Why Do Tyrants Expect Adoration?

 

Power, Delusion, and Moral Deafness

History keeps asking the same question, and powerful people keep failing it. Why do victors who rule through cruelty, destruction, or collective punishment so often expect gratitude, obedience, even admiration from those they have crushed? Somewhere deep inside the psychology of conquest is a catastrophic miscalculation – the belief that power can substitute for legitimacy, and that fear can be mistaken for love.

This is not a new phenomenon. It is as old as empire itself.

Consider Alexander the Great, marching across the ancient world with military brilliance and staggering violence. Alexander believed not only that he had the right to rule conquered peoples, but that they would eventually recognize that right. He adopted local customs, demanded divine honors, and expected reverence. Yet again and again, resistance followed him. Revolts flared the moment his army moved on. What Alexander mistook for admiration was submission under duress. The oppressed were not converted – they were waiting.

Power often breeds this particular blindness. When victory is total, it produces an echo chamber. Advisors become flatterers. Dissent is filtered out. The ruler begins to confuse silence with consent. But silence under occupation is not agreement – it is survival.

Fast forward many centuries to Adolf Hitler, convinced that the French, having been defeated and humiliated, would eventually accept – perhaps even admire – Nazi rule. The spectacle of occupation was designed to project inevitability and superiority. Parades, flags, ceremonies – all intended to normalize domination. But beneath the surface, resistance simmered. Sabotage, subversion, and hatred grew stronger, not weaker. The expectation of adoration was not just morally obscene; it was strategically foolish. It guaranteed future rebellion.

This pattern repeats because it is rooted in a deeper psychological failure: the inability of the powerful to imagine the interior life of the powerless.

To dominate another people requires, at some level, the suppression of empathy. You cannot destroy homes, lives, and futures while fully acknowledging the humanity of those affected. That acknowledgment would make the violence unbearable. So the oppressed are abstracted – reduced to threats, obstacles, statistics, or necessary collateral. Once that abstraction is in place, it becomes possible for the victor to genuinely believe their actions are justified, even benevolent.

But here’s the contradiction: even the most ruthless rulers know, somewhere inside, that domination breeds resentment. That knowledge flickers at the edge of consciousness. It shows up in paranoia, security details, propaganda, and the obsessive need for symbolic gestures of legitimacy. If you were truly adored, you wouldn’t need so much theater.

This brings us to the present, and to Isaac Herzog, whose recent international appearances have sparked deep anger and moral outrage among many observers. Herzog is Israel’s head of state, a largely ceremonial role, but symbolism matters. His public statements during the Gaza conflict, including rhetoric that blurred distinctions between combatants and civilians, have been cited by human rights groups and UN bodies as contributing to an atmosphere of collective punishment. Against that backdrop, his being paraded on the world stage – welcomed with diplomatic honors – feels, to many, like an attempt to normalize or launder immense suffering.

The question isn’t whether Herzog personally pulled a trigger. That’s a legal argument. The moral question is simpler and harder: how can representatives of a state associated with mass civilian death and devastation expect polite applause from populations who can see the wreckage in real time?

The answer lies in the same old delusion.

Power assumes that ceremony creates legitimacy. That flags, handshakes, and formal welcomes overwrite moral reality. That if the right rituals are observed, outrage will quieten the accusations of genocide. 

But the modern world has broken that spell. Images circulate instantly. Voices bypass official channels. The oppressed are no longer silent, and neither are those who witness their suffering.

What’s different now is not the behavior of the powerful, but the patience of everyone else.

There is also a deeper insult embedded in these displays. They implicitly demand emotional compliance. Not just tolerance, but respect. Not just acceptance, but honor. To bow, to curtsy, to look away. 

This is where outrage sharpens into fury. Because people can endure many things, but being told to admire their abuser – or the abuser’s representative – crosses a psychological line.

And yes, surely some part of these leaders understands this. They must. Which raises the uncomfortable possibility that the expectation of adoration is not ignorance, but contempt: a belief that resistance doesn’t matter. That outrage will dissipate. That the world will move on.

Sometimes it does. Often it doesn’t. 

The truth is that oppression creates memory. Trauma embeds itself across generations. You cannot bomb, starve, or displace people into forgetting. 

Every act of domination writes a story that will be told back later, usually when the balance of power shifts. History is full of empires that mistook temporary control for permanent victory.

This is why the spectacle of cruel victors demanding respect always feels grotesque. It reveals a moral inversion. The powerful want to be seen as civilized while acting brutally. They want the benefits of legitimacy without the labor of justice. They want the world to play along.

But people are no longer willing to perform that role.

The real lesson, repeated across centuries, is painfully simple: domination does not create loyalty. Violence does not produce admiration. Fear does not mature into love. The oppressed do not secretly wish to be abused a little less – they, we, want it to stop entirely.

Any leader who expects adoration without reckoning, without accountability, and without genuine empathy is not just cruel. They are delusional. 

And history is unkind to delusions of that scale.

The parade always ends. What remains is the memory of who caused the suffering – and who stood and applauded while it happened.

Rob Parnell