By Yakov Nayerman in San Diego
There are two fighters in the ring. One is bound to follow all the rules of boxing. For the other, there are no rules: he hits below the belt, uses his head, and when his opponent is down, he tries to finish him off with his feet. The referee pretends not to notice. The audience either doesn’t know the rules or doesn’t want to; what matters to them is spectacle. They cheer every “effective” blow and boo every one that gets through. So most of the applause goes to the second fighter.
Does the first have a chance to win? A small one—but he does. He could, of course, start breaking the rules as well. But he cannot: he would be disqualified at once. So he must be much stronger and… ignore the crowd’s reaction. He must endure round after round behind a tight defense and, at the right moment, land a decisive, winning blow. To the audience, he will never be a hero; his victory will never be spectacular. But he must grit his teeth and not listen to the noise. Because the main thing is victory.
Doesn’t this unequal fight resemble what we see today—a clash between democracies and authoritarian regimes, where only one side plays by the rules?
The ring of this fight stretches across thousands of miles: on one end, power infrastructure in Kyiv and Kharkov under a barrage of missiles; on the other, kibbutzim turned into targets by those who wage war while hiding behind civilians. And often—the same grimace of the crowd, demanding “restraint” from the victim at the very moment when he is being struck without rules.
In the Middle East—where Iran operates through proxies, strikes at cities, and hides behind civilians, while the other side is forced to respond, knowing that every step it takes will be examined under a magnifying glass. In Russia’s war against Ukraine—where strikes on infrastructure and cities become a tool of pressure, while the defending side is expected to observe every rule flawlessly, even under an existential threat.
The asymmetry runs not only along the front line—it runs through the way governments treat their own people.
In authoritarian countries, protest is a risk. Crackdowns, arrests, censorship, criminal charges for words—up to the shooting of peaceful demonstrators. In democracies, it is a normal part of life: protests numbering in the thousands or even millions, slogans against the government and its policies, including against war. There, the authorities can suppress dissent without political cost. Here, they must constantly look back—at public opinion, independent media, courts, upcoming elections.
In one case, the state treats its citizens as a resource—to be mobilized, suppressed, silenced. In the other, citizens remain participants: they argue, protest, influence, and restrain power. This is yet another layer of the unequal fight. One fighter is bound by nothing—neither rules nor responsibility to his own people. The other is bound by both.
The paradox is that this very openness and accountability make the fight harder. Democracy is not only a strength, but also a constraint: the need to persuade, to explain, to take into account, to tolerate dissent. In the short term, this looks like weakness. In the long term, it is a source of resilience.
What is the first fighter to do? The temptation to take off the gloves is great. But the price is too high: to lose himself, his rules, the very difference for which the fight is being waged. His task is not only to win, but not to become the other.
So there is only one thing to do: keep going. First of all—be stronger. Grit your teeth. Ignore the noise of the crowd. Do your job more precisely and more firmly—but do not cross the line. And remember that in this fight, victory is not only a knockout, but also the ability to leave the ring still being who you were before you entered it.
But the question remains: is all this worth it—the pain, the injustice, the loneliness in this cursed ring? Is victory worth standing there, spitting blood, under the roar of the crowd?
It is.
For we remember: “We were slaves in Egypt.”
This experience is not given to us for pity, but for memory. Slavery is not only chains. It is the willingness to accept the rules of the one who strikes below the belt. It is the readiness to live only as long as you are allowed.
The one who chooses rules in a world without rules does so not out of weakness, but out of strength. Because in defeat, there is no return. The Red Sea will not part a second time.
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Yakov Nayerman is a freelance writer based in San Diego.