The rules-based world order is facing its most serious, indeed existential, challenge since it was created after World War II. What makes this moment in world affairs unprecedented is not that the international system is being contested by those who suffered from its inequalities—many have done so for decades. Instead, it is that the system is now openly questioned by those who built it, benefited from it, and claimed its moral leadership.
The scale of the challenge became apparent at a gathering of the system’s most elite champions and sponsors at the January 2026 World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. It could not have come at a more critical moment: a time when rules are dismissed as inconveniences by the powerful, laws reduced to opinions, and guardrails treated as optional. As the Secretary-General of the United Nations, Antonio Guterres, warned, the rule of law increasingly is being replaced by “the law of the jungle.” These words capture the depth of the rupture—especially when measured against the promise and idealism that animated the creation of the post–World War II order 80 years ago.
The world order that emerged from the ashes of that war claimed to represent not just the interests of the victors, but the principles of universalism. “We the peoples of the United Nations,” declared the opening words of the UN Charter, signaling a new moral and political foundation for international relations. The Charter promised to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war, affirmed faith in human rights, and upheld the sovereign equality of nations large and small. To be sure, the Charter also embodied declared American values: self-determination, sovereignty, and human rights.
The system was never perfect. Its rules were unevenly applied, and its benefits unequally distributed. Small and weak states quickly realized that equity was aspirational at best. Yet many accepted the bargain because the alternative—a world governed solely by raw power—was far worse. For decades, despite its flaws, the system functioned.
The developing world and the Global South felt the injustice embedded in this order all along: the impunity enjoyed by its custodians and the asymmetry between those who enforced the rules and those compelled to obey them. Nowhere was this imbalance more visible than at the UN itself, where the General Assembly represents the majority of humanity while the Security Council—with its five permanent members wielding veto power—retains decisive authority. When it came to the Middle East, the selectivity in implementing UN resolutions was particularly stark.
What many experienced but few in power acknowledged was laid bare in Davos by none other than Canada, a founding member of the G7 and a pillar of the postwar order. In a strikingly candid address, Prime Minister Mark Carney told the assembled elite what much of the world had long known but rarely heard acknowledged from within the club: the story of the rules-based international order was “partially false.” The promise of “mutual benefit through integration,” he said, often became the source of “subordination.” The strongest exempted themselves when convenient, trade rules were enforced asymmetrically, and international law was applied selectively depending on who the accused—or the victim—was. But he warned “we are in the midst of a rupture, not a transition.”
Carney’s candor did not emerge in a vacuum. Since President Donald Trump’s return to office in 2025, Canada has found itself in the crosshairs of American pressure. Trump’s references to Canada as the “51st state,” the labeling of its prime minister as a “governor,” and public mentions of annexation—however implausible—have imperial echoes. While military force was dismissed as unlikely, Trump openly deployed trade and tariffs to extract political concessions.
Today, US foreign policy unsettles allies as much as adversaries. President Trump appears to be reviving an older expansionist tradition, building on former President William McKinley’s (1897–1901) legacy in making America bigger. Increasingly, American power is exercised against allies. The recent Greenland standoff—when President Trump announced his desire to acquire the Danish territory—brought this approach to the brink of confrontation with Europe and posed one of the most serious challenges to NATO since its founding. America’s allies started hedging and pivoting to what Carney called “strategic autonomy,” by diversifying trade and other relations.
Unprecedented pressure on the multilateral system continues. The Trump administration has withdrawn from dozens of UN agencies and signaled its intention to bypass the UN on peace, security, and humanitarian action. The creation of a “Board of Peace,” chaired by President Trump who is vested with sole veto power, has deepened anxiety that the UN Charter itself is being sidelined.
This erosion is not uniquely American. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine shattered the principle of sovereignty. The war in Gaza—and Israel’s near-total impunity—punched another hole in the system’s credibility. Few images capture this collapse more starkly than Israeli bulldozers demolishing UN facilities in East Jerusalem.
Great power rivalry is bringing back a world of spheres of influence. Middle powers such as Canada are proposing new solutions to global problems by “pursuing variable geometry,” focusing on different coalitions to different problems. No matter what order emerges, the political and economic impact will be severe, especially for vulnerable regions.
Nowhere will the consequences of the international system’s collapse—or its replacement—be more severe than in the Middle East. The region has lived with the contradictions of this order since its inception. While sovereignty and independence were enshrined in the UN Charter, principles such as self-determination and the prohibition of force and occupation were applied selectively. Today, the erosion is unmistakable—from Gaza and Lebanon to Sudan, the Syrian Golan Heights, and Yemen.
In a scenario of total collapse, fragile states will suffer most. External interference, coercion, weak governance, and occupation will intensify in the absence of an effective arbiter. The region is already divided between two futures: technologically advanced, financially endowed, and stable Gulf states shaping the emerging order, and conflict-ridden, low-income countries falling farther behind. This widening gap is fueling fragmentation and perpetual instability.
Some regional thinkers, however, see opportunity amid the disorder. Some argue for rethinking regional geography, redefining sovereignty, and embracing pragmatic coalitions. Others urge moving beyond rigid notions of the “Middle East” toward the concept of a “West Asia” that positions the region as an indispensable connector between Europe and the rest of Asia. Success, in this view, lies in using geography and leverage to build indigenous ecosystems, resilient institutions, and high-performance governance that delivers for citizens.
As digital infrastructure expands, technological sovereignty becomes as important as political sovereignty. Artificial intelligence, in particular, is emerging as the new strategic frontier: those who build its infrastructure today will shape the future, while laggards risk deepening dependency.
There is reason for cautious hope, though. A new Generation Z is stepping forward; it is “more educated, digitally connected, and globally engaged than any generation before it.” If this promise is evenly distributed across the region, it could yet anchor economic transformation that works for all.
A new Arab order—based on cooperation, integration, coalition-building, strategic autonomy, and economic transformation—offers the only viable path through the volatility and the jungle of power politics now descending on the world.
The views expressed in this publication are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the position of Arab Center Washington DC, its staff, or its Board of Directors.
Featured image credit: Shutterstock/Vadim_N
