For decades, many leading analysts and policymakers have described America’s global strategic doctrine as sophisticated, resilient, even foolproof. From Washington’s vantage point, its blend of military power, economic leverage, intelligence networks, and ideological messaging has been seen as the ultimate toolkit for shaping world affairs. Yet history tells a less flattering story. Again and again, American doctrine has not merely failed but backfired, sometimes spectacularly, in countries as varied as Vietnam, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Venezuela, Egypt, and now, increasingly, Bangladesh.
The problem is not a lack of power. It is a recurring failure of political judgement.
In Vietnam, the war remains the most instructive example. The United States entered the conflict armed with overwhelming conventional superiority such as advanced airpower, mechanised infantry, and unmatched logistical capacity. Yet it underestimated the political resolve and nationalist fervour of the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong. Backed decisively by the Soviet Union and China with weapons, training, and strategic depth, Hanoi turned the war into a prolonged insurgency. Mounting American casualties, a disillusioned public, and international embarrassment forced Washington to withdraw in 1973. Two years later, Saigon fell. Vietnam was not merely a military setback; it was a politically disastrous surrender for the US.
Washington, however, failed to learn its lesson.
In Venezuela, more recently, policymakers in Washington entertained the notion that by orchestrating the abduction of Nicolás Maduro, they could become the ‘neo-masters’ of the Venezuelan people—establishing exclusive control over the nation’s massive natural resources, including oil, gas, and gold. Concurrently, they calculated that the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) could supplant Venezuelan drug cartels and refurbish its own covert transnational drug-trafficking operations. President Donald Trump, adamantly seeking cash flow to address America’s skyrocketing national debt and avert economic catastrophe, propelled this ‘Maduro Project’ forward. Ultimately, the result was a stark reminder of a Vietnam-style surrender.
In Iran, there is a similar story of miscalculation. During Donald Trump’s presidency, repeated threats of military action, harsh sanctions, and open encouragement of internal dissent created an impression, particularly among hawkish commentators, that the Islamic Republic stood on the brink of collapse. Yet Iran’s leadership, including Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, never took these threats at face value. Tehran understood the limits of American appetite for another Middle Eastern war. Far from capitulating, Iran expanded its regional influence through proxies, advanced its missile programme, and deepened ties with China and Russia. By now, it is evident that for Donald Trump, or for bigwigs in the Pentagon, toppling Ayatollah Khamenei is mission impossible. Here again, America’s understanding was fundamentally flawed.
In Afghanistan, US doctrine stands as perhaps the clearest symbol of strategic hubris. America did not enter Afghanistan to fight the Soviet Union–that conflict ended in 1989—but it did inherit the illusion that Afghanistan could be reshaped through force after 2001. Two decades, trillions of dollars, and countless lives later, the Taliban returned to power in 2021 with astonishing speed. American policymakers consistently misunderstood Afghan society, mistaking military dominance for political legitimacy. Today, Afghanistan is governed under a rigid interpretation of Sharia law that stands in stark contrast to Western ideals of democracy and human rights. Even Pakistan’s military leadership, once deeply entangled in Afghan affairs, now treats the Taliban with caution. Meanwhile, Kabul has built pragmatic ties with countries openly sceptical of US influence. This was not just a defeat; it was an admission of strategic failure.
In Egypt, the Arab Spring further exposed Washington’s chronic misreading of political realities. In 2012, the United States supported Egypt’s democratic transition and accepted the electoral victory of Mohamed Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood. Yet American policymakers underestimated the depth of secular anxiety, economic frustration, and institutional resistance within Egyptian society. Within 14 months, mass protests erupted. The military, led by General Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, intervened, removed Morsi, and crushed the Brotherhood with brutal efficiency. Faced with a choice between democratic ideals and regional stability, Washington quietly backed the generals. The result was neither democracy nor credibility, but a profound loss of trust on all sides.
This pattern of misjudgement has now been repeated in Bangladesh.
In recent years, the same mistake has played out in Bangladesh. The United States has appeared to view Bangladesh through an ideological lens rather than a geopolitical or populist one. By treating Jamaat-e-Islami Bangladesh (JIB)—a party with ideological roots linked to the Muslim Brotherhood—as a potential strategic partner, Washington committed a series of political blunders.
First, geography matters. Bangladesh is almost entirely surrounded by India, with Myanmar forming a smaller eastern frontier. India remains the dominant regional power and Bangladesh’s most consequential neighbour in economic, cultural, and security terms. Any American strategy in Bangladesh that ignores India is inherently flawed. Aligning regionally with Pakistan—a country with which Bangladesh shares a traumatic history—offers Washington no meaningful strategic advantage in Dhaka. Rather, it alienates the very population it seeks to influence.
Second, Jamaat-e-Islami commands only a small fraction of popular support, estimated at roughly 7–8 per cent. Bangladesh, though Muslim-majority, is constitutionally and traditionally secular. It is also culturally distinct from Pakistan. Its Islamic traditions are deeply influenced by Bengali heritage, Hindu coexistence, and Persian Sufi practices. Political Islam of the rigid, ideological variety has never enjoyed mass appeal. Betting on Jamaat is not just risky; it is politically irrational. Historically and culturally, the people of Bangladesh are closer to India than to Pakistan. Shared culture, food habits, language, and territorial coexistence reinforce this bond. In this context, any attempt by Trump to force a Bangladesh–Pakistan alignment would amount to political disaster.
Third, the United States misjudged personalities. By placing its bet on Muhammad Yunus—a figure with limited political grounding and contested domestic credibility—Washington revealed how little it understood Bangladesh’s power dynamics. Yunus was imagined, mistakenly, as a Bangladeshi Mahathir Mohamad by US policymakers. Instead, his Western orientation alienated the Muslim-majority population. Allegations of mob violence, corruption, and political immaturity surrounding his supporters further eroded his standing. Rather than engaging leaders with genuine mass support, such as Sheikh Hasina or Tarique Rahman, Washington backed figures viewed with suspicion at home. The implication was dangerous: if Jamaat-e-Islami ever gained power, Bangladesh could drift towards models resembling Taliban-ruled Afghanistan or Iran’s theocratic system.
The cumulative effect of these missteps has been corrosive. Anti-American sentiment in Bangladesh has grown, not because of ideology, but because of perceived arrogance and ignorance. By meddling clumsily in domestic politics, the Trump administration strained a relationship that once held significant goodwill. If current trends continue, Washington will lose all its capital in the casino named Bangladesh and walk away with its greatest humiliation.
(M A Hossain is a political and defence analyst based in Bangladesh)
