The costs of forgetting why we engage

As events unfold in Venezuela, I am reminded of a recent Pew study that offered a glimpse into how Americans—particularly younger ones—view engagement in world affairs. Overall, 53 percent of Americans say it is extremely or very important for the United States to take an active role internationally. That consensus, however, fractures sharply along generational lines. Younger Americans are far less convinced that global involvement, or even American military dominance, is a priority worth sustaining.

That generational gap comes into sharper focus when placed against current events. Whether one supports or opposes U.S. involvement in Venezuela, the debate itself underscores a broader reality: foreign policy decisions are not abstract exercises. They carry consequences measured in time, money. Sometimes those decisions come with a political expense; sometimes blood.

Pew’s findings suggest that Americans under 50—across both parties—are notably less inclined to see global engagement or military primacy as essential. Among those under 30, support drops even further.

Those of us who recall the Vietnam years understand that there is a hard-earned logic behind the questions. When younger Americans were the most likely to be sent to do the dirty work, protests were driven as much by the grim arithmetic of the draft as ideology.

Empathy demands acknowledging that today’s younger adults have inherited two decades of war in the Middle East, have witnessed ambiguous outcomes and have borne the costs without having shaped the original decisions. Their caution is not irrational; it is experiential.

Isolationism, moreover, is no longer confined to one end of the political spectrum. On the right, it often arrives as “America First,” skepticism of alliances, and resistance to multilateral commitments. On the left, it appears as reluctance to project power, distrust of military solutions and concern that global engagement distracts from domestic inequities. The labels differ, but the instinct is similar: pull inward, reduce exposure and avoid entanglements.

We know, however, that isolationism rarely prevents conflict; it tends to delay it. When the United States retreats from shaping global norms and alliances, others step in. Problems left unattended fester, grow and eventually demand far greater sacrifices. The interwar period offers a stark example, as disengagement in the 1920s and 1930s created conditions that rendered World War II both unavoidable and catastrophic. Economically, prolonged isolation narrows markets, slows innovation and encourages protectionism, ultimately leaving a country weaker rather than stronger.

So whose fault is it that younger Americans view engagement so warily? The uncomfortable answer is likely our own. For decades, schools have taught isolationism primarily as a historical mistake, neatly packaged in lessons about entangling alliances, while engagement is treated as a given rather than a choice.

As a result, engagement is framed as a moral virtue rather than a strategic necessity. What is missing is a clear explanation that disengagement does not eliminate risk—it eliminates influence. Teaching that distinction matters. A more honest civic education would present engagement as costly but stabilizing, imperfect but necessary and always subject to debate. It would challenge students to consider not only what global involvement demands, but what withdrawal invites.

The Pew numbers should not be read as a warning about younger Americans, but as a mirror held up to the rest of us. If skepticism about engagement is growing, it may be because we have not adequately explained why it exists in the first place—or what happens when it disappears.