Introduction
We all say we hate betrayal.
Instinctively. Viscerally. Without debate.
Yet betrayal has shaped history more reliably than loyalty ever has. Empires fell because of it. Wars were shortened or prolonged because of it.
Families were destroyed by it long before nations were. And in recent months, the world once again witnessed how betrayal operates not as an abstract moral failure, but as a strategic force.
News that a sitting head of state could be neutralized through an internal breach reminded me that power rarely collapses from external pressure alone; it collapses when internal trust fractures.
It collapses when trust inside the system fractures.
That lesson was not theoretical for me. I learned it early and painfully.
My First Lesson in Betrayal Began with War
When war broke out in Yugoslavia in the early 1990s, I was still a child. Like many children in conflict zones, I did not understand geopolitics, ideology, or strategy. What I understood
was absence.
My parents left.
There was no dramatic farewell, no explanation framed in adult logic. There was simply a void—emotional, physical, existential—at the precise moment when stability mattered most.
In hindsight, I can rationalize their decision. War compresses morality. Fear reshapes priorities. Survival becomes the dominant lens through which all choices are made.
But for a child, betrayal does not require intent.
It requires broken trust.
That early fracture stayed with me. And when I later fought in the war between 1991 and 1995, it resurfaced in a different form—anger toward those who betrayed not just individuals, but a collective cause.
I remember how deeply we despised people who sold weapons, fuel, food, and medicine on the black market while ordinary civilians suffered. People who monetized fear. Who exploited chaos. Who thrived while others buried their dead.
That hatred shaped my choices.
It is one of the reasons I later chose to join state security services—not out of blind loyalty to institutions, but because I wanted to understand how betrayal works, who commits it, and why it repeats itself across every conflict, every regime, and every generation.
Betrayal Is Not an Event. It Is a Pattern
Betrayal rarely comes from enemies.
Enemies are expected.
Betrayal comes from:
- those closest to power,
- those entrusted with protection,
- those who benefit most from access.
This is not opinion. It is a historical fact.
Julius Caesar conducted his military campaigns by deliberately turning tribes against one another. Divide loyalties, promise protection, and reward defection. According to later Roman historians, Caesar allegedly justified this strategy with a chilling logic often paraphrased as “I love betrayal, but I hate traitors.”
The paradox is revealing. Leaders often weaponize betrayal—until they become its victims. Caesar himself was assassinated by men he trusted, most famously Brutus, on the Ides of March in 44 BCE. The method never changed; only the costumes did.
Modern History Repeats the Same Script
In the twentieth century, betrayal moved from tribal alliances into bureaucratic systems.
During the final months of the Second World War, Heinrich Himmler—head of the SS and one of Adolf Hitler’s closest confidants—attempted to negotiate with Allied forces to secure his own survival. The man responsible for internal security ultimately chose self-preservation over allegiance.
Religion reflects the same human truth. Jesus Christ was not betrayed by Roman soldiers but by Judas—a disciple. A man inside the circle. A man trusted.
Political revolutions tell similar stories. Benedict Arnold turned against the American cause.
The Gunpowder Plot revealed betrayal embedded in faith and loyalty. Kim Philby and the Cambridge Five betrayed British intelligence not because of coercion alone, but because of ideology, ego, and access.
And in the corporate world, betrayal simply wears a suit.
Enron. WorldCom. Bernie Madoff. FTX.
In each case, trust was not accidentally broken—it was systematically exploited. Employees trusted executives. Investors trusted structures.
The public trusted regulation. And when collapse came, it revealed the same pattern seen in war: insiders knew, benefited, and exited while others paid the price.
So Why Do Those We Trust Most Betray Us?
This is the uncomfortable question most commentary avoids.
The answer is not singular.
1. Money
In financial betrayals, greed is often the primary driver. The larger the sums, the greater the moral elasticity. Loyalty becomes negotiable.
2. Fear
In war and authoritarian systems, fear dominates. People betray not to win, but to survive—to protect families, escape punishment, or buy time.
3. Power and Ego
Some betray because access makes them feel untouchable. They believe they are smarter than the system, immune to consequences.
4. Moral Distance
The farther individuals are from the immediate suffering their actions cause, the easier betrayal becomes. Bureaucracy dilutes responsibility.
This is why betrayal often originates at the top, not the bottom.
The Counterargument: Was It Betrayal or Survival?
Intellectually, we must allow this question.
Not every betrayal is malicious. Some are tragic calculations made under impossible pressure. War forces choices no civilian framework can fully judge. Parents flee. Officials defect. Guards look away.
Understanding this does not excuse betrayal—but it explains its persistence.
And an explanation is more valuable than outrage.
What Betrayal Taught Me
After war, intelligence work, investigations, and decades of observing human behavior across systems, one truth stands out:
Trust without understanding is vulnerability.
This does not mean cynicism. It means clarity.
Betrayal sharpened my perception. It taught me to watch incentives, not speeches. Behaviour does not promise. Patterns, not personalities.
People often ask why former soldiers, investigators, or intelligence officers struggle with blind faith in institutions. The answer is simple: we have seen how quickly loyalty dissolves under pressure.
Conclusion: Betrayal Is the Shadow of Trust
Betrayal exists because trust exists.
It is not a flaw of history—it is a feature of humanity. And pretending otherwise does not make societies safer; it makes them naïve.
From ancient battlefields to modern boardrooms, from religious scripture to intelligence files, betrayal follows the same architecture:
- access,
- incentive,
- pressure,
- opportunity.
Understanding betrayal is not about bitterness.
It is about maturity.