When the Superpower Speaks Only to Itself
Narrative Duality and Hegemonic Vulnerability
In Western debate, “fanatically religious” actors are often discussed with a certain self-evidence—as if their worldview were so closed that it precludes any capacity for strategic adaptation. This assumption, however, reveals more about the observer than about the observed. Even devoted, uncompromising, and militant religious and political movements often display a striking degree of communicative flexibility. They are capable of speaking in different ways to different audiences. They maintain what may be described as narrative duality: one language for insiders, another for the outside world.
This is evident in the case of Iran. Domestically, political rhetoric is shaped by religious references, including the notion of martyrdom. Shia Muslim martyrdom—rooted in Husayn’s sacrifice at Karbala—is not merely a historical memory but a living, identity-forming force that continues to shape Iranian religion, culture, and politics, not least since the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Internationally, by contrast, the emphasis shifts to sovereignty, international law, and resistance to Western imperialism. The same political action can thus be framed differently depending on the audience.
Similar patterns can be observed in Hamas, where communication alternates between religious mobilization and a more secular language of rights and self-determination. (See “The Uncertainty Principle, Journalism and Gaza”.) This is not inconsistency, but adaptation. By contrast, this type of adaptive capacity appears less developed in contemporary USA, a fact that has become particularly evident in the war with Iran. (See “The Superpower as Victim: Trump’s Narratives and Their Limits”.)
Historically, the United States has demonstrated a considerable ability to manage communicative differentiation. During the Cold War, different narratives were formulated for different audiences: one for allies, one for developing countries, and one for the domestic population. This capacity was not incidental, but part of the country’s hegemonic competence. Against this background, current communication appears as a rupture rather than a continuation.
Today, the problem is not that the United States lacks narratives, but that a single narrative tends to dominate regardless of audience. The domestic victim narrative—the notion of a United States exploited within an unjust global order—is directed primarily at the domestic electorate. Yet it simultaneously functions as de facto foreign policy communication.
Closely related to this is another narrative: the image of Donald Trump as a skilled negotiator, capable of restoring America’s position through better deals. This narrative works well in an economic context, where international relations are framed as transactions. The master negotiator narrative and the victim narrative are compatible. For the electoral base, they merge into a broader story: a United States exploited in a global marketplace and a world in which it has paid for the security of its allies, but where the dealmaker Trump, through his negotiating skills, succeeds in securing better agreements.
The reach of this narrative, however, is limited. A narrative centered on deals offers no clear basis for legitimizing military conflict. War requires a different kind of story—one that appeals to security, values, or survival. When a transactional narrative is applied in such a context, a gap emerges between action and explanation.
Actors in a position of weakness—minorities, opposition movements, and even groups labeled as sects—paradoxically often develop a high degree of flexibility and narrative adaptability. They must speak to multiple audiences simultaneously. Dominant actors, by contrast, have less need for such capabilities. Majorities, mainstream institutions, and great powers easily become narratively complacent—they assume their worldview is universal and does not require translation. Under Trump’s leadership, an unusual situation has emerged in which the United States, despite its position as a hegemon, rhetorically adopts a posture of victimhood without developing the flexibility that typically accompanies such a position.
At the same time, there is a crucial difference between vulnerable minority actors and the United States. When the American president speaks to the domestic electorate, the entire world listens. English functions as a global medium, and U.S. political communication is constantly in the international spotlight. The boundary between internal and external communication thus tends to dissolve. What in other systems can be kept separate—a message for insiders and one for outsiders—here converges. This effect is greatly amplified by the internet and social media. When the American president speaks at local campaign rallies or posts on the social media platform Truth Social, his message is transmitted unfiltered across the globe in real time.
This makes narrative duality more difficult to sustain—but also more necessary. The ability to formulate messages that operate simultaneously on multiple levels, both domestic and international, is in practice part of hegemonic competence. When this capacity fails, the consequences are global.
In the context of the war with Iran, this failure becomes particularly evident. A victim narrative directed at an American electorate has limited credibility abroad, where the United States is still perceived as a dominant actor. Yet it also proves to have limited capacity to legitimize concrete military actions domestically when costs become visible and objectives unclear. The result is not only an external credibility problem, but also an internal crisis of legitimacy.
What emerges here is a form of hegemonic vulnerability. It does not stem from a lack of material resources, but from a limitation in narrative agency. In a world where power is increasingly exercised through legitimacy, interpretation, and storytelling, this becomes decisive.
A hegemon does not have the luxury of speaking in separate rooms. It always speaks before the world. For this very reason, its inability to formulate a narrative that can move between audiences—from the domestic electorate to the international community—becomes not merely a communicative problem, but a strategic one.
In this sense, the superpower risks finding itself in a situation where, despite its global reach, it is increasingly speaking only to itself—while the world listens without being convinced.