There is a temptation, in moments like these, to believe that the world’s problems are the result of a leadership deficit. That if only better people were in charge, smarter, kinder, more visionary, our collective anxiety would ease. But that explanation is far too simple, and perhaps too comforting.

What we are living through is not a crisis of leadership. It is a crisis of meaning.

Across continents and cultures, people are restless, angry, nostalgic, fearful, and yet strangely unsure of what they are actually fighting for. Elections come and go, governments rise and fall, policies are announced and reversed, but the unease remains. Something deeper has shifted, and it cannot be fixed by changing the names on office doors.

For much of the modern era, societies were held together by shared stories: Democracy promised voice and participation. Capitalism promised merit through work. Globalisation promised opportunity and connection. Even when these promises were imperfect — and they often were — they offered a sense of direction, a belief that tomorrow could be better than today.

Those stories are fraying.

Democracy increasingly feels procedural rather than empowering. Voting has become an act of duty rather than hope. Capitalism, once sold as a ladder, now looks to many like a treadmill, exhausting, unforgiving, and tilted in favour of those who already stand at the top. Globalisation, once marketed as shared prosperity, has come to resemble a zero-sum contest, where some nations thrive while others are asked to wait patiently for benefits that never quite arrive.

When the big stories stop making sense, people do not become irrational. They become vulnerable.

A crisis of meaning does not announce itself loudly. It shows up in disengagement, in cynicism, in the quiet withdrawal of citizens from civic life, and in the growing appeal of simple answers to complex problems. When people no longer feel anchored to a shared purpose, fear becomes easier to organise than hope.

And history tells us that moments like these are rarely empty for long, because into vacuums of meaning, power inevitably moves.

This is where we need to be paying closer attention, because while we are busy arguing about personalities and policies, something older and more familiar is resurfacing in global affairs — empire.

Empires, contrary to popular belief, do not simply disappear; they collapse, they transform, and they re-emerge in new forms, carrying familiar instincts into unfamiliar times. They wait for moments of uncertainty, fragmentation, and fatigue. They wait for societies that no longer believe deeply in themselves.

Today’s empires do not speak the vocabulary of domination. They speak the language of “security”, “stability”, “influence”, and “national interest”. Borders are hardened not in the name of exclusion, but protection. Resources are secured not through conquest, but “strategic partnerships”. Economic pressure is applied not as coercion, but as market logic.

The words have changed, the logic has not.

What we are witnessing globally is not a sudden collapse of cooperation, but a gradual retreat from it. A return to spheres of influence. A renewed comfort with hierarchy; who matters, who decides, who benefits, and who is expected to adjust.

This shift is not happening because people have suddenly forgotten the lessons of history. It is happening because history feels abstract when the present feels unbearable. When meaning erodes, order, even unjust order, can feel preferable to chaos.

In a world starved of clarity, power that promises certainty is seductive.

This helps explain the resurgence of strongman politics, even in places that once prided themselves on liberal, democratic values. It explains the emotional pull of nostalgia: Let’s “return to tradition”, let’s “restore order”. These are not simply political slogans. They are emotional offerings, filling a void left by institutions that no longer inspire confidence or belonging.

Empires have always understood this. They do not begin by conquering land. They begin by answering questions democracy forgot to ask: Who are we? What do we stand for? Who belongs? Who threatens us?

When democratic societies cannot articulate a compelling moral vision of themselves they leave that work to those more than willing to define it.

What makes this moment particularly consequential is that the tools of modern empire are largely invisible to those affected by them. Power now moves through supply chains, algorithms, trade agreements, debt structures, and digital platforms forces that shape daily life without ever appearing on a ballot paper. We are increasingly governed by systems we cannot vote out and actors we cannot meaningfully challenge.

Yet public frustration remains focused almost entirely on governments, as if they alone still hold all the levers of change. This misalignment deepens the crisis of meaning. People sense they are losing control, but cannot clearly identify where power actually resides.

So they turn inward. Or against one another.

The result is a world that feels louder, angrier, and more polarised, yet is strangely directionless. Debates rage, but visions shrink. Politics becomes about survival rather than possibility. Citizenship is reduced to grievance management.

It does not have to be this way. A crisis of meaning is not the end of history. It is a moment of choice.

Societies can rebuild shared purpose, but that work is harder than changing leaders or slogans. It requires honesty about what no longer works, and courage to imagine what might. It requires leaders who speak not only to fear, but to values. And for citizens willing to do more than endure. Because if meaning is not consciously rebuilt it will be quietly replaced.

For Jamaica and the wider Caribbean, this moment demands neither romantic defiance nor photocopied courage from another era. The world that allowed small states in the 1970s to navigate power through non-alignment no longer exists in quite the same way. Our economies are more exposed, our tourism markets more sensitive, our vulnerabilities more visible. Caricom itself feels cautious, divided, uncertain, and navigating an increasingly anxious global climate. But this does not mean retreat. It means recalibration.

It means finally doing the hard work we have long spoken about: Identifying what we are globally competitive in, building export strength, diversifying our economies, and showing the world that small states can adapt with intelligence rather than noise.

Because empires may never really disappear, but in a moment when meaning is collapsing and power is reorganising itself, the real question is whether we will define our place deliberately, or allow it to be defined for us.

Lisa Hanna is a former Member of Parliament, People’s National Party spokesperson on foreign affairs and foreign trade and a former Cabinet member.