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Semitic Success through relentless propaganda and ceaseless violence.

The enduring triumph of Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad was never the triumph of reason, compassion, or nonviolence. It was the triumph of fear sanctified as faith, of violence rationalized as holiness, of propaganda elevated as truth. Their civilizations were not built in the patient workshops of philosophers or the tranquil ashrams of sages, but in the battlefields of conquest and the marketplaces of relentless repetition. 
The foundation stones were fear, institutional violence, ceaseless propaganda, and the material rewards showered upon those who joined the victorious community. Their success was less a matter of moral persuasion than of power politics, less an appeal to the conscience than to the will to dominate. It was conquest baptized, colonization sanctified, enslavement justified. Their genius lay not in reasoned philosophy but in mass-marketing irrationalism, in transmuting tribal supremacy into divine mandate, in making the irrational appear not only credible but inevitable.

At the heart of their victory was relentless propaganda, broadcast without empirical evidence yet absorbed as unquestionable truth. Moses’ people were told they were chosen by God above all others, not because of evidence, but because the claim was repeated until it became identity. Jesus’ resurrection was asserted as a historical fact, though no shred of verification existed beyond the testimony of the faithful, who repeated the story until it became gospel. Muhammad’s revelation was proclaimed as the final and unalterable truth, a claim justified only by its constant recitation in the Qur’an, enforced through prayer and ritual. None of these doctrines were subject to proof or reason. They thrived because of their repetition, their institutional reinforcement, and their fusion with fear: believe or perish, submit or be damned.

But propaganda alone does not sustain civilizations. Words must be backed by force. And here lies the second key to Semitic success: systematic, superior violence. The Mosaic law was not a set of abstract ethical principles; it was a legal code backed by punishments, including death by stoning for those who violated the covenant. Jesus himself may have preached turning the other cheek, but the Church that carried his name wielded the sword of Rome once it gained power, burning heretics, crushing pagans, and enforcing uniformity by law. Muhammad may have offered spiritual brotherhood, but his community’s expansion was written in blood across Arabia, North Africa, and beyond, as jihad became the method of spreading faith. These religions learned quickly that irrational belief fused with organized violence creates an unbeatable formula: the myth supplies legitimacy, the sword enforces obedience.

Moses’ story makes the paradigm clear. His genius was not philosophical originality but political engineering. He bound a disparate tribal people together under a covenant that fused divine chosenness with law. The laws of the Torah were not mere guidelines; they were commands from on high, enforced by priests and punishments. Propaganda and violence were carefully entwined. The propaganda was ceaseless: Israel is God’s chosen people, delivered miraculously from Egypt, led through the desert by divine hand. These claims were never subject to empirical testing; their power lay precisely in their immunity from verification. To question them was to risk being cut off from the community—or worse.

This propaganda created a powerful identity, one that gave cohesion to a people otherwise fractured by geography and politics. But identity alone cannot protect a nation. Thus Moses wedded propaganda to violence. The conquest of Canaan, as narrated in the biblical texts, is not merely a story of migration but of massacre. Entire peoples were put to the sword, cities destroyed, lands seized—all in the name of divine mandate. Here we see the formula that would echo across centuries: the promise of land, the justification of chosenness, and the willingness to kill and enslave in order to secure both.

This was not the gentle persuasion of a Socrates, who relied on questions to draw truth from dialogue. It was not the universal compassion of a Buddha, who sent monks to teach without coercion. It was not the intellectual subtlety of a Shankara, who sought to unify experience and philosophy. It was propaganda hammered home and violence wielded ruthlessly. And it worked. While Socrates was condemned to death by his own city, Moses’ followers grew into a nation. While the Buddha’s sangha remained fragile against political powers, Israel survived centuries of exile by clinging to its identity of chosenness. While Shankara’s Advaita Vedānta dazzled philosophers but left the masses largely untouched, Mosaic law organized an entire people through a fusion of myth and fear.

The lesson of Moses is that history rewards propaganda over philosophy, violence over compassion, tribal exclusivity over universality. His success was not a triumph of reason but its eclipse. It showed that when propaganda and violence are united under the banner of divine sanction, they can achieve what no mere philosophy can: the creation of a civilization bound not by truth but by fear, not by compassion but by conquest.

This paradigm did not die with Moses; it set the template for Jesus and Muhammad. For although Christians like to point to the Sermon on the Mount and Muslims to the Prophet’s concern for the poor, their real historical success came not from these fragments of compassion but from the same two pillars: relentless propaganda and systematic violence. Christianity transformed the irrational claim of resurrection into a global truth by preaching it unceasingly and by seizing Rome’s imperial machinery to enforce it. Islam turned Muhammad’s revelations into a world order by declaring them final and unchallengeable, then spreading them through armies that promised paradise to the fallen and plunder to the survivors. The formula Moses pioneered was perfected by his successors.

By contrast, the philosophers and sages of the nonviolent path lacked both propaganda and violence. Socrates could only speak to those who would listen, and when his questions became too unsettling, Athens silenced him. Buddha could only send monks to persuade, and when kingdoms shifted, monasteries were destroyed. Shankara could only teach philosophy, not conquer armies, and his legacy remained confined to intellectual circles. They stood on the side of universality, reason, and compassion—but history proved cruel to such virtues. In the competition between the violent irrational and the rational compassionate, it was the former that built empires.And so the tragedy unfolds: history remembers Moses as a lawgiver, not Socrates; Jesus as a world savior, not the Buddha; Muhammad as a prophet and conqueror, not Shankara as a philosopher. The empires of propaganda and violence overshadowed the schools of reason and compassion. Yet, even as they were defeated politically, the philosophers planted seeds that endure in quiet resistance. Their voices may not have built empires, but they whisper across time as a reminder that truth is not always found in the loudest propaganda or the strongest sword, but in the fragile persistence of reason itself.

If Moses provided the prototype of propaganda fused with violence, Christianity perfected the model. The figure of Jesus, historically obscure, politically defeated, and executed like a common criminal, should have been forgotten in the back alleys of Jerusalem. Yet within three centuries his followers transformed his execution into the cornerstone of a global empire. They did so not by reasoned persuasion, not by compassion alone, but by relentless propaganda and systematic violence, carried forward with astonishing efficiency once Christianity aligned itself with Roman power.

The central propaganda of Christianity was breathtaking in its irrational audacity: that a man crucified as a criminal had risen from the dead and now ruled the cosmos as Son of God. No empirical evidence supported this claim; indeed, it contradicted every empirical instinct. Dead men do not rise, bodies do not ascend into heaven, gods do not appear in the form of executed Galileans. Yet the sheer implausibility of the claim became its strength. By insisting on belief without evidence, Christianity created a community defined by faith alone, faith as blind submission, faith as identity. It did not matter whether one could prove the resurrection; it mattered only that one accepted it as fact.

The early Church hammered this propaganda ceaselessly. The Gospels were not written as neutral histories but as instruments of persuasion, designed to repeat and sanctify the claim of resurrection. Letters from Paul thundered against doubt, demanding absolute acceptance. Rituals like baptism and Eucharist drilled the story into the body itself: eat the flesh, drink the blood, proclaim the death and resurrection until it became indistinguishable from reality. Sunday after Sunday, generation after generation, the claim was repeated, never tested, never open to reason. The success of Christianity was not in its truth but in its endless repetition.

Yet repetition without power rarely sustains itself. Christianity learned quickly that propaganda must be backed by violence. For its first three centuries, Christianity survived by clinging to marginal communities, sometimes facing persecution, but always perfecting its propaganda. Once Constantine seized the throne and embraced Christianity in the fourth century, the fusion was complete: propaganda married to the systematic violence of the Roman state.

The Church moved swiftly to crush competition. Pagan temples were shuttered, their idols smashed, their priests exiled or killed. The intellectual traditions of Greece and Rome—rational inquiry, pluralism of cults, philosophical schools—were dismantled. Heretics within Christianity itself were hunted down with a zeal that often exceeded the hatred for pagans. Arians, Donatists, Gnostics, all fell under the machinery of suppression. Councils defined orthodoxy; emperors enforced it with law and sword. The propaganda of resurrection became the law of the land, and violence guaranteed its acceptance.

The genius of Christian expansion was to promise both eternal salvation and worldly benefits. Salvation meant life after death, but conversion also meant access to community, patronage, and political power. To belong to the Church was to belong to the empire’s favored institution; to resist was to invite ruin. Land, offices, wealth—all were distributed to those who aligned with the Church. Here again, propaganda fused seamlessly with material reward. The irrational belief in resurrection was backed not only by threats of damnation but by the tangible benefits of belonging.

This combination explains Christianity’s meteoric rise. Socrates’ dialogues had spread through students and manuscripts, but they never promised eternal life, never distributed patronage, never enforced conformity. The Buddha’s monks carried compassion across Asia, but they never wielded the armies of Rome, never burned temples, never rewrote laws to criminalize disbelief. Shankara’s subtle reasoning dazzled intellectuals but never built an empire. By contrast, Christianity offered an irrational claim repeated endlessly, backed by systematic violence, and sweetened by the rewards of belonging. The formula was unbeatable.

The irrational claim itself proved more powerful than any rational argument. Philosophical claims can be debated, refined, or disproven. But irrational dogma, once accepted, resists debate by its very nature. The resurrection cannot be disproven any more than it can be proven; it simply must be believed. By demanding belief without evidence, Christianity created a stronger bond than any philosophical school could. To be Christian was not to think but to submit. And once submission became identity, propaganda achieved its highest goal: to create a people defined not by reason but by faith.

Violence then sealed the deal. The Church became the arbiter of kings, the owner of vast lands, the controller of armies. Crusades marched under the sign of the cross, slaughtering thousands while singing hymns. Inquisitions burned those who dared to question. Witch hunts, forced conversions, colonial conquests—all carried the same formula: propaganda declared the will of God, violence enforced it, and material benefits followed. Jesus the prophet of compassion vanished beneath Jesus the banner of conquest. The Sermon on the Mount was drowned out by the roar of armies and the crackle of burning pyres.

The tragic irony is that the true genius of Christianity lay not in Jesus himself but in the propaganda machine his followers built. Jesus of Nazareth, a failed messiah in the eyes of his contemporaries, would have disappeared from history had his death not been mythologized into resurrection and marketed endlessly. The Buddha’s death led to quiet reflection, Socrates’ death to philosophical martyrdom, Shankara’s death to intellectual legacy. None of them founded empires. But Jesus’ death, because it was turned into the irrational propaganda of resurrection and enforced by imperial violence, became the cornerstone of Western civilization.

The lesson is stark: history rewards those who combine propaganda and violence, not those who appeal to reason and compassion. Christianity succeeded not because its doctrines were rational or its ethics superior, but because it fused ceaseless irrational propaganda with systematic violence and material benefits. The philosophers of reason offered humanity universality and truth; the theologians of propaganda offered identity and power. And humanity, tragically, chose the latter.Yet, as with Moses, the irony endures. The empire of propaganda and violence rotted from within, splintering into schisms and sects. Rome fell, Christendom fractured, the Church decayed. But the voices of reason, though marginalized, survived. The words of Socrates, the compassion of the Buddha, the reasoning of Shankara—these endure, not in cathedrals of stone or armies of steel, but in the fragile persistence of thought. Christianity may have conquered the world, but it could not erase the whisper of philosophy. Propaganda may win empires, but wisdom outlives them.

If Moses gave the prototype and Christianity perfected propaganda under imperial sponsorship, Islam under Muhammad turned the formula into a war machine. Few movements in history expanded so swiftly, across such vast territory, and with such enduring impact. Within a single century of Muhammad’s death, his followers had carved out an empire stretching from Spain to India. This meteoric rise was not the product of rational philosophy or universal compassion. It was built on the same two pillars: relentless propaganda asserted without evidence, and systematic violence deployed with ruthless efficiency.

The propaganda of Islam was simple and absolute: Muhammad was the final prophet, the Qur’an the uncreated word of God, and submission (islām) the only path to salvation. These claims were not to be debated, tested, or verified. They were to be accepted. The Qur’an itself demanded submission, not inquiry. Belief was defined by repetition of the shahāda—“There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His messenger”—a formula drilled into daily prayer, woven into law, carved into architecture, and repeated until it became not only religious dogma but the very essence of identity.

Like Mosaic chosenness or Christian resurrection, the propaganda of Islam thrived because it was irrational, unprovable, and non-negotiable. You could not question Muhammad’s revelations without risking death. You could not test the Qur’an against evidence; it was declared perfect and eternal by definition. This propaganda did not persuade through reasoned argument—it demanded submission through faith and ritual. The five daily prayers, the Ramadan fast, the recitation of Qur’anic verses: these were not acts of contemplation but acts of reinforcement, drilling dogma into body and mind until it became indistinguishable from reality.

But as with Judaism and Christianity, propaganda alone was not enough. Islam’s true genius lay in its systematic use of violence. From the very beginning, Muhammad fused religion with military conquest. In Mecca, he was a preacher; in Medina, he became a statesman and general. His revelations shifted accordingly: early verses emphasized tolerance and persuasion, later verses sanctioned violence against unbelievers, justifying jihad as divine command. His community was no longer merely spiritual; it was political, economic, and military all at once.

The battles Muhammad fought—the raids on caravans, the wars against Mecca, the subjugation of tribes—were not side notes to his mission but central to it. His followers gained plunder, land, and status by fighting under his banner. Paradise was promised to those who fell in battle; wealth was promised to those who survived. Here propaganda and material benefit fused seamlessly with violence. To be Muslim was not merely to believe; it was to join a conquering force, to share in the rewards of expansion, to rise in a new order where allegiance to the Prophet guaranteed both earthly spoils and eternal salvation.

After Muhammad’s death, this formula powered the great Arab conquests. Armies surged out of Arabia with breathtaking speed. Persia fell, Byzantium reeled, North Africa was overrun, Spain was invaded. The speed of expansion astonished contemporaries, but its logic was clear: the combination of zealous propaganda, systematic violence, and tangible reward created a machine that could not be stopped. The message was simple: submit to Islam, pay tribute, or face annihilation. Populations across the Middle East and North Africa, weary of Byzantine and Persian taxation and oppression, found it easier to submit. Conversion was not always forced immediately, but the hierarchy was clear: Muslims at the top, dhimmīs tolerated but inferior, unbelievers at the bottom. Violence set the terms, propaganda sanctified them, and material incentives sealed the arrangement.

The propaganda of Islam was particularly effective because it collapsed the distinction between religion and politics. In Christianity, the Church had to capture the empire before it could wield imperial violence. In Judaism, the dream of a political state remained deferred until modern times. But in Islam, the ummah was both spiritual and political from the outset. To doubt the Qur’an was not only heresy but treason. To resist the Prophet was not only disbelief but rebellion. This fusion made Islam’s propaganda even more potent: it was not merely a matter of belief but of allegiance, not merely theology but loyalty to a total system.

And like its predecessors, Islam sweetened violence and propaganda with material benefits. The conquered who converted could rise in status, avoid taxes, and share in the spoils. Arab tribes who rallied to Muhammad gained land and wealth beyond anything they could have imagined in the desert. Later converts—from Persians to Berbers—found opportunity in the expanding empire. Islam did not merely threaten unbelievers with hell; it rewarded believers with tangible wealth and status in this life.

By contrast, the nonviolent philosophies of the Buddha, Shankara, and Socrates had none of these mechanisms. The Buddha promised enlightenment, not land. Shankara offered subtle philosophy, not spoils of war. Socrates gave his followers a method of questioning, not an empire. These teachers relied on persuasion, not propaganda; compassion, not violence; reason, not fear. And history punished them for it. Their ideas endured in whispers, but their communities lacked the machinery to dominate.

The success of Islam underscores the same tragic lesson we saw with Moses and Jesus: history rewards those who combine irrational propaganda with systematic violence and material benefits. Islam was not a religion of reasoned proofs or universal compassion; it was a religion of submission, backed by armies and sanctified by dogma. Its genius was not philosophical subtlety but political efficiency. It conquered where others only persuaded, ruled where others only taught, dominated where others only questioned.And yet, the irony returns once more. The empire built on propaganda and violence fractured into rival caliphates, sectarian divisions, and dynastic struggles. The zeal of conquest cooled into bureaucratic rule. The universal claims of Islam, like those of Christianity, were exposed to the same human weaknesses: corruption, greed, decline. The philosophers and sages, dismissed in their own time, endured in the margins. Socrates still speaks in Plato’s dialogues, the Buddha still speaks in his sutras, Shankara still dazzles with his logic. Their voices did not conquer armies, but they still reach across centuries. Islam may have conquered continents, but it could not silence the quiet endurance of reason.

If Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad demonstrate the astonishing success of irrational propaganda fused with systematic violence, then Buddha, Shankara, and Socrates embody the opposite path: universality without coercion, reason without propaganda, compassion without conquest. And history punished them for it. Their names endure, but not in the annals of empire-building. They are remembered as voices of wisdom, not as architects of dominion. Their movements never rivaled the political force of the Semitic religions because they refused to weaponize irrational claims, refused to baptize violence as holy, refused to offer material bribes to the faithful.

The Buddha offers the clearest case. Born Siddhartha Gautama in the fifth century BCE, he renounced wealth, power, and kingship to pursue enlightenment. His Four Noble Truths and Eightfold Path contain nothing irrational, nothing based on unverifiable dogma, nothing demanding blind submission. He offered not propaganda but a diagnosis of human suffering grounded in direct experience: life is suffering, suffering arises from craving, craving can be overcome, and the path to overcoming it lies in discipline, meditation, and compassion. These claims required no supernatural verification. They could be tested by practice, not by ritual.

The Buddha’s sangha spread by persuasion, not conquest. Monks wandered across India, relying on alms, teaching through dialogue and example. Their message was universal, not tribal: anyone could walk the path, regardless of birth or nation. The Buddha did not claim chosenness for one people, nor finality for himself as a prophet. He presented himself not as a savior but as a teacher, offering a path that others could test for themselves. This universality, this reasonableness, was his strength—and his weakness. For while it attracted sincere seekers, it never built armies. It never promised plunder, never created the machinery of violence that guarantees political survival. When empires rose and fell in India, Buddhism flourished or faltered depending on royal patronage, but it never wielded power on its own. When Muslim armies later swept through India, monasteries were burned, monks slaughtered, temples destroyed. A tradition that refused violence could not withstand the systematic violence of its enemies.

Shankara, the philosopher of Advaita Vedānta in the eighth century CE, represents a similar pattern. A brilliant thinker, he unified the sprawling traditions of Hindu thought into a breathtaking philosophy of non-duality: all reality is one, the self (ātman) is identical with the ultimate reality (Brahman). His arguments dazzled intellectual opponents, and his writings remain among the greatest achievements of world philosophy. Yet his influence was confined largely to the elite. Shankara did not build armies, did not establish states, did not offer material incentives. His truth was too subtle to be propagated by repetition, too abstract to be drilled into the masses. It was philosophy, not propaganda. His movement survived in monasteries and schools, but it never conquered the political realm. Like the Buddha before him, Shankara’s universality remained fragile before the weapons of those who wielded irrational dogma.

And then there is Socrates, perhaps the greatest example of reason’s fragility in the face of fanaticism. Socrates lived by the method of questioning—elenchus—forcing his interlocutors to test their assumptions, to follow reason wherever it led. He offered no dogma, no irrational claim to be believed without evidence. He refused to accept payment, refused to build a school, refused to organize followers into a sect. His mission was to awaken reason in others, one dialogue at a time. For this he was condemned. His questioning threatened the myths, the propaganda, the fragile identities of Athens in crisis. And so, in 399 BCE, Athens put him to death. The philosopher who relied only on reason, who wielded no violence, who refused propaganda, fell victim to the very fanaticism he opposed.

The contrast could not be starker. Moses led massacres to secure his people’s land. Jesus’ followers allied with Rome to burn temples and persecute heretics. Muhammad fused revelation with conquest to build an empire stretching across continents. In each case, irrational propaganda provided legitimacy, violence provided enforcement, and material incentives provided recruitment. Against this, Buddha offered reasoned compassion, Shankara offered metaphysical brilliance, Socrates offered rational inquiry. And history rewarded them with persecution, marginalization, and fragility.

But there is another way to interpret this contrast. Perhaps what looks like failure in political terms is in fact a deeper form of success. Empires built on propaganda and violence decay. The kingdoms of Moses fell, the empires of Christendom fractured, the caliphates of Islam splintered. Each has endured schism, corruption, decline. Their political might proved temporary, even if their propaganda lingers. By contrast, the voices of reason—Buddha, Shankara, Socrates—endure precisely because they were not tied to the sword. Their truths do not require conquest to be valid. Their words do not fade when armies fall.

Indeed, the irony is profound: the Semitic religions conquered the world but lost their souls to violence, while the philosophers lost the world but preserved the soul of reason. We still read Socrates, though Athens killed him. We still study the Buddha, though monasteries were burned. We still ponder Shankara, though his philosophy never commanded an empire. Their truths remain intact, unsullied by propaganda, untainted by violence.

This is not to romanticize their fate. The fact remains: the world is ruled more by propaganda and violence than by reason and compassion. The enduring dominance of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam proves that irrational dogma backed by force builds civilizations, while rational compassion remains a fragile undercurrent. But the persistence of Buddha’s teachings, the brilliance of Shankara’s philosophy, and the enduring challenge of Socrates’ questions prove something else as well: that reason, though defeated politically, cannot be extinguished. It survives, whispering in the margins, waiting for humanity to listen.Thus the tragedy and the hope of human history stand side by side. The tragedy is that propaganda and violence triumph over reason and compassion in the political sphere. The hope is that reason and compassion, though politically defeated, endure as the truer legacy of humanity. The world bows to Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad, but the conscience of humanity still listens, however faintly, to Buddha, Shankara, and Socrates. The fanatics win empires, but the philosophers whisper eternity.

The lesson of history, when read without sentimentality, is brutal in its clarity: irrational propaganda fused with systematic violence has outperformed reason, compassion, and nonviolence in shaping civilizations. Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad stand as monuments to this grim truth. Buddha, Shankara, and Socrates stand as tragic reminders of what humanity repeatedly sacrifices when it chooses fanaticism over philosophy, domination over dialogue, propaganda over truth.

The pattern is unmistakable. Moses bound a people through mythic chosenness, sanctified their conquest through divine command, and used law backed by violence to secure cohesion. Jesus’ followers transformed his defeat into victory by insisting on the resurrection as an absolute fact, endlessly repeated, and then wielding Rome’s violence to enforce orthodoxy and crush dissent. Muhammad declared his revelation the final word of God, repeated it until it became the identity of a vast community, and spread it through conquest that rewarded believers with both spoils and paradise. Each succeeded because their formulas combined three elements: irrational dogma, systematic violence, and material benefit.

Irrational dogma is the indispensable first ingredient. Rational claims can be debated, refined, or disproven. Irrational dogma, by contrast, demands submission. It thrives on the suspension of reason. To be Jewish was to accept chosenness without evidence. To be Christian was to believe in resurrection without proof. To be Muslim was to submit to revelation without question. In each case, propaganda elevated these irrational claims above argument. By demanding belief without verification, these religions created communities bound not by truth but by faith.

Systematic violence was the second ingredient. Irrational propaganda may unite a sect, but without violence it cannot secure empire. Moses’ conquest of Canaan, the Church’s suppression of heresy and paganism, Islam’s jihad across continents—each shows how violence transformed myth into law, faith into dominion. Violence enforced the propaganda, silenced dissent, and expanded the community. Where persuasion fails, the sword compels. Where doubt lingers, punishment eradicates it. The genius of these religions was to rationalize violence as divine will, turning the brutality of conquest into an act of holiness.

Material benefit was the third and perhaps most cunning element. Belonging to the chosen people meant inheritance of land. Conversion to Christianity meant access to imperial patronage and social status. Joining Islam meant exemption from extra taxes, participation in spoils, and membership in a victorious order. The faithful were rewarded not only with promises of heaven but with tangible advantages on earth. By aligning dogma and violence with material incentive, these religions made belonging irresistible. Who would choose to stand outside the community when outside meant poverty, exclusion, or death?

This threefold formula—irrational propaganda, systematic violence, material benefit—explains why Semitic religions succeeded where rational philosophies failed. The Buddha offered no irrational claim, only a path of discipline. Shankara offered no violence, only subtle reasoning. Socrates offered no material benefits, only uncomfortable questions. They could persuade the conscience, but they could not dominate societies. Their teachings endured in books and monasteries, but their movements faltered before armies.

The tragedy of this pattern is that it represents not only the triumph of fanaticism over reason, but the defeat of humanity’s highest capacities. When irrational propaganda prevails, inquiry is stifled. When violence dominates, compassion is silenced. When material benefit is tied to submission, integrity collapses. The very qualities that make us human—our capacity to question, to empathize, to pursue truth—are subordinated to the demands of blind faith and collective supremacy. Civilization advances in power but regresses in wisdom.

And yet, the irony is inescapable: the philosophers “failed” politically but triumphed spiritually. Empires crumble, but reason endures. The states Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad built through propaganda and violence have fractured, declined, or mutated beyond recognition. But Socrates’ dialogues are still studied, Buddha’s sutras still guide millions, Shankara’s philosophy still shapes thought. The whispers of reason outlast the roar of armies. What fails in power triumphs in endurance.

Still, endurance is not the same as dominance. The fact remains: the world continues to be governed by propaganda and violence. Even in modern times, ideologies that thrive on repetition, fear, and force outcompete those grounded in reasoned dialogue. Nationalisms, fundamentalisms, cults of personality—all mimic the ancient formula. They invent myths, repeat them endlessly, enforce them through power, and reward the faithful. Once again, philosophers are ignored, while fanatics command crowds. Humanity has not escaped the cycle; it has only changed its costumes.

What, then, is the role of reason, compassion, and universality in such a world? To despair would be understandable. History seems to mock them as noble failures, beautiful but powerless. But to dismiss them is to miss their subtler power. While propaganda and violence build empires that decay, reason and compassion plant seeds that endure. They cannot conquer armies, but they can inspire individuals. They cannot dominate civilizations, but they can shape conscience. And sometimes, across centuries, conscience proves stronger than empire.

It was Socrates, not his accusers, who changed philosophy forever. It was the Buddha, not the kings who persecuted his monks, who gave Asia a lasting moral vocabulary. It was Shankara, not the countless warlords of medieval India, whose ideas still define Hindu thought. They “failed” in power, but they succeeded in truth. Theirs is not the triumph of propaganda and violence, but the quiet, enduring triumph of reason.

The tension between these two paths—propaganda and violence on one side, reason and compassion on the other—defines the tragedy of human history. It explains why civilizations rise and fall, why empires expand and collapse, why wisdom whispers in the margins while fanaticism rules the stage. And it leaves us with a question: will humanity ever learn to reward reason over propaganda, compassion over violence, universality over supremacy? Or will we remain forever enthralled by the formulas of Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad, repeating their mistakes under new banners, while the voices of Socrates, Buddha, and Shankara are left to whisper unheard?

Perhaps the final irony is this: reason will never conquer the world as propaganda and violence do, but it will always outlive them. Empires rot, fanaticisms exhaust themselves, propaganda loses its grip—but reason endures, compassion endures, universality endures. They survive in fragile texts, in hidden monasteries, in dialogues whispered across generations. And when fanaticism destroys itself, as it always does, those whispers are still there, waiting.

The tragic pattern established by Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad did not end with the ancient or medieval world. It continues into the modern age, under new banners and with new technologies, but always with the same threefold formula: irrational propaganda, systematic violence, and material benefit. Nationalism, political ideologies, and religious fundamentalisms are all heirs to the same machinery. The faces change, the rhetoric changes, but the underlying structure remains constant. Humanity still bows more readily to the drumbeat of propaganda and the terror of violence than to the quiet voice of reason and compassion.

Consider nationalism, the most successful secular religion of the past two centuries. At its core lies irrational propaganda: the idea that millions of strangers bound by accident of birth constitute a mystical unity called “the nation.” This claim has no empirical evidence, no rational foundation, no basis in universal truth. It is a myth—no less than the chosenness of Israel, the resurrection of Jesus, or the finality of Muhammad. Yet repeated endlessly in schools, anthems, ceremonies, and flags, it becomes a sacred identity. The citizen is taught to die for the nation, kill for the nation, sacrifice reason and compassion for the nation.

Systematic violence enforces this myth. Armies conscript citizens, wars are waged in the name of borders, dissenters are branded as traitors. The twentieth century alone bore witness to the catastrophic consequences: two world wars, genocides, ethnic cleansings, all sanctified by the irrational propaganda of national identity. Material benefits are added to the mix: veterans are rewarded, industries enriched, citizens promised security and belonging. The formula of Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad is repeated in secular form: irrational dogma, violence, reward.

Or take the political ideologies of the modern era—fascism, communism in its Stalinist form, or today’s populist cults of personality. Each thrives on propaganda that demands belief without evidence. Hitler’s racial theories had no empirical basis, but repetition turned them into a national creed. Stalin’s claims about the infallibility of the Party defied reason, yet propaganda made them unquestionable. Modern populists, too, repeat slogans until they become identity markers, impervious to facts. Violence is never far behind: concentration camps, purges, police states, lynch mobs, paramilitaries. And material benefits sweeten the poison: jobs for loyalists, subsidies for supporters, access to privilege for the faithful. Once again, the old formula is alive, dressed in modern clothes.

Religious fundamentalism, of course, continues the ancient pattern most directly. Whether in the form of Christian dominionism, Islamic jihadism, or Hindu nationalism, the mechanism is the same. Propaganda repeats irrational claims as absolute truth: that God chose one people, that scripture is infallible, that one prophet alone speaks for eternity. Violence enforces conformity: blasphemy laws, assassinations, terrorist attacks, mobs, armies. Material incentives draw people in: community support, political power, financial reward, or the promise of paradise. What Moses pioneered, what Jesus’ Church perfected, what Muhammad institutionalized, continues in the streets of our own time.

Technology has only amplified the machinery. Social media is the printing press of propaganda, spreading irrational claims at the speed of light. Lies travel faster than truth, myths spread more virally than facts, fanaticism binds more strongly than reasoned debate. Algorithms reward outrage, not evidence; repetition, not inquiry. The very architecture of modern communication favors propaganda over philosophy. Where Socrates would ask a question, Twitter supplies a slogan. Where the Buddha would urge meditation, YouTube provides indoctrination. Where Shankara would refine argument, Facebook circulates conspiracy. Violence then follows online incitement, just as it once followed sermons and edicts.

And yet, amid this bleak continuity, the counter-current of reason and compassion still flows. Socrates lives on in the scientific method, in the relentless pursuit of questioning and testing. The Buddha lives on in global movements of mindfulness and compassion, however diluted they may sometimes be. Shankara lives on in philosophical traditions that continue to grapple with the unity of being. These are not dominant forces, but they endure. They whisper still, challenging propaganda with reason, violence with compassion, supremacy with universality.

The difficulty is that reason, compassion, and universality rarely offer material incentives. They do not promise land, wealth, or social status. They do not rally armies. They do not sanctify domination. They require patience, discipline, and the courage to question one’s own assumptions. And so they remain fragile in a world that rewards the loud, the violent, the irrational. Yet their fragility is also their purity. They endure not because they bribe or compel, but because they speak to something deeper in humanity: the longing for truth, the hunger for meaning, the capacity for love.

The irony is that even modern secular powers borrow from the religious playbook they claim to surpass. Advertisers repeat slogans like mantras. Politicians brand themselves as saviors. Corporations build loyalty rituals as binding as any liturgy. Propaganda is not an aberration of the past but the lingua franca of the present. Violence is not the exception but the rule of political power. Material incentives continue to corrupt truth. The formula persists because it works.

What, then, can be said for the philosophers? Are they doomed forever to whisper in the margins, their wisdom drowned by the roar of propaganda and the sword of violence? Perhaps. And yet, perhaps not. For if history shows that propaganda and violence win empires, it also shows that they collapse. Nationalisms implode, ideologies self-destruct, empires rot. When they do, the only thing that survives is the whisper of reason. Socrates’ questions remain, the Buddha’s compassion remains, Shankara’s philosophy remains. They may not rule, but they outlast.

The challenge for humanity is whether we can learn to listen before it is too late. Whether we can reward reason instead of propaganda, compassion instead of violence, universality instead of supremacy. The record is not encouraging, but neither is it hopeless. Each generation rediscovers Socrates, rediscovers the Buddha, rediscovers Shankara. Each generation must choose whether to repeat the mistakes of Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad, or to take seriously the fragile but enduring wisdom of the philosophers.

The struggle is eternal. The fanatics will always seem to win, and the philosophers will always seem to lose. But perhaps the true victory is not in the empire of the sword but in the endurance of truth. The empires of propaganda and violence collapse into ruins, but the dialogues of Socrates are still read, the sutras of the Buddha still chanted, the commentaries of Shankara still studied. The fanatics roar, but the philosophers whisper. And sometimes, across centuries, the whisper is stronger than the roar.

The story of Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad is the story of how propaganda and violence conquered the human imagination. The story of Buddha, Shankara, and Socrates is the story of how reason and compassion whispered against the tide, fragile but enduring. Between these two paths lies the tragedy of human history: that humanity has consistently chosen the loud lie over the quiet truth, the iron sword over the gentle word, the irrational dogma over the rational question.

When we strip away the piety and sentimentality, the pattern stands naked. The Semitic prophets did not win by compassion, reason, or nonviolence. They won by crafting irrational propaganda, repeating it endlessly, enforcing it with systematic violence, and sweetening it with material benefits. Moses told his people they were chosen, demanded obedience to law, and conquered with divine sanction. Jesus’ followers declared his resurrection a fact beyond question, enforced orthodoxy with Rome’s sword, and rewarded believers with both salvation and social advancement. Muhammad proclaimed himself the final prophet, spread his message through armies, and offered paradise to martyrs and plunder to survivors. Each succeeded not because their message was true but because their formula worked.

By contrast, the philosophers who refused propaganda and violence could not build empires. Buddha relied on persuasion, not coercion. Shankara trusted reason, not propaganda. Socrates demanded inquiry, not submission. They did not reward followers with land, wealth, or status. They offered only truth, compassion, and the courage to think. And history punished them for it. Socrates was executed. Buddhist monasteries were destroyed by invading armies. Shankara’s philosophy remained confined to elite circles. They failed politically, yet their words endured.

This is the paradox of civilization: what wins in power loses in permanence, and what loses in power endures in truth. The empires built by Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad rose high but fractured, rotted, and corrupted themselves. Their institutions grew fat with wealth and stained with blood. Their propaganda became stale repetition, their violence turned inward in sectarian strife. Judaism split and shrank into sects defined by survival rather than conquest. Christianity splintered into schisms, from Orthodox to Catholic to Protestant to endless denominations. Islam divided into Sunni and Shia, then into rival caliphates, dynasties, and sectarian conflicts that continue to bleed into the present. The formula that secured their rise also guaranteed their fragmentation.

Meanwhile, the fragile voices of reason endured in the shadows. Socrates lives in every act of questioning that refuses dogma. The Buddha lives in every act of compassion that refuses violence. Shankara lives in every philosophical attempt to see unity beyond division. They did not build empires, but they built something subtler: the conscience of humanity. Empires fall; conscience endures. Propaganda decays; truth remains. Violence exhausts itself; compassion renews itself.

And yet, humanity continues to repeat the same mistakes. Nationalism, fascism, religious fundamentalism, populist cults—all mimic the old formula. They invent irrational myths, repeat them endlessly, enforce them with violence, and bribe the faithful with material reward. Once again, reason is marginalized, compassion is mocked as weakness, universality is drowned by tribalism. The faces have changed, but the logic has not. We are still captives of the machinery that Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad perfected: propaganda and violence sanctified as destiny.

What, then, is to be done? To call for a world ruled by reason, compassion, and universality may seem naïve, even hopeless. History teaches us that the philosophers lose, the fanatics win, and humanity suffers the consequences. But history also teaches us something else: the fanatics exhaust themselves, while the philosophers endure. The roar of propaganda fades; the whisper of truth remains. No empire has ever silenced Socrates. No sword has ever erased the Buddha. No persecution has ever extinguished philosophy.

The challenge is whether humanity can learn before it destroys itself. In an age of nuclear weapons, climate collapse, and digital propaganda, the old formula has become not only tragic but suicidal. Propaganda and violence may still win in the short run, but they can annihilate the very conditions of human survival. If humanity is to endure, it must rediscover the fragile but eternal path of reason and compassion. Socrates must be heard again. The Buddha must be heard again. Shankara must be heard again. Their whispers must become louder than the roar of fanaticism.

Perhaps that is the true meaning of history’s irony. The fanatics may always seem to win, but their victories are temporary. The philosophers may always seem to lose, but their losses are eternal triumphs. The real choice is not between empire and irrelevance, but between noise and truth, between violence and conscience, between propaganda and reason. Humanity has chosen wrongly again and again, but the chance to choose differently is never lost. The whispers never die.

In the end, the success of Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad proves the failure of humanity to honor its higher capacities. Their triumphs are monuments to fear, violence, and irrationalism. The endurance of Buddha, Shankara, and Socrates proves that humanity’s conscience cannot be extinguished. Their “failures” are victories of another kind—victories of truth over time, victories of reason over ruin.

The question remains for us, here and now: will we continue to be ruled by propaganda and violence, as our ancestors were, or will we dare to listen to the fragile whispers of reason and compassion? Will we repeat the mistakes of the past until they destroy us, or will we finally reward the philosophers whom history has ignored? The answer is uncertain. But one thing is clear: propaganda and violence may win empires, but only reason and compassion can save humanity.