Protests aren't what they used to be

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I noticed during COVID that people exclusively ‘protested’ only at times dictated by the government they were supposedly opposing. Of course nothing changed. No leverage was garnered - it’s akin to a strongly worded letter. As a rule of thumb, if it doesn’t threaten votes, profits, or operations, it’s theatre. When protests worked, they hit one or more of those three. Leverage from protests in the Western world has gradually declined as the civilian–state power dynamic has become increasingly polarised. In the late eighteenth century, during the French Revolution, the people of France successfully garnered leverage over their government. At that time the state’s monopoly of force was far weaker than what we see today. Ordinary citizens had access to arms and were organised enough to use them. When food shortages and economic collapse set in, the monarchy found itself unable to impose control. The storming of the Bastille and other uprisings forced the monarchy to concede, not from goodwill but from incapacity. Authority collapsed and a new political order began. In the 1800s the Chartists in Britain pushed for parliamentary reform, using strikes and mass gatherings to disrupt industry until concessions were made. By the early 20th century, labour movements across Europe and the US used the same leverage: when workers shut down mines, railways, and factories, production losses forced employers to concede shorter work weeks and better pay. In the mid-1900s Gandhi’s independence movement showed how boycotts, resignations, and noncooperation could sap the British Empire’s hold on India, making imperial rule unsustainable. By the 1950s and 60s, the US Civil Rights Movement imposed reputational and economic costs through boycotts and sit-ins, making segregation politically indefensible. Entering the 1980s, Poland’s Solidarity strikes drew in millions, leaving the state unable to suppress both economic disruption and moral opposition. Each of these moments shows leverage built through disruption, before governments steadily expanded their capacity to contain or neutralise dissent. In the 1970s protests in the West were still disruptive—occupations, strikes, draft resistance, even sabotage—forcing governments to weigh the cost of ignoring them. By the 1980s, that balance had shifted. In the US and UK, union decline, neoliberal reforms, and new public-order policing made protest predictable and containable. In Australia, union density fell from around 40% of workers in the early 1990s to about 13% today. Strike action was narrowed legally, with sympathy strikes banned and bargaining periods enforced under reforms such as the Industrial Relations Reform Act 1993. More recently, state laws have imposed harsh penalties for disruptive protests, such as NSW’s 2022 Roads and Crimes Amendment, which carries jail terms and heavy fines for blocking infrastructure. By the 1990s and 2000s, marches dominated—large but symbolic and easy to ignore. By the 2010s and into COVID, protest slid further into spectacle: social media created attention without leverage, and gatherings were boxed into state-approved times and places. Since the 2000s protest has largely failed because it is boxed in by permits and policing, with unions too weak to apply credible strike leverage. Critical strike leverage means being able to stop something that actually matters—halting production lines, grounding transport, cutting supply chains, or pausing essential services in ways that quickly create political or economic cost. That kind of disruption has become rare. Movements have been turned into brands built for visibility rather than substance. Media frames disruption as violence and compliance as peacefulness, while laws increase the cost of resistance. What remains are digital gestures—hashtags, petitions, social media rants—acts that amount to politely asking for change, designed to placate rather than empower. Governments and media reinforce this by amplifying protests that suit their own agendas while smothering those that challenge them. When demonstrations align with policies they want to advance, coverage is positive and glowing, convincing many—especially younger people—that they are part of real change. Yet when protests push against centralisation of power or authoritarian measures, they are either ignored, ridiculed, or crushed with the full weight of law. The result is a generation mobilised to sing the tune they are fed, believing their voices are shaping history when in reality they are being channelled into supporting the very structures that limit them. Back in 2021 I wrote about this directly. There were protests in the UK at the time, but not on authoritarianism or mass power grabs—they were on environmentalism, and the mainstream media praised them. It was clear that protests are considered ‘good’ when they fit the direction of centralised policy, but ignored or condemned when they resist it. My prediction then was that these would be folded into larger agendas like the so‑called ‘great reset,’ and that the UN would play a role. At the same moment, Australians were protesting a bill giving unilateral control over Victorians’ freedoms to one man, yet those protests received no praise or attention. The contrast was obvious: some protests are boosted because they serve power, others are buried because they threaten it. I’ve also pointed out that this bias is sharper now than in the past. Before the internet was fully centralised, people spoke directly with each other and could check their assumptions. Now most people’s world is filtered through media, Facebook, and Google. With those filters in place, it’s easy to have the general public believing almost anything about the world beyond their front doors. We all saw how fast narratives shifted—from COVID, to plastic straws, back to COVID, and then Black Lives Matter. Black lives matter, but even that movement showed how energy was channelled into someone else’s time and agenda, not ours. There have been moments when real leverage returned. In the UK in 1990, the poll tax revolt forced repeal through mass non-payment and unrest. Thatcher had introduced a flat-rate community charge that hit poorer households hardest, and refusal to pay spread nationwide. The political cost mounted until the policy was scrapped and Thatcher was forced out of office. In 2000, fuel blockades emptied petrol stations and forced a policy suspension within days. In France, the Gilets Jaunes disrupted consistently and unpredictably until fuel tax rises were shelved. Iceland’s pots and pans protests toppled a government during the financial crisis, while in Ireland water charges collapsed under non-payment and pressure. In the US, teacher strikes in 2018 and 2019 forced wage and funding concessions by shutting down schools. In Canada during COVID, truck convoys blocked borders and city centres, causing economic disruption that forced negotiations and inspired similar movements abroad, including in Australia. In Australia itself, the Green Bans of the 1970s halted major developments through coordinated industrial action—rare now, but still a clear example of what leverage looks like when disruption is real. If we want real power back in civil hands, we need to rebuild the means of disruption. That means peaceful leverage—credible threats to votes, profits, or operations. For Australians this can be practical and lawful: voting strategically in marginal seats where small numbers decide outcomes; joining or forming cooperatives and unions that can negotiate collectively; directing investment and spending away from companies or institutions that undermine public interests; supporting local farmers and producers; and building networks that can coordinate campaigns on housing, wages, or environmental protection. It also means organised refusal to accept unfair policies—through petitions, public submissions, and targeted noncompliance campaigns within legal bounds—that make implementation messy, slow, or impossible. Above all it requires steady community organisation, linking people where they already live and work, and focusing energy on actions that create real political cost. Without that, protest remains theatre—safe, permitted, and contained by the very powers it claims to oppose. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit alexanderany1.substack.com [https://alexanderany1.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Protests aren't what they used to be

25 de sep de 20259 min

The US Empire could be coming to an end

In a recent article, I warned that tensions between the world’s major powers are heating up in ways that could set the stage for a global war. This time I want to dig deeper into one of the most likely flashpoints: Iran. I first want to consider if the US will Commit Ground Troops in a War on Iran: A U.S. ground invasion of Iran is improbable as an opening move, but not impossible if the conflict escalates. History shows Washington has always hesitated to put troops directly into Iran. The geography explains why: Iran is a fortress surrounded by mountains, with deserts and salt flats in its interior, and a population of more than 85 million that can be mobilised in defence. Saddam Hussein’s failure to break through the Zagros in eight years of war is a reminder of how inhospitable the terrain is to an invader. U.S. generals know this would not be Iraq 2003, where armoured columns swept to Baghdad in weeks; a march on Tehran could stall in mountain passes and dense urban centres, turning quickly into a quagmire. From a game theory perspective, this caution makes sense. The United States gains little from committing ground troops unless forced by events. The costs—casualties, political backlash, and the risk of getting trapped—are high, while the payoff is uncertain. The rational equilibrium has long been limited confrontation: airstrikes, sanctions, covert operations, and proxy wars. Iran, by contrast, knows it can't win conventionally and instead seeks to shape the game. Its best strategy is to lure America into exactly the fight it wants to avoid: a protracted ground war that unites Iranians, stretches U.S. supply lines, and erodes U.S. domestic resolve. By calibrating provocations—such as strikes on U.S. bases, harassment in the Strait of Hormuz, or attacks via proxies—Iran can raise pressure on Washington to respond more forcefully. America’s global reputation creates a trap: if it fails to retaliate, credibility suffers; if it escalates too far, it risks the quagmire Tehran has prepared for. Israel’s role complicates this further. While publicly aligned with America, their deeper strategic interests are not identical. Israel wants Iran neutralised, but also benefits if the U.S. exhausts itself in the process, potentially leaving Israel as the dominant regional military power. Entangling America in a long war with Iran serves both goals: weakening its greatest rival and draining its patron. If the US entered a Ground War in Iran, could they win Quickly? If U.S. ground troops were ever committed, a swift and decisive victory is extremely unlikely. Iran is designed, by geography, population, and strategy, to turn any invasion into a long and grinding conflict. American planners know this, which is why no administration has seriously attempted a ground invasion despite decades of tension. The geography alone makes quick victory implausible. Iran is a fortress of mountain ranges, deserts, and narrow passes. The Zagros and Alborz mountains offer natural strongholds and guerrilla terrain. Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, despite years of brutal fighting, failed to break through the Zagros in the 1980s. Iran’s population compounds the challenge. With more than 85 million people, deeply nationalistic even if critical of their leaders, Iran can draw on a vast pool of fighters. Beyond its standing army and the IRGC, it can mobilize militias like the Basij, who would blend into cities and towns as guerrilla fighters. U.S. experience in Fallujah and Mosul showed how long it can take to root out small groups of determined fighters street by street. Multiply that across a nation of Iran’s size and the prospect of rapid regime collapse fades into fantasy. Even if Tehran were taken, an insurgency could stretch on for years, with constant ambushes, roadside bombs, and sniper fire. Iran’s military posture is also designed for attrition, not parity. It cannot match U.S. firepower in open battle, but it has invested heavily in asymmetric weapons: thousands of ballistic missiles, mobile anti-ship systems, swarms of fast boats and drones, dense layers of air defenses. This is a punishment strategy. Iran can’t stop an invasion, but it can make every U.S. advance costly enough to sap political will. In 2020, Iran showed precision by striking U.S. troops in Iraq with missiles. Its strategy is simple: hold out, inflict casualties, and wait for Washington to lose heart, as North Vietnam did half a century ago. Meanwhile, the 'U.S.' would fight with limits. Nuclear weapons are off the table, and the use of overwhelming firepower is constrained by the risk of inflaming global opinion, wrecking oil markets or provoking Russia and/or China. The U.S. needs to balance military needs with political optics, economic costs, and alliance management, and each restraint slows the pace of operations and gives Iran more breathing room. External powers could make sure the war drags on. China relies heavily on Iranian oil and views Iran as a key partner in its Belt and Road network; Russia sees Tehran as a counterweight to U.S. influence and a lucrative arms client. Neither wants a U.S. victory. They would likely stop short of direct war but could supply advanced air defenses, intelligence, cyber support, and diplomatic cover. An invasion would ripple through the international system, triggering counter-moves that collectively blunt U.S. power. The longer the U.S. stayed bogged down, the more its rivals could bleed it indirectly. Domestic Unrest and the Risk of Civil Conflict A drawn-out U.S. war in Iran would not only drain blood and treasure overseas but also ignite turmoil at home. History shows how unpopular foreign wars reverberate domestically. Vietnam fractured American society, producing mass protests, militant opposition groups, and even deadly confrontations like Kent State. That unrest fell short of civil war, yet it revealed how sustained casualties and stalemates abroad corrode political legitimacy. Today’s America is even more polarized, with surveys showing nearly half of citizens expect civil war within their lifetimes. Against that backdrop, a blunder in Iran would act like fuel poured onto already smouldering divisions. The chain of events is easy to imagine. Casualties mount, flag-draped coffins fill nightly broadcasts, and Iran deliberately plays to U.S. public opinion by showcasing captured troops or delivering a steady drip of losses. At the same time, the economic toll lands hard: sabotage of Gulf shipping pushes oil prices skyward, inflation bites, and federal war spending swells deficits. Ordinary Americans feel the conflict directly through higher costs and financial insecurity, just as faith in government competence sits at historic lows. The atmosphere recalls the late 1960s, but with social media magnifying outrage and polarisation in real time. A replay of the 1960s unrest is the minimum scenario; the maximum is a spiral toward systemic breakdown if certain triggers are pulled. Chief among them would be the return of the draft. Vietnam proved how conscription radicalises opposition, and in today’s fractured landscape, resistance could escalate beyond protest. Would a U.S. Civil War or Defeat Mark the End of the American Empire? A drawn-out Iran war that the U.S. fails to win quickly – especially if it leads to serious internal strife – would likely spell the end of the American Empire as we know it. By American Empire, I mean the United States’ post-WWII role as the predominant global superpower, enforcing a world order through its military alliances, economic might, and soft power. History suggests that when great powers become bogged down in costly conflicts and face domestic upheaval, their era of primacy comes to an end. We can draw parallels to the decline of the British Empire. Britain emerged victorious in WWII but exhausted; then it mishandled the 1956 Suez Crisis (a failed intervention in Egypt) and faced financial ruin. After Suez, it became clear Britain could no longer act as a world police independent of the new superpower, and within years it gave up its remaining colonies. If the U.S. were seen unable to defeat Iran (a regional power) despite massive effort, international perceptions would shift dramatically. Allies might doubt U.S. security guarantees, and adversaries would be emboldened to challenge U.S. interests elsewhere. Political scientist Paul Kennedy famously theorized about “imperial overstretch”, where an empire’s global commitments outstrip its economic base and erode its power. A failed Iran war would be a textbook case of overstretch. In fact, some observers argue the signs of American imperial decline are already evident. One analysis notes that the U.S. lost its subsequent wars in Vietnam, Afghanistan, and Iraq, and even massive efforts in recent proxy conflicts haven't produced clear victories. The inability to decisively prevail, despite unparalleled military spending, suggests a waning of effective power. Empires in decline often respond by over-extending their coping mechanisms, as economist Richard Wolff writes – they undertake more military actions even as their capacity to sustain them diminishes. This produces a vicious cycle of costs and “blowback” that accelerates the decline. In Wolff’s words, “Policies aimed to strengthen the empire… now undermine it.” A U.S. decision to invade Iran could be seen in that light: an attempt to reassert dominance that instead backfires and bleeds the empire dry. If the U.S. became embroiled in civil conflict (even short of full civil war), its ability to project power externally would evaporate. Imagine National Guard units (often key to deployments) busy dealing with unrest in American cities, or a government divided and paralyzed. The rest of the world would naturally adjust to a post-American leadership era. Geopolitically, rivals like China and Russia would seize the opportunity to expand their influence. U.S. allies might either accommodate the new powers or fend for themselves by boosting their militaries. We might see a rapid unraveling of the U.S.-led alliance system: for instance, NATO’s unity could fracture if the U.S. is distracted or if American politics turns isolationist post-war. Already we have hints of this – during the scenario’s lead-up, European allies were wary of the U.S. hard line, and some resented being dragged into yet another Middle East conflict. If the U.S. is weakened, countries from Germany to Japan could recalibrate their security policies, perhaps seeking accommodation with Russia/China or developing independent nuclear deterrents. In essence, the Pax Americana of the last 80 years would crumble, making way for a new order. Crucially, the U.S. dollar’s dominant role and the global financial architecture would likely be shaken. The American “empire” has a financial foundation – the U.S. can sanction adversaries, fund its military, and run deficits largely because the world trusts its economic leadership. A catastrophic war and domestic meltdown would undercut that trust. A 2025 Atlantic Council report warns that U.S. superpower status and the dollar’s role reinforce each other, and that a decline in one could trigger a downward cycle in US influence around the world. In practical terms, losing a war or fracturing internally would cause allies and investors to lose confidence in U.S. leadership. We might see capital flight from U.S. markets, other countries distancing themselves from Washington’s directives, and international institutions (like the UN) acting more independently or under alternate leadership. The American “brand” would be severely tarnished – much as the Soviet Union’s aura collapsed when it imploded in 1991. Another outcome of the end of the American empire could be a period of multipolar chaos until a new order is established. After the British Empire faded, the U.S. and USSR competed until one remained. If the U.S. empire ends in the 2020s, the likely successors are a combination of China (economically and regionally dominant in Asia), perhaps a resurgent Russia in Eurasia, and a stronger role for middle powers (EU, India, etc.). Notably, these powers have been increasingly coordinating: the BRICS coalition (Brazil, Russia, India, China and others) has explicitly worked on “dedollarization” and creating parallel institutions to U.S.-led ones. A failed Iran war could be the catalyst that makes their vision a reality. For instance, China could broker peace deals or alliances that fill the vacuum of U.S. retreat. Russia might claim victory in preserving the Tehran regime and gain sway in the Middle East. The Middle East itself could shift – without American dominance, regional powers like Turkey, a Saudi-Iran entente, or Israel could define a new regional balance. In summary, a U.S. failure in Iran, coupled with internal strife, would likely mark the end of the American global empire. It would be seen as the point where the costs of maintaining primacy became too high, forcing the U.S. to retrench. Conclusion The question of whether the United States would commit ground troops to Iran is not just a military one—it is a test of empire. Iran’s geography, population, and strategy make it uniquely resistant to invasion. For Washington, the rational choice has long been limited engagement: sanctions, airpower, and proxies. Yet history shows that empires often stumble into the very wars they most want to avoid. If ground troops are deployed, the chances of a swift victory are vanishingly small. A campaign meant to demonstrate American strength could instead expose American weakness. Iran’s asymmetric playbook is designed to grind down an invader, while external powers like Russia and China would quietly ensure that Washington pays the highest price possible. The longer the conflict drags on, the more it risks triggering unrest at home—protests, economic strain, and a deepening legitimacy crisis. This is how empires unravel: not in one decisive defeat, but through a series of overextensions that sap both external dominance and internal cohesion. The collapse of the American empire would not necessarily mean the end of the United States as a nation, but it would end the post-1945 world order built on U.S. primacy. The dollar’s role, the reach of NATO, and the ability of Washington to dictate terms globally all rest on the perception of unchallengeable power. A failed war in Iran could be the moment that perception breaks. If so, a multipolar world could emerge more quickly than many expect, with China, Russia, and regional powers filling the vacuum. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit alexanderany1.substack.com [https://alexanderany1.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

12 de sep de 202517 min

Protests aren't what they used to be

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