War: Who Really Benefits? (8)

Many years after World War II had ended, an old German soldier returned to Normandy. He walked silently among the graves—German and Allied alike—each marked with names, ages, and dates frozen in history. A journalist approached him and asked, “So, who won the war?”

The soldier looked up, eyes tired but steady. He pointed at the gravestones and replied, “Not them.”

Then, he turned to the parking lot filled with tourists, war museums selling souvenirs, and nearby restaurants profiting off battlefield history. He gave a faint smile and said, “But someone did.”

His answer wasn’t bitter—it was honest. In war, the fallen do not win. The real winners are often those who were never on the battlefield.

The true victors in any war are seldom the brave soldiers who march into battle, risking life and limb for a cause they may barely understand. These men and women, often young and full of conviction, are the ones who endure the horrors of the front lines—mud, blood, and trauma etched into their memories. They are hailed as heroes, yet many return home broken, forgotten, or worse, left to navigate a world that no longer makes sense.

Meanwhile, far from the battlefield, there are those who thrive in the shadows of conflict. Arms dealers, defence contractors, and political elites quietly count their gains, their fortunes swelling with every bullet fired and every bomb dropped. For them, war is not tragedy—it is opportunity. They are the ones who truly win, not by courage or sacrifice, but by turning violence into profit.

In A People’s History of the United States (1980, Harper & Row), Howard Zinn contends that American wars—from the Revolutionary War through to Vietnam—were frequently wrapped in the language of noble ideals such as liberty, democracy, and national security. However, beneath the surface of these justifications lay a grim pattern: it was the working class, the poor, and especially marginalised communities who bore the greatest burden of war. They were sent to the front lines, sacrificed their lives, and suffered the economic aftershocks at home, while the elite political class and wealthy industrialists reaped enormous profits and expanded their influence. Zinn illustrates that far from being purely patriotic ventures, many of these conflicts served as instruments for the consolidation of domestic power and the expansion of capitalist interests abroad.

He reveals, for instance, how the Revolutionary War not only aimed at freedom from Britain, but also served the interests of American landowners and merchants who wanted to avoid British taxation and trade restrictions. Likewise, the Civil War, while ending slavery, also helped Northern industrialists gain control over Southern economies. In Vietnam, Zinn highlights how corporations involved in defence contracting, oil, and construction made massive profits from a war that devastated a nation and traumatised a generation. The suffering was not a by-product, but a systemic consequence of a structure where the few decide, and the many bleed.

In Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army (2007, Nation Books), Jeremy Scahill exposes how the Iraq War became a lucrative marketplace for private military contractors, particularly the company Blackwater. While young American soldiers were risking—and often losing—their lives on the battlefield for modest pay and under immense psychological and physical strain, private mercenaries from firms like Blackwater were earning astronomical sums, sometimes ten times the salary of regular troops. These contractors operated with minimal oversight, legal immunity, and a near-blank cheque from the U.S. government, allowing them to profit massively from the chaos of war.

Scahill illustrates how the privatisation of war blurred the lines between national interest and corporate greed. Blackwater, backed by political connections and driven by profit motives, transformed war into a business model. The very nature of military engagement shifted—wars were no longer just fought for strategic or political aims, but also for corporate gain. Meanwhile, the soldiers who came home in flag-draped coffins, or not at all, were often forgotten by the same system that enriched private war profiteers. Scahill’s work paints a damning portrait of a military-industrial complex where death is outsourced, and war becomes a commodity.

Dalam Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army (2007, Nation Books), Jeremy Scahill ngebongkar gimana Perang Irak jadi lahan basah buat tentara bayaran, terutama perusahaan Blackwater. Anak-anak muda Amerika yang berangkat perang pakai seragam resmi—banyak yang pulang tinggal nama, gaji kecil, dan trauma seumur hidup. Sementara itu, tentara bayaran—yang gak pakai bendera tapi pakai kontrak mahal—digaji puluhan ribu dolar sebulan, bebas hukum, dan bisa main tembak tanpa banyak tanya.

Scahill nyorot gimana perang udah jadi kayak startup: ada investor, ada kontrak, ada keuntungan, dan semuanya dikemas dalam “keamanan nasional.” Tapi intinya? Cuan. Blackwater dapet kontrak miliaran dolar dari pemerintah, dan perang berubah dari “misi negara” jadi “proyek outsourcing.” Ironisnya, yang mati dan cacat justru tentara reguler dan warga sipil, sementara yang kaya adalah orang-orang berseragam hitam dengan badge perusahaan. Scahill ngasih gambaran gamblang soal industri perang yang lebih peduli pada laba ketimbang nyawa.

In The War Business (1969, Simon & Schuster), George Thayer delivers a sharp critique of how nations—particularly powerful ones—simultaneously act as merchants of death and self-proclaimed messengers of peace. He reveals the double-dealing nature of global politics, where governments publicly promote disarmament talks, peace summits, and international stability, all while privately fuelling conflicts through arms sales. Thayer exposes the hypocrisy of state actors who speak the language of peace in diplomatic circles, yet profit handsomely from the very wars they claim to deplore. Weapons, he argues, are not just tools of defence—they are commodities in a ruthless market.

Thayer's analysis underscores a disturbing reality: the war industry thrives not in spite of government rhetoric, but because of it. Countries often sell weapons to both sides of a conflict or arm unstable regimes, knowing full well that the resulting chaos guarantees more demand for weapons, more contracts, and more geopolitical leverage. The so-called peace brokers are often the same powers pulling the strings behind the scenes, manipulating war not only as a strategic tool, but as a business venture. Thayer’s work strips away the moral veneer from international relations, showing a world where idealism is often just marketing, and peace is postponed for profit.

In The War Business: The International Trade in Armaments by George Thayer (1969, Simon & Schuster), George Thayer delivers a sharp critique of how nations—particularly powerful ones—simultaneously act as merchants of death and self-proclaimed messengers of peace. He reveals the double-dealing nature of global politics, where governments publicly promote disarmament talks, peace summits, and international stability, all while privately fuelling conflicts through arms sales. Thayer exposes the hypocrisy of state actors who speak the language of peace in diplomatic circles, yet profit handsomely from the very wars they claim to deplore. Weapons, he argues, are not just tools of defence—they are commodities in a ruthless market.

Thayer's analysis underscores a disturbing reality: the war industry thrives not in spite of government rhetoric, but because of it. Countries often sell weapons to both sides of a conflict or arm unstable regimes, knowing full well that the resulting chaos guarantees more demand for weapons, more contracts, and more geopolitical leverage. The so-called peace brokers are often the same powers pulling the strings behind the scenes, manipulating war not only as a strategic tool, but as a business venture. Thayer’s work strips away the moral veneer from international relations, showing a world where idealism is often just marketing, and peace is postponed for profit.

In The New Confessions of an Economic Hit Man (2016, Berrett-Koehler Publishers), John Perkins argues that the nature of war has fundamentally changed. No longer does imperial conquest require tanks, bombers, or boots on the ground. Instead, it is waged through spreadsheets, loans, and contracts. Perkins describes how economic hit men—like his former self—are deployed to developing countries under the guise of aid or development. They persuade, manipulate, or pressure governments into accepting massive loans for infrastructure projects they don’t need and can’t afford, all funded by foreign corporations and international financial institutions.

According to Perkins, these debts become chains. Once a country is buried in unsustainable repayment obligations, it becomes submissive to the interests of the lending powers—usually the United States and its corporate allies. The country must then surrender control over its natural resources, vote according to the lender’s interests in global institutions, or allow military bases on its soil. War, in this new form, is silent and invisible. Instead of explosions, it brings promises of progress—followed by economic dependency, political manipulation, and subtle forms of domination. For Perkins, this is the modern empire: built not with violence, but with veiled coercion, debt traps, and the illusion of prosperity.

In War Made Easy: How Presidents and Pundits Keep Spinning Us to Death (2005, Wiley), Norman Solomon exposes how mainstream media in the United States often acts not as a critical watchdog during times of war, but as a loyal cheerleader. Instead of challenging official narratives, many media outlets amplify them, using dramatic language, selective imagery, and trusted anchors to stir patriotic fervour and silence dissent. Solomon argues that this manufactured consent is no accident—it’s rooted in deep ties between media corporations, government agendas, and defence contractors who share mutual interests in war, ratings, and profit.

Through historical case studies, from Vietnam to Iraq, Solomon shows how media rhetoric is carefully engineered to portray wars as noble, necessary, and swift. Phrases like “weapons of mass destruction,” “shock and awe,” or “liberation mission” are recycled slogans that sound heroic but mask brutal realities. Behind the cameras and headlines, media conglomerates often have board members or major investors linked to military industries, creating a conflict of interest that shapes the coverage. According to Solomon, when the media becomes an echo chamber for state propaganda, war stops being questioned—and starts being sold.

How do wars sustain themselves? Not merely through weapons and soldiers, but through the architecture of fear, propaganda, and silence. Governments manufacture consent by stoking anxieties—of the enemy, of the outsider, of the unknown. Media outlets, often complicit or coerced, amplify these fears, shaping public opinion to support military action. As George Orwell warned in his seminal work, 1984, “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.” In a world where truth is manipulated, war becomes not only justifiable but necessary.

History, too, plays its part. Schoolbooks often glorify conquest, painting imperial campaigns as noble ventures and omitting the atrocities committed in their wake. National anthems and military parades become rituals of remembrance and pride, subtly reinforcing the idea that war is honourable. As Chris Hedges argues in War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, societies become addicted to the drama and unity that war provides, even as it corrodes their moral fabric. War, in this sense, is not an aberration—it is institutionalised.

And then there is profit. Defence industries flourish in times of conflict, with arms manufacturers and private contractors reaping billions. Politicians receive campaign donations, lobbyists secure contracts, and stock markets respond favourably to the promise of prolonged engagement. War becomes not just normalised, but commodified. It is no longer a last resort—it is a business model.

In the end, asking “Who benefits from war?” is not merely an academic exercise. It is a moral imperative. If conflict is inevitable, then so too must be our responsibility to interrogate who lights the match—and who sells the fuel. As Howard Zinn reminds us in A People’s History of the United States, history is not only written by the victors, but also shaped by those who profit from victory. To remain silent is to be complicit.

When the guns fall silent and the last soldier is buried, there are always those who continue counting—just not bodies, but profits. The battlefield may be soaked in blood, but behind the scenes, balance sheets are printed in black ink. Defence contractors report record earnings, oil companies quietly secure new drilling rights, and private firms rebuild what their governments helped destroy. In this version of history, war is not a tragedy—it’s a transaction.

It is not the grieving mother or the wounded veteran who gets the final word, but the investor who bought shares in a weapons manufacturer at just the right time. War is marketed with flags and anthems, but sold through contracts and stock exchanges. While civilians are told to sacrifice, someone else is signing multi-billion-dollar deals from the comfort of an office far from the front lines.

So, who really wins in a war? Not the people who fought it. Not the ones who lost homes, limbs, or loved ones. The real victors are rarely mentioned in memorials. They wear no uniforms, fight no battles, and yet they always emerge richer. In the end, the price of war is paid in human lives—but the profit is counted in someone else’s currency.

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War: Who Really Benefits? (7)

In the early days of the 2003 Iraq War, as American troops rolled into Baghdad, a now-iconic moment unfolded live on international television: the toppling of Saddam Hussein’s statue in Firdos Square. Cameras captured Iraqis cheering as the statue was pulled down by a U.S. military vehicle, presenting what seemed like a spontaneous act of liberation. But behind the scenes, as later reports revealed, the event was carefully stage-managed. The square had been sealed off by the military, and the crowd was relatively small. The imagery, however, was broadcast worldwide and became a powerful symbol used to justify the war effort—portraying the invasion as welcomed and righteous. This moment remains a potent anecdote illustrating how modern warfare is waged not only on the battlefield but also through the lens of the media, where optics can sometimes outweigh the truth.

In the aftermath of the Cold War, the 2003 Iraq War stands as a sobering testament to a new paradigm of conflict—one no longer rooted solely in territorial conquest, but in the battle for narrative dominance. Unlike traditional wars fought for physical space or clear geopolitical interests, the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq was justified through disputed intelligence and the highly publicised spectre of weapons of mass destruction. This rhetorical pretext, later proven to be unsubstantiated, unravelled the fragile credibility of international norms and institutions. As George Packer meticulously explores in The Assassins’ Gate: America in Iraq (2005, Farrar, Straus and Giroux), the repercussions of the war extended far beyond bombed cities and fallen regimes; they penetrated the moral fabric of global diplomacy and set a precedent for how democratic governments could manipulate fear to legitimise pre-emptive military action. The legacy of the Iraq War thus lies not merely in the rubble of Baghdad but in the erosion of global trust and the dangerous elasticity of truth in the hands of power.

According to Packer, the consequences of the Iraq War extended far beyond the destruction of buildings and infrastructure. The real damage, Packer argues, was deeply moral and diplomatic. He chronicles how the war, initiated on questionable grounds, fractured America’s moral authority in the world. Instead of being seen as a liberator, the United States came to be viewed as an occupier, mired in hubris and incapable of understanding the culture and complexity of Iraqi society. Packer documents the disillusionment of idealistic American officials, the disarray of post-war planning, and the human cost borne by Iraqis and soldiers alike. This erosion of credibility did not merely affect Iraq; it rippled across global diplomacy, fuelling anti-American sentiment and making it harder for future interventions—no matter how justifiable—to gain international support. The war, as Packer portrays it, left scars not just on the cities of Iraq but on the conscience of a nation that misjudged both its power and its purpose.

Packer illustrates how the Iraq War exemplifies a dangerous evolution in the nature of warfare—where narrative becomes as crucial as military might. The Bush administration, he argues, strategically crafted a narrative of fear, portraying Saddam Hussein as an imminent threat armed with weapons of mass destruction. Despite the absence of concrete evidence, this storyline was relentlessly repeated in speeches, media briefings, and intelligence leaks. By manipulating public fear and linking Iraq to the trauma of 9/11, the administration successfully shifted the burden of proof: it was no longer a matter of proving Iraq had weapons, but of arguing that America couldn’t afford to wait and be wrong. In doing so, the war was pre-justified under the logic of “pre-emptive defence.” Packer shows how this fear-based narrative did not just manufacture consent—it paralysed dissent, allowing leaders to bypass traditional checks and balances. Thus, the war became a product sold to the public—carefully branded, emotionally charged, and catastrophically misleading.

Packer argues that the true legacy of the Iraq War lies not merely in the physical devastation wrought upon Baghdad, but in the profound and lasting erosion of global trust—both in American leadership and in the international order itself. The war, justified through dubious claims and manipulated intelligence, demonstrated how easily truth can be bent—or entirely fabricated—when power dictates the narrative. Packer underscores how the U.S. government’s ability to distort facts and present a morally righteous facade masked deep strategic confusion and moral ambiguity. The damage extended beyond the Middle East: international alliances were strained, global institutions were discredited, and the post-WWII framework for justifying war was severely undermined. As Packer illustrates, the Iraq War left the world more cynical, more polarised, and far less willing to take powerful nations at their word. It exposed the terrifying flexibility of truth in the hands of those who control the story—and showed how, once that trust is broken, it is nearly impossible to restore.

Packer seeks to convey a deeply layered critique of America’s involvement in the Iraq War—moving beyond surface-level political arguments to explore the human, moral, and ideological costs of a misguided conflict. Packer does not merely catalogue events; he captures the disillusionment of idealists, the arrogance of policymakers, and the suffering of Iraqis caught in the chaos. His central message is that noble intentions are not enough—without humility, understanding, and proper planning, even democracies can unleash disaster. He shows how the war was shaped by a dangerous combination of neoconservative idealism and bureaucratic incompetence, where dreams of liberation collided with the brutal realities of occupation. Through vivid reporting and reflective analysis, Packer warns that when a nation exports its values by force, it often betrays them in practice. His book is ultimately a meditation on how good people, driven by belief in freedom, can become agents of destruction when blinded by ideology and unaccountable power.

Whether in Europe, Asia, Africa, or the Middle East, war has consistently acted as a crucible through which history is not merely altered, but wholly redefined. Across centuries and continents, it is within the violent upheavals of conflict that empires have collapsed, revolutions have ignited, and borders have been redrawn—often in blood rather than ink. War, for all its horrors, remains one of the most powerful forces of transformation in human affairs. It tests not only the resilience of societies and the endurance of cultures but also the very principles we claim to uphold as civilised beings—justice, dignity, and truth. What emerges from the ashes is rarely pure; victories are often muddied by compromise, and liberation can carry the stain of new subjugation. The real question, then, is no longer whether war has shaped the course of human history—it undeniably has—but how profoundly it continues to influence our present. More crucially, we must ask ourselves: are we willing to confront the uncomfortable truth about who profits from the making and remaking of the world through war? And are we complicit when we choose not to look too closely?

From the Crusades to colonial conquests, and from the World Wars to the more recent War on Terror, conflict has persistently functioned as a brutal yet effective architect of global borders and power structures. Time and again, war has torn through civilian lives with merciless force, leaving behind devastation, displacement, and trauma. Yet paradoxically, it has also served as the scaffolding upon which empires are built and expanded. The rise of post-World War II America is a striking case in point: emerging from the ruins of global conflict, the United States cemented its status as a superpower—bolstered by an unprecedented wartime industrial surge and a military complex that never fully demobilised. As Howard Zinn powerfully illustrates in A People’s History of the United States, such transformations rarely benefit the common person. Instead, it is often the working class, the marginalised, and the voiceless who shoulder the burdens of war, while political and economic elites manipulate the chaos to consolidate wealth and influence. War, then, becomes not just a geopolitical tool, but a social mechanism—restructuring societies from the top down, all while selling the illusion of national glory and noble cause.

Zinn presents a powerful, counter-narrative view of American history, including its many wars—not from the perspective of generals or presidents, but through the eyes of ordinary people: workers, soldiers, dissenters, and the poor. Regarding war, Zinn is especially critical of how conflict is often framed as noble or necessary, when in reality it frequently serves the interests of political and economic elites at the expense of the broader population. He argues that wars—from the Mexican-American War and the Civil War to the World Wars, Vietnam, and Iraq—have consistently been marketed to the public with patriotic rhetoric, while hiding the economic motives and imperial ambitions behind them. In his view, it is the working class who fight and die, while the wealthy and powerful expand their fortunes and global influence. Zinn exposes how dissent is suppressed during wartime, how civil liberties are curtailed, and how those who question the war narrative are often silenced or demonised. His work urges readers to see war not as an inevitable expression of national destiny, but as a deliberate tool of control, distraction, and profit-making—disguised as sacrifice and service.

Who truly emerges victorious in war? Certainly not the soldier bleeding out in the trenches, nor the mother forced to bury her child beneath a flag. While human lives are shattered and families torn apart, the actual beneficiaries often sit in boardrooms, far removed from the smoke and rubble. Arms manufacturers and military contractors rake in billions, thriving on contracts that flourish with every escalation. Those who later bid to “reconstruct” the same cities their technology helped raze are rarely held accountable. As Naomi Klein critically observes in The Shock Doctrine (2007, Penguin Books), disaster becomes a business model—war simply being the most lucrative form of catastrophe.

In modern warfare, the battlefield has expanded beyond geography into information. Media conglomerates play an insidious role: framing conflicts, sanitising atrocities, and amplifying nationalistic fervour. Attention becomes a commodity, perception a weapon. Corporations that once merely sold advertising now monetise polarisation. In Manufacturing Consent by Edward S. Herman and Noam Chomsky (1988, Pantheon Books), the authors detail how mass media serve as a propaganda machine that subtly aligns public opinion with elite interests, especially during times of war. These media actors do not merely report conflict—they help sustain it.

In War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning (2002, PublicAffairs), Chris Hedges, a former war correspondent, writes not just as a journalist, but as someone who has witnessed, first-hand, the seduction and devastation of conflict. His work lays bare the addictive power of war—how it provides a false sense of purpose to nations and individuals, while enabling a cycle of violence that enriches the powerful and obliterates the weak. Hedges explains that war is not just orchestrated for profit or politics; it also becomes a mythology—one that shapes identity, controls memory, and suppresses dissent.

Chris Hedges offers a sobering and deeply personal reflection on the psychological and societal seduction of war. Drawing from his own experiences as a war correspondent in conflict zones like Bosnia, El Salvador, and the Middle East, Hedges argues that war gives individuals and societies a false sense of purpose, unity, and moral clarity. It becomes a seductive force that fills the existential void—offering a mythic narrative where “we” are righteous and “they” are evil. War simplifies the world into black and white, hero and enemy, thus allowing people to abandon the grey complexities of peace and morality.

Hedges explains that war intoxicates. It feeds on the illusion of heroism, sacrifice, and national greatness, while concealing the very real costs: brutality, trauma, and moral corruption. It becomes a kind of addiction—both to violence and to the emotional intensity that war produces. In times of peace, life can feel directionless or numb; but war sharpens meaning, even if that meaning is constructed through lies. Hedges ultimately warns that when societies worship war or allow its myths to go unchallenged, they lose their humanity and descend into cycles of self-destruction masquerading as patriotism.

Through poetic yet brutally honest prose, Hedges dismantles the romanticism often attached to conflict. He shows that while war may offer a fleeting sense of meaning, it does so by dehumanising others and deadening the soul of a nation. The tragedy is that, even when the war ends, its myths linger—infecting future generations with the same hunger for false purpose and violent transcendence.

The Propaganda Model Revisited, edited by Joan Pedro-Carañana, Daniel Broudy, and Jeffery Klaehn (2018, Westminster Press), shows how propaganda in the 21st century has evolved through digital platforms, big data, and algorithmic control. It underscores how corporate and state interests continue to manufacture consent—often more subtly, but no less powerfully—via social media echo chambers and curated digital realities.

The contributors argue that contemporary media manipulation has evolved far beyond the traditional press and television. Today, power operates more subtly—through algorithms, data harvesting, and the architecture of social media platforms themselves. Political and corporate elites no longer need to control what people must read; instead, they shape what people want to see, curating digital realities tailored to reinforce existing beliefs. This is achieved through the construction of echo chambers—self-contained online spaces where users are continually fed content that aligns with their preferences and prejudices.

They show how algorithms filter information based not on truth or civic value, but on engagement—clicks, shares, and emotional reactions. In doing so, they amplify polarisation, erode common ground, and make critical thinking more difficult. Rather than fostering democratic debate, digital platforms often serve to fragment public discourse, ensuring that dissenting voices are either drowned out or confined to isolated bubbles.

According to The Propaganda Model Revisited, one of the most profound consequences of modern media manipulation is the erosion of democratic agency. When citizens are trapped in algorithmically curated information silos, they begin to lose the ability to engage in genuine dialogue with those who think differently. This fragmentation of public discourse undermines the foundation of any healthy democracy, which depends on the free exchange of ideas, informed debate, and mutual understanding. Instead, the public sphere becomes a battleground of outrage and misinformation, where truth is no longer determined by evidence but by virality.

Another critical impact highlighted in the book is the internalisation of propaganda. Unlike old-school propaganda that was external and recognisable—through posters, speeches, and slogans—contemporary propaganda is internalised, embedded within the very interfaces people interact with daily. It creates an illusion of autonomy while subtly steering perceptions, preferences, and political choices. Individuals may believe they are thinking independently, but their worldview is often a by-product of filtered content designed to manipulate engagement.

Perhaps the most chilling consequence is the decline of critical consciousness. When the tools of manipulation are invisible, people cease to question them. They become passive consumers of information rather than active participants in shaping society. This is not just a threat to politics but to culture itself, where conformity replaces creativity, and distraction becomes more desirable than awareness. Ultimately, The Propaganda Model Revisited warns that without media literacy and structural accountability, societies risk becoming comfortable in their manipulation—enslaved not by force, but by carefully engineered convenience.

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War: Who Really Benefits? (6)

One of the most poignant anecdotes from the Vietnam War involves a young American soldier named Ron Kovic, whose life was forever altered by the conflict. Kovic volunteered to fight in Vietnam out of a sense of patriotic duty, believing he was defending freedom. However, in 1968, he was severely wounded in battle, leaving him paralysed from the chest down. His return home was not met with parades or gratitude, but with indifference and even hostility from a society increasingly disillusioned with the war. Kovic’s journey from soldier to anti-war activist became emblematic of a broader American reckoning. He later wrote his memoir, Born on the Fourth of July, which was adapted into an Oscar-winning film starring Tom Cruise. His story captured the tragic irony of a war that promised heroism but delivered trauma—a deeply personal tale that echoed the disillusionment of an entire generation.

During the Cold War era, ostensibly local conflicts in Korea, Vietnam, and Afghanistan were, in truth, battlegrounds for a far grander confrontation between two dominant world ideologies: capitalism and communism. These so-called "hot wars" were not merely regional disputes but acted as proxies through which the United States and the Soviet Union tested, imposed, and defended their respective global visions. The ramifications were not confined to the physical borders or political economies of the countries involved; they deeply penetrated the global psyche, stirring anxieties about nuclear annihilation, stirring debates about imperialism, and influencing generations of political thought and activism. In his seminal work Embers of War: The Fall of an Empire and the Making of America's Vietnam (2012, Random House), historian Fredrik Logevall meticulously traces how the collapse of French colonial rule in Indochina, intertwined with Cold War ambitions, forged Vietnam into a volatile flashpoint where local aspirations for independence clashed with superpower interventions. The result was not merely a war, but a symbolic struggle over the future of world order.

The collapse of French colonial rule in Indochina created a political vacuum—an unstable space filled with competing national, ideological, and geopolitical forces. For the Vietnamese, particularly the Viet Minh under Ho Chi Minh, the end of French domination was an opportunity to assert genuine independence rooted in anti-colonial struggle and self-determination. However, the timing of this collapse coincided with the intensification of the Cold War, a period during which the United States and the Soviet Union were desperate to expand or defend their spheres of influence. What might have been a straightforward decolonisation process was quickly entangled in Cold War logic. The United States, wary of the so-called "domino effect" of countries falling to communism in Southeast Asia, intervened not to restore colonialism, but to suppress what it perceived as communist expansion. Meanwhile, the Soviet Union and China supported North Vietnam as a revolutionary ally. Thus, Vietnam became a volatile flashpoint—a symbolic and literal battlefield where a local desire for liberation was caught between the ambitions of global superpowers. In this tragic convergence, a nation's fight for freedom was co-opted into a much larger and bloodier ideological war.

The Vietnam War, involving the United States, indeed took place during the Cold War. It was not an isolated conflict but rather a crucial theatre in the broader ideological struggle between the capitalist West, led by the United States, and the communist bloc, spearheaded by the Soviet Union and China. The war, which escalated in the 1960s, was deeply embedded in Cold War dynamics, as the United States sought to prevent the spread of communism in Southeast Asia—a policy driven by the infamous “domino theory.” American involvement in Vietnam was, therefore, less about Vietnam itself and more about demonstrating global resistance to communist expansion. The conflict became one of the most visible and controversial expressions of Cold War tensions, both militarily and morally, and it left deep scars on the American psyche as well as on Vietnamese soil.

The Vietnam War occurred as a result of a complex mixture of colonial legacies, nationalist movements, and Cold War ideological rivalries. Initially, it was rooted in Vietnam’s struggle to gain independence from French colonial rule. After the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu in 1954, the country was divided into North Vietnam, led by communist revolutionary Ho Chi Minh, and South Vietnam, which was backed by the United States and other Western allies. The North sought to unify the country under communism, while the South, with American support, aimed to resist this expansion. As the Cold War intensified, the United States escalated its involvement in the 1960s to prevent what it saw as the global spread of communism. The war raged for nearly two decades, causing immense destruction and loss of life. In the end, the United States withdrew in 1973 following the Paris Peace Accords, and in 1975, North Vietnamese forces captured Saigon, marking their victory and the unification of Vietnam under communist rule. Thus, North Vietnam emerged as the victor in a war that had started as a fight for independence but ended as a symbol of Cold War disillusionment.

The Vietnam War was one of the most costly and traumatic conflicts in American history, both in terms of human lives and financial expenditure. Over 58,000 American soldiers lost their lives, with more than 150,000 wounded and countless others suffering long-term psychological trauma, including what we now recognise as PTSD. The financial cost was staggering—by some estimates, the United States spent over $140 billion (equivalent to more than $1 trillion today when adjusted for inflation) on military operations, aid, and logistical support during the conflict. Yet, despite this enormous investment, the war ended in failure for the United States, as it failed to prevent the unification of Vietnam under communist rule. Beyond the battlefield, the war left deep scars on American society, triggering widespread anti-war protests, political disillusionment, and a loss of faith in government institutions.

“A Bright Shining Lie: John Paul Vann and America in Vietnam” by Neil Sheehan (1988, Random House), a Pulitzer Prize-winning work, offers a powerful narrative of the war through the real-life story of John Paul Vann, a U.S. military adviser who gradually became disillusioned with the American approach in Vietnam. The book doesn’t just recount battles—it explores the deep political miscalculations, cultural misunderstandings, and moral ambiguities that haunted America’s involvement. It’s both epic and intimate, and remains a landmark in Vietnam War literature.

Sheehan presents a scathing critique of the American strategy in Vietnam. He argues that the United States entered the conflict with a dangerously simplistic understanding of Vietnamese history, nationalism, and culture. American leaders believed they were containing communism, but in doing so, they ignored the deeply rooted anti-colonial aspirations of the Vietnamese people. Sheehan shows how U.S. officials applied a conventional military mindset—relying on body counts, firepower, and technology—to a fundamentally political and guerrilla war. This approach led to tragic miscalculations and prolonged the conflict unnecessarily. Through the story of John Paul Vann, Sheehan illustrates how some insiders recognised the flaws but were either ignored or silenced. The core of his argument is that America's failure in Vietnam was not due to lack of strength, but to arrogance, ignorance, and an unwillingness to see the war for what it truly was.

Sheehan delivers a deeply critical and haunting account of the Vietnam War through the lens of one man’s journey—John Paul Vann, a U.S. Army officer turned civilian adviser. Sheehan’s central narrative critiques the American war effort as fundamentally misguided, not just tactically, but morally and ideologically. Vann, once a believer in the mission, gradually becomes disillusioned with the corrupt South Vietnamese regime and the arrogant, data-driven approach of the American military, which obsessively counted enemy bodies but failed to understand the political and cultural terrain. Through Vann’s story, Sheehan exposes how American officials deceived both themselves and the public, painting illusions of progress while the reality on the ground worsened. The title itself, A Bright Shining Lie, reflects the tragic irony of a war dressed up in the language of freedom and democracy but driven by denial, hubris, and imperial delusion.

The Korean conflict, which erupted in 1950, was one of the first major military confrontations of the Cold War era. Following the end of World War II, Korea—previously under Japanese occupation—was abruptly divided along the 38th parallel: the North under Soviet influence, and the South under American administration. This division, intended as a temporary measure, quickly hardened into a tense ideological boundary. In June 1950, North Korean forces, backed by the Soviet Union and later supported by China, launched a surprise invasion of the South, aiming to unify the peninsula under communism. In response, the United States, operating under the banner of the United Nations, intervened to defend South Korea. The war escalated rapidly, with both sides pushing the front lines back and forth, resulting in a brutal stalemate. After three years of devastating combat and millions of casualties, an armistice was signed in 1953—yet no formal peace treaty followed. The Korean Peninsula remained divided, with a demilitarised zone separating the two Koreas, symbolising the unresolved tensions of the Cold War. The conflict illustrated how quickly local disputes could be engulfed by superpower rivalries, turning Korea into a bloody chessboard of global politics.

Korea was easily divided after World War II largely because it lacked a strong, independent state apparatus at the time of Japan’s surrender in 1945. For decades, Korea had been under brutal Japanese colonial rule, which had suppressed national institutions, dismantled indigenous leadership, and left the Korean Peninsula politically vulnerable. When Japan capitulated, there was no clear plan among the Allies for Korea’s future. In a hurried decision, American and Soviet officials agreed to divide the peninsula at the 38th parallel—more for logistical convenience than based on cultural or political realities. The division was supposed to be temporary, but as the Cold War intensified, both superpowers began establishing rival regimes in their respective zones: the Soviets backing a communist government in the North, and the Americans supporting a capitalist regime in the South. The deeper issue is that Korea became a pawn—its fate shaped not by its people, but by foreign powers pursuing ideological agendas. Understanding this division means recognising how quickly decolonisation could be hijacked by Cold War geopolitics, and how vulnerable nations—stripped of sovereignty—could be carved up by distant empires with little regard for the people who lived there.

“The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War” by David Halberstam (2007, Hyperion), a critically acclaimed work, offers a sweeping and deeply human account of the Korean War, focusing on both the military and political dimensions. Halberstam delves into the brutal conditions on the battlefield, the strategic blunders of American commanders, and the broader Cold War context that turned Korea into a tragic proving ground for ideological rivalry. He also explores the experiences of ordinary soldiers and the often-overlooked consequences the war had on Korean civilians. The book stands out for its narrative power, historical depth, and emotional insight—making it essential reading for anyone seeking to understand why Korea became such a volatile front line in the Cold War.

Halberstam explains why Korea became such a critical flashpoint during the Cold War. He explores how the Korean Peninsula, freshly liberated from Japanese colonial rule, found itself at the mercy of two emerging superpowers—America and the Soviet Union—each determined to shape the post-war world order according to their ideological blueprints. The book shows how Korea, lacking its own strong institutions after decades of occupation, was rapidly divided into North and South not by its own will, but by Cold War strategists. Halberstam reveals how this arbitrary division and the clash of global ideologies turned Korea into the first real battlefield of the Cold War. He details how the Truman administration saw the conflict as a test of American credibility in stopping communism, while China and the USSR viewed it as a frontline defence against capitalist encroachment. Through vivid storytelling and deep political analysis, Halberstam illustrates how Korea, a small nation, became the unlucky centre stage of a global ideological drama it never asked to star in.

The conflict in Afghanistan during the Cold War began in December 1979, when the Soviet Union launched a large-scale invasion to support the struggling communist government in Kabul, and officially ended with the Soviet withdrawal in February 1989. The background of this conflict lies in the Cold War rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union, as well as Afghanistan’s internal political turmoil. In 1978, a Marxist coup overthrew the Afghan government, leading to the formation of the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan, which attempted to impose radical reforms. These reforms, including land redistribution and secularisation, sparked fierce resistance from rural, religious, and tribal communities. As the government grew more unstable and violent, the Soviet Union intervened to prop it up. In response, the United States, along with Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, and others, covertly supported the Mujahideen—Afghan resistance fighters—through weapons, training, and funding. What followed was a bloody, decade-long proxy war that drained Soviet resources and morale, contributing to the eventual collapse of the USSR. The conflict devastated Afghanistan and left a power vacuum that later gave rise to the Taliban.

The United States, primarily through the CIA, became deeply involved in Afghanistan’s turmoil starting with the Soviet invasion in December 1979. Under Operation Cyclone, one of the longest and most expensive covert operations in CIA history, the U.S. funneled billions of dollars in weapons, training, and support to Afghan Mujahideen fighters. These insurgents were seen as a strategic tool to “bleed” the Soviet Union, forcing it into a prolonged and costly conflict—America’s way of giving the Soviets their own version of Vietnam. The CIA worked closely with Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI), which often redirected funds and arms to the most hardline Islamist factions. Among those who benefited from this pipeline was Osama bin Laden, a wealthy Saudi who used the chaos to build his own network, which later evolved into al-Qaeda. After the Soviets withdrew in 1989, the U.S. quickly lost interest in Afghanistan, leaving behind a fractured, war-torn country flooded with weapons and foreign fighters. This vacuum of power and neglect contributed to the rise of the Taliban in the 1990s and allowed extremist groups to flourish. By the eve of 9/11, the same environment the CIA had once helped shape had become the breeding ground for global jihadist terrorism.

“Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan, and Bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001” by Steve Coll (2004, Penguin Press), a Pulitzer Prize-winning book, is a deeply researched account of how the United States, particularly through the CIA, became entangled in Afghanistan’s affairs during the Soviet invasion and its aftermath. Coll traces the secret funding, political manoeuvring, and intelligence operations that turned Afghanistan into a battlefield of ideologies and foreign interests. The work provides detailed insight into how the Cold War shaped the rise of the Mujahideen, and how short-term alliances and covert strategies later came back to haunt the world. Ghost Wars isn’t just about the Soviets and the CIA—it’s a gripping narrative that reveals how Afghanistan’s fate was hijacked by distant powers playing a deadly game with devastating long-term consequences.

Steve Coll offers a meticulously researched and unsettling account of how the United States—especially through the CIA—became entangled in Afghanistan’s chaos from the Soviet invasion in 1979 up to the eve of the September 11 attacks. Coll shows that during the Cold War, the CIA viewed Afghanistan not as a nation in need of stability, but as a strategic chessboard on which to exhaust the Soviet Union. Through Operation Cyclone, the CIA channelled vast sums of money and arms to the Afghan Mujahideen, but it delegated much of the control to Pakistan’s ISI, which in turn favoured radical Islamist factions. This hands-off approach empowered warlords and extremists, including figures like Osama bin Laden, who operated with relative freedom in the region. After the Soviets withdrew in 1989, Coll reveals how the U.S. effectively disengaged from Afghanistan, ignoring the country’s collapse into civil war, the rise of the Taliban, and the growing influence of al-Qaeda. Throughout the 1990s, American officials were warned repeatedly about bin Laden’s ambitions, but Coll documents a pattern of inaction, missed opportunities, and bureaucratic paralysis. By the time the CIA took bin Laden seriously, it was too late—Afghanistan had already become the heartland of global jihad, shaped in part by years of U.S. involvement that lacked vision, consistency, or long-term commitment.

Coll reveals how secret funding, intelligence operations, and shadow politics transformed Afghanistan from a remote, mountainous nation into one of the most explosive ideological battlegrounds of the Cold War—and beyond. The United States, through the CIA, funnelled billions of dollars into arming and training the Afghan Mujahideen to fight the Soviets. But this wasn't just about helping Afghanistan—it was about humiliating the USSR. The Americans outsourced much of this operation to Pakistan’s ISI, which had its own Islamist agenda. As a result, the most radical factions received the bulk of the weapons and cash. These covert strategies, driven by short-term goals and geopolitical pride, ignored the long-term consequences: they empowered warlords, fractured Afghan society, and helped give rise to a culture of militancy that would outlast the Cold War. According to Coll, this web of backroom deals and denial created a toxic environment where ideology trumped humanity, and proxy warfare became a reckless game played over Afghan lives. Afghanistan, he argues, became less a nation and more a sandbox for superpowers to test their ideological toys—until those toys exploded in everyone’s face.

Coll explains that the Mujahideen were not a single unified force but rather a loose network of Afghan resistance groups—many deeply religious, some fiercely tribal—who opposed the Soviet occupation. With the backing of the CIA, billions of dollars’ worth of weapons, including Stinger missiles, were channelled to these fighters through Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI). However, instead of distributing the support evenly or strategically, the ISI favoured the most hardline Islamist factions, particularly those aligned with its own regional goals. The United States, obsessed with defeating the Soviets, took a hands-off approach—focusing on quantity over quality, pouring in arms without much oversight or concern for who was actually receiving them. As a result, warlords and jihadist ideologues gained immense power. Once the Soviets withdrew in 1989, these fighters, now heavily armed and battle-hardened, turned on each other and on any attempt to stabilise the country. America, having achieved its goal of draining Soviet strength, quickly lost interest and walked away—leaving Afghanistan in chaos. This abandonment, Coll argues, created a dangerous vacuum that gave rise to the Taliban and allowed figures like Osama bin Laden to flourish unchecked.

The central message of Ghost Wars by Steve Coll is that the United States, in its pursuit of short-term geopolitical victories during the Cold War, sowed the seeds of long-term instability by engaging in covert operations without fully understanding or controlling their consequences. Coll argues that America's obsession with defeating the Soviet Union in Afghanistan blinded it to the deeper cultural, religious, and tribal complexities of the region. By funding and arming extremist groups through intermediaries like Pakistan’s ISI, the U.S. inadvertently empowered radical elements that would later pose a global threat. Furthermore, once the Cold War goal was achieved, America disengaged and turned its back on Afghanistan, leaving a fractured nation in chaos. This strategic neglect allowed the Taliban to rise and al-Qaeda to embed itself deeply in Afghan territory. Coll’s broader warning is clear: when powerful nations treat smaller countries as pawns in a global game, without investing in long-term peace and understanding, the blowback can be catastrophic—not just for the region, but for the world.

Numerous wars and conflicts erupted across the globe during the Cold War, many of which were shaped or fuelled by the ideological rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union. These superpowers rarely fought each other directly, but they supported opposing sides in so-called “proxy wars” in Asia, Africa, Latin America, and the Middle East. In Angola, for instance, a brutal civil war began in 1975, with the Soviet Union and Cuba backing one faction, while the United States and apartheid-era South Africa supported another. In Latin America, U.S.-backed regimes and right-wing militias clashed violently with leftist insurgencies, most notably in Nicaragua and El Salvador. The Middle East saw repeated flare-ups, including the Arab-Israeli conflicts and the Iran-Iraq War, with both sides receiving support from global powers depending on shifting alliances. These wars were rarely about local issues alone—they were infused with Cold War logic, turning regional tensions into dangerous flashpoints on a global chessboard.

One of the most enduring lessons of the Cold War is that when powerful nations prioritise ideological dominance over genuine self-determination, the sovereignty of smaller nations is often compromised. Throughout the Cold War, many countries in Asia, Africa, and Latin America gained formal independence from colonial powers, only to find themselves caught in a new kind of struggle—this time not for freedom from empire, but for survival amidst superpower rivalries. Instead of being allowed to shape their own futures, these nations were often coerced, bribed, or manipulated into aligning with one bloc or the other. The Cold War teaches us that true independence is not simply the lowering of one flag and the raising of another—it is the ability of a people to define their own destiny without external interference. Nations must be vigilant, not just in throwing off old chains, but in recognising when new ones are quietly being slipped on in the name of “aid,” “security,” or “development.”

The independence of a nation, once earned through sacrifice and struggle, must never be squandered in the pursuit of profit. When a country trades its sovereignty for temporary economic gain, it risks becoming a servant in its own house, dancing to the tune of foreign interests. True independence is not only won on the battlefield or at the negotiation table—it is defended daily through integrity, vigilance, and self-respect. And once that independence is lost—whether through military occupation, debt dependency, or political manipulation—reclaiming it is far more difficult than winning it the first time. A nation that forgets the value of its freedom may wake up one day to find it has sold its soul for a fleeting fortune.

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One of the most peculiar and fascinating anecdotes from the Cold War era involves the 1975 Apollo-Soyuz Test Project, a joint space mission between the United States and the Soviet Union. At the height of the Cold War—a time marked by espionage, nuclear brinkmanship, and ideological hostility—two enemy superpowers decided, against all odds, to meet in space.

On 17 July 1975, American astronauts and Soviet cosmonauts docked their spacecraft in orbit, shook hands through a hatch, exchanged gifts (including a tree seedling and commemorative medals), and conducted joint experiments. The handshake in space was broadcast live, symbolising a brief thaw in relations known as "détente." What made it so extraordinary was that while both nations were still spying on each other and arming to the teeth, they managed to share oxygen, data, and even jokes beyond Earth’s atmosphere.

One Soviet engineer famously remarked, “It’s easier to cooperate in orbit than on Earth,” highlighting the absurdity of Cold War politics—where nations would rather risk mutual annihilation on the ground than admit shared humanity in space.

The Cold War was not a conventional war marked by soldiers clashing on battlefields, but rather a prolonged period of geopolitical tension and ideological rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union, lasting roughly from the end of World War II in 1945 to the early 1990s. It was called "cold" because it never escalated into a direct, full-scale military conflict between the two superpowers. Instead, it unfolded through proxy wars, nuclear arms races, espionage, propaganda, and political manoeuvring across nearly every continent.

Each side championed a contrasting vision of the world: the United States promoted capitalism and liberal democracy, while the Soviet Union propagated communism and a centrally planned economy. Nations were drawn into this polarised struggle, often having to choose sides or suffer consequences. The Cold War created massive military build-ups, the threat of nuclear annihilation, and cultural divides that shaped everything from international alliances to Olympic rivalries and Hollywood films.

What made it especially bizarre was how ordinary life went on under the shadow of global destruction. Children in American schools practised "duck and cover" drills as if hiding under a desk could save them from a nuclear bomb. Meanwhile, Soviet citizens queued for bread while their government bragged about building missiles that could reach New York in minutes.

The Cold War emerged in the aftermath of World War II, not because of territorial disputes or traditional military ambitions, but due to deep ideological, political, and economic differences between the United States and the Soviet Union. These two superpowers, once uneasy allies against Nazi Germany, quickly became bitter rivals once the common enemy was defeated. The Americans viewed communism as a threat to freedom, individual rights, and capitalism, while the Soviets saw Western liberal democracy as exploitative, imperialistic, and dangerously destabilising.

It was called the "Cold" War because it lacked the direct military confrontations that define traditional wars. Instead, it played out through psychological warfare, propaganda, covert operations, espionage, and proxy wars—conflicts in other countries where each superpower supported opposing sides. This war was about influence, ideology, and domination of global systems, fought in parliaments, classrooms, movie theatres, and even outer space.

What made it chilling was not just the name. The constant threat of nuclear war—of mutually assured destruction—hung over the world like a mushroom cloud. This wasn’t a war with bullets and bombs on the frontlines, but with spies, secrets, and a terrifying sense that one wrong move could end civilisation itself.

The Cold War did not occur in a single location like traditional wars—it was a global conflict of influence that touched almost every corner of the world. It began shortly after the end of World War II, around 1947, and lasted until the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. Rather than open battles between armies, the Cold War was fought through proxy wars, economic pressure, propaganda campaigns, espionage, and technological competition.

The main players were the United States, leading the Western bloc—which included Western European countries like the United Kingdom, France, West Germany, Italy, Canada, Japan, and members of NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization)—versus the Soviet Union, leading the Eastern bloc, which included communist allies like East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, Cuba, North Korea, North Vietnam, and China (until the Sino-Soviet split in the 1960s).

The background of the Cold War lies in ideological conflict. The US promoted capitalism and liberal democracy, while the USSR pushed for communism and a centrally planned economy. After WWII, both superpowers emerged as dominant global forces and began vying for influence over decolonising nations, global trade routes, military alliances, and technological prestige (like the Space Race).

The Cold War ended in 1991, largely due to the internal collapse of the Soviet Union. Factors included economic stagnation, the failed war in Afghanistan, widespread public dissatisfaction, and the reformist policies of Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, including glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring). These reforms weakened the USSR’s grip over its satellite states, led to the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, and eventually dismantled the Soviet Union itself.

The dramatic collapse of the Soviet Union, a colossal political entity that once spanned a vast swathe of the globe, was a multifaceted process driven by a confluence of internal weaknesses and external pressures. By the late 1980s, the centrally planned Soviet economy was in dire straits, struggling to keep pace with Western technological advancements and facing widespread shortages of consumer goods, which led to deep public dissatisfaction. The costly and protracted war in Afghanistan had further drained resources and morale, exposing the limitations of Soviet military power.

Mikhail Gorbachev, who ascended to power in 1985, attempted to revitalise the ailing system through his policies of Glasnost (openness) and Perestroika (restructuring). While these reforms aimed to introduce a degree of political and economic liberalisation, they inadvertently unleashed forces that ultimately accelerated the Union's demise. Greater transparency allowed for public criticism of the Communist Party's failings, and the economic reforms, rather than stimulating growth, often exacerbated existing problems, leading to further social unrest.

Crucially, Gorbachev's loosening grip on the satellite states in Eastern Europe emboldened nationalist movements within the various Soviet republics. These republics, many of which had distinct ethnic and cultural identities, began to assert their sovereignty, demanding greater autonomy or outright independence from Moscow. The failed August 1991 coup attempt by hardline communists, intended to reverse Gorbachev's reforms and restore central control, proved to be the final nail in the coffin. The coup was swiftly thwarted, largely due to the popular resistance led by Boris Yeltsin, then President of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic. This event significantly undermined Gorbachev's authority and cemented the shift of power towards the republics.

Following the coup's collapse, a domino effect of independence declarations swept through the remaining republics. On 8 December 1991, the leaders of Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus signed the Belovezha Accords, effectively declaring the Soviet Union defunct and establishing the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). This act formally marked the end of the USSR. On 25 December 1991, Mikhail Gorbachev resigned as President, and the Soviet flag was lowered from the Kremlin for the final time, replaced by the Russian tricolour. The following day, the Soviet of the Republics, the upper chamber of the Supreme Soviet, officially dissolved the Union. From the ashes of the Soviet Union emerged 15 independent nations, with the Russian Federation, under Yeltsin's leadership, becoming the primary successor state and inheriting much of the former superpower's territory, diplomatic standing, and nuclear arsenal.

Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in December 1991, fifteen new independent states emerged from its vast territory. These nations, each with its own unique history and aspirations, were: Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belarus, Estonia, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Latvia, Lithuania, Moldova, Russia, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Ukraine, and Uzbekistan.

According to The Cold War: A New History by John Lewis Gaddis (2005, Penguin Press), ideas, leaders, and ideologies were not mere background elements—they were the engines that drove the Cold War forward and made it one of the most perilous chapters in modern history. Gaddis, often referred to as the "dean of Cold War historians," argues that the Cold War wasn’t just about territory or economics; it was a grand clash of visions about how the world should be organised. On one side stood the liberal democratic ideal of freedom, markets, and individual rights, promoted by the United States. On the other was the Marxist-Leninist vision of a classless society controlled by a vanguard party, enforced by the Soviet Union.

Leaders like Joseph Stalin, Harry Truman, John F. Kennedy, Nikita Khrushchev, and later Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev, each played out these ideologies on the global stage—not just with military or economic power, but with words, symbolism, and calculated postures. Gaddis shows how personalities influenced history: Stalin’s paranoia intensified repression; Kennedy’s charisma redefined diplomacy; Reagan’s rhetoric of “evil empire” reignited tensions, while Gorbachev’s openness ironically dismantled the system he tried to save.

The Cold War mattered profoundly because it was not merely a competition between two powerful nations, but a struggle over the fate of the entire world—a battle of ideologies that determined how billions of people would live, work, and think for nearly half a century. Gaddis emphasises that the Cold War was the first global conflict in which human extinction became a real possibility—not because of traditional warfare, but because of the sheer destructive power of nuclear weapons.

The world came dangerously close to nuclear catastrophe on multiple occasions, the most famous being the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962. Gaddis explains that this 13-day standoff between the United States and the Soviet Union brought the planet to the very edge of annihilation. Soviet nuclear missiles were stationed in Cuba, just 90 miles from the American coast. The U.S. responded with a naval blockade and full military alert. One misstep, one misunderstood signal, could have triggered a nuclear exchange with devastating consequences.

Gaddis underlines how fortunate the world was that restraint—however fragile—prevailed. He credits a combination of leadership, luck, and communication for saving humanity from disaster. The Cold War, in his analysis, is not just a historical episode, but a cautionary tale: it reminds us that when ideology blinds reason, and when fear drives policy, the world teeters on the edge of destruction.

In Gaddis’ view, it was not inevitability, but choice, that shaped the Cold War. Leaders had agency, ideas had consequences, and ideologies turned into battlegrounds not only on land, but in the hearts and minds of people. The Cold War was dangerous not because missiles were launched, but because they could have been, had the ideas that justified their existence spiralled out of control.

In Iron Curtain: The Crushing of Eastern Europe, 1944–1956 (2012, Allen Lane), Anne Applebaum meticulously documents how the Soviet Union imposed totalitarian control over Eastern European countries in the aftermath of World War II. Drawing on previously secret archives, testimonies, and memoirs, Applebaum exposes a systematic, multi-layered strategy designed to eliminate dissent and erase the possibility of independent thought.

She reveals how the Soviets began by taking over radio stations, newspapers, schools, and youth organisations—essentially seizing control of every institution that shaped public opinion. Free press was suffocated, education was rewritten to glorify Stalin and communism, and organisations like the Young Pioneers were used to indoctrinate children from an early age. Political opponents were harassed, arrested, or simply disappeared. Show trials were staged not to deliver justice, but to intimidate society into submission.

Applebaum also describes how fear was weaponised. Secret police infiltrated neighbourhoods, workplaces, and even families, creating a culture of suspicion and silence. People turned on each other not just out of loyalty to the regime, but out of fear of being reported. This wasn't just a political takeover—it was a psychological occupation of everyday life. She makes clear that this wasn’t accidental or chaotic; it was coldly calculated and brutally efficient.

Through Iron Curtain, Applebaum illustrates that totalitarianism doesn’t arrive overnight with tanks, but rather creeps in by erasing the ability to think freely, communicate honestly, and trust one another.

While the Cold War demonstrated how geopolitical rivalries could reshape the world without direct military confrontation, it also reminded us that the threat of war—especially nuclear war—was always present, looming just beneath the surface of diplomacy and ideology. This raises an essential question: what, exactly, is war, and how should it be understood? To answer this, we must turn from the global chessboard of Cold War politics to the timeless battlefield of military theory, where thinkers like Carl von Clausewitz offer foundational insights. His exploration of the principles of war helps us grasp not just how wars are fought, but why they occur, how they escalate, and what makes them succeed or fail.

Principles of War by Carl von Clausewitz, is a concise summary of his larger and more famous work, On War. Though written in the early 19th century, its ideas remain profoundly influential in both military strategy and political philosophy. In this shorter manual, Clausewitz presents basic but enduring truths about the nature and purpose of war, distilling his more complex theories into accessible principles for military students and practitioners.

At its core, the book explains that war is not an isolated act, but rather an extension of politics by other means. Clausewitz argues that warfare should always be guided by political objectives—without a clear purpose, military action is senseless and destructive. He warns against glorifying war as heroic or romantic, insisting instead that it is a dangerous, chaotic, and unpredictable instrument of policy.

Among the key ideas in Principles of War is the importance of moral forces—such as courage, leadership, discipline, and public opinion—which Clausewitz believes are just as decisive as numbers and firepower. He also stresses the need for flexibility: while planning is essential, no strategy survives first contact with the enemy. Therefore, successful commanders must adapt rapidly to changing circumstances.

Although Principles of War is far more straightforward than On War, it retains Clausewitz’s profound message: that war is a deeply human endeavour, governed not only by reason, but by fear, chance, emotion, and uncertainty. It’s not a mechanical science—it’s an art of judgement in the face of chaos.

Unlike his more philosophical and expansive work On War, this shorter text was written specifically for military instruction and outlines practical guidelines that a commander should follow. Clausewitz doesn’t lay them out as a rigid list like commandments, but rather as interconnected elements that reflect how war functions in reality.

In the realm of warfare, several core tenets underpin effective military strategy. Foremost among these is the primacy of political purpose, underscoring that conflict must invariably be a servant to a political objective. Without a clearly defined political aim, military endeavours risk becoming reckless and devoid of direction.

Another crucial principle is the concentration of force, which dictates that triumph often hinges on marshalling superior strength at pivotal points rather than dissipating resources thinly across a wide area. This is closely linked to the need for simplicity and clarity in planning and execution; intricate plans frequently unravel amidst the chaos of battle, making straightforward, adaptable strategies far more effective.

Furthermore, one must never underestimate the moral and psychological dimension of war. Elements such as astute leadership, unyielding courage, prevailing public opinion, and the morale of the troops themselves wield a profound influence, frequently outweighing sheer material strength. This is compounded by the inherent unpredictability of war, often referred to as 'friction'. No battle plan, however meticulously crafted, truly survives contact with the adversary. Consequently, adaptability and sound judgement under duress prove far more valuable than strict adherence to rigid doctrine.

Finally, while a defensive posture may offer inherent strength, initiative and offensive action are typically indispensable for securing a lasting victory. Seizing the opportune moment to take the offensive is often the decisive factor.

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One of the most poignant anecdotes from World War I is the famous Christmas Truce of 1914. In the bleak and brutal trenches of the Western Front, something extraordinary happened. British and German soldiers, entrenched in the mud and misery of war, spontaneously declared an unofficial ceasefire on Christmas Eve. As night fell, the sound of gunfire was replaced by the haunting melody of Stille Nacht ("Silent Night") sung in German. The British responded with their own carols. By Christmas morning, soldiers emerged from their trenches—not with weapons, but with gifts, smiles, and handshakes. They exchanged chocolates, cigarettes, and buttons. There are even accounts of an impromptu football match played between the two sides in No Man’s Land. Though short-lived, this human moment stood in stark contrast to the mechanised horror of the war.

And one striking anecdote for World War II comes from the story of Hiroo Onoda, a Japanese intelligence officer who refused to believe the war had ended. Stationed in the Philippines, Onoda continued his guerrilla campaign for nearly 30 years after the official Japanese surrender in 1945. Living in the jungle, he believed leaflets announcing the end of the war were Allied propaganda. It wasn’t until 1974—after his former commanding officer personally flew to the island to relieve him of duty—that Onoda finally surrendered. His unwavering dedication, though tragic in hindsight, is both fascinating and deeply symbolic of the psychological cost of war.

World War I (1914–1918) shattered the old European order. Empires such as the Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, Russian, and German collapsed. The war did not merely kill millions—it created the conditions for fascism, revolution, and the modern nation-state system. In The Sleepwalkers: How Europe Went to War in 1914 by a historian, Christopher Clark (2012, Allen Lane), shows how political miscalculations and alliances turned a regional crisis into global cataclysm. Here, war didn’t just shape history—it fractured it.

Clark argues that the outbreak of the First World War was not the result of a single nation's grand design or overwhelming aggression, but rather the consequence of a series of reckless decisions made by political and military elites across Europe. These elites, according to Clark, acted like "sleepwalkers"—not fully aware of the magnitude of the catastrophe they were about to unleash, yet proceeding with alarming confidence, as if blind to the looming disaster.

Clark's metaphor of "playing with fire" describes the way these leaders toyed with volatile alliances, military plans, and nationalist sentiments, assuming they could control or contain the risks. Instead, their overconfidence, misjudgments, and diplomatic brinkmanship turned Europe into a ticking time bomb. When the spark came in the form of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo, the continent exploded—plunged into a war whose scale and horror none had truly anticipated.

Rather than pinning blame squarely on Germany or any other single nation, Clark emphasises the complex web of causes: the rigid alliance systems, imperial ambitions, ethnic tensions in the Balkans, the arms race, and a fatalist belief among many leaders that war was inevitable or even necessary. The decision-makers, in his view, were not evil masterminds, but men caught in a structure of power, pride, and panic. They stumbled into war, believing they were defending their honour or national interest, but in fact they were guiding the world into a catastrophe of unprecedented proportions.

In A History of the First World War by B. H. Liddell Hart, the renowned British military historian presents a comprehensive and critical narrative of the Great War, highlighting not just the battles and military strategies, but also the political decisions, human errors, and systemic flaws that shaped the course of the conflict. Liddell Hart, writing with the insight of a former soldier and strategist, argues that the war was not only tragically wasteful in terms of human life but also strategically misguided, prolonged by outdated doctrines and the stubbornness of commanders unwilling to adapt.

One of Liddell Hart's central themes is the futility of attritional warfare, particularly on the Western Front, where millions perished in trench warfare with little strategic gain. He is especially critical of generals like Haig and Joffre, whom he views as inflexible and overly committed to frontal assaults, rather than embracing manoeuvre-based strategies that could have shortened the war and saved lives. He praises commanders who sought innovative approaches, such as General Allenby in Palestine, and he advocates for the so-called "indirect approach" in warfare—an idea that became a hallmark of his military philosophy.

Liddell Hart also pays significant attention to the Eastern Front, the collapse of empires, and the political upheavals that followed, including the Bolshevik Revolution and the reshaping of Europe after 1918. He contends that the Treaty of Versailles sowed the seeds of future conflict, arguing that its harsh terms and vindictive spirit created fertile ground for the rise of extremism in Germany.

In his work, Hart provides a damning assessment of how the war was conducted, arguing that it was largely characterised by unimaginative and rigid military thinking. He asserts that most of the senior commanders, particularly on the Western Front, relied far too heavily on frontal assaults and attritional warfare—a strategy that led to staggering casualties for negligible territorial gains. To Hart, this revealed a dangerous obsession with outdated 19th-century concepts of honour, mass, and brute force, instead of adapting to the technological and logistical realities of modern warfare.

Hart argues that the war might have been waged more wisely through what he calls the "indirect approach"—a doctrine based on movement, deception, flexibility, and striking at the enemy’s weak points rather than hammering directly at their strongest defences. He praises commanders who applied this method, such as Allenby in the Middle East, who used manoeuvre warfare effectively to outflank and disorient Ottoman forces. Hart believes that, had more generals adopted this approach, the war could have been significantly shorter and far less bloody.

He also critiques the failure of political leaders and military planners to coordinate better, to learn from early blunders, and to adapt quickly to new realities such as trench warfare, machine guns, and chemical weapons. For Hart, the war became a prolonged disaster because of institutional inertia and a leadership culture more focused on maintaining prestige than preserving life or seeking victory through ingenuity.

Ultimately, the book is not merely a chronicle of battles but a powerful critique of how war was conducted and how it might have been waged more wisely. Liddell Hart seeks to draw lessons from the failures of World War I so that future generations might avoid repeating them.

In The First World War (1998, Hutchinson), military historian John Keegan presents a sweeping yet accessible account of the Great War, blending operational detail with human insight. Unlike some historians who dwell heavily on diplomacy or assign primary blame to one nation, Keegan takes a broader and more humane approach, portraying the war as a tragedy of miscalculation, misunderstanding, and missed opportunities. He challenges the notion that the war was inevitable, arguing instead that it was the product of flawed decisions, inadequate leadership, and deeply ingrained military doctrines that failed to keep pace with the technology of the age.

Keegan is especially concerned with the human experience of war. He delves into the lives of soldiers in the trenches, the futility of their suffering, and the psychological toll of mechanised slaughter. His narrative does not glorify battles; instead, he lays bare their chaotic, often pointless brutality. While he analyses the strategic dimensions of the conflict, Keegan is sceptical of the rigid command structures and outdated ideas that led to mass casualties and long stalemates—particularly on the Western Front.

Though not as scathing as B. H. Liddell Hart, Keegan still critiques military leaders who lacked imagination or adaptability. However, he also acknowledges the immense pressure and uncertainty under which they operated. His analysis seeks to humanise the war, to understand how millions of people endured its horrors, and to convey how such a monumental conflict reshaped the modern world—politically, culturally, and morally.

The World War I published by Dorling Kindersley (DK)—part of their renowned illustrated history series—is sending a message that World War I was a total war that reshaped the modern world in every dimension: politically, socially, culturally, and technologically. It highlights the devastating human cost of industrialised warfare, the transformation of societies under the pressure of total mobilisation, and the way in which the war redrew borders and ideologies. Through a wide range of individual stories, from soldiers and nurses to factory workers and generals, the book stresses that this was not simply a clash of empires, but a deeply personal and human tragedy experienced on a global scale.

World War I was not just a prelude to World War II, but a colossal event in its own right—a rupture in history that shattered old orders and planted the seeds of many of the twentieth century’s greatest challenges, from nationalism to revolution to mechanised destruction. By blending historical analysis with personal testimony and visual storytelling, the book urges readers to remember the war not as a distant conflict, but as a cautionary tale about what happens when ambition, fear, and technology collide without foresight.

World War II (1939–1945) restructured the world entirely. It gave rise to the United Nations, ushered in the Cold War, accelerated decolonisation, and triggered the creation of institutions like the World Bank and the IMF. The atomic bomb changed the logic of war itself. As Ian Kershaw outlines in To Hell and Back: Europe 1914–1949 (2015, Allen Lane), war during this period was not only about territory but about ideologies: fascism, communism, and liberal democracy locked in a brutal clash for survival.

Sir Ian Kershaw masterfully illustrates how the clash between fascism, communism, and liberal democracy formed the brutal core of Europe’s twentieth-century catastrophe. He does not simply recount events; rather, he frames the Second World War as the culmination of a long, harrowing struggle between these ideologies—each vying for dominance in a continent shaken by economic despair, national humiliation, and the collapse of old certainties after the First World War.

Communism as a political and economic ideology formally emerged in the 19th century, during the height of the Industrial Revolution, though its philosophical foundations can be traced to earlier concepts of shared property and classless societies. The modern theory of communism was most famously articulated by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in The Communist Manifesto, published in 1848, amid widespread social unrest and revolutionary movements across Europe.

The backdrop to its emergence was a rapidly changing world marked by the rise of capitalism, urbanisation, and a stark division between the bourgeoisie — the owners of production — and the proletariat — the working class. Industrialisation brought immense wealth to factory owners while subjecting workers to miserable conditions, long hours, and poverty. Marx and Engels argued that this system was inherently exploitative and would inevitably lead to class conflict. They envisioned a society where the workers would rise, overthrow the capitalist class, abolish private property, and create a classless, stateless society where wealth and power were shared collectively.

Communism gained traction throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries, especially among the working class in Europe. Its most dramatic realisation came in the Russian Revolution of 1917, when Vladimir Lenin and the Bolsheviks overthrew the Tsarist regime and established the first communist state — the Soviet Union. This event gave communism not just theoretical weight but geopolitical power.

Communism emerged as both a critique of industrial capitalism and a revolutionary call to restructure society entirely—one that promised equality but often delivered authoritarian rule when implemented. Communist regimes in the 20th century, while claiming to fight for equality and justice, were responsible for a number of mass killings and brutal repressions in the name of ideological purity, political control, and economic transformation. These massacres occurred in several countries where communism was established as the ruling system, often under authoritarian leadership.

In the Soviet Union under Joseph Stalin, millions perished during the Great Purge (1936–1938), where perceived political enemies were arrested, executed, or sent to gulags. An earlier catastrophe, the Holodomor (1932–1933), a man-made famine in Soviet Ukraine, resulted in millions of deaths due to forced collectivisation policies.

In China, Mao Zedong's rule witnessed the Great Leap Forward (1958–1962), a disastrous campaign to industrialise the countryside, which led to one of the deadliest famines in human history, killing an estimated 15–45 million people. This was followed by the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), where intellectuals, religious figures, and anyone deemed “counter-revolutionary” were persecuted, often violently.

Cambodia under Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge (1975–1979) is one of the most notorious examples. In pursuit of an agrarian utopia, they emptied cities, abolished money, and executed intellectuals, teachers, and even people wearing glasses. Nearly two million Cambodians — a quarter of the population — died from execution, starvation, or forced labour.

Similar violence occurred in North Korea, Ethiopia under the Derg regime, Vietnam, and parts of Eastern Europe. These acts were often justified as necessary sacrifices to build a “classless” or “utopian” society, but they resulted in unimaginable suffering and authoritarian rule.

But why is the suppression of G 30 S PKI in Indonesia called a human rights violation even though they (the PKI) rebelled and killed ordinary people?

The suppression of the G30S PKI (Gestapu) in Indonesia is considered by some to be a human rights violation, despite the communist party's rebellion and the killings of ordinary citizens, primarily due to the extrajudicial nature of the killings and detentions that followed. While the PKI's actions were undeniably brutal and sparked widespread fear, the subsequent reprisal involved mass killings, often without trial or due process, of alleged communists and their sympathizers. Estimates of the death toll vary widely, but many sources suggest hundreds of thousands were killed, with countless others imprisoned and subjected to torture. This scale of retribution, targeting not only active participants in the coup but also those merely suspected of affiliation, is what raises concerns about human rights abuses. Furthermore, the long-term stigmatisation and discrimination against former political prisoners and their families are also considered significant human rights issues. The argument that communism is a dangerous ideology, and therefore its suppression was justified, is a complex one. While many viewed communism as a threat, particularly during the Cold War era, the principle of human rights dictates that even in the face of perceived threats, the state must adhere to legal and ethical standards. The question of whether the government and people were wrong to suppress the PKI is therefore debated, with some arguing that the ends justified the means given the perceived existential threat, while others contend that the methods employed constituted grave human rights violations, regardless of the ideological context.

However, there is an arguable "right side" to the suppression of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) in 1965. The primary justification often put forth is that the PKI posed a significant and immediate threat to the Indonesian state and its chosen ideology of Pancasila. The attempted coup on September 30, 1965, known as the G30S, involved the brutal murder of several high-ranking army generals. This act was widely perceived as a direct challenge to the legitimate government and an attempt to fundamentally alter the nation's political and social fabric, potentially leading Indonesia towards a communist system.

At the time, the Cold War was at its peak, and communism was viewed globally, particularly by Western powers and many non-aligned nations, as an expansionist and inherently totalitarian ideology. Within Indonesia, the PKI had grown significantly in strength, leading to concerns among religious groups, conservative elements, and the military about its increasing influence and potential for a communist takeover. Therefore, from the perspective of those who believed in the imperative to protect the existing state order, Pancasila, and prevent a communist revolution, the decisive action taken to dismantle the PKI was seen as a necessary evil or even a justifiable act of self-preservation. They would argue that had the PKI succeeded, Indonesia might have faced a different, potentially more repressive, future under a communist regime, similar to what occurred in other parts of the world. The suppression, in this view, prevented a larger catastrophe and preserved the nation's independence and chosen path.

That old adage, "You can't please everyone," certainly applies to the historical debate surrounding the suppression of the G30S PKI. While there are undeniable arguments from some quarters that the actions taken constituted human rights violations, it is equally important to acknowledge that the Indonesian nation, at that critical juncture, had its own profound considerations and justifications for decisively quelling the perceived brutality of the PKI. Therefore, from this perspective, one cannot simply condemn Indonesia's actions in their entirety. The true failing, in this view, lies with those who uncritically surrender to external narratives and passively accept the blanket assertion that the eradication of the G30S PKI was a violation of human rights, without considering the complex domestic context and the existential threat felt by the nation at the time.

Fascism emerged in the early 20th century, specifically after the First World War, as a reaction to the perceived failures of liberal democracy, socialism, and the chaos that followed the war’s devastation. Its intellectual roots can be traced to the late 19th century, when thinkers such as Georges Sorel and Friedrich Nietzsche questioned Enlightenment ideals of reason, equality, and progress. However, fascism as a political movement first crystallised in Italy under Benito Mussolini, who founded the Fasci di Combattimento in 1919, which later evolved into the National Fascist Party.

The background to its rise was a Europe left traumatised by the Great War, with economies in ruins, class conflict escalating, and a widespread fear of communism following the Russian Revolution of 1917. Many people lost faith in the ability of parliaments and liberal governments to restore order and national pride. Fascism offered a new vision — one that promised unity, strength, and a return to greatness, but through authoritarianism, ultranationalism, and often brutal suppression of dissent.

Mussolini’s fascism glorified the state, militarism, and the supremacy of the nation over the individual. It was anti-communist, anti-liberal, and sought to mobilise the masses not through democratic engagement, but through spectacle, propaganda, and violence. This model later inspired Adolf Hitler and the Nazis in Germany, giving fascism its most infamous form.

So, in essence, fascism was born out of disillusionment — a mix of broken dreams, angry veterans, economic instability, and a thirst for a “strong hand” to bring order to a fragmented world.

The term fascism comes from the Italian word fascio, meaning a bundle or group. It originates from the Latin fasces, which referred to a bundle of rods tied around an axe — a symbol of authority and unity used in ancient Rome. Benito Mussolini, the founder of Italian Fascism, adopted this term to symbolise strength through unity: just as a single rod can be broken easily, a bundle is far stronger. Thus, fascism was named to reflect its core belief in national unity, authoritarian rule, and the subordination of the individual to the state.

Meanwhile, communism derives from the Latin communis, meaning "common" or "shared." The name reflects the ideology’s foundational principle: the abolition of private property and the establishment of a classless, stateless society where resources and production are owned collectively by the people. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels used the term in The Communist Manifesto (1848) to describe a political movement that aimed to replace capitalism with a system based on common ownership and the communal good.

So, the names are not arbitrary. “Fascism” emphasises unity through force and obedience, while “communism” focuses on common ownership and class equality — at least in theory. Both names reflect their creators’ core ideals, though in practice, they often strayed far from them.

According to Kershaw, fascism rose in places like Germany and Italy as a reaction to both the perceived chaos of liberal democracy and the threat of Bolshevism. Fascist leaders such as Mussolini and Hitler promised order, national glory, and ethnic purity, capitalising on fear and resentment. Meanwhile, communism, rooted in the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, aimed to dismantle the capitalist world system and establish a classless society through revolutionary means—often enforced with totalitarian ruthlessness. Liberal democracies, such as Britain and France, clung to a fragile idealism but were often slow to respond, divided internally and haunted by the trauma of the First World War.

World War II, then, was not merely a conflict between nations, but a lethal contest of incompatible worldviews. Kershaw emphasises that the war’s devastation was intensified by the ideological fervour that drove it: Nazi Germany’s genocidal racism, Stalin’s paranoid purges, and the Allies’ hesitant but eventual resolve to defend a liberal order. Ultimately, the defeat of fascism in 1945 left liberal democracy and communism to vie for supremacy in the post-war world—a contest that would define the Cold War era.

In The Origins of the Second World War (1961, Hamish Hamilton), British historian A. J. P. Taylor offers a highly provocative reinterpretation of the causes of the Second World War. He rejects the traditional view that the war was the product of an evil masterplan carefully orchestrated by Adolf Hitler from the very beginning. Instead, Taylor presents a far more nuanced — and controversial — argument: that the war resulted from a sequence of misjudgements, diplomatic failures, and structural weaknesses within the European political order after World War I.

Taylor suggests that Hitler was not a uniquely demonic figure bent on global conquest from the outset, but a German nationalist who operated within the same parameters of power politics as other leaders. Hitler’s ambitions, in Taylor’s view, were not dramatically different from those of previous German statesmen, and his actions were often reactive and opportunistic. The Treaty of Versailles had left Germany humiliated and economically strangled, and the international community — especially Britain and France — failed to create a stable and just order to replace it.

Taylor also blames the appeasement policy of the 1930s, arguing that it wasn’t simply weakness or cowardice, but a logical response to a misunderstood situation. By continually making concessions to Germany — most notably in allowing the annexation of Austria and the Sudetenland — Britain and France emboldened Hitler rather than containing him. They assumed he could be managed like any other statesman, not recognising the ideological nature of Nazism until it was too late.

Thus, in Taylor’s telling, the Second World War was not inevitable. It was the tragic outcome of diplomatic missteps, flawed assumptions, and an international system that had already been deeply broken by the aftermath of the First World War.

B. H. Liddell Hart's History of the Second World War, published in 1970 by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, is more than just a chronicle of battles and leaders. As one of Britain’s most influential military theorists, Liddell Hart offers a deeply analytical narrative that re-evaluates the conduct of the war through the lens of his own strategic philosophy — particularly the "indirect approach." Rather than glorifying military might, Hart questions decisions made by both Axis and Allied powers, highlighting the missed opportunities, flawed assumptions, and political blunders that prolonged the conflict and amplified its horrors.

One of his key messages is a warning against rigid thinking in both military and political leadership. He criticises the high command structures, especially those that failed to adapt or learn from earlier mistakes — such as France’s overreliance on the Maginot Line or Britain's delayed recognition of armoured warfare. Moreover, he is openly sceptical of some of the Allied leaders, including Churchill, whom he believed often acted more from political impulse than sound military logic.

Perhaps most poignantly, Hart underscores the idea that victory alone is not proof of wisdom. The devastation of the Second World War, he insists, should push future generations to study war not for glorification, but for prevention. He essentially makes a plea for humility in statecraft, strategic restraint, and intellectual adaptability — lest humanity sleepwalk into another catastrophe.

[Part 5]
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