The body count remains modest by historical standards; a Democratic legislator here, an abortion provider there. Not quite yet Italy’s Anni di Piombo, those Years of Lead when ideological warfare and near civil-war conditions left hundreds dead. Yet, a not dissimilar infrastructure is emerging, featuring kill lists circulating through encrypted channels, self-styled constitutional militias casing state capitols and pastors offering prayers with implicit crosshairs.

In Minnesota, Vance Boelter, self-appointed “Dr. Vance Boelter,” with fraudulent credentials from the Christ for the Nations Institute, embodies this new terror paradigm. Using a fake police SUV and a carefully curated kill list mingling political targets with abortion providers – he gunned down Democratic lawmaker Melissa Hortman and her husband. Officials say Melissa Hortman and John Hoffman were targeted because they were public servants. Their spouses, Marc Hortman and Yvette Hoffman, were targeted too, with Hoffman shielding her daughter with her body from the bullets of the assailant in an act of extreme self-sacrifice and courage. In the tragedy of this event, solace can be gained from the fact that they survived this harrowing ordeal.

How can we make sense of this clear-cut politically motivated assassination? America’s nascent Years of Lead operates under different mechanics than traditional terrorism. The violent acts emerge not from well-defined ideological factions but from an ecosystem of stochastic terrorism. Its characteristics are unpredictable, non-linear violence propelled by radicalization without coherent ideological structures. Radical ideas circulate through mainstream institutions: megachurches, Bible colleges, and online platforms. Boelter’s theology of “violent prayer” was not secretive or underground; it was openly taught at Christ for the Nations Institute in Dallas, where students learn daily that the unsaved, their neighbours, communities, cultural institutions and more are all spiritual enemies in literal warfare.

Our previous framework of liminal terror and violence is instructive here. It describes actors like Boelter not as isolated extremists but as liminal agents – radicalized individuals who occupy an interstitial ideological space, shaped by fragmented online subcultures, conspiracy theories, and institutionalized extremism. Boelter, whose ideological profile combined evangelical zealotry, anti-abortion militancy, and conspiratorial paranoia, fits this model precisely.

This marks a profound shift from previous eras of ideological violence. Italy’s Years of Lead featured clearly delineated groups, ranging from the Red Brigades to neo-fascist militants, with each attack serving as a violent communiqué. American stochastic terror, however, emerges from seemingly disparate ideological fragments. Rather than radical vanguardist Marxism, or the hold-outs of Italian Fascism, we see instead QAnon conspiracies, Seven Mountains Dominionism, and aggressive anti-abortion activism. These movements are always, in friction, coalescing unpredictably within individuals who act without centralized direction. Traditional ideologies and architectures of political violence break down, leaving in their stead a diffuse language of political violence that is much more fringe and disaggregated in nature.

Gordon Lindsay founded Christ for the Nations with a theology born from the racist and conspiratorial currents of British Israelism. Today, his institution has produced figures like the “Apostle” Dutch Sheets, whose Millenarian prophecies fuelled the January 6th insurrectionists. The transformation of spiritual metaphors into violent action has been gradual but deliberate, facilitated by a media landscape and institutional network that turns metaphoric warfare into real-world violence. Such actors see themselves as eternal revolutionaries in a fundamentalist movement known as the ‘New Apostolic Reformation‘. For them, America is anointed by God to convert the world to Christianity – by force if necessary – and to that end all can be permitted in order to accelerate Jesus’ return and rule over the Earth. This divine mission, as they see it, will be carried out when true believers seize control of the institutions of the U.S. government.

Boelter exemplifies this progression and phenomena perfectly. Initially a missionary, later head of “Praetorian Guard” security services, he compiled kill lists blending political and medical targets. His 2022 sermon quoted Galatians on “self-control”; by 2025, self-control meant disciplined violence, justified by the phrase, “against such things there is no law.” Stochastic terrorism thrives on precisely this ideological fluidity, as it is disconnected from structured commands but intimately tied to legitimizing institutions, such as those in the US Government..

An example of this can be seen as regards the financing structures of American Christian nationalism, which diverge notably from traditional terrorist funding. Rather than clandestine support, money flows through legal channels: tax-exempt institutions, political action committees, and multimillion-dollar media enterprises. The terror is both mainstream yet underground, revolutionary yet institutional. In always exists in these binary spaces at once, producing figures who exist perpetually at the threshold of violence. Boelter and similar figures are not aberrations but inevitable outcomes of this system. They inhabit a world of ‘stigmatized knowledge’, as sociologist Michael Barkun terms it, which creates in-group identities through rejection of mainstream society.

Violence thus emerges unpredictably but systematically from this broader ideological environment. Boelter was never truly alone. Rather, he was always swimming within a sea of radical preparation. Institutions like Christ for the Nations foster these conditions openly, portraying fellow citizens as existential threats. Such environments are fertile ground for stochastic violence.

The recent acceleration toward violence stems partly from Christian nationalists’ realization that despite their institutional strength in the Supreme Court, their broad electoral power and their powerful media reach, they are losing the cultural battle. America continues becoming more secular and diverse, challenging their worldview. As in Italy, when electoral politics fails to achieve revolutionary goals, extremists increasingly regard democracy itself as the obstacle. But the violence shaping America’s current political landscape cannot be attributed solely to anxieties of cultural displacement; such an explanation simplifies deeper complexities. Instead, it stems from a more troubling source: a profound disillusionment and political alienation intensified by decades of declining institutional legitimacy and partisan paralysis. Christian nationalist extremism, therefore, is not purely reactionary, for it has a distinctly apocalyptic character, driven by a perceived necessity to disrupt an unacceptable status quo and confront what adherents view as an irreparable moral decline.

This extremism isn’t simply one-directional, or somehow the fault of purely those Christian Nationalist organisation who have thrown their support behind the Republican Party and President Donald Trump in a fraying domestic political environment. Rather, it has been able to grow in part because the Democratic opposition has struggled to present a unified and effective response. Fragmented in approach, inconsistent in messaging and unable to differentiate themselves as a necessary lever in the balance of power due to an obsession with proceduralism and managerialism, Democrats have inadvertently allowed space for extremist narratives to flourish. Radicalized individuals do not merely consider themselves victims of cultural marginalization but view their actions through the lens of a deeper, existential conflict, lending a profound significance to their acts of violence.

Thus, the new wave of political violence in America is characterized by a clear ideological purpose. It manifests as a symbolic confrontation, driven by narratives that frame violence as morally justified, even necessary. Such violence does not arise solely from perceived cultural defeat but from a perceived absence of credible political leadership, leaving an opening for extremist rhetoric to dominate public discourse.

Preventing America’s descent into its own Years of Lead requires confronting the roots of ideological radicalization, acknowledging institutions that mainstream violence, and recognizing stochastic terrorism as a structural problem, not just individual criminality. Italy’s crisis ended through robust policing, political reform, and societal exhaustion with violence. America faces different challenges, including deeply embedded extremism within legitimate, mainstream institutions.

Ultimately, we must understand stochastic terrorism as not merely random or isolated acts but as symptoms of a systemic legitimacy crisis. To prevent widespread violence, we must address institutional complicity in radicalization, reject the literalization of spiritual warfare, and challenge the theological foundations that transform metaphor into massacre. When “violent prayer” becomes institutional curriculum, we have moved beyond normal politics into pre-civil-war conditions. Recognizing this is the first step to avoiding our own Years of Lead.

By Etienne Darcas, Media and Terror Team Lead, Rise to Peace

Though terrorist organisations today often operate without clear borders, their digital footprints travel freely, amplified by algorithms, shared by users, and at times left unchecked by the very platforms that host them. In response, a global reckoning is underway over the question of liability: should social media companies be held responsible for the spread of terrorist content online?

This debate is far from settled. Across the globe, governments are adopting radically different legal frameworks to regulate tech platforms’ responsibilities. These approaches reflect not only varying levels of technological capacity and political will but diverging philosophies about the balance between public safety, freedom of expression, and corporate accountability. The result is a fragmented legal landscape in which global platforms must navigate contradictory demands from nation-states, sometimes with grave human rights implications.

Diverging Approaches in Europe and the United States

The European Union has taken a more interventionist approach with its Digital Service Act (DSA), enacted in 2022. This legislation requires large platforms like X (formerly Twitter), Meta, and YouTube to assess and mitigate systemic risks, including the dissemination of terrorist content. The DSA’s enforcement was tested during the October 2023 Israel-Hamas conflict, when graphic images and propaganda spread rapidly. The EU opened an investigation into X for allegedly failing to remove illegal content, prompting Internal Market Commissioner Thierry Breton to issue a formal warning. Breton made it clear that X’s subsequent withdrawal from the EU’s voluntary Code of Practice on Disinformation would not exempt it from its legal obligation under the DSA. ‘You can run, but you can’t hide,’ he warned. The incident underlined the EU’s intent to hold platforms accountable and its belief that freedom of expression must be balanced with civic responsibility. However, a structural limitation of the DSA lies in its procedural ambiguity: the regulation does not impose a legal deadline for concluding formal proceedings. Additionally, the length of an in-depth investigation is contingent upon various factors, including the intricacy of the case, the degree of cooperation from the platform under scrutiny, and the procedural rights exercised by the company in question.

In contrast, the United States upholds one of the strongest legal shields through Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, granting platforms a broad immunity from liability for user-generated content. As supported by American jurisprudence, Section 230 buffers them from being treated as publishers of third-party material and protects platforms that remove harmful content in good faith. These provisions have enabled moderation without liability, but continue to fuel debate over platform accountability and content amplification. In Twitter Inc. v. Taamneh(2023), the US Supreme Court held that platforms like X, Twitter at the time, cannot be held liable for terrorist content merely for hosting it. In fact, liability requires proof that the platform knowingly provided substantial assistance to a specific act of terrorism. The Court warned that imposing broader liability would ‘run roughshod over the typical limits on tort liability’ and risk treating any communications provider as complicit simply for failing to prevent misuse of its services. While critics argue that Section 230 has been interpreted too broadly, granting platforms sweeping immunity, defenders caution that reform could trigger over-censorship.

Regulatory Variations Across Jurisdictions

In different political contexts, approaches to regulating terrorist content often reflect broader governance priorities, including the management of dissent and control over information environments. In India, authorities have used the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act (UAPA), a national instrument, to compel social media companies to remove content related to terrorist activities, as well as the Financial Action Task Force (FATF), an international instrument, to tackle money laundering, terrorism and proliferation financing. Nonetheless, the use of these instruments by the Indian government has prompted alarm. Amnesty International argues they have been weaponised to suppress legitimate dissent and dismantle civil society. While UAPA was deployed to arrest activists and human rights defenders, the FATF framework has been invoked through foreign funding laws to restrict the operations of critical NGOs. Amnesty contends that the use of both instruments has a chilling effect on civil society and free expression, raising concerns about compliance with international norms on human rights and the rule of law. Turkey has taken a similarly assertive approach, passing the ‘Disinformation Law’ in 2022, requiring platforms to appoint local representatives and comply with takedown orders or face penalties. While aimed at combating disinformation, its vague criminalisation of ‘misleading information’ threatens free expression. Critics argue it increases government control over content and fuels media repression and self-censorship rather than fostering reliable information. Likewise, Human rights groups report that terrorism and defamation charges under this law have been deployed to intimidate journalists, human rights defenders, and civil society actors, raising concerns about due process, media freedom, and the chilling of democratic debate.

In conflict-prone regions such as Myanmar and Ethiopia, the challenge is often one of under-moderation. Meta has faced criticism for failing to adequately monitor hate speech in languages other than English. In Myanmar, according to a United Nations Report, Facebook became a platform for inciting violence against the Rohingya minority, contributing to real-world atrocities. In Ethiopia, similar failures were evident during the Tigray conflict, when posts inciting ethnic violence and misinformation circulated widely with minimal intervention. These cases illustrate how enforcement disparities, particularly in multilingual and high-conflict environments, expose the limits of global platforms’ current content moderation strategies.

Competing Values and Shared Frameworks

At the heart of this global debate lies a fundamental tension: how to reconcile the protection of free expression with the need to prevent real-world harm. In some jurisdictions, as noted, there is a growing recognition that platforms must assume greater responsibility, particularly when engagement-driven algorithms amplify harmful content. Yet determining the threshold for liability remains deeply contested, both legally and ideologically. Compounding this challenge is the absence of a unified international standard; in fact, what constitutes a terrorist in content in one country may be viewed as protected speech in another. Governments leverage these ambiguities to demand takedowns or justify inaction based on political expediency rather than principle. These inconsistencies not only expose users to unequal protections but also place tech platforms in the impossible position of being arbiters of global speech.

Efforts towards consensus are emerging. For instance, the Christchurch Call, initiated by France and New Zealand, encourages states and tech firms to collaborate in tackling terrorist content online. Similarly, the Global Internet Forum to Counter Terrorism (GIFCT) supports a shared database of extremist material. Nonetheless, criticism persists regarding transparency and governance. While some advocate for a binding international framework, a ‘digital Geneva Convention’, to establish baseline norms for content moderation, others argue that it is unnecessary, asserting that existing Geneva Conventions already extend to cyberspace. They caution that creating a new, standalone legal regime could lead to redundancy, legal confusion, and political impracticality. 

Though the road to convergence is long, the stakes are undeniable: a global digital commons demands a shared principled approach. As the legal battleground over terrorist content intensifies, it becomes clear that digital platforms are not passive conduits but active architects of the online environment, whether through algorithmic design, content moderation practices, or compliance with government mandates. The liability question thus transcends legal technicalities. It reflects deeper normative struggles over who gets to define harm, enforce norms, and shape public discourse in the digital age. In the absence of coherent international standards, the fragmentation of regulatory approaches risks entrenching inequalities, empowering authoritarian tendencies, and undermining both the protection of human rights and the effectiveness of counterterrorism efforts.

By Charlotte Soulé,  Rise to Peace intern and Masters of International War Studies student at University College Dublin

Editor’s Note: This article is a research contribution from Giana Romo Bastidas, Research Fellow and Intern at Rise to Peace. It explores the shifting landscape of modern conflict, contrasting conventional and liminal (hybrid) warfare, and examines their divergent impacts on human security. The piece is academic in scope and includes references for further reading. We at Rise to Peace encourage readers to consider how these evolving forms of warfare complicate the boundaries of conflict and security in the 21st century.

Executive Summary
The nature of war in the 21st century is shifting from conventional, state-on-state conflict to ambiguous, hybrid, and liminal forms of confrontation. Liminal warfare, operating in the “gray zone” between peace and war, leverages non-military tactics (cyberattacks, disinformation, economic coercion) to undermine security in ways that are often invisible and difficult to attribute. While conventional warfare’s impact on human security is overt, kinetic, and triggers organized humanitarian responses, liminal warfare erodes economic stability, societal cohesion, and political integrity, often below the threshold of traditional response mechanisms. Humanitarian and legal frameworks designed for conventional conflict struggle to address the chronic insecurity and ambiguity produced by liminal warfare. The article calls for new, adaptive, human-centric frameworks to address the complexities and persistent threats posed by this evolving landscape of conflict.


Liminal Warfare and Human Security: Rethinking the Impact of Modern Conflict

The character of conflict in the 21^st century has undergone significant changes, moving from the traditional model of state-on-state warfare toward more fragmented, ambiguous, and non-linear forms or confrontation. While war has always changed its form and appearances, recent discussions highlight the hybridization of warfare (Mälksoo,2018), which involves the increasing interconnection of military, information, and cyber means of confrontation (Eberle & Daniel, 2023). This shift includes concepts like asymmetric warfare, counterinsurgency, and cyber warfare, and involves the strategic use of non-violent means. This transformation has profoundly blurred the lines between war and non-war. Traditionally, conventional warfare understands security in terms of individual states, focusing on the protection of the state’s sovereignty and territorial integrity from external military threats. It is defined by the military capabilities used against invading armies and involves combat operations carried out by organized armed forces, often through physical violence and destruction. The general impact of conventional warfare on human security, while focused on state survival, historically included devastating civilian suffering and loss life, as seen in the catastrophic scope of conflicts like world war I and II.

In contrast, liminal warfare, often discussed alongside or as part of hybrid warfare, refers to conflict that occurs “in-between” space or zone of uncertainty between established states of war and peace. The concept of liminality, originating in anthropology, describes an “interstructural position” of being stuck “betwixt and between” recognized structures and categories, characterized by uncertainty and ambiguity (Mälksoo, 2018). In the context of conflict, this means it is difficult to clearly establish if one is in a state of war or peace. A contemporary example of this change is the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014, which involved the use of “little polite green men” alongside information and cyber means. Illustrating the increasing hybrization of warfare (Eberle & Daniel, 2023). This event, along with Russia’s ongoing military involvement in Ukraine, illuminates this shift. Hybrid warfare, particularly as a discourse, operates by extending the logic of war into wider areas, such as, social life, blurring the distinction between peacetime and conflict. It can often be described as undeclared, insidious and even invisible, happening here and now without clear delimitations or battlefields.

This essay argues that while conventional warfare primarily impacts human security overtly through state-centric kinetic violence, leading to direct physical harm and large-scale destruction, liminal or hybrid warfare operates differently. Characterized by its inherent ambiguity and use of non-military means in the in between space of war and peace, it insidiously targets broader dimensions of human security, including economic stability, societal cohesion, and political integrity.  

Human security is a concept that gained significant traction in the post-Cold War era, fundamentally reorients the focus of security studies from the state to the individual. Traditional security paradigms tend to center the state, while human security seeks to protect ‘the vital core of all human lives in ways that enhance human freedoms and human fulfillment’ (Liotta & Owen, 2006). It advocates for the protection of people from a broad spectrum of threats, encompassing not only “freedom from fear” but also “freedom from want” (Acharya et al, 2006). This expansive understanding recognizes that security extends beyond traditional military concepts to include economic, food, health, environmental, personal, community and political dimensions. Conventional warfare, in stark contrast, traditionally understands security in terms of individual states, primarily focusing on the protection of the state’s sovereignty and territorial integrity form external military threats. It is defined by military capabilities used against invading armies and involves combat operations carried out by organized armed forces, characterized by physical violence and direct destruction (Sari, 2023). The primary impact of conventional warfare on human security, while often framed around state survival, historically entails devastating civilian suffering and loss of life, as evidenced by the catastrophic scope of conflicts like World war I and II (Sari, 2023). The overt and violent nature of such conflicts often leads to severe physical harm, mass displacement, and the extensive destruction of vital infrastructure. This creates “security vulnerabilities and challenges in the context of forced migration” and triggers large-scale humanitarian crises, though these are typically understood in conventional terms (Rowa, 2023).

Liminal warfare, often discussed interchangeably with “hybrid warfare” or “gray zone conflict” fundamentally operates in a space that is “in-between the traditional duality of war and peace” (Eberle & Daniel, 2023). This concept draws heavily from the anthropological notion of “liminality”, originally articulated by French ethnographer and folklorist Arnold van Gennep and further developed by cultural anthropologist Victor Turner. Liminality refers to an “interstructural position” (Mälksoo, 2018) of being “betwixt and between” established structures and categories, characterized by inherent “uncertainty and ambiguity”. Liminal entities are ambiguous they elude or slip through the classifications that normally locate states and positions in cultural space (Mälksoo, 2018).

Scholars like Maria Mälksoo have adapted this concept to international relations, employing it to analyze “the politics of the transitional” and highlights its “theoretical and empirical mileage “in understanding large-scale shifts in global affairs. Similarly, Hazel Andrews and Les Roberts demonstrate liminality’s application to geographical spaces, underscoring its manifestation in various spatial and experiential domains. In the context of conflict, this ambiguity is a critical aspect, making it difficult to clearly establish if one is in state of war or peace (Eberle & Daniel, 2023), and hostile actors deliberately generate ambiguity to obscure what is happening and mask the differentiation between war and peace. The defining features of liminal warfare include its inherent ambiguity and uncertainty, a lack of formal declarations, and an extensive reliance on non-military tactics, particularly in the information sphere. This form of conflict blurs the lines between state of war and non-war (Eberle & Daniel, 2023), operating below the threshold of conventional war while pursuing strategic objectives. Core tactics often associated with this liminal space encompass cyberattacks, disinformation and propaganda, economic coercion, and political subversion, all contributing to a conflict environment that is undeclared without clear battlefields (Eberle & Daniel, 2023).

The impact of warfare on human security diverges significantly when comparing conventional and liminal approaches, particularly concerning physical and economic security. In conventional warfare, physical security is directly and overtly threatened. It involves primarily through direct violence, combat, deaths, physical injuries, and the destruction of infrastructure (Sari, 2023). Its immediate physicality, though devastating, often prompts organized humanitarian responses. In contrast, liminal warfare causes physical insecurity through indirect and systemic means. Cyberattacks on hospitals, power grids or transportation systems can disrupt essential services, delay medical treatment, and indirectly cause fatalities (Eberle & Daniel, 2023). Moreover, coordinated disinformation campaigns can incite social unrest and violence, contributing to civilian insecurity without clear perpetrators.

Economically, conventional wars destroy physical capital, disrupt production chains, and cause inflation and unemployment in conflict zones. Liminal warfare, however, strategically undermines economic security without kinetic force. It employs tools such as sanctions evasion, intellectual property theft, and currency manipulation to erode the economic stability of target states (Eberle & Daniel, 2023). These tactics, often difficult to attribute, result in prolonged poverty, stagnation and public distrust in financial institutions. The threatening nature of such aggression means populations may experience economic collapse without ever recognizing the mechanisms of warfare acting upon them.

In some contexts, conventional warfare may paradoxically strengthen social cohesion as communities rally against a visible external enemy. However, liminal warfare deliberately targets the internal bonds that maintain societal unity. By leveraging propaganda, deepfake technology, and algorithm-driven misinformation, it sows distrust between citizens and their governments, polarizes electorates, and exacerbates social fragmentation (Pendaroski, 2015). The outcome is a state of chronic insecurity where fear is not caused by bombs but by the erosion of shared truths and mutual trust. Similarly, political stability suffers differently. While conventional wars may involve direct regime change or military coups, liminal tactics destabilize political systems more subtly; from within. Interference in electoral processes, the funding of extremist political parties, and the erosion of public confidence in democratic institutions have all become common features of liminal conflict (Eberle & Daniel, 2023). The absence of overt aggression allows these actions to occur below the threshold of international response mechanisms, creating enduring political uncertainty and weakening state governance capacities.

Conventional warfare often generates visible and traceable humanitarian crises, mass displacement, infrastructure collapse, and widespread human suffering. These outcomes typically activate international mechanisms such as the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), the international Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), and formal humanitarian corridors, providing structured responses to protect civilians (Rowa, 2023). Legal instruments such as the Geneva Conventions are designed for such scenarios, enabling clear, accountability and coordination.

Liminal Warfare, by contrast, presents unique challenges to humanitarian systems. The weaponization of migration; whereby displaced populations are used as tools to exert pressure on adversaries. Rowa (2023), highlights how securitization processes embedded within protection regimes often fail to address these ambiguous crises. Refugees caught in liminal conflicts frequently fall outside conventional frameworks of protection, facing prolonged uncertainty and neglect. States may intentionally facilitate refugee flows to destabilize neighboring countries or overwhelm asylum systems, intensifying vulnerabilities. Moreover, attribution in liminal warfare is profoundly difficult. Without clear perpetrators or legal thresholds for conflict, holding actors accountable becomes a challenge. This undermines international justice mechanisms and delays or prevents the activation of protective responses. As such, liminal warfare not only destabilizes regions but also exploits and erodes the very systems designed to protect vulnerable populations in times of crisis.

Liminal warfare presents a fundamentally distinct threat to human security when compared to conventional warfare. While traditional conflicts inflict immediate and visible harm (mobilizing structured humanitarian and legal responses) liminal warfare operates in the shadows, targeting the economic foundations, societal cohesion, and political integrity of its victims through prolonged ambiguity and non-kinetic strategies. These indirect methods produce chronic insecurity, erode public trust, and complicated international response mechanisms. As this essay has shown, the multifaceted and often invisible nature of liminal conflict demands a reevaluation of security paradigms and shift toward more adaptive, human-centric approaches. The pervasive “chronic insecurity” fostered by this form of conflict, a state of perpetual anxiety rather than acute trauma, demands a fundamental re-evaluation of how security is conceptualized and addressed. Ultimately, effectively navigating the complexities of contemporary global insecurity necessitates developing new analytical frameworks and response strategies that account for the pervasive, multi-dimensional, and often invisible threats posed by liminal warfare.

References:

Acharya, A., 2001. Human Security: East versus West. International Journal, 56(3), pp.442–460.

Andrews, H. and Roberts, L. eds., 2012. Liminal Landscapes: Travel, Experience and Spaces In-between. London: Routledge.

Eberle, J. and Daniel, J., 2023. Politics of Hybrid Warfare: The Remaking of Security in Czechia after 2014. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan.

Liotta, P.H. and Owen, T., 2006. Why Human Security? Whitehead Journal of Diplomacy and International Relations, 7(1), pp.37–54.

Mälksoo, M., 2012. Liminality and the Politics of the Transitional. In: Wydra, H. ed. Handbook of Political Anthropology. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, pp.145–162.

Pendaroski, M., 2015. Personal Security in Times of Globalisation – A Perceptive Illusion or a Struggle for Self-Actualization. In: Đorđević, I., Glamotchak, M., Stanarević, S. and Gačić, J. eds. Twenty Years of Human Security: Theoretical Foundations and Practical Applications. Belgrade: Faculty of Security Studies, University of Belgrade, pp.79–94.

Rowa, Y.J., 2023. Refugee Protection, Securitization, and Liminality. Oxford Research Encyclopedia of International Studies. [online] Available at: https://doi.org/10.1093/acrefore/9780190846626.013.715 [Accessed 26 May 2025].

Sari, A., 2023. Warfare Between Metaphor and Reality: Legal Challenges of Hybrid Conflict. University of St. Thomas Journal of Law and Public Policy, 16(2), pp.594–679.

Turner, V., 1969. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldine Publishing.

Van Gennep, A., 1909. The Rites of Passage. Paris: Émile Nourry.

Though the Islamic State, or ISIS, has long lost its territorial grip, the influence of its digital propaganda machine endures. At the height of its power, ISIS pioneered a sophisticated media strategy that transformed how terrorist organisations project influence, prioritising decentralisation, visual coherence, and emotional resonance to attract supporters and instil fear on a global scale. This communications model, while not unique to ISIS, has left a lasting imprint on the media operations of other jihadist movements. Recognising these patterns is not simply an exercise in retrospective analysis. As contemporary terrorist groups adopt similar techniques, understanding the architecture of ISIS’s media playbook offers a critical lens for identifying emerging threats. When narratives follow familiar contours, counterrorism efforts can respond not only to what is said, but to how and why it is said.

Platforms and Content

The Islamic State’s media strategy leveraged a range of platforms, including Telegram, X (previously Twitter), Facebook, YouTube, and TikTok. These platforms were crucial for spreading ISIS propaganda and recruiting new members, particularly among disenfranchised youth. Telegram, in particular, allowed ISIS to maintain encrypted communication and distribute a variety of content to its followers while evading censorship. TikTok, on the other hand, attracted a younger demographic, providing an avenue to disseminate short-form video that combined violent imagery with messages promoting martyrdom and jihad. An example of this can be seen in the case of L. Walby, a 19-year-old convert from Kent, UK, who posted ISIS propaganda videos on such platforms. According to the BBC, Walby, who had over 1.500 followers on TikTok and more than 10.000 likes on his posts, explained that he had ‘joined the trend’. This reflects a wider trend seen across social media where individuals, often younger, become part of an online subculture that glorifies extremism and terrorism. The videos Walby posted included graphic footage of combat scenes, executions, and martyrdom, aimed at normalising violence and encouraging others to embrace jihad.

Additionally, the Islamic State leveraged dedicated media outlets, such as Amaq News Agency and Al-Hayat Media Centre, to distribute its propaganda. These platforms produced high-quality content that reinforced ISIS’s ideological narrative. For instance, Amaq News Agency was central to ISIS’s communication strategy, offering real-time updates on operations and attacks, often glorifying these actions as part of a larger struggle against the West; while Dabiq was a digital magazine published in several languages, aimed at inspiring Muslim youth globally, urging them to join the caliphate. It presented a vision of a utopian Islamic state, promising a sense of belonging and purpose for those who joined. The strategic goal behind ISIS’s media framework has three key components: recruitment, intimidation, and legitimacy. The use of social media platforms was central to the group’s recruitment efforts, offering a sense of camaraderie and ideological purity to individuals who felt disconnected or marginalised. Intimidation was another key goal, These graphic materials were intended to instil fear and signal the group’s ruthless commitment to its cause. Finally, by producing highly polished, professional content in multiple languages and through diverse channels, ISIS sought to legitimise itself as the vanguard of a global Islamic struggle, rather than merely a terrorist group. This pattern is not isolated, and it highlights the potential for counterterrorism efforts to focus on identifying and disrupting the digital activities of such groups.

The Spread of a Template

The Islamic State’s digital blueprint has had a lasting impact well beyond its core territory, and its media strategy has served as a model for several jihadist groups operating in Syria, Afghanistan and parts of Africa. These groups have adapted and reinterpreted ISIS’s template to suit local contexts, but the core elements remain recognisable: strong branding, glorified portrayals of martyrdom, and the strategic use of social media to project legitimacy and reach a global audience. 

In northern Syria, Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) offers one of the clearest examples of aesthetic and narrative imitation. While distancing itself from ISIS ideologically, HTS has adopted similar media tactics to rebrand itself as a legitimate governing actor. Under the leadership of al-Jolani, the group has curated a public image centred on moderation and local governance. Its videos often show Jolani engaging with civilians, attending religious events, and meeting with local leaders; an imagery designed to soften perception and attract external legitimacy. This media campaign has included calculated outreach to Western audience, most notably through Jolani’s 2021 appearance on PBS Frontline. The visual polish and messaging coherence evoke the same media discipline pioneered by ISIS, albeit directed at different political ends.  

In contrast, Islamic State Khorasan Province (ISKP), in Afghanistan, has pushed the model further. Following the Taliban’s return to power, ISKP has doubled down on online propaganda, using AI tools to produce and disseminate multilingual content through its media arm, Al-Azaim Foundation. These efforts aim to radicalise, recruit, and assert the group’s ideological purity in contrast to its rivals. Similarly, Jama’at Nusrat al-Islam wal-Muslimin (JNIM) in the Sahel has utilised media to bolster its narrative of religious legitimacy. Though seemly technologically less advanced, JNIM has borrowed from ISIS’s approach to visual propaganda, including footage of attacks and the imposition of conservative Islamic law in controlled areas.  

Lastly, Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP), born from Boko Haram’s allegiance to ISIS, has closely followed the ISIS model in both tone and technique. Between 2016 and 2020, it released over 100 videos, often showing executions, attacks, and hostage situations. ISWAP has also made use of platforms like Telegram, YouTube, X, and encrypted messaging apps to distribute content, echoing ISIS’s emphasis on platform diversification and digital security.

Digital Arms Race

As jihadist groups have grown more agile in their use of digital platforms, states, institutions, and technology companies have scrambled to catch up; often reacting rather than anticipating. In the European Union, new legislation mandates that internet platforms remove terrorist content within one hour of a removal order, while specialised bodies like the EU Internet Referral Unit and the Radicalisation Awareness Network work to identify extremist narratives and support member states in mitigation. In the US, the Global Engagement Centre (GEC) has adopted a more decentralised approach, collaborating with community actors, former extremists, and religious leaders to deliver counter-narratives and build resilience in targeted communities. In the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region, responses have largely followed a top-down securitised model, where state policies prioritise regime stability and ideological control. Here, counterterrorism strategies often blur the lines between legitimate dissent and violent extremism, creating a restrictive media environment that can inadvertently drive extremist narratives underground rather than dismantling them. Yet despite these developments, jihadist media strategies remain highly resilient. A constant cat-and-mouse dynamic characterises the digital battlefield: as content is removed from mainstream platforms, extremist groups shift to encrypted apps, decentralised networks, and cloud-based repositories. The adaptive use of language, hashtags, and platform migration techniques ensures that even as specific content is taken down, the propaganda architecture remains largely intact. Groups like ISKP and ISWAP not only pre-empt takedowns but often exploit the takedown process itself to frame narratives of persecution and legitimacy.

This enduring adaptability reveals a critical oversight in counterterrorism policy: the tendency to view jihadist propaganda as peripheral rather than central to insurgent strategy. The influence of ISIS’s model: high-impact visuals, multilingual messaging, and decentralised media production, remains visible across successor groups, even in regions with limited connectivity or state presence. This digital legacy matters precisely because it has become a strategic blueprint. Its methods are easily replicated, widely disseminated, and difficult to erase. Graphic content, algorithmic optimisation, and culturally tailored messaging can be deployed by both major organisations and lone actors, allowing terrorist ideology to persist and mutate even in the absence of territorial control. 

Ultimately, a reactive approach to extremist content moderation is no longer sufficient. What is needed is a proactive, systemic understanding of jihadist media strategy; one that anticipates its evolution, counters its appeal, and treats the information space not as an auxiliary front, but as a core battleground in contemporary terrorism. 

Charlotte Soulé, Rise to Peace Contributor and Masters of International War Studies student at University College Dublin

The ‘Tradwife’ (traditional wife) movement in the United States operates as a digital phenomenon that promotes a return to conventional gender roles, where women embrace domesticity, submission to a male partner, and a homemaker lifestyle as empowering choices. In contrast, Afghan women face traditional roles enforced through legal and political structures. These two models of gender normativity illustrate how context transforms meaning. While American tradwives present their lifestyle as a revival of femininity, Afghan women live a reality of restricted agency, silenced discourse, and structural resistance. This comparison exposes key differences between performative and imposed domesticity.

The tradwife phenomenon fits squarely within the logic of liminal warfare; a form of modern terrorism that Rise to Peace is exploring and which relies not only on direct violence but on gray zones of information warfare, identity manipulation, and narrative control. When co-opted by far-right extremists, tradwife content becomes a digital vehicle for radicalization, as modern terrorism increasingly leverages aestheticized content and algorithmic exposure to draw individuals into ideologically extreme spaces. Tradwife influencers, especially those aligned with alt-right ideologies, repurposing everyday imagery as a subtle vehicle for radicalization.

American tradwives often frame domestic roles as a form of empowerment and resistance to feminism. Deem (2023) notes that many in this movement adopt the label “feminine, not feminist,” positioning themselves in opposition to gender equality discourse. Llanera (2023) argues that this framing aligns with alt-right ideologies that use idealized femininity to reinforce patriarchal structures.

In Afghanistan, gender roles are not a matter of personal identity but the result of coercive state control. Since the return of Taliban rule, multiple international bodies, such as Human Rights Watch and UN Women, have issued alerts highlighting the institutionalized oppression of Afghan women, ranging from bans on education to exclusion from public life. These reports illustrate how domesticity becomes a condition of survival, not a personal or ideological stance.

Tradwife content spreads rapidly through algorithm-driven platforms like Instagram and TikTok. Bail et al. (2018) demonstrate that exposure to polarized views intensifies ideological divides, creating echo chambers that prevent people from being exposed to information that contradicts their pre-existing beliefs. Tradwife influencers benefit from this structure by distributing emotionally charged, aesthetically appealing content that builds loyal followings.

This mirrors the mechanics of liminal warfare. Terrorist movements now use soft-entry tactics, ranging from memes, nostalgia, and lifestyle aesthetics to lower cognitive defenses and normalize extremist ideologies. Tradwife narratives foster a sense of comfort and tradition while quietly pushing audiences toward radical worldviews.

Meanwhile, Afghan women are largely excluded from these digital arenas. Internet access remains limited and heavily monitored, especially for women and girls. The same platforms that enable Western women to craft their identities and project narratives are unavailable to those whose lives are tightly controlled by state power.

Simpson (2024) found that the #tradwife trend shaped women’s political identities during a U.S. election year. What appears as an innocuous embrace of femininity often operates as an entry point to far-right ideology. Sitler-Elbel (2021) describes the pathway from “Swiffers to Swastikas” as deliberately structured through content ecosystems and influencer networks.

This pathway aligns with what Rise to Peace calls the new economy of terror, where ideology is consumed through clicks and shares. In this model, tradwife content becomes a vector for extremism masked in nostalgia and moral certainty. Afghan women, in contrast, face ideological control through state power, not social media. Their silencing is institutional and physical—not algorithmic. They do not choose submission; it is enforced.

Marzochi and Balieiro (2021) describe the tradwife phenomenon as a product of political narcissism. Carefully curated content reinforces a feedback loop that isolates creators from criticism and sustains ideological rigidity.

In Afghanistan, the echo chamber is real but systemic. Gender segregation enforces physical and social separation, upheld by legal and religious codes. While Western women struggle with digital misrepresentation, Afghan women confront state-sanctioned erasure.

Some American tradwife influencers are attempting to distance themselves from regressive ideologies. Sykes and Hopner (2024) show how tradwife influencers mobilize domestic aesthetics and traditional femininity to subtly reinforce far-right ideologies, often without overt political messaging but still embedded within ethnonationalist values.

Afghan women resist under far more dangerous conditions. Many have built underground education networks, engaged in international advocacy, or organized in secrecy. Their goal is not to redefine femininity within neoliberal frameworks, but to reclaim basic rights and visibility.

The concept of the traditional wife cannot be separated from its political and technological context. In the United States, the tradwife identity is voluntary, aesthetic, and digitally enabled. In Afghanistan, it is a product of authoritarian control.

Yet both can function as instruments in liminal warfare. As the team at Rise to Peace has explained, extremist movements no longer rely solely on violence. They weaponize stories, visuals, and identities to push ideological agendas. Tradwife content when linked to far-right ideologies becomes a tool for this subtle but powerful form of radicalization.

Peacebuilding strategies must recognize how gender, culture, and digital ecosystems interact across borders. Empowerment narratives deserve scrutiny. In some cases, choice is real. In others, it is manufactured. And in many, it is absent entirely.

Ahmad Shah Mohibi, Founder and Director of Counterterrorism, Rise to Peace
Giana Romo B, Research Fellow at Rise to Peace