Everyone Is Reacting

I have the impression that the world is becoming more aggressive.

Maybe it’s Facebook.

I watched a few videos of protests in France, and as a reward, the algorithm decided to inform me that the entire planet is about to go to war. First came students confronting police. Then French missiles. Then Russian military exercises. Chinese drones. NATO. Trump. At some point, I started wondering whether the problem was the world or my feed, and went to look at the numbers.

Unfortunately, the algorithm hadn’t made it all up.

The number of armed conflicts involving states reached its highest recorded level since 1946. Global military spending broke new records. European institutions and some governments have started talking openly again about preparing for high-intensity conflicts. Countries that spent decades shrinking their armed forces are now increasing budgets, buying ammunition, training troops, and developing drones, counter-drone systems, and air defenses.

None of this means World War III is scheduled for next month. But it does mean something. What? Perhaps we should start with an uncomfortable observation: almost no one thinks they’re starting a fight.

Everyone is reacting.

The temptation here is to ask who provoked whom first. Who was right. Who violated which rule. Who should have acted differently. Those are legitimate questions. They’re just not mine. I want to set those layers aside for a moment and look at something that comes before them.

Before an action gets a name—defense, aggression, sanctions, retaliation, provocation—it changes the conditions of the system. Someone perceives the change and reacts. The reaction changes the conditions again. And another reaction follows.

Law, history, ethics, and responsibility carry very different weight depending on who is observing, who is affected, the culture, the interests at stake, and the point someone chooses as the beginning of the story. Change the perspective, and words that seemed firmly defined can start to mean something else. What interests me is what remains even when those interpretations diverge: each move changes the environment in which the next move will be decided.

This may look like an attempt at neutrality.

It isn’t.

I am taking a position. I’m simply not choosing one of the political, economic, legal, or ethical positions competing to interpret these events. My focus is different: to take the things those interpretations disagree about off the table for a moment and observe the mechanism that keeps operating beneath them.

If I have a preference, it isn’t for Washington, Moscow, Beijing, Brussels, or Kyiv. It’s for human continuity and well-being. That is a position, too. Perhaps it looks like neutrality precisely because it doesn’t fit neatly on any of the available sides.

Something curious happened while I was revising this article. I asked different AI systems to look for flaws in the argument. They identified a few flaws, and their observations helped improve the text. But one objection kept coming back:

— You need to distinguish the actions politically.

Translation:

— Fine. But whose side are you on?

That insistence tells us something. Not about the machines—they learned from us. We organize much of public debate this way. Right or left. West or East. Russia or Ukraine. The United States or China. For or against. These categories help in certain discussions. The problem begins when we assume that thinking requires choosing one of them.

What if the question falls outside those categories? What if seeing a particular dynamic requires setting aside, for a moment, what separates the sides? That isn’t an absence of a position. It is refusing to let the available positions decide which questions we’re allowed to ask. Perhaps there is an intellectual freedom that comes before choosing a side: not letting the available sides define our thinking.

Because thought itself can fall into the same pattern of action and reaction I’m describing. Someone criticizes one side, and we immediately look for the other. Someone questions a narrative, and we try to figure out which rival narrative they belong to. What if we don’t have to answer within the alternatives we’ve been offered?

China Grew Within the System

For a few decades, the world experienced something rare in history. There was one clearly dominant power. The United States had extraordinary military superiority, controlled the principal international currency, led the most important financial institutions, and maintained an unparalleled network of alliances. At the same time, globalization offered a seductive promise: the more countries traded with one another, the less sense it would make to go to war.

China entered that system and grew within it. It received investment. Manufactured goods for Western companies. Exported to the world. Became part of international supply chains. For a long time, that suited almost everyone. American consumers bought cheaply. Western companies manufactured cheaply. China grew.

But it didn’t stop growing. Eventually, it stopped being merely the system’s great factory and became a competitor to the country at its center: semiconductors, artificial intelligence, telecommunications, electric vehicles, batteries, energy, ships, space, weapons, infrastructure, international trade.

Perhaps the question was never whether the United States would accept a prosperous China. The harder question was different: would it accept a China capable of challenging its position?

The answer didn’t begin with Donald Trump. Obama had already shifted strategic attention toward Asia. Biden maintained technology controls against Beijing. Trump simply made the rivalry more explicit, more transactional, and often louder. Tariffs. Technology restrictions. Sanctions. Threats. Negotiations. New tariffs. New threats.

There’s no need to imagine a secret room in Washington where someone decided to destroy the world order. The explanation may be simpler: a power realized its advantage was shrinking and began using the tools it still had to preserve it. Should that surprise anyone? Probably not. Perhaps we merely spent a few decades believing that great powers had stopped behaving like great powers.

Not One Inch Eastward

Now, Russia. One phrase keeps returning whenever Putin explains how relations with the West deteriorated. In 1990, during negotiations over German reunification, U.S. Secretary of State James Baker told Mikhail Gorbachev that NATO’s military jurisdiction would move “not one inch eastward.”

The conversation happened. The documents were declassified. But there’s an important detail: it never became a general treaty prohibiting NATO’s future expansion. This is where we enter one of those situations in which two incompatible narratives can contain true elements at the same time.

Washington can say:

— We never signed a treaty promising NATO wouldn’t expand.

And Moscow can reply:

— You gave us political assurances and then did exactly what you said you wouldn’t do.

Poland, Hungary, the Czech Republic, and other countries joined NATO. The Baltic states followed later. For those countries, joining the alliance meant protection. For Moscow, it meant a military alliance moving closer. Then Ukraine began seeking closer integration with the West.

From the Ukrainian perspective, the logic is easy to understand:

— I’m afraid of Russia. I want an alliance that will protect me from it.

From the Russian perspective, that same sentence sounds like this:

— A rival military alliance wants to move even closer to our border.

Ukraine looks at Russia’s reaction and thinks:

— See? That’s exactly why we need NATO.

Russia looks at Ukraine’s interest in NATO and thinks:

— See? That’s exactly why we need to react.

It’s hard to find a better example of what international relations scholars call the security dilemma. I increase my security. You feel less secure and increase yours. I see you arming yourself and conclude that I was right to distrust you. At some point, no one even needs to lie. Everyone can be genuinely afraid. And everyone can be helping make the other more dangerous.

When Money Becomes a Weapon, Too

Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022 opened another rupture. The United States, European Union, United Kingdom, Canada, Japan, and other allies froze hundreds of billions of dollars in Russian reserves held abroad. Russian banks were targeted. Companies sanctioned. Technologies blocked.

From the Western perspective, the justification was obvious:

— Russia invaded a sovereign country. We need to raise the cost of aggression.

From the Russian perspective:

— The West is waging economic war against us and financing our enemy.

But there’s another question. Imagine you head the central bank of a country with serious disagreements with Washington. You see Russia accumulate international reserves precisely to protect itself in a crisis. When the crisis arrives, you discover that a large share of those reserves can become inaccessible by a decision of the countries where they’re held. What conclusion do you draw? Perhaps this one:

— International reserves aren’t just money. They also depend on political relationships.

This didn’t destroy the dollar or bring down the international financial system. But it revealed something many governments won’t soon forget: the system can also be used as an instrument of power.

Russia deepens its economic ties with China. China buys Russian energy. Trade in alternative currencies grows. Central banks buy more gold. BRICS countries discuss mechanisms of their own. Europe tries to depend less on Russian energy. Russia looks for new markets. Western companies leave, and Moscow takes over some of their assets. And once again, everyone is reacting.

The previous aggression is always the other side’s.

And Then We Reach 2026

In January, U.S. forces entered Venezuela, captured Nicolás Maduro and Cilia Flores, and took them to the United States. We can debate Maduro. We can debate Venezuelan democracy, drug trafficking, and elections. But before any of those discussions, there is a simple fact: a power entered another country militarily and removed its leader.

Then came the economic interests, the reorganization of the oil sector, and the involvement of American companies. The justification? Security. Crime. Stability. Democracy. The interpretation offered by U.S. adversaries? Intervention. Imperialism. Oil. Once again, no one needed to invent an absurd justification. Perhaps that is precisely the problem: there are almost always arguments within reach.

Then came Iran, and the language grew hotter. Trump talked about sending the country back to the “Stone Age.” He threatened bridges and power plants. At one point, he wrote:

“A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.”

The United States and Israel attacked Iran. Iran responded. The Strait of Hormuz became the center of an international energy crisis. And then something happened that may matter more than it seems: Washington asked its allies for support, and some Europeans said no. Germany summed up its position in one sentence:

— This is not our war.

The message was clear: you started without us; don’t call us in now just because things got difficult. Perhaps that was when an old fracture became more visible. The transatlantic relationship had always had its frictions. But for decades, one premise remained reasonably stable: when security really came under pressure, the United States would be there. Now, a question is beginning to emerge in several European governments:

— Will it?

And the United States seems to be asking another:

— Why should we?

The Crutch

For decades, European defense depended heavily on American capabilities. Europeans could fund health care, education, infrastructure, and social protection while the United States carried much of NATO’s military structure. Trump has complained about this for years. The difference is that his complaint now meets a different set of circumstances.

The war in Ukraine continues. Russia remains armed. The United States is increasingly turning its attention to China and the Indo-Pacific. And relations between Washington and its European allies no longer seem automatic.

European governments and institutions react: Readiness 2030, more military spending, more ammunition, more air defenses, more drones, more counter-drone systems, more independent capability. European leaders speak openly about preparing for the possibility of war. Moscow watches and reacts:

— Europe is militarizing against us.

Europe replies:

— We’re militarizing because we’re afraid of you.

And there we have it. It sounds like two dogs meeting on the street.

The Elegant Word

Two dogs meet. One stops. The other stiffens. The first bares its teeth. The second growls. Neither necessarily wants to fight. In fact, much of this choreography exists precisely to prevent a fight. The message is simple:

— Look at what I’m capable of.

We’ve invented better words for this. Deterrence. Power projection. Coercion. Retaliation. Strategic readiness. Military exercise. “Deterrence” is a particularly elegant word. In practice, it means:

— Look at what I can do to you. Think carefully before doing what I don’t want you to do.

This can prevent wars. Nuclear deterrence probably helped keep the United States and the Soviet Union from attacking each other directly during the Cold War. But we don’t need to pretend the threat disappeared just because it acquired a technical name. The threat is the mechanism itself.

France tests its new strategic missile, and Macron says:

— To be free, you have to be feared.

Russia conducts nuclear exercises. China parades missiles, drones, lasers, and antiship weapons. The United States deploys aircraft carriers. NATO moves troops. They all explain:

— It’s defensive.

And they probably believe it. That’s the unsettling detail.

War Learns, Too

While governments display weapons, the weapons themselves are changing. In World War I, machine guns, artillery, and barbed wire helped turn large sections of the front into networks of trenches. In World War II, tanks, aircraft, radio, and mechanized forces made it possible to break through positions and advance much faster. The war in Ukraine is teaching something else.

A cheap drone finds an expensive tank. A signal jammer appears. A drone resistant to jamming appears. A fiber-optic-guided drone appears. An interceptor. A net. A laser. A microwave weapon. Artificial intelligence to identify and prioritize targets.

War learns, too. And each side learns from the other. A technology works for a few months, the adversary figures out how to neutralize it, and one solution leads to another. In peacetime, a technology can take years to make its way through laboratories, budgets, bureaucracy, and production. In war, the question is shorter:

— Did it work?

If so, produce it. If not, change it tomorrow. Perhaps we’re watching an acceleration in military technology whose consequences will last far beyond this war.

And the Algorithm Has Entered the War, Too

There is another important difference from the rivalries of earlier eras: now we all watch. The French missile appears on a phone. The Russian drone appears on a phone. The new Chinese counter-drone system, the American fighter jet, the Brazilian Gripen—all of it appears on a phone.

A military demonstration is no longer just a message between governments. It has also become content. And content competes for attention. “Our defensive system showed a 7% incremental improvement” doesn’t go viral. “SEE THE NEW WEAPON THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING” works better. Governments know this. Manufacturers know this. Influencers know this. The algorithm only knows you watched to the end.

Perhaps we’re experiencing something new: deterrence has entered the age of the algorithm. And that changes more than the way we, the spectators, see the world. The algorithm doesn’t merely amplify my fear. It can enter the very cycle that produces these displays of force.

A state tests a missile. The test produces images. The images circulate. The most spectacular ones get more attention. That attention generates domestic responses, propaganda, prestige, fear, support, opposition, and political pressure. The adversary sees the demonstration and responds. The response is filmed, too. It circulates, too. It competes for attention, too. And the cycle begins again: action, image, algorithm, perception, pressure, reaction, new image, new algorithm.

States have always displayed weapons; military parades existed long before Facebook. What’s new is that these demonstrations now enter systems capable of selecting and redistributing, across the planet and almost instantly, whatever holds attention most effectively. A missile doesn’t just need to work. It needs to be seen. And the more impressive the demonstration, the more likely it is to cross borders not only through radar and intelligence reports, but in the pockets of billions of people.

Perhaps this doesn’t change the underlying logic of displaying force. But it can accelerate its circulation. And every demonstration that circulates becomes part of the environment to which others will respond. The adversary needs to watch. The country’s own population needs to watch. And we watch, too. Then Facebook offers another video. And another. And we begin to feel that the whole world is baring its teeth.

The problem is that, this time, the teeth are real.

Everyone Has a Story

It’s tempting to look for who started it. The United States? China? Russia? NATO? Ukraine? Europe? But there is always an earlier event.

The United States: — We’re reacting to China’s economic and military expansion.

China: — We’re reacting to America’s attempt to hold back our development.

Russia: — We’re reacting to NATO’s expansion.

NATO: — Russia’s neighbors asked for protection.

Ukraine: — We’re seeking NATO because we’re afraid of Moscow.

Moscow: — Ukraine wants to put a rival alliance on our border.

Europe: — We sanctioned Russia because it invaded Ukraine.

Russia: — Europe finances and arms our enemy.

The United States: — We attacked Iran to eliminate a threat.

Europe: — You started this war without us.

The United States: — Then take more responsibility for your own security.

Europe: — Perhaps we can no longer depend on you.

Russia watches Europe rearm: — They’re preparing a war against us.

Europe watches Russia’s reaction: — See? We need to prepare.

Everyone is reacting. Some wars may begin when someone decides to wage a war. Others begin in a much less cinematic way: a sanction, a response, a troop deployment, a military exercise, a technology blockade, a new alliance, a missile installed, a threat, a counterthreat.

Each step seems manageable. Each step has a justification. Each step answers the previous one. Until someone looks back and realizes we’ve traveled an enormous distance without anyone announcing the journey.

Is the World Becoming More Dangerous? The numbers say the international environment is more militarized and fragmented. There are more conflicts involving states. More money is going into weapons. European countries are expanding military spending and capabilities. The transatlantic relationship is less predictable. Russia and NATO trade threats. China and the United States compete over technology, trade, and influence. New wars are producing new military technologies.

This doesn’t mean a world war is inevitable. In fact, all these preparations may even prevent one. That’s the paradox: the more afraid I am of you, the more I prepare; the more I prepare, the more afraid you become of me. Perhaps both sides end up so well armed that neither wants to attack. It worked for much of the Cold War.

Or perhaps someone makes a mistake. A drone crosses the wrong border. A radar misinterprets a signal. A commander makes a decision in minutes. An AI system classifies a target. A president bets that the other will back down.

And the other doesn’t back down.

We don’t need a villain intent on destroying the planet. Perhaps that is what worries me most. It would be easier if there were one: we’d only have to find him. But when each side has its own fears, interests, historical traumas, and justifications, the problem becomes much harder. Understanding the other starts to look like weakness.

And perhaps that is where the space between perceiving a threat and responding to it begins to shrink. That is the space where we put diplomacy, treaties, trade, international institutions, negotiation, law, words. All of this is slow. Often frustrating. Sometimes hypocritical. And it almost never makes a good social media video. But perhaps these things serve a purpose we notice only when they begin to fail: they put distance between baring our teeth and biting.

Perhaps the world isn’t heading inevitably toward a major war. Perhaps we’re simply entering an era in which everyone bares their teeth more often. The problem is that each side looks at the other’s teeth and finds one more reason to bare its own. And so we go on. All reacting. All with arguments. All convinced the next move is necessary.

There is one final irony in all of this. To get there, it’s worth making a brief visit to biology. Chimpanzees live in communities with recognizable territories. Neighboring groups may share border areas, but they also patrol those boundaries. In long-term studies, researchers have watched individuals travel together toward the edges of their territory, looking for signs of neighboring communities and assessing when to advance or retreat.

They don’t do this blindly. There are records of chimpanzees using elevated terrain to gather information about rival groups and adjusting their behavior according to the distance and numerical advantage they perceive. When they encounter members of another community, the interaction may end with vocalizations alone. It may end in retreat. It may end in aggression. And in some cases, in death. A study spanning five decades showed that most recorded chimpanzee killings occurred in attacks between communities, often involving coalitions of males and a strong numerical advantage for the attackers.

Other primates organize themselves differently. Baboons and monkeys have hierarchies, alliances, struggles for position, and individuals who may intervene in conflicts within the group. Bonobos offer an interesting contrast: neighboring communities can spend long periods together, share food, and cooperate. This doesn’t eliminate aggression between groups—serious incidents have occurred—but it shows that there is no single form of social organization even among our closest evolutionary relatives.

Now come back to us. We form groups, too. We establish territories, too. We recognize borders, create alliances, and assess the strength of neighboring groups. But we do all this with an immensely greater capacity for symbolic thought.

The chimpanzee patrols a border. We draw the border on a map. Record its position in treaties. Create a state. Write a constitution. Form a military alliance. Build satellites to watch the other side. Produce a national security doctrine. And write thousands of pages explaining why the weapons installed behind that border are a response to the weapons installed on the other side. The chimpanzee does none of this.

But the question remains uncomfortable: how does a species capable of understanding atoms, sending probes beyond the Solar System, creating international law, and discussing its own origins keep repeating dynamics between groups that are older than humanity itself? Perhaps our symbolic complexity hasn’t replaced those ancient dynamics. Perhaps it was built on top of them.

We can build symbolic systems no other animal has built. We create states, borders, currencies, treaties, ideologies, religions, courts, military alliances, and theories to explain why we do what we do. We can spend centuries debating who started it. We can retell history until we find the event that best justifies our own reaction. We can call the same move defense or aggression, liberation or invasion, sanctions or economic warfare, deterrence or threat—and each of those words changes meaning depending on who is looking.

Now imagine, for a moment, a red button. On one side, a human being capable of explaining thousands of years of history, citing treaties, defending an ideology, and assembling a sophisticated argument for why the time has come to press it. On the other, absurd as it may sound, a monkey. If both press the same button, what changes for the missile?

Nothing.

The missile knows no history. Recognizes no sovereignty. Doesn’t know who provoked whom first. Doesn’t distinguish democracy from authoritarianism. Doesn’t ask who was right. Once the button is pressed, all of humanity’s extraordinary symbolic complexity runs up against something much simpler:

physics.

That is why, in this article, I’m not trying to determine who is right. I’m looking at what happens before the button. One move changes the environment. Someone reacts. The reaction changes the environment again. Someone else reacts. Everyone has arguments. Everyone can explain why the next step seems necessary. And so we go on.

Perhaps stability doesn’t end when someone decides to destroy everything. Perhaps it ends when, after so many reactions that make perfect sense to those carrying them out, someone finally presses the button.

And at that moment, physics won’t ask who was right.