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.

[Part 7]
[Part 5]

Bahasa