There’s an old saying in politics: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” For decades, the West moved farther and faster than any other coalition in history—not because we were perfect, but because we recognized that our strength lay in our shared values, our collective resolve, and the unshakable belief that democracy, when paired with diplomacy, could bend the arc of history toward justice.
But in recent years, that momentum has stalled. And while history will debate many factors, one truth is clear: the era of “America First” did not just redefine U.S. foreign policy—it unraveled the very fabric of the Western alliance.
Let’s speak plainly. When we treat allies like adversaries, we lose more than leverage—we lose trust. When we mock multilateralism as weakness, we cede moral authority to those who see the world as a jungle, not a community. And when we abandon agreements like the Paris Climate Accord or the Iran nuclear deal—deals painstakingly negotiated to address existential threats—we don’t just walk away from pieces of paper. We walk away from our word.
Consider the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, a beacon of solidarity forged from the ashes of World War II. Yes, member states needed to invest more in defense. But when the leader of the free world labels NATO “obsolete” and dangles doubts about Article 5—the sacred promise that an attack on one is an attack on all—we don’t just undermine budgets. We undermine the idea that democracies stand together. Ask any European leader: Those words left scars.
Or look to trade.
Tariffs framed as “protecting jobs” too often became weapons wielded against allies. Farmers in Wisconsin and manufacturers in Ohio felt the sting of retaliation, while autocrats smirked at the spectacle of Western infighting. This wasn’t strength—it was self-sabotage, a reminder that economics, like security, is a team sport.
Then there’s the shadow cast over our values.
When we praise dictators while attacking judges, reporters, and peaceful protesters; when we turn away refugees fleeing violence; when we dismiss the importance of truth itself—we don’t just weaken our alliances. We weaken our identity. The West has never been perfect, but it has always stood for something: the radical notion that individuals matter, that laws matter, that right matters more than might. When we stop acting like that’s true, we stop being who we are.
Critics will say, “What’s the harm in shaking things up?” But here’s the harm: In a world that is about to rewrite global rules the West cannot afford to be divided. When we retreat into transactionalism, we leave a vacuum—and authoritarians rush in.
This isn’t about politics. It’s about arithmetic.
A united West is greater than the sum of its parts. A fractured West is less than the smallest of them.
So where do we go from here? Not backward. The answer isn’t nostalgia for a pre-Trump era that, for all its flaws, understood the power of solidarity. It’s forward—with renewed purpose. We must reinvest in alliances not as relics, but as living partnerships. We must reject the lie that leadership means going it alone. And we must once again embrace the audacious idea that our shared future is worth fighting for—not just with arms, but with empathy, with patience, and with the courage to listen.
The West was never a building or a treaty. It was a promise. And promises, once broken, take more than words to mend. They take action. They take humility. They take remembering that the light we carry—the light of democracy, of human dignity, of collective hope—burns brightest not when we shield it for ourselves, but when we hold it aloft for others.
That is the West we must rebuild.
Who needs spies when you’ve got Signal? So apparently idiots can also rule entire countries now, not just companies!
Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, once a vocal critic of mishandling classified info, now starring in ‘Texts of Our Lives.’ …And Vice President JD Vance, expressing disdain for ‘bailing Europe out again’ while planning strikes that predominantly benefit European trade routes.
Truly, the Trump administration is redefining ‘open government’—one accidental group chat at a time.
“If war were truly human nature, it wouldn’t need to be sold to us.”
For centuries, war has been framed as an unavoidable part of human existence—an instinct as natural as hunger or love. We’re told that conflict is in our DNA, that violence is simply what humans do when resources are scarce or when ideologies clash. But what if that’s not true?
What if war isn’t a reflection of human nature but a product of carefully engineered incentives—a system designed and maintained by those who benefit from it?
Look past the patriotic slogans, the historical narratives, the Hollywood heroics, and you’ll see that war is not an accident, nor an inevitability. It is a business, a strategy, and a tool—one that rewards a select few while costing millions of lives.
War is often justified with grand ideals—freedom, security, justice. But follow the money, and you’ll find a far less noble reality.
Wars do not just happen—they are fueled by an entire ecosystem of corporations, lobbyists, and financial interests that thrive on global instability.
War is not random chaos. It is a business model—one where violence creates demand, and instability ensures continued supply.
Beyond financial incentives, war serves as a powerful tool for political elites to maintain and expand control.
War keeps the powerful in power. Peace, on the other hand, threatens hierarchies—because peace often means redistributing power and resources more fairly.
If war were truly inevitable—if it were simply a product of our genetic programming—then why have so many societies thrived in peaceful cooperation?
War is not hardwired into our species. It is imposed. It is incentivized. It is sold.
Most people don’t want war. So how do governments convince populations to accept it? Through storytelling.
Every war needs public buy-in. And that buy-in is carefully manufactured.
The most dangerous myth about war is that it is unavoidable.
But war is not a law of nature. It is a system, carefully built and maintained. And what is built can be dismantled.
The question is: Who benefits from you believing otherwise?
Let’s be honest—democracy is frustrating.
It’s slow. It’s messy. It’s filled with gridlock and arguments that never seem to end. Sometimes, it feels like the whole thing is just spinning its wheels, stuck in place, unable to move forward.
And in moments of crisis—when people feel anxious, uncertain, left behind—it’s tempting to look for someone, anyone, who can cut through the noise and just get things done.
That’s when the strongmen show up.
They step onto the stage, shake their heads at all the dysfunction, and say, Enough. They tell you that the problem isn’t the system—it’s the people running it. That the media is lying to you. That there’s an enemy—immigrants, minorities, the elites, some vague “other” that’s been secretly pulling the strings.
And then they make their biggest promise of all:
“I alone can fix it.”
It’s a line we’ve heard before.
See, nobody wakes up one morning and says, You know what? I think I’d like to live under a dictatorship.
That’s not how it works.
Authoritarianism doesn’t arrive with tanks in the streets. It arrives with speeches about restoring order. It comes wrapped in the language of patriotism and national pride. It sells itself as necessary.
And at first, it even feels good.
The debates stop. The protests quiet down. The leader speaks with certainty, and certainty can be comforting. There’s a sense of momentum, of action, of something finally being done.
But then, little by little, things start to change.
And so, to keep people “safe,” the rules start shifting. Just a little at first. A journalist is arrested. A protest is put down with force. A law is passed that makes it just a bit harder to criticize the government.
Until one day, you wake up, and you realize—you’re not allowed to ask questions anymore.
Because fear is powerful.
When people feel like the world is spiraling out of control, they crave stability. They want someone who speaks with confidence, who gives them simple answers to complex problems, who says:
“Follow me, and I’ll take care of everything.”
And that’s how freedom gets traded away—not in some dramatic coup, but through a slow, steady process where people willingly hand over their rights for the promise of safety.
Until they have neither.
Now, here’s the truth—democracy isn’t perfect. It never has been. It never will be.
But that’s the point. It’s not supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to be resilient.
Because democracy is not about one person having all the answers. It’s about all of us working—arguing, debating, compromising—to find a way forward together.
That’s harder. It takes time. But the alternative?
The alternative is waking up one day and realizing you don’t get a say anymore. That the leader you put your trust in now controls everything. That the freedom you once took for granted is gone.
And history teaches us one thing: once that happens, getting it back is never easy.
So, the next time someone stands in front of a crowd and tells you they alone can fix everything—ask yourself:
What are they really asking you to give up?
Because democracy doesn’t disappear overnight.
It disappears when people stop defending it.
Give us your rare earth minerals, or enjoy the warm embrace of Mother Russia. Truly heartwarming. Nothing screams “leader of the free world” like shaking down an ally mid-war and then throwing a tantrum when they don’t grovel fast enough. Diplomacy? Nah. This is hostage negotiations with extra capitalism. Bravo
Zelensky is now stuck in the world’s worst reality show where he has to choose between negotiating with Putin (a man who literally wants him erased) or appeasing Trump, who treats Ukraine like a failing franchise of the U.S. military-industrial complex. Tough gig. Maybe next season, he’ll get a contestant who actually believes in democracy instead of a transactional landlord demanding rent in lithium.
