War rarely begins with grand strategy or noble declarations. More often, it
begins with something far smaller and far more human. Imagine an itch, an
irritation that refuses to go away. One person feels it first, perhaps pride
wounded, ego bruised, grievance unresolved. Instead of calming the irritation
through restraint, reflection, or compromise, he provokes another. Soon the
second person begins scratching as well. What started as a private discomfort
becomes shared agitation. Retaliation follows retaliation, and the scratching
becomes a spectacle. Others join in, either to defend honour, settle scores, or
simply because conflict has a way of pulling spectators onto the stage. Before
long, the original irritation is forgotten, yet the pain has spread everywhere.
That, in essence, is how wars often grow, not merely from necessity, but from
unchecked impulses and the human tendency to export one’s own unrest.
A striking illustration of this dynamic appears in the ancient Indian epic Mahabharata and the catastrophic Kurukshetra War. The conflict did not begin with
armies marching across plains, but it began with humiliation, envy, and pride.
The rivalry between the Pandavas and the Kauravas escalated through insults,
manipulation, and the infamous dice game in which power, honour, and dignity
were gambled away. The public humiliation of Draupadi
transformed a palace dispute into a moral crisis that demanded redress. What
might have remained a family quarrel hardened into an existential struggle
involving kingdoms across the subcontinent. By the time diplomacy failed, the
original grievances had become secondary. Pride, vengeance, and the perceived
need to restore honour had already set the stage for a war that would devastate
an entire generation.
History shows that this pattern repeats itself
with uncomfortable regularity. Conflict is rarely spontaneous, but it usually
emerges within larger cycles of power, insecurity, and shifting influence. When
dominant powers sense their authority weakening or their economic foundations
wobbling, strategic anxiety tends to rise. Military posturing becomes more
visible, statements grow sharper, and warships suddenly begin what might
politely be described as “presence missions.” Aircraft carriers do not wander
oceans by accident. They are floating signals. When global power feels
uncertain, the world often witnesses a season of muscle flexing disguised as
diplomacy.
This dynamic is not new. In the nineteenth
century, Britain and Russia engaged in a prolonged geopolitical rivalry in
Central Asia that later became known as “the Great Game.” The term was first
used by Captain Arthur Conolly of the British East India Company’s Bengal Light
Cavalry in the 1840s to describe the strategic contest unfolding across
Afghanistan, Persia, and the Central Asian Khanates. Later, Rudyard Kipling’s
novel Kim gave the phrase its romantic
and mysterious aura, portraying a shadowy world of spies, agents, and imperial manoeuvrings.
Behind the literary drama, however, the Great Game was simply two empires
attempting to secure influence, buffer zones, and strategic advantage without
triggering a full scale war between themselves.
What is unfolding today in the Middle East
resembles a far more dangerous version of that rivalry. Observers increasingly
describe the current crisis as a “New Great Game,” but the comparison is only
partially accurate. The nineteenth-century contest revolved largely around
territory and imperial boundaries. The modern one revolves around regime
survival, strategic deterrence, economic choke points, and global alliances
that stretch far beyond the region itself.
The present escalation began dramatically at
the end of February 2026, when the United States and Israel launched
coordinated high intensity strikes against Iranian political, military, and
nuclear infrastructure. The operations, reported as large scale precision
campaigns, targeted command centres, missile facilities, and key figures within
Iran’s leadership. Reports from multiple outlets indicated that the attacks
killed Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, along with several senior
military commanders and government officials. Iranian authorities later
confirmed the deaths and declared a national mourning period.
This moment represented a decisive break from
the shadow war that had defined US/Iran tensions for decades. Until then,
confrontation largely occurred through proxies, cyber operations, covert
sabotage, and limited missile exchanges. Directly targeting the leadership of
the Iranian state crossed a threshold that previous administrations had
avoided. The strategic logic behind the strike appeared to be the classic
doctrine of overwhelming force, cripple the command structure quickly and
create internal political shock large enough to weaken the regime itself.
Officials in Washington framed the operation partly in those terms, suggesting
that the Iranian population should seize the moment to reclaim political
control from its ruling system.
But wars rarely unfold according to the tidy
logic of strategic planners. Iran responded with immediate retaliation,
launching waves of drones and ballistic missiles at American installations and
allied states across the Gulf. The scale of the response was notable not only
for its intensity but for its geographic reach. Missiles and drones targeted
locations in Qatar, Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and Saudi
Arabia, while some strikes extended toward Cyprus, Turkey, and Azerbaijan.
Explosions were reported near major infrastructure hubs, including ports,
energy terminals, and military bases. In geopolitical terms, Iran was sending a
blunt message that is, if its regime was threatened, the entire regional system
would feel the shock. Interestingly, Iran’s approach relies heavily on cheap, low cost
drones, frequently referred to as Shahed-136
and Shahed-131
kamikaze drones. Estimates place production costs between $20,000 and
$50,000 per unit, a fraction of the cost of more sophisticated
US and Israeli systems like the Patriot missile or Israel’s David’s Sling
and Arrow-3 interceptors, which can range from $1 million to
over $3 million per launch. By leveraging affordability and
sheer numbers, Iran can project strategic disruption without the enormous
financial burden of high end missile exchanges, turning cost asymmetry into a
tactical advantage.
The escalation deepened when Iran announced the closure of the Strait of
Hormuz, one of the most critical maritime chokepoints in the global economy.
Roughly a fifth of the world’s oil and a substantial portion of liquefied
natural gas normally transit through that narrow passage between the Persian
Gulf and the Gulf of Oman. Declaring the strait closed, and threatening vessels
attempting passage, instantly disrupted global energy flows. Hundreds of
tankers were stranded or forced to reroute. Insurance firms began withdrawing
coverage for shipping in the region. The economic ripple effects spread quickly
through global markets.
At the centre of the crisis now stands a clear
strategic confrontation between the United States and Israel on one side and
Iran on the other. Washington and Tel Aviv appear to be pursuing objectives
that go well beyond slowing Iran’s nuclear ambitions. The pattern of strikes
suggests a broader effort to degrade Iran’s missile capabilities, dismantle the
network of allied militias often described as the “Axis of Resistance,” and
limit Iran’s ability to project influence across Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and
Yemen. Israeli leadership has emphasized that the war is intended to be
decisive rather than permanent, though history offers little reassurance that
conflicts launched with such confidence remain contained.
Meanwhile, other major powers are behaving
with notable caution. Russia and China both condemned the strikes and called
for emergency discussions at the United Nations, yet neither has shown serious
interest in entering the conflict militarily. Their restraint is not altruism,
it is calculation. Russia remains heavily engaged in its own war in Ukraine and
has little appetite for a second direct confrontation with the United States.
China, while deeply dependent on Middle Eastern energy supplies, prioritizes
stability above ideological alignment. India, for its part, is walking a
delicate line. New Delhi relies heavily on Gulf energy imports and maintains
strategic partnerships with both Washington and Tehran, making overt support
for either side risky. As a result, India has largely called for de-escalation
and dialogue, emphasizing diplomacy while quietly managing its energy security
and regional influence. An open war involving great powers would threaten
precisely the economic and strategic stability that Beijing and New Delhi alike
rely upon.
That does not mean Iran stands entirely alone. Diplomatic backing,
intelligence sharing, technological assistance, and strategic coordination are
all possible forms of indirect support. Iranian officials have hinted at
receiving “political and other assistance” from both Moscow and Beijing, though
the ambiguity appears intentional. In geopolitics, uncertainty itself can
function as a strategic tool.
Perhaps the most uncomfortable position
belongs to the Gulf monarchies. Countries such as Saudi Arabia, the United Arab
Emirates, and Qatar host major American military bases while simultaneously
depending on regional calm to sustain their economic growth. That dual reality
places them directly in the crossfire. Iranian missile and drone attacks have
already struck installations in several of these states, including Qatar’s Al
Udeid air base and key port infrastructure in the UAE and Bahrain. At the same
time, disruptions to shipping through the Strait of Hormuz threaten the very
energy exports that underpin their economies. In effect, they are both partners
and potential victims in the same strategic arrangement.
There is a historical echo here that stretches far back into antiquity. When
Xerxes I
of Persia, the self-styled “King of Kings”, pushed the Achaemenid Empire westward, his campaign was
driven not only by expansion but by the need to reinforce imperial authority
after internal revolts in provinces like Egypt
and Babylon. His massive expedition
against the Greek world required extraordinary engineering feats such as the
bridge across the Hellespont and
culminated in decisive setbacks at battles like Battle
of Salamis. Empires often expand outward when internal pressures rise,
projecting strength to consolidate authority at home. The comparison is
imperfect, yet the pattern is familiar, which is where the hegemonic power
attempts to maintain dominance across a vast strategic theatre while managing
political strain, logistical limits, and unpredictable resistance.
The crisis differs from the 19th century Great
Game in several important ways. First, the struggle today is less about
territorial control than about control over infrastructure and systems, where it
focuses on energy routes, financial networks, cyber capabilities, missile defences,
and global supply chains. A single disruption in the Strait of Hormuz can shake
energy markets from Tokyo to London in a matter of hours.
Second, the battlefield now includes powerful
non state actors. Groups such as Hezbollah and various regional militias extend
the reach of state power while maintaining enough ambiguity to complicate
retaliation. Their involvement blurs the line between conventional war and
proxy conflict, increasing the risk of escalation across multiple fronts
simultaneously.
Third, and perhaps most significant, the
consequences are global rather than regional. Energy prices surge, stock
markets wobble, and shipping routes stretch thousands of miles longer as
vessels avoid conflict zones. Insurance companies withdraw coverage, logistics
networks slow down, and the spectre of recession begins to hover over distant
economies that have no direct involvement in the fighting.
All of this makes the modern “Great Game” less
like a chess match and more like a complex web of dominoes. One move rarely
affects only one square on the board.
The role of media further complicates how
people understand these events. If you really want to experience modern warfare
without leaving your sofa, forget streaming platforms and try channel surfing
instead. Start with CNN, where the
graphics move fast, the music is urgent, and the strikes often sound like
decisive acts of strategic necessity. Then switch to Al Jazeera and watch the same event transform
into an entirely different film, suddenly the language shifts, the victims have
names, and the missiles look less like strategy and more like devastation. For
an added intellectual workout, flip to BBC,
which usually delivers the most carefully balanced version, a calm voice
explaining that everything is “deeply concerning,” followed by a panel
discussion that politely circles the issue without quite landing anywhere. By
the time you finish rotating through the channels, you will have watched three
different movies about the same war, complete with heroes, villains, tragedy,
and suspense. It is better than any thriller, geopolitics, emotion, moral
ambiguity, and contradictory plotlines, all broadcast live.
And yet, for most people far from the front lines, daily life continues.
Bills must still be paid, children still go to school, friends still gather,
and football debates remain as heated as ever. The spectacle of geopolitics
often unfolds on screens rather than streets. For most of the world’s
population, war exists as background noise, distant, dramatic, and strangely
abstract. The evening news may flash images of missiles and burning
infrastructure, but outside the window the bus still arrives, shops still open,
and someone somewhere is passionately arguing about the weekend match. Life has
a stubborn rhythm that refuses to pause simply because history is making noise
elsewhere.
Yet that distance is fragile. Every global
conflict begins somewhere specific, one border, one grievance, one decision
taken in a quiet room by a handful of leaders. But the consequences rarely
remain contained. Energy prices rise, alliances shift, economies tremble, and
narratives harden. The real danger lies not only in the violence itself but in
the human tendencies that ignite it, pride that refuses compromise, leaders who
gamble with escalation, and societies that mistake retaliation for justice.
When those forces converge, the irritation spreads outward like ripples in
water. The scratching multiplies.
And eventually, everyone feels the itch.
Still, human history has never been defined
solely by conflict. It is also defined by resilience, courage, and the stubborn
refusal to surrender to fear. The spirit of that resilience is captured
beautifully in the words of Subramania Bharati (aka Mahakavi, meaning the ‘Great Poet’,
a 20th-century a revolutionary, patriot,
and social reformist), whose famous poem Achamillai
Achamillai reminds us that uncertainty and danger have never been
enough to stop the human will to live freely,
“அச்சமில்லை
அச்சமில்லை அச்சமென்பதில்லையே
இச்சகத்துள் ஒருவனுக்கு இந்நிலையே அமையுமோ?
அச்சமில்லை அச்சமில்லை அச்சமென்பதில்லையே.
உச்சிமீது
வானிடிந்து வீழுகின்ற போதினும்
அச்சமில்லை அச்சமில்லை அச்சமென்பதில்லையே.
அஞ்சுவது
யாதொன்றும் இல்லை,
அஞ்சி நிற்கும் காலமும் இல்லை.”
(an excerpt from the Subramania Bharathi’s poem “The Fear”)
“There is no fear, there is no fear, there is
no such thing as fear.
Can such a state truly exist for a human in this world?
Yet I say again, there is no fear, there is no fear.
Even if the sky itself were to shatter
And come crashing down upon my head,
Still there is no fear, there is no fear.
There is nothing in this world to be afraid of,
Nor is this a time to stand trembling in fear.”
Bharati was not naive about the dangers of the world, he understood them
deeply. But his message was clear, humanity must not surrender its courage, its
dignity, or its hope. Wars may erupt, powers may compete, and the machinery of
geopolitics may grind loudly in the background. Yet ordinary life continues
precisely because people refuse to let fear define the boundaries of their
existence.
So,
while empires manoeuvre and alliances shift, people will still gather around
dinner tables, argue about football, plan their futures, and teach their
children to dream of a better world. History may move in storms, but humanity
moves in hope.
Cheers.
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