The Ancient Art Behind Modern Insurgencies

by Andrea Molle.

In an age of satellite surveillance, artificial intelligence, and drone swarms, it might seem strange—anachronistic, even—to look to the ancients for strategic insight. Yet the most agile and dangerous non-state actors operating in today’s conflicts aren’t necessarily innovating. More often, they are rediscovering. Whether by design or instinct, groups like the Taliban, Hezbollah, or Mexican cartels are relying on strategies that would be familiar to generals in the service of a Chinese emperor, a Roman consul, or an Indian king.

Consider, for instance, how non-state groups use deception as their first weapon of choice. The Chinese strategist Sun Tzu wrote over 2,500 years ago that “all warfare is based on deception,” and his words remain as true on the digital battlefield as they were in the bamboo groves of Warring States China. ISIS demonstrated this principle with chilling effectiveness, staging phony retreats to lure adversaries into ambushes, inflating their perceived strength through slick propaganda videos, and constantly shifting their command structures and locations to avoid being pinned down. In Afghanistan, the Taliban fed NATO forces with manipulated intelligence—often provided through local power brokers playing both sides—only to later exploit the very gaps that Western troops thought were secure. They understood, even if not by name, that appearing weak when strong (and vice versa) sows confusion and paralysis. The battlefield becomes not just physical, but psychological.

This preference for evasion over engagement has deep historical roots. The Roman general Fabius Maximus, facing the brilliant Carthaginian commander Hannibal, famously avoided direct battle, instead opting to harass, delay, and exhaust his opponent. Modern insurgents operate with the same patience. They don’t need to win battles—they only need to avoid losing them. In Iraq and Afghanistan, militias used improvised explosive devices not to destroy whole armies, but to erode morale and buy time. In Yemen, the Houthi rebels use their intimate knowledge of mountain terrain to stage ambushes and then vanish. In southern Lebanon, Hezbollah turned entire villages into fortified positions, built complex tunnel systems, and then baited Israeli forces into costly incursions. They do not hold ground; they hold time.

But ancient statecraft wasn’t just about physical confrontation. In India’s Arthashastra, written by Kautilya around the 4th century BCE, warfare is depicted as a multidimensional game involving spies, informants, subversion, and economic sabotage. Today’s non-state actors apply similar tactics through a blend of political, civil, and military engagement. Hezbollah, for instance, operates not just as a militant group but as a legitimate political party and social service provider in Lebanon. Hamas does the same in Gaza. These organizations understand that power flows not just from the barrel of a gun but from the trust—or dependence—of the people. In Mexico, cartels maintain control through a mix of terror and patronage, providing jobs, gifts, and local governance in exchange for silence or loyalty. Violence, when used, is selective and spectacular—more theater than siege.

Strategically, this aligns with another timeless principle: the importance of psychological warfare. Thucydides, chronicling the Peloponnesian War, argued that the real engines of conflict were not material but emotional—fear, honor, and interest. Non-state actors grasp this well. A bomb in a public market or a mass shooting in a Western city doesn’t aim to win a war in the traditional sense; it aims to provoke overreaction, erode political trust, and stoke division. Al-Qaeda’s 9/11 attacks were meticulously designed to provoke a disproportionate response—and succeeded. The United States was drawn into two decades of costly conflict and internal polarization. In this sense, victory for these groups is not measured in territory but in disruption. The goal is not conquest, but chaos.

Then there is the question of form—or rather, the lack of it. The legendary Japanese swordsman Miyamoto Musashi, in The Book of Five Rings, describes the ideal warrior as one who has no fixed form. Flexibility is itself a strategy. Today’s non-state groups exhibit this fluidity with remarkable agility. ISIS shifted from an underground insurgency to a quasi-state with oil revenues and bureaucratic departments—then reverted back to a cell-based guerrilla movement when the Caliphate collapsed. In Syria, various militias and extremist groups have morphed and rebranded over time, switching allegiances, absorbing rivals, or going dormant depending on which way the wind was blowing. This strategic shapeshifting keeps them unpredictable and, crucially, survivable.

For many Western strategists, this kind of warfare is deeply frustrating. It doesn’t play by the rules. There are no uniforms, no clear fronts, no decisive battles. But that’s the point. The most effective insurgent movements thrive not by copying modern armies but by embracing the oldest ideas in warfare: strike from the shadows, win the narrative, use time as a weapon, and when needed, disappear into the dust.

These strategies may be ancient, but they are far from obsolete. If anything, the technology of our time—social media, encrypted communication, deepfakes—has made them more potent. And while advanced militaries often scramble to adapt, non-state actors have the advantage of ideological focus, narrative control, and strategic patience.

As we grapple with an age of persistent instability, we’d do well to stop thinking of these groups as unsophisticated relics of failed states. They are, in many ways, heirs to some of the oldest and most effective traditions of strategic thought. The future of irregular warfare is already here—and it looks a lot like the past.