srael’s attack on Iran defied every tenet of strategic rationality and moral logic. For weeks, many seasoned analysts and regional observers had dismissed Tel Aviv’s belligerent posturing as the desperate bravado of a beleaguered leader — the calculated noise of a demagogue embroiled in internal political turmoil, seeking to galvanise nationalist sentiment and deflect scrutiny from domestic crisis. The consensus among these voices was that Israel’s rhetoric amounted to little more than psychological warfare, designed for domestic consumption and diplomatic leverage.

All such commentaries — however grounded they appeared at the time — have been shown to be mere speculative projections, unable to grasp the depths of political cynicism and the brazen will to escalate. The unthinkable has materialised. The attack on Iran was meticulously executed. It succeeded in decapitating a significant segment of Iran’s military leadership — a move as symbolically loaded as it was strategically consequential.

After Iran responded in a surprisingly forceful manner, Donald Trump is now threatening to launch an attack on Iran, potentially seeking regime change. If such a move materialises, Israel will likely become the sole dominant military power in the region, effectively shaping the future of the Middle East. This escalating situation is also pushing Iran to accelerate its efforts to develop a nuclear bomb, fearing that it may soon be too late to safeguard its sovereignty. Meanwhile, the son of the former Shah of Iran has reportedly been signaled that he may be positioned to lead the country once the current regime is overthrown.

The Israeli aggression with tacit approval of Trump mocked the faith of those who had held on to the ideal of peace and the principle of diplomatic restraint. In that single act, belief in norms, negotiations and international legality was publicly ridiculed by an actor that no longer felt bound by them. For many — including the writer of these lines — this event marked a paradigmatic rupture. It was not just an act of war, but also a philosophical shock.

It served as a jolt to those who had, perhaps naively, believed that in a post-Holocaust, post-colonial and post-World War order, the mechanisms of international relations would lean toward peace, deliberation and mutual respect. Instead, this attack reinforced a brutal truth: that in the hierarchy of global affairs, raw power remains the ultimate currency and its exercise the most persuasive form of communication.

The moment was not simply a geopolitical escalation — it was a metaphysical turning point. It laid bare the illusions that undergird liberal internationalism and reminded the world that peace and freedom are often powerless when confronted with calculated violence and impunity. As Walter Benjamin once wrote, “There is no document of civilisation that is not at the same time a document of barbarism.” The Israeli strike was one such document; or many of us, a moment of tragic awakening.

Despite claims to peace and liberty, the political history of the globe reveals a bleak constancy: the inanity of peace and freedom in the face of raw, unrelenting power. Israel’s repeated violations of regional peace, often cloaked in the rhetoric of self-defence, reflect a pattern of disturbing peace at will. The American appetite for global hegemony — exemplified by NATO’s eastward expansion into Ukraine, a nation provocatively close to Russia’s borders — exemplifies a dangerous imperial overreach. Similarly, India’s aggressive unilateralism in South Asia, culminating in armed skirmishes with Pakistan and the marginalisation of its Muslim minority, reflects an entrenched power drive that transcends democratic façades.

What we are witnessing, in effect, is the continued supremacy of Thucydides’ ancient dictum: “The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must.” Power, in this configuration, does not tolerate dissent; nor does it permit the free flourishing of the Other. Political theorists have long meditated on this fatal dialectic. Michel Foucault warned, “Power is everywhere… because it comes from everywhere.” This omnipresence of power, diffused through institutions and ideologies, makes it difficult for any genuine conception of peace or freedom to take root, let alone thrive. What begins as governance often mutates into domination, deploying coercive tactics.

At times, this lethal dialectic is inverted inward. The state, in pursuit of consolidating power, turns against its own people. Under Modi’s regime in India, we see the systematic targeting and disenfranchisement of the Muslim minority; in Trump’s America, immigrants were vilified and dehumanised; and Netanyahu’s Israel not only devastates Palestinians but expands its violence to Lebanon and Syria. This pattern — the persecution of internal or nearby “Others” as a show of strength — is not a deviation but a recurrence.

This disturbing behavioural trend echoes Hannah Arendt’s observation: “The most radical revolutionary will become a conservative the day after the revolution.” That is, even those who come to power with a promise of justice or reform soon fall prey to the same oppressive mechanics they once opposed. What matters, finally, is not peace or emancipation but the consolidation and projection of authority.

The consequence is an instinctual behavioural pattern: the enslavement of societies and leaders alike to power, at the expense of peace and human freedom. As Zygmunt Bauman noted, “The hallmark of modernity is not the realisation of utopia, but the management of fear.” Leaders today amplify fear — of immigrants, minorities, neighbours — to solidify their base and justify authoritarian measures.

This raises a deeper philosophical and existential question: can humans, socially and politically, conceive of themselves without the Other? The Other is essentialised, dehumanised and ultimately sacrificed to sustain a fragile illusion of national coherence. Whether it is the Muslim in India, the immigrant in America or the Palestinian in Israel, the Other becomes the negative mirror through which power reaffirms itself. Jean-Paul Sartre’s chilling insight rings true: “Hell is other people.” But perhaps more aptly, hell is what we make of other people when we view them through a lens of fear, superiority and strategic necessity. This impulse has remained in permanent circulation during the entire known history; it got aggravated after the dissolution of Soviet Union.

Leaders like Trump, Modi and Netanyahu not only embody this dialectic but dangerously normalise it. They may become templates for future authoritarian figures who, intoxicated with a megalomaniac sense of mission, invent existential threats to justify pre-emptive violence — domestically or internationally. That is what Adolf Hitler did against Czechoslovakia and Poland eventually triggering the Second World War and left a terrifying legacy for the posterity to learn a lesson and avoid impulsive display of power. They sadly haven’t.

Immediately after the Second World War, an arms race began and peaceful resolution of conflicts remained a distant dream of the idealist few. Likes of Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King appear to be aliens in this world of power mongerers. Democracy will soon be found only in history books because the ideals it cherished no longer exist. Equality has been trumped by prejudice, Fraternity stands neutralised by incessant suspicion of the people coming from different background and Freedom has been undone by the raga of national security.

In the end, what we must fear is not just individual leaders, but the structural allure of power itself — an allure that eclipses peace, mocks freedom and recasts tyranny as security. If this is the default rhythm of history, then human rights and liberty were never birth rights — they were only brief interludes in a power drama that has no end in sight.

The writer is a professor in the Faculty of Liberal Arts at the Beaconhouse National University, Lahore.