Grandiosity, and the Mirage of National Supremacy

Powerful people often tell powerful stories. Politicians, especially in fragile or wounded nations, often rise not on humility, but on grandiosity. They speak as if they are saviors. They behave as if they are destiny. And most dangerously, they claim to be the very embodiment of the nation itself.

We must pause and ask: Why does this performance work? And what lies beneath it?

From our point of view, we cannot objectively see the world as made up of fixed essences: no one is born a savior, no nation is born superior. Instead, power, identity, and meaning are constructed, often through history, trauma, struggle, and narrative. Yet, we are not idealists who believe we can wish these stories away. These constructs have real effects—they shape laws, institutions, armies, and lives.

So when a politician stands on a podium and speaks with divine certainty, we must ask: what is being constructed? And at what cost?

Grandiosity is not simply "ego". It is a technology of power. It works by inflating the self, exaggerating certainty, and projecting invincibility. The politician ceases to be human and becomes a symbol—a father/mother of the nation, a chosen one, a strongman who knows best. This projection comforts a society in fear. People, uncertain about their future, often welcome those who sound most sure, even when that certainty is built on lies.

In conflict countries like Myanmar, where identity wounds run deep and where collective trauma remains unresolved, grandiosity offers a shortcut. It replaces hard truths with simple slogans. It masks complexity with confidence. It silences dissent with the aura of righteousness.
But what does it cost?

It costs empathy. It cost friendship. It costs listening. It costs humility. And it often costs justice. These are all sacrificed for "righteousness".

In grandiose politics, there is usually a second layer called "supremacy". Not just of the self, but of a group, a culture, or a nation. The politician begins to say, “Our people are unique. Our way of doing things are special.” And then, “Others are less.” And eventually, “They must be corrected, controlled, or removed.”

Supremacy turns belonging into a weapon. It builds a staircase where some are allowed to rise and others are locked below.

We know these supremacist categories are constructed—they were made by someone, for something. The idea of a “pure nation” or “one bloodline” is not a truth, but a tool. It’s often built during imperial reign of kings or in colonial rule, continued in post-colonial nationalism, and passed down through rituals, textbooks, and flags. One of the example being "Three Empires of Burma" was spread by nationalists school teachers who thought some people were getting use to the British rule. It was strategic move against the British but it entrenched later and weaponized against internal nations.

Though these ideas are made, they are dangerous precisely because people live as if they are real. They kill for them. They exclude with them. They die defending them.

At the center of grandiosity and supremacy lies a deep insecurity. The insecure nation does not love itself with depth. It only loves its image. It does not accept its flaws. It cannot admit its failures. So it compensates—by building myths of greatness, by rewriting history, by demanding worship instead of loyalty.

This is national narcissism.

It is not the love of "a people". it is the love of a fantasy about the people. And the more fragile that fantasy becomes, the more aggressive the leaders becomes in protecting it.

From our philosophical stance, we rather treat this narcissism not as madness, but as a political formation. It is produced through years of fear, humiliation, and lost dignity. Especially in formerly colonized countries, where elites inherited broken states, national narcissism often becomes a way of coping with the weight of history.

But we must ask: Is this coping strategy helping us build a better future, or is it just a grand lie to protect wounded pride?

Realism, for us, does not mean surrender. It means clarity. And clarity begins with humility.

We must teach ourselves and our societies that strength does not come from pretending to be superior. It comes from the courage to listen, the honesty to admit mistakes, and the willingness to negotiate with those who are different. It comes from resisting the seduction of supremacy—and choosing instead the harder path of solidarity.

Politicians must be seen not as saints or saviors, but as stewards. They are not to be worshipped. They are to be held accountable. Grandiosity must be replaced by grounded responsibility. Supremacy must give way to equality. And national narcissism must be challenged by a politics of honest care.

Our philosophy does not reject identity. We understand it as a strategy—for survival, for meaning, for community. Identity is just inevitable. But we insist that identity must never be used as a weapon to dominate others or elevate one above all.

A mature politics is not about building the tallest statue of a leader or the loudest anthem for a nation. It is about building a shared home where many truths can live side by side, where wounds can be seen and not hidden, and where people are valued. They are valued not for fitting the myth, but for being political friends.

So let us put down the mirror. Let us stop admiring illusions. And let us begin the difficult, realistic, and amazing work of co-constructing a future that includes us all.