A state that struggles to house its people still defines security through military power
Across the long arc of history, empires do not collapse in a single moment — they erode from within, worn down by the weight of inequality, the hunger of militarism, and the slow hollowing of civic trust. Dr. Haymanot Assefa Nadew places the United States within this ancient pattern, tracing five converging crises — extreme wealth concentration, runaway defense spending, normalized corruption, civic fracture, and imperial overextension — that together suggest a republic straining against its own contradictions. Writing from the vantage point of 2026, he sees not inevitability but a choice: whether a society will keep defending the ruins of empire or summon the will to build something more just in their place.
- A woman dying in a self-built shelter beside an empty schoolyard crystallizes three simultaneous American failures — homelessness, public health collapse, and the abandonment of the most vulnerable — into a single unbearable image.
- The richest 0.1 percent now control an estimated $22.48 trillion while the bottom half of Americans have lost ground, a concentration of private power so extreme it begins to dissolve the boundary between oligarchy and democracy.
- Defense spending approaches $1 trillion for fiscal year 2026 even as housing, healthcare, schools, and infrastructure go unmet — a state that defines security through military force while struggling to house, feed, and heal its own people.
- January 6th hardened from shared warning into political identity, pardons folded once-condemned conduct back into ordinary politics, and anti-corruption enforcement weakened — normalizing the very institutional rot that historically precedes systemic collapse.
- The 20-year, $2 trillion Afghanistan war ended with the Taliban's return in weeks, exposing imperial exhaustion — yet the contradiction persists: foreign commitments expand even as domestic foundations crumble.
- Nadew insists the ruins of empire are also materials — that housing, healthcare, education, and democratic renewal could replace imperial hunger with a politics of enough, if the choice is made before it is no longer available.
A woman died in a shelter she had built herself from scraps, beside an empty schoolyard that once housed homeless families. Dr. Haymanot Assefa Nadew takes that scene not as isolated tragedy but as symptom — a window into what he argues is an empire in the final stages of decline.
The comparison to Rome is deliberate. When the Western Roman Empire fractured in 476 CE, it did not fall from a single blow but crumbled under elite capture, military overextension, institutional rot, and the collapse of civic legitimacy. Nadew sees the same pressures converging in the contemporary United States, tracing an imperial trajectory from continental expansion and Indigenous dispossession through two decades of post-2001 endless war.
Five crises define the republic's condition by 2026. The first is economic inequality so extreme it mirrors the wealth concentration that preceded Rome's fall: the richest 0.1 percent control an estimated $22.48 trillion while the bottom half of Americans have lost ground — not mere disparity, but the capture of political power by private wealth. The second is military spending untethered from domestic security: Pentagon budgets approaching $1 trillion annually while housing, healthcare, schools, and infrastructure go unmet, with five defense contractors alone absorbing $771 billion in contracts between 2020 and 2024.
The third crisis is the normalization of corruption. January 6, 2021 became a political dividing line rather than a shared warning; Trump's return to office in 2025 despite felony convictions recast the Capitol attack as grievance rather than rupture; pardons folded once-condemned conduct back into ordinary politics; and anti-corruption enforcement weakened as civil-service protections eroded. The fourth crisis is civic fracture — competing realities, redistricting wars, rising tolerance for political violence, and culture-war campaigns that have strained democratic trust to the breaking point. The fifth is imperial overextension: the Afghanistan withdrawal after 20 years and more than $2 trillion exposed exhaustion, yet the contradiction persists — a state that cannot house or heal its own people still defines security almost entirely through military power.
Nadew does not end in despair. The ruins of empire, he argues, are also materials. A different future would treat the Constitution's promise to promote the general welfare as governing obligation rather than decoration — replacing imperial hunger with a politics of enough, grounding real national security in housing, healthcare, education, and democracy. Every empire eventually confronts the limits of extraction and denial. The choice before the United States, Nadew insists, is whether to keep guarding the ruins or to build a republic worthy of its people — and that choice cannot wait.
A woman died in a shelter she built herself from scraps. Outside a city window, the structure stood next to an empty schoolyard—once a refuge for families without homes. In that single scene, three American failures converged: homelessness, public health collapse, and the abandonment of the most vulnerable. Dr. Haymanot Assefa Nadew uses this moment not as isolated tragedy but as symptom. The shelter, he argues, is a window into something larger: an empire in the final stages of decline.
The comparison to Rome is deliberate but not literal. When the Roman Empire fractured in 476 CE, it did not fall because of a single blow. It crumbled under the weight of elite capture, military overextension, institutional rot, and the loss of civic legitimacy—the same pressures now visible in American life. The United States, Nadew contends, has followed an imperial trajectory since its founding: continental expansion, Indigenous dispossession, overseas intervention justified by successive doctrines from Monroe to Bush. After 2001, that logic embedded itself even deeper, through two decades of endless war and a military-industrial complex that became inseparable from national identity.
By 2026, five crises define the republic's condition. The first is economic inequality so extreme it mirrors the concentration of wealth that preceded Rome's fall. In March 2024, 737 billionaires held $5.53 trillion in assets. By the end of that year, Oxfam documented another $1.4 trillion added to billionaire fortunes. A year later, the richest 0.1 percent controlled an estimated $22.48 trillion while the bottom half of Americans lost ground as a share of national wealth. This is not mere disparity—it is the capture of political power by private wealth, the blurring of the line between oligarchy and democracy.
The second crisis is military spending untethered from domestic security. The Pentagon's budget has climbed steadily: $860 billion in 2022, $916 billion in 2023, $841 billion in 2024. For fiscal year 2026, the Defense Department request approached $1 trillion when related funding was included. Meanwhile, housing remains unaffordable, health care inaccessible, schools underfunded, and basic infrastructure crumbles. From 2020 to 2024, just five defense contractors received $771 billion in Pentagon contracts. Military spending, research shows, creates fewer jobs per dollar than education, health care, or public investment—a drain on the economy disguised as strength.
The third crisis is the normalization of corruption and the concentration of power. The first Trump administration broke norms around self-dealing and democratic constraint. January 6, 2021, became not a shared warning but a political dividing line. When Trump returned to office in 2025 despite felony convictions, his administration recast the Capitol attack not as rupture but as grievance. Pardons for defendants folded once-condemned conduct back into ordinary politics. The Department of Government Efficiency, associated with Elon Musk, symbolized federal retrenchment while raising questions about conflicts of interest and the privatization of public power. Anti-corruption enforcement weakened. Civil-service protections eroded. Rights agencies lost resources. Corporate donations to figures tied to election denial rebounded—more than $100 million in PAC contributions to members of what some call the Sedition Caucus by 2024.
The fourth crisis is civic fracture. Confederate flags appeared inside the Capitol in 2021. Five years later, many of those who carried them have been pardoned or celebrated. The attack has hardened into a fault line of political identity rather than a shared warning. Rising tolerance for political violence, competing realities, redistricting wars, immigration enforcement battles, and culture-war campaigns over race, gender, abortion, and elections have strained democratic trust to the breaking point. Lincoln's words echo: a house divided against itself cannot stand.
The fifth crisis is imperial overextension. Rome faltered when it could no longer sustain its commitments. The United States faces its own version of that strain. The 2021 withdrawal from Afghanistan—after 20 years, more than $2 trillion spent, and immense human loss—exposed imperial exhaustion. The Taliban returned within weeks. Russia's 2022 invasion of Ukraine briefly restored a major U.S. security role in Europe, yet later foreign-aid cuts weakened that commitment even as defense spending continued to rise. The contradiction is stark: a state that struggles to house, feed, and heal its own people still defines security chiefly through military power.
Nadew does not end in despair. The ruins of empire, he argues, are not only warnings—they are materials. From broken systems, people can build something more humane, more democratic, more durable. A different future would treat the Constitution's promise to promote the general welfare not as decoration but as governing obligation. It would replace imperial hunger with a politics of enough. Housing, health care, food security, education, clean water, and democracy would become the foundation of real national security, not benefits to be rationed. Every empire eventually confronts the limits of extraction, expansion, and denial. The choice before the United States is whether to keep guarding the ruins or to build a republic worthy of its people. That choice, Nadew insists, cannot wait.
Citas Notables
A house divided against itself cannot stand— Lincoln, cited by Dr. Nadew on American civic fracture
Every empire eventually confronts the limits of extraction, expansion, and denial. The United States can keep guarding the ruins, or it can build a republic worthy of its people.— Dr. Haymanot Assefa Nadew
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
When you look at a shelter built from scraps and a woman who died inside it, what makes that a story about empire rather than just poverty?
Because poverty alone is a local problem. But when you see that shelter next to an empty schoolyard, next to a country spending nearly a trillion dollars on defense while people lack basic shelter—that's not poverty. That's a choice. That's what happens when an empire prioritizes extraction and expansion over the welfare of its own people.
You're drawing a line between Rome in 476 and America in 2026. But Rome took centuries to fall. Are you saying America is at the same stage?
I'm saying the patterns are visible now. Rome didn't collapse overnight either. The signs were there: the elite captured the system, the military consumed resources, institutions decayed, people stopped believing in shared governance. Those signs are here. The question is whether we recognize them in time.
The billionaire wealth number is striking—$22.48 trillion for the top 0.1 percent. But doesn't wealth concentration happen in every era?
It does. But there's a threshold where it stops being inequality and becomes oligarchy. When that much wealth translates directly into political power—when billionaires can reshape government through donations and appointments—you've crossed a line. That's when democracy becomes a formality.
You mention military spending approaching a trillion dollars. Couldn't that be justified as necessary for security?
Only if it actually produces security. But we spent $2 trillion in Afghanistan and the Taliban returned in weeks. We're spending more on defense while people lack housing and health care. That's not security—that's a system that's lost sight of what security actually means.
What would change if people took this argument seriously?
Everything. You'd treat housing, health care, education, and democracy as the foundation of security, not as benefits to be rationed. You'd ask why a country can afford a trillion-dollar military but not universal health care. You'd rebuild from the rubble instead of guarding it.