Agamemnon in America

In Agamemnon, I see Trump. I still remember the opening scene of Troy, the film adapted from Homer’s Iliad. Agamemnon strides across the battlefield with the certainty of a man who believes the world exists to be conquered. He speaks as if ambition were his birthright and other nations’ lands simply waiting rooms for his empire: “I like your land. I think we’ll stay. I like your soldiers, too. They fought bravely yesterday. Not well, but bravely.”

When the rival king, Priam, protests that no one can possess the entire world, Agamemnon laughs. Men like him do not see limits. He replies: “That’s what the Messenians said, and the Arcadians, and the Epeians. Now, they all fight for me.” He perceives every obstacle as eventually submissive.

And when he is told that the world is too big even for him, he leans in with chilling arrogance: “I don’t want to watch another massacre. Let’s settle this war in the old manner. Your best fighter against my best.” That moment captures the anatomy of the bully. The powerful become intoxicated with their own victories.

Old literature and cinema are vast repositories of political wisdom. They teach us to read power, to recognise ambition disguised as rightful inheritance, and to understand how empires (ancient or modern) lean on intimidation to reshape the world. A discerning mind can easily see how today’s politics, both local and global, reflect these old patterns

They force that negotiation because they know the odds already favour them. They have the resources. They have the might. They understand that whether you choose confrontation or compromise, the outcome tilts their way. Agamemnon could propose the “old manner” of settling conflict because he had Achilles, and he trusted the legend of the warrior at his command. That same instinct drives Trump. Power emboldens the powerful, and the confidence that someone else will do the fighting makes their arrogance feel justified.

They develop an appetite for that which does not belong to them. They treat ownership as destiny, and resistance as insolence. They force you into a negotiation where the options are plain: surrender everything outright or concede part of it under the illusion of compromise.

Old literature and cinema are vast repositories of political wisdom. They teach us to read power, to recognise ambition disguised as rightful inheritance, and to understand how empires (ancient or modern) lean on intimidation to reshape the world. A discerning mind can easily see how today’s politics, both local and global, reflect these old patterns: the same hunger, the same hypocrisy, the same unsettling push toward domination that now defines our age.