A few days ago, I saw a video on Instagram showing a man in his mid-20s sitting in a car, playing both the student and the driving instructor. The exchange was absurdly funny — and painfully accurate for anyone who has ever driven in Tehran.

“How do you change lanes?” the student asks.
“You don’t,” the instructor replies dryly. “You create one.”
“If the light turns red?”
“You look both ways and go anyway.”
“And if someone honks behind you?”
“You honk louder.”

It’s funny because it’s true. Driving in Tehran is not a commute; it’s a survival sport. It’s intuition and defiance performed at sixty kilometers per hour — a kind of civic improvisation where the rules are more like rumors.
I remember sitting next to my father as a boy when he was driving down Valiasr Street — the long, green artery that once ran both ways through the heart of Tehran, the longest street in the Middle East. Back then, Valiasr was lined with tall sycamores and filled with honking taxis, bicycles, and patient pedestrians. Today, it’s one-way, reserved for buses, with motorcycles buzzing through like hornets. Watching my father steer between lanes, he turned to me and said, “This is how we survive here.”

He wasn’t wrong. Decades later, I’ve come to realize the road tells the story of the nation. Tehran’s streets aren’t just traffic jams — they’re a mirror of who we’ve become: restless, resourceful, suspicious, endlessly improvising.

Driving here is an act of distrust. Every car assumes the worst of the next. The horn has replaced conversation; signaling feels like a sign of weakness. And yet, somehow, the city moves — endlessly congested, rarely still. Chaos, in Tehran, isn’t a flaw. It’s the system.

​Tehran has taught its people to adapt — not heroically, but habitually. When the government fails to provide clean air, we buy purifiers. When the taps run dry, we call the tanker. When the internet slows to a crawl, we stack VPNs on top of VPNs.

A friend once joked that Tehranis could rebuild civilization from spare parts. He wasn’t exaggerating. We’ve learned to live around the system, not through it — much like the government itself has learned to live around the sanctions, though at a painful cost to society.

When I was living in Tehran for the second time, in the mid-2010s — when optimism was at its height for sanction relief and the nuclear deal — my American friend who was visiting me asked my motorcycle guy, Reza, about a tangle of wires hanging from an electrical pole near Tajrish. “How is this even working?” he asked. Reza smiled and said, “It’s not. It’s surviving.”

Tehran’s resilience has long been its pride — the way people wake up, work, cook, dream, and laugh despite everything. But I’ve often wondered when resilience turns into resignation. At what point does enduring become the trap?

Tehran, like Beirut — a city I visited a few years ago with a friend — holds two worlds on top of each other. North of Parkway (if you can call it an expressway given the horrendous traffic), the skyline glitters with towers, boutique cafés, and foreign cars. Some of these towers now rival Midtown Manhattan in their price per square meter, symbols of a surreal economy where wealth and struggle coexist side by side.
South of Shush Square, mechanics and vendors fight for inches of sidewalk, selling spare parts, old SIM cards, and patience by the kilogram.

One side of the city drives imported SUVs; the other drives Peugeots that belong to another century. The absurdity isn’t the contrast — it’s how normal it feels. We’ve learned to speed through inequality the same way we speed through intersections: eyes forward, one hand on the horn.

Just a few days ago, I was on FaceTime with my friend — he’s seventy-three and still zips through the streets of Tehran on his red Vespa. As he passed the site of an old cinema — now a fast-food restaurant — he turned his phone so I could see. I watched in silence from thousands of kilometers away and quietly asked myself: Why do people still stay here?

It wasn’t cynicism. It was affection. Because despite everything, Tehran still pulses with life. It tests your patience but never your imagination.

When I was younger, I used to believe that one day the city would change — that the lights would turn green and stay green. Now I think Tehran doesn’t really change; it just adapts. The city keeps moving forward, but the destination stays the same.

When you stop believing change is possible, adaptation becomes an art form. That’s the paradox of Tehran: a city forever in motion, rarely arriving anywhere new.

Driving in Tehran is a metaphor for modern Iran itself. The roads are jammed, the lights unreliable, but the people — ingenious, impatient, alive — find a way through. And yet, every day that improvisation continues, the collective sense of trust wears thinner.

We call it survival. We call it endurance. But maybe what we’ve truly mastered is the art of lowering expectations — and still calling it hope.

I’ve lived in many capitals and major cities across Asia, Africa, America, and Europe. As I write this, I live in Lisbon — another city with its own beautiful chaos of drivers, which I’ll write about someday. But Tehran — with all its noise, its contradictions, its resilience — remains my favorite city in the world.
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Because even in its madness, it reminds me what it means to move forward — without ever learning to wait.

Everywhere I travel—whether in classrooms where children are learning to build their first robots or in conference halls where policymakers debate the future of technology—I sense the same quiet fear: we are losing trust. People trust one another less. Citizens trust their institutions less. Nations no longer trust the international order that once offered some measure of stability. And just when the world needs shared leadership to confront climate change and the rise of artificial intelligence, the loudest voices are turning inward, insisting that making themselves stronger—even at others’ expense—is both natural and necessary.

I have seen where that mindset leads. Coming from the Middle East, I recognize the old worldview resurfacing: the strong dominate, the weak obey. If the weak resist, they are blamed for the conflict. It is an imperial instinct, deeply ingrained in history. Yet for a few brief decades after World War II, the world attempted something different—an order built more on law than on force. That order was never perfect, but it did something extraordinary: it made many nations feel safe enough to invest in people instead of weapons. For the first time in history, global military budgets shrank to around seven percent of government spending, while investments in health, education, and welfare rose. That was not utopia—it was the best humanity had achieved.

Now, that progress is unraveling. The Russian invasion of Ukraine shattered a vital taboo: that strong nations cannot invade weaker ones to conquer territory. When such taboos fall, fear spreads. Across Europe and East Asia, governments are rearming, convinced that only military strength can guarantee survival. America’s retreat from global leadership and its inward turn have deepened the anxiety. If everyone acts out of fear, an arms race is inevitable—and trust, once broken, becomes harder to rebuild.

This erosion of trust between nations mirrors what is happening within societies themselves. Over the past two decades, we have handed the architecture of our public conversation to artificial intelligence. Fifty years ago, editors decided what stories appeared on the front page; today, algorithms decide what billions of people see, read, and believe. Their objective is not truth or civic health—it is engagement. If amplifying anger keeps us scrolling, anger will spread. Democracy is built on human conversation; dictatorship is built on dictation. Yet the global democratic conversation is now managed by nonhuman agents that no one truly controls or understands. The irony is striking: humanity created the most powerful information networks in history—and those same networks are making it harder for people to talk, to listen, or to trust.

Part of the confusion comes from mistaking the freedom of speech with the freedom of algorithms. Human speech—however offensive or misguided—is protected because it represents a conscious mind expressing thought. Algorithmic decisions are not speech; they are engineered outcomes designed to optimize behavior. When a platform chooses to spread falsehoods or rage because those emotions hold attention longer, it is not exercising freedom; it is manipulating us for profit. Bots do not have rights. And allowing them to masquerade as people erodes the foundation of trust on which democracy depends. Governments should treat counterfeit humans online as they treat counterfeit currency: a direct threat to public order.

The deeper issue, though, is that truth itself is becoming harder to find. Truth is costly, complicated, and often painful. Fiction is cheap, simple, and flattering. In an environment flooded with information, the lighter falsehoods float to the top. Societies used to have institutions—newsrooms, universities, courts—dedicated to the slow, expensive work of verification. Now, speed and novelty dominate. The result is a digital world where fact and fabrication mix freely, and most people lack the tools to tell the difference. This is not the end of truth, but it is the end of taking truth for granted. To adapt, we need time—and time is precisely what the AI race is stealing from us.

Whenever I speak with AI researchers and executives, I hear the same paradox. Everyone admits that it would be wiser to slow down development and invest in safety, but no one dares to stop. “If we pause,” they tell me, “our competitors won’t, and they’ll dominate the future.” Fear of others, not faith in progress, drives the acceleration. It’s a tragic irony: we distrust other humans so profoundly that we are rushing to build machines we trust far too easily. We have centuries of experience managing human power through checks and balances, elections, and laws. We have almost no experience controlling nonhuman power. This is not a race for innovation—it is a race against our own fear.

Yet, even amid this turbulence, I try not to be either an optimist or a pessimist. Pessimism paralyzes, optimism anesthetizes. Realism is the only responsible position. It recognizes that our challenges—climate change, war, AI—are serious but solvable. Humanity has overcome existential problems before. We can again, if we act with humility and cooperation.

And cooperation begins with trust. Building trust is not an abstract virtue; it is a practical necessity. It starts with restoring honesty in how we communicate and transparency in how our technologies operate. Algorithms that shape public discourse should be accountable and understandable. People should always know when they are speaking with a machine, not a person. Education systems must train the next generation not only to write code but to recognize manipulation, to question information, and to think critically about its sources. Democracies must strengthen their self-correcting mechanisms—independent courts, free media, open universities—so that mistakes can be recognized and corrected before they calcify into crises. And globally, we need cooperation to set shared standards for AI development: agreements on safety, transparency, and the prohibition of autonomous systems that make life-or-death decisions without human oversight. These are not utopian dreams; they are the basic scaffolding of a stable civilization in the age of intelligent machines.

Rebuilding trust also means relearning the art of generous interpretation. It means not assuming the worst about others unless they’ve given us reason to. After the attacks of October 7, many Israelis said, “We can never trust Arabs again.” But look closer: Egypt and Jordan, which have peace treaties with Israel, honored them. The Palestinian Authority did not attack. The Arab citizens of Israel, more than two million people, did not rise in violence. In many towns, they protected their Jewish neighbors. The lesson isn’t that evil disappears; it’s that trust, when nurtured through agreements and dialogue, holds. Even in moments of horror, cooperation endures.

History supports this. A hundred thousand years ago, humans lived in small tribes that trusted only their kin. Over millennia, we built systems—laws, markets, religions—that allowed millions, then billions, of strangers to cooperate. Today, we entrust our lives daily to people we will never meet: the engineers who design our aircraft, the farmers who grow our food, the scientists who create our medicines. That web of trust is the most astonishing achievement in human history. Yet the very technologies that once connected us are now straining those bonds, inserting nonhuman intermediaries into every human interaction. We are learning, painfully, what it means to build trust in a world mediated by machines.

The heart of this transformation is a simple question: what makes humans valuable in the age of AI? Intelligence alone cannot be the answer. Intelligence solves problems and achieves goals, but it does not feel. Consciousness—the ability to experience pain, joy, love, and grief—is what gives life moral weight. A superintelligent system can outthink us, but as far as we know, it cannot feel. It can simulate emotion, but it does not experience it. That distinction matters. Ethics begins with empathy, not efficiency. Education, therefore, must focus not only on intellect but on emotional depth, moral reasoning, and the capacity to care. If we train our children to compete with machines rather than to understand what makes them human, we will lose both the race and our reflection.

I often say that fear keeps individuals alive, but trust keeps civilizations alive. Every breath we take is an act of trust in the air around us. Every meal we eat depends on strangers across continents. Every idea that enriches our minds was born somewhere else. If we close ourselves off—politically, technologically, emotionally—we suffocate. The way forward is not blind faith, but informed trust: trust built on transparency, empathy, and shared responsibility.
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Artificial intelligence is unprecedented. But our capacity for cooperation is also unprecedented. Before we can decide whether to trust machines, we must relearn how to trust each other. Only then will we have not just the intelligence, but the wisdom, to guide the future we are building.

​Donald Trump's presidency cannot be understood without acknowledging the deep discontent that brought him to power. His election was not merely a political shift; it was a reflection of an underlying crisis in American democracy. To grasp the forces that propelled him into office, we must confront the economic grievances, cultural anxieties, and fractured sense of community that has left millions of Americans feeling disillusioned, disconnected, and unheard.

At the core of this discontent is a pervasive sense that self-government—the idea that people have a meaningful say in how they are governed—has been eroded. For decades, many Americans have felt that their voices don't matter, that the decisions shaping their lives are made in distant boardrooms or political offices far removed from their struggles. This alienation has created a breeding ground for frustration and anger, especially among those who feel excluded from the benefits of globalization and modernization.

But the crisis goes beyond governance; it is also a crisis of community. Across the country, there is a palpable hunger for belonging and solidarity—a yearning for a moral fabric that binds people together. This sense of community has been steadily unraveling, leaving individuals to navigate a fragmented society that often feels indifferent to their struggles. From the disintegration of family bonds to the weakening of communal ties, many feel untethered, searching for something to hold onto. Trump's appeal lay in his ability to tap into this yearning, offering a sense of pride and connection to those who felt forgotten.

The grievances that Trump harnessed were not imaginary. For decades, economic inequality has widened, with wages stagnating and jobs disappearing for the working class. Policies driven by both major political parties favored market-friendly globalization, benefiting the wealthy while leaving large swathes of the population behind. The implicit promise that hard work would lead to success began to ring hollow for many, particularly those without college degrees. Instead of economic opportunity, they were met with outsourced jobs, stagnant paychecks, and a cultural narrative that seemed to blame them for their plight.

This narrative was shaped by what I see as a deeply flawed meritocratic ethos. Over the years, society increasingly tied dignity and success to obtaining a college degree. The message was clear: "What you earn depends on what you learn." But beneath this seemingly motivational slogan lay an unspoken insult. For those unable to navigate the barriers to higher education, the implication was that their struggles were their fault. This meritocratic condescension alienated millions, fostering resentment not just toward elites but also toward a system that seemed designed to exclude them.

It is no surprise, then, that many working-class Americans felt abandoned by the Democratic Party. Once the champion of labor and the working class, the party gradually shifted its focus toward the interests of the credentialed elite. While affluent, college-educated voters became its core constituency, the working-class voters who had once formed its base found themselves ignored. The Democratic Party's embrace of globalization and market-driven policies only deepened this divide, leaving many to feel economically marginalized and culturally disrespected. By 2016, this disconnect was stark: Trump performed remarkably well among voters without college degrees, while Democrats struggled to connect with the very people they used to represent.

Adding to this economic and cultural discontent is the myth of the American Dream—a promise that hard work and determination will lead to success. This narrative, once a cornerstone of American identity, has become increasingly disconnected from reality. Intergenerational mobility in the United States now lags behind many European countries, where stronger public systems provide the stability needed for upward mobility. For those struggling to get ahead, the repeated mantra of "you can make it if you try" feels not just hollow but demoralizing. It underscores a broader message that failure is a personal shortcoming rather than a systemic issue.

Trump's rise cannot be attributed to a single factor. His appeal was rooted in a volatile mix of economic grievances, cultural anxieties, and a longing for recognition and respect. Many Americans felt not only left behind economically but also looked down upon by elites who failed to value their contributions. Trump's rhetoric, however divisive, resonated because it acknowledged their frustrations. He positioned himself as a voice for change in a system that seemed rigged against the average person.

This discontent has also been exacerbated by the erosion of public spaces and shared experiences—what some might call the "commons." The widening gap between the affluent and the working class has led to a kind of societal segregation. From schools to neighborhoods, and even sports stadiums, those with means increasingly live separate lives from those without. This division corrodes the very foundation of democracy, which relies on shared spaces and common experiences to foster a sense of unity. Without these, the idea of a shared national identity begins to fracture.

As I reflect on these dynamics, I am struck by the failure of progressives to articulate a compelling vision that addresses these grievances. While many have proposed policies to combat economic inequality, they often overlook the deeper cultural and psychological dimensions of the crisis. People want more than financial security; they want dignity, respect, and a sense of purpose. They want to feel that their work and their lives matter.

The challenge for progressives is to bridge this divide—not by dismissing the frustrations of working-class Americans but by acknowledging and addressing them. This requires rethinking the emphasis on meritocracy and instead valuing all forms of work and contribution. It also means investing in the public spaces and institutions that bring people together, from schools to parks to cultural programs that foster a sense of community.

Moreover, progressives must reclaim the language of patriotism. For too long, this rhetoric has been ceded to the right, allowing movements like Trump's to monopolize the narrative of national pride. But patriotism does not have to be exclusionary or xenophobic. It can be a unifying force that celebrates shared values and mutual obligations. A progressive vision of patriotism would emphasize the dignity of work, the importance of community, and the need for economic policies prioritizing people over profits.

The discontent that propelled Trump to power is not going away. If anything, it is deepening, fueled by the same forces shaping American society for decades. To move forward, we must confront these issues head-on, not with condescension or empty promises but with a renewed commitment to justice, solidarity, and shared purpose. The future of American democracy depends on it.

My fascination with the Middle East transcends my birthplace of Tehran, rooted in the region's tapestry of civilizations, conflicts, and cultural progressions. Each element narrates a chapter of human endeavor through time. Among these tales, Iran's narrative is particularly striking, reflecting history as intricate and vibrant as the designs on a Persian carpet. My journeys to the Middle East have exposed me to the area's geopolitical intricacies and ignited profound self-reflection regarding Iran's distinct role in this mosaic. Prompted by a query from an American friend about grasping Iran and its people, I embarked on an exploratory voyage that extended beyond traditional viewpoints. In this brief essay, I aim to share my perspective, shaped by both personal experience and scholarly inquiry into the region, with a focus on Iran. This narrative weaves together layers of misunderstanding and acknowledgment, critique and celebration, exploring the historical and current forces that mold Iran's identity and its interactions with the global community, particularly the West.

In recent years, my journeys to the Middle East have broadened my understanding of the region's complex geopolitics. A question from an American friend about comprehending Iran and its people sparked a prolonged reflection on my part about the essence of understanding Iran and its inhabitants.

This reflection became more personal after the 2006 release of Warner Brothers' film adaptation of Frank Miller's '300.' The movie, which emphasizes narrative over historical accuracy, portrays the Persians as hideous foes to the heroic Spartans, sparking intense backlash from Iranians and leading to an official protest at the United Nations. The controversy highlighted a more significant issue: the misrepresentation and demonization of Iranian culture, civilization, and identity, exacerbated by insensitive remarks from global figures.

We must delve into its history and complex dynamics with the West to understand Iran truly. For Iranians, history isn't just a record of events; it's a source of identity, a refuge in turbulent times, and a canvas for political narratives. The Iranian narrative intertwines with references to a glorified and selectively remembered past, forming the foundation of national identity.

Moreover, Iran's relationship with the West is fraught with misconceptions, often reduced to a simplistic conflict, as depicted in the movie '300.' This oversimplification misses the subtle reality of mutual influence and shared history, where the West often views Persians as the 'other'—simultaneously civilized and alien. This narrative fails to recognize the profound contributions of Persian civilization to the world and the intricate dance between Iranian identity and Western influences.

The historical ties between Iran and the West have profoundly impacted both cultures. For instance, while some view the Persian defeats at Marathon and Salamis as defining moments for Western civilization, this is just one aspect of a complex relationship.

In recent years, I have reminded myself that understanding Iran goes beyond binary views to appreciate how Iranians interpret their history and tackle their existence's complexities. It involves recognizing Iranian identity's cosmopolitan, inclusive, and often contradictory nature as it continually reinterprets its past to create a culturally and historically rich present.

Understanding the profound shifts triggered by the Islamic Revolution of 1979 is crucial. This landmark event overthrew the Pahlavi monarchy and its powerful elite and signified a historic turning point. Shi'i clerics assumed the reins of governance for the first time in Iran's history. This change was not just a power shift but a profound transformation of a traditionally reserved Shi'i establishment into a dynamic agent of radical change. Viewing the revolution against the backdrop of political and cultural evolutions over the last five centuries in Iran is essential to appreciate this transformation fully. This wider lens reveals the revolution's distinctive character and significant influence on Iran and the wider world.

The breakdown of the longstanding partnership between religion and state, which had long supported a conservative social structure, did not occur in a vacuum. This development resulted from the Pahlavi dynasty's drive for secular modernization starting in the early 20th century. During this era, the state acquired unparalleled economic and political power, allowing it to pursue policies of secularization and centralization. Such policies gradually alienated traditional bazaar merchants and the clergy, undermining the delicate balance of Iran's social and cultural fabric. In the mid-20th century, attempts at achieving economic autonomy and the National Movement, spearheaded by Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddeq, encountered setbacks from external interference because the relationship between the state and religion remained robust. Ultimately, the Shi'i clerical leaders inadvertently benefited from reinstating the Pahlavi regime, strengthening their influence while avoiding complete allegiance to the state.

Understanding why the Pahlavi era's push toward modernization moved without the involvement of the religious hierarchy or grassroots democratic movements requires a look back at the 19th century. The landscape was fraught with challenges like scarce economic resources, hindering even modest reform efforts. External geopolitical pressures, the quashing of indigenous reformist groups, and the unsuccessful state-led reforms under Amir Kabir obstructed Iran's march toward modernity. The Constitutional Revolution inspired local and global obstacles to establishing a constitutional regime. While reform-oriented clerics and their bazaar supporters initially stood up to the Qajar dynasty and conservative religious leaders, they were ultimately outplayed by the interests of the landed aristocracy, foreign colonial powers, and urgent national security and territorial cohesion concerns. These dynamics paved the way for Reza Khan and his military allies to ascend to power.

Despite facing demographic hurdles, economic deficits, unsuccessful efforts at institutional reform, and opposition to European imperialism, Iran strived through the encroachments of neighboring powers during the Qajar period, partly due to geopolitical equilibrium. This endurance was not solely reliant on the European powers' strategic desire to keep Iran a buffer state. More crucially, it was supported by the revitalization of societal bonds and the revival of a political ethos rooted in the Persian monarchical tradition, inspired by the imperial heritage of the Safavid dynasty. The Safavid epoch and its legacy deeply embedded Shi'ism into the state's identity, promoting social cohesion and a sense of national identity.

The Safavid Empire's ability to protect against foreign invasions and its initiatives to forge new trade and diplomatic connections globally solidified its stance on the Iranian plateau, setting it apart from its Sunni neighbors to the West and East. Integrating various regional forces within the "Guarded Domains of Iran" required forming alliances with the Qezilbash tribes, which gradually led to tensions between the central government and peripheral areas. After the Safavid Empire's decline, efforts to resurrect the Safavid heritage struggled, mainly because the Afshar dynasty, and to a somewhat lesser extent the Zand dynasty, aimed to establish new bases of loyalty, moving away from the Shi'i cohesion and the revitalization of the bond between state and religion.

Exploring the broad sweep of history from the rise of the Safavid dynasty to the establishment of the Islamic Republic is an ambitious and potentially fraught task. This exploration of long-term historical trends, known as the longue durée, ventures through countless anomalies across various epochs and regions. Yet, this method provides a lens to comprehend seemingly unrelated events as part of a cohesive narrative. Since the 16th century, despite numerous internal upheavals and territorial concessions, Iran has managed to preserve its territorial integrity and political sovereignty against significant challenges. It frequently faced the menace of military incursions from formidable neighboring empires and skirmishes with nomadic and semi-nomadic groups. The endurance of what has historically been known as the Guarded Domains of Iran can largely be attributed to a level of decentralization that respected its varied provincial, ethnic, communal, and linguistic identities.

Iran's state structure and social fabric were inherently fragile, constantly challenged by pressures from its borders. Yet, these external pressures were instrumental in shaping a cohesive cultural and religious identity at its heart. In the Persian political tradition, maintaining harmony between the heartland and the borderlands was vital for the security and flourishing of the so-called Guarded Domains. This balance depended on the principle of "justice" ("dad" in Persian, "adl" in Arabic), a fundamental aspect of governance intimately linked to Shi'ism as one of its five pillars. 

The legendary Shahnameh frequently warns that "injustice" ("bidad") results in the collapse of both the core and the margins. The rise of modern nationalism initiated a movement towards centralization, fostering social cohesion. The relative absence of ethnic conflicts since the early 20th century, particularly when compared to civil unrest and secession movements in other postcolonial settings, has contributed to forming a more unified Iranian identity. Envisioning Iran as an age-old edifice within a newly divided region offers an insightful, though not flawless, analogy, depicting Iran as a building with a distinctive place amongst neighbors still adjusting to their newly established boundaries.

The state's pursuit of legitimacy involved leveraging the magnificence of its imperial past, casting itself as the protector of Islam and the Shi'i doctrine. This effort was underpinned by lavish courtly displays, exemplifying sovereign authority through severe punishments, generous patronage, and promoting arts, poetry, and religious institutions. The backing of a landowning elite in crucial state positions and, to a degree, tribal chiefs with semi-autonomous power also reinforced the state's base. Yet, military setbacks and territorial concessions in the early 19th century significantly diminished the Qajar dynasty's prestige and perception. To preserve fragile stability, the state partook in negotiations, sometimes coercively, with urban authorities, clerics, nobles, and tribal leaders. A perennial issue was the need for a clear delineation of duties between the royal court and governmental machinery. The bond between the monarchy and its bureaucrats was marked by volatility despite attempts at reform. Ministers found it challenging to secure their standing, frequently subject to the tastes of their rulers. The impulse for reform became a response to these internal inefficiencies, spurred by a Western-oriented faction within the Qajar nobility pushing for governmental reorganization. This movement was partly driven by an awareness of decline, highlighted by growing technological and economic gaps with Europe and exacerbated by domestic economic frailties.

Before the 20th century, the bedrock of Iran's national wealth and state revenue — its rural economy — was predominantly managed by urban elites, encompassing government functionaries and tribal chieftains. The land tenure system was a crucial means for allocating state privileges. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it became common for state officials, successful traders, and even wealthy clerics to possess private estates. This phenomenon has been on the rise since the 17th century, with Iran's mainly sustenance-driven agricultural sector being enhanced through the production of cash crops. This development shifted Iran's global commerce dynamics, as exports like silk and cotton, and later in the Qajar period, opium and tobacco generated significant profits for the Iranian economy. These earnings supported acquiring a growing variety of imports from nearby regions and beyond.

Iran's role as a central hub for migratory, trade, and cultural interactions across Eurasia encountered significant hurdles with shifts in Central Asian caravan routes, the rise of the Uzbek Empire, and other nomadic barriers, as well as the opening of new maritime routes to China, leading to a sharp decline in its ancient East Asian trade ties. Moreover, Iran's access to the Mediterranean and the Black Sea became restricted, though not entirely cut off, with the ascent of the Ottoman Empire further strained by Shi'i-Sunni tensions. The diminishing importance of these crucial trade routes in the 18th century resulted in Iran's economic isolation, adversely affecting the prosperity and dynamism of its urban centers. Nevertheless, the 19th century saw a resurgence in trade via the Persian Gulf and the maritime and overland routes connecting the Caspian and Black Seas, boosting the fortunes of long-distance merchants and their networks. 

While Iran has been an integral part of Indian Ocean commerce since antiquity, it was not until the 17th century that southern sea lanes significantly broadened its trade horizons to European and East Asian markets with exports like silk, opium, tobacco, carpets, and eventually oil. However, geographical challenges such as its mountainous terrain, which impeded direct access to interior regions, and the lack of forest resources in the south necessary for shipbuilding meant that the Persian Gulf and Caspian ports did not achieve the mercantile stature of cities like Aleppo, Alexandria, Istanbul, or Mumbai. This deficiency in shipbuilding materials meant Iran did not emerge as a leading maritime power in the modern era, continuing as a land-centric force without significant naval capabilities or ambitions in maritime commerce or colonial ventures.

Serious endeavors towards industrialization in Iran began in the mid-20th century. Like many non-Western countries, Iran's integration into the global market intensified towards the late 19th century, positioning it as a source of cash crops for European industrial hubs, even as its local markets became flooded with Western manufactured products. This trade pattern in the 19th century generally benefited the commercial elite at the expense of domestic production. In the 20th century, petroleum rose to prominence as Iran's key export, subject to British exploitation akin to colonial resource extraction practices, with Iranians mainly relegated to unskilled labor roles. Despite this, the urban merchant classes largely remained focused on trade in goods rather than pivoting to industrial production. Nonetheless, the Iranian bazaar maintained its critical role as a center for political mobilization.

The Safavid Empire and its heirs secured the loyalty of their subjects by establishing a state-endorsed religion. By the mid-18th century, Iran had decisively positioned itself as a state and society dominated by Shi'i Islam. During the Afshar dynasty, Nader Shah's failure to revert Iran to Sunni Islam or to make Shi'ism an accepted sect within Sunni Islam highlighted the entrenched nature of Shi'i faith in Iran. Beginning in the mid-16th century, the Iranian people increasingly embraced Shi'i Islam, even as they were viewed as heretical by their Sunni neighbors. The Shi'i faith served as a critical unifying force among Iran's ruling echelons—spanning the monarchy, nobility, government officials, clerical institutions, large landowners, urban leadership, and tribal heads—surpassing any other unifying element. Shi'ism was chiefly responsible for establishing a connection between the vast majority of the populace, in both urban and rural settings, and the state and its ruling classes. The Safavids, the Qajars, and, to a certain extent, the dynasties that ruled during the intervening periods all portrayed themselves as "defenders of the faith."

In practice, this meant the state had to manage its interactions with a clerical class that, by the 19th century, had achieved a degree of semi-independence. The reciprocal relationship between the religious community and the secular state (din va dowlat), a staple of Persian political culture since the Sasanian era, was reinvigorated during the Safavid period and persisted through the Qajar era. Until the mid-20th century, the clergy implicitly partnered with the ruling dynasties and the nobility despite some underlying frictions. As the official religion, Shi'ism was crucial in fostering a communal identity while avoiding direct political involvement. Religious leaders or the secular government did not exclusively hold the authority to administer justice. The boundaries between Islamic law (shari'a) and local customs remained fluid. They were clearly defined when modern legal systems were established during the Constitutional Revolution and the early Pahlavi period.

The doctrine of the Mahdi in Shi'i Islam, with its assertion of his living yet hidden presence, presented a nuanced dilemma for secular rulers. This notion that the Mahdi is among us, yet unseen, questioned the validity of temporal rulers and implied that genuine justice could only be instituted under his divine leadership. This concept effectively gave the clerical class an indirect authority, invoking the Hidden Imam's name. Until the late 20th century, no cohesive political ideology within Shi'ism could reconcile the governance of the day with the transcendent governance of the Mahdi without outright dismissing the concept of monarchy. Although dependent on the state for backing, religious leaders, or ulama, often labeled anti-clerical and millenarian movements as heretical, striving to quiet them without eliminating their impact or the messianic sentiments that arose, fueled by Iran's solid messianic legacy.

This tension was enduring when Max Weber's conceptual framework of the conflict between priests and prophets was applied. The clerical establishment could not entirely suppress the diverse currents of speculative thought, philosophy, mysticism, and popular religiosity that nourished messianic expectations. A delicate equilibrium was maintained despite official sanction, enabling formal and informal religious practices to coexist and thrive.

Throughout history, protest movements have been a staple in the religious fabric, increasingly channeling socio-economic frustrations from the 19th into the 20th century. Starting with the Safavid emergence in the 15th century and spanning movements like the Noqtavi, Sufi Ne'matollahi, Shaykhi, and Babi, Shi'ism's Mahdi cult confronted the clerical orthodoxy's strict doctrinal views, frequently calling for a radical cessation of Islamic law in anticipation of an apocalyptic era. The concept of the Hidden Imam and the expectation of his reappearance injected a significant tension within Shi'ism, resonating with those marginalized or situated outside of conventional religious circles. Despite their significant impact, these messianic movements seldom overcame the collective opposition of the state and religious scholars. Although these groups persisted in clandestine networks for centuries, mainstream recognition remained elusive. The Constitutional Revolution in the early 20th century represented a unique form of secular messianism, achieving only limited success.

The partnership between the government and clerical authorities provided stability during the Qajar era, yet weaknesses in Iran's political framework made it susceptible to foreign pressures. Throughout this period, Iran continually confronted challenges to its territorial integrity and occasionally to its independence, owing to geopolitical conflicts and external aggressions. Until the mid-18th century, simultaneous threats from the Ottoman Empire to the West and Uzbek forces to the east required Iran to maintain a defensive stance along two fronts. This scenario caused no efforts to expand its empire, such as Nader Shah's incursions into Iraq and Hindustan, which were brief and unsustainable. From the early 19th century, the strategic competition between European powers, notably Russia and Britain, introduced a north-south divide, casting Iran as a crucial "buffer" state amidst these rival ambitions.

European meddling in Iran's domestic affairs put its sovereignty to the test, yet it didn't rob Iran of its political independence. By capitalizing on its role as a buffer state, Iran recovered from the upheavals of the 18th century and stabilized its internal affairs. Although it suffered territorial losses and a decline in prestige, Iran tactically improved its international standing, earning acknowledgment as an independent nation amid European colonial aspirations. The Iranians honed their survival tactics not through outright military battles but via diplomacy, secret deals, and adeptly playing the European nations off one another.

Before the Pahlavi era, Iran contended with a vague foreign policy strategy and constrained administrative and economic resources, resisting complete submission to Europe's quasi-colonial aims. The "Persian Question," prominent in diplomatic circles in the late 19th century, suggested a risk of territorial fragmentation, particularly following the 1907 agreement between Russia and Britain. Nonetheless, this scenario could also be evidence of Iran's competent foreign policy maneuvering, successfully navigating the precarious equilibrium between these two competing imperial forces.

During the Constitutional Revolution, a blend of Western-inspired reforms and indigenous messianic movements merged into a cohesive force. This convergence empowered the emerging urban intelligentsia, advocating for an end to autocratic rule, broader political freedoms, and the creation of modern legislative and judicial systems. The Constitutional Revolution is a landmark period in Iran's contemporary history, signifying the integration of Western democratic principles like the separation of powers, public representation, and personal liberties with Iran's longstanding pursuit of justice and renewal.

Constitutionalism was seen as a path toward material progress, secularization, the centralization of government, and state-directed reforms. While the Constitutional Revolution limited the Qajar monarchy's authoritarian excesses, it ironically facilitated the consolidation of power by the landed aristocracy without significantly improving the effectiveness of the fledgling democratic systems. Reza Shah and his circle were perceived by many as embodying the strong state envisioned by the Constitutional Revolution. After the revolution and World War I's end, a considerable segment of the Iranian middle class and intellectual circles gradually embraced the authoritarian modernization of the Pahlavi regime as the only means to restore Iran's eroded sovereignty and implement long-overdue reforms. 

The rise of the Pahlavi dynasty in the 1920s represented a break from the path that had been followed since the Safavid era. The centralization efforts reduced the political and military sway of tribal factions, marginalized the religious authorities, and eventually undercut the agricultural power of the landowning elite. Backed by a non-tribal military, the Pahlavi leadership effectively marginalized nomadic elements within society, diminishing their once pivotal political role. Through forced settlement and urban expansion, Iran witnessed its traditionally mobile nomadic population become more stationary—a notable contrast to the enduring tribal prominence in neighboring countries such as Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Central Asia. From the 1960s onwards, an ethnically cohesive Iran, whether through coercion or natural assimilation, did not experience a significant tribal resurgence.

The Pahlavi regime's zealous pursuit of state modernization was a springboard for economic growth, infrastructural advancements, the rise of a new middle class, and the fortification of Iran's national identity—fundamental nonpolitical goals initially part of the Constitutional Revolution's vision. However, this modernization effort also gave rise to an oppressive autocracy. Backed by a strong military and police apparatus, the regime reversed the political progress achieved during the Constitutional era. The financial foundation of this autocratic rule was significantly reinforced by revenues from Iran's petroleum sector, which, although a small portion of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company's total profits, was enough to consider the Pahlavi project a success. Additionally, the Pahlavi period introduced a new form of legitimacy by celebrating Iran's ancient heritage. While Iran's national identity and its ties to a mythic historical past had always been present, the Pahlavi narrative leveraged this heritage to starkly differentiate itself from what was seen as the Qajar era's degeneration. In contrast to the recent decline, this portrayal of a glorious past crafted a potent national identity narrative that continues to resonate.

Reza Shah's resolute leadership ushered in a wave of transformative change in Iran, the likes of which had not been seen since the rise of the Qajar dynasty. The economic strides made during the Pahlavi period highlighted the critical role of oil as a force for transformation. However, unlike coal, which propelled industrial expansion and the emergence of a national middle class in 19th-century Europe, oil revenues in Iran predominantly supported state authority, fostering an extractive economy at the expense of cultivating a growing middle class. From 1953 onwards, even as Iran asserted rightful control over its oil resources and the revenue it generated, the surge in oil wealth led to an increasing concentration of state power, often undermining its citizens' political and civil freedoms. This control over oil income diminished traditional forms of political accountability, arming the Iranian government with ample resources to implement top-down modernization initiatives. At the same time, it provided the government with more effective tools for repression and control. The Islamic Republic continued along this path of political constraint, perpetuating the autocratic tendencies established during the Pahlavi era.

Profound transformations, including population growth, urbanization, the spread of secular education, advancements in communication technologies, and, to some degree, industrial development, characterized the period following World War II in Iran. These shifts introduced new social and political dynamics, echoing historical themes of decline, renewal, and the political goals of the Constitutional Revolution with demands for economic sovereignty and the nationalization of the oil sector. The 1953 removal of Prime Minster Mosaddeq, a crucial chapter in Iran's history, signified a confrontation with Western geopolitical and economic interests and perpetuated an age-old power contest between state officials and the monarchy. The failure of the oil nationalization campaign, especially from the viewpoint of its advocates, exacerbated the trauma in Iran's national consciousness, highlighting to its intellectual community the bleakness of both external and domestic forces conspiring to undercut Iran's autonomy. Occurring within the Cold War context and with significant support from the United States for the Pahlavi regime, this incident led to widespread disillusionment among intellectuals and progressive activists. The state's control over natural resources further eroded its responsiveness, overlooked the public's political ambitions, and essentially cultivated a rentier economy that favored a narrow elite.

The Islamic Revolution marked the pinnacle of a transformative process that originated with the Constitutional Revolution, advanced through the National Movement in the postwar era, and experienced further development with the land reforms of the 1960s.

Looking beyond its ideological underpinnings, the Islamic Revolution ended the dominance of traditional landowning aristocracies. It considerably diminished the influence of the secular middle class, which had played a pivotal role in the Pahlavi dynasty's push for modernization. However, the middle class that emerged within the Islamic Republic has mostly followed a similar path to its predecessors. Even the primary figures of the Islamic regime, despite their ideological discourse and penchant for conspiracy theories, have primarily conformed to the norms of international market forces and communication technologies. Despite early promises of fostering Islamic benevolence, the revolution quickly turned to modern surveillance and coercion techniques, adopting these measures with even greater zeal.

The Islamic Revolution represented the pinnacle of a long historical development. During the Safavid period and beyond, the clerical establishment enjoyed state support and high regard. Yet, this group experienced a marked decline in its institutional privileges and societal status from the post-constitutional era through the Pahlavi dynasty. By the 1960s, a new generation of clerics, often from humble backgrounds, started to gain broad support, mainly by advancing a politically charged version of Islam. Driven by radical ideals, this movement initially focused its efforts against the Pahlavi regime, eventually evolving into a full-blown revolutionary force. Ayatollah Khomeini and his passionate followers synthesized ideological streams in their belief system and rhetoric, blending elements from the radical left and Islamic populism with contributions from erstwhile left-leaning intellectuals who shifted their allegiances. They integrated these perspectives with a political reading of Shi'i history. Khomeini's success and rise to prominence were significantly aided by his adept use of Shi'ism's messianic fervor and the theme of martyrdom, leveraging these aspects to his benefit.

While the Islamic Revolution was driven by passionate enthusiasm and ideological dedication, it ultimately did not shift the fundamental dynamics between the state and society. The Islamic Republic adopted many of the authoritarian traits of its Pahlavi predecessors, both ideologically and practically, preserving a dominant institutional role for the state. In several respects, it even surpassed its forebear by intensifying power centralization, restricting fundamental liberties, engaging in widespread propaganda and indoctrination campaigns, perpetuating nepotism and corruption, and asserting unprecedented control over the economy and natural resources. Additionally, it embraced conspiratorial thought to justify its assertive policies and control monopoly. This inclination to attribute challenges to conspiracies served as a convenient tool for deflecting criticism and eschewing responsibility for its flaws. The focus on external evil forces rather than internal actions or policies promoted a narrative that positioned the regime perpetually as a victim or martyr. The history of foreign interventions and occupations in Iran, spanning from 1911 to 1953 and through the World Wars, lends significant weight to such narratives, engendering a culture of siege mentality and distrust.

Contrastingly, the outlook of Iranian society after the revolution diverges significantly from the governmental stance. Today's Iran, despite years of sanctions and isolation, is characterized by a vibrant and youthful demographic that is increasingly globally conscious and often resistant to the state's ideological sway. Despite the government's concerted efforts to mold Iran into its Islamic ideal, the results have been mixed. The state has invested heavily in this endeavor, yet Iranian society remains distinctly different from the uniform, ideologically aligned model akin to Qom that the authorities might prefer. The prospect of such a transformation seems ever more doubtful.

While Islamic symbols are prominently displayed and Islamization policies are rigorously enforced in schools, workplaces, and public spaces, an underlying current of alternative identity exploration persists among a substantial segment of the population, especially the urban youth. Disillusioned by the revolution's unfulfilled promises and burdened by the oppressive realities of daily life, many Iranians seek a different direction. Though not fully articulated, this alternative embodies more culturally rich and pluralistic values, a movement vividly demonstrated during the 2009 Green Movement and 2022 Woman, Life, Freedom Movement.

The emerging generations in Iran, shaped by demographic shifts, are more educated and well-rounded, often adopting a more nuanced form of nationalism. They tend to view the government's xenophobia and isolationist policies with a critical eye. A sharp fear of Western influence marked the period, and the clear divide between Eastern and Western thought diminished. Similarly, the once fervent aspirations for another revolution to realize an ideological utopia have significantly dwindled. Yet, young Iranians are disappointed with the prospect of escaping the ideological confines set by the present authorities. The pressing issue now is whether they will consent to the social model prescribed by the regime or succeed in steering Iran towards a society that mirrors their aspirations for openness and inclusivity.

Without question, throughout five centuries, Iran has made substantial contributions to painting, music, and architecture; demonstrated exceptional skill in fine craftsmanship; innovated in sustainable horticulture, irrigation, and urban planning; and produced significant works in poetry, philosophy, historiography, and storytelling. Recently, cinema has become a channel for Iranians to contemplate or seek solace from the stark realities of injustice, intolerance, and the demands for uniformity.

Historically, while the state has patronized many of Iran's cultural masterpieces, these works have been deeply embedded with the imagery and echoes of a vast and complex cultural legacy, touching on mythical, poetic, and spiritual themes. The concept of nationhood that gained prominence in the 20th century, under both the Pahlavi and Islamic regimes, aimed to homogenize Iran's rich tapestry of ethnicities, languages, faiths, and regional cultures into a singular narrative of uniformity and submission. Yet, a collective memory passed down through generations has persistently molded and remolded a national identity that stands firm against tyrannical governance. Political critique, romantic ideals, and innovative views often surfaced through symbolic language, evading censorship and suppression. The quest for differing values, cultural authenticity, and moral revival frequently fell short of realization, at least not as initially imagined by their advocates. Still, reflections on lost chances, dealing with disenchantment, mourning errors, criticizing the abuse of power, and yearning for what could have been repeatedly emerging in Iran's intellectual and artistic discourse. Despite hardships and obstacles, these persistent voices have bolstered the resilience of the Iranian spirit. When Iranian poet of the 20th century, Forugh Farrokhzad, professed, "Only the voice remains," she perhaps referred to the rich, intricate fabric of Iranian culture, encapsulating Iran's most significant legacies. In doing so, she echoed the eternal words of Hafez from six centuries earlier: "I have not heard anything sweeter than the sound of love. Enduring echoes linger beneath this turning dome." Under the vast skies of Iran, these echoing memories persist.

In the grand tapestry of history, Iran's story is one of resilience, cultural richness, and complexity. This exploration has shown that understanding Iran requires peeling back layers of historical narratives, geopolitical tensions, and the intricate dance between tradition and modernity. Today, the Islamic Republic of Iran is a testament to a history of adaptation, resistance, and cultural pride, navigating its path amid regional and global challenges. Iran's journey from the ancient empires through the Constitutional Revolution, the transformative impact of the Pahlavi era, and the monumental shift brought about by the Islamic Revolution underlines a nation's quest for sovereignty, identity, and a rightful place in the global community. As we witness Iran's continuous evolution, it becomes clear that its story is not just about conflict or politics but also a narrative enriched by contributions to art, science, and the collective human heritage. For those of us looking from the outside, understanding Iran is not just about acknowledging its past struggles and achievements but also about recognizing its potential to shape a future where the echoes of Hafez and Forugh Farrokhzad remind us of the enduring power of culture, love, and resilience beneath the turning dome of the world.

​In the past three years, my journey across Saudi Arabia—through travel, work, and interactions with its people—has given me a unique perspective on the country's ambitious transformation and Vision 2030. This initiative is leading the nation and its people towards modernization and global integration, infusing Saudi society with a sense of hope and vitality unique in the complex balance of preserving Saudi Arabia's deep-rooted traditions while adapting to the fast-paced changes of the modern world.

One of the most striking examples of this ambition is The Line, which I have worked with for the past three years and is part of NEOM. This project, envisioning a future of urban living devoid of traditional city layouts, emphasizes sustainability, efficiency, and quality of life. It is a testament to Saudi Arabia's commitment to pioneering high-concept urban planning.

Economically, the country is diversifying, tapping into its vast mineral reserves to reduce oil dependency and positioning itself as a critical player in the global supply chain. The burgeoning mining sector and initiatives like the launch of Riyadh Air, aimed at bolstering the tourism industry, reflect strategic steps towards economic diversification. Similarly, the electric vehicle initiative Ceer underscores the forward-looking approach to innovation and sustainable development amidst challenges like high temperatures and water scarcity.

Socially, it is navigating a nuanced path towards liberalization. The evolving dress codes, offering greater leniency and reflecting the country's evolving social landscape, are part of a broader effort to balance respect for traditions with the aspirations of a globally connected population. Despite criticisms, strategic investments in global sports signify a deliberate attempt to engage with the world, boosting national pride and offering new opportunities for youth.

Culturally, the lifting of cinema bans and the growth of the film industry mark Saudi Arabia's ambition to become a cultural powerhouse. These developments, alongside strategic diplomatic maneuvers and the Public Investment Fund's global investments, illustrate the country's efforts to redefine its international image and economic footprint.

Reflecting on my time here, the profound optimism and sense of pride among the Saudi people are palpable. The unique relationship between Crown Prince Muhammad bin Salman and the citizens, characterized by deep mutual trust, has significantly bridged the gap between leadership and the populace, fostering a vibrant, forward-moving society. This trust has catalyzed a nationwide transformation, touching every facet of Saudi life.

Witnessing these changes, I've seen the country not just as a place of giga-projects like NEOM but as a community on a collective journey towards a more prosperous, inclusive society. This "Saudi experience," akin to the "American dream," emphasizes a communal pursuit of growth, transcending mere infrastructure to touch the hearts and minds of its people.

The enduring impact of the trust between the Crown Prince and the Saudi people stands out. This mutual respect and confidence have spurred a transformation that promises to redefine every aspect of Saudi life, presenting a compelling leadership and societal engagement model.

The unfolding of Vision 2030 will be a fascinating narrative to follow. It represents an ambitious set of initiatives and a profound transformation touching the economic landscape, social norms, and Saudi Arabia's global ambitions. As the country strides towards crafting a future that honors its past while boldly embracing new possibilities, its journey offers valuable insights for the Middle East and the world.

This bold vision initially drew me to the country. Yet, the warmth of Saudi hospitality and the richness of its culture keep pulling me back and calling it my second home. Hospitality, in its essence, isn't about transforming people; it's about providing a space where transformation can naturally occur. And this is precisely what Saudi Arabia and its people have offered me.

​Creating an A.I. book for kids with the incredible ReadyAI team was a huge task, much harder than we thought. Trying to squeeze the story of A.I. Big Ideas into a small, kid-friendly book felt almost impossible. But this challenge reminded me of what E.H. Gombrich, a young historian without a job in Vienna, did in 1935. He had to write a giant history book for kids in six weeks! Gombrich worked hard, researching all day and writing one chapter each night, then talking about what he wrote with his future wife every week. His writing made the book feel like a bunch of fun blog posts, easy and friendly to read. I first got to know this book thanks to a great mentor in Washington, DC, and 2024, I just had to reread it.

Not long after it came out, "A Little History of the World" (first published in German) was banned by the Nazis because it promoted peace. By then, Gombrichr had already moved from Austria to the United Kingdom. This first success led him to write "The Story of Art," which became a worldwide hit (I also recommend this book), selling over ten million copies and translating into more than 35 languages. Gombrich didn't just list historical facts or give new theories; he was great at making complicated topics easy and exciting to understand. Amazingly, "A Little History of the World" is the only book covering world history from the Stone Age to the 20th century and can be read easily in a day.

Gombrich uses a down-to-earth style to connect with young and older readers alike, showing that even he, as a historian, sometimes finds historical events unexplainable. For example, when discussing why Persia attacked Babylon from 550 to 500 B.C., he admits, "Something amazing happened then. I don't completely get it, but that makes it interesting." His goal is to show how history has shaped our world today. He explains where many common words like 'democracy,' 'vandalism,' 'algebra,' 'paper,' 'duke,' and even the names of days and months come from. This way, he highlights how deeply history is woven into our daily lives and language which is truly fascinating.

Considering the era in which it was written, Gombrich's book focuses mainly on Europe. Although it does cover Indian and Chinese history, Gombrich doesn't seem as excited about important figures like the Buddha—pointing out issues with applying his teachings—and Confucius, who he considers too straightforward. The story of Jesus, on the other hand, is given a lot of attention, including many references from the Bible. Sometimes, Gombrich's choice of words might come across as insensitive, for example, when he compares Roman commoners to Indians or suggests that women in the medieval period were less able to handle discomfort than men. As a result, "A Little History of the World" can be seen more as a story of Western culture from the perspective of the early 20th century, similar to how Henry Kissinger's "Diplomacy" mainly deals with Western political history despite its general title.

Despite its straightforward approach, "A Little History of the World" is a valuable tool for young history fans and experts looking to reach a wider audience outside their field. While its child-friendly narrative might not align perfectly with contemporary non-academic writing styles, Gombrich's skill in discussing broad historical themes without being overly simplistic or just listing facts is impressive. The book presents strong opinions, leading to significant criticism, such as from Andrew Roberts in the Financial Times, who felt it should not be used in educational settings because of what he saw as Marxist leanings. This critique often comes from Gombrich's clear depiction of the struggles workers endured during the Industrial Revolution and his direct condemnation of imperialism, which some interpret as a political stance rather than an honest account of historical wrongs.

Gombrich skillfully makes his story captivating and different from what you'd find in a usual Wikipedia page or schoolbook. He aims to lighten the load of memorizing dates for his readers, instead hoping to spark a deep interest and understanding of the importance of history. Gombrich said he wants his readers to relax and enjoy the story without jotting down notes or remembering every name and date. He mixes historical facts with his reflections, showing regret when talking about the harsh realities of the 20th century but also highlighting why it's crucial to know these things to avoid repeating them in the future. Similarly, even though he is saddened by the violence done in the name of religion over the ages, he still manages to keep a positive view of the future despite all the wars and conflicts he talks about.

I can't recommend this book enough—it's truly captivating. Without giving too much away, let me offer you a glimpse to pique your interest. Gombrich starts with an intriguing thought: behind every "Once upon a time," there's another story waiting to be told. He draws an analogy to standing between two mirrors, seeing an endless reflection that fades into the distance but never really ends. This metaphor, introduced on the first page, beautifully sets up the book's exploration of memory, history, and the passage of time. It suggests that even if we can't see or fully grasp Something, it's still there, shaping our understanding of the past.

By the end of the first chapter, Gombrich invites us to view history not just as a collection of stories but as our story—the narrative of the world we all share. He encourages us always to question the "when" and "how" of events, guiding us through humanity's complex, layered stories. This approach not only defines the study of history but also encapsulates Gombrich's mission in the book: to delve into the human stories that have woven the fabric of our collective past. Let's start this journey together.

We are in a time where leaders with ambitions akin to Julius Caesar are emerging.

Look at the leadership styles of Nicolás Maduro of Venezuela, Vladimir Putin of Russia, Viktor Orban of Hungary, Narendra Modi of India, Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey, the former Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro, and the former U.S. President Donald Trump. Each was chosen through democratic processes within their countries, which possess different levels of liberty and impartiality. All of them have utilized their governmental power to maintain their hold on authority. While varying in effectiveness, each leader has contributed to the decline of the democratic systems that enabled their rise to power.

Ferdinand Mount's "Big Caesars and Little Caesars" explores this trend of aspiring autocrats, and it is a fascinating read. Using a British term I learned on my recent trip to London, Mount is often described as a "wet Tory," blending traditional establishment principles with more progressive political views. His education includes time at Eton and Christ Church College, University of Oxford.

He has a family baronetcy, which notably links him to his first cousin once removed, the former Prime Minister of the U.K., David Cameron. Mount led the Policy Unit under Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher during the 1980s but later distanced himself from the emotional Thatcherite ideology. He then served as the editor of the Times Literary Supplement in the 1990s, and more recently, he has been contributing to publications like the Daily Telegraph and the London Review of Books.

The opening lines of his book resonated with me and the time we are living in, particularly as we are getting ready for elections in the U.S., which is less than ten months away: "Caesars have returned, both grand and modest, in nations large and small, in societies both advanced and developing."

Beginning with that creative and Seuss-like introduction, The book delves into the concept of Caesarism and the role of Caesars in politics, examining the factors that contribute to their rise and fall. Caesar aspires to dictatorial power to dismantle existing structures and position themselves as the sole arbiter of law. The book differentiates between 'Big Caesars' and 'Little Caesars' based on their ambitions and the extent of their success. In Mount's view, 'Big Caesars' are described by their endless acts of violence, law-breaking, and deception, whereas 'little Caesars' define their manipulations as what is required to fulfill their personal goals.

I think the subtitle of the book, "How They Rise and How They Fall—from Julius Caesar to Boris Johnson," hints at a potential issue right from the start: the book blends discussions of dictators like Napoleon Bonaparte and Adolf Hitler with figures such as Boris Johnson, the former British Prime Minister. Most are quintessential 'Big Caesars,' whereas Johnson seems more appropriately categorized as a 'little Caesar.' However, the book adeptly handles this disparity. All types of Caesars share common strategies and tactics, big and small. They all operate on a similar continuum.

The book features chapters on events like the 1820 Cato Street Conspiracy, where a group of radical activists unsuccessfully plotted to decapitate the entire British cabinet, and the 1923 Beer Hall Putsch in Munich, where Hitler and his nascent Nazi Party attempted a forceful overthrow of the Weimar Republic. These events show how figures, initially dismissed as insignificant dictators, can evolve into more formidable threats. The book also examines instances of 'little' Caesarism that have had profound impacts, such as Indira Gandhi's declaration of a state of emergency in India from 1975 to 1977. This period was marked by drastic measures like mass arrests and forced sterilizations, overseen by Gandhi's son Sanjay as part of a population control initiative. Mount argues that Gandhi's actions not only had immediate harmful consequences but also set a dangerous precedent for future leaders like Modi to follow.

Regarding Hitler, history unfolded in a cyclical pattern, initially as a farce and subsequently as a tragedy. His unsuccessful and unlawful coup attempt led to a trial that garnered significant public interest. Following a pardon from his prison sentence, Hitler adopted a multifaceted approach to gain power. He blended electoral victories with acts of street violence, using the latter to intimidate rival political parties.

It's essential to recall how strikingly history can echo itself, mainly because Donald Trump, currently leading in the race for the 2024 Republican Party presidential nomination, is aiming to make a comeback to the White House.

The book illustrates that aspirant Caesars depend greatly on propaganda's power to overshadow factual historical accounts. These leaders craft compelling narratives that appeal to their supporters and the crucial elite they must win over to gain control. With time and the influence of propaganda, the harsh realities are smoothed over. The brutal tactics used in their rise to power are often rationalized as unavoidable necessities.

Occasionally, Caesars shaped their narratives through their writings, as seen with Napoleon's dispatches from battlefields or Hitler's "Mein Kampf." For those Caesars who need to be more skilled in crafting words, there's always the option to delegate the storytelling to sympathetic publicists. In the shadow of every aspiring Caesar, there's often a harmful sycophant ready to pen their version of a "Flight 93 Election" essay. Such writings argue that the political landscape is so critical that using extreme tactics, emergency actions, and dubious alliances is justifiable to seize power.

I think a standout feature of "Big Caesars and Little Caesars" is its significant focus on the downfall of these leaders. The book suggests that a blend of law enforcement, intelligence, eloquence, adherence to lawfulness, and public officials' diligence is critical to these aspiring Caesars' eventual downfall. The emphasis on their decline and fall is significant, given the influence of propaganda. Such an examination helps prevent ordinary citizens from overestimating the political strength of these leaders.

For instance, Donald Trump and his followers often portray the Make America Great Again (M.A.G.A.) movement as an unstoppable juggernaut. However, this narrative overlooks several critical facts. In 2016, Trump lost the popular vote by nearly 3 million votes; in 2020, his loss in the popular vote was more than twice that margin. Since Trump's emergence on the national political scene, the two midterm elections have resulted in significant setbacks for the Republican Party. Currently, Trump is facing four criminal indictments, with many of his associates and subordinates also facing legal proceedings. Highlighting how such aspiring Caesars are eventually removed from the political arena is vital to dispelling the myth of their inevitable, enduring triumph.

After reading the book, shortcomings hinder Mount's ability to improve since readers in the presentation of his book. The most noticeable is his thinly veiled disdain for Boris Johnson, almost like he wishes to destroy him intellectually. Johnson's involvement in advocating for and ultimately achieving Brexit is a significant point of frustration for Mount, as are the numerous other minor scandals and missteps in Johnson's official capacity.

Johnson's victories in the 2016 Brexit referendum and the 2019 general election democratically entitled him to make significant policy errors. However, the book strongly disagrees with this perspective. The author criticizes the pro-Brexit campaign as a blend of nationalism and what he terms "cakeism" – the notion promoted by Johnson that Britons could enjoy the benefits of Brexit without any drawbacks. Regarding Johnson's 2019 electoral victory, the book poses a critical yet valid question: "Was it truly a remarkable achievement to defeat a Labour Party under Jeremy Corbyn decisively?"

While the book raises some relevant points, it is marred by its overly intense scrutiny of the 'little Caesar' known for his messy hair. Mount even goes so far as to assert that "no departure in British political history has been more humiliating" than Johnson's exit from No. 10 Downing Street in September 2022 amidst a scandal.

Johnson's departure lacked grace, yet to label it as the most humiliating is quite exaggerated. He was succeeded by Liz Truss, whose tenure as Prime Minister was marked by significant policy and political turmoil, lasting only 49 tumultuous days — the briefest in British history. Interestingly, Mount acknowledges Truss's short-lived premiership just a page after his assertion about Johnson's exit, which casts doubt on either his or his editor's attention to recent events.

Mount asserts that Trump's initial travel ban targeted "immigrants from most Muslim nations." While the executive order was discriminatory and counterproductive, it only affected seven countries, far fewer than the 57 member states in the Organization of Islamic Cooperation. Mount argues that the uniqueness of Trump's presidency lay in his relentless campaigning and tumultuous governance, seemingly overlooking the parallels with Andrew Jackson's approach to ascending the presidency in the 19th century.

Mount overlooks the significance of Trump's recent promise to dismiss numerous executive branch officials. While it's possible that no U.S. Congress would enact legislation to support this, that's beside the point. As president, Trump demonstrated a significant capacity to bypass the civil service, sparking widespread debate in Washington about the consequences. The seriousness of this threat is underscored by the Biden administration's measures to prevent future presidents from efficiently implementing Trump's proposals.

Mount's understanding of the worldwide Caesar phenomenon is still being determined. He suggests that Johnson and Trump uniquely centered their antagonism on immigration, overlooking the ways Hungary's Orban and Turkey's Erdogan used refugee fears to strengthen their political power. Furthermore, Mount's assertion that "modern Caesarism has been largely overlooked by scholars" reveals a lack of awareness of political science research trends. In the last ten years, there has been a growing emphasis among social scientists on the influence of individual leaders in global politics. Additionally, the rise of populist nationalism has seen a significant increase in research, especially following the rise of Trump and Brexit.

I think Mount's book lacks an entry on "populism," which could be why he believes modern Caesars have been overlooked. While Mount focuses on the leaders of these movements and their ascent to power, political scientists are more concerned with the movements and their root causes. Essentially, they are examining the same issue but from slightly different perspectives. Mount notes that "Caesars gain popularity primarily by boosting national morale, not by enhancing living standards" and that a "new Caesar quickly establishes a division between Us and Them." Both points are fundamental concepts in the study of populism.​

Nonetheless, there is merit in examining the Caesars themselves, as populist leaders frequently exhibit unique psychological traits. As I wrapped up my short trip to London and finished reading the book, it offered valuable insights for those curious about how someone like Boris Johnson could have played a key role in what might be considered Great Britain's most significant foreign policy blunder.