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There was a time when empires at least pretended to be embarrassed about naked ambition. Today, embarrassment has been replaced by bravado. When a small European democracy feels compelled to remind the world that it reserves the right to fire on any invader — including a powerful ally — something has gone badly wrong in the global order.
This is not about Denmark.
This is about the United States — and a political culture that has forgotten the difference between leadership and entitlement.
For decades, Washington lectured the world on sovereignty, borders, and the sanctity of international law. It scolded others for adventurism, warned against redrawing maps, and thundered about the “rules-based order.” Today, those rules are treated like fine print: respected when convenient, discarded when appetite intrudes.
What we are witnessing is not a lapse.
It is a relapse.
The return of the cowboy
The modern American presidency increasingly resembles a saloon performance — loud, confrontational, performative, allergic to nuance. Diplomacy is mocked as weakness. Restraint is sneered at. Every problem is framed as a showdown; every negotiation, a dominance ritual.
This cowboy style may thrill domestic audiences raised on cinematic myths of lone sheriffs and frontier justice. It terrifies allies and emboldens imitators. When the self-appointed custodian of global norms behaves like a property developer with a military, the message is unmistakable: power licenses desire.
The language has shifted too. Invasions are no longer announced; they are floated, joked about, strategically discussed. Territory is spoken of as if it were a distressed asset awaiting acquisition. This is how norms die — not with declarations, but with smirks.
America’s addiction to interference is not new. The historical record is settled. Regime change, covert action, pressure politics — these were tools of statecraft for decades, wrapped in moral certainty.
What is new is the lack of embarrassment.
Earlier generations bothered with deniability. Today’s political culture wears disruption like a medal. Destabilisation is marketed as strategic clarity. Economic strangulation is repackaged as values-based policy. Societies are shaken, fractured, polarised — and then blamed for collapsing.
This is not leadership.
It is vandalism with a press briefing.
Nothing illustrates this rot better than the return of threats and ultimatums toward Cuba. An island economically suffocated for decades is still treated as a theatrical prop — a convenient enemy for domestic applause.
Every tightening of pressure is celebrated as moral righteousness. Every hardship that follows is blamed on the victim. The logic is grotesque but familiar: if a society breaks under siege, the breakage itself becomes proof that the siege was justified.
This is not policy.
It is punishment masquerading as principle.
Then there is Iran — a country with deep internal failures, now again caught in great-power games. Protests erupt. Repression follows. Foreign capitals issue sermons while quietly sharpening tools.
Modern interference no longer needs tanks. It thrives on networks, narratives, funding channels, cyber pressure, and information warfare. Fingerprints are faint; consequences are devastating. When instability explodes, the same actors step back, professing innocence.
The most dangerous illusion today is that borders change only when tanks roll in. That thinking is obsolete.
Maps are redrawn now through economic coercion that hollows states from within, legal warfare that paralyses governance, strategic ambiguity that erodes sovereignty inch by inch, and managed instability that breeds dependence.
No flags are planted. No declarations issued. Control is exercised without ownership. Influence without responsibility. Power without accountability.
When the strongest behaves this way, imitation is inevitable. Why respect borders if the loudest voice treats them as optional?
Perhaps the most corrosive consequence is what this behaviour does to alliances. Trust does not survive intimidation. Partnerships do not flourish under threat.
When allies quietly prepare for scenarios in which they may need to defend themselves from the alliance leader, the alliance has already cracked — not spectacularly, but fatally.
This is how empires decline: not because they are challenged, but because they forget restraint.
The world does not need another self-appointed sheriff. It needs predictability, restraint, and respect for lines that once meant something.
Strength is not measured by how many countries you can destabilise, how many economies you can squeeze, or how casually you can speak of other people’s territory. Strength is measured by how much power you possess — and how rarely you need to use it.
America could still lead. But leadership requires humility, and humility has vanished.
Until it returns, the world will keep bracing — not for war, but for jokes that go too far, threats dressed up as strategy, and an empire that still believes the planet is an open range.
History has seen this movie before.
It knows how it ends.
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