Fuel, finance and force: How oil and dollars sustained America’s global supremacy

The American narrative is constructed with remarkable elegance: a republic born in defiance of tyranny, consecrated to liberty, animated by markets, and propelled by technological genius. 

It is a story that has travelled well—across continents, classrooms, and institutions—becoming not merely a national myth, but a global grammar of legitimacy. Yet beneath this luminous self-description lies a harder, less romantic architecture of power—one that is geopolitical rather than philosophical, material rather than moral.

To interrogate this contradiction is not to dismiss the ideals America proclaims, but to examine the conditions under which those ideals acquired global reach. For empires do not endure on abstractions alone; they are sustained by systems of extraction, control, and strategic dependency. And in the case of the United States, the decisive pivot was not the Declaration of Independence, but the aftermath of the Second World War.

When the European colonial empires collapsed under the weight of war, debt, and anti-colonial resistance, a vacuum emerged—not merely of authority, but of global organisation. Into this vacuum stepped the United States, not as a conventional colonial power, but as the architect of a new imperial modality. It did not plant flags; it built institutions. It did not annex territories; it structured dependencies. Through Bretton Woods, the IMF, the World Bank, and NATO, it created what might be called an “invisible empire”—diffuse, networked, and deeply embedded.

But beneath this institutional superstructure lay a far more elemental foundation: energy. The empire of the twentieth century was not built on land—it was built on fuel.

The industrial order that emerged after 1945 was powered by petroleum. Oil was not merely a commodity; it was the bloodstream of modernity. Whoever controlled its flow could regulate the tempo of global production, trade, and military capability. America understood this with strategic clarity. Its global supremacy would not rest solely on military bases or ideological influence, but on its capacity to shape the geography of energy.

The Middle East thus became the silent axis of American power.

This was not a traditional conquest. Instead, it was a choreography of alliances, interventions, and economic arrangements designed to ensure that oil flowed in a manner compatible with American interests. The most consequential of these arrangements was the petrodollar system—an agreement, most notably with Saudi Arabia, that ensured oil transactions would be denominated in US dollars. This transformed energy into a monetary instrument and the dollar into a global reserve currency backed, not by gold, but by oil.

Control the currency of energy, and you control the energy of the world.

Through this system, the United States achieved something unprecedented: it became the principal beneficiary of global petroleum consumption without directly owning the majority of reserves. Every barrel sold reinforced the dollar; every transaction deepened financial dependence. Energy and finance fused into a single architecture of dominance.

It is within this framework that American military engagements since the 1960s must be reinterpreted. The Cold War provided the ideological vocabulary—anti-communism, containment, freedom—but the underlying logic often intersected with the geographies of energy. From West Asia to parts of Latin America, interventions frequently occurred in regions critical to resource flows or strategic transit routes.

This is not to argue that every conflict was reducible to oil, but rather that oil formed the structural backdrop against which strategic decisions were made. Ideology mobilised consent; energy structured necessity. The rhetoric of freedom travels faster than the pipelines of power—but it is the pipelines that endure.

In the present moment, this architecture faces its most serious test. The evolving tensions around Iran are not merely about regime change, nuclear deterrence, or ideological confrontation. They are about the stability of a system in which the United States remains the central arbiter of energy flows in a region that still holds a significant portion of the world’s proven oil reserves.

Iran represents a unique challenge precisely because it resists integration into this system. It is not simply an adversary; it is an anomaly—a state that contests both the geopolitical and monetary logic of the American-led order. Its partnerships, its regional posture, and its attempts to circumvent dollar-based trade mechanisms all point toward a potential reconfiguration of the energy-financial nexus.

If such reconfiguration were to succeed, the consequences would extend far beyond West Asia. An empire does not fall when it is defeated in war; it falls when its organising principle ceases to organise.

For the United States, that organising principle has long been the convergence of energy control and monetary dominance. Should alternative arrangements emerge—whether through regional energy blocs, non-dollar trade systems, or shifting technological paradigms—the coherence of the American-led order would begin to erode.

Yet it would be analytically premature to declare an impending collapse. Empires rarely disintegrate in a single moment; they adapt, recalibrate, and often reinvent themselves. The United States retains formidable advantages: technological innovation, military reach, financial depth, and cultural influence. Moreover, the global energy landscape itself is undergoing transformation, with renewables, electrification, and new supply chains complicating the centrality of oil.

Nevertheless, the philosophical question remains. Can a nation sustain a universal moral narrative while operating within a system of material dominance? Or, more precisely: can the language of human rights coexist indefinitely with the logic of resource control? The paradox of power is that it must justify itself in the language of values, even when it operates through the calculus of interests.

The American project has long navigated this paradox with remarkable skill, presenting its strategic imperatives as extensions of its moral commitments. But as global awareness deepens and alternative centres of power emerge, this alignment becomes harder to sustain without scrutiny. The unfolding dynamics around Iran, therefore, are not merely a regional crisis. They are a moment of epistemic tension—a point at which the narratives of democracy and the realities of empire intersect with unusual visibility.

If the United States succeeds, it may prolong the existing order, reinforcing the structures that have underwritten its dominance for decades. If it falters, it may accelerate a transition toward a more fragmented, multipolar system in which energy, currency, and power are no longer monopolised. Either way, the outcome will not simply determine the fate of a conflict. It will shape the future grammar of global power.

The petrodollar trembles in the Iran war

The wars of great powers rarely produce only one battlefield. Beneath the thunder of missiles and the rhetoric of retaliation, another contest quietly unfolds—over currencies, energy markets, and the architecture of global power. 

In the current conflict involving the United States, Israel, and Iran, two spectators—Russia and China—are discovering that sometimes the greatest victories belong to those who do not fire the first shot.

At first glance, the war appears to be a confrontation between Washington, Tel Aviv, and Tehran. Yet the deeper economic tremors radiating from the Persian Gulf are redrawing the strategic map in ways that favour Moscow and Beijing.

The first arena of transformation is energy. The Strait of Hormuz, through which nearly one-fifth of global oil supply normally passes, has become the epicentre of the crisis after the U.S.–Israeli strikes on Iran triggered a wider maritime confrontation. Tanker traffic has collapsed, insurance costs have soared, and oil prices have surged beyond $100 per barrel, creating the largest disruption to energy markets since the 1970s oil shocks.

For Russia, this turmoil is not merely a geopolitical spectacle; it is a fiscal windfall. Russia’s economy remains deeply intertwined with hydrocarbon exports, and every spike in oil prices strengthens the Kremlin’s revenues. Analysts increasingly note that the ongoing conflict has turned Moscow into one of the “biggest short-term beneficiaries,” as higher prices replenish energy income that Western sanctions had sought to constrain.

War in the Persian Gulf thus performs an ironic function: it indirectly subsidises the Russian state. When energy markets panic, Moscow profits. When oil flows tighten, Russian barrels become more valuable. In the language of geopolitics, the Middle Eastern battlefield quietly finances Russia’s strategic resilience.

China’s advantage lies elsewhere—within the realm of currency and trade. Tehran has reportedly floated a dramatic condition for the partial reopening of the Strait of Hormuz: oil cargoes may pass only if transactions are settled in Chinese yuan rather than U.S. dollars.

This proposal is not merely a technical adjustment in payment mechanisms; it is a geopolitical signal. For decades, the global oil trade has been anchored to the U.S. dollar, creating the system known as the “petrodollar.” By tying energy shipments to the yuan, Iran would strike directly at that monetary architecture.

If even a portion of Hormuz-bound oil begins trading in Chinese currency, the symbolic implications would be profound. Energy markets have always been the bloodstream of the international monetary system. When oil trades in dollars, the dollar dominates global finance. When oil begins to trade in other currencies, the foundations of monetary hierarchy begin to shift.

In this sense, Tehran’s proposal could accelerate what Beijing has long pursued: the gradual internationalisation of the yuan. China has spent years constructing an alternative financial ecosystem—expanding currency swap lines, developing yuan-denominated commodity contracts, and promoting cross-border payment systems independent of Western institutions. The Hormuz crisis may now provide the geopolitical catalyst for that strategy.

There is another, subtler dimension to China’s advantage. Unlike many Western economies, Beijing has spent years insulating itself from energy shocks through large strategic reserves, domestic coal capacity, and a massive transition toward electrification and renewable power. This structural resilience allows China to endure high oil prices more comfortably than many competitors, positioning it to exploit geopolitical disruptions rather than merely suffer them.

Thus the paradox of the present war becomes clear. While missiles rain across the Middle East, the balance of global influence may be shifting thousands of kilometres away. Russia gains revenue from the oil shock. China gains leverage in the currency system.

Wars are often remembered for their battles and their generals. Yet history frequently reveals that the real winners were those who quietly converted chaos into opportunity. In the unfolding conflict around Iran, Moscow and Beijing appear to be doing precisely that—turning a regional war into a strategic dividend. In geopolitics, as in chess, the most decisive moves are often made by the players who seem least involved.

The limits of power: Why diplomacy and moral authority sustain empires

Empires do not fall merely because their armies weaken or their treasuries empty. They collapse when the world ceases to believe in their authority. 

Military strength can conquer territory and economic power can shape markets, but neither can sustain dominion without diplomacy and moral credibility. When an empire loses the capacity to persuade and the reputation to lead, its decline has already begun—even if its fleets still patrol the oceans.

History demonstrates a consistent pattern: durable empires are sustained by legitimacy. Rome ruled the Mediterranean not only through legions but through law, alliances and a reputation for order. Britain governed a vast imperial network not merely through naval supremacy but through diplomacy and the projection of institutional norms. 

Material strength created the framework of empire, but diplomatic skill and moral authority allowed that framework to endure. The contemporary United States increasingly risks losing these intangible pillars of power.

Diplomacy requires restraint, persuasion and respect for the dignity of other nations. Yet recent American political discourse—particularly during the presidency of Donald Trump—often replaced diplomacy with spectacle. International relations were conducted through abrupt declarations, confrontational rhetoric and impulsive messages delivered through social media. 

Foreign leaders were publicly mocked, alliances were treated as transactional burdens, and complex geopolitical questions were compressed into the language of confrontation. Such behaviour does not merely irritate allies; it erodes the legitimacy upon which global leadership depends.

An empire that commands through insults and threats resembles less a statesman and more a schoolyard bully. Bullying may intimidate weaker actors, but it rarely secures lasting loyalty. Diplomacy, by contrast, creates networks of trust that transform power into influence. Without this transformation, raw power becomes brittle.

Equally damaging has been the erosion of moral authority. For decades the United States positioned itself as the guardian of a rules-based international order—built upon institutions, treaties and norms that Washington itself helped construct after the Second World War. Yet credibility evaporates when a state selectively obeys the rules it champions.

When power ceases to respect the laws it created, the world ceases to respect power.

This contradiction has become visible in repeated military interventions whose outcomes have undermined the very principles they were meant to defend. Across large parts of Asia and the Middle East, American interventions did not produce the promised stability or democracy. Vietnam remains a symbol of strategic miscalculation; Afghanistan revealed the limits of prolonged military occupation; Iraq and Libya demonstrated how regime change can fracture societies into prolonged instability.

The paradox is striking. The most powerful military in history has repeatedly struggled to impose political order once the battlefield victories end.

This pattern reflects deeper historical characteristics. The United States is a young nation shaped by frontier expansion and continental conquest. The experience of settling vast territory cultivated a martial ethos—an instinctive readiness to confront challenges through force. Such instincts may succeed against weak adversaries but prove less effective when confronted with resilient societies and complex political realities.

Asia presents precisely such complexity. Unlike settler societies formed through colonisation, many Asian civilisations possess millennia-old political traditions rooted in their own landscapes. Their populations did not migrate to create new homelands; they have inhabited these regions for thousands of years. Political endurance in such societies often derives from cultural continuity rather than military superiority.

Force alone rarely reshapes such deeply rooted structures. The battlefield can defeat an army; it cannot easily conquer a civilisation.

In the decades since the Second World War, American military power has often succeeded in destroying regimes but has struggled to build stable political systems in their place. Democracies rarely emerge from foreign intervention unless supported by indigenous legitimacy. South Korea stands as a partial exception, yet even there the peninsula remains divided, with North Korea existing as one of the world’s most rigid authoritarian states.

Thus the dilemma confronting the modern American empire becomes clear. Its military remains formidable and its economy still commands global influence. Yet empires cannot survive on material strength alone.

Power without legitimacy eventually encounters resistance. Wealth without diplomacy breeds resentment. And military dominance without moral authority becomes a temporary advantage rather than a durable order.

History offers a simple verdict: when an empire begins to rely solely on brute strength, it has already entered the twilight of its power.

Holi and the pagan tradition: Why we still celebrate nature as sacred

Civilizations are often remembered through their monuments, their wars, and their scriptures. Yet the deeper measure of a civilization lies in the cosmology it creates—the way it interprets the universe, nature, and the human place within it. 

By that measure, Hinduism occupies a singular position in world history. It can plausibly be described as the last great surviving civilization of the ancient pagan world: a spiritual tradition rooted not in a single prophet or revelation, but in a vast and evolving dialogue between humanity and nature.

For most of human history, societies practiced forms of religion that modern scholars broadly describe as pagan or polytheistic—traditions that revered the multiplicity of nature. Rivers were sacred, mountains were divine, forests housed spirits, and the cosmos itself was seen as a living organism. In such cultures, religion was not a system imposed upon life; it was life itself.

Over the last two millennia, however, the global spiritual landscape underwent profound transformation. Vast regions of Europe, West Asia, Africa, and the Americas gradually embraced the Abrahamic traditions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—which emphasized monotheism, prophetic authority, and revealed scripture. 

In the twentieth century, a second transformation occurred. Large parts of the world came under the influence of ideological movements—communism, Maoism, and militant forms of atheism—that sought to replace religion altogether with political doctrine.

The result is that the ancient pagan civilizations that once flourished across continents—from the Norse and the Greeks to the Celts and the Egyptians—have largely vanished as living traditions. Their myths survive in literature and archaeology, but their rituals are no longer practiced by entire societies.

India represents a remarkable exception.

Despite centuries of interaction with Abrahamic faiths and the ideological currents of modernity, a substantial portion of the Indian subcontinent continues to sustain a spiritual worldview that predates recorded history. Hinduism is not merely a religion in the doctrinal sense; it is the civilizational continuation of a worldview in which the cosmos is inherently plural, sacred, and interconnected.

The antiquity of this worldview is staggering. Many historians believe that the Rig Veda, one of humanity’s oldest surviving texts, was composed over five millennia ago. Its hymns speak not of abstract dogma but of the living forces of nature—Agni the fire, Indra the storm, Varuna the cosmic order. The Upanishads probe the philosophical depths of existence, while the Puranas weave mythological narratives that connect the human world with the cosmic.

In this sense, Hinduism preserves something that has disappeared elsewhere: a civilizational memory of humanity’s earliest relationship with nature.

It is within this framework that festivals like Holi acquire their true meaning.

Holi is often described superficially as a “festival of colors.” Yet at a deeper level, it is a celebration of a worldview in which life itself is understood as a play of colors. Water, pigment, flowers, laughter, and music become instruments through which society reenacts its harmony with nature.

Only a civilization deeply rooted in natural abundance could have imagined such a festival. Holi presupposes a culture in which water is plentiful, seasons are celebrated, and the diversity of life is not feared but embraced. It transforms the social space into a temporary cosmos of color, where distinctions dissolve and the vitality of nature becomes the organizing principle of human interaction.

In that moment, theology becomes ecology.

If monotheistic civilizations often emphasize transcendence—the distance between the divine and the world—Hindu civilization often emphasizes immanence: the idea that divinity permeates the universe itself. The colors of Holi are therefore not merely festive decoration; they symbolize the manifold expressions of the sacred in nature.

One could say that Holi is a civilizational memory disguised as a festival. It reminds us that long before humanity organized itself around rigid doctrines or ideological systems, people understood themselves as participants in a vibrant and sacred universe. In celebrating Holi, India is not simply preserving a cultural custom—it is sustaining one of the oldest surviving conversations between humanity and nature.

Sacred soil, shared blood: The implacable logic of Middle Eastern wars

Of all wars, the most relentless are civil wars; of all civil wars, the most implacable are those between brothers. History does not merely record this truth—it laments it. 

When kinship turns adversarial, reconciliation becomes treachery and compromise a form of betrayal. Brotherhood deepens rivalry because it intensifies memory. It is not distance but proximity that breeds the longest hatred.

The Middle East today is not merely a theatre of geopolitics. It is, in civilisational terms, a struggle among three brothers — Judaism, Christianity, and Islam — children of a shared patriarch, inheritors of overlapping sacred geographies, custodians of a single God articulated through rival revelations. The soil they contest is not just territory; it is theology made terrain.

These traditions emerged from broadly similar historical and socio-economic conditions in late antiquity and the early medieval period. They share prophets, narratives, and moral vocabularies. Yet it is precisely this shared origin that sharpens their contest. The closer the creed, the deeper the quarrel. The rivalry is not about difference alone; it is about precedence, authenticity, and finality. Each claims not merely to exist, but to complete and supersede the other.

From the suppression of early Jewish revolts under the Roman Empire, to the Byzantine – Persian conflicts infused with religious undertones, to the Crusades, to the sectarian fractures within Islam itself, to the imperial rearrangements of the Ottoman collapse, the region has witnessed a recurring pattern: faith translated into sovereignty. 

Even modern nationalism has not erased the sacred from politics; it has merely clothed it in the language of the state. The flags may change, the weapons modernise, but the metaphysical stakes endure.

To characterise the current conflict as merely technological or strategic is to mistake surface for substance. Missiles and drones are instruments; memory is the engine. The struggle is over land because land embodies covenant. It is over history because history legitimises destiny. It is over narrative because narrative authorises power.

In fraternal wars, exhaustion does not guarantee peace. A brother does not forget; he waits. As long as each of the three retains the capacity — material or moral — to wage struggle, the conflict will smoulder, if not blaze. Deterrence may pause the violence; it cannot dissolve the claim.

For India, this civilisational contest presents not a battlefield but a dilemma. India is not a participant in the Abrahamic sibling rivalry; it is an observer from a different metaphysical lineage. Hindu civilisation — arguably the last surviving large-scale Pagan religious tradition — did not emerge from the desert crucible of exclusive monotheism. Its philosophical grammar is plural, cyclical, and accommodative. It does not seek final revelation; it accepts layered truths.

This difference is not merely theological; it is strategic. India has everything to lose and little to gain from entanglement in a war of brothers. The prudent course is neither indifference nor partisanship, but calibrated engagement with all sides. In a quarrel of brothers, the outsider who chooses sides inherits the enmity of the other two. Strategic autonomy, not moral grandstanding, must guide policy.

India’s interests — energy security, diaspora safety, trade corridors, and defence partnerships — demand a functional relationship with Israel, the Arab world, and Iran alike. This is not opportunism; it is civilisational realism. A country of continental scale and plural ethos must resist being drawn into exclusive blocs forged by theological memory.

The Middle East’s tragedy is that shared ancestry has not yielded shared destiny — Brotherhood there has become a battlefield. India’s wisdom lies in recognising the depth of that fracture without presuming it can mend it.

Let the brothers negotiate, reconcile, or exhaust themselves. India’s task is different: to endure, to balance, and to preserve its own civilisational equilibrium in a world where ancient rivalries still write modern headlines.