By Twiine Mansio Charles
CEO, Founder, ThirdEye Consults U Ltd & Geopolitical Analyst
There is something almost liturgical in the way United States and Israel invoke the so-called “rules-based international order.” The cadence is solemn. The vocabulary is sanctified. Sovereignty, security, democracy, deterrence — each word delivered with the gravity of doctrine.
Yet when the rhetoric clears, what often remains is not stability but rubble. Not covenant, but crater.
This is the enduring paradox of modern interventionism: the preaching of law alongside the practice of force.
The modern Middle Eastern chapter of this doctrine is often traced to 1953, when Iran’s democratically elected Prime Minister, Mohammad Mossadegh, nationalized his country’s oil industry. For many Iranians, this was an assertion of sovereignty. For Washington and its allies, it was a strategic disruption.
The subsequent coup widely acknowledged as backed by the CIA restored the Shah to power and cemented a message that still echoes in the region: sovereignty is tolerated until it collides with strategic interests.
The language used at the time spoke of stability and necessity. The consequences, however, reverberated for decades, contributing to revolutionary fervor and shaping the adversarial relationship between Iran and the United States that persists today.
History does not forget interventions simply because official statements fade.
Half a century later, the 2003 invasion of Iraq marked a defining moment in interventionist policy. The administration of George W. Bush justified war on the grounds of alleged weapons of mass destruction. The evidence was presented as definitive. The threat, imminent.
The invasion unfolded swiftly. Baghdad fell. Institutions collapsed. Yet the promised weapons were never found.
What followed was sectarian fragmentation, insurgency, and regional instability whose aftershocks continue to influence global politics. The episode raised uncomfortable questions about the elasticity of international law and the threshold for preemptive war.
In 2011, intervention in Libya was framed under the doctrine of Responsibility to Protect. Airstrikes were described as measures to prevent mass atrocity. The fall of Muammar Gaddafi was heralded by some as liberation.
Yet Libya’s subsequent descent into militia rule, arms proliferation, and political fragmentation complicated the narrative. The promise of stability proved elusive.
Similarly, in Syria, layers of external involvement compounded an already devastating internal conflict. Competing powers maneuvered across a fractured landscape, while civilians bore the brunt of prolonged warfare. The language of counterterrorism and humanitarian concern often floated above realities defined by displacement and destruction.
Not all interventions arrive with missiles. In Venezuela, sanctions became the primary instrument of pressure against the government of Nicolás Maduro. Intended to compel political change, they also intensified economic hardship in a country already grappling with severe inflation and institutional strain.
Sanctions are presented as targeted tools of accountability. Critics argue they frequently produce broad social consequences that blur the line between strategic leverage and collective suffering.
Today, Iran once again stands at the center of escalating rhetoric. Israel frames its actions as defensive imperatives. The United States reiterates unwavering alliance commitments in the name of deterrence.
Yet analysts caution against simplistic assumptions of decisive victory. Retired U.S. Army Colonel Douglas Macgregor has warned that Iran’s geographic depth, regional alliances, and missile capabilities make it a far more formidable adversary than past asymmetrical campaigns. A broader conflict, he argues, would reverberate through energy markets, maritime chokepoints, and global supply chains.
Whether one agrees with his assessment or not, the underlying point is clear: escalation in a multipolar world carries risks that extend beyond traditional calculations of dominance.
At the heart of the debate lies a fundamental question: is international law universal, or conditional?
Institutions such as the United Nations were founded on principles prohibiting aggressive war and protecting sovereignty. Yet enforcement often appears selective, shaped by vetoes and strategic alliances. Arrest warrants and resolutions can carry symbolic weight, but their application frequently reflects geopolitical realities rather than moral consistency.
Critics argue that this asymmetry erodes credibility. Civilian casualties in adversarial states provoke swift condemnation. Similar outcomes in allied operations are contextualized as unfortunate necessity. Over time, such double standards chip away at the legitimacy of the very order being defended.
History suggests that tactical victories do not guarantee strategic success. Empires often overextend. Legitimacy erodes gradually before it collapses dramatically. Military supremacy may endure, but moral authority is more fragile.
Emerging powers are forging alternative partnerships. Nations in the Global South increasingly question narratives once treated as unquestionable doctrine. Financial systems diversify. Strategic alignments shift. The assumption that military reach equates to moral right faces mounting skepticism.
To argue that interventionist powers may not “totally win” is not ideological defiance; it is historical observation. Power compels compliance for a time. It does not command respect indefinitely.
The “gospel of intervention” insists that force can be a vehicle for order, that coercion can secure stability. Sometimes it may. But when law is invoked selectively and principles are bent for convenience, the order defended begins to hollow from within.
Memory accumulates in the politics of nations. It does not dissipate with news cycles. It shapes alliances, resentments, and recalibrations of power.
In geopolitics, contradictions carry consequences. Nations are judged not only by the ideals they proclaim, but by the outcomes they produce. And in the long arc of history, it is not the eloquence of sermons that endures it is the legacy of actions.
