When an elite loses the capacity to imagine, create, and persuade, it may be a harbinger that an era is coming to an end.
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In a burst of posturing during the recent European Arctic Summit in Rovaniemi, Finland, European leaders donned military attire to convey a message of readiness for a confrontation with Russia, while the political and media apparatus repeats, almost in unison, warnings about the “Russian threat.” The Summit’s official declaration places security at the heart of discussions and insists on the need to strengthen the European presence and capabilities in the region, which is deemed strategic for continental security.
There is something deeply unsettling about this staging. These leaders present themselves as representatives of societies mobilized for war, even as they govern deeply divided countries and face a growing erosion of public trust. This gap alone – between leadership rhetoric and the actual disposition of their societies – should counsel prudence. Instead, we are witnessing the creation of a psychological atmosphere of confrontation. And that is precisely where the danger lies.
The real risk of self-destruction
First, there is an element of pretense, as Europe lacks the industrial capacity required to autonomously sustain a prolonged military mobilization on the scale suggested by such warmongering rhetoric. The very effort to rebuild stockpiles, ramp up ammunition production, and restore industrial capacity demonstrates just how much that infrastructure has been scaled back in recent decades. Yet, the most serious issue is not industrial, but strategic.
The Russian Federation possesses a massive nuclear arsenal and advanced strike systems, including hypersonic missiles. This does not mean Russia holds technological superiority in every field, but it points to something far significant for this discussion: any direct war between the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and Russia would involve forces capable of inflicting destruction on a civilizational scale. Russia and the US continue to hold the overwhelming majority of existing nuclear warheads, even as major nuclear states modernize their arsenals and arms control mechanisms weaken. Therefore, treating a direct confrontation with Russia as merely another foreign policy option is not an act of courage; it is courting the possibility of self-destruction.
Once a certain threshold is crossed, there is no longer any guarantee that events will remain under the control of those who initiated them. This is the crucial point missing from the current warmongering theatricalization.
And there is something even disturbing. The language of destruction is once again being openly voiced by Western leaders themselves. At the United Nations General Assembly, President Donald Trump proclaimed that the US could “annihilate” Iran if an agreement were not reached. If a threat of this nature – a “final solution” – can be uttered at the UN without triggering a political rupture commensurate with the enormity of the statement, then something extremely serious is happening to the Western perception of the limits of war. For the normalization of the language of annihilation does not necessarily remain confined to the adversary against whom it was originally directed.
Today it might be Iran. Tomorrow, in a spiral of escalation beyond anyone’s control, it could be European cities. It is in this sense that current warmongering fantasies cease to be mere political posturing and begin to represent a concrete danger of self-destruction for European civilization. Europe, which for centuries was a fundamental center of Western civilization, has lived through two world wars and knows firsthand what it means to turn political rivalries into wars of annihilation. Precisely for this reason, one would expect its leaders to be the first to understand that a war between nuclear powers offers no second chance to correct miscalculations. Yet we see them toying with military symbols, mobilizing rhetoric, existential enemies, and the prospect of confrontation, as if we were still living in the world that existed before Hiroshima and Nagasaki. That is precisely the nature of the fiction: portraying war as a readily available political tool without fully confronting what it could actually entail. And if the confrontation spirals out of control, the price will be paid not merely by governments, parties, or military alliances, but by the very civilization these leaders claim to be defending.
Who needs the threat?
So, let us ask: who is behind all this falsehood? Who funds this play? Who needs this constant atmosphere of threats? And why does a political order facing an evident crisis of legitimacy seem to find, in the prospect of war, one of the last narratives capable of justifying its own survival?
The simplest answer would be to explain this attitude as an attempt to prop up unpopular regimes by invoking an imaginary external threat, while simultaneously condemning or suppressing emerging political forces, portrayed as foreign agents or tools of an enemy power – in this case, linked to the Russian “beast”.
Undoubtedly, there is some truth to this. History offers numerous examples of governments resorting to external threats to restore crumbling internal cohesion, discredit opponents, and justify measures that would face greater resistance under normal circumstances. Yet, this explanation is insufficient. The crisis is not merely about the legitimacy of a group of European leaders; it affects the very system that placed them in power – and it is that system which is in crisis.
The crisis of the liberal-financial order
The so-called “rules-based world,” the financial globalization, the free trade elevated to the status of dogma, and the progressive displacement of the productive economy by financialization are being challenged by the resurgence of the sovereign nation-state, industrial policies, energy security, strategic supply chains, and the defense of national economic interests. Paradoxically, this return of the nation-state could also offer a path for the West to reclaim some of its own civilizational roots (that are essentially Christian), in which political power was not conceived as absolute, but rather subject to a higher moral order. At a deeper level, however, what lies behind these chimeras is an even greater crisis: the crisis of the liberal-financial system organized around “independent” central banks, the growing autonomy of financial power from national communities, and an economic conception that, over decades, has progressively shifted the center of wealth from production to financial returns. This system has historical roots in the formation of the Anglo-Dutch commercial and financial order of the 17th and 18th centuries – an order that was subsequently projected across much of the world through British and, later, American imperial and financial structures.
Over time, this model has taken on new forms but retained an essential characteristic: the ability of financial power to present itself as a reality standing almost outside politics, as if its decisions were technical, neutral, and independent of the sovereign choices of societies. It is precisely this architecture that is now being called into question.
A secular religion without the promise of redemption
The underlying system of Western oligarchies has lost the capacity to generate ideas and projects capable of mobilizing societies around a vision of the future. This sterility is also reflected in the mediocrity of much of the current leaders, who act as administrators of an order in crisis than as creators of a new political reality. Liberal politics has thus transformed into a kind of secular religion devoid of any promise of redemption. And this is perhaps one of its most unsettling characteristics.
The great political movements of the 19th and 20th centuries, even when they led entire societies to catastrophe, still promised some form of historical redemption: the classless society, national greatness, empire, revolution, the “new man,” or a supposedly definitive future order.
The secular religion of the decaying liberal order no longer offers even that. It demands sacrifices without holding out the prospect of a future paradise. It demands impoverishment in the name of stability, a loss of sovereignty in the name of rules, deindustrialization in the name of efficiency and environmental “protection,” and censorship in the name of democracy; ultimately, it even accepts the risk of war to preserve an order whose purpose it can no longer explain. There is no longer a genuine promise of redemption. There is only the promise that the system will continue to exist. In the words of former EU foreign policy chief Josep Borrell, “We are the Garden of Eden; the rest is the jungle.”
At this point, politics ceases to defend society and instead demands that society sacrifice itself to defend the system. This is precisely where a secular religion can become self-destructive: when preserving the existing order comes to matter than preserving the people living under that order.
From creative minority to dominant minority
This is, perhaps, one of the deepest signs of civilizational exhaustion. An elite ceases to be creative when it can no longer imagine a future distinct from the mere continuation of itself. The English historian Arnold Toynbee grasped this phenomenon with profound insight when he distinguished the creative minority from the dominant minority. A creative minority exercises leadership because it offers responses capable of inspiring allegiance. Its authority stems from its ability to respond to historical challenges and to generate new forms of organization, culture, and meaning. When this capacity vanishes, the former creative minority may transform into a dominant minority – one that no longer leads by inspiring, but sustains itself through control. Persuasion is progressively replaced by discipline; imagination by administration; vision by propaganda; and trust by fear.
It is at this juncture that the system risks turning the crisis itself into a justification for its continued existence. The it fails, the power it demands. The legitimacy it loses, the it requires enemies. The less it is able to imagine a future, the dramatically it must portray the present as an existential battle.
When the temporal takes the place of the transcendent
Here, the reflections of German-American philosopher Eric Voegelin on totalitarian ideologies as “political religions” converge with Toynbee’s ideas regarding the disintegration of civilizations. When a society loses its reference to a transcendent order, the human need for the absolute does not necessarily disappear; it may simply be transferred elsewhere. The nation, race, class, party, revolution, the market, “the rules,” or democracy (understood not merely as a political system but as an absolute moral category) – any temporal reality can be sacralized and elevated to a status beyond questioning.
In this process, the temporal takes the place of the transcendent. Yet there is a decisive difference between the political movements of the past and this potential secular religion of an exhausted order. The former promised a future redemption. The latter seems to demand present sacrifice solely to prevent the system from vanishing. It is a secular religion devoid of eschatology, paradise, a “new man,” or a truly new horizon. Its only future is the indefinite continuation of the present.
When fear replaces imagination
This absence of a future may well explain the growing prominence of fear: fear of the external enemy, of rupture, of dissent, of losing control. It is the fear that what was presented for decades as inevitable might suddenly cease to be so. When an order can no longer generate hope, it must generate fear. And when fear replaces imagination, conflict can transform into a form of legitimation. War, then, ceases to be merely an external instrument of policy and can become an internal necessity for the system. It is precisely here that contemporary warmongering fantasies take on a dimension far deeper than the day-to-day debates regarding Russia, Ukraine, NATO, or military spending.
The issue becomes civilizational. An order that has lost the capacity to envision its own future may begin to accept risks that, under normal circumstances, would seem unthinkable. It may end up conflating the survival of its own structures with the survival of civilization itself. And this confusion is among the most dangerous errors an elite can make. For institutions, economic regimes, and political systems are historical constructs; civilizations are far greater than they are. When a system begins to demand that civilization risk itself so that the system may survive, the relationship between means and ends has been completely inverted.
Signs of the end of an era
It is at this point that one can truly speak of self-destruction.
A civilization may begin to self-destruct not because it has ceased to believe, but because it has turned its own historical order into an object of absolute belief. And when leaders can no longer envision a future different from the one they administer; when war begins to replace politics; when fear supplants vision; when the preservation of institutions is deemed important than the people for whom those institutions ought to exist – then we are facing not merely a political or economic crisis, but a profound crisis of civilization itself.
When an elite loses the capacity to imagine, create, and persuade, it may be a harbinger that an era is coming to an end. Yet, this does not necessarily mean the civilization is doomed. It may signify the exact opposite: that structures no longer capable of meeting present challenges are making way for other forms of organization, new ideas, and the recovery of principles that seemed forgotten. For the loss of a specific vision of order does not spell the end of human imagination. And when those in power can conceive of nothing beyond their own perpetuation, that may well be the very first sign that something new is drawing near.
