What the Ancients Knew

In 1995, I was in Tokyo, sitting across from executives that Wall Street had already buried. The consensus was clear: Japan was finished, a relic of the 1980s. But in those conversations, I heard something different—discipline, patience, a willingness to think in decades rather than quarters. Some of those companies are still standing. Many of their American critics are not.

Five years later, I was in Silicon Valley. Different continent, same certainty—but inverted. Every pitch deck promised revolution. No one could explain the path to profitability, but everyone was sure the stock would double. I knew it was time to step back.

Both moments taught me the same lesson: when power becomes unquestioned, blindness follows.

Lord Acton said it more elegantly:

“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

This is not merely political commentary—it is an observation about human nature itself. Power, when unchecked, distorts judgment. It insulates the powerful from consequence, erodes empathy, and replaces accountability with entitlement.

History offers no exceptions. Every empire that achieved dominance eventually overreached, blinded by the very supremacy it had attained. The logic is inescapable—without countervailing forces, without the friction of competing interests and perspectives, even the well-intentioned will drift toward excess.

This is not cynicism. It is the hard-won realism of anyone who has watched power long enough.

What is remarkable is how consistently the world’s wisdom traditions have recognized this truth—long before Acton, long before modern statecraft, long before any of us.

In the Mahabharata, we encounter the concept of dharma—the cosmic order that sustains the universe. When this balance is disturbed, when adharma rises unchecked, divine intervention restores equilibrium. As Krishna declares in the Bhagavad Gita: “Whenever there is a decline in righteousness and an increase in unrighteousness, I manifest myself.”

The Quran echoes this principle of divine balance: “And the heaven He raised and imposed the balance. That you not transgress within the balance.” (55:7-8) Creation itself is built upon equilibrium—and humanity is entrusted not to disturb it.

The Bible, too, warns against the hubris of unchecked dominion. In Daniel, mighty empires rise only to be humbled: “He changes times and seasons; He deposes kings and raises up others.” (Daniel 2:21) No earthly power is permanent; all are subject to a higher order.

The Kabbalistic tradition speaks of tikkun—the restoration and repair of the world. When forces become imbalanced, the universe moves toward correction. The Tree of Life embodies this: no single sphere dominates; each exists in dynamic relationship with others.

I did not encounter these traditions in a library. My work has taken me across civilizations—advising leaders, sitting with scholars of faith, watching how belief shapes the behavior of nations. What strikes me is not the differences between these traditions, but their convergence on this single point: balance is not optional. It is the architecture of reality.

The World Is Shifting

We are witnessing such a correction today.

The brief moment of singular dominance that followed the Cold War is giving way to a more natural state of distributed power. This is not chaos—it is restoration.

A world with multiple centers of gravity allows civilizations to develop according to their own genius, their own values, their own understanding of the good life. It preserves the diversity of cultures and ways of being that make humanity rich.

In such a world, dialogue between thought traditions becomes essential—spaces where Eastern and Western philosophy meet, where ancient wisdom informs modern governance, where diverse perspectives contribute without one claiming supremacy.

The scales are tipping. The question is not whether the world will rebalance—it already is. The question is whether we will navigate this transition with wisdom.

For those who built careers assuming a single center of gravity, this is disorienting. The playbooks are obsolete. The question facing every leader, every institution, every civilization is stark: Will you resist the rebalancing and exhaust yourself fighting the tide? Or will you learn to read the new currents?

I have spent nearly three decades helping institutions navigate exactly these moments. The ones that survive are not the most powerful—they are the most adaptive.

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
— Lao Tzu

History is patient. We are not.

This is what The Long Arc is about.

The Long Arc is not a lecture—it is a conversation I have been having with myself for thirty years. About what endures. About what matters when the noise fades.

If you have ever looked at the headlines and sensed that the real story is deeper—that something ancient is stirring beneath the surface—I would be honored to think alongside you.

— Nazem