Qamar Bashir
Donald Trump has long styled himself as a man of peace, a leader determined to end America’s “forever wars.” Yet the reality of his second term tells a very different story. From Africa to the Middle East to the Caribbean, U.S. military power is being projected more aggressively than at any time in recent years, often outside clear multilateral mandates and sometimes against the wishes of the nations affected. The paradox is striking: a president who boasts of stopping wars now presides over an expanding web of military strikes, naval seizures, economic blockades, and strategic pressure campaigns that are reshaping how the world sees the United States.
In late December 2025, U.S. airstrikes in northwest Nigeria targeted militants linked to alleged ISIS. The operation was presented as a counter-terror measure, with Washington emphasizing the need to hit extremist networks before they metastasize. American firepower raining down on a sovereign African nation on Christmas Day, reinforcing the impression that the United States reserves the right to strike anywhere it perceives a threat, whether or not there is a public, formal mandate from international bodies. For many Nigerians, the attack stirred anger and unease, highlighting how fragile sovereignty can become when global superpowers decide their security extends into another nation’s airspace.
Just days earlier, the United States had already intensified air operations in Syria following the deaths of American personnel in an attack blamed on Islamic State affiliates. What was once framed as a limited U.S. footprint in Syria has quietly evolved into a semi-permanent military presence, supported by regular offensive strikes. Trump may describe these operations as decisive anti-terror action, but to much of the world they appear as continued involvement in a foreign conflict with no end in sight, in a country where the United Nations never authorized an open-ended U.S. role.
Somalia tells a similar story. Throughout 2025, U.S. drone and air operations there continued against alleged ISIS-Somalia and other militant groups. These strikes are often coordinated with Somali authorities, yet they form part of a much longer, largely undeclared military engagement that has persisted across multiple administrations. Trump campaigned on ending such interventions. Instead, the map of U.S. kinetic action has only widened, blurring the line between targeted counter-terrorism and perpetual low-grade war.
The Western Hemisphere—historically considered America’s strategic backyard—has not been spared this assertiveness. In December, the United States intensified its maritime campaign against Venezuela, intercepting and seizing tankers accused of violating sanctions. For Washington, these are enforcement actions. For Caracas, they are economic warfare—moves designed to choke off the country’s primary source of foreign revenue and weaken the government. The optics of U.S. ships stopping sovereign vessels in international waters evoke images of a superpower imposing its will far beyond its shores. To many observers, this resembles coercive regime-pressure more than a narrowly targeted law-enforcement effort.
Overlaying all this is Trump’s revived fixation on Greenland. He has again stressed its strategic importance to U.S. security, hinting at deeper American control or acquisition. To the people of Greenland and Denmark, such language is unsettling. It suggests a view of sovereignty as negotiable when strategic interests are at stake, reinforcing fears that U.S. policy is moving away from partnership and toward an overtly transactional and hegemonic posture.
This growing pattern of unilateral action sits uneasily with America’s post-war legacy. The United States was not only central to the creation of the United Nations; it championed the concept that the use of force should be governed by collective legitimacy. Even when Washington bent those principles in the past, it generally paid lip service to them. Today, the tone has shifted. The U.S. frequently vetoes UN resolutions on conflicts such as Gaza, insulating allies from accountability while asserting its own right to strike elsewhere without global consent. To critics, this makes Washington appear less like the guardian of a rules-based order and more like an exception-claiming power that enforces rules on others while exempting itself.
For much of the world, this has accelerated the erosion of U.S. soft power. Soft power rests not on aircraft carriers or sanctions, but on trust, perceived fairness, and moral authority. It once enabled Washington to lead coalitions, shape norms, and attract global goodwill. But each unilateral strike, each tanker seizure, each veto against widely supported humanitarian resolutions chips away at that intangible asset. Allies increasingly hedge their bets. Neutral nations edge closer to alternative power centers. And countries hit by U.S. pressure look elsewhere for protection or partnership.
China in particular benefits from this shift. Beijing projects itself—rightly or wrongly—as a power that avoids military entanglement and prefers development-based engagement. When Washington acts as global enforcer, and when those actions are seen as destabilizing or self-serving, it pushes many states into China’s orbit almost by default. The message becomes simple: if partnership with the United States carries risk, unpredictability, or coercion, perhaps alternative relationships offer greater stability, even if they come with their own compromises.
The tragedy of this trajectory is that it is not inevitable. U.S. leadership historically derived its strength from a mix of capability and consent. It was powerful, but also persuasive. It spoke the language of international law, legitimacy, and collective decision-making, even imperfectly. Today that balance is tipping. The more the United States acts alone, the more alone it may ultimately find itself.
There is also a domestic contradiction at play. Trump continues to present himself as a peace-first president, the man who avoids wars others might start. Yet the record of strikes, seizures, and escalating pressure tells a different story. The actions may be justified individually as tactical necessities. But collectively they signal a strategy of global projection, not global restraint. The rhetoric of peace is being used to mask a footprint of expanding conflict.
If this trajectory continues, America’s reputation risks hardening into something damaging and enduring: not the indispensable nation, but the unpredictable enforcer. That perception would not only undermine its moral authority but weaken its alliances, constrain its influence, and embolden rivals. Nations do not abandon superpowers overnight—but over time, they recalibrate.
The alternative path is still open. It lies in rediscovering the principle that force abroad should carry a legitimacy beyond national assertion alone, and that the institutions America helped build should not be dismissed when inconvenient. When diplomacy is prioritized over coercion, when multilateral consent tempers unilateral action, and when sovereignty is respected even in the face of threat, U.S. leadership strengthens rather than diminishes.
Donald Trump’s presidency will ultimately be judged not by how forcefully America acted, but by how wisely. Ending the paradox between the rhetoric of peace and the practice of war is the first step toward restoring global trust. Only then can the United States reclaim the soft power and moral authority that once made it a leader in both name and spirit.
Qamar Bashir
Press Secretary to the President (Rtd)
Former Press Minister, Embassy of Pakistan to France
Former Press Attaché to Malaysia
Former MD, SRBC | Macomb, Michigan, USA
