The headlines are stark. The United States, in a fit of fiscal realism or perhaps imperial exhaustion, now demands that its Asian allies pay for the privilege of American protection. Meanwhile, Britain, that venerable observer of imperial decline, warns of a global power vacuum. One might be forgiven for feeling a chill of historical familiarity. The ghosts of the 1930s, the echoes of appeasement and the hollowing out of the liberal order, they rattle their chains once more. We are witnessing, I am afraid, either a shrewd recalibration or the first act of a tragic farce.
Consider the American demand. For decades, the United States played the role of the great benefactor, its security umbrella extending over Japan, South Korea, and others as a bulwark against the Soviet menace and, later, a rising China. This was never charity; it was strategic investment. The price of American hegemony was borne by American taxpayers, but the dividends were immense: a stable Pacific, open sea lanes, and a favourable global order. Now, to demand payment is to treat allies as clients, to reduce a grand strategic bargain to a ledger book. It smacks of a shortsightedness that has historically preceded decline. The Athenian empire demanded tribute from its allies; the result was resentment, rebellion, and ultimately, the Sicilian disaster.
And then there is Britain's warning, delivered with that peculiar mix of moral authority and fading relevance. One must admire the chutzpah. The nation that once ruled a quarter of the globe now cautions against power vacuums. Yet, the warning is sound. When the dominant power abdicates its role, others rush to fill the void. China watches with quiet satisfaction. Russia, too, senses opportunity. The language of ‘spheres of influence’ is back in fashion, a term we thought we had retired with the Cold War. But it never really left; it merely hibernated.
The irony is that the United States, by demanding payments from allies, may well accelerate the very multipolar world it seeks to manage. Japan and South Korea, if forced to rely more on their own military capabilities, may develop nuclear weapons, a prospect that would destabilise the region. Others may drift toward Beijing. The American security guarantee, once a public good, becomes a transactional commodity. But credibility, once lost, is not so easily bought back.
Meanwhile, Britain’s position is no less precarious. A post-Brexit nation, seeking a role on the world stage, now warns of abysses it cannot bridge. Its military is a shadow of its former self; its economy struggles. The warning is correct, but the messenger lacks the weight to be heeded. This is the tragedy of the modern West: declining powers correctly diagnosing the malaise but unable to prescribe the cure.
What, then, is to be done? Neither demands for payment nor warnings will restore order. The United States must decide whether it wishes to be a hegemon or a mere power. The two are not the same. Hegemony requires generosity, patience, and a tolerance for ungrateful allies. It requires paying the price of leadership. If America retrenches, it must do so with strategic grace, not petulant demands. And Britain must recognise that its warnings are only as powerful as its capacity to act. Otherwise, we are left with the worst of all worlds: an angry former hegemon, a vacillating secondary power, and a vacuum that autocrats will happily fill.
History does not repeat, but it often rhymes. The poetry of this moment is unmistakable. Let us hope it is not a dirge.
