Pax Americana at 249: The Empire That Endures

“The cause of freedom is not the cause of a race or a sect, a party or a class—it is the cause of humankind.”
—Anna Julia Cooper

From Lahore’s barren bus stops to the Nairobi sidewalk cafes, from Jakarta overpasses to the shattered screens of WhatsApp groups in Rio—there is a timeless reality that few of us will openly dispute: what America decides to be continues to determine the world that we inhabit. At 249, the United States is still more than a country. It is a system. A paradox. A power. And most importantly, a question: what part does this power wish to have in the 21st century?

America today is diminished and yet dominant. We have watched it stumble. We’ve watched mobs overwhelm its Capitol, elected leaders toy with autocracy, and courts yield to ideology. We’ve watched cities burn with fire and fury and states at war with the very principles of liberty. And yet—bizarrely—still it is America that the world looks to when war breaks out, economies tremble, or pandemics sweep across the globe. The gravitational pull persists.

To the Global South, Pax Americana has never been sentimental. We have seen it in embargoes, drone bombings, climate agreements signed and broken, weapons sold to tyrants, and foreign aid earmarked for spreadsheets. But we also see it as the framework within which we operate international relations. It is the diplomatic GPS. Even when we pretend to reject it, we tend to be resetting ourselves around it.

It’s fashionable and tempting to declare America in decline. Its foreign policy is capricious. Its politics are contentious. One president vows to restore international norms; the next appears poised to blow them up. But anyone who wagers on the decline of America too soon tends to be surprised. Why? Because, in contrast to other empires, America is blessed with an ability to self-correct, to show itself its own scarred places, and to reason itself out of a bad idea. That is the republic’s lasting genius—not perfection, but adaptation.

For all its contradictions, the United States remains the greatest nation on earth—not for its wealth or armies, but for its founding wager: that freedom, reason, and democracy can coexist in a complex world. No other country has attempted such an ambitious blend of idealism and pluralism at such a scale. It is a place where revolutions happen not in the streets, but in courtrooms, classrooms, and ballot boxes. And even in its most hypocritical hour, it still aspires to be more than it is. That aspiration alone makes it uniquely fit to lead.

But let’s not confuse reinvention with righteousness. The U.S. continues to export its values with judicious hypocrisy. It champions human rights while jailing migrants. It advocates press freedom while seeing tech moguls devour journalism. It calls for world stability while pulling out of agreements it once advocated. These paradoxes aren’t new. They date back to America’s inception.

Alexander Hamilton, that agitated designer of early American strength, had faith in a government strong enough to command and be respected overseas. Yet he was also afraid of demagoguery at home. He realised that a republic’s power rests on its word. As Hamilton feared, power without restraint is a republic’s undoing. And yet, his dream—a strong, credible America—persists in the very balance it must now strike between principle and projection.

In 2025, much of the world—especially post-colonial states like mine—observes America’s actions not with loathing or veneration, but with calculation. Can this country still hold its word?

When America calls for restraint among India and Pakistan, as it did in the early months of this year following the Pahalgam attack, we hear not because it makes the greatest noise, but because its presence tips the regional balance. When Israel and Iran trade bullets, it is the deployment of American ships, not UN proclamations, that brims ambition with caution. When Taiwan scans the airwaves, it first awaits what Washington does, rather than what Washington says.

And yet, we are not passive in this dynamic. We hedge between superpowers with most of our governments. We trade with Beijing. We embrace Turkish drones and Russian oil. We talk of multipolarity as a bulwark against dependency. But behind that chatter, there’s a quieter, more reluctant aspiration: that America still materialises. Not perfectly. Not endlessly. But dependably.

George Washington’s farewell address cautioned against entanglements with foreign nations. And yet, the promise of Washington—the man, not the city—is that America would hold to something greater than selfish interests. That it would moderate power with virtue. In its finest moments, it still does. When it supported HIV/AIDS relief in Africa. When it supported earthquake relief in Nepal. When it educated students for generations from around the world.

No nation has sent out so many ideas, saved as many people, answered as many emergencies, or sparked as many movements. It is the only one that is specifically designed—by its economy, diversity, imagination, and ideals—to lead. Pax Americana is no historical accident; it is the fulfilment of a profounder conviction: that freedom and order are not enemies, and that leadership need not be either strategic or immoral. In that regard, Manifest Destiny was never really about territorial expansion—it was about taking responsibility. And today, that responsibility still stands. Only America can stand firm when others fail, and only America can mobilize nations when hope begins to fade.

But when it falls short, the effects spread wide. When it walked away from Afghanistan, millions lost hope. When it withdrew from climate agreements, island nations prepared to drown. When it dawdles on trade or shots or access to technology, it isn’t only Americans that are harmed—it’s us who lack the safety net of superpower status.

Yet still, many of us root for America—not because we are naïve, but because we know the alternatives. We’ve seen the imperial drift of China, the repression of Iran, the cynical weight of Russia. They may offer loans, weapons, or headlines—but they rarely offer liberty.

So, what does Pax Americana mean at 249?

It is not the victorious hegemony of the Cold War. Nor the bumbling hubris of Iraq and Afghanistan. It is something more subdued, tentative. A peace made by valid power, yes—but also by international expectation. America is the world’s first responder, whether it likes it or not.

The challenge now is not if it will lead—but how it will. Will it lecture or will it listen? Will it live up to the standards it expects from others? Will it invest in schools rather than merely jets? Will it see that the real race of the 21st century isn’t between capitalism and communism—but cynicism and courage?

In 2026, America is 250 years old. A quarter millennium of insurgency, growth, contradiction, and imagination. To those of us peering from the periphery of global power, we make only this request: don’t lose the plot. Don’t pull back behind walls and wars of nostalgia. Lead, not because you have to, but because you still can.

Because despite all, Pax Americana persists—not through power alone, but through the faith, however thin, that this imperfect republic still dares to dream.

And in a world that so often settles for ghosts—of failed revolutions, collapsed empires, promised utopias—this republic’s continued audacity to dream, to reform, to lead with an open hand rather than a closed fist, remains not just worth observing. It remains, even now, worth believing in.