We like to believe the world is neatly divided: on one side, the free, the enlightened, the rational; on the other, the oppressive, the fanatical, the tyrannical. Regimes like the Taliban, North Korea, Iran, or Putin’s Russia seem like relics of another time—jarring, distant aberrations from the values of human rights, free speech, and personal liberty that we pride ourselves on. But what if the line between “us” and “them” isn’t as clear as we think?
A recent BBC investigation unveiled a private audio recording of Hibatullah Akhundzada, the reclusive Supreme Leader of the Taliban, delivering a speech that is not just a window into a theocratic dictatorship—but a chilling mirror into the psychology of authoritarianism itself. And the most unsettling part? Many of the patterns in his rhetoric are not foreign at all. They echo in boardrooms, political rallies, and even family kitchens around the world.
Akhundzada begins, as so many authoritarians do, with divine justification: “God willing.” The invocation of a higher power to sanctify power is ancient—a recurring motif in the speeches of dictators, warlords, and cult leaders. It’s not about faith. It’s a tool. By aligning himself with God, he positions dissent not as political opposition, but as blasphemy. From there, it’s a short leap to labelling critics as infidels—a deliberate dehumanisation. When people are stripped of their humanity, cruelty becomes permissible, even righteous.
He claims that outsiders are spreading “sedition and propaganda” to undermine the so-called unity between the Taliban and the Afghan people. But the truth is clear: it’s not foreign media or NGOs that have severed that bond. It’s the Taliban itself—through forced disappearances, the shuttering of girls’ schools, the public floggings and executions. Yet Akhundzada plays the victim. “Why do they do this?” he asks, twice—his voice tinged with wounded indignation. “It is a very unjust and unfair matter.”
This is the hallmark of the bully who believes his own myth: a man who inflicts pain but weeps when called out on it. He calls for “eliminating” those who try to “create division,” all in the name of “preserving unity.” But unity through fear is not unity at all. It’s silence enforced by terror.
His paranoia extends inward. He speaks of “gaps between the government and the scholars”—a phrase that should send shivers down the spine of anyone familiar with history. It recalls Pol Pot’s purge of intellectuals, Stalin’s Great Purge, or the McCarthy-era blacklists. When a leader fears critique from within, he begins to see thought itself as treason. And when thought is dangerous, books are burned, classrooms emptied, universities shuttered.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: this mindset isn’t confined to war-torn Kabul or Pyongyang’s palace. It’s everywhere.
Think of the CEO who fires employees for raising concerns about workplace toxicity, then announces a new “culture of openness.” Or the politician who calls press reports “fake news” while their policies stack courts, silence watchdogs, and jail journalists. The partner who gaslights their significant other: “You’re too sensitive. I’m the one who’s been hurt.” The parent who demands obedience in the name of “love,” yet punishes questions as disrespect.
These are not just metaphors. They are manifestations of the same psychological machinery at play in Akhundzada’s speech:
Denial of reality in the face of overwhelming evidence.
Projection of blame onto others.
Framing abuse as protection.
Claiming victimhood while wielding power.
We see it when leaders claim their lies will be defended by “the sword of truth.” When demagogues say their hate speech is “protecting tradition.” When a manager takes credit for team success but blames the team for failure. The methods differ, but the script is eerily similar.
History is littered with predators who saw themselves as saviours. Al Capone famously claimed he was just providing “service” to the public during Prohibition, lamenting that he lived like “a hunted man.” The warden of Sing Sing once observed that nearly every inmate believed they were the true victim of the justice system. Even in Nazi Germany, propaganda framed persecution as national healing.
The danger isn’t only in faraway places. It’s in how easily we normalise these patterns when they appear in familiar forms—under the guise of “strength,” “loyalty,” or “tradition.” We excuse the boss who intimidates staff because “he gets results.” We tolerate the relative who silences debate at dinner because “she’s passionate.” We shrug when politicians label journalists “enemies of the people.”
But every tyranny begins with small surrenders to irrationality, to fear, to the refusal to question authority. The Taliban didn’t rise in a vacuum. It grew in soil fertilised by silence, by the belief that “this doesn’t affect me.”
So the next time someone says, “Why do they hate us?” while systematically eroding rights, suppressing speech, and punishing dissent—pause. Listen not just to their words, but to the tone, the framing, the victim narrative. Because evil rarely announces itself with a snarl. More often, it whines.
The Taliban mentality isn’t just across the world. It’s in the way we justify unfairness, avoid accountability, and demonise those who challenge us. Recognising it in others starts with recognising it in ourselves—and in the everyday power dynamics we accept without scrutiny.
The real question is not, How could this happen there?
It’s: Could this happen here?
And more urgently: Is it already?
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BBC Source: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cg7vdpy1l2vo
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