moral capital. There is no justification, ethical or political, for the continued monopolization of livable life by those who hide behind commemorative virtue while enjoying the fruits of unshared freedom.

Yet even this ethical craft has limits if it is not coupled with radical redistribution. The mythic victim must not only be acknowledged—they must be released from their myth. Here, capitalism, paradoxically, offers a necessary tool: not because any one mechanism is inherently virtuous or profound, but because no existing liberal or progressive instrument—reparations, welfare, or identity-based redistribution—has succeeded in releasing the mythologized victim from their symbolic role. In the absence of a non-patron-clientelist structure that can offer real exit from sacrificial identity, instruments like shareholdership or even randomized redistribution remain the only viable tools to shift the terrain. Capital, at its coldest, is indifferent to lineage, grievance, and symbolic performance. And that very indifference may be the most ethical feature available: it does not measure worthiness; it redistributes possibility. Not as reward, but as rupture. A metaphysical wager against inherited repetition. A refusal to remember, so that others might begin to live.

And in a world that only remembers your surname, hometown, or trauma—capital remains the only force indifferent enough to liberate you from all three. It may not have a conscience, but it also has no prejudice. And sometimes, that blankness is the most just form of remembering we have left.

This perspective is not rooted in the ivory towers of philosophical critique. Unlike Adorno, Arendt, or Benjamin—who observed authoritarian violence from historical distance, where suffering remained a subject of analysis rather than an object of shared responsibility—this argument emerges from within the vulnerable population itself. It does not mourn trauma as a conceptual loss; it lives within its ongoing consequences. If traditional critical theory attempts to historicize injustice, this voice demands to de-historicize survival. It refuses to be remembered. It insists on being redistributed.

Thus, to move beyond symbolic sacrifice, we need three agents: the Bodhisattva who stays, the craftsman who builds, and the system that gives. This system need not replace ethics, but it must outmaneuver its exclusions—the binaries of good and evil, victim and bystander. Without presence, structure, and rupture, suffering remains mythic, and justice remains posthumous. The task is not to mourn more skillfully, but to liberate more concretely.