Assoc. Prof. Dr. Caglar ERBEK
Humanity has always placed enormous faith in itself—in
reason, in progress, in law, and in the order it claims to build. It believed
darkness belonged to the past, that barbarism had been left behind. But perhaps
its greatest illusion was to think that evil had disappeared. It did not. It
simply changed its form. It became more technical, more organized, more fluent
in the language of legitimacy. Yet at its core, it remained what it had always
been: destructive, ruthless, and insatiable.
What is unfolding in the Middle East today is not just
another war between states. It is not only cities that are burning or civilians
who are dying. What is also collapsing there is the moral architecture of the
modern world. Order, law, diplomacy, human rights, international
legitimacy—concepts once presented as the shared foundation of civilization—are
fading in the smoke of war.
Some wars begin long before the first shot is fired. They
begin in the erosion of meaning. Justice weakens first. Law falls silent next.
Then power steps in and begins to speak in their place. In the end, humanity is
crushed beneath the very structures it once trusted to protect it. That is what
makes this war more than a regional conflict. Every bomb that falls in the
Middle East strikes more than a target. It also strikes the fading belief that
the world can still be governed by restraint, principle, and common sense.
At certain moments, a region becomes more than geography. It
becomes the conscience of an age. The Middle East has become such a place. To
look at it today is not simply to witness violence. It is to see how fragile
civilization really is—how quickly it cracks, how easily it surrenders to fear,
revenge, and force. Humanity may have advanced technologically, but it has not
advanced morally at the same speed. States have grown stronger, institutions
more complex, military power more refined. But the darkness within political
life has not disappeared. It has only become more sophisticated.
That may be the defining tragedy of our time. The world is
more connected than ever, yet human beings feel more isolated than ever.
Information moves faster than ever, yet truth has become more fragile.
Communication is stronger than ever, yet compassion appears weaker. War does
not only destroy lives; it destroys meaning. It erodes confidence in the
future, in language, in the possibility of moral consistency. Every prolonged
war empties words of their weight. Peace becomes rhetoric. Law becomes performance.
Humanity becomes a slogan.
This is where the absurdity of our age comes into view.
Human beings seek order, yet the world keeps producing chaos. They invoke
justice, yet power continues to shape outcomes. They speak of peace, yet
political systems remain organized around the anticipation of future conflict.
The structures built to protect humanity increasingly serve to normalize
insecurity. The search for security generates deeper fear. The promise of order
opens the door to greater disorder.
The war in the Middle East reveals more than geopolitical
tension. It exposes a deeper human condition: the growing estrangement between
people and the systems they have built. States speak, experts analyze,
strategies multiply. Yet beneath all this language lies a quiet truth: humanity
is becoming a stranger to its own world. Politics no longer appears as the
rational management of conflict, but as the disciplined administration of
permanent crisis.
For countries like Türkiye, moments like this are not only
dangerous; they are clarifying. Some geographies do not permit the luxury of
distance. To live in this region is to live inside history, not outside it. In
such times, foreign policy is not merely about defending borders. It is about
preserving judgment, balance, and strategic composure. Strength matters. But
what matters more is not to lose direction, not to surrender to fear, and not
to mistake noise for seriousness. True statecraft is revealed when disorder
spreads and restraint becomes difficult.
Perhaps the real issue today is not simply that a new world
order is emerging. It is that the old one has stopped believing in itself. Its
language is worn out. Its institutions are exhausted. Its balances are broken.
And yet the new has not fully arrived. Humanity is suspended in the space
between collapse and construction. In that uncertain space, power begins to
present itself as truth. That is always the most dangerous moment: when what is
strong begins to replace what is right.
The Middle East war marks precisely such a threshold. It is
not only armies that are colliding there. Law and force, memory and interest,
conscience and domination are colliding as well. This is why the war should not
be read simply as another regional crisis. It is also a revelation of the age
itself. It shows us a world growing harsher, more brittle, more distrustful,
and more willing to live without moral clarity.
Some wars destroy cities. Some redraw borders. But
some do something even more profound: they break humanity’s faith in the world
itself. The war in the Middle East is, in part, such a war. The world is not
merely moving toward a new order. It is first losing its meaning. And what
remains, too often, is ash.
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