This question has stayed with me since an Afghan refugee asked it during one of my training sessions: “Why, despite global pressure and basic human rights commitments, is the regime not allowing girls’ education?”
Her question cut through the usual explanations of ideology, security concerns, and cultural norms. What she was really asking was something more fundamental: why do those in power refuse to do what is obviously right, even when the world is watching?
The answer, I have come to believe, lies in something we rarely discuss in international relations: ego.
We often speak of institutions as if they exist separately from the people who create and run them. We analyse state behaviour, organisational culture, and policy frameworks as though they operate by some neutral logic. But institutions are not abstract entities. They are made by humans, run by humans, and inevitably reflect human psychology, including our most primitive emotions.
When a group of people repeatedly makes decisions based on certain values, those values become institutional culture. When leaders consistently prioritise their own image over collective welfare, that narcissism becomes policy. When the need to assert dominance overrides moral obligation, that ego becomes doctrine.
Yet, in the study of global politics, we meticulously examine power structures, economic interests, and strategic calculations while conveniently ignoring the human emotions that drive them. We talk about “national interest” without acknowledging that it is often just the ego of a few decision-makers dressed in diplomatic language. We analyse “political will” without recognising that a lack of will is sometimes just an unwillingness to admit error or share credit.
The Afghan refugee’s question was not naive. It was perhaps the most sophisticated question one can ask about global politics: why do we let human ego override human need?
Here in Pakistan, ego’s role in politics is hardly subtle. I have watched political parties refuse to collaborate on critical issues, not because their positions are irreconcilable, but because cooperation would require someone to compromise, someone to step back, someone to let another claim victory.
During floods, during economic crises, during constitutional moments that demand unity, we see leaders prioritise their personal standing over collective survival. The question is never just, “What does the country need?” but “How will this make me look?” and “Will this strengthen my rival?”
But if ego derails governance at the national level, its effects on global politics are catastrophic.
Consider Gaza. Despite international humanitarian law, despite global outcry, despite agreements and ceasefires and documented evidence of mass suffering, aid trucks remain stopped at borders. Food rots while children starve. Medical supplies sit in warehouses while hospitals run out of anaesthesia.
The standard explanations invoke security concerns and political complexity. But look closer, and you see something more primal: the refusal to be seen as weak, the inability to back down, the compulsion to dominate regardless of human cost. This is ego, the psychological need to maintain an image of strength, to never appear to yield to pressure, to assert control even when control serves no strategic purpose.
When Israeli officials block humanitarian aid despite global consensus and their own stated commitments to international law, when they reject mediation efforts and ignore pressure from allies, we are not witnessing a rational strategy. We are seeing the institutional manifestation of ego: the refusal to be told what to do, even when doing it would serve their own long-term interests.
The same pattern appears elsewhere. Why did Russia invade Ukraine despite the obvious economic and diplomatic costs? Why does North Korea pursue nuclear weapons while its population faces food insecurity? Why do powerful nations withdraw from climate agreements that would benefit everyone, including themselves?
In each case, beneath the geopolitical analysis lies something embarrassingly simple: leaders who cannot admit error, nations that cannot appear weak, regimes that would rather burn than bend.
The problem is not that the ego exists in politics; that is inevitable. The problem is that we refuse to name it, analyse it, and account for it in our understanding of global affairs.
This wilful blindness has consequences. When we do not name the ego, we cannot challenge it. When we attribute decisions to “national interest” that are actually about personal pride, we grant those decisions a legitimacy they do not deserve. When we fail to distinguish between strategic calculation and emotional reaction, we cannot effectively advocate for change.
The Afghan refugee’s question was not naive. It was perhaps the most sophisticated question one can ask about global politics: why do we let human ego override human need?
Until we are willing to confront that question honestly, in Islamabad and Washington, in Moscow and Tel Aviv, in every capital where human decisions shape human fates, we will continue to produce policies that serve pride instead of people, that prioritise image over impact, and that choose domination over dignity.
And refugees will keep asking why.