Greed, Fear, and the Scale of Modern Politics
There is a disturbing pattern in human history.
It stretches from the story of the Golden Calf to modern election campaigns.
We repeatedly hand power to those who promise protection, prosperity, or greatness — and who quietly serve themselves.
Thousands of years pass.
Empires rise and fall.
Technologies evolve.
The pattern does not.
Greed remains the driver.
Not accidental ignorance. Not naïve misunderstanding. But the persistent prioritisation of accumulation over responsibility.
And what is equally staggering is that we keep voting for it.
The Illusion That “This Time Is Different”
Early human societies were small and relational. Identity was rooted in family and tribe. Power was immediate and visible.
Then land became control. Control became wealth. Wealth required protection. The warrior class emerged. The Bronze Age did not merely introduce better tools — it institutionalised organised violence.
As populations grew, domination scaled. Empires formed. Colonisation industrialised exploitation. Slavery turned human beings into economic units. The machinery of extraction refined itself over centuries.
After the devastation of World War II, humanity stood in the ruins and declared: “Never again.”
For a brief moment, it seemed possible that we had learned something.
But almost immediately the nuclear arms race began. The Cold War made annihilation a permanent background possibility. The weapons became capable of ending civilisation — and yet the underlying psychology remained unchanged.
Scale had increased. Consciousness had not.
What Has Changed Is the Magnitude
In earlier centuries, destruction was local or regional. A conquered people suffered; an empire collapsed; a continent was scarred.
Today, greed operates globally.
For the first time in history, human activity threatens the stability of the entire biosphere. Climate disruption is measurable. Species extinction is accelerating. Forests disappear in real time. Oceans warm and acidify. Extreme weather intensifies.
This is no longer tribal rivalry.
It is planetary self-harm.
And still, we elect leaders who weaken environmental protections, dismiss scientific evidence, and prioritise short-term profit over long-term survival.
Why?
Political Insanity
I have previously used the phrase “political insanity” to describe something very specific:
The deliberate denial of overwhelming evidence for the sake of power, ideology, or self-interest — even when such denial endangers society and the planet.
This is not ignorance in the classic sense. The data is available. The science is clear. The consequences are visible.
What is denied is not information — but responsibility.
And voters, repeatedly, reward this behaviour.
Not because people are inherently evil.
Not because everyone is unintelligent.
But because fear is powerful.
Identity is powerful.
Tribal loyalty is powerful.
And manipulation works.
The Harder Question
It is easy to blame the greedy.
Harder to examine the system that allows greed to win elections.
Why do intelligent people suspend critical thinking when ideology is involved?
Why does the short-term promise of lower taxes or national pride outweigh long-term planetary survival?
Why does outrage mobilise more effectively than reason?
Part of the answer lies in psychology. Humans evolved for survival in small groups. Our nervous systems respond more quickly to threat than to complexity. We prefer simple narratives to systemic analysis. We follow leaders who speak with certainty, even when that certainty is misplaced.
The Dunning–Kruger effect — the cognitive bias in which people with limited understanding overestimate their competence — scales remarkably well in politics. Confidence often defeats competence.
Add modern communication technology to ancient psychological wiring, and the result is combustible.
We now have tribal instincts amplified by global media.
From the Golden Calf to the Modern Market
The story of the Golden Calf is instructive. Faced with uncertainty, the people chose something visible, immediate, and reassuring — even if it betrayed their deeper values.
That pattern has not disappeared.
We still choose visible symbols of strength over invisible principles of responsibility.
We still elevate those who promise greatness while quietly consolidating wealth.
We still accept narratives that flatter our identity rather than challenge our assumptions.
And we still seem surprised when the outcome serves the powerful more than the public.
After “Never Again”
The moral shock of World War II produced institutions, treaties, and declarations intended to prevent repetition. Yet, the nuclear stand-off that followed demonstrated how quickly fear reasserts itself.
“Never again” became “prepare for worse.”
Today, the threat is less dramatic but potentially more total. Climate destabilisation does not arrive in a single explosion. It arrives incrementally — through droughts, floods, fires, food insecurity, migration pressures, and geopolitical instability.
It is slower than war.
It is broader than war.
And it is driven not by necessity, but by an economic model that rewards extraction and accumulation.
At the front of that drive are those who profit most from delay.
The Voter’s Mirror
If this article were only about corrupt elites, it would be easy.
But it is not.
It is about the relationship between leadership and followership.
Leaders respond to incentives. So do voters.
If citizens reward spectacle over substance, fear over facts, and loyalty over accountability, politics will reflect that preference.
Democracy does not merely produce leaders.
It reflects the consciousness of the electorate.
That is the uncomfortable truth.
A Sad Indictment — Or an Opportunity?
It is tempting to conclude that nothing changes.
That humanity is doomed to repeat itself.
But history also shows that consciousness can shift — slowly, painfully, imperfectly.
Slavery was once normal. It is now widely condemned.
Colonial domination was celebrated. It is now questioned.
Public health, human rights, and environmental awareness have all progressed, even if unevenly.
Change is possible.
But it does not begin with denouncing stupidity.
It begins with recognising unconsciousness — in others and in ourselves.
Vote for Me
The satirical slogan “Vote for me, I’m stupid” is not really about intelligence.
It is about the collective tendency to prefer comforting illusions to difficult truths.
It is about our vulnerability to manipulation.
It is about fear masquerading as certainty.
Until we become more conscious of how easily we are persuaded — by identity, by outrage, by promises of greatness — history will continue to scale its consequences.
Technology will advance.
Markets will expand.
Weapons will modernise.
But if awareness does not deepen, the pattern remains.
The problem is not only that greedy people seek power.
The problem is that we keep rewarding them.
Not because we are evil.
But because we are afraid.
And until fear is examined rather than exploited, we will continue to vote — not necessarily for stupidity — but for unconsciousness.
On a small planet, at this scale, that is no longer a minor flaw.
It is existential.
Addendum — Nothing Changes, Nothing Is Learnt
“To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace.”
— Tacitus (Born AD 56 and died around AD 120)
For nearly two millennia, the ancients saw clearly what we still struggle to admit today: that it takes courage to call things by their true names. Tacitus lived in an age of emperors and endless conquest — an age not so different from ours in its pattern of ambition, brutality, and self-justification.
This line — “to ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles…” — could serve as a single-sentence diagnosis of much of what unfolds in modern politics:
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The ravaging of public trust through empty promises.
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The slaughter of common-sense and social cohesion on the altar of tribal loyalty.
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The usurpation under false titles when deception becomes the currency of legitimacy.
In every epoch, power seeks redemption through language. Historical conquerors called themselves liberators; imperial regimes spoke of bringing civilization; today’s political leaders market themselves as saviours of the people while advancing policies that protect the powerful and prey on the vulnerable.
And when the damage is done — when deserts are made of vibrant communities, economies, and relationships — they call that peace.
If there is a lesson in this, it is not new. It’s the same pulse repeating in different guises:
Greed disguises itself as necessity.
Violence cloaks itself as security.
Corruption justifies itself as pragmatism.
Tacitus didn’t live to see the full arc of human history — but he saw enough to understand a troubling truth:
Human institutions change in form, but not in underlying pattern.
Nothing changes — and, more dishearteningly, nothing is learnt.
And yet, the persistence of this pattern also reveals what is possible: a clear and sober recognition of reality. Once greed and deception are seen for what they are, they lose moral authority. Empires fall. Narratives unravel. And people — individuals — reclaim the right to see clearly rather than be led by illusion.
In that sense, the relevance of Tacitus today is not merely historical but diagnostic:
the sickness has never left us — but neither can its cure be found in denial.
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