The War on (Certain) Drugs: Empire’s High-Stakes Hustle (2024)

The so-called War on Drugs has always been a war of convenience—a tool for the empire to consolidate power, discipline its own population, and dominate the global south. From the beginning, it was less about the harm caused by substances and more about controlling who profits from them, who gets punished, and who gets to play the moral arbiter on the world stage.

But don’t let the self-righteous rhetoric fool you. The empire’s drug policies are as hypocritical as they are destructive. While claiming to wage a noble war on narcotics, the U.S. props up regimes and corporations complicit in the trade, exploits the chaos it creates for geopolitical gain, and ignores its own pharmaceutical and chemical industries’ roles in fueling global addiction and trafficking.

Domestic Drug Wars: Same Playbook, New Excuses

Domestically, the War on Drugs is a thinly veiled system of racial and class control. During the crack epidemic of the 1980s and 90s, predominantly Black communities were criminalised and subjected to mass incarceration under draconian laws. But when the opioid crisis hit white, suburban communities in the 2000s, the narrative suddenly shifted from crime to compassion. The message couldn’t be clearer: your zip code and skin colour determine whether you’re a victim or a criminal.

Despite cannabis legalisation in many states, millions remain behind bars for drug offenses, disproportionately people of colour. Meanwhile, Big Pharma executives—who knowingly created the opioid epidemic by flooding the market with addictive painkillers—face little more than token fines. Purdue Pharma’s Sackler family gets to keep their billions while the families of overdose victims bury their dead.

Global Drug Wars: The Empire’s Convenient Excuse

Abroad, the War on Drugs has served as a pretext for interventions, sanctions, and military operations. But here’s the kicker: the empire is often complicit in the very drug trades it claims to fight.

Colombia and Mexico: Violence by Design

Colombia’s Plan Colombia, launched in 1999 with U.S. funding, was framed as a counter-narcotics operation. In reality, it was a military campaign to crush leftist insurgencies while protecting U.S. corporate interests. Billions of dollars later, cocaine production hasn’t dropped, but violence has surged. Paramilitaries and cartels thrive, farmers are displaced, and rural communities live in terror.

Mexico, the U.S.’s southern neighbor, offers a similar story. Since 2006, the U.S.-backed war on cartels has turned the country into a battlefield, with over 350,000 killed and countless more disappeared. The militarisation of the drug war has empowered cartels, whose profits are fueled by insatiable U.S. demand. And let’s not forget: the same weapons flooding Mexican streets come from U.S. manufacturers, courtesy of lax American gun laws.

Afghanistan: Poppy Fields Forever

Then there’s Afghanistan. After the U.S. invasion in 2001, opium production soared to unprecedented levels, turning Afghanistan into the world’s leading supplier of heroin. The Taliban, once suppressors of opium cultivation, re-entered the trade to fund their insurgency, while U.S.-backed warlords and government officials took their cut. By 2020, Afghanistan supplied 80% of the world’s opium—a grim legacy for a country the U.S. claimed to “liberate.”

The Precursor Problem: Following the Supply Chain

No drug trade functions without precursor chemicals—the raw materials needed to manufacture synthetic drugs like methamphetamine and fentanyl. And guess what? Many of these precursors flow from legitimate industries in countries like the U.S, China and India, often with little regulation or oversight.

Take fentanyl, the synthetic opioid driving the U.S. overdose crisis. While Mexico manufactures much of the fentanyl flooding American streets, the precursor chemicals often originate in China. The U.S. loves to point fingers at Beijing, but here’s the reality: America’s insatiable demand for cheap, powerful drugs is the real driver of this crisis. And let’s not ignore the pharmaceutical companies and chemical industries complicit in this supply chain—they’re hardly innocent bystanders.

The Empire’s Allies: Partners in Prohibition and Profit

The War on Drugs isn’t just a U.S. operation—it’s a global enterprise involving allies who play their roles in the empire’s game.

Saudi Arabia, for example, has used the drug war narrative to justify its brutal crackdowns on dissent. While publicly executing people for drug offenses, the kingdom imports massive quantities of Captagon, an amphetamine fueling conflicts across the Middle East. The hypocrisy is staggering.

In West Africa, U.S.-backed counter-narcotics programs have targeted countries like Guinea-Bissau, a key transit hub for Latin American cocaine heading to Europe. But these programs do little to address the root causes of trafficking—poverty, corruption, and demand—and often end up empowering local elites complicit in the trade.

The Synthetic Shift: A New Era of Control

Synthetic drugs like fentanyl and methamphetamine have shifted the landscape of the drug war. These substances can be produced in labs, eliminating the need for sprawling plantations. This makes them harder to track but easier to profit from, and their devastating impact on communities has become a global crisis.

The U.S. response? More of the same. Blame foreign actors, militarise borders, and expand surveillance. But what’s left unexamined is the role of U.S. pharmaceutical companies in creating the opioid crisis and the complicity of its chemical industry in supplying precursors.

Profits Over People: The Real Agenda

The War on Drugs isn’t a failure—it’s a resounding success for those it’s meant to serve. It enriches the military-industrial complex, fuels private prisons, and gives the U.S. a pretext for interventions across the globe. The victims—addicts, farmers, and civilians caught in the crossfire—are collateral damage in a system designed to maximise profit and control.

From the coca fields of Colombia to the poppy farms of Afghanistan, from the fentanyl labs of Mexico to the pharmaceutical boardrooms of the U.S., the War on Drugs is a racket. It punishes the powerless while protecting the powerful, perpetuating a cycle of violence and dependency.

The Legacy: High Stakes and Hypocrisy

The War on Drugs was never about eradicating narcotics. It’s about maintaining a global order where the empire dictates the rules and reaps the rewards. Drugs are both the pretext for intervention and the byproduct of exploitation.

Until the empire’s policies prioritise people over profit, the cycle will continue. The drug trade will flourish, the violence will escalate, and the real culprits—the corporations, governments, and systems that enable this crisis—will remain untouchable.

The War on Drugs isn’t a war on drugs. It’s a war on the vulnerable. And as long as the empire profits, it’s a war that will never end.

How the Cold War Worked: Controlling Minds, Crushing Dissent (2024)

The Cold War wasn’t just a battle of ideologies; it was a masterclass in power—how to consolidate it, project it, and silence anyone who dared to question it. At home, the U.S. government perfected the art of suppressing dissent, ensuring that its citizens aligned with the narrative of American exceptionalism. Abroad, it justified coups, invasions, and economic exploitation as part of a noble crusade against communism. The truth was simpler: the empire wanted control, and dissent—whether domestic or foreign—was an unacceptable risk.

Today, the same blueprint is being used, but with modern tools and new targets. The rise of digital surveillance, artificial intelligence, and social media has given the empire unprecedented power to monitor, manipulate, and crush opposition. The rhetoric has shifted from “fighting communism” to “protecting democracy,” but the tactics remain just as ruthless—and just as hypocritical.

The Domestic Front: Surveillance, Suppression, and the Storyline

During the Cold War, the FBI and CIA infiltrated activist groups, tapped phones, and ran smear campaigns against civil rights leaders and labor organisers. Today, the empire doesn’t need informants or wiretaps—it has technology. Surveillance tools like facial recognition software and mass data collection platforms allow the government to track dissenters in real-time.

Consider the Black Lives Matter protests in 2020. Activists reported drones hovering above demonstrations, capturing footage to identify participants. Social media platforms handed over user data to law enforcement, and geolocation tracking was used to monitor movements. It’s COINTELPRO with an upgrade.

Spyware like Pegasus, developed by Israel’s NSO Group, infiltrates phones to extract messages, emails, and even live conversations. Used by repressive governments worldwide, Pegasus has also been linked to surveillance of journalists and human rights defenders. The U.S. claims to be above such tactics but quietly supports allies who deploy these tools, ensuring plausible deniability while maintaining control.

The internet, once celebrated as a tool for liberation, is now a weapon of suppression. Social media platforms are pressured to silence dissent, often under the guise of combating “misinformation.” During the 2023 protests in Iran, the government shut down the internet entirely, cutting off activists from the outside world. But the U.S. has its own methods. Social media companies routinely deplatform critics of American foreign policy, labeling them as “security threats” or “purveyors of disinformation.”

Even the flow of information is manipulated. Algorithms prioritise state-friendly narratives, while dissenting voices are buried. In 2024, revelations about U.S. surveillance of European allies were drowned out by headlines about supposed Chinese espionage—deflecting criticism of American actions by shifting the spotlight.

The Foreign Front: The “Free World” by Force

The Cold War wasn’t about spreading democracy; it was about ensuring obedience. Guatemala’s Arbenz, Iran’s Mossadegh, Chile’s Allende—all overthrown because they prioritised their people over U.S. corporations. Today, the empire’s tools are more subtle but no less devastating.

Economic sanctions have replaced coups as the weapon of choice. Venezuela, for instance, is strangled by sanctions that have crippled its economy, creating a humanitarian crisis that Washington blames on socialism rather than its own policies. In Cuba, decades of embargoes have achieved what invasions could not: the slow suffocation of a revolutionary government.

Meanwhile, authoritarian regimes like Saudi Arabia are showered with weapons and diplomatic cover. Riyadh’s brutal war in Yemen, fueled by U.S.-made bombs, has killed hundreds of thousands and displaced millions. Yet the U.S. continues to frame Saudi Arabia as a “partner for stability” in the region—a chilling reminder that human rights only matter when they serve imperial interests.

The New Cold War: The Digital Iron Curtain

The U.S. is once again casting itself as the defender of freedom, this time against the supposed threat of China. But beneath the rhetoric lies a familiar playbook: stoking fear, building alliances, and suppressing any challenge to American dominance.

The U.S. has waged a trade war against China, imposing tariffs and blacklisting companies like Huawei under the pretext of national security. But the real threat isn’t espionage—it’s competition. Huawei’s advancements in 5G technology threatened American dominance in the telecom sector, so Washington leaned on allies to ban its products.

At the same time, U.S.-backed cybersecurity campaigns target Chinese infrastructure while accusing Beijing of cyberattacks. The irony is palpable: the empire cries foul about Chinese surveillance while deploying its own spy networks worldwide.

The Indo-Pacific has become the new theater of U.S. militarism. Alliances like AUKUS and the Quad are marketed as defensive, but their real purpose is to encircle China. Military bases in Japan, South Korea, and the Philippines aren’t there to “protect freedom of navigation”—they’re there to project power.

The Tools of Control: Modern Repression

The strategies perfected during the Cold War have been upgraded for the digital age, creating a seamless system of surveillance, manipulation, and suppression.

Facial recognition software is deployed at protests, turning every participant into a potential suspect. AI algorithms scan social media for dissenting opinions, flagging individuals for further scrutiny. In Myanmar and India, internet shutdowns have been used to silence entire populations, ensuring that the state’s narrative remains unchallenged.

Meanwhile, tools like Pegasus spyware allow governments to infiltrate activists’ devices, exposing their communications and networks. In Saudi Arabia, dissidents have been tracked and detained using this technology, sometimes with fatal consequences.

In the U.S., these tools are subtler but no less insidious. Social media platforms are pressured to censor dissent, often under the guise of combating “misinformation.” Algorithms amplify state-approved narratives while burying critiques of American foreign policy. It’s propaganda by another name.

The Cold War’s Legacy: A World Under Watch

The Cold War didn’t end—it evolved. Its tools have been modernised, its targets expanded. Surveillance isn’t limited to activists; it’s aimed at everyone. Censorship doesn’t just silence radicals; it shapes the narratives we consume. The empire’s reach is global, its methods insidious, its goals unchanged: control, obedience, and profit.

The question isn’t whether the empire will stop—it won’t. The question is whether we’ll continue to let it. The tools of repression are growing stronger, but so are the voices of resistance. The Cold War taught us what the empire is capable of; the present shows us what it’s willing to do. The future is up to us.

The Gulf War and the Endless Inferno: The Middle East Under Siege (2024)

The Gulf War wasn’t just a war—it was a performance. It was the empire flexing its muscles, showing the world what happens when anyone dares to challenge U.S. dominance. Cloaked in talk of liberation and morality, the 1991 war was really about power: controlling oil, reshaping the Middle East, and crushing any hint of regional autonomy.

Three decades later, the Middle East remains a playground for empire. From Iraq to Syria, from Palestine to Yemen, the U.S. and its allies—chief among them Israel—have created a region defined by war, occupation, and unending suffering. This isn’t chaos. This is the plan.

The First Gulf War: Bombs and Blockades

In 1991, the U.S. went to war under the pretense of rescuing Kuwait from Saddam Hussein. What followed was one of the most devastating bombing campaigns in modern history. Iraq’s infrastructure—power plants, water treatment facilities, bridges—was systematically obliterated, leaving the country in ruins.

The war didn’t end with the last bomb. The U.S.-led sanctions that followed were an act of economic warfare, starving the Iraqi people while leaving Saddam in power. UNICEF estimated that by the late 1990s, over half a million Iraqi children had died as a result. Madeleine Albright, ever the humanitarian, famously said that these deaths were "worth it." That’s empire-speak for: we got what we wanted.

The 2003 Invasion: Lies and Looting

The second Gulf War was sold with even bigger lies—nonexistent weapons of mass destruction and fabricated links to al-Qaeda. The invasion toppled Saddam but turned Iraq into a failed state. Sectarian militias filled the vacuum left by the U.S.-dismantled government, and the rise of ISIS added yet another layer of horror.

Meanwhile, American corporations cashed in. Halliburton and its ilk looted Iraq under the guise of reconstruction, while ordinary Iraqis endured violence, poverty, and displacement. Today, Iraq remains a fractured nation, a shadow of the regional power it once was, thanks to the empire’s intervention.

Syria: The Fall of Assad and the New Scramble

After over a decade of civil war, Bashar al-Assad’s regime finally collapsed in 2024. Rebel forces led by Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) swept through the country, capturing Damascus without firing a shot. Assad fled to Russia, leaving behind a legacy of brutality and a nation in ruins.

HTS, once linked to al-Qaeda, now faces the unenviable task of governing a country gutted by war. Its leader, Ahmed al-Shara (formerly Abu Mohammad al-Jolani), has tried to rebrand the group as a legitimate political force, but skepticism runs deep. Can a group with jihadist roots and Islamist ambitions unite a nation as fractured as Syria?

Turkey, which backed HTS’s advance, is asserting its influence, while Russia—distracted by its war in Ukraine—has lost its grip on the region. Israel continues its airstrikes, targeting what it claims are chemical weapons and missile stockpiles. Meanwhile, the U.S. maintains its small but strategic military presence in northeastern Syria, ostensibly to fight ISIS but also to keep an eye on Iran and Russia.

Syria’s future is uncertain, but one thing is clear: the people of Syria, who have endured years of bombs, blockades, and brutality, will continue to bear the brunt of this new power struggle.

Iran and Israel: From Shadows to Direct Conflict

The Israel-Iran conflict has escalated from proxy skirmishes to open confrontation. In April 2024, Iran launched its first-ever direct attack on Israel, firing over 300 drones and missiles in retaliation for the assassination of senior Iranian and Hezbollah figures. Then, in October, Iran struck again with another 180 ballistic missiles. While Israel intercepted most of the projectiles, the attacks marked a bold escalation.

Israel’s response was predictably devastating. In October 2024, the IDF launched precision strikes on 20 key Iranian sites, crippling missile production facilities and air defenses. These strikes didn’t just weaken Iran’s ability to retaliate—they sent a clear message: Israel, with U.S. backing, will stop at nothing to maintain its military superiority.

But this isn’t just about Israel and Iran. Iranian-backed militias in Iraq and Syria are ramping up their activities, threatening to drag U.S. forces stationed in the region into the conflict. The cycle of retaliation is spiraling, with each side escalating further, and the region edging closer to a broader war.

Palestine: A Slow-Motion Catastrophe

While the world watches Iran and Syria, the slow-motion catastrophe in Palestine grinds on. Gaza remains an open-air prison, bombed repeatedly by Israel under the pretext of fighting Hamas. In the West Bank, illegal settlements expand daily, swallowing Palestinian land while military raids terrorise the population.

The U.S., of course, continues to provide Israel with billions in military aid, shielding it from international accountability. The rhetoric of "peace" and "security" is a cruel joke when the reality is apartheid, occupation, and systemic violence.

For Palestinians, resistance isn’t just a right—it’s a necessity. But as long as the empire props up Israel’s occupation, justice will remain a distant dream.

Yemen: The Forgotten War

Yemen is the empire’s dirty little secret. The U.S.-backed Saudi coalition has turned the country into a humanitarian nightmare, waging a brutal war against the Iran-aligned Houthis. Tens of thousands have been killed, millions displaced, and famine stalks the population.

The Houthis, for their part, have launched missiles and drones at Saudi Arabia and the UAE, escalating a conflict that shows no signs of ending. Yemen is a microcosm of the empire’s playbook: endless war, endless suffering, and zero accountability.

Conclusion: The Middle East Burns While the Empire Profits

The Gulf War was just the beginning. From Iraq to Syria, from Palestine to Yemen, the U.S. and its allies have turned the Middle East into a laboratory for violence. The rhetoric of liberation and security is a facade. The real goals are control, exploitation, and the suppression of any challenge to imperial power.

The region doesn’t need more bombs, more sanctions, or more meddling—it needs an end to the empire’s stranglehold. But as long as war is profitable and power is addictive, the fires will keep burning.

The Gulf War may feel like ancient history, but its legacy is alive and well. The empire’s project continues, and the Middle East remains its most tragic victim.

Inoculating Southeast Asia: Same Empire, New Game (2024)

The U.S. has a knack for repackaging its imperial playbook. Southeast Asia in the 20th century was a petri dish for its experiments in domination, from Vietnam to Laos to Cambodia. The strategy? Smother any hint of independent development before it spreads, all while preaching democracy and freedom. Fast forward to today, and the empire’s tactics are alive and well. The targets have shifted—welcome to the Philippines, Myanmar, and the South China Sea—but the mission is the same: inoculate Southeast Asia against autonomy, and make damn sure it stays tethered to Washington’s interests.

Of course, the language has been updated. It’s not about stopping communism anymore—it’s about countering “Chinese aggression,” defending “freedom of navigation,” and championing “human rights.” But peel back the rhetoric, and it’s the same game: dominate, divide, and destabilise when necessary, all while wrapping the project in a shiny package of benevolence.

The Philippines: Sovereignty, U.S.-Style

The Philippines is the empire’s oldest Southeast Asian pawn, a former colony turned client state that has been playing host to U.S. troops for over a century. Washington’s grip loosened briefly under Rodrigo Duterte, who flirted with Beijing and told Uncle Sam where to stick its military bases. But the empire doesn’t take no for an answer.

By 2023, Washington was back in business, securing access to four new military sites under the Marcos Jr. administration. Ostensibly, this was about protecting Philippine sovereignty from China’s South China Sea claims. But when you station troops and weapons on someone else’s soil, sovereignty isn’t exactly the operative word.

The real story? The Philippines is a pawn in Washington’s larger chess game against China. Marcos Jr. gets U.S. military hardware and Washington’s backing, while Beijing and Manila’s neighbors brace for the fallout of being turned into the front line of a conflict they never asked for.

Myanmar: The Human Rights Card

Washington loves to play the human rights card—when it suits. Myanmar’s 2021 military coup, which ousted the elected government of Aung San Suu Kyi, offered the perfect opportunity. The U.S. imposed sanctions on the junta, declared support for the opposition, and blasted human rights abuses. All good, right? Except it’s never that simple.

Myanmar sits at the crossroads of South and Southeast Asia, a strategic prize for anyone looking to project power. For decades, China has been building economic and political ties there, from pipelines to port projects. So when Washington condemns the junta, it’s not just about democracy—it’s about weakening Beijing’s foothold.

But here’s the rub: while Washington wrings its hands over the junta’s abuses, it conveniently ignores atrocities committed by ethnic armed groups aligned with the opposition. Human rights are less a principle and more a weapon, wielded selectively to fit the empire’s needs. Meanwhile, Myanmar’s people are left to fend for themselves in a civil war that has displaced millions and destroyed any semblance of stability.

The South China Sea: “Freedom” at Gunpoint

The South China Sea is the empire’s new playground, and “freedom of navigation” is its favorite catchphrase. China’s territorial claims and island-building in the region have provided Washington with the perfect pretext to ramp up its military presence. Joint exercises, arms sales, and naval patrols—this isn’t about protecting trade routes. It’s about showing Beijing who’s boss.

The U.S. isn’t defending international law—it’s defending its hegemony. Washington plays up fears of Chinese aggression while turning Southeast Asia into a militarised zone. Nations like Vietnam and Malaysia are stuck between a rock and a hard place, wary of both Chinese expansionism and U.S. meddling. But as far as Washington is concerned, their sovereignty is just a talking point.

Economic Chains, Not Partnerships

The empire knows that guns and ships aren’t enough; it needs economic leverage too. Enter the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), a trade bloc designed to counter China’s economic rise. When Trump pulled out of the deal, the message was still clear: Southeast Asia can play by Washington’s rules, or it can expect to be excluded.

China, meanwhile, has been offering a different kind of partnership through its Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). Washington frames this as “debt-trap diplomacy,” conveniently ignoring its own long history of leveraging loans and trade agreements to control developing nations. The reality? The U.S. and China are both competing for influence, and Southeast Asia is caught in the crossfire.

The Hypocrisy of Human Rights

Let’s talk about Washington’s favorite trick: waving the banner of human rights to justify intervention while ignoring abuses committed by its allies. It condemned Duterte’s bloody drug war in the Philippines but welcomed Marcos Jr. with open arms when he aligned with U.S. military goals. It criticises China’s treatment of Uyghurs while cosying up to Saudi Arabia, a regime that’s chopping heads and crushing dissent.

The message is clear: human rights are a cudgel, not a commitment. Washington invokes them when convenient and discards them when inconvenient. In Southeast Asia, as elsewhere, the empire’s actions betray its rhetoric.

Conclusion: Same Game, New Board

Southeast Asia today is just the latest chapter in Washington’s long history of inoculating the world against independence. Whether it’s military bases in the Philippines, sanctions in Myanmar, or naval patrols in the South China Sea, the goal remains the same: keep the region tethered to U.S. interests and prevent any alternative to American dominance.

The empire calls this "stability," but for the people of Southeast Asia, it’s anything but. It’s militarisation, economic coercion, and the constant threat of being dragged into a conflict between superpowers. The U.S. doesn’t see Southeast Asia as a collection of sovereign nations—it sees a chessboard, and its pawns are disposable.

The empire hasn’t changed—it’s just shifted the spotlight. The question is whether Southeast Asia can resist being inoculated or whether it will succumb, like so many before it, to the crushing weight of Washington’s “benevolence.”

The Invasion of Afghanistan: A Catalogue of Atrocities, Imperialism in Disguise (2024)

When U.S. boots hit the ground in Afghanistan in 2001, it was billed as a righteous war to bring justice after 9/11. The reality? Another chapter in Washington’s playbook of domination, where “freedom” is a pretext, civilian deaths are collateral, and the real goals—geopolitical control, military profits, and resource extraction—remain unspeakable. Afghanistan wasn’t a war on terror; it was a terror campaign masquerading as liberation. Two decades later, the wreckage is undeniable: a devastated nation, countless atrocities, and a region destabilised in the name of empire.

The Pretext: Selling the War on Terror

After 9/11, the U.S. framed the invasion of Afghanistan as a surgical strike against al-Qaeda and their Taliban hosts. It was less surgical and more sledgehammer. The Taliban was quickly ousted, but the U.S. didn’t stop there. It stayed for 20 years, shifting its rationale from counterterrorism to nation-building, a laughable euphemism for occupation. Beneath the rhetoric was the real motive: establishing a foothold in a resource-rich and strategically vital region.

Afghanistan wasn’t just about bin Laden. It was about projecting power into Central Asia, countering rivals like Iran and China, and securing pipelines for oil and gas. The country became a pawn in Washington’s global chessboard—a piece it would rather destroy than let anyone else control.

Atrocities: A Long and Bloody List

The U.S. occupation of Afghanistan is a catalogue of horrors. For every “precision strike” and “freedom operation,” there were countless atrocities, each one a stark reminder of the human cost of empire. Let’s name a few:

• Wedding Bombings: In 2002, a U.S. airstrike killed 48 civilians at a wedding in Uruzgan. In 2008, another wedding in Nangarhar was bombed, killing 47, including 23 children.
• Pine Nut Farmers Massacre: In 2019, a drone strike targeted a group of farmers harvesting pine nuts in Helmand, killing 40 civilians.
• Kunduz Hospital Bombing: In 2015, a U.S. AC-130 gunship obliterated a Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) hospital in Kunduz, killing 42 people, including patients, doctors, and nurses.
• The “Kill Team” Scandal: In 2010, members of the U.S. Army’s 5th Stryker Brigade were exposed for forming a “kill team” that murdered Afghan civilians for sport, mutilating bodies and keeping trophies like severed fingers.
• The Bagram Torture Chambers: Bagram Air Base became infamous for torture, including the deaths of detainees like Dilawar, a taxi driver beaten to death by U.S. personnel in 2002.
• Night Raids: Special forces night raids terrorised villages, killing civilians and destroying homes under the guise of targeting “terrorists.”

These atrocities weren’t accidents—they were the inevitable result of a war that viewed Afghan lives as expendable. Every civilian casualty was dismissed as the “price of freedom,” as though the Afghan people asked for bombs instead of bread.

Drone Warfare: Death by Remote Control

Afghanistan became ground zero for the U.S.’s drone war, a program that promised “precision” but delivered carnage. Under Obama, drone strikes expanded exponentially, targeting alleged militants but often killing civilians. Weddings, funerals, markets—nothing was off-limits.

In 2021, the U.S. capped its withdrawal with one last atrocity: a drone strike in Kabul that killed 10 civilians, including seven children. The Pentagon claimed it had taken out an ISIS-K operative. It later admitted the truth: they murdered a family trying to load water into their car. This wasn’t a failure of intelligence—it was a failure of morality, a microcosm of the entire war.

The Drug Economy: Enabling the Opium Trade

Under U.S. occupation, Afghanistan became the world’s largest producer of opium. By 2020, the country supplied over 80% of global heroin. While Washington claimed to fight the drug trade, it conveniently ignored the role of its allies in fueling it. Warlords backed by the U.S. controlled vast swaths of poppy fields, using drug profits to fund militias and maintain power.

The drug economy thrived under the occupation, enriching local elites and fueling corruption while ordinary Afghans suffered. This wasn’t a side effect—it was a feature of a war that prioritized power and profit over people.

Corruption: The Billion-Dollar Grift

The U.S. spent over $2.3 trillion on the war in Afghanistan, much of it disappearing into a black hole of corruption. Billions went to contractors like KBR and DynCorp, who delivered overpriced projects that often collapsed before they were finished. Ghost schools, abandoned infrastructure, and phantom police salaries became symbols of the grift.

Meanwhile, U.S.-backed Afghan leaders looted the country. President Ashraf Ghani fled Kabul in 2021 with suitcases of cash, leaving behind a hollowed-out government. The so-called “nation-building” effort was a scam—a means of enriching elites while leaving ordinary Afghans to fend for themselves.

The Taliban’s Return and the Chaotic Exit

After 20 years of war, the U.S. withdrawal in 2021 was as disastrous as its invasion. The Taliban retook Kabul in weeks, humiliating the U.S. and exposing the hollowness of its “progress.” The images of Afghans clinging to planes at Kabul airport weren’t just a symbol of desperation—they were a damning indictment of a failed occupation.

But the suffering didn’t end with the withdrawal. The U.S. froze billions in Afghan assets, crippling the economy and pushing millions to the brink of starvation. The Taliban’s return has brought repression and violence, particularly for women and minorities. But the U.S. doesn’t care—it washed its hands of Afghanistan the moment it left, abandoning the people it claimed to save.

Geopolitical Fallout: A Region in Flames

The war in Afghanistan didn’t just devastate one nation—it destabilised an entire region. Pakistan became a playground for drone strikes, killing thousands and fueling anti-American sentiment. Iran, sharing a border with Afghanistan, faced waves of refugees while maneuvering to counter U.S. influence. Meanwhile, China expanded its foothold in the region, exploiting the power vacuum left by Washington’s failures.

The U.S. justified its war as a fight for stability, but it left chaos in its wake, creating the conditions for future conflicts.

Conclusion: Empire’s Long Shadow

Afghanistan wasn’t a war for freedom or democracy—it was a war for dominance, fought at the expense of Afghan lives. The atrocities weren’t isolated incidents—they were the logical outcome of a war built on lies, greed, and indifference to human suffering.

Two decades, trillions of dollars, and countless lives later, the U.S. left Afghanistan broken and abandoned. Like Panama, it was a theater for imperial power, where the empire showcased its might without accountability. And like every U.S. war, it came with the same message: obey, or be destroyed.

The empire didn’t liberate Afghanistan—it crucified it. And while the U.S. moves on to its next conquest, the Afghan people are left to pick up the pieces of a nation shattered in the name of power.

Making Yemen a Killing Field: Empire’s Calculated Chaos (2024)

If there’s a hall of fame for U.S.-sponsored atrocities, Yemen belongs in the top tier. What began as a localised political crisis has morphed into one of the most devastating conflicts of the 21st century, thanks largely to the empire’s insatiable appetite for control. Yemen is now a killing field—a place where bombs, blockades, and starvation are wielded with surgical cruelty, leaving a trail of devastation that stretches far beyond its borders.

The U.S. doesn’t get its hands dirty in Yemen directly; that’s what allies like Saudi Arabia and the UAE are for. Instead, Washington provides the bombs, planes, logistics, and political cover, ensuring the destruction is efficient, profitable, and—most importantly—aligned with American geopolitical goals. The Yemeni people, of course, are expendable.

The Origins of the War: A Crisis Made in America

The war in Yemen, often mischaracterised as a purely regional conflict, is deeply entangled in U.S. foreign policy. It officially began in 2015 when a Saudi-led coalition launched a military campaign to reinstate President Abdrabbuh Mansur Hadi, ousted by Houthi rebels. But the seeds of the crisis were sown much earlier.

Decades of U.S. drone warfare in Yemen under the guise of counterterrorism had already destabilised the country, killing hundreds of civilians and radicalising communities against both Washington and the corrupt Yemeni government it propped up. By the time the Houthis, a Zaidi Shia movement, seized Sana’a in 2014, Yemen was already a fractured state. The Houthis claimed they were fighting corruption and marginalisation, but their rise also alarmed Saudi Arabia, which painted them as Iranian proxies to justify its intervention.

The reality is more nuanced. Iran provides the Houthis with political support and weapons, but the group remains largely autonomous, fighting for its own local and national interests. However, framing the conflict as a proxy war between Saudi Arabia and Iran served Washington’s interests perfectly: it allowed the U.S. to back Saudi aggression under the pretense of countering Iranian influence while keeping its own fingerprints off the carnage.

The U.S.-Saudi Axis: A Marriage of Convenience and Carnage

Saudi Arabia’s intervention in Yemen has been nothing short of a humanitarian catastrophe. With billions in arms sales from the U.S. and logistical support—including mid-air refueling, intelligence sharing, and targeting assistance—the Saudi-led coalition has conducted a bombing campaign so indiscriminate it makes the word “surgical” laughable. Schools, hospitals, markets, weddings—nothing is off-limits.

The infamous 2016 bombing of a funeral in Sana’a, which killed 140 people and injured over 500, was carried out using U.S.-supplied bombs. Reports from Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have documented countless similar atrocities. Yet, despite mounting evidence of war crimes, the U.S. has continued to arm Saudi Arabia and the UAE, raking in billions for its defense contractors.

Even when the Biden administration claimed it would end support for “offensive operations” in Yemen, it was business as usual. The U.S. quietly continued selling arms, maintaining Saudi military equipment, and blocking U.N. resolutions calling for accountability. The message was clear: profits and alliances trump human lives.

Blockades and Starvation: A Weapon of War

If bombs don’t kill you in Yemen, hunger might. The Saudi-led coalition has imposed a naval blockade on Yemen, choking off essential supplies like food, medicine, and fuel. Hodeidah, Yemen’s main port, has been a frequent target of coalition airstrikes, crippling the country’s ability to import goods.

The blockade is not just a logistical measure—it’s a deliberate act of collective punishment. By 2021, over 16 million Yemenis faced acute food insecurity, with millions teetering on the edge of famine. Children, as always, bear the brunt: UNICEF reports that a Yemeni child dies every ten minutes from preventable causes like malnutrition and disease.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t collateral damage—it’s strategy. Starvation has become a weapon of war, wielded with the full backing of the U.S. and its allies.

Iran’s Role: A Convenient Scapegoat

Saudi Arabia’s narrative that it’s fighting Iranian expansionism in Yemen conveniently ignores its own role in creating the conflict. While Iran has provided weapons and training to the Houthis, its involvement is minimal compared to the firepower Saudi Arabia has unleashed with U.S. support.

That said, Iran has skillfully used Yemen to bleed Saudi Arabia and expand its influence in the region. By supporting the Houthis at a relatively low cost, Tehran has kept Riyadh bogged down in a quagmire, diverting attention and resources from other fronts. This has fueled broader regional tensions, with Saudi Arabia and its Gulf allies accusing Iran of fomenting instability across the Middle East.

Houthi Retaliation: Striking Beyond Yemen

The Houthis, meanwhile, have expanded the conflict beyond Yemen’s borders. Using drones and ballistic missiles—some likely supplied or upgraded by Iran—they have launched attacks on Saudi oil facilities, airports, and even tankers in the Red Sea. In 2019, they claimed responsibility for a devastating attack on Saudi Aramco’s oil facilities in Abqaiq and Khurais, temporarily halving Saudi oil production.

More recently, Houthi forces have targeted U.S. ships in the Red Sea and launched drone strikes on Israeli-owned tankers, signaling their willingness to escalate the conflict further. These actions have heightened tensions across the Middle East, drawing the U.S. even deeper into the quagmire under the guise of protecting “freedom of navigation.”

A Regional Powder Keg

Yemen’s war has not just devastated one nation—it has destabilised an entire region. Saudi Arabia and the UAE have turned Yemen into a battleground for their competing interests, funding rival militias and carving out spheres of influence. Iran has used the conflict to its advantage, while Israel, ever the opportunist, has exploited Gulf fears of Iranian dominance to deepen its military ties with the UAE and Bahrain.

The U.S., for its part, remains the great enabler. Its arms sales and unwavering support for Saudi Arabia have fueled the violence, while its broader “maximum pressure” campaign against Iran has ensured that the conflict continues to fester.

Conclusion: Yemen’s Endless Nightmare

Yemen is a killing field, and the U.S. holds the shovel. Like Guatemala in the 1980s, Yemen’s suffering is not an accident but the calculated result of imperial policy. The bombs, the blockades, the starvation—all of it serves a purpose: to maintain U.S. dominance in the region, to enrich defense contractors, and to send a message to anyone who dares defy the empire.

The rhetoric of defending allies and combating terrorism is as hollow as it is cruel. Yemen’s blood is on America’s hands, and the suffering of its people is a direct consequence of policies designed to prioritise power over humanity. The question is not whether the U.S. will face accountability—it won’t. The question is how many more nations will become killing fields before the world wakes up to the reality of empire.

Teaching Venezuela a Lesson: Empire’s Brutality Unmasked (2024)

If you want to understand U.S. foreign policy, Venezuela is a perfect case study in how the empire operates when its dominance is challenged. Like Nicaragua in the 1980s, Venezuela has been systematically punished for daring to stray from Washington’s script. Its crime? Using its resources to benefit its own people instead of American corporations. Its punishment? Economic strangulation, coup attempts, and relentless propaganda designed to collapse the country and crush any hope of an alternative model.

The U.S. doesn’t just punish; it makes examples. Venezuela is meant to serve as a cautionary tale for any nation foolish enough to believe it can act independently. And just like Nicaragua, the U.S. wraps its assault in the language of “democracy” and “human rights,” while orchestrating policies that devastate an entire population.

Chavez and the Audacity of Defiance

The trouble started when Hugo Chavez came to power in 1998. Chavez wasn’t perfect, but he did the one thing the U.S. can’t tolerate: he tried to govern in the interests of his people. Using Venezuela’s vast oil wealth, he cut poverty in half, expanded healthcare, and improved literacy rates—all while nationalising industries and reducing foreign exploitation. He even had the audacity to lead regional resistance to U.S. hegemony, forming alliances with other leftist governments in Latin America.

Washington’s reaction? Pure panic. Here was a country, in its own backyard no less, refusing to play by the neoliberal rules of privatisation, deregulation, and corporate domination. Chavez wasn’t just a nuisance; he was an existential threat to U.S. control over Latin America. Something had to be done.

Economic Warfare: Starving a Nation Into Submission

Sanctions became Washington’s weapon of choice. They started small under Bush, escalated under Obama, and became outright economic warfare under Trump and Biden. The goal was simple: strangle Venezuela’s economy, push it to the brink, and blame the resulting suffering on its government.

Sanctions targeted Venezuela’s oil sector, its main source of revenue, and froze billions of dollars in overseas assets. The country was cut off from international banking, making it nearly impossible to import food, medicine, or basic necessities.

The result? A humanitarian catastrophe. A 2019 report by the Center for Economic and Policy Research estimated that U.S. sanctions killed 40,000 Venezuelans in just two years by cutting off access to life-saving resources. Hospitals ran out of medicine, malnutrition soared, and millions fled the country. These weren’t unfortunate side effects—they were the strategy. The U.S. used collective punishment, inflicting suffering on an entire population to force political change.

Let’s not mince words: this is economic terrorism. When the U.S. imposes sanctions, it’s not targeting leaders like Nicolas Maduro. It’s targeting ordinary people, making their lives so unbearable that they’ll turn against their own government. If that’s democracy, then words have no meaning.

Coup Attempts: Regime Change by Any Means Necessary

Of course, sanctions weren’t the only tool in Washington’s arsenal. The U.S. has tried—and failed—to topple Venezuela’s government through coup attempts that would be laughable if they weren’t so destructive.

In 2002, Washington backed a coup against Chavez, supporting opposition groups that briefly ousted him. The people of Venezuela had other ideas, flooding the streets and restoring Chavez to power within 48 hours. Humiliated but undeterred, the U.S. shifted tactics, supporting a patchwork of opposition leaders, all while funneling money to anti-government groups through organizations like the National Endowment for Democracy.

Under Trump, the clown show reached new heights. In 2019, the U.S. anointed Juan Guaido, a previously unknown opposition figure, as Venezuela’s “interim president.” Never mind that Guaido had no real support in Venezuela—what mattered was that he said the right things in Washington. Guaido’s self-declared presidency was accompanied by a half-baked military uprising, openly backed by U.S. officials. It failed miserably, as did “Operation Gideon,” a 2020 coup attempt led by U.S.-trained mercenaries who were hilariously incompetent but deadly in intent.

The lesson? Washington doesn’t care how reckless its interventions are or how much harm they cause. As long as they destabilise Venezuela and weaken its government, they’re considered a success.

Propaganda: Manufacturing Consent for Cruelty

None of this would be possible without the media. Corporate outlets like The New York Times and The Washington Post have played their part, parroting State Department talking points and portraying Venezuela as a dictatorship while ignoring the impact of U.S. sanctions. The suffering of ordinary Venezuelans is either blamed entirely on Maduro or treated as collateral damage in a noble struggle for democracy.

Meanwhile, grassroots movements supporting the Bolivarian Revolution are dismissed as propaganda, and Venezuelan voices critical of U.S. intervention are erased from the narrative. The result is a media landscape where cruelty is justified, and empire is excused.

Regional Intimidation: The Bigger Picture

Venezuela’s crucifixion isn’t just about Venezuela—it’s about Latin America. Washington is terrified of a repeat of the Pink Tide, the wave of leftist governments that swept the region in the early 2000s. Bolivia, under Evo Morales, dared to nationalise its lithium reserves, and the U.S. promptly backed a coup in 2019. In Chile, the election of Gabriel Boric has reignited fears in Washington of a region slipping from its grasp.

Venezuela serves as both an example and a warning: step out of line, and this is what happens. Sanctions, coups, and propaganda are the tools of an empire desperate to maintain its grip on a region it has long treated as its backyard.

Conclusion: The Empire’s Brutality Knows No Bounds

Venezuela’s suffering lays bare the brutal mechanics of U.S. imperialism. Like Nicaragua before it, Venezuela has been punished not for its failures but for its defiance. The U.S. doesn’t care about democracy or human rights—it cares about control. When a nation resists, it is starved, destabilised, and vilified until it breaks or bleeds out.

The rhetoric of liberation is a cruel lie. What the U.S. brings isn’t freedom—it’s sanctions, suffering, and subjugation. Venezuela is a crucifixion, a nation nailed to the cross of empire, its people sacrificed to maintain Washington’s dominance. And yet, despite everything, Venezuela resists. That’s the real threat to the empire: not its oil or its alliances, but its refusal to bow.

The Crucifixion of Iraq: Bombing the World Into Peace (2024)

If U.S. foreign policy had a slogan, it might be something like: We’ll destroy your village to save it. Iraq is the ultimate example of this twisted logic—a nation reduced to rubble, its people brutalized, all in the name of “liberation.” In What Uncle Sam Really Wants, Chomsky described El Salvador as a crucifixion, where U.S.-backed death squads and scorched-earth policies murdered tens of thousands in the name of fighting communism. Fast forward to the 21st century, and Iraq is Exhibit A in the United States’ continued mission to bomb its way to "peace" while leaving chaos and corpses in its wake.

From the lies that justified the 2003 invasion to the horrors of Abu Ghraib, Iraq illustrates the brutal mechanics of U.S. imperialism. Beneath the rhetoric of democracy lies the reality: a laboratory of neoliberal exploitation, corporate profiteering, and systemic violence that has left Iraq devastated and the Middle East destabilised.

The Invasion: Shock, Awe, and the Big Lie

The 2003 invasion of Iraq didn’t begin with bombs—it began with lies. The Bush administration, led by war criminals masquerading as statesmen, sold the war to the public with fabricated tales of weapons of mass destruction (WMDs) and nonexistent links between Saddam Hussein and al-Qaeda. Everyone knew it was nonsense—Hans Blix and U.N. weapons inspectors, global intelligence agencies, even half the U.S. government—but it didn’t matter. When Washington wants a war, it gets one.

And what a war it was. The "shock and awe" campaign turned Baghdad into a fireball of terror, with bombs raining down on civilian neighborhoods to demonstrate the U.S.’s overwhelming power. Thousands of innocent people were killed in the opening days, but who cares about civilian casualties when you’re spreading democracy? Saddam Hussein’s regime collapsed, but so did Iraq’s infrastructure, government, and basic order. The U.S. replaced a dictator with a free-for-all of violence and chaos.

Occupation: The Great American Experiment

The occupation of Iraq wasn’t just a mess; it was a masterpiece of imperial arrogance and incompetence. The U.S. tore down Iraq’s institutions overnight, with Paul Bremer, the appointed viceroy of the Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA), issuing decrees like a modern-day emperor. Bremer’s de-Ba’athification policy removed tens of thousands of civil servants, teachers, and military personnel—essentially dismantling the state. His decision to disband the Iraqi army was even worse, leaving 400,000 trained soldiers unemployed, yet armed. The insurgency didn’t just happen—it was invited.

Meanwhile, the country was turned into a neoliberal playground. U.S. corporations like Halliburton and Bechtel flooded in to rebuild what American bombs had destroyed, collecting billions in no-bid contracts while doing next to nothing for Iraqis. Electricity and water? Sporadic at best. Hospitals? Functioning only if you were lucky. But private contractors made a killing, quite literally in the case of Blackwater, whose mercenaries gunned down 17 unarmed Iraqis in the 2007 Nisour Square massacre.

Iraq wasn’t just occupied—it was gutted. A once-modern nation was reduced to rubble, its oil siphoned off by foreign corporations while its people were left to starve and suffer. Its antiquities looted and stolen in a methodical manner in an attempt to erase a long history and rich culture, started with US forces and continued by ISIS.

Abu Ghraib: The Real Face of “Liberation”

The U.S. sold the Iraq War as a mission to free the Iraqi people, but Abu Ghraib told the real story. The images from that infamous prison are burned into global memory: hooded prisoners standing on boxes, wires tied to their bodies; naked detainees stacked like human pyramids; men dragged on leashes like animals. This wasn’t an aberration—it was policy.

The Bush administration authorised "enhanced interrogation techniques," a euphemism for torture. Abu Ghraib wasn’t the work of a “few bad apples”; it was the logical outcome of a system that dehumanised Iraqis, treating them as obstacles to be broken, not people to be liberated. This is what the U.S. means by spreading freedom—torture, humiliation, and the destruction of human dignity.

The Rise of ISIS: America’s Gift to the Middle East

After obliterating Iraq’s state and creating a power vacuum, the U.S. left the door wide open for ISIS. Born out of the chaos of occupation, ISIS capitalised on the sectarian divisions exacerbated by U.S. policies. The disbanded Iraqi army became its recruiting ground, and the U.S.’s neoliberal experiment became its propaganda.

The rise of ISIS was used as yet another excuse for more U.S. intervention. Airstrikes and drone campaigns killed thousands of civilians, further alienating local populations and fueling the very extremism they claimed to be fighting. The cycle of violence perpetuated by the U.S. didn’t end—it just metastasised.

Profits Over People: Iraq as a Cash Cow

Let’s be clear: the Iraq War wasn’t a failure for everyone. For U.S. corporations, it was a bonanza. Halliburton, once chaired by Vice President Dick Cheney, pocketed billions in contracts to "rebuild" Iraq. Blackwater’s mercenaries earned fortunes providing "security" while killing civilians with impunity. Even the oil companies got their slice, carving up Iraq’s reserves while Iraqis saw none of the wealth.

Iraq wasn’t liberated—it was looted. And while the U.S. government loves to talk about human rights, its actions prove otherwise. The only rights that mattered in Iraq were corporate profits and geopolitical dominance.

The Endless War: A Legacy of Suffering

Today, Iraq remains a broken country. Infrastructure lies in ruins, corruption is rampant, and sectarian violence continues to tear communities apart. Millions of Iraqis are dead, displaced, or living in poverty, all thanks to the U.S.’s obsession with reshaping the world in its image.

And what did the U.S. achieve? It didn’t find WMDs. It didn’t bring democracy. It didn’t even secure lasting control over Iraq’s oil. Instead, it left a trail of devastation, setting the Middle East on fire and walking away to repeat the same script somewhere else.

Conclusion: Bombing the World Into Peace

Iraq is the ultimate indictment of U.S. imperialism—a nation crucified under the false promise of liberation. Like El Salvador before it, Iraq was turned into a graveyard in service of Washington’s ambitions. But let’s not kid ourselves: Iraq wasn’t a failure. For the Pentagon, the defense contractors, and the oil companies, it was a roaring success.

The U.S. doesn’t bring peace. It doesn’t bring freedom. It brings bombs, torture, and a neoliberal order that grinds human lives into profit margins. Iraq’s suffering isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a blueprint for how the U.S. operates. And as long as that blueprint remains intact, there will be more Iraqs, more crucifixions, and more victims of the empire’s insatiable hunger for power.

Our Good Neighbour Policy: Polite Imperialism in Action (2024)

The “Good Neighbour Policy” has always been a masterclass in branding. Under FDR, it was sold as a kinder, gentler imperialism for Latin America—less boots on the ground, more sugarcoated subjugation. By the 1990s, the rhetoric of partnership had gone global, and the U.S. was exporting its neoliberal agenda under the guise of aid, democracy, and free markets. Fast forward to 2024, and the Good Neighbour Policy has evolved into a full-blown global con job, with devastating consequences for the so-called "neighbors" who dare to step out of line.

Today, whether it’s starving Venezuela into submission, militarising Africa under the pretext of counterterrorism, or turning Europe into a vassal state through energy manipulation, the U.S. has perfected the art of exploiting dependency while smiling for the cameras. Let’s pull back the curtain on this "good neighbour" act and see it for what it really is: polite imperialism dressed up as benevolence.

Latin America: Same Rhetoric, New Wounds

Latin America was always the testing ground for U.S. imperial playbooks, and it remains Exhibit A in how the Good Neighbour Policy operates. Venezuela is the poster child for this kind of polite barbarism. After Hugo Chávez dared to use the country’s oil wealth for programs that halved poverty, Washington declared economic war. Sanctions under Trump were catastrophic—cutting off access to international banking, freezing assets, and blocking vital imports like medicine. Biden hasn’t just maintained these sanctions; he’s tightened them, all while pretending it’s about promoting democracy. The reality? Over 70,000 Venezuelans have died due to these sanctions, according to a 2019 report by the Center for Economic and Policy Research. But hey, that’s just the price of being a "good neighbour," right?

Bolivia, meanwhile, shows how quickly the gloves come off when resource nationalism threatens U.S. corporate interests. In 2019, Evo Morales was ousted in a U.S.-backed coup after he nationalised Bolivia’s lithium—essential for electric car batteries and a trillion-dollar industry dominated by the West. The interim regime, led by Jeanine Áñez, rolled back Morales’s policies, opened the door to multinational mining interests, and violently cracked down on indigenous protesters. Though Morales’s party returned to power in 2020, the message from Washington was clear: any government daring to put its people over U.S. corporate profits will pay the price.

Africa: AFRICOM and the Neocolonial Grift

Since the launch of AFRICOM in 2007, the U.S. has militarised Africa under the guise of fighting terrorism. But the real agenda is as old as colonialism: control resources, crush dissent, and secure geopolitical dominance. Take Somalia, for example. U.S. drone strikes, ostensibly targeting al-Shabaab, have killed hundreds of civilians, according to Airwars, destabilising entire communities and fueling cycles of violence. The result? A country in perpetual crisis, with no end in sight.

Then there’s Niger. For years, the U.S. has poured military aid into the country, establishing drone bases to "fight terrorism." But this militarisation hasn’t brought security—it’s brought anti-Western sentiment. The recent 2023 coup, which ousted a U.S.-backed government, shows how the so-called Good Neighbour Policy breeds resentment and instability. While Washington wrings its hands about democracy, it’s really worried about losing access to Niger’s uranium—a critical resource for Western nuclear energy.

Economically, U.S. aid programs often serve as Trojan horses for corporate exploitation. USAID initiatives push African nations to adopt policies that benefit American agribusiness, undermining local food sovereignty. The rhetoric is always the same: partnership and development. The reality? Dependency and plunder.

The Indo-Pacific: Containment in Friendly Packaging

The U.S. has rebranded its Good Neighbour Policy for the Indo-Pacific, where the real goal is to counter China under the guise of partnership. AUKUS, the trilateral military pact with Australia and the UK, is sold as a stabilising force. In reality, it’s a cash grab for U.S. defense contractors and a provocative move that escalates tensions in the region. Australia’s purchase of nuclear-powered submarines, at a staggering cost of $368 billion, isn’t about Australian sovereignty—it’s about making Canberra a forward operating base for U.S. power projection.

Meanwhile, the Indo-Pacific Economic Framework (IPEF) is marketed as an alternative to China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). But unlike the BRI, which funds infrastructure, IPEF focuses on securing supply chains and enforcing intellectual property rights—policies that overwhelmingly benefit U.S. corporations. Nations like Indonesia and Vietnam are pressured to align with Washington, not because it benefits their economies, but because it isolates Beijing.

Even U.S. humanitarian aid is weaponised. After the 2021 Myanmar coup, the U.S. imposed sanctions on the military junta while funneling aid through "approved" channels that often bypass grassroots efforts. The result? A hollowing out of local sovereignty, where even humanitarian aid becomes a tool of geopolitical control.

Europe: Allies in Name Only

Even Europe, supposedly America’s closest ally, isn’t spared the Good Neighbour treatment. The Ukraine war has exposed how little the U.S. values European autonomy. By sabotaging Nord Stream 2—whether directly or through covert means—the U.S. forced Europe to abandon cheap Russian gas in favor of expensive U.S. LNG imports. The result? Germany’s industrial base is struggling, and energy costs are sky-high across the EU. While Washington crows about standing up to Russia, European economies bear the brunt of the fallout.

NATO, too, has become less about mutual defense and more about serving U.S. interests. Under Trump, Europe was bullied into increasing military spending, a trend Biden has continued. This isn’t about making Europe stronger; it’s about funneling more money into the U.S. military-industrial complex.

The Human Cost of Being a “Good Neighbour”

The true cost of the Good Neighbour Policy isn’t paid by governments—it’s paid by ordinary people. Venezuelans suffering under sanctions, Africans displaced by U.S. military operations, Pacific Islanders caught in the crossfire of U.S.-China rivalry—all bear the brunt of policies designed to maintain U.S. hegemony.

But perhaps the biggest cost is the perpetuation of a system that entrenches inequality, dependency, and instability. The U.S. doesn’t build partnerships; it builds pipelines for exploitation. And while the rhetoric of democracy and development keeps flowing, the reality is a global order where the rich get richer, the powerful stay in control, and everyone else pays the price.

Conclusion: A Neighbour You Don’t Want

The Good Neighbour Policy is a con—a way for the U.S. to cloak its imperial ambitions in the language of partnership and benevolence. From Latin America to Africa, the Indo-Pacific to Europe, the script is the same: exploit dependency, extract resources, and crush any challenge to U.S. dominance.

If this is what being a "good neighbour" looks like, maybe it’s time for the world to start locking its doors. The U.S. doesn’t want neighbours—it wants dependents. And as long as this polite imperialism persists, the costs will keep piling up for everyone except the empire.

Australia: The Empire’s Cheerleader in the Pacific (2024)

Australia likes to imagine itself as a middle power with moral weight—a democratic beacon in the Asia-Pacific, standing for fairness, mate ship, and the mythical "fair go." But peel back the self-congratulatory rhetoric, and you’ll find a country that has consistently played the role of loyal deputy in the U.S.-led imperial order. Far from being an independent actor, Australia is often a willing participant in Washington’s global schemes, eagerly punching down at weaker nations while hiding behind the pretence of promoting stability, democracy, and security.

Australia’s subservience to U.S. power has shaped its foreign and domestic policies in ways that align perfectly with the themes laid out in Protecting Our Turf, The Liberal Extreme, The Threat of a Good Example, and other sections. The country has become a case study in how the empire enlists regional allies to do its dirty work, all while replicating many of the empire’s hypocrisies and injustices at home. Let’s take a closer look at Australia’s role as an enforcer of U.S. interests—and the cost of its servility.

Protecting the Turf: Australia’s Pacific Gendarme

Australia plays a crucial role in the U.S.’s strategy to maintain dominance in the Asia-Pacific, a region that Washington sees as critical to "containing" China. Canberra’s alignment with U.S. military objectives has become even more blatant in recent years, particularly with the AUKUS agreement (Australia-UK-U.S.) signed in 2021. This deal commits Australia to spending billions on nuclear-powered submarines, ostensibly to counter China’s growing influence, but in reality, it further entrenches Australia as a pawn in Washington’s geopolitical chessboard.

The so-called "China threat" has been used to justify escalating military expenditures, even as social programs and infrastructure languish. Australian governments—both Liberal and Labor—have eagerly bought into this narrative, portraying Beijing as a lurking menace while ignoring the role that decades of neoliberal policies have played in undermining local industries and economic sovereignty. Anthony Albanese’s Labor government, while slightly more diplomatic in tone, has been no less committed to towing Washington’s line, deepening military ties and expanding U.S. troop deployments in northern Australia.

This militarisation is not just a waste of resources; it risks making Australia a target. If a conflict erupts over Taiwan or the South China Sea, Australia will be on the front lines—not because it’s defending itself, but because it’s defending Washington’s "turf."

The Liberal Extreme: Polite Imperialism Down Under

Australian foreign policy often wears a liberal mask, framing its interventions as benevolent efforts to promote democracy and stability. But as in the U.S., this rhetoric hides a darker reality: Australia is a regional enforcer of neoliberal orthodoxy, particularly in the Pacific. Nowhere is this more apparent than in its relationship with Papua New Guinea (PNG) and the Pacific Islands.

PNG, rich in resources like gold, copper, and natural gas, has long been treated as Australia’s economic backyard. Australian companies like BHP and Rio Tinto have exploited PNG’s resources with little regard for environmental destruction or the well-being of local communities. The Ok Tedi Mine disaster, one of the world’s worst environmental catastrophes, remains a glaring example of Australia’s complicity in ecological and social harm. While Australian leaders talk about “partnering” with Pacific nations, the reality is a deeply unequal relationship where aid often comes with strings attached, designed to lock countries into dependency on Canberra’s goodwill.

Meanwhile, Australia has actively undermined regional efforts to combat climate change, the single biggest threat facing Pacific nations. Despite the existential danger rising sea levels pose to countries like Tuvalu and Kiribati, Australia has continued to expand fossil fuel exports and fight against ambitious global emissions targets. It’s a level of hypocrisy so blatant that Pacific leaders like Fiji’s Frank Bainimarama have openly criticised Australia’s "coal addiction."

The Threat of a Good Example: Crushing Alternatives in the Pacific

Australia’s role in suppressing alternative political and economic models mirrors the U.S.’s global strategy. In the Pacific, Canberra has a long history of intervening to ensure that governments toe the neoliberal line.

One of the most glaring examples is the 2006 coup in Fiji, where the Australian government played a key role in isolating Fiji’s interim military regime. While Fiji’s democratic record under Frank Bainimarama has been far from perfect, his government’s focus on redistributive policies, indigenous rights, and closer ties with China made it a target for Australian hostility. The real crime wasn’t the coup itself—it was Bainimarama’s refusal to accept Australia’s regional dominance.

Similarly, Australia has used its influence to ensure that smaller nations remain dependent on its aid and trade agreements. When countries like the Solomon Islands have sought to diversify their partnerships—signing security deals with China, for example—Canberra has responded with thinly veiled threats and fear-mongering about Chinese "interference." The irony, of course, is that Australia’s own history in the region is one of relentless interference, from its role in suppressing Bougainville’s independence movement to its backing of authoritarian leaders in Indonesia.

Restoring the Traditional Order: Domestic Fascism and Regional Strongmen

At home, Australia has its own struggles with the "traditional order." The rise of far-right populism, fueled by anti-immigrant rhetoric and climate denialism, has mirrored trends in the U.S. and Europe. Figures like Pauline Hanson and Clive Palmer have gained significant influence by scapegoating minorities and dismissing the climate crisis, while mainstream parties have co-opted their rhetoric to appeal to reactionary voters.

But Australia’s embrace of authoritarianism is not just a domestic issue—it’s a regional export. Canberra has supported military-backed regimes in places like Thailand and Myanmar, prioritising trade and counterterrorism over human rights. Australia’s complicity in Indonesia’s ongoing repression of West Papua, where indigenous activists are routinely imprisoned and killed, is a damning indictment of its commitment to justice.

Our Commitment to Democracy: Hypocrisy in Action

Australia’s democratic credentials crumble under scrutiny. Domestically, its treatment of Indigenous Australians remains a national shame, with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities enduring systemic poverty, incarceration, and displacement. The government’s failure to implement the Uluru Statement from the Heart—calling for constitutional recognition and a voice to Parliament—speaks volumes about its priorities.

Internationally, Australia parrots U.S. rhetoric about defending democracy while propping up corrupt regimes and turning a blind eye to abuses. Its unwavering support for Israel’s apartheid policies in Palestine is a glaring example. Australia’s refusal to recognise Palestinian statehood, despite its claims to support a two-state solution, exposes its alignment with U.S.-Israeli interests over international law.

The Three-Sided World: A Trilateral Lackey

Australia’s role in the "three-sided world" is that of a peripheral enforcer, aligning itself with U.S. and European interests to maintain the global capitalist order. This subservience has only deepened with AUKUS and other military agreements, ensuring that Canberra remains firmly tethered to Washington’s agenda.

However, this alignment comes at a cost. As China asserts its influence in the Asia-Pacific, Australia’s dependence on the U.S. risks alienating its neighbours and dragging it into conflicts that serve no national interest. The question for Australia is whether it will continue to act as a regional sheriff for the U.S. or whether it will forge an independent path that prioritises the needs of its people and neighbours.

Timor-Leste: Independence Betrayed

Australia loves to portray itself as a champion of Timor-Leste’s independence from Indonesian occupation. But the reality is far more cynical. After decades of complicity in Indonesia’s brutal occupation, which killed approximately 200,000 East Timorese, Australia belatedly supported independence—only after it became clear that resistance movements and international pressure had made Indonesian control untenable.

Even after independence in 2002, Australia wasted no time exploiting Timor-Leste’s vulnerability. In 2004, the Australian Secret Intelligence Service (ASIS) bugged Timor-Leste’s government offices during sensitive negotiations over the Greater Sunrise oil and gas fields in the Timor Sea. This espionage wasn’t about national security—it was about ensuring that Australian corporations would reap the lion’s share of the resources. When the scandal was exposed in 2013, Australia responded not with accountability but with legal attacks on whistleblower Witness K and his lawyer Bernard Collaery.

Timor-Leste’s plight illustrates Australia’s modus operandi in the region: exploit smaller nations under the guise of partnership, all while ensuring Canberra—and its corporate backers—get the better deal.

Refugee Policy: Australia’s Pacific Gulag

Australia’s treatment of refugees stands as a moral indictment of its liberal pretensions. Since the early 2000s, Australia has implemented draconian offshore detention policies, outsourcing its responsibilities to countries like Nauru and Papua New Guinea. These so-called "regional solutions" are little more than legal and moral sleights of hand, allowing Australia to dump refugees into inhumane conditions while claiming to respect international obligations.

The scale of the cruelty is staggering. Men, women, and children have been held in indefinite detention under conditions that violate basic human rights. The psychological toll has been devastating, with reports of self-harm and suicide attempts among detainees. Successive Australian governments, both Liberal and Labor, have doubled down on these policies, pandering to xenophobia and weaponising fear of the "other" for political gain.

Far from being a humane democracy, Australia’s refugee policy reveals a nation willing to inflict immense suffering to maintain its borders and its image as a bastion of white, Western privilege.

Australia’s brutal refugee policies—detaining asylum seekers in offshore camps in Nauru and PNG—are not just a domestic disgrace; they’re part of a broader strategy of militarising the Pacific to enforce its borders. By turning neighbouring countries into detention outposts, Australia has exported its cruelty while outsourcing its responsibilities. These arrangements benefit local elites and security forces but do nothing for the broader populations, who often resent their governments’ complicity in Australia’s policies.

Moreover, these offshore detention centres rely on heavily militarised security, with guards trained to suppress protests and maintain control over detainees. This reflects a broader trend in Australia’s foreign policy: the use of militarization to enforce hierarchies of power and wealth, whether at home or in the region.

Papua New Guinea: Militarising Exploitation

Australia’s relationship with Papua New Guinea (PNG) exemplifies how it uses aid and security agreements to maintain control over its former colony while enabling corporate exploitation. The Ok Tedi mine disaster—one of the world’s worst environmental catastrophes—remains a stark reminder of this dynamic. Managed by the Australian company BHP, the mine dumped billions of tons of toxic waste into the Fly River system, devastating local communities and ecosystems. Australia’s response? Lip service and minimal action, ensuring that corporate profits remained untouched while PNG bore the brunt of the fallout.

When local resistance to such exploitation grows, Australia turns to militarisation. The Australian Federal Police (AFP) have been deployed to "train" PNG’s security forces, ostensibly to promote law and order. But this training often focuses on quelling protests and securing corporate assets, not protecting PNG’s citizens. Australia’s involvement in bolstering corporate security under the guise of capacity building illustrates its priority: safeguarding the interests of Australian mining and resource companies, even if it means repressing local dissent.

Solomon Islands: Policing Sovereignty

Australia’s role in the Solomon Islands is another glaring example of its regional overreach. Following ethnic tensions in the early 2000s, Australia led the Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands (RAMSI) from 2003 to 2017. While framed as a peacekeeping mission, RAMSI often acted as a tool to enforce neoliberal policies and stabilise the region for corporate investment. Australian personnel were heavily involved in policing, judicial reform, and military training, but their presence did little to address the underlying causes of unrest, such as land disputes and economic inequality.

When the Solomon Islands signed a security pact with China in 2022, Australia responded with barely disguised outrage. The Albanese government, parroting U.S. rhetoric, claimed the agreement threatened regional stability. In reality, Canberra was panicking over the erosion of its control. Solomon Islands Prime Minister Manasseh Sogavare pointedly criticised Australia’s hypocrisy, highlighting its history of imposing agreements without regard for local sovereignty. Australia’s attempts to pressure the Solomons into abandoning the deal—including veiled threats of military action—show just how far it will go to preserve its dominance in the Pacific.

Training Kopassus: Complicity in Repression

Australia’s military ties with Indonesia are a textbook case of supporting repression in the name of strategic interests. For decades, Australia trained Indonesia’s elite Kopassus forces, even as they committed gross human rights abuses. Kopassus units were notorious for their role in atrocities during Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor, including massacres, forced disappearances, and torture. Despite public outcry, Australian governments continued to provide training and support, arguing that engagement would "professionalise" the Indonesian military.

The reality was far more cynical. Australia valued its relationship with Jakarta because it ensured stability for its corporate interests in the region, from mining ventures in West Papua to trade routes through the Timor Sea. By training Kopassus, Australia directly abetted Indonesia’s brutal suppression of independence movements in East Timor and West Papua, making it complicit in crimes against humanity.

Conclusion: Australia’s Role as the Empire’s Cheerleader

Australia’s role in the Asia-Pacific is one of complicity and subservience. While it cloaks its actions in the rhetoric of democracy, stability, and partnership, the reality is far uglier. As the deputy sheriff of the U.S. imperial order, Australia has served as an enforcer of neoliberalism, militarisation, and corporate exploitation, often at the expense of the very nations it claims to protect.

Whether aiding corporate plunder in Papua New Guinea, undermining sovereignty in the Solomon Islands, or training Indonesia’s Kopassus forces to suppress independence movements, Australia has consistently prioritised profits and strategic dominance over justice and human rights. Its refugee policies and militarised response to China’s influence reflect the same punitive, extractive logic that defines its actions abroad. Even Antarctica is not safe from Australia’s ambitions, with its thinly veiled efforts to militarise the region under the guise of scientific research.

This servility to U.S. and Western interests comes at a high cost. It alienates Australia from its neighbours, deepens regional inequalities, and ties its fate to an imperial system that is visibly decaying. At home, Australia replicates the same injustices, from the ongoing oppression of Indigenous Australians to the systemic cruelty of its refugee policies.

If Australia wishes to be more than a cheerleader for empire, it must confront the realities of its foreign and domestic policies. Breaking free from Washington’s shadow and prioritising the needs of its people and neighbours is the only path forward. Anything less will leave Australia tethered to a global order defined by inequality, exploitation, and endless conflict—a system it has helped uphold for far too long.

The Three-Sided World: Trilateralism on Life Support (2024)

When Noam Chomsky described the "three-sided world" in 1992, he laid bare the mechanics of post-World War II global capitalism: the United States, Western Europe, and Japan formed a trilateral axis that dominated the world economy. The job of this trifecta? To coordinate global exploitation, keeping the industrialised core wealthy and the Global South in its place as a cheap supplier of labor and resources. The U.S., of course, played the lead role, with Europe and Japan acting as dutiful sidekicks. The arrangement wasn’t just a partnership—it was a hierarchy, and everyone knew who was in charge.

By 2024, the system hasn’t collapsed, but it’s in shambles. The rise of new powers, the growing economic independence of the Global South, and internal contradictions within the trilateral bloc have left the three-sided world clinging to its former glory. Yet the U.S., Europe, and Japan haven’t abandoned their imperial ambitions—they’re just increasingly desperate to hold onto them. Let’s take a look at the wreckage.

The United States: The Declining Puppet Master

The U.S. was always the alpha in this arrangement, dictating the terms while presenting itself as a benevolent global leader. That image started to crack after the Cold War and has been crumbling ever since. The 2008 financial crisis, brought on by Wall Street greed, exposed the rot at the core of American capitalism. The fallout wasn’t just economic; it shattered the illusion of U.S. competence, leaving allies scrambling to protect themselves from the mess.

And then there’s the military overreach. The Iraq War (2003) was supposed to secure U.S. control over Middle Eastern oil and demonstrate its unchallengeable power. Instead, it destabilised the region, drained resources, and emboldened rivals like Iran and China. More recently, the disastrous withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021 revealed just how far the empire had fallen. These aren’t just tactical blunders—they’re symptoms of a system trying to sustain global dominance on a crumbling foundation.

Today, U.S. policies like the CHIPS Act (2022) and the Inflation Reduction Act (2022) reveal Washington’s desperation to reassert control, particularly over technology and manufacturing. These moves, aimed at countering China, have alienated allies like Germany and South Korea, who see them as thinly veiled protectionism. The U.S. still commands the world’s largest military and a reserve currency in the dollar, but its grip is slipping—and everyone knows it.

Europe: A Disunited Junior Partner

Europe’s role in the trilateral system was to act as the U.S.’s loyal partner in exploitation. But the European Union’s internal contradictions have always threatened to derail this arrangement. The eurozone debt crisis (2010–2012) revealed the fault lines within the EU, as richer nations like Germany imposed brutal austerity measures on poorer ones like Greece, turning the promise of European unity into a cruel joke.

Brexit only made things worse. The U.K.’s exit from the EU in 2020 weakened the bloc economically and politically, leaving it even more reliant on the U.S. for security and leadership. And then there’s the war in Ukraine. While Europe has rallied behind NATO to oppose Russian aggression, the conflict has exposed its energy dependence on Russia and its inability to act independently of U.S. strategic goals.

At the same time, Europe is grappling with the rise of far-right populism. Leaders like Viktor Orban in Hungary and Marine Le Pen in France represent a backlash against neoliberal policies, but their xenophobic nationalism offers no real alternative. Europe’s disunity and internal crises make it a weak link in the trilateral chain—and an increasingly unreliable ally for Washington.

Japan: The Stagnant Player

Once the economic powerhouse of East Asia, Japan’s role in the trilateral system has been reduced to that of a middleman. After its asset bubble burst in the 1990s, Japan entered a prolonged period of stagnation, and it hasn’t truly recovered. Its aging population, mounting debt, and reliance on exports to sustain its economy have left it vulnerable to external shocks.

Despite these challenges, Japan has remained a key player in U.S. strategies to counter China. Through trade deals like the Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for Trans-Pacific Partnership (CPTPP) and security alliances like the Quad, Japan has aligned itself closely with Washington. But this alignment comes at a cost: Japan’s economic dependence on China—its largest trading partner—creates tensions that Tokyo can’t easily resolve. Japan’s loyalty to the trilateral system is less about conviction and more about survival.

The Rise of New Powers: Cracking the Trilateral Shell

The trilateral system’s biggest challenge is the rise of China, whose state-led capitalist model has reshaped global trade and finance. China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) has poured billions into infrastructure projects across the Global South, offering countries an alternative to Western-dominated financial institutions like the IMF. Meanwhile, China’s leadership in renewable energy and advanced technologies has left the trilateral bloc scrambling to catch up.

But China isn’t acting alone. The BRICS nations (Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa) have emerged as a counterweight to trilateral dominance, challenging Western control over global institutions. Recent moves, like the establishment of the New Development Bank, signal a growing desire for economic independence from the U.S.-led order.

The Next 25 Years: A World in Flux

The trilateral system is far from dead, but its future looks bleak. Over the next 25 years, it’s likely to face even greater challenges:

• The Rise of Regionalism - Trade blocs like the African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA) and the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP) will continue to undermine trilateral dominance, as nations seek to decouple from Western-led supply chains.

• Climate Crisis and Resource Wars - The scramble for critical minerals like lithium and cobalt will intensify, pitting the trilateral bloc against emerging powers like China and regional players in Africa and Latin America. The climate crisis will exacerbate these tensions, leading to more conflict and instability.

• Internal Decay - The internal contradictions of the trilateral powers—economic inequality, political polarisation, and demographic challenges—will further weaken their ability to project power globally. The U.S., in particular, risks descending into outright dysfunction as its political system becomes increasingly gridlocked.

Conclusion: Trilateralism on Borrowed Time

The "three-sided world" Chomsky described in 1992 is still recognisable, but it’s running on borrowed time. The U.S., Europe, and Japan remain powerful, but their dominance is being eroded by rising powers, regional alliances, and their own systemic failures. The question is not whether the trilateral system will collapse, but how much damage it will cause on its way down. The world it leaves behind will be more fragmented, more unstable, and—if we’re lucky—more open to alternatives that prioritise people over profits. One thing is clear: the days of uncontested trilateral dominance are over, and good riddance.

The Threat of a Good Example: Small Nations, Big Targets (2024)

The United States has never been able to tolerate disobedience from the Global South, especially when that defiance threatens to inspire others. For Washington, the mere possibility that a small nation might prioritise its people over profits—or worse, succeed in doing so—is an existential threat. Chomsky called this the threat of a good example, and it remains one of the guiding principles of U.S. foreign policy.

What has changed since 1992? The machinery of repression has been fine-tuned. The rhetoric is slicker, but the results are just as devastating. Whether through coups, sanctions, or outright military intervention, the U.S. continues to target any government that dares to challenge its dominance or offer an alternative model of development. The list of victims has grown, and the consequences—economic destruction, political chaos, and human suffering—are staggering.

Venezuela: The Resource Curse Meets U.S. Wrath

Venezuela’s sin is simple: it refused to hand over its oil wealth to U.S. corporations. When Hugo Chavez was elected in 1998, he used Venezuela’s petroleum riches to fund ambitious social programs, cutting poverty in half and expanding access to healthcare and education. His policies were enormously popular domestically but intolerable to Washington, which viewed Chavez’s Venezuela as a dangerous example of resource nationalism.

The response? A 2002 coup attempt—backed by U.S. funds and blessed by Washington—that briefly removed Chavez from power. When that failed, the U.S. turned to economic warfare, imposing sanctions that have since been expanded under every administration, from Bush to Biden. These sanctions, sold as a response to corruption and authoritarianism, have devastated Venezuela’s economy, reducing its ability to import food and medicine. The suffering of ordinary Venezuelans is not collateral damage; it’s the point. It’s a clear warning to other resource-rich nations: nationalise your assets at your peril.

Cuba: A Persistent Thorn in Washington’s Side

For more than six decades, Cuba has been the ultimate "bad example." Despite a brutal U.S. embargo, the island nation has maintained universal healthcare, high literacy rates, and a focus on social welfare that puts many wealthier nations to shame. Its crime? Refusing to bow to U.S. imperialism and showing that there’s an alternative to neoliberalism.

Under Obama, there was a brief thaw, with steps toward normalisation of relations. But Trump slammed the door shut, ramping up sanctions and placing Cuba back on the state sponsors of terrorism list—a designation as absurd as it is punitive. Biden, despite campaign promises to reverse these policies, has largely maintained them. Cuba’s economy remains strangled, not because it poses a threat to the U.S., but because it represents hope for others.

Haiti: Democracy Denied

Haiti has long been a laboratory for U.S. imperialism, and its history since 1992 is no exception. In 1994, the Clinton administration sent troops to restore President Jean-Bertrand Aristide, ousted in a 1991 coup. But this was no act of benevolence; Aristide was forced to accept neoliberal reforms, including the elimination of tariffs on imported rice, which destroyed local farmers and deepened poverty.

When Aristide resisted these dictates during his second term—raising the minimum wage and advocating land reform—the U.S. orchestrated his removal in 2004. Since then, Haiti has been ruled by a series of U.S.-backed governments that have done little to address the country’s systemic inequality and corruption. In 2021, after the assassination of President Jovenel Moise, Washington supported an unelected interim government, once again sidelining demands for democratic reform. The result is a nation in perpetual crisis, a stark reminder of what happens when you defy the empire.

Bolivia: Lithium’s Price Tag

Evo Morales’s Bolivia was a rare success story in the Global South. Elected in 2006 as the country’s first indigenous president, Morales nationalised Bolivia’s natural gas and lithium industries, using the revenues to slash poverty and empower historically marginalised communities. But Bolivia’s vast lithium reserves—critical for batteries and green technologies—made it a target.

In 2019, Morales was ousted in a U.S.-backed coup after his re-election sparked unfounded allegations of fraud. The coup government, led by Jeanine Anez, reversed Morales’s reforms, privatised key industries, and unleashed a wave of violence against indigenous protesters. While Morales’s party regained power in 2020, the coup sent a chilling message: resource nationalism will not be tolerated, and indigenous-led governments are especially unwelcome.

Nicaragua: The Return of the Sandinistas

The Sandinista government of Daniel Ortega has faced relentless U.S. hostility since returning to power in 2007. Ortega’s government has implemented social programs to reduce poverty, improve literacy, and expand healthcare, but his refusal to align with U.S. interests has made him a target. Sanctions, propaganda, and support for opposition groups have destabilised the country, despite Ortega’s continued electoral victories.

While Ortega’s increasingly authoritarian tendencies deserve scrutiny, they cannot be understood in isolation from U.S. interference, which has exacerbated divisions and undermined Nicaragua’s democracy. The Sandinistas remain a symbol of resistance to imperialism, and for that, they remain under siege.

The Sahel: New Frontiers of Repression

In Africa, the U.S. has increasingly used the language of counterterrorism to justify its interventions. Mali provides a recent example. After expelling French troops and seeking closer ties with Russia, Mali’s government became a target of Western ire. The broader strategy is clear: any attempt by African nations to assert autonomy—whether by rejecting IMF austerity or diversifying their alliances—is met with destabilisation efforts, often cloaked in the language of security.

The Fallout of Suppressing Good Examples

The U.S.’s obsession with crushing good examples has profound consequences. It leaves nations impoverished, democratic movements stifled, and entire regions destabilised. Worse, it creates a chilling effect: governments that might otherwise pursue progressive policies instead capitulate, fearing Washington’s wrath. The good examples that survive, like Cuba or Venezuela, are forced to do so under siege conditions, limiting their ability to inspire others.

Domestically, this hypocrisy corrodes the U.S.’s moral authority. How can a nation claim to champion democracy while systematically undermining it wherever it challenges its interests? The result is global cynicism, anti-American sentiment, and a world increasingly disillusioned with the promises of liberal democracy.

Conclusion: A Fight Worth Fighting

The "threat of a good example" exposes the fragility of U.S. hegemony. A system that depends on crushing alternatives is not sustainable, and the cracks are already visible. But the persistence of nations like Cuba, Venezuela, and Bolivia also shows that resistance is possible—and that the fight for a more just and equitable world is far from over. The task ahead is clear: amplify these examples, support their survival, and challenge the imperial system that seeks to extinguish them. If these small nations can resist, so can we.