longer.blue

In the last few years we have frequently made comparisons to 1930s Europe to understand and analyse the global rise of fascism and the far-right, which has even grown here in South Korea. It was a useful comparison, but recent global developments have felt closer to the pre-WWI era in many ways. In that period before 1914 the global order rested on a patchwork of alliances, some with explicit military commitments, others deliberately left uncertain. Britain's ambiguous position, in particular, may have encouraged German strategists to gamble that Britain would stay neutral. The system was not designed to manage rival imperialisms through constructive ambiguity; rather, the gaps and uncertainties within it invited miscalculation. When the shock of Sarajevo came, states were forced to choose sides openly and prove their credibility, triggering a cascade of events that far exceeded what any party anticipated or could control. We may be witnessing the beginnings of a similar pattern today. The recent U.S. military operation in Venezuela and the escalating pressure on Denmark over Greenland reveal how quickly long-standing tensions can escalate into open confrontation, and how easily the norms that once restrained great-power behavior can be discarded. The Greenland case is particularly striking: a NATO member threatening to seize territory from another NATO ally, undermining the very alliance structure that has underpinned Western security since 1949. These actions are not aberrations but may be expressions of a deeper logic: that windows of opportunity are closing and that delay means defeat. In 1914, Germany's military planners believed that Russian industrialization would soon eliminate their strategic advantage, so it was better to act now than face a stronger adversary later. Today, similar calculations may to be driving American policy. The United States has watched Chinese influence spread steadily across Latin America over the past two decades. Through the Belt and Road Initiative and its predecessor loan programs, China has poured $105 billion into Venezuela alone since 2007, and has extended its reach across the region, financing infrastructure projects in Peru, Ecuador, Chile, Argentina to name only a few. This is of course not kindness or charity, it is a form of imperialism in its own right: debt-financed development that secures access to resources, builds political dependency, and extends strategic reach. And of course, crucially, Beijing refuses diplomatic relations with countries that recognize Taiwan’s sovereignty. Washington appears to have concluded that reasserting hemispheric dominance now is preferable to contesting Chinese influence later, when American power has declined further and Chinese influence may be too deeply entrenched to dislodge. The logic is not irrational, that is precisely what makes it so dangerous. When a dominant power believes that time is working against it, the room for compromise vanishes to a point. Under the pressures of capitalist accumulation, imperialism doesn't simply stem from abstract aggression. It emerges from the structural demands of competition, profitability, and control. And once rivals begin to act on these imperatives, the logic becomes self-reinforcing. Each escalation reduces the room for de-escalation, making restraint appear as weakness and compromise as political defeat. The United States and China are not opposites in this regard, they are rivals operating under the same systemic imperatives, competing for markets, resources, and strategic advantage in ways that subject smaller nations to the pressures of both. The same was true in 1914. Britain was not a passive actor responding to German aggression, it was a fading imperial power defending its primacy. The lesson is that hegemons and challengers alike operate under the logic of a system that rewards expansion and punishes restraint. Caught between these rival imperialisms, ordinary people have never had a stake in which side prevails—only in whether the killing can be stopped. In 1914, workers across Europe, including those in my hometown of Glasgow, resisted these imperial pressures through strikes and anti-war organizing. Clyde shipyard workers, essential to the British war effort, did not simply align with imperial aims; they struck over wages and conditions, culminating in the Red Clydeside movement. Yet we must be honest about this history. The leaders of the workers' movements largely failed them; the German Social Democrats voted for war credits, and many unions fell in behind their governments. The principled anti-war position remained a minority current until years of slaughter had exhausted the belligerent nations. The resistance from below was real, but it was betrayed from above. It did not prevent the catastrophe but it did help to end it after an immense cost. This history is painful, but it is not grounds for despair. It tells us that the impulse toward solidarity across borders is genuine and recurring, even when it is defeated. And the conditions for building that solidarity may be stronger today than they were in 1914. Workers now communicate instantaneously across continents. Supply chains that span the globe mean that coordinated action in key sectors like ports, logistics, and manufacturing can exert leverage that was unimaginable a century ago. The choice before us is not between rival empires. The United States and China each present their competition as a contest of values, but both are driven by the same systemic imperatives that capitalism imposes on all states. The real choice is between a system that repeatedly manufactures war and the collective resistance of those who stand to lose the most. That resistance has failed before. But it can succeed. The difference lies in whether we organize for it now, before the time windows close and the cascades begin, or wait until the costs are once again measured in millions of lives.