From Vietnam to Iraq, Guatemala to Libya, the United States’s stars and stripes have long fluttered over foreign battlefields–not in peace, but rather in a relentless pursuit of hegemony. While the United States often casts itself as a guardian of global stability and democracy, a deeper look reveals a far more troubling legacy: one of unrelenting military interventionism.
Between the end of World War I and 2001, 248 armed conflicts erupted across 153 regions. Behind a staggering 201 was a single actor–none other than the United States. Behind many of its justifications of so-called national security and geopolitical interest lies a pattern of force-driven foreign policy that often leaves a trail of destruction, destabilization, and deep resentment. For many, the image of the U.S. as a global peacekeeper is nothing more than a smokescreen for economic extraction, political control, and militarized empire-building.
This legacy is not new. The roots of American adventurism stretch as far back as 1823, when the Monroe Doctrine declared U.S. dominance over the Western Hemisphere. That principle, disguised as defensive, laid the foundation for an era of aggressive expansionism cloaked in the language of liberty. It justified American interference in Latin American affairs for over a century. From the Spanish-American War in 1898, which handed the U.S. control of Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippines, to the brutal occupation of Haiti in 1915 and the endless meddling in Central American politics, American military policy has consistently favored conquest over cooperation. These early interventions paved the way for a global military presence that only intensified with time.
In the 20th century, U.S. interventions in Korea and Vietnam under the guise of anti-communism led to catastrophic loss of life, environmental destruction, and national trauma–not only for those countries but also for American troops. Vietnam in particular became a symbol of imperial overreach, with napalm raining down on villages and millions of civilians killed. It is critical to note that the death toll disproportionately fell upon the people of Vietnam; over a million in North Vietnam lost their lives alongside over two hundred thousand in South Vietnam. Yet the failure and devastation of that war did little to humble U.S. foreign policy, as the U.S. continued its covert operations.
The Cold War ushered in a darker chapter of American interventionism, as the U.S. leveraged the CIA to orchestrate regime changes in countries deemed hostile to its interests. In 1953, Iran’s democratically elected Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh was ousted in a CIA-led coup after he nationalized the country’s oil industry. A year later, the U.S. toppled Guatemala’s president, Jacobo Árbenz, fearing land reforms would threaten the profits of the United Fruit Company. These operations, cloaked in anti-communist and pro-democracy rhetoric, served as precursors to a long history of coups, assassinations, and proxy wars that placed U.S. economic and strategic interests above human rights and its supposedly core value of self-determination.
In the post-9/11 world, the United States’ fervor for military adventurism only intensified. Under the banner of the War on Terror, the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq sparked prolonged wars, costing hundreds of thousands of civilian lives and trillions of dollars, while concurrently sowing seeds of further extremism. Despite promises of liberation, both countries became cautionary tales of failed nation-building and rising instability. In 2011, NATO-led intervention in Libya, backed by the U.S., toppled Muammar Gaddafi, only to plunge the country into a decade-long civil war. In Syria, drone strikes and proxy battles continue under the label of counterterrorism, with minimal public scrutiny. These modern wars, while often presented as humanitarian efforts, have largely served to expand military budgets, arms sales, and U.S. influence over energy markets and strategic corridors.
While every administration bears undeniable responsibility, President Donald Trump brought a new brazenness to America’s militarized diplomacy, with a foreign policy characterized by impulsive decisions, economic coercion, and disregard for global norms and alliances.
In April of 2025, during a meeting with Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky, Trump reportedly tied U.S. wartime military and financial aid to compliance with a minerals deal, reducing international relations to a business transaction. This echoed historical instances where the U.S. weaponized aid for strategic gain–destabilizing fragile governments in the process.
However, beyond economic exploitation and disregard for Ukraine, what is beyond unsettling is Trump’s expressed interest in acquiring Greenland, citing national security and resource access. “We’re going to get it one way or another,” he declared–words that struck a piercing fear in both Danish officials and global allies. Denmark’s Prime Minister, Mette Frederiksen, responded unequivocally; preaching for Greenland’s sovereignty, she ardently declared that it’s “not for sale.” But the mere idea alone evoked an era of colonial ambition and imperial entitlement that many hoped had ended. His overtures were not just absurd–they were emblematic of a worldview that treats other nations as pawns in a transactional chessboard of power and profit.
Trump’s first presidency also saw a sharp rise in drone warfare, with there having been over 2,243 drone strikes in the first two years of his first term of presidency alone. By loosening targeting restrictions and increasing strike frequency, his administration prioritized immediate military gains over long-term consequences. Civilian casualties soared. Resentment deepened. Meanwhile, diplomatic ties frayed as Trump exited international agreements–notably, the Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, a key non-proliferation safeguard that Trump promptly withdrew from in 2019–and antagonized NATO allies with aimless threats of withdrawal. His vision was clear: alliances mattered only if they strengthened U.S. global dominance.
The alliances under siege in the name of militaristic endeavors include our longstanding alliance with the nation of Panama through the Panama Canal Treaty of 1977, which grants Panama jurisdiction over the canal. In March of 2025, President Trump overtly questioned why the U.S. had ever given up control of the Panama Canal and (not so subtly) alluded to reclaiming it–a throwback to the age of gunboat diplomacy. In a joint address to Congress, Trump proclaimed that “to further enhance our national security, my administration will be reclaiming the Panama Canal.” These gestures, whether serious or merely political rhetoric, reveal a mindset unmoored from international law, one that embraces might over multilateralism.
Yet, to blame Trump alone would be a mistake. Trump’s appreciation for military adventurism is not a deviation–it’s almost an American tradition. One built on the belief that U.S. might entitles it to intervene, reshape, and rule from afar. The results have often been tragic: collapsed regimes, civil wars, failed states, and humanitarian crises. Critics argue this reliance on military power undermines U.S. credibility, soft power and fuels global instability. Supporters, however, still champion interventionism as necessary for defending “freedom” and maintaining global order. But one must ask Freedom for whom? Order imposed by whose standard?
Though it is, of course, true that not every U.S. intervention has ended in catastrophe. There have been many moments when American military involvement helped stave off atrocities or stabilize volatile regions. In World War II, the U.S. played a crucial role in defeating Nazi Germany and ending the Holocaust. In the Balkans during the 1990s, NATO airstrikes–led largely by the United States–helped stop the ethnic cleansing of Bosniaks and Kosovars. American humanitarian efforts following natural disasters or genocides, such as relief in Rwanda post-genocide or support in Haiti after the 2010 earthquake, have also saved lives. These examples show that U.S. power, when wielded with restraint and genuine multilateral cooperation, has the capacity to do good.
But these cases are often the exceptions, not the rule–they do not erase the larger pattern of reckless adventurism that has defined much of U.S. foreign policy. Across the globe, populations in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Libya, and elsewhere continue to live with the consequences of U.S. bombs, drones, and special forces. Generations of children have grown up under the shadow of warplanes. Hospitals have been destroyed. Economies have collapsed. Refugee crises have intensified. And through it all, the architects of these interventions often remain insulated from the fallout, while those affected are left to pick up the pieces.
As the world faces unprecedented challenges, the United States must confront the question it has long evaded: can it abandon an addiction to unnecessary force and embrace diplomacy? If not, America risks remaining what it has often claimed to oppose–an empire imposing its will, indifferent to the fallout. Whether future administrations learn from the blood-stained lessons of the past–or merely repackage them with new rhetoric–will determine not just America’s legacy, but the fate of global peace.
From Vietnam to Iraq, Guatemala to Libya, the United States’s stars and stripes have long fluttered over foreign battlefields–not in peace, but rather in a relentless pursuit of hegemony.