[Part 3]Once upon a time, there was not just a scientist, but a politician-scientist, a man who loved experiments as much as microphones. He promised the world that if only he had limitless power, he would fix everything in one breathtaking display: deserts would bloom, oceans would sparkle clean, poverty would vanish, and every child would be given a golden pen to write their future. His speeches were thunder, his visions enormous, his gestures grand.One evening, while polishing his spectacles before a crowd, he rubbed too hard and—poof!—a jinn appeared. With a mischievous grin, the jinn offered him the gift of boundless strength. “What shall I do for you?” it asked.The politician-scientist puffed his chest. “Easy. I will irrigate the Sahara, end corruption with a lightning bolt, and build palaces for every citizen by tomorrow morning!”The jinn laughed so hard it nearly rolled into the dust. “Oh, ambitious one,” it said, “you remind me of a child who wants to run before he can walk. You talk of deserts and palaces, but have you fixed the potholes on your own street? You dream of wiping out corruption, but you cannot keep your own hands clean of greed. You promise palaces, but your neighbour’s roof still leaks. What kind of power is this—power that ignores the near and worships the far?”The politician-scientist scowled, for he disliked being scolded. “But the people want miracles,” he insisted.“Perhaps,” said the jinn slyly, “but the people also want working drains, affordable bread, and honest officials. Miracles are for fairy tales; real respect is earned by showing up, quietly, again and again.”The jinn, unimpressed by the grand declarations of the scientist-politician, leaned closer and spoke with a sharper tone. “Do you know, O lover of power, what Lord Acton once said? He warned that power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I see in your eyes not just the dream of deserts turned to gardens, but the hunger to sit upon your throne forever, even when the hourglass has emptied. You imagine that without you, the nation will collapse; that only you can guard its fragile balance. Yet beware, for when a leader clings to office beyond his time, suspicions grow like weeds. People will whisper that you stay not out of service, but out of fear: fear of losing wealth amassed in shadow, fear of trials for sins unspoken, fear that once stripped of your robes, you will stand naked as an ordinary man.”
The scientist-politician shifted uneasily, but the jinn pressed on. “When your reign becomes longer than its promise, when the chair becomes a prison you cannot leave, then your greatness has already rotted. You will find no honour in being remembered as the ruler who would not let go, who turned succession into suspicion, and who mistook himself for the nation itself. True strength is to step aside willingly, to show that one man is never larger than the people. Cling too tightly, and you shall prove Lord Acton right—that power does not only corrupt your rule, but consumes your soul.”History offers us a gallery of rulers who clung to their seats long after their time had passed, and the causes are both predictable and chilling. One of the most common motives is the preservation of wealth and privilege: many leaders fear that once they leave office, the hidden empires of fortune they have accumulated will be exposed, confiscated, or dismantled. Another reason is the dread of prosecution: stepping down often means stepping into the courtroom, as former presidents or dictators from Latin America to Africa discovered when corruption, human rights abuses, or even massacres came back to haunt them. There is also the intoxicating lure of power itself—after years of ruling, some leaders cannot imagine life as ordinary men, stripped of guards, drivers, and the adoration (or fear) of the masses. In certain cases, they justify their staying with the myth of indispensability: they convince themselves, and sometimes their people, that without them the state will collapse into chaos, a narrative used by countless strongmen from Julius Caesar to modern autocrats. Finally, there is the legacy of paranoia: rulers often fear betrayal from allies, rivals, or even family, and cling to office as their last fortress. Each of these causes is well-documented in history, from the Caesars of Rome to the Suhartos, Mugabes, and Castros of the modern era—proving that while times change, the temptations of power remain strikingly the same.Throughout history, leaders who refused to step down from power often did so not out of a noble sense of duty, but from a mixture of fear, greed, and illusion. One major cause has been the sheer intoxication of authority: as Lord Acton once observed, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. A ruler who has grown accustomed to being obeyed finds the prospect of becoming ordinary again unbearable. Another cause is fear of retribution; those who have governed with heavy hands suspect that once they relinquish their thrones, the people—or their political rivals—may seek revenge. There is also the lure of wealth, since high office often brings with it access to resources, privileges, and influence that one would rather not surrender. In some cases, leaders convince themselves that only they can save their nation, cloaking their personal insecurities in the language of destiny and patriotism. History is filled with examples, from Roman emperors who clung to the purple robe until assassinated, to modern autocrats who rewrite constitutions or rig elections to prolong their stay. Ultimately, the refusal to leave is less about love of country and more about the terror of insignificance, the dread of being forgotten once the throne is empty.
Throughout history, the reluctance of leaders to relinquish power has not been confined to a handful of infamous figures, but has manifested across continents and eras, always clothed in the same anxious fear of irrelevance. One may recall Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines and Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, but beyond them stands the chilling example of Idi Amin in Uganda, who clung to his rule with violence, patronage, and paranoia until he was forcibly exiled. Likewise, Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire became synonymous with kleptocracy, enriching himself while citizens sank deeper into poverty, refusing to depart until rebellion and foreign pressure pried him from the throne.Mobutu Sese Seko was notorious for blurring the line between the state treasury and his personal wealth, treating the Central Bank of Zaire almost as though it were his own private bank account. Whenever he required funds for his lavish lifestyle, political patronage, or extravagant projects, he would simply order withdrawals as if the national reserve belonged solely to him. This reckless appropriation of state resources became a hallmark of his kleptocratic rule, leaving the country impoverished while he accumulated vast personal riches.In 1971, Mobutu launched what he called the "Authenticity" campaign, an effort to erase the colonial legacy and impose a new national identity under his control. He replaced "Democratic Republic of the Congo" with "Republic of Zaire," drawing from a Portuguese adaptation of a local term for the Congo River, which was intended to symbolise a break from European influence. Yet this renaming also conveniently reinforced Mobutu’s cult of personality, as he presented himself as the father of a reborn nation.Today, Zaire no longer exists. After Mobutu was overthrown in 1997 by Laurent-Désiré Kabila, the country’s name was changed back to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, which remains its official title. The memory of Zaire survives only as a reminder of Mobutu’s attempt to rebrand an entire nation to mirror his own ambitions.In Europe, Nicolae Ceaușescu of Romania offered a dramatic finale to the theatre of authoritarian vanity, attempting to cling to his cult of personality even as the people rose against him, ending his rule with a swift and brutal reckoning. Even in more recent memory, Yahya Jammeh of The Gambia stubbornly resisted conceding defeat in 2016, weaving narratives of divine entitlement and electoral fraud until regional pressure forced him into reluctant exile.These cases illustrate that the refusal to leave office is rarely born of noble duty, but more often of fear—fear of losing wealth, fear of retribution, and fear of being forgotten. History whispers that such leaders confuse their personal survival with that of the nation itself, imagining that their departure would plunge society into chaos, when in truth it is their overstay that corrodes the state.And so the jinn folded its arms, refusing to grant the grand wish. Instead, it left him with a broom, a loaf of bread, and a bucket of water. “Start here,” it commanded.The politician-scientist, red-faced, was forced to clean his own street, share his bread, and water his neighbour’s garden. And though the crowds no longer cheered with fireworks, something stranger happened: they began to trust him.The jinn, watching from the shadows, winked. For in the end, it knew that the greatest joke of all was that real power lay not in promises shouted from podiums, but in small deeds done without applause.Now, back to our topics. Several noteworthy books delve into the corrupting nature of power, illuminating what lies behind Lord Acton’s famous maxim. Power: A New Social Analysis (1938) by Bertrand Russell provides an early and foundational exploration of power. Russell examines the human lust for power and how it manifests through different forms—be it via leadership, wealth, or organisation. He treats power not merely as dominance, but as a layered social force, explosive when unchecked.
Russell suggests that the desire for power is not a secondary motive but one of the most fundamental impulses in human nature. Just as hunger or sex are primary drives, the craving for influence, control, and authority over others emerges as a deep psychological force. Russell argues that philosophers and social scientists have often underestimated this impulse, preferring to reduce human behaviour to economic needs or material survival, while in fact power itself often becomes the dominant goal, shaping politics, institutions, and even personal relationships.He observes that the impulse of power manifests itself in many forms, ranging from the crude domination of tyrants to the subtle authority of teachers, parents, and intellectuals. Unlike wealth, which is finite and can be distributed, power is relational: it exists only in the dynamic between those who command and those who obey. This relational quality makes the pursuit of power insatiable, for even those who possess it tend to seek more, fearing loss as much as desiring gain. In this sense, power has an addictive character, feeding on its own expansion.Russell also insists that the impulse of power should not be dismissed as entirely destructive. While it has led to wars, oppression, and cruelty, it has also been the driving force behind organisation, scientific exploration, and social reform. The key difference lies in whether power is sought for personal domination or for the realisation of cooperative and constructive goals. In other words, power becomes either a tyrannical force or a creative energy depending on the moral framework within which it operates.Furthermore, Russell points out that the love of power can sometimes be disguised under other names. The pursuit of knowledge, for instance, may conceal a deeper urge to command intellectual authority over others. Similarly, the accumulation of wealth is often less about comfort and more about the prestige and influence it brings. For Russell, this demonstrates that power is not simply an external structure of institutions, but a psychological hunger embedded within individuals and expressed through cultural and political forms.Russell lays the groundwork for his broader thesis: if societies wish to reduce conflict and injustice, they must first acknowledge the central role of the power impulse. Only by understanding its nature can political systems be designed to channel this drive away from destructive competition and towards cooperative and humane purposes. In this sense, Russell treats the impulse of power not as an evil to be eradicated, but as a permanent feature of human life that requires wise management.Russell examines the dynamic relationship between those who wield authority and those who accept it. He begins by observing that leadership is not merely the result of individual brilliance or charisma but is deeply rooted in the psychological and social needs of communities. People often seek leaders because of a desire for security, guidance, and the comfort of belonging to a group that appears united under a figure of authority. In this sense, followers are not passive victims but active participants in the creation of leadership, for they grant legitimacy to those who claim to lead.Russell distinguishes between different kinds of leaders, noting that some rise through the force of personality and persuasion, while others achieve power through institutions, traditions, or coercion. He warns that leadership based purely on charisma can be both inspirational and dangerous, as the devotion of followers may slide into blind obedience. Conversely, institutionalised forms of leadership may provide stability but often become rigid, detached, and resistant to change. In either case, the nature of leadership is inseparable from the psychology of those who follow.Leaders are shaped as much by the expectations and fears of followers as by their own ambitions. Russell stresses that the collective mood of a society—whether hopeful, fearful, or resentful—determines what kind of leadership emerges. In times of crisis, populations often turn to strong, authoritarian figures who promise order and security. In more prosperous or optimistic periods, societies may prefer leaders who encourage freedom, creativity, and cooperative enterprise. Thus, the leader is not an isolated genius but a reflection of the hopes and anxieties of the crowd.Russell also insists that the relationship between leaders and followers is morally ambiguous. On one hand, leaders can inspire collective effort towards progress and justice; on the other, they can manipulate followers for selfish or destructive ends. Similarly, followers may support leaders out of rational trust or surrender themselves out of fear and laziness. For Russell, the challenge is to create social conditions in which followers are encouraged to think critically and leaders are held accountable to democratic principles rather than personal ambition.Power is never a one-way street. Leadership cannot exist without followership, and the responsibility for political outcomes lies with both. By highlighting the interdependence between leaders and followers, Russell challenges the myth of the heroic leader who single-handedly shapes history, and instead draws attention to the complex social psychology that sustains authority.In the chapter Power over Opinion in his book, Russell turns his attention to the subtle but profound ways in which authority is exercised through the shaping of beliefs, attitudes, and perceptions. Unlike direct political or economic power, which operates through coercion or material control, power over opinion functions at the level of consciousness, guiding what people take to be true, desirable, or natural. Russell insists that this form of power is often more enduring and far-reaching than sheer force, since it works by securing consent rather than demanding obedience.He explores various channels through which opinion is influenced, including religion, education, the press, and propaganda. Religious institutions, for centuries, maintained extraordinary authority by defining moral frameworks and promising spiritual rewards or punishments. Education, meanwhile, moulds young minds not only in skills but in values, shaping the very categories through which they interpret the world. The press and modern media, Russell argues, play an increasingly central role in directing public attention, selecting which issues are important, and framing narratives in ways that favour certain interests. Propaganda, especially in times of war or political upheaval, demonstrates the extreme potency of controlling opinion, often mobilising entire populations with astonishing speed.Russell highlights the danger of underestimating power over opinion, for it is less visible and more insidious than brute force. Those who control opinion may appear benevolent, but in reality, they set the boundaries of thought itself, limiting the alternatives people can imagine. This means that even in ostensibly free societies, citizens may be subtly manipulated into accepting systems of inequality, exploitation, or aggression as natural or inevitable. To Russell, this manipulation is one of the gravest threats to genuine liberty.Yet he does not regard power over opinion as purely negative. Just as it can be used to sustain tyranny, it can also cultivate tolerance, critical inquiry, and cooperation. The difference lies in whether institutions of influence encourage independent thought or stifle it. For Russell, the task of a healthy society is to ensure that education, media, and cultural authority are not monopolised by a narrow elite, but distributed in ways that empower citizens to think critically and resist manipulation.In essence, Power over Opinion demonstrates that ideas themselves are a battleground of power. Whoever shapes opinion shapes the horizon of possibility. Russell’s analysis urges readers to recognise that freedom of thought is never simply given, but must be continually defended against the invisible pressures of authority cloaked as truth.In the chapter Power and Moral Codes, Russell investigates the intimate relationship between systems of morality and the structures of power that sustain them. He begins by arguing that moral codes are never neutral or timeless; rather, they are deeply influenced by the interests of those who hold authority. Moral rules, far from being purely divine or rational dictates, often serve to legitimise existing hierarchies and to make obedience appear as virtue. This, Russell claims, explains why codes of morality differ so widely across cultures and epochs, always reflecting the balance of power in a given society.He notes that throughout history, ruling classes have relied on moral codes to stabilise their authority. For instance, codes emphasising loyalty, obedience, and sacrifice have been celebrated in militaristic societies, while in commercial societies, virtues such as honesty in trade and respect for property have been elevated. In each case, morality is tailored to secure the smooth functioning of the dominant system of power. Thus, moral teachings are not simply about eternal good and evil but are instruments for maintaining social order and justifying privilege.Russell also pays close attention to how religion has historically shaped moral codes in ways that reinforce authority. By promising divine rewards or punishments, religions provided powerful incentives for compliance, effectively merging moral law with cosmic necessity. Yet even secular codes, such as those rooted in nationalism or ideology, operate similarly, sanctifying certain behaviours while condemning others to support the power structure. To Russell, the continuity between religious and secular moral codes lies in their function: to discipline individuals into alignment with collective authority.Importantly, Russell does not reduce morality to mere propaganda. He acknowledges that moral codes can also embody genuine ethical insights, particularly when they restrain the abuses of power or protect the vulnerable. However, he insists that even these aspects are shaped by the social context, and cannot be understood apart from the struggles of power that bring them into being. The challenge, then, is to recognise both the manipulative and emancipatory dimensions of morality.Russell’s argument is that to understand moral codes, one must analyse them not as abstract ideals but as tools in the contest of power. Morality, he concludes, is inseparable from politics, and any society that wishes to cultivate justice must critically examine the hidden power interests embedded within its ethical teachings.In the chapter "Power Philosophies," Russell examines how various systems of thought have historically justified or challenged the pursuit of power. He argues that philosophies are never merely abstract exercises; they are deeply intertwined with political ambitions, social structures, and the human craving for dominance or security. Russell examines how philosophical doctrines have often been shaped by the political conditions of their time, serving either as tools for legitimising authority or as weapons for undermining it.He points out that in the ancient world, particularly in Plato’s Republic, philosophy was tied to the vision of a ruling elite, where wisdom was seen as a justification for absolute guardianship. By contrast, Aristotle’s more practical and pluralistic view acknowledged a balance between different interests, hinting at an early form of liberal moderation. In later centuries, medieval scholasticism bound philosophy to theology, thereby transforming power into something sanctified by divine authority.With the rise of modernity, Russell notes how thinkers like Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau used philosophy to reinterpret power in terms of contract, rights, and sovereignty. Hobbes justified absolute power for the sake of order, Locke defended limitations of power for the sake of liberty, and Rousseau sought to reconcile authority with collective will. These examples reveal how philosophy has consistently been less about pure truth and more about framing power in ways that suit political struggles.Russell also critiques modern ideological systems, such as Marxism and nationalism, which claim to offer universal truths but in fact operate as philosophies of power. For him, Marxism interprets history entirely through economic domination, while nationalism elevates the myth of collective identity into a justification for control. Both become powerful not because of their logical strength, but because they mobilise masses under compelling narratives.Russell argues that power philosophies are double-edged: they can illuminate the dangers of unchecked authority, but they can also obscure exploitation behind lofty ideals. He urges readers to recognise the manipulative dimension of such philosophies and to treat them with scepticism, rather than reverence. Philosophy, in his view, must be critically examined to avoid becoming a mere servant of those who seek domination.In the chapter The Ethics of Power from Power: A New Social Analysis (1938, George Allen & Unwin Ltd), Bertrand Russell turns his attention to the moral dimensions of how power is exercised. He begins by observing that discussions of ethics often pretend to exist in a realm of timeless moral truths. Still, in reality, they are deeply intertwined with the social and political arrangements of their time. According to Russell, ethics cannot be divorced from power, because codes of morality are often shaped to justify the interests of those who hold authority. The ethics of power, therefore, is not just about abstract right and wrong but about how societies decide to legitimise the use and limits of force, persuasion, and authority.Russell highlights that the moral evaluation of power must reckon with two essential truths: first, that power is inescapable in human life, and second, that it can be both constructive and destructive. Power is not inherently evil, nor is it inherently good; rather, it is the way power is channelled that determines its moral value. For instance, the use of power to enforce slavery is immoral, while the use of power to abolish slavery is morally justified. He stresses that moral philosophy must stop pretending that power can be eradicated and instead must focus on shaping institutions and values that direct power towards socially beneficial ends.Furthermore, Russell argues that a truly ethical approach to power must involve restraint, fairness, and the recognition of human dignity. He insists that unchecked power inevitably breeds corruption and cruelty, but when balanced by institutions, law, and a culture of accountability, power can become a force for justice and progress. He is wary of philosophies that glorify domination, whether in the form of imperialism, authoritarianism, or even the ruthless pursuit of profit. At the same time, he warns against naïve moralities that ignore the necessity of power in maintaining order and defending against aggression. The real ethical challenge is not to dream of a powerless utopia but to create conditions where power is decentralised, scrutinised, and oriented toward the common good.In essence, this chapter is Russell’s attempt to place morality and power in honest conversation. He calls for an ethics that does not shy away from political reality but engages it directly, striving to ensure that power is never a tool for oppression but always a means to enhance freedom, justice, and human welfare.In the chapter The Taming of Power, Russell turns his attention to one of the most urgent and enduring problems of political philosophy: how to restrain power so that it ceases to be a destructive force and instead becomes a civilising one. He acknowledges that power in its raw, unchecked form is dangerous because it feeds on itself, expanding until it consumes both the wielder and the subjected. For Russell, history is littered with examples of tyrants, empires, and institutions that collapsed under the sheer weight of their own unchecked authority. Yet, he is not fatalistic. He insists that while the lust for power is ingrained in human beings, societies have devised mechanisms that gradually discipline it, shaping it into something less chaotic and more compatible with human flourishing.Russell argues that the taming of power has typically been achieved through a mixture of social, political, and intellectual innovations. Religion, for example, once served to contain the impulses of rulers by invoking divine judgement, although it also created new forms of domination in its own right. The law, when it is genuinely impartial, acts as another mechanism by setting boundaries that even rulers must respect. Scientific knowledge, too, plays its part, for it encourages scepticism, challenges dogma, and weakens the absolute authority of those who claim to speak for gods or kings. But Russell is clear-eyed: these taming devices are fragile, and they are always vulnerable to being co-opted or corrupted by the very forces they were meant to restrain.In his analysis, Russell places particular emphasis on democratic institutions as perhaps the most promising way to tame power. By distributing authority more widely, democracy dilutes the ability of any single individual or group to dominate. Education also becomes central in his vision, because a well-informed citizenry is harder to manipulate and more resistant to the seductions of authoritarianism. Nevertheless, he is cautious not to portray democracy as a panacea. He recognises that democracies themselves can fall prey to demagogues and mass hysteria unless they are underpinned by robust protections for minority rights and a culture of critical thought.Ultimately, Russell’s reflection on the taming of power reveals his pragmatic optimism. He does not believe power can ever be eliminated—human beings will always seek it, whether in politics, business, religion, or science—but he does believe it can be disciplined, redirected, and balanced in ways that make it serve the common good rather than narrow interests. His vision is one of constant vigilance: societies must continually refine their institutions, rethink their moral codes, and adapt their cultural habits if they wish to keep power in check. For Russell, the taming of power is never a completed project, but rather an ongoing struggle that defines the very trajectory of civilisation.In Power: A New Social Analysis, Russell takes Lord Acton’s famous maxim — “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely” — as a starting point, but he does not accept it in a purely moralistic sense. Instead, Russell argues that the corrupting effect of power lies in its psychological consequences: power gives individuals or groups the ability to shape reality according to their own will, and this unchecked ability fosters arrogance, detachment from ordinary human sympathy, and a disregard for truth.Russell observes that when individuals acquire power, they often lose the capacity for self-criticism because their environment becomes filled with flatterers and dependents. Over time, their perception of themselves and of others distorts, as they begin to treat their own interests as if they were identical with universal good. This, he suggests, is the subtle way in which corruption grows — not always through crude greed, but through the gradual erosion of humility and empathy under the intoxication of command.Moreover, Russell extends the idea beyond individuals to institutions. He claims that states, churches, armies, and parties can all be corrupted by power when they no longer serve the broader needs of society but instead perpetuate their own dominance. In this sense, corruption is not simply the result of immoral character but a structural outcome of concentrated power that shields itself from criticism and accountability.
[Part 1]
