Unfortunately, I only have a long answer.
The problem with democracy as we understand it is that we are still ruled by people who believe that power is the solution. This has undermined the democratic process, as those in power believe that they should rule. Disunity is spread instead, and social media has been an effective means of doing so. However, in apocalyptic visions, power is often called upon to achieve what frustrated people believe is not possible in any other way.
Such visions have long emerged during eras of societal upheaval, war, persecution and disaster, offering explanations for chaos and promises of renewal. One of the earliest examples comes from ancient Persia, dating back to around 1500 BCE. In this vision, a saviour named Saoshyant leads the battle between good and evil, resurrects the dead for judgment, and purifies the world. This arose amid invasions and dualistic struggles between order (Ahura Mazda) and chaos (Angra Mainyu).
The Book of Revelation draws on the works of canonical Hebrew prophets such as Daniel, Ezekiel, Zechariah, Isaiah, and the Psalms, with over half of its references coming from these sources — Daniel is the most prominent source for references to beasts, kingdoms, and end-time judgement. Rather than quoting directly, it weaves in imagery such as heavenly thrones, seals, and cosmic battles that are familiar from these works.
Written amid the Roman persecution of early Christians, likely during the reign of Emperor Domitian or in reference to the era of Nero, this New Testament text depicts the Four Horsemen, the opening of the seals unleashing catastrophes, the Battle of Armageddon, and the final judgement. As believers faced imperial oppression and political turmoil, it spread widely, with the beasts and dragons being interpreted as Rome’s emperors.
In Norse mythology, Ragnarök foretells the Fimbulwinter, three years of extreme cold, followed by a moral collapse, fratricide, floods, earthquakes and the battle between the gods and monsters such as Fenrir and Jormungandr. Composed during the instability of the Viking Age, it reflected fears of endless winters and social breakdown in Scandinavia.
As the first millennium came to a close, medieval Europe was gripped by anxiety over Christ’s imminent return, fuelled by famines, Viking raids and omens such as blood-red moons or burning torches. Chroniclers linked natural disasters to the end times, prompting pilgrimages and church building, despite debates about the scale of the panic.
The 14th-century plague, which killed up to a third of Europe’s population, fuelled apocalyptic fervour, with the horsemen of the Apocalypse being interpreted as symbols of war, famine, plague and death. Earthquakes, comets and floods were seen as divine signs, leading to mass piety, flagellant movements and accusations of sin or poisoning.
Today, I hear people claiming that ‘only a war’ will put things right. However, this would again involve the use of unbridled power to solve our problems, much like the portrayal of the formation of the Federation of Planets in Star Trek, which was prompted by the Vulcans’ advanced technology.
Historians such as Stéphane Courtois and Stephen Kotkin estimate that communist regimes under Stalin, Mao and others caused 65–100 million deaths through executions, famines, labour camps and purges. Anti-communist efforts in Cold War proxy wars — Korea (2–4 million dead), Vietnam (2–4 million) and Afghanistan (1–2 million) — added millions more, often via US-backed interventions.
Critics such as Francis Fukuyama argue that the term ‘War on Terror’ mislabels a tactic as an enemy, thereby justifying endless interventions while ignoring root causes such as resentment arising from invasions. The term echoed Cold War binaries and fuelled over 900,000 deaths in post-9/11 wars, according to the Costs of War project at Brown University, with media hype amplifying fears that were disproportionate to the actual threats.
However, humanity has also had its visionaries of peace. Taoism and Buddhism, for example, have offered profound visions of peace, harmony and non-violence. Emerging amid ancient chaos, these ideals have influenced cooperation across Asia. Contemporary with Buddhism, Jainism elevates ahimsa to the highest virtue. During the Vedic era, Mahavira (6th century BCE) advocated extreme non-violence towards all life. Confucianism emphasises ren (benevolence) and harmonious relationships, as set out in the Analects, promoting social cooperation over conflict in feudal China. Mohism, founded by Mozi in the 5th century BCE, uniquely championed universal love and impartiality against war and elitist conquests.
Jewish prophets such as Isaiah envisioned swords being turned into ploughshares amid threats from the Assyrians and Babylonians. Early Christians practised non-violence under Roman rule before Constantine’s militarisation. Other examples include Jain ahimsa; the Quaker peace testimony during colonial wars; Tolstoy’s Christian anarchism against tsarism; and Gandhi’s satyagraha against British imperialism. All of these promoted cooperation over violence.
However, power structures often label pacifists as naïve or subversive. Gandhi was imprisoned, MLK was under FBI surveillance, and conscientious objectors were jailed or executed during the First and Second World Wars. Nevertheless, echoes persist in the form of the League of Nations’ ideals after the First World War, the anti-war movements of the 1960s that curbed the Vietnam War, and modern peace studies that influence UN resolutions. Cooperation thrives amid diversity, in places such as cooperatives and community solutions.
It is unconstrained power that threatens us, because our language is replete with associations with greatness, strength, and vigour, evoking loud and superficially compelling arguments. However, whenever something truly great arose that affected the population, it was thoughtful, full of erudition, wisdom, and caution. Wisdom and knowledge are judiciously applied; it is sagacious, prudent, sensible and discreet.
Wisdom incisively contrasts the bombast of raw power with quiet profundity, a tension woven through history and philosophy. Jesus symbolises that executed sagacity, challenging temple authorities and Roman order not through force, but parables and compassion, much like the pacifist visions above.
Language glorifies ‘strength’ and ‘greatness’ through conquest, from Homeric heroes and imperial eagles to modern ‘strongmen’. Yet these evoke fleeting triumphs that mask fragility, and empires crumble when belief falters since power rests on constructed consent. True greatness, however, manifests itself more prudently. Consider Socrates’ examined life amid the excesses of Athenian democracy, Laozi’s yielding water that wears down stone, and Gandhi’s satyagraha that eroded British rule. Such greatness demands erudition and the discernment to know when to speak, act or withdraw. It is often branded seditious, as with Jesus’s “Render unto Caesar” which upended tribute systems.
Prophets and sages repeatedly fall victim to power. Hypatia was lynched for her Neoplatonic wisdom in Christian Alexandria, al-Hallaj was beheaded for his Sufi mysticism in Baghdad, and MLK was surveilled and slain for linking poverty to militarism. Each of these examples exposes the construct and the fact that rulers fear not armies, but minds that can dissolve the myths that sustain their control. But wisdom endures in the form of underground movements, monastic traditions, Quaker meetings and cooperatives, which nurture discretion until power overreaches and prompts rediscovery. The key lies in recognising this cycle without despairing and applying knowledge to build resilient alternatives amid the noise.
In suttas such as the Dhammapada and the Kosambiya Sutta, the Buddha attributes strife to the restless mind: ‘Hatred is never appeased by hatred… by non-hatred alone is hatred appeased’ (Dhammapada 5). He taught that power’s bombast stems from clinging to ego (tanha), fuelling cycles in which the mighty crush dissent, only creating more enmity. This is illustrated by the example of kings seeking his counsel on conquest, whom he dissuaded by revealing the karmic rebound of violence.
