What Actually Happened?

When the United States and Israel launched military operations against Iran in late February 2026, the stated objectives were twofold: to degrade Iran’s nuclear and missile capabilities, and to either force regime change or compel Tehran to come to the negotiating table from a position of weakness.

The operation achieved part of its goal. Strikes on Iranian leadership, nuclear and missile facilities, and industrial and civil infrastructure inflicted real damage — setbacks that Iran will take years to fully recover from. But the campaign produced an unintended consequence that now sits at the center of the crisis: it handed Iran a third card, arguably as powerful as the other two that survived the strikes despite the damage they sustained.

Iran’s ability to close — or threaten to close — the narrow waterway through which roughly 20% of the world’s seaborne oil passes had always existed on paper. What changed after the strikes was the political and strategic logic of actually using it. With its nuclear program damaged and its missile arsenal degraded, Tehran had every incentive to activate the one form of leverage that military airstrikes cannot destroy: geography.

Trump’s response was the blockade — a naval cordon announced on April 13 targeting all ships entering or leaving Iranian ports. The logic was straightforward: if Iran was going to weaponize the strait, the US would weaponize Iran’s access to global trade. The goal was to pressure Tehran into abandoning its grip on Hormuz and returning to negotiations from a weakened position.

Whether that logic holds is the central question of the crisis unfolding right now.

Iran’s Response and Counter-Moves

Tehran’s answer was swift and unambiguous. Iran refused to treat the blockade as pressure to be absorbed — it treated it as a red line. Iranian parliamentary speaker and chief negotiator Mohammad Bagher Qalibaf put it plainly on state television: negotiations under coercion were off the table, and a second round of talks in Islamabad would not happen as long as the US naval blockade of Iranian ports remained in place.

Iran then did what it had threatened. It closed the strait again.

After a brief and fragile reopening, Iranian forces fired on ships attempting to transit the waterway, forcing vessels to turn back. Two Indian-flagged tankers came under fire from IRGC gunboats. A container ship reported damage from a rocket attack off Oman. Major shipping firms — Maersk, CMA CGM, Hapag-Lloyd — suspended transits entirely. The message from Tehran was consistent and deliberate: the strait does not open while Iran remains blockaded.

The standoff now has a logic of its own. Both sides have stated positions they cannot easily walk back from without appearing to capitulate. Washington refuses to lift the blockade until a deal is signed. Tehran refuses to negotiate until the blockade is lifted.

The real question is not who is right, but who blinks first — and how long each side can sustain the cost of not blinking. A frozen conflict is possible, but it is not free. Every day the strait remains effectively closed, the pressure mounts — not just on Iran, but on global energy markets, on Asian importers, on Gulf states, and on Washington’s own allies. That accumulated pressure has a way of forcing outcomes that neither side explicitly chose.

Are Iranians Ships passing through the Blockade

The blockade is real, but its reach remains contested. The US has intercepted a number of vessels bound for or departing Iranian ports, and in one significant escalation, the USS Spruance fired on and seized the Iranian-flagged cargo ship Touska in the Gulf of Oman, with US Marines taking custody of the vessel and its crew. Iranian army in return did the same thing with two ships trying to pass Hormuz.

Yet at the same time, other ships have continued to move. Whether this reflects the practical limitations of controlling vast stretches of open water in the Arabian Sea, or whether Washington is deliberately applying pressure on a graduated scale — tightening incrementally rather than all at once — remains an open question.

According to the vessel-tracking platform Vortexa, at least 34 oil tankers carrying Iranian oil have bypassed the U.S. blockade since 13 April 2026.

During this period, at least 19 Iran-linked tankers have exited the Gulf, while at least 15 others have entered the Gulf from the Arabian Sea heading toward Iran. It has been confirmed that at least six of the departing vessels were carrying Iranian crude oil, amounting to approximately 10.7 million barrels.

Iranian oil, which is typically under sanctions, is sold at a discount to Brent crude. Assuming a $10 discount, this volume would represent revenues of approximately $910 million.

There are currently 21 U.S. warships in the region, with seven more en route, and more than a dozen are involved in the U.S. naval blockade of Iranian ports.

Iran’s Alternatives: How Tehran Is Working Around the Blockade

What is clear is that Iran has been here before. Sanctions on shipping companies, efforts to choke off oil exports, restrictions on importing sensitive materials from China — none of these are new. Over years of operating under maximum pressure, Iran has built a set of workarounds that are neither elegant nor foolproof, but have proven resilient enough to keep the economy functioning at a diminished but sustainable level. Here is what those alternatives look like today.

1- The Shadow Fleet

Iran has developed an extensive network of tankers that operate outside normal tracking and regulatory systems. These vessels disable AIS transponders, conduct ship-to-ship oil transfers in open water to disguise origin, and operate under shell companies registered in jurisdictions with minimal oversight. The US has made repeated efforts to identify and sanction these networks, but enforcement has been imperfect. Iran is not Venezuela — the scale, the geography, and the depth of its logistics networks make a complete interdiction unlikely. Exports may decline under sustained pressure, but a full halt is a different challenge altogether.

2- Bureaucratic Circumvention and the Iraq Channel

Even during previous sanctions regimes, shipping firms found ways to continue operating — restructuring company ownership, changing documentation, rotating vessel flags. Iran has also long used Iraq as a transit buffer: goods purchased by Iraqi companies, delivered to Iraqi ports or borders, and then moved overland into Iran. This channel has been one of Tehran’s most reliable financial and commercial lifelines, partly sustained through Iran’s exports of electricity and natural gas to Iraq, which create a natural barter and offset mechanism. Washington appears aware of this. Just recently, Iraq’s central bank was suspended from dollar access pending a review of whether those flows were being used to benefit Iran — a targeted move aimed directly at closing this channel.

3- The Overland Alternative: Belt and Road and Beyond

Perhaps Iran’s most strategically significant preparation for exactly this kind of scenario is its investment in overland connectivity. Railway links developed under China’s Belt and Road Initiative now connect Iran to Chinese markets via Central Asia. The Caspian Sea shipping route provides access to Russia and onward to Chinese partners. A trucking transit corridor linking Iran to China via Afghanistan is reportedly in advanced planning stages, with a railway connection to follow. The gradual normalization of relations between both Iran and China and the Taliban government in Kabul has been a deliberate part of this architecture — building the political foundation for a logistics corridor that bypasses maritime chokepoints entirely.

Bottom Line: The Sustainability Question

The deeper issue may not be whether Iran can be fully blockaded, but whether the United States can sustain the attempt. Maintaining effective control over international waters at this scale carries enormous operational and financial costs. Washington’s regional basing capacity has weakened. Domestic political pressures are mounting, with the 250th anniversary of independence in July, midterm elections in November, and the broader debate over how long an undeclared maritime war can continue without congressional engagement. A potential Trump visit to China — if it proceeds — adds another layer of diplomatic complexity to a policy that depends on Beijing’s quiet non-cooperation. A blockade that cannot be made total, and cannot be sustained indefinitely, is ultimately a pressure tactic — not a strategy.

Introduction: A War That Backfired

The war inflicted severe damage on Iran. Estimates suggest losses of around $270 billion, including widespread destruction of infrastructure. Key sites were hit, including parts of the Bushehr nuclear facility, the South Pars gas field, major bridges, factories, and public infrastructure. The human and institutional costs have also been significant, with 36 universities and over 900 schools affected, in addition to broader damage across industrial and civilian sectors.

Yet despite this scale of destruction, the war has also produced an unexpected outcome. What was intended as a campaign to weaken Iran’s nuclear and missile capabilities and reduce its regional influence has, in important ways, had the opposite effect.

Iran emerges from the conflict materially damaged but strategically repositioned. The war has handed the regime something arguably more valuable than what it lost: new sources of leverage, renewed internal cohesion, and a strengthened narrative of resistance that extends beyond its borders.

The war did not dismantle Iran—it reconfigured and, in some ways, revived it.

Iran After the War: Legitimacy Recovery

Prior to the war, the regime’s legitimacy was arguably at its lowest point in its history. The country had witnessed nationwide protests, which were met with severe repression, resulting in the deaths of an estimated 4,000 to 6,000 people, including hundreds of security forces killed in clashes with some armed protesters. At the same time, the Iranian diaspora was mobilising across major Western capitals, calling for regime change. Some Western governments had begun to downgrade diplomatic relations, expelling ambassador or reducing diplomatic presence. Media narratives increasingly framed the regime as being in its final phase, with growing certainty that it was approaching collapse.

The war fundamentally altered this trajectory.

There are still probably a large majority of people critical of the regime, but the trajectory has changed, and the regime has an opportunity to work on it.

External conflict introduced a unifying threat, shifting the internal dynamic from fragmentation to consolidation. What had been a period defined by internal pressure and dissent was reframed into a survival narrative, in which the state positioned itself as the defender of national sovereignty.

This shift was visible both inside and outside Iran. Domestically, public space saw a noticeable transformation, with anti-government protests diminishing and being replaced by expressions of support framed around national defence. Internationally, diaspora mobilisation also shifted, with protests increasingly focusing on opposition to the war rather than direct calls for regime change. Media discourse, which had previously emphasised regime fragility, began to adjust to the realities of wartime resilience.

At the same time, the targeted killing of senior leadership figures—including high-ranking military commanders and the Supreme Leader—had an unintended effect. Rather than triggering collapse, these losses contributed to a process of symbolic consolidation, with key figures reframed as martyrs. This, in turn, generated a degree of renewed legitimacy among segments of the population, including some who had previously been critical of the regime.

The war itself appeared, at least in part, aligned with a regime-change logic, targeting the upper layers of leadership in the expectation that decapitation would weaken the system and potentially trigger internal unrest. Instead, the outcome suggests a different dynamic. The removal of senior figures has led to a form of internal restructuring, bringing forward a younger generation of leadership. This emerging cohort appears more ideologically rigid in external confrontation, particularly toward Israel and the United States, while in some areas showing greater flexibility on certain domestic social issues.

In contrast to the previous leadership—often characterised by strategic caution and calibrated responses—the new leadership has demonstrated a willingness to adopt a more direct “reciprocity” or escalation-based approach, signalling retaliation at equal or higher levels. This shift has reinforced the regime’s image as resolute under pressure, further strengthening its wartime narrative.

In this sense, what was intended as a strategy to weaken or even destabilise the regime has, paradoxically, contributed to its reconfiguration and partial revitalisation. The assumption that removing the top layer of leadership would drive the population toward uprising appears, at least in the short term, to have produced the opposite effect: greater internal cohesion and renewed political legitimacy under the pressure of war.

The Axis Reconfigured: Unity of Fronts

During the Gaza war, Iran’s regional network—often referred to as the “axis”—appeared to suffer significant setbacks. Israeli operations targeted key figures, including the killing of senior leaders such as Hassan Nasrallah, alongside hundreds of operatives through coordinated attacks and sustained strikes on infrastructure in Lebanon and Yemen. In Iraq, US operations also placed pressure on affiliated militias. Taken together, these developments created a widespread perception that the axis had been strategically weakened, leading to a period of relative calm that lasted close to a year, with many concluding that its influence was in decline.

This perception was reinforced at the domestic level. The inability of these actors to decisively counter Israeli actions led to questions about their effectiveness, weakening their standing among segments of their own constituencies.

At the time, Iran’s broader strategy was based on a degree of separation between fronts, with each component of the axis expected to manage its own theatre independently. The assumption was that decentralisation provided resilience.

The recent war, however, has altered this logic. What emerged instead is a shared understanding that the conflict is not confined to a single front, but represents a broader, an existential confrontation affecting the entire network. In response, the axis appears to have shifted toward a strategy of “unity of fronts”—not necessarily through immediate full-scale mobilisation, but through coordinated, gradual engagement across multiple theatres.

This shift is already visible. Hezbollah has engaged more directly, Iraqi militias have increased their level of involvement—albeit selectively—and the Houthis have signalled readiness to escalate further if the conflict continues. Rather than acting in isolation, these groups are increasingly operating within a loosely coordinated framework, calibrated to escalate in stages.

The earlier period of relative ceasefire also played an unexpected role. Instead of weakening the axis, it provided time for reorganisation and recalibration, while Israel’s continued military posture and expansionist signals contributed to a broader regional perception that the conflict was not moving toward resolution. This, in turn, helped restore a degree of social and political support for these actors under a renewed “resistance” narrative.

As a result, the war has reframed the conflict itself—from a series of localised confrontations into a regional struggle. The axis is no longer seen as fragmented or reactive, but as part of a more cohesive political and strategic alignment.

The key shift is this: the axis has moved from fragmentation to coordination. What appeared as weakness may, in retrospect, have been a period of tactical restraint and preparation for a broader confrontation.

Nuclear Capability: From Liability to Leverage

Before the war, Iran’s nuclear program was primarily framed as a liability—the central justification for sustained pressure, sanctions, and the threat of military action. At the same time, there was a window for diplomacy. Negotiations had reached a point where Iran signalled willingness to make significant concessions: temporarily halting enrichment, limiting it to very low levels thereafter, reducing its stockpile of highly enriched material, and accepting international monitoring mechanisms.

Yet this opening was not taken. Instead, it was interpreted by some as a sign of weakness, reinforcing the belief that increased pressure—or even war—could force a more decisive outcome, including potential regime collapse.

The war has fundamentally altered that calculation.

Iran’s nuclear program is no longer simply a source of vulnerability—it has become a core bargaining instrument. The experience of war, particularly following a period of negotiation, has reinforced Tehran’s demand for credible guarantees and recognition of its capabilities as part of any future agreement. In this sense, the nuclear issue has shifted from being a constraint imposed on Iran to a lever it can actively use in negotiations.

This creates two possible trajectories. The first is a return to negotiations, but on revised terms. Any agreement now is unlikely to be less favourable than what Iran was previously willing to accept, and would likely involve tangible concessions such as sanctions relief in exchange for limits on the program. Such an outcome would represent a strategic gain for Iran, as the war would have failed to achieve its original objective while strengthening Tehran’s negotiating position.

The second scenario is the absence of a deal—arguably the more likely outcome. In this case, Iran may use the time and strategic space created by the conflict to advance its nuclear capabilities further, potentially moving closer to weaponisation as a form of deterrence. The internal debate on this issue has already shifted, with increasing pressure within Iran to reconsider previous constraints in light of repeated military confrontations.

The key insight is clear: the war has increased—not reduced—Iran’s negotiating power.

Missile Program: Expansion and Boosting Deterrence

Despite sustained strikes during the war, Iran has retained its missile capabilities and continued to use them as a central tool of deterrence. Far from being neutralised, the missile program has demonstrated both operational resilience and strategic value, reinforcing its role not only as a military asset but also as a psychological instrument of deterrence.

Before the war, Iran had at times signalled a willingness to limit the range of its missile program, often referenced around the 2,000-kilometre threshold. The conflict, however, has fundamentally altered this posture. During the war, Iran expanded its capabilities, reportedly extending ranges toward approximately 4,000 kilometres, with the potential to reach strategic targets such as Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. At the same time, advancements in air defence and anti-aircraft systems enabled Iran to challenge high-end aerial platforms, including various fighter jets, further strengthening its deterrence profile. Although it is still in its beginning level but due to the fact that they realised their defence system is their weakness and they already started developing it, we should expect some more advanced progress in this field.

This experience is likely to have a lasting impact on Iran’s strategic thinking. The missile program proved to be one of the most effective and immediately deployable tools of deterrence during the conflict—unlike nuclear capability, which remains constrained by political, legal, and strategic considerations. As a result, Tehran is unlikely to accept future limitations on its missile development. On the contrary, the trajectory points toward further expansion and refinement, both in range and precision.

In this sense, the war has reinforced a clear conclusion for Iran’s leadership: missiles are not just weapons—they are the backbone of its deterrence strategy.

Hormuz: From Threat to Strategic Weapon

Ironically, while the United States and Israel aimed to weaken Iran’s nuclear and missile capabilities, the conflict has handed Tehran a far more immediate and powerful tool: effective control over the Strait of Hormuz.

For decades, Hormuz was treated as a theoretical threat—a card Iran could play but rarely did. The war has transformed it into active leverage. What was once a deterrent in rhetoric has now become a central instrument of strategy.

The impact has been global. Roughly 20% of the world’s oil supply passes through the strait, and disruptions during the conflict triggered one of the largest energy shocks in modern history, affecting markets, shipping routes, and economic stability far beyond the region. In this sense, Hormuz has moved from being a regional chokepoint to a global pressure mechanism.

The key strategic insight is striking:

in attempting to contain Iran’s nuclear potential, the war has instead provided it with a “weapon of mass disruption.” Unlike nuclear capability—which is politically constrained and difficult to operationalise—Hormuz offers Iran a tool that is immediately usable, globally impactful, and difficult to neutralise without significant escalation.

This marks a profound shift in the balance of leverage. Iran is no longer relying solely on military deterrence; it now holds influence over:

• energy flows

• global markets

• the economic stability of its adversaries and partners alike

In this context, Hormuz becomes more than a tactical advantage—it is a strategic breakthrough. It allows Iran to exert pressure not only on its direct adversaries, but on the broader international system, particularly energy-dependent economies.

In many ways, Hormuz represents Iran’s “Suez moment” for the United States—a chokepoint that does not demonstrate control, but rather exposes the limits of external power in managing critical global arteries.

Therefore, it is very unlikely that Iran will give up on this card during the negotiations, at least until it is ensured that it will not be targeted, and such confidence will not emerge soon due to the lack of trust after two wars.

Bottom Line: A War Tested and Failed

For years, Iran sought to avoid a direct confrontation. But now that the war has taken place, the strategic landscape has shifted. The conflict tested Iran’s capabilities, its deterrence, and its internal resilience. It also tested the ability of the United States and Israel to impose decisive outcomes. The result, at least so far, suggests that the war did not deliver what it promised.

Iran entered the war with significant constraints, yet it did not exhaust its capacity. Reports indicate that only a portion of its missile stockpile—around 2,000—was used, while more advanced systems, including the 2-ton Khorramshahr missile, were reportedly held in reserve. At the same time, Iran retains the ability to replenish missiles and drones relatively quickly and at low cost, sustaining its operational capacity over time.

This has important implications for how the conflict is now understood in Tehran. The war has reduced—not increased—the perceived risks of confrontation. Rather than viewing war as an existential threat, Iran increasingly frames it as a manageable war of attrition, where time and endurance shift the balance.

By contrast, prolonged conflict places growing pressure on the other side. The United States and Israel face economic costs, security strain, and political timelines, including electoral cycles that limit their tolerance for extended engagements. In such conditions, endurance becomes a decisive factor.

The key conclusion is simple: the war was meant to break Iran—but instead, it tested the limits of force and exposed its own constraints.

This intervention was quickly met with a political response. Former President Donald Trump dismissed the Pope as “a very liberal person,” accusing him of misunderstanding the realities of security and conflict.

It is not unusual for a religious figure to criticise war and call for peace. However, Trump’s reaction was unusually sharp, raising broader questions about the boundaries of freedom of expression and religious voice within political discourse in the West.

Yet the more significant issue lies beyond this exchange: the moral responsibilities in political engagement. Has politics become a purely Machiavellian arena, detached from ethical considerations? Or do those who engage in politics—whether as leaders, commentators, or analysts—still carry a responsibility to uphold moral integrity?

The Crisis of Ethics in Political Discourse

This is not a leftist argument about the “failure of the West,” but about a deeper transformation within political discourse itself—one marked by the erosion of moral consistency and the selective application of values.

In A Secular Age, Charles Taylor explains how Western societies gradually moved away from religious frameworks across multiple layers—social, cultural, and political. As traditional religious authority declined, it was not replaced by a moral vacuum, but by a new ethical architecture rooted in liberal values: democracy, human rights, equality, and justice. These became the normative foundation of modern Western politics, offering a secular but principled basis for public life.

What we are witnessing today, however, suggests a more troubling shift. It is not simply a continuation of liberal politics, but a movement toward a valueless politics—a space where politics is no longer anchored in either religious ethics or consistent liberal principles. In this emerging environment, values are no longer guiding action; they are increasingly instrumentalised, invoked selectively when convenient and disregarded when they constrain power.

This trend becomes particularly visible in moments of war. When political leaders justify actions that involve deliberate civilian harm, openly support policies widely described as collective punishment or even genocide, threaten the destruction of entire societies, or reduce strategic objectives to material gains such as control over resources—while simultaneously invoking neither religious restraint nor liberal norms—it signals a profound ethical dislocation. The issue is not simply disagreement over policy, but the absence of a stable moral framework guiding political action.

The concern, therefore, is not ideological but structural: ethics are no longer functioning as constraints, but as tools. And when political discourse reaches a point where neither religious morality nor liberal values provides meaningful limits, it suggests the emergence of a far more dangerous landscape—one in which power operates with diminishing accountability to any consistent ethical standard.

Analysis vs Advocacy: Where Is the Moral Line?

The problem is not that analysts or commentators take positions. In complex conflicts, complete detachment is neither realistic nor always desirable. The real issue is whether there remains a clear boundary between analysis and advocacy—a boundary that, increasingly, appears to be eroding.

In principle, analysis seeks to explain, contextualise, and question. It is grounded in evidence, open to complexity, and willing to challenge assumptions—including its own. Advocacy, by contrast, aims to persuade, mobilise, and defend a position. It simplifies reality, prioritises messaging, and often aligns itself with a particular political objective.

What we are witnessing today is a growing convergence between the two. Many political commentators and analysts are drifting away from analytical integrity toward narrative alignment—selectively presenting facts, amplifying partial truths, and at times engaging in disinformation, conspiratorial framing, or openly pro-unjust-war narratives. This is not always driven by ideology alone, but also by structural pressures: maintaining access to political circles, avoiding professional consequences, and navigating an environment where dissenting views can carry reputational or even legal risks.

In parts of the West, there is a rising tendency to regulate speech under broad and sometimes contested categories such as “hate speech,” which, in certain contexts, creates a chilling effect. While the intent may be to protect communities, the outcome can also discourage critical analysis, pushing commentators toward self-censorship or alignment with dominant narratives to avoid being marginalised, deplatformed, or penalised.

The result is a discourse where analysis increasingly resembles advocacy, and where the line between informing the public and shaping opinion becomes blurred. This does not mean that all commentary is compromised, but it does suggest a systemic drift that weakens the credibility of public debate.

The key point is simple: taking a position is not the problem—losing analytical integrity is. When explanation turns into justification, and questioning gives way to messaging, analysis ceases to serve the public and instead becomes part of the machinery of persuasion.

Political Narratives and the Ethics of Responsibility

Political commentators and public voices play a decisive role in shaping how wars are understood. They do not merely describe events—they frame them. Through their language, emphasis, and interpretation, they influence how audiences perceive legitimacy, responsibility, and necessity. In this sense, commentary becomes part of the conflict itself.

Political voices have the power to shape public perception, legitimise policies, and normalise violence. This often operates through three key mechanisms. First is narrative construction—selecting which facts matter, which contexts are highlighted, and which are ignored. Second is emotional mobilisation, where fear, outrage, or moral urgency are invoked to align public sentiment with particular political positions. Third is the simplification of complex realities, reducing multi-layered conflicts into binary frameworks of good versus evil, security versus threat, or civilisation versus chaos.

The problem arises when commentary moves beyond explanation into justification of illegitimate violence. At that point, it ceases to inform and begins to persuade in a one-directional manner toward an unethical direction. The line between analysis and propaganda is crossed when the purpose of discourse is no longer to understand reality, but to legitimise predetermined outcomes, leading to illegitimate violence and mass killing of innocents.

This is where the question of responsibility becomes unavoidable. Ethics in political engagement is not optional—it is both a professional duty and a public obligation. Those who operate within political and intellectual spaces carry different forms of responsibility. Politicians hold the responsibility of power, as their decisions directly shape lives and outcomes. Commentators hold the responsibility of influence, as they shape how those decisions are understood and accepted. Academics and researchers hold the responsibility of truth, grounded in evidence, integrity, and critical inquiry.

When these responsibilities are neglected, the consequences extend beyond poor analysis. They contribute to a political environment in which violence can be justified, complexity can be erased, and accountability can be weakened. In times of war, maintaining ethical standards in discourse is not a luxury—it is a necessity for preserving both public trust and the integrity of political life.

Political commentators have blood on their hands

When political commentators abandon integrity and help justify illegitimate wars and mass killing, they are no longer observers—they become participants. By shaping narratives that normalise violence, silence dissent, or obscure reality, they contribute to the conditions that allow such actions to continue. In doing so, they share responsibility—not only for the discourse, but for the human consequences of the wars they help legitimise.

For years, Beijing maintained a cautious distance from direct involvement in regional conflicts, focusing instead on trade, energy, and economic partnerships. Yet this moment suggests a potential shift. The question is no longer whether China has the capacity to engage, but whether it is willing to move beyond economics and play a central role in shaping the security architecture of major international conflicts.

If so, the implications are significant. It would mark a gradual relocation of diplomatic authority away from Western-led frameworks toward a more multipolar order. For the Global South, this presents an alternative model of conflict resolution, less tied to traditional power centres and ideological conditions. For the United States, it signals the erosion of its long-standing dominance over high-stakes diplomacy. And for China, it represents both an opportunity to expand its influence and a test of its ability to manage the risks that come with it.

This may therefore be more than a tactical diplomatic development. It could represent an early stage in a broader reordering of global power, one in which mediation, guarantees, and conflict resolution are no longer defined primarily in Washington, but increasingly negotiated in Beijing.

From Non-Interference to Strategic Engagement

China’s evolving role in international conflicts did not emerge overnight. It reflects a gradual shift from strict adherence to non-interference toward a more flexible model of selective, interest-driven engagement.

Phase 1: Passive Economic Power

For decades, Beijing’s foreign policy was anchored in the principle of non-interference. China prioritised trade, investment, and energy security, particularly across the Global South, while deliberately avoiding entanglement in political disputes or security crises. Stability mattered, but primarily as a condition for economic continuity, not as a domain for active intervention.

Phase 2: Selective Political Engagement

Over time, however, China began to recognise that protecting its expanding global interests required a more proactive approach. In Sudan and Darfur during the 2000s, Beijing used its leverage to encourage Khartoum to accept UN peacekeeping forces, an early sign that it was willing to engage politically when its economic stakes were threatened. Similarly, during the Rohingya crisis, China played a mediating role between Myanmar and Bangladesh, aiming to contain regional instability without imposing political conditions.

Phase 3: Diplomatic Breakthrough

This gradual evolution culminated in the 2023 Saudi–Iran agreement, brokered by Beijing. The deal marked a significant diplomatic milestone, demonstrating China’s ability to mediate between major regional rivals and deliver tangible outcomes. It was, in effect, a proof of concept: China could translate economic influence into geopolitical leverage.

The underlying shift is subtle but important. China is not abandoning its non-interference doctrine; it is redefining it. What emerges is a model of influence without intrusion: engaging strategically where interests are at stake, while avoiding ideological pressure or direct involvement in domestic political systems.

This approach is closely tied to China’s broader self-perception as a distinct civilisational power, often framed as a “world unto itself.” Rather than disengaging from the international system, Beijing is increasingly seeking to reshape it in ways that align with its interests and security priorities. What may appear as restraint is, in practice, a form of selective engagement, one that expands China’s role globally while preserving the core principles that define its foreign policy.

China’s Mediation Model: Pragmatism Over Ideology

China’s growing role in conflict mediation is shaped by a distinct approach that differs markedly from Western diplomatic frameworks. Rather than grounding its engagement in normative agendas, Beijing operates through a pragmatic model designed to reduce friction and maximise acceptance among conflicting parties.

1. State-Centric Diplomacy

China’s diplomacy prioritises engagement with state actors and ruling authorities rather than societies or opposition movements. This approach reflects a clear preference for working with existing power structures, treating sovereignty and regime stability as the primary entry points for negotiation. By focusing on governments rather than internal political dynamics, Beijing avoids becoming entangled in domestic legitimacy debates.

2. Economics as Leverage

Economic interdependence is central to China’s mediation strategy. Through trade, investment, and infrastructure projects—particularly under the Belt and Road Initiative—Beijing builds long-term relationships that can later be leveraged in times of crisis. Stability, in this context, is not just a political goal but an economic necessity, making mediation a natural extension of China’s global economic footprint.

3. Non-Ideological Engagement

Unlike Western approaches that often link diplomacy to democracy, governance reforms, or human rights, China deliberately avoids attaching political conditions to its mediation efforts. This non-ideological stance makes it more acceptable to a wide range of regimes, particularly those wary of external pressure on internal affairs.

4. Non-Hegemonic Approach

China presents itself not as a dominant power imposing outcomes, but as a facilitator of dialogue. Its engagement is framed as cooperative rather than coercive, allowing parties to retain agency in negotiations. This reduces resistance and creates space for compromise, particularly in conflicts where external pressure has historically hardened positions.

What is often criticised as a normative weakness may, in practice, be China’s greatest diplomatic strength. By lowering ideological barriers and minimising political intrusion, Beijing is able to build trust with regimes and enable agreements in contexts where Western frameworks—often perceived as intrusive or prescriptive—tend to stall.

Why China Can Mediate This War

China’s potential role in mediating the current conflict is not accidental; it is rooted in a unique strategic position that few global powers currently possess. Its advantage lies not only in having interests across all sides of the conflict, but in being perceived as less politically intrusive and less ideologically threatening, allowing it to engage actors that would otherwise resist external involvement.

1. Cross-Camp Connectivity

China maintains deep and functional relationships across all major parties involved in the conflict.

With Iran, Beijing has developed a comprehensive strategic partnership that serves as a crucial economic lifeline for Tehran under sanctions. China remains Iran’s largest trading partner, reportedly purchasing the vast majority of its oil exports through formal and informal channels, while advancing long-term infrastructure cooperation under the 25-year strategic agreement signed in 2021. Beyond economics, both countries share an interest in limiting U.S. dominance in the region.

At the same time, China has built extensive ties with Gulf states. Saudi Arabia is its largest oil supplier and a central partner in energy, petrochemicals, and infrastructure, with tens of billions of dollars invested in projects linked to economic diversification. The United Arab Emirates plays a complementary role as a logistical and commercial hub for Chinese trade, while broader engagement across the Gulf Cooperation Council reflects a deepening economic and technological presence.

China also maintains significant economic relations with Israel, where it is among the country’s largest trading partners, with bilateral trade exceeding $20 billion annually. Chinese investment spans infrastructure, technology, and innovation sectors, including major projects in transport and high-tech industries. Although these ties face increasing geopolitical constraints, they nonetheless position China as a stakeholder with interests on all sides.

Taken together, this cross-camp connectivity places China in a rare position: it is one of the few actors not widely perceived as an existential threat by any party in the conflict.

2. Stability as Strategic Necessity

For China, mediation is not simply a diplomatic ambition; it is an economic imperative. The Middle East sits at the heart of China’s energy security, supplying a significant share of its oil imports. At the same time, the region is a critical corridor for the Belt and Road Initiative, linking Asia to Europe and Africa through maritime and land-based trade routes.

Prolonged instability—whether through disruption of energy flows, threats to shipping lanes, or damage to infrastructure—directly undermines China’s economic architecture. In this sense, promoting stability is not optional; it is essential to safeguarding China’s global economic model.

3. A Vacuum in Global Leadership

China’s opportunity also stems from a broader shift in global power dynamics. The United States is widely seen in this conflict not as a neutral broker but as a direct party, limiting its credibility as a mediator. Meanwhile, Europe remains politically fragmented and strategically marginalised, unable to play a decisive role.

This creates a diplomatic vacuum, one that China is increasingly positioned to fill. Its engagement is driven not only by ambition, but by the absence of credible alternatives.

In this context, China’s advantage is not simply that it has interests with all sides. It is that it combines those interests with a diplomatic posture that is perceived as less intrusive, less ideological, and more adaptable, allowing it to operate in spaces where other powers face resistance.

Implications: Toward a Multipolar Diplomatic Order

China’s potential role in mediating the Iran war carries implications that extend far beyond the immediate conflict. It points to a broader transformation in how diplomacy is conducted, who holds authority, and where legitimacy is increasingly located.

First, it signals the gradual decline of the United States’ monopoly over high-stakes diplomacy. For decades, Washington has positioned itself as the primary broker of major international agreements. Yet its deep involvement in this conflict has constrained its ability to act as a neutral mediator, opening space for alternative actors to step in.

Second, the emergence of China as a potential security guarantor introduces a new model of diplomatic engagement. Unlike traditional Western frameworks that rely on alliances and political conditionality, China’s approach emphasises economic leverage, political flexibility, and negotiated stability. This raises the prospect of multiple guarantors operating within the same international system, rather than a single dominant power shaping outcomes.

Third, this shift has important consequences for the Global South. Many states that have long operated on the margins of Western-led diplomacy may now find greater room to manoeuvre, engaging with alternative centres of power that offer different terms of cooperation. This could strengthen efforts toward strategic autonomy and diversify diplomatic options in times of crisis.

Finally, the conflict highlights a deeper shift in legitimacy: the question is no longer simply who has power, but who is trusted to broker peace. If China can deliver tangible outcomes without imposing ideological conditions, it may increasingly be seen as a credible mediator in regions where Western interventions have struggled to produce lasting stability.

If China succeeds, future conflicts may no longer look first to Washington—but to Beijing.

A War Beyond the Middle East

The US–Israel war on Iran should not be understood as a purely regional conflict. It is unfolding within a broader landscape of intensifying global power competition, where the United States and its allies are increasingly confronting China, Russia, and a range of rising actors across the Global South. The war reflects a wider pattern of pressure and contestation, from actions in Latin America, including moves against Venezuela and threats toward Cuba, to economic confrontation with China and ongoing tensions with Russia.

In this context, the Global South is far from a passive observer. It is economically exposed to energy shocks, politically engaged in global alignments, and strategically affected by shifting power balances. Decisions made in Washington, Tehran, or Tel Aviv are already reverberating across Africa, Asia, and Latin America, through markets, diplomacy, and security calculations.

The core argument of this article is that the outcome of this war will extend far beyond the battlefield. It will reshape how Global South states understand sovereignty, security, economic independence, and international alignment in an increasingly multipolar world, where reliance on a single global power is no longer seen as either stable or sufficient.

Nuclear Sovereignty

The Iran case brings a fundamental question back to the center of global politics: do Global South states have the right to nuclear technology, including enrichment? Across much of the Global South, the issue is no longer seen purely through the lens of non-proliferation, but as one of technological sovereignty and unequal power. Nuclear capabilities appear to be governed by selective rules, permitted for some states while restricted or punished in others.

The current war introduces a dual, and contradictory, dynamic.

On one hand, the attack on Iran sends a powerful signal that even negotiated states can be targeted, reinforcing the belief that compliance does not guarantee security. This perception is likely to encourage countries with existing nuclear infrastructure, such as Brazil and others, to consider moving closer to latent or actual nuclear deterrence, seeing it as the ultimate guarantee of sovereignty and survival.

On the other hand, if Iran were to be significantly weakened or defeated, it could establish a new precedent: that states approaching the nuclear threshold will be stopped before reaching it. Such an outcome would reinforce a stricter global order aimed at preventing enrichment capabilities from ever translating into strategic leverage.

This creates a double-edged dynamic. The same war that incentivises some Global South states to pursue nuclear capability as protection may simultaneously strengthen a system designed to deny them that very possibility. The result is a more unstable and contested nuclear order, where the line between deterrence and prohibition becomes increasingly blurred.

Economic Independence vs. Structural Dependency

The war is exposing a central vulnerability across the Global South: deep structural dependence on global systems they do not control. As conflict disrupts energy flows and trade routes, many countries are already feeling the consequences through energy price shocks, rising inflation, and supply chain disruptions. For economies with limited buffers, these external shocks quickly translate into domestic instability.

In this context, Iran presents a controversial but instructive case. Decades of sanctions have forced it to develop a model of economic survival under pressure, reducing dependence on Western systems, building parallel trade and financial networks, and adapting to constraints through domestic production and alternative partnerships. While costly and imperfect, this model has demonstrated a degree of resilience that is increasingly attracting attention in parts of the Global South.

The broader shift now underway is a growing interest in economic self-reliance and diversification away from Western-dominated systems. This includes efforts to trade in non-dollar currencies, expand South–South economic ties, and reduce exposure to sanctions-based pressure.

Recent U.S. economic policies have further accelerated this shift. The extensive use of sanctions, tariffs, and coercive economic measures, alongside increasingly transactional and at times humiliating treatment of partners, has raised concerns about the reliability of the existing global economic order. The perceived selective application, or disregard, of international law has reinforced these anxieties. As a result, many countries, not only in the Global South but also among U.S. allies in Europe, are increasingly seeking to diversify their partnerships and reduce strategic dependence, investing more seriously in economic self-reliance and alternative networks to hedge against future pressure.

At the same time, the war highlights a deeper structural issue: the monopoly of advanced technologies, from global finance systems to artificial intelligence and energy infrastructure, remains largely concentrated in the West. This imbalance reinforces dependency and limits the strategic autonomy of Global South states.

As a result, there is a growing push toward alternative technological and economic ecosystems, often led or supported by China and, to a lesser extent, Russia. Whether through digital infrastructure, payment systems, or energy cooperation, these alternatives are increasingly seen not just as economic options, but as tools for strategic independence in an uncertain global order.

Security Lessons: The Failure of International Guarantees

One of the clearest lessons emerging from the war is that international law and negotiated agreements do not necessarily guarantee protection. For many states in the Global South, this reinforces a long-standing concern: that the global security architecture is unevenly applied and politically contingent.

The Iran case is particularly instructive. Despite entering into a negotiated agreement and engaging in diplomatic processes, Iran has still become the target of military action. This sequence sends a powerful message to other states: compliance and negotiation do not ensure security if geopolitical interests shift.

The implication is a growing move toward self-help security models. Rather than relying on international guarantees or external protection, states are increasingly investing in their own deterrent capabilities. This includes missile programs, drone warfare, cyber capabilities, and other forms of asymmetric power that can raise the cost of external intervention.

This shift also reflects a broader erosion of trust in Western-led security frameworks, which are now often perceived as selective in both enforcement and protection. As a result, many countries in the Global South are recalibrating their security strategies, not around international norms alone, but around credible deterrence and strategic autonomy.

The key question going forward is whether this moment marks a temporary crisis of confidence, or a more permanent turning point: the gradual decline of trust in global security guarantees and the rise of a more fragmented, self-reliant security order.

The Rise of Alternative Alliances

The war is accelerating a set of trends that were already underway across the Global South, pushing many states to rethink their alliances and reduce dependence on Western-centered systems. Among the most visible shifts is the growing momentum behind de-dollarisation, as countries seek to conduct trade in alternative currencies to shield themselves from financial pressure and sanctions. At the same time, the expansion of BRICS+ and the deepening of South–South cooperation reflect a broader effort to build parallel economic and political platforms.

In this emerging landscape, China has positioned itself as a central economic anchor, both as the largest trading partner for many Global South countries and as a provider of infrastructure, investment, and alternative financial mechanisms. Beijing has also increasingly taken on a diplomatic mediation role, presenting itself as a stabilising actor capable of engaging with all sides.

Russia, meanwhile, continues to play a complementary role as a security partner and energy coordinator, particularly through frameworks like OPEC+ and its expanding defense ties with a number of states in the Global South.

Faced with these options, many countries are not choosing full alignment with any single power. Instead, they are adopting a strategy of balancing rather than aligning, seeking to maximise autonomy by engaging multiple partners simultaneously.

The long-term implication is the possible emergence of new security and economic blocs operating partially outside Western control. While these blocs may remain fluid and loosely structured, they signal a gradual shift toward a more multipolar order, in which the Global South is not just a participant, but an active architect of alternative global arrangements.

The Legitimacy Crisis of the Global Order

The war is deepening a growing perception across the Global South that the current international order is neither neutral nor consistently rules-based. Instead, it appears increasingly shaped by selective application of international law and uneven respect for sovereignty, depending on geopolitical alignment rather than universal principles.

This perception is not new, but the present conflict has reinforced it in a highly visible way. When rules seem to apply differently to different actors, the credibility of the system itself comes into question. For many in the Global South, this raises a fundamental concern: whether international norms are binding frameworks or simply flexible tools of power.

The result is a gradual but significant erosion of trust in Western-led institutions, including diplomatic, legal, and financial systems that have long underpinned the global order. At the same time, this environment is strengthening anti-hegemonic narratives, which argue that the current system is designed to preserve the dominance of a small group of powerful states rather than ensure fairness or stability.

Increasingly, countries in the Global South are beginning to view the global order not as a genuinely rules-based system, but as a hierarchical structure, where power determines outcomes more than law. This shift in perception is critical, as it shapes how states engage with international institutions, form alliances, and define their own strategic futures in an evolving multipolar world.

Iran and the Strategic Empowerment of the Global South

Beyond its immediate military objectives, Iran is also using the war as an opportunity to reshape its role within the Global South, positioning itself not only as a resisting state, but as a provider of strategic leverage to selected partners.

One clear example is the management of the Strait of Hormuz. Rather than a total and indiscriminate closure, Iran has adopted a selective approach, allowing passage for countries it considers neutral or friendly. Reports indicate that India and China have been granted access, even in periods of disruption, while access for adversaries has been restricted . This selective opening reflects a deliberate strategy: to reward Global South partners and reinforce alternative economic networks, even among countries like India that maintain close ties with Israel and the United States. 

This approach transforms control over energy routes into a geopolitical tool of alignment, strengthening ties with emerging powers while challenging Western dominance over global trade flows.

At the same time, China and Russia are broadly aligned with Iran’s resistance, seeing in this conflict an opportunity to accelerate a shift in global power. While neither has engaged directly in combat, both have provided varying degrees of intelligence, logistical, and material support, helping Iran sustain its defensive capacity without triggering full-scale escalation . In parallel, economic cooperation, particularly in energy and alternative financial systems, continues to deepen, reinforcing a shared interest in weakening Western leverage.

For China, the conflict also reinforces long-term strategic goals, including reducing dependence on Western-controlled energy systems and potentially expanding alternatives such as non-dollar energy trade . Russia, meanwhile, benefits from shifts in global energy markets and the weakening of Western influence.

Taken together, these dynamics suggest that Iran is not only defending itself, it is actively contributing to a broader realignment within the Global South. By leveraging geography, energy, and strategic partnerships, Tehran is helping to shape a moment where resistance to Western pressure becomes a shared political and economic project, with implications that extend far beyond the Middle East.

Bottom Line: A Turning Point for the Global South

The Iran war is not just another conflict in the Middle East, it is a structural moment with far-reaching consequences for the global order. It is reshaping how states, particularly in the Global South, understand power, survival, sovereignty, and autonomy in an increasingly contested international system.

At its core, the war presents two contrasting scenarios with global implications.

If Iran were to collapse or be forced into surrender, it would likely reinforce U.S. hegemony and send a clear signal that resistance to the current global order carries overwhelming costs. Such an outcome would strengthen deterrence against other Global South states seeking strategic autonomy, particularly in areas like nuclear capability, independent foreign policy, or economic divergence from Western systems. In this scenario, the message would be clear: the limits of autonomy are defined by dominant powers.

Alternatively, if Iran resists and survives, the implications could be very different. It would demonstrate that sustained resistance, even under intense military and economic pressure, is possible. This outcome would likely empower Global South states, reinforcing trends toward strategic independence, diversified alliances, and the pursuit of self-reliance in security and economic policy. It would also accelerate the shift toward a more multipolar world, where power is more distributed and contested.

The key question, therefore, is not only about the outcome of the war itself, but about its broader legacy: Will the Global South move toward a more unified and independent geopolitical identity, or remain fragmented within competing power blocs shaped by external forces?

For decades, Gulf states have pursued a strategy of cautious diplomacy and economic transformation, seeking to insulate themselves from the region’s conflicts while focusing on trade, investment, tourism, and diversification beyond oil. The current war, however, is testing that model.

War does not only destroy buildings, military bases, and infrastructure. It also reshapes strategic visions. The conflict is already forcing Gulf states to rethink their economic strategies, their security arrangements, and their partnerships with global powers.

The central question now facing the region is not only how the Gulf will weather this war, but also what strategic direction it will take once the conflict ends and its lessons become clear.

Gulf at the Heart of the War

Since the beginning of the U.S.–Israel war with Iran, the Gulf has increasingly become a direct theatre of confrontation rather than merely a nearby observer. Iran has launched hundreds of missiles and drones across the region, targeting U.S. military facilities, energy infrastructure, ports, and shipping routes in countries hosting American forces. As a result, the conflict has affected multiple sectors across the Gulf simultaneously—military installations, civilian infrastructure, energy facilities, and maritime trade.

1- Military Infrastructure: A primary target of Iranian strikes has been U.S. and allied military infrastructure across the Gulf. Countries hosting American bases have experienced repeated missile and drone attacks aimed at degrading regional air-defense systems and logistical networks. In the United Arab Emirates, Iran launched approximately 174 ballistic missiles and nearly 689 drones, many aimed at Al Dhafra Air Base, a major U.S. military installation. In Bahrain, home to the U.S. Navy’s Fifth Fleet headquarters, air-defense systems intercepted roughly 70 missiles and 59 drones, though several strikes damaged facilities near Manama. Qatar’s Al Udeid Air Base, the largest U.S. military facility in the Middle East, was also targeted by Iranian missiles and drones. While most projectiles were intercepted by Qatari and U.S. defense systems, several landed near the installation, forcing temporary airspace closures and disrupting aviation operations. Kuwait, a critical logistical hub for U.S. operations, also faced dozens of missile and drone attacks targeting military facilities. One of the most notable incidents involved the loss of three U.S. F-15 fighter jets during defensive engagements, reportedly while responding to incoming missiles. Across the region, several strikes reportedly damaged radar systems and components of missile-defense infrastructure, including Patriot and THAAD interception systems. These systems are essential not only for protecting Gulf states but also for maintaining the broader regional air-defense architecture.

2- Energy Infrastructure: Iranian strikes also targeted energy infrastructure, reflecting the Gulf’s central role in global oil markets. In Saudi Arabia, drones and missiles attempted to strike key energy installations, including the Ras Tanura refinery, one of the largest oil processing facilities in the world. While most attacks were intercepted, some caused damage and casualties. Other Gulf states placed oil fields, refineries, and export terminals on high alert as the threat of further attacks on energy infrastructure increased. Even limited damage to these facilities carries global consequences due to the region’s critical role in supplying international energy markets.

3- Maritime Trade and Ports: The war has also spread to the maritime domain, particularly around the Strait of Hormuz, one of the world’s most important energy chokepoints. Oman has experienced drone attacks on strategic ports such as Duqm and Salalah, while several oil tankers and commercial vessels were targeted near the Strait, resulting in casualties among shipping crews and foreign workers. These attacks have raised concerns about the security of global shipping routes and forced regional ports and maritime authorities to increase security measures.

4- Civilian and Economic Disruptions: In addition to significant damage to military infrastructure, the broader impact on daily life across the Gulf has been significant. Missile and drone barrages have forced temporary airspace closures, disrupted commercial aviation, and increased insurance costs for shipping and trade. Airports, ports, and energy facilities across the region have been placed on heightened alert as governments attempt to shield critical infrastructure from further attacks.

The scale and geographic spread of these strikes illustrate a central reality of the war: the Gulf states are no longer peripheral actors in the conflict. By hosting U.S. bases and serving as the backbone of the global energy system, they have become strategic targets in a widening regional confrontation.

The Future Shock: War and the Gulf’s Economic Model

The war is not only producing immediate security risks for the Gulf states; it is also forcing a deeper reassessment of the economic model that has shaped the region over the past three decades. Gulf economies have been built on three pillars—energy exports, global trade connectivity, and post-oil diversification through tourism and investment. The current conflict is exposing vulnerabilities across all three.

1- Energy Infrastructure and Strategic Vulnerability: Energy infrastructure has always been the backbone of Gulf economies, but the war is highlighting how vulnerable this infrastructure remains. The Gulf produces roughly one fourth of the world’s traded oil, with Saudi Arabia exporting about 7 million barrels per day, the UAE around 3 million, and Kuwait close to 2 million barrels daily. Qatar is also one of the world’s largest exporters of liquefied natural gas (LNG), typically accounting for approximately 20% of global LNG trade. And they all are almost shud down during the last two weeks. These massive volumes depend on highly concentrated infrastructure: oil fields, refineries, export terminals, pipelines, and maritime routes clustered along the Gulf coastline. Past incidents—most notably the 2019 attacks on Saudi Aramco facilities that temporarily disrupted about 5% of global oil supply—demonstrated how quickly targeted strikes can affect global markets. The current war is likely to push Gulf states to rethink the security architecture surrounding their energy sectors. In the future, we may see greater investment in energy redundancy, diversification of export routes, expanded storage capacity, and stronger missile and drone defense systems around critical energy facilities.

2- Trade and Logistics Under Pressure: Over the past two decades, Gulf states—especially the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia—have transformed themselves into global trade and logistics hubs linking Asia, Europe, and Africa. Ports such as Jebel Ali in Dubai, major airports across the region, and new logistics corridors have become central nodes in global supply chains. War in the Gulf threatens this connectivity. Maritime tensions around the Strait of Hormuz, through which about 20% of global oil trade passes, could raise shipping insurance costs, reroute maritime traffic, and disrupt supply chains. Even limited attacks on shipping or port infrastructure could undermine the Gulf’s reputation as a stable global trading platform. If such risks persist, the region may face a long-term challenge: maintaining its status as a reliable global logistics hub in an increasingly militarised environment.

3- Tourism and the Post-Oil Transformation: The Gulf’s long-term economic vision also relies heavily on tourism and international mobility. Initiatives such as Saudi Arabia’s Vision 2030, Dubai’s global tourism industry, and Qatar’s post-World Cup development strategy all depend on the perception of the Gulf as a safe and stable destination. Regional conflict threatens that perception. Missile strikes, airspace closures, and heightened geopolitical tensions can quickly deter visitors, increase insurance costs for airlines, and delay major hospitality investments. If the war continues or becomes a recurring feature of the regional environment, Gulf states may face a difficult balancing act: pursuing ambitious post-oil economic transformations while operating in a neighbourhood defined increasingly by geopolitical confrontation.

Together, these pressures suggest that the war may not only reshape the region’s security landscape but could also force a fundamental rethink of the Gulf’s economic strategy for the decades ahead.

Rethinking Economic and Strategic Partnerships

The war is also accelerating a longer-term shift in the Gulf’s geopolitical and economic partnerships. For decades, Gulf states have relied heavily on the United States for security guarantees while maintaining economic ties with global markets. However, the current conflict—particularly the fact that Gulf territories hosting U.S. military infrastructure have become targets—has revived debates within the region about the costs and benefits of this strategic dependency.

As a result, Gulf states are likely to intensify efforts to diversify their international partnerships. Even before the war, many of these countries had begun pursuing a more multipolar foreign policy, expanding relations with emerging global powers such as China and Russia while maintaining ties with Western allies. The conflict is likely to accelerate this trend.

There are already reports suggesting that some Gulf governments are reconsidering the scale of the multi-trillion-dollar investment commitments made during President Donald Trump’s visit to the region last year, potentially redirecting portions of those funds toward other global partners or domestic strategic sectors.

China is particularly important in this recalibration. It is now the largest buyer of Gulf energy, making it a central economic partner for the region’s oil and gas exporters. Beijing has also demonstrated growing diplomatic ambitions in the Middle East, most notably by facilitating the Saudi–Iran rapprochement agreement, which signaled China’s emerging role as a political mediator in the region.

Russia also plays a significant role in Gulf strategic calculations. Through coordination in the OPEC+ framework, Moscow has developed strong working relationships with major Gulf oil producers, particularly Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. Beyond energy markets, Russia offers Gulf states an additional geopolitical partner in an increasingly multipolar global system.

Taken together, these dynamics suggest that the war may accelerate a broader transformation in the Gulf’s external relations. Rather than relying predominantly on a single patron, Gulf states may increasingly pursue a balancing strategy—maintaining ties with the United States while deepening economic and strategic cooperation with China, Russia, and other emerging powers.

Such a shift would also have wider geopolitical consequences. If Gulf states gradually rebalance their economic and strategic partnerships away from Washington, it could tilt regional influence in favour of China and Russia. China’s role as the largest buyer of Gulf energy already gives Beijing significant leverage, while Russia’s coordination with Gulf producers in OPEC+ strengthens its strategic presence in global energy markets. A sustained perception that U.S. alliances expose Gulf states to security risks without guaranteeing stability may encourage regional leaders to hedge further toward these alternative powers. Over time, this could weaken the United States’ traditional dominance in the Gulf and accelerate the emergence of a more multipolar regional order, where China and Russia gain greater diplomatic and economic influence at Washington’s expense.

Strategic Security Reassessment

The war is also forcing Gulf states to reconsider one of the core foundations of their modern security architecture: their reliance on U.S. security guarantees. For decades, Washington has been the primary military protector of the region, maintaining large bases, naval fleets, and missile-defense systems across the Gulf. This partnership was designed to deter external threats and ensure regional stability.

However, the current war has raised uncomfortable questions across Gulf capitals. Rather than providing security, the presence of U.S. military infrastructure has effectively turned several Gulf states into frontline targets in a conflict they neither initiated nor control. Iranian strikes on bases and military installations hosting American forces have exposed the vulnerability of this arrangement and triggered debate about whether the U.S. security umbrella still serves Gulf interests.

As a result, Gulf governments are likely to accelerate efforts to diversify their security partnerships and strengthen their own defensive capabilities. This includes expanding missile-defense systems, improving early warning networks, and deepening regional security coordination among Gulf states themselves.

At the same time, new security alignments are already emerging. Saudi Arabia has expanded defense cooperation with countries such as Pakistan and Türkiye, and other Gulf states may follow, raising the possibility of a broader Muslim security framework sometimes described as a potential “Muslim NATO.” Parallel to this, several Gulf countries have already deepened security and strategic cooperation with China and Russia, which some regional leaders view as potentially more balanced partners given their relations with Iran.

Iran itself has repeatedly proposed the creation of a regional security framework excluding external powers, and during the current war Tehran has escalated its calls for Gulf states to remove U.S. military bases from their territory. Given the significant damage some of these bases have already suffered and the political costs associated with hosting them, the future of the U.S. military footprint in the region may increasingly come under question.

If these trends continue, the war may mark the beginning of a new regional security order, one in which Gulf states pursue a more autonomous strategy and where external influence gradually shifts toward a broader set of global actors—including China and Russia—rather than relying overwhelmingly on the United States.

Bottom Line: A Region Being Reshaped by War

The war between the United States, Israel, and Iran is doing more than altering the military balance in the Middle East. It is reshaping the strategic environment of the Gulf states in ways that will likely endure long after the fighting ends. The conflict has exposed the vulnerability of the Gulf’s economic model, which relies on stable energy production, secure trade routes, global connectivity, and international investment. At the same time, it has triggered a deeper reassessment of security partnerships, regional alliances, and the geopolitical orientation of Gulf governments.

Across multiple sectors—energy infrastructure, maritime trade, tourism, and strategic security—Gulf states are being forced to reconsider assumptions that have guided their policies for decades. Questions about the reliability of external security guarantees, the risks of hosting foreign military bases, and the need for diversified economic and geopolitical partnerships are now at the center of regional decision-making.

These shifts suggest that the consequences of the war will extend far beyond the battlefield. The conflict is accelerating trends toward economic diversification, multipolar diplomacy, and new regional security arrangements. Gulf states are increasingly seeking to balance relations between global powers while strengthening their own strategic autonomy.

In this sense, the war represents not only a military confrontation but also a transformative moment for the Middle East’s political and economic order. The Gulf that emerges after the war is unlikely to resemble the one that existed before it. As regional powers adjust to new realities and external alliances evolve, the post-war Middle East may look fundamentally different—strategically, economically, and geopolitically—from the region that entered the conflict.

Many claims about Mojtaba, especially those portraying him in mythical or highly personalised terms, are often based on rumours rather than verifiable accounts. Much of the account in this article draws on my first-hand experience serving as a Strategic Communications Advisor to the Iraqi Prime Minister, where I ran the Iran desk, as well as direct contacts and reliable sources from that period. I avoided relying on rumours and speculation.

Who Is Mojtaba Khamenei?

Mojtaba Khamenei, the second son of Iran’s former Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, was born on 8 September 1969 in Mashhad into one of the most influential clerical families in the Islamic Republic. As a member of the Khamenei family—a prominent political-religious dynasty that has shaped Iran’s leadership for decades—he grew up at the center of the country’s revolutionary establishment. His personal and political networks were further strengthened through marriage into the Haddad Adel family, another powerful conservative political family closely connected to Iran’s ruling elite.

Like many figures within Iran’s clerical leadership, Mojtaba Khamenei pursued a traditional religious education. He studied in the religious seminaries of Tehran and Qom, the two most important centers of Shiite scholarship in Iran. Among his instructors were influential clerics such as Mahmoud Shahroudi and Mohammad-Taqi Mesbah Yazdi, both known for their role in developing the ideological and political theology underpinning the Islamic Republic. Over the years he rose through the ranks of the seminary system and reportedly reached one of the highest teaching levels in the Hawza, where he taught advanced religious courses until suspending his classes last year due to security concerns.

Mojtaba also shares the revolutionary generation’s formative experience of the Iran–Iraq War (1980–1988), in which he reportedly served as a young volunteer. During this period he built long-lasting relationships with members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and other revolutionary institutions. These networks later became an important foundation for his political influence.

Although he rarely held formal government office, Mojtaba Khamenei gradually became one of the most powerful behind-the-scenes figures in Iranian politics. For years he operated within the Office of the Supreme Leader, where he managed access to his father and cultivated extensive political and security networks. Many observers described him as his father’s “gatekeeper” or shadow adviser, exercising influence far beyond his public profile.

His power base rests on a combination of conservative clerical support in Qom, strong relationships with the IRGC, and influence among Basij paramilitary networks. He is also associated with the Front of Islamic Revolution Stability, a hardline political current within the Iranian establishment. Within the regime he is often described as a hardliner, particularly in matters of military deterrence and regional strategy, with some analysts suggesting he may support more assertive strategic policies than his father did.

His prominence also attracted international attention. In 2019 the United States placed Mojtaba Khamenei under sanctions, citing his role in advancing the policies of the Iranian leadership and supporting the structures of the Islamic Republic.

Following the assassination of Ali Khamenei during the ongoing war involving Iran, the United States, and Israel, the Assembly of Experts selected Mojtaba Khamenei as Iran’s new Supreme Leader in March 2026. His rise to the position reflects the consolidation of power among hardline political forces and the growing influence of security institutions within Iran’s political system. Ideologically, he is widely seen as strongly committed to the principles of the Islamic Revolution, supporting a firm stance against Western influence and continuing Iran’s regional “resistance” strategy.

How the War Helped Him Rise to Power

The assassination of Iran’s Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei in a U.S.–Israeli strike created an immediate succession crisis at one of the most sensitive moments in the history of the Islamic Republic. With the country already engaged in a major regional war, the leadership faced urgent pressure to ensure rapid political continuity and prevent instability at the top of the system.

Under normal circumstances, Mojtaba Khamenei’s potential succession had long been controversial within Iran’s political and clerical circles. Many senior officials and religious authorities had expressed reservations about the idea for two main reasons. First, it appeared to contradict the republican foundations of the Islamic Republic, which was established in 1979 through a revolution that overthrew a hereditary monarchy. Elevating the son of a supreme leader risked creating the impression of a dynastic transfer of power, something the revolution had originally rejected. Second, from a theological perspective, the idea also challenged traditional Shiite norms, since there is no historical precedent of a Shiite marja or supreme religious authority being succeeded directly by his son.

However, the outbreak of war and the atmosphere of national survival that followed dramatically altered the political calculus. In times of existential crisis, political systems often prioritize stability and continuity over institutional debates or ideological objections. The urgent need to maintain command over the state, the military, and the security apparatus made a swift and decisive succession more important than the unresolved controversies surrounding it.

In this environment, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and hardline political networks quickly rallied behind Mojtaba Khamenei as a figure capable of preserving the system and maintaining unity within the ruling establishment. The external pressure created by the war with the United States and Israel further reinforced this consolidation, strengthening the argument that the country needed a leader deeply embedded within the existing power structure.

Rather than weakening the Islamic Republic, the war appears to have accelerated the consolidation of power within the hardline establishment, smoothing the path for Mojtaba Khamenei’s rise to the leadership.

For Trump and Netanyahu: From One Khamenei to Another

The appointment of Mojtaba Khamenei as Iran’s new Supreme Leader also carries a clear political message for Washington and Tel Aviv. Early in the war, U.S. President Donald Trump suggested that the worst possible outcome would be if Ali Khamenei’s successor turned out to be “as bad as the previous person.” He also publicly indicated that the United States should have a role in shaping Iran’s political future, reportedly expressing a desire for direct involvement in determining who would succeed the Iranian leader after his death.

Against this backdrop, Mojtaba Khamenei’s rapid elevation appears to have been interpreted within Iran’s political establishment as a statement of defiance. Reports suggest that Trump later expressed dissatisfaction with the outcome, saying he was “not happy” with the choice of the new Supreme Leader.

From Tehran’s perspective, however, the message behind the decision seems clear. By selecting the son of the late leader—someone deeply embedded in the existing political and security networks—the system signaled that the continuity of the Islamic Republic remains intact, even under intense external pressure. It also served as a rejection of any notion that foreign powers could influence Iran’s internal leadership decisions.

In effect, the leadership transition communicates a blunt message to Washington and Tel Aviv: the system will determine its own future, and external pressure—even the assassination of its highest authority—will not dictate Iran’s political trajectory. In symbolic terms, the outcome can be read as a declaration that removing one Khamenei has simply produced another one to deal with.

At the same time, Mojtaba Khamenei has long been known as a highly secretive figure operating largely behind the scenes, which adds another layer to this dynamic. His limited public profile and opaque political style make him less predictable for Iran’s adversaries, contributing to the psychological dimension of the ongoing confrontation.

What His Leadership Means for Iran’s Domestic Politics

The domestic implications of Mojtaba Khamenei’s leadership may be understood through a comparison once made by Faezeh Hashemi, the daughter of the late Iranian political heavyweight Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani. Several years ago she compared Mojtaba Khamenei to Saudi Arabia’s Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, suggesting that his style of governance could combine social flexibility with political centralisation.

In some respects, this comparison may prove insightful. On the social front, Mojtaba Khamenei is believed to be more pragmatic and less rigid on certain cultural and religious regulations that have triggered widespread public frustration in recent years. Issues such as the strict enforcement of hijab laws and other aspects of religious policing, which fueled repeated protest waves, may see a degree of relaxation. Public demands for greater personal freedoms have grown significantly over the past decade, and easing these pressures could help the state reduce social tensions.

However, this potential social flexibility may not extend to the political sphere. In contrast, political opposition and organised dissent are likely to face a more securitised environment. Mojtaba Khamenei’s close ties to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) suggest that security institutions may gain even greater influence within the political system. The result could be a strengthening of the security state, with tighter monitoring of political activism and organised opposition.

Such a shift may also lead to a further decline in the already limited space available to reformist currents, reducing the prospects for meaningful political pluralism within the system. At the same time, Mojtba Khamenei represents a generational transition within the leadership of the Islamic Republic—a move from the revolutionary generation that founded the state in 1979 to a younger cohort shaped by the post-revolutionary political order.

Taken together, these developments suggest that the Islamic Republic may gradually evolve into a system that is less defined by traditional clerical authority and ideological debates, and more characterised by centralised power and strong security institutions.

What It Means for the Ongoing War

Mojtaba Khamenei’s rise to power comes at a moment when Iran is already engaged in an intense and expanding confrontation with the United States and Israel. His leadership is therefore likely to shape the strategic trajectory of the war itself.

One important factor is his long-standing relationship with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and other security institutions. These networks suggest that Iran’s strategic posture may become more militarised and security-driven, giving the IRGC an even greater role in shaping wartime decision-making while sidelining political and diplomatic institutions.

At the same time, the circumstances surrounding his appointment—following the assassination of his father and during a period of external attack—reinforce the state’s narrative of national survival and resistance. In such an environment, compromise is often politically costly. As a result, diplomatic openings with the United States or Israel are likely to remain limited in the short term, as the leadership prioritises unity and deterrence over negotiation.

Strategically, Iran may respond by strengthening its deterrence capabilities across several fronts. This could include further expansion of its missile program, increased reliance on regional allies and proxy networks, and the use of strategic pressure points in the region. One such pressure point is the Strait of Hormuz, a critical global energy route through which Iran can exert economic and geopolitical leverage.

In this context, the leadership transition does not necessarily create an opportunity for de-escalation. On the contrary, changes in leadership during wartime often reinforce hardline positions, as new leaders seek to demonstrate strength and maintain internal cohesion.

The key dynamic, therefore, is that leadership change in the middle of a war may reduce incentives for immediate de-escalation and narrow the space for compromise.

Regional Implications

Mojtaba Khamenei’s appointment also carries important consequences for the broader Middle East. One immediate effect has been the reinforcement of the “Axis of Resistance” narrative across the region. Leaders of allied movements and groups in Iraq, Lebanon, and Yemen quickly pledged allegiance to him, signalling continuity in the network of political and military alliances that Iran has cultivated over the past decades.

At the same time, regional governments are likely to reassess their strategic calculations. Countries such as Iraq, Lebanon, Yemen, and the Gulf states will closely watch how the new leadership defines its regional priorities and how the ongoing confrontation with the United States and Israel evolves. In the short term, Mojtaba Khamenei’s rise could contribute to a deepening geopolitical polarisation in the Middle East, particularly if the war continues and alliances harden along opposing blocs.

However, if the current conflict eventually subsides, Iran under his leadership may also seek to improve and stabilise relations with neighbouring countries. Mojtaba Khamenei is believed to hold the view that Iran must reassure its regional neighbours and work toward building stronger political and economic partnerships in order to reduce isolation and strengthen Iran’s long-term strategic position.

Beyond the region, his leadership will also have broader global implications. These may include continued confrontation with Israel and the United States, persistent tensions affecting energy markets, and increased risks to maritime security in strategic waterways such as the Strait of Hormuz and Bab al-Mandab. The situation also feeds into wider great-power competition, as global actors become increasingly involved in shaping the future balance of power in the Middle East.

Nuclear and Missile Policy: Toward Expanded Deterrence

One of the most consequential questions following the leadership transition concerns Iran’s nuclear and missile policies. For years, the late Ayatollah Ali Khamenei maintained a religious decree—often referred to as a fatwa against the development of nuclear weapons—which he presented as both a theological and political barrier to weaponisation. While the interpretation and practical implications of that fatwa were frequently debated internationally, within Iran it functioned as an important reference point shaping the country’s official nuclear doctrine.

With the emergence of a new supreme leader, however, the authority of that decree is no longer necessarily binding. In the Shiite religious tradition, religious rulings are tied to the authority of the scholar who issues them, and a new leader is free to adopt a different interpretation. Mojtaba Khamenei has never publicly reaffirmed his father’s position on the matter, and he has been reportedly known to be against it. Furthermore, the debate over nuclear deterrence within Iran’s political and security circles has intensified in recent years, pushing toward changing the policy and developing a nuclear weapon as a new deterrent.

In particular, voices within the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and other security institutions have increasingly argued that Iran must strengthen its deterrence capabilities following repeated attacks and external pressure. From their perspective, the vulnerabilities exposed during the current war have reinforced the argument that conventional deterrence alone may not be sufficient.

A similar debate surrounds Iran’s missile doctrine. Under Ali Khamenei, the country’s ballistic missile program was reportedly guided by an informal strategic ceiling of around 2,000 kilometres, a range sufficient to cover regional adversaries while avoiding a shift toward intercontinental capability. Mojtaba Khamenei, however, has long been associated with figures who viewed this limitation as strategically restrictive.

In the aftermath of the war—and given the perception that Iran’s territory itself has become directly vulnerable—the argument for expanding missile ranges and capabilities is likely to gain greater traction. Extending the reach of Iran’s missile program could allow the country to project deterrence beyond the regional theatre and potentially reach more distant targets, including those associated with the United States.

Taken together, the leadership transition may open the door to a more expansive doctrine of strategic deterrence, combining accelerated nuclear capability debates with a broader missile program. Whether this shift materialises will depend on internal power dynamics within Iran’s leadership, but the pressure to rebuild and strengthen deterrence after the war is already becoming a central theme in the country’s strategic discussions.

The Bigger Question: Continuity or a Security-Driven Transformation?

The rise of Mojtaba Khamenei ultimately raises a deeper question about the future of the Islamic Republic: is this transition a continuation of the regime’s ideological foundations, or the beginning of a more security-driven political system?

On one hand, his appointment reflects a strong element of continuity. The core pillars of the Islamic Republic—the clerical establishment, the Revolutionary Guard, and the broader security apparatus—moved quickly to preserve the existing political structure. Despite the assassination of its supreme leader and the pressures of war, the system demonstrated its capacity to reproduce itself and maintain internal cohesion. In this sense, Mojtaba Khamenei represents the continuation of the revolutionary order built after 1979.

On the other hand, the context of his rise and the networks supporting him suggest the possibility of gradual transformation. Mojtaba belongs to a generation shaped less by the ideological fervour of the revolution and more by decades of geopolitical confrontation, sanctions, and security challenges. His close ties to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and the increasing influence of security institutions may signal a shift toward a system where strategic survival and military deterrence play a more central role than ideological debates within the clerical establishment.

This does not necessarily mean the ideological framework of the Islamic Republic will disappear. Rather, it may evolve into a model where state security institutions and strategic deterrence become the dominant organising principles of governance, while revolutionary ideology continues to provide its political justification.

Whether Mojtaba Khamenei’s leadership ultimately reinforces the existing ideological structure or accelerates the emergence of a more security-driven state will shape Iran’s political trajectory in the years ahead—and, by extension, the strategic balance of the Middle East.

The Moral Credibility Problem

Many diaspora opposition groups present their struggle as a moral fight for freedom, democracy, and human rights. Yet several dynamics have weakened this narrative in the eyes of international audiences.

First, misinformation and exaggerated claims have contributed to growing scepticism among observers in the West. During the protests in Iran, for example, some activists circulated claims that as many as 30,000 protesters had been killed, with figures later escalating even further in online discussions up to 90,000. However, data compiled by the Washington-based Iranian human rights organisation HRA (Harana) records 7,007 deaths during the unrest, including 207 members of the security forces. Iranian government has recorded 3117 death. While this number still reflects a significant level of violence and repression, the gap between verified figures and widely circulated claims has made parts of the international public more cautious, even toward legitimate criticisms of the regime.

Another example illustrating the problem of misinformation appeared in public commentary during the protests. Eli Lowen, presented in some media as a prominent figure among diaspora protesters in Australia, told SBS that 23,000 protesters had been killed during the recent unrest. He compared this number to what he claimed were 16,000 deaths during the eight-year Iran–Iraq war, concluding that the recent crackdown amounted to genocide and was the second worst massacre after Hiroshima, which killed around 140,000 people. Historical records, however, place the death toll of the Iran–Iraq war at around 220,000 Iranian casualties alone, making the comparison deeply misleading. Such statements contribute to a broader pattern in which exaggerated or inaccurate claims circulate in public debate, creating the perception of organised disinformation that risks misleading audiences and distorting discussions about Iran.

Second, racist, Islamophobic, and misogynistic rhetoric has at times been visible within protest spaces and diaspora activism. Such language contradicts the universal values of equality and human dignity that the movement seeks to promote, weakening its moral appeal to global audiences.

Third, selective empathy has also raised questions about credibility. While diaspora activism often expresses strong grief and solidarity for protesters killed by the Iranian state, there is often far less public attention given to civilians killed in conflicts involving other actors, including U.S. or Israeli military actions. This perceived inconsistency can create the impression that moral concern is politically selective rather than universal.

Finally, some narratives reflect selective patriotism—expressing loyalty to a particular vision of Iran or to specific social groups rather than to the country’s diverse society as a whole.

Taken together, these dynamics complicate the moral framing of the opposition’s struggle and weaken the legitimacy it needs to mobilise broader international support.

Misreading the International Audience

Diaspora activists often misjudge the political landscape of the audiences they are trying to persuade.

In many Western countries, left-leaning audiences tend to be the strongest supporters of humanitarian causes, human rights movements, and struggles against repression. These groups often form the backbone of international solidarity campaigns. However, some strands of Iranian diaspora activism present messages that unintentionally alienate these potential allies.

For example, the prominent display of U.S. or Israeli flags at some demonstrations creates a symbolic contradiction. In the political imagination of many progressive circles in the West, these flags are often associated with military power, interventionism, or imperial influence. When activists simultaneously appeal for solidarity from these audiences while embracing symbols that many of them view critically, the message can become confusing or counterproductive.

Another factor that further complicates the opposition’s appeal to Western audiences is open calls for military confrontation with Iran. Some diaspora activists have publicly supported sanctions, military strikes, or even full-scale war as a pathway to regime change. However, large segments of Western public opinion—particularly within progressive and humanitarian circles—remain deeply sceptical of war as a tool for promoting democracy. The experiences of Iraq, Libya, and Afghanistan have left many audiences wary of claims that military intervention can bring freedom or stability. When opposition voices appear to welcome external military pressure despite the likely human and economic cost for ordinary Iranians, it creates a moral contradiction that distances potential supporters and reinforces fears that regime change is being prioritised over the well-being of the population.

A similar issue emerges with the tone of some protest rhetoric. Racist, Islamophobic, or misogynistic slogans—occasionally visible in segments of diaspora protests—repel many progressive groups that prioritise anti-racism, gender equality, and religious tolerance. Even when such rhetoric represents only a portion of the movement, it can shape external perceptions and raise doubts about the broader moral framework of the cause.

As a result, messaging that may resonate strongly within certain diaspora communities can inadvertently distance or alienate the very international audiences whose support is often most influential in shaping global public opinion.

Weak Democratic Culture and Structure

Another challenge lies in the limited democratic practice within segments of the diaspora opposition itself.

The opposition abroad remains highly fragmented and poorly organised, with numerous groups competing for influence but rarely coordinating around a shared political strategy. Many organisations lack clear democratic structures, leadership accountability, or a coherent political program that could convincingly outline how a future political system in Iran might function.

Internal divisions—often driven by personal rivalries, ideological disputes, and competing visions of Iran’s future—frequently overshadow efforts to build a credible and unified alternative. Instead of presenting a clear roadmap for democratic governance, opposition debates sometimes revolve around leadership personalities or symbolic political identities.

In some cases, the tone of diaspora activism and protest slogans has also raised concerns. Rhetoric that excludes other political views, delegitimises those with even minor differences, or shows a tendency toward aggressive language, can sometimes reach the level of fascism and create the impression of intolerance rather than pluralism. For international observers accustomed to democratic political culture, this raises doubts about whether the opposition movement itself fully embraces democratic norms.

For outside audiences, the question therefore becomes unavoidable: if democratic values are not consistently practiced within the opposition, can it realistically present itself as a credible democratic alternative to the current system?

Tyranny and the Primal Father

In Totem and Taboo, Sigmund Freud introduced the myth of the Primal Father (Urvater) to explain the origins of social order, authority, and moral rules. In Freud’s narrative, early human society was organized around a dominant patriarch who monopolized power and control. The sons, excluded and subordinated, eventually unite to overthrow and kill this father figure in order to free themselves from his absolute authority.

Yet the act of rebellion does not bring the freedom they expected. According to Freud, the sons soon experience guilt and fear of renewed chaos. To restore order, they symbolically recreate the authority of the father they had destroyed. They establish new prohibitions, rituals, and institutions—what Freud described as totems and taboos—to regulate their behaviour and maintain social stability.

This produces a central paradox: the killing of the father does not eliminate authority. Instead, it reconstructs authority in a different form, embedding it within the rules and structures that govern the group. Patricide, in this sense, does not end power; it merely transforms and redistributes it.

In Freud’s account in Totem and Taboo, after the sons unite to kill the dominant “primal father” in order to free themselves from his authority, they are soon overwhelmed by guilt and fear that the chaos created by his absence could destroy the group. To restore order, they symbolically replace the father with a totem—often represented by an animal or sacred symbol that stands in for the slain patriarch. Around this totem they establish taboos, strict prohibitions that govern the community’s behavior, most importantly the bans against killing the totem and against sexual relations within the group (the incest taboo). These rules become the first moral and social laws of the community. In Freud’s interpretation, this moment marks the birth of religion, social order, and political authority: although the father has been killed, his power returns in symbolic form through the very rules and institutions the sons create to control themselves.

The Pattern of Rebellion

Modern rebellions across the Middle East often follow a pattern that echoes the psychological dynamic described by Freud. In many states of the region, authoritarian rule is not limited to a single leader; it is deeply intertwined with the state itself. Over decades, power structures have become embedded within security institutions, bureaucracies, economic networks, and political elites. As a result, the regime and the state often become indistinguishable. Removing the ruler does not easily dismantle only the regime—it risks unravelling the state that has been built around it.

This pattern has appeared repeatedly in recent history. In Iraq, the overthrow of Saddam Hussein did not simply remove a dictator; it shattered state institutions and triggered years of insurgency and sectarian conflict. Libya’s revolution ended Muammar Gaddafi’s rule but left a fractured state dominated by competing militias. Syria’s uprising, which began with calls for reform and freedom, descended into a prolonged civil war that devastated the country. Sudan has faced similar cycles of revolt followed by instability. Today, some observers fear that a comparable dynamic could emerge in Iran if the system were to collapse suddenly.

In each case, the rebellion begins as a struggle to overthrow a dominant “father-like” ruler or regime. It is framed as liberation from tyranny and the promise of a new political beginning. Yet when the father falls, the consequences often extend far beyond the removal of a single figure. Institutions collapse alongside the leader, administrative structures disintegrate, and security forces fragment.

The result is frequently not immediate freedom but fragmentation, civil war, or prolonged instability—illustrating how the fall of the ruler can also mean the collapse of the system that sustained the state itself.

The tragedy of many rebellions in the Middle East is that the act of overthrowing the “father” rarely ends the structures of domination that provoked the revolt in the first place. When authoritarian systems collapse, societies often discover that the very rules and hierarchies they sought to destroy were also holding the state together. In the absence of stable institutions, chaos, fragmentation, and insecurity quickly emerge.

At that point, revolutionary movements frequently confront an uncomfortable reality: to restore order, they must recreate many of the same mechanisms of authority that the fallen regime once used. New leaders impose rules, rebuild security structures, and centralize power in the name of stability. In doing so, the rebellion gradually reconstructs a familiar pattern of domination—often a new version of the same tyranny it sought to escape.

Freud’s metaphor of the primal father thus captures a deeper political cycle. The father is killed, but his authority returns in another form. What begins as an act of liberation risks becoming a repetition of the same structure of power, reminding us that destroying authority is far easier than building a political order capable of replacing it.

The Cycle of Political Patricide

Across much of the Middle East, political change risks falling into a recurring pattern that resembles the dynamic Freud described in Totem and Taboo. Long periods of authoritarian rule eventually generate deep frustration and rebellion. Uprisings emerge with the promise of liberation, aiming to overthrow the dominant “father” who symbolizes the regime. Yet when the rebellion succeeds—or even partially succeeds—it often weakens or destroys the institutions that held the state together.

The immediate aftermath is frequently marked by instability, fragmentation, or conflict, as competing forces struggle to fill the vacuum of authority. In such moments, societies facing insecurity and disorder often begin to search again for strong leadership capable of restoring stability. The result can be the emergence of another centralized authority—sometimes in the form of a new ruler, sometimes through powerful military or security structures.

The pattern thus risks repeating itself: authoritarian rule gives rise to rebellion; rebellion weakens or collapses the state; and the demand for order produces another authoritarian system. In this sense, the rebellion may succeed in killing the father, but the political system often reproduces another father in his place.

Iran offers perhaps the clearest illustration of this cycle. In 1979, a broad coalition of political forces overthrew the Shah and ended the monarchy that had ruled the country for decades, replacing it with the Islamic Republic under Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. The revolution was widely celebrated as liberation from authoritarian rule and foreign influence. Yet the new system that emerged soon consolidated its own form of centralized religious authority and suppressed many of the political groups that had participated in the uprising. Today, decades later, some opponents of the Islamic Republic are once again calling for the restoration of the monarchy under the Shah’s son. In this sense, Iran reveals a striking pattern: the country moved from monarchy to theocratic rule, and now parts of the opposition look back to monarchy as a solution. The rebellion killed one father, replaced him with another, and now risks repeating the cycle yet again—illustrating how the politics of patricide can produce successive forms of authority rather than a genuine escape from them.

Is There a Way Out?

The central question that emerges from this pattern is whether the cycle is inevitable. Must rebellion always end by reproducing another form of domination, or is it possible to break the sequence of political patricide that has marked so many upheavals in the region?

The core challenge lies in institutions. Sustainable political change rarely comes simply from destroying authority; it requires building alternative structures capable of governing before the old system collapses. When revolutions focus only on removing the ruler while neglecting the slow work of institution-building, the vacuum that follows often invites the return of centralized power in a new form.

History repeatedly shows that negotiated and gradual transitions tend to produce more stable outcomes than abrupt collapses of the entire state apparatus. Where institutions survive and political actors bargain over reform, the risk of repeating authoritarian cycles is reduced. Where the system is destroyed without a viable replacement, the revolution often ends by reconstructing the very structures of power it sought to escape.

Whether the Middle East can move beyond this cycle remains an open question. Exploring possible paths out of it—particularly the role of non-violent and negotiated forms of political change—is a much larger subject that deserves its own discussion. I will return to this question in a future piece on Nonviolent Resistance (NVR) and negotiated transitions as potential alternatives to the destructive logic of political patricide.

The Strategic Miscalculation

Before the war even began, there was a deeper assumption shaping Washington’s strategy. President Trump appeared to believe that Iran would behave like Venezuela or Syria — that sufficient pressure, threats, or targeted strikes would either force the Supreme Leader to flee, trigger rapid elite collapse, or compel the remaining leadership to seek a deal on his terms. Some even speculated that removing Khamenei in a strike would decapitate resistance altogether, paving the way for a negotiated surrender or the installation of a more compliant alternative, possibly even a figure such as Reza Pahlavi. Yet none of these expectations materialised. The regime did not fragment, the leadership did not flee, and the system did not collapse under pressure.

In the hours and days following Khamenei’s death, much of the international commentary rested on a familiar assumption: that the Islamic Republic was too personalised around the Supreme Leader to survive his absence. Analysts predicted elite infighting, paralysis within state institutions, even the possibility of mass unrest spilling into the streets. The logic was simple — remove the central pillar, and the structure weakens.

Yet the immediate aftermath told a different story.

Instead of fragmentation, there was coordination. Instead of institutional confusion, there was procedural activation. Constitutional mechanisms were quickly invoked, key figures appeared in public to project unity, and the security apparatus signalled readiness rather than hesitation. The message from Tehran was deliberate: the system is bigger than one man.

This does not mean the regime emerged unchanged. But the early evidence suggests that external actors misread the nature of the Islamic Republic. It is not merely a personality-driven order; it is a deeply institutionalised security state designed to endure shocks.

The real miscalculation, therefore, was assuming that removing the central authority would automatically weaken the regime. In reality, it may have removed something else — the final internal restraint on those within the system who had long argued for a more aggressive posture.

The Nuclear Question: The Fatwa Is No Longer a Brake

For more than two decades, Khamenei’s religious decree — his fatwa prohibiting the development and use of nuclear weapons — functioned as both a theological and political barrier. Internationally, its credibility was often questioned. Critics viewed it as tactical rather than binding. But inside Iran’s power structure, the fatwa carried real weight. It provided the leadership with a religiously grounded justification for stopping short of weaponisation, even while advancing enrichment and technical capability.

Over the years, however, that restraint was not uncontested. Various military and political figures, including voices aligned with the security establishment, openly and privately argued that Iran should reconsider its position. Some publicly criticised the strategic limitations imposed by the Supreme Leader’s prohibition, urging the cancellation of the fatwa in light of mounting external threats. Khamenei resisted these pressures. His authority — both religious and political — was decisive in preventing the formal crossing of the nuclear threshold.

Within the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), elements have long advocated for a stronger deterrence doctrine. From their perspective, the lesson of Iraq, Libya, and other regimes that fell under Western pressure was clear: states without nuclear deterrence are vulnerable. The argument has always been strategic rather than ideological — survival through credible deterrence.

With Khamenei gone, the fatwa is not in effect anymore. The nuclear question may now be revisited not through theological framing but through a strictly strategic calculus. In a climate of open confrontation, the threshold may be reconsidered under a logic of survival rather than restraint.

The key point is this: Iran’s limitation was never technical capacity. It was political will. And that political brake may no longer exist.

Missile Doctrine Without Limits

For years, Iran’s missile doctrine operated within an implicit ceiling. Khamenei has long opposed developing missile ranges above 2,000 kilometers — sufficient to cover regional adversaries, including Israel and U.S. bases in the Middle East, but deliberately stopping short of intercontinental capability. The message was calibrated: Iran sought regional deterrence, not global confrontation.

As Supreme Leader, Khamenei acted as the ultimate arbiter in strategic matters. While the IRGC oversaw development and deployment, the expansion of missile range and doctrine ultimately required his approval. By keeping the program within regional limits, he prevented a dramatic escalation that would have triggered broader international alarm and potentially unified global opposition.

That strategic ceiling now appears far less certain.

With direct confrontation involving not only the United States and Israel but also active participation or alignment from European actors such as the United Kingdom, threat perception inside Tehran is shifting. From the perspective of the security establishment, the battlefield is no longer purely regional. If adversaries extend beyond the Middle East, the logic of deterrence may expand with it.

Within the IRGC, the argument for developing intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) capability has existed for years. The case is straightforward: credible deterrence requires the ability to impose costs not just regionally but globally. Without that capacity, Iran remains strategically vulnerable.

Khamenei’s absence removes the figure who had consistently contained that expansion. The shift now becomes plausible: from a doctrine of controlled, regionally focused deterrence to one of maximal deterrence with extended range.

Empowering the Hawks at Home

Beyond the nuclear and missile files, Khamenei played another crucial role: he functioned as the ultimate political balancer within the Islamic Republic. While often portrayed externally as the embodiment of hardline rule, internally he managed a complex ecosystem of factions — conservatives, pragmatists, technocrats, reformists, clerical networks, and the security establishment. His authority allowed limited rotation of power within the system, enabling different political currents to operate under the regime’s umbrella without threatening its core structure.

This controlled pluralism was not democratic in a liberal sense, but it was politically functional. By permitting periodic shifts — reformist presidencies followed by conservative ones — Khamenei helped preserve the regime’s legitimacy and prevent factional competition from spiralling into destabilising conflict. He acted as the final arbiter when tensions rose, disciplining excesses on all sides and containing intra-elite rivalries.

With his death, that equilibrium becomes far more fragile.

In the absence of a figure with comparable religious and political authority, hardline security actors — particularly within the IRGC and affiliated institutions — are likely to gain disproportionate influence. The balance tilts toward those who control coercive power rather than those who command clerical or technocratic legitimacy.

The centre of gravity thus shifts from clerical-political mediation to security-driven governance.

The implication is significant. The Islamic Republic may not collapse, but it may evolve into a more securitised state — internally less plural and externally more risk-tolerant. Without a supreme authority capable of moderating factional competition, decision-making could become narrower, more insulated, and more driven by security logic than political calibration.

The Bottom Line

Khamenei’s death may not weaken the Islamic Republic in the way many external observers anticipated. Instead of collapse, the system has demonstrated continuity. Instead of fragmentation, it has shown consolidation. But stability does not mean moderation. What may have disappeared with Khamenei is not the regime’s coherence, but the final institutional brake that restrained its most hawkish impulses.

Without his balancing authority, escalation becomes easier to justify. Nuclear restraint weakens, missile ceilings become negotiable, and internal political competition tilts decisively toward security actors. The result may be a state that is more centralised, more securitised, and more willing to absorb risk.

Ironically, external pressure designed to weaken Iran could produce the opposite effect: a harder and more aggressive security state. The Islamic Republic may survive — but in a form less constrained, less plural internally, and more confrontational externally.

Iran may be damaged, pressured, and strategically constrained—but it is far from finished.

The Missile Arsenal: Iran’s Core Deterrent

Iran still possesses a very large missile arsenal, which remains the backbone of its military deterrence. Estimates from various security assessments suggest that Iran holds between 3,000 and 5,000 ballistic missiles, supported by more than 200 mobile launch platforms.

A significant portion of these missiles includes advanced systems with manoeuvrable re-entry vehicles and hypersonic characteristics, making them extremely difficult to intercept with existing air defence systems.

Furthermore, while missile defence systems such as Israel’s Arrow and David’s Sling, or U.S. regional defence networks, can intercept many incoming missiles, no defence system can guarantee full protection against large-scale saturation attacks.

In other words, even if interception rates are high, the sheer volume of missiles matters.

Iran’s strategy has long been built around this logic: quantity combined with survivability.

Distributed and Hardened Infrastructure

Another key factor is how Iran stores and deploys these weapons. Much of the missile infrastructure is believed to be deeply embedded in underground facilities, tunnels, and mountain bases, developed over decades precisely to survive air strikes.

These facilities are geographically dispersed across the country, making it extremely difficult to neutralise the entire arsenal through aerial bombardment alone. Destroying such infrastructure typically requires either long-term sustained strikes or ground operations, neither of which appear to be underway at the moment.

So far, there are no reliable confirmations that Iran’s primary missile stockpiles have been eliminated. Even if some facilities have been damaged, the distributed nature of the system makes full destruction unlikely.

A War of Endurance

Given the size of the current stockpile, Iran likely has the capacity to continue missile operations for approximately three to six months, depending on the intensity of the conflict.

And this is an important point: the Iranian leadership does not appear to be approaching the current confrontation as a short-term tactical exchange. Instead, it seems to be preparing for a war of endurance.

From Tehran’s perspective, the situation has become existential. If the leadership believes that defeat means regime collapse, then the strategic calculation changes dramatically. In such circumstances, states tend to mobilise all remaining capabilities, even at extremely high cost.

For Iranian decision-makers, the choice increasingly appears binary: fight and survive, or surrender and collapse.

The Hormuz Card: Iran’s Powerful Escalation Tool

Another critical element of Iran’s strategy is the Strait of Hormuz, one of the most important chokepoints in the global energy system.

Roughly 20% of the world’s oil supply passes through this narrow waterway, making it one of the most strategically sensitive maritime corridors on earth. 

In the current crisis, Iran has already begun to signal that it is willing to use this leverage. Iranian naval forces have reportedly warned commercial ships that passage through the strait is not allowed, effectively disrupting maritime traffic and forcing many vessels to anchor or reroute. 

Recent incidents show the seriousness of this move. Tankers have been struck in the Gulf and several vessels damaged as tensions escalated, prompting shipping companies to halt or divert operations. 

A large number of ships have reportedly stopped moving in or around the Gulf while insurers reassess risk and naval forces increase their presence. 

For Iran, the logic is straightforward.

If the conflict becomes existential, Tehran will try to raise the cost of war for everyone, not only its direct adversaries. Closing or disrupting Hormuz threatens:

• global oil flows

• regional economies in the Gulf

• shipping insurance markets

• and energy prices worldwide.

Even partial disruption could cause dramatic spikes in oil prices and severe stress in global supply chains, potentially pushing major powers and regional actors to pressure Washington and Tel Aviv toward de-escalation. 

In other words, Hormuz is not simply a battlefield tactic—it is Iran’s strongest geopolitical leverage.

Tehran understands that while it may not match the United States militarily, it can still weaponise geography and global economic dependence.

This is why the Strait of Hormuz has always been described as Iran’s ultimate escalation card. If Iran believes the survival of the regime is at stake, using that card becomes increasingly likely.

Political Continuity and Succession Planning

At the same time, the Iranian political system is attempting to demonstrate institutional continuity.

Iran’s constitutional structure includes clear mechanisms for leadership succession. In the event that the Supreme Leader is unable to continue in office, a temporary leadership council—composed of the president, the head of the judiciary, and a member of the Guardian Council—can assume responsibilities until the Assembly of Experts selects a new leader.

Reports suggest that the political establishment has already prepared potential succession scenarios, precisely because of the escalating tensions of recent months. The message Tehran is trying to send is clear: even under severe external pressure, the system intends to remain functional and stable.

Whether this stability holds is another question. But the preparation itself is politically significant.

Iran’s Strategic Bet: Time

Ultimately, Iran’s strategy may be less about military victory and more about strategic endurance.

Tehran appears to be betting on time.

The assumption within Iranian strategic thinking is that prolonged conflict imposes costs not only on Iran, but also on its adversaries. The longer the confrontation continues, the more pressure may build inside the United States, Israel, and regional partners—economically, politically, and socially.

Iranian planners are likely hoping that a prolonged conflict could eventually trigger domestic political pressure in Washington or Tel Aviv, forcing leaders to reconsider escalation and look for an exit through negotiation or ceasefire.

In other words, Iran may not need to win the war militarily. It may only need to avoid losing it quickly.

A key difference in this confrontation is affordability of damage. Iran can absorb far higher levels of destruction and casualties and still continue fighting, because its leadership sees the conflict as existential and is prepared to sustain heavy losses if that preserves the regime. By contrast, the United States and Israel operate under far tighter domestic constraints. Even relatively limited casualties, economic disruption, or prolonged military engagement can quickly trigger political pressure at home—especially the midterm elections is coming up soon in the United States. Iran also possesses one of the largest ballistic missile arsenals in the Middle East, estimated at around 3,000 missiles or more, giving it the capacity to sustain prolonged retaliation. In strategic terms, this asymmetry means time tends to favour Iran: the longer the conflict drags on, the more political, economic, and social pressure accumulates on Washington and Tel Aviv to de-escalate.

The Uncertain Road Ahead

None of this means Iran is in a strong position. Its economy remains under severe sanctions. Its regional alliances have been weakened. Its military infrastructure has likely suffered damage.

But the key point is that Iran still retains enough capability to continue fighting.

As long as its missile arsenal remains intact, and as long as the leadership views the confrontation as a matter of survival, the conflict is unlikely to end quickly.

The coming weeks will therefore hinge on a crucial question:

Will this remain a controlled confrontation—or will it evolve into the prolonged war Iran appears prepared for?

A final and decisive factor will be whether Iran is able to inflict meaningful and sustained damage on Israel and U.S. interests in the region. If Iran demonstrates that attacking it carries a high and unpredictable cost, it could restore a level of deterrence that discourages Washington and Tel Aviv from launching another campaign in the near future. The outcome of the conflict may hinge precisely on how much damage Iran can impose in retaliation and whether it can sustain pressure over time.  However, if Iran fails to create that deterrent effect, the opposite scenario becomes likely: a continuing cycle of strikes and counter-strikes, with periodic military campaigns aimed at weakening the regime until it eventually collapses or is replaced—an objective that political leaders in the United States and Israel have openly discussed and planned for.

Yet visibility is not the same as power.

Despite strong media amplification and sustained online momentum, diaspora activism has not translated into meaningful influence over policy decisions in Washington, Brussels, or regional capitals. Governments have not recalibrated their strategy in response to diaspora mobilisation. Major diplomatic decisions—on sanctions, negotiations, or military posture—continue to be made primarily through state interests, not protest optics.

This reveals a deeper structural dilemma. Exile politics often operates without institutional organisation, strategic planning, functional lobbying networks, a comprehensive and inclusive political vision, or sustained organisational links inside the country it seeks to transform. Without these foundations, it cannot enforce outcomes, broker elite defections, shape bargaining processes, or mobilise durable constituencies on the ground. It speaks loudly—but from outside the arena where power is structured, negotiated, and exercised.

Visibility cannot substitute for structure. Anger cannot substitute for architecture.

The Political Deficit: Slogans Without Structure

A central weakness of the diaspora opposition lies in its political messaging. Much of the discourse revolves around a symbolic figure or a general call for regime change, rather than a structured and detailed political platform. Symbolism can inspire, but it cannot substitute for programmatic clarity. Governments and institutions do not engage with chants; they engage with policy.

The absence of concrete, actionable demands creates a vacuum. There is little sustained articulation of specific priorities such as:

• The immediate release of political detainees

• A verifiable halt to executions

• A clear national position on foreign military intervention

• A principled stance on broad sanctions that disproportionately harm ordinary citizens

These are not marginal issues—they are the types of demands that can unify diverse constituencies and provide entry points for international advocacy. Without defined policy priorities, it becomes difficult to build broad coalitions across ideological lines, to reassure sceptical actors, or to influence foreign governments that operate through structured agendas and measurable commitments.

Lack of Democratic Organisation

Beyond messaging, the diaspora opposition faces a deeper structural limitation: the absence of a durable organisation. There are no functioning councils with recognised authority, no representative bodies that credibly reflect Iran’s ideological, ethnic, and social diversity, and no institutional mechanisms for internal decision-making.

This lack of structure is not merely symbolic—it has practical consequences. There is no shadow cabinet capable of presenting itself as a government-in-waiting. No transitional roadmap outlining how security forces would be managed, how institutions would be preserved, or how rival factions would be prevented from descending into conflict. No detailed constitutional or economic blueprint that signals preparedness for governance rather than protest.

Political mobilisation can generate moments of energy. But without institutional design, it cannot convert momentum into sustainable political power. Movements that aspire to lead a country must demonstrate not only what they oppose, but how they would govern.

Strategic Planning Gap

Beyond organisational weakness lies a more consequential problem: the absence of strategic planning. There is no coherent framework addressing how rival opposition groups would be managed after a regime change, how fragmentation would be avoided, or how a transitional government would function in practice.

The most critical questions remain unanswered.

If opposition factions struggle to coordinate while operating in relatively safe exile, how will they govern together under the pressure of state collapse? What mechanisms would prevent immediate power competition among ideological, ethnic, or armed actors? What institutional safeguards would stop a transition from descending into militia fragmentation?

Equally important: what happens if foreign intervention fails to produce regime collapse? Is there a contingency plan for prolonged instability? For partial breakdown? For a scenario in which the state weakens but does not fall?

Without credible answers to these questions, calls for rapid transformation risk overlooking the very dynamics that have destabilised other societies in moments of abrupt political rupture. Strategy cannot begin the day after collapse. It must precede it.

The Legitimacy Gap in Western Public Opinion

Another structural constraint lies in the realm of public persuasion. Unlike other transnational movements that have successfully shaped Western public opinion—most notably pro-Palestinian activism in recent years—the Iranian diaspora opposition has struggled to build sustained moral resonance within Western societies.

The reason is not simply organisational weakness. It is discursive misalignment.

Large segments of Western public opinion, particularly after two years of devastating war in Gaza and widespread accusations of genocide against the Israeli government, have become deeply critical of Israeli state policy. Yet parts of the Iranian diaspora opposition have linked their movement with the Israeli government in highly visible ways. Whether strategically intended or emotionally driven, this alignment places them at odds with the prevailing moral climate in many Western societies.

Similarly, the use of Islamophobic rhetoric, ethnic hostility, or exclusionary language further distances the movement from liberal constituencies in Europe and North America. Western civil society is highly sensitive to xenophobic or sectarian discourse; movements that appear intolerant struggle to gain broad legitimacy, regardless of their grievances.

Calls for foreign military intervention compound the problem. After the experiences of Iraq, Syria, and Libya, Western publics are deeply sceptical of regime-change wars. Advocacy that openly welcomes external military action against one’s own country does not easily translate into solidarity among societies still reckoning with the costs of past interventions.

As a result, the emotional tone of diaspora activism—often marked by anger, maximalism, and hostility—does not consistently align with the dominant sensibilities of Western audiences. It generates visibility, but not durable empathy.

Public opinion in democratic societies responds not only to moral outrage, but to credibility, coherence, and alignment with shared values. Without that alignment, mobilisation remains loud but limited—visible in squares and online, yet marginal in shaping public opinion discourse and therefore the policy-making process.

Absence of Lobbying Network

Diaspora mobilisation has been emotionally powerful but strategically thin. Large demonstrations, viral campaigns, and symbolic gestures have created moments of attention—but not durable policy influence. Emotional mobilisation has often replaced structured advocacy.

In Washington, Brussels, and other key capitals, there is limited professional lobbying infrastructure tied to a coherent political platform. There are no well-funded policy teams consistently engaging congressional offices, parliamentary committees, foreign ministries, or multilateral institutions. There is little evidence of systematic briefing papers, legislative drafting input, coalition-building with established advocacy networks, or sustained presence inside think tanks and policy forums where long-term strategy is shaped.

Foreign policy is rarely moved by spectacle alone. It is shaped through relationships, persistence, expertise, and credibility developed over time. Governments respond to actors who demonstrate organisational continuity, strategic clarity, and an ability to translate political goals into policy language.

Influence requires long-term institutional presence—not episodic rallies.

The External Recognition Problem

The lobbying gap feeds directly into a deeper limitation: the absence of formal external recognition.

No major government has recognised any diaspora formation as a legitimate alternative authority for Iran. There is no provisional government-in-exile acknowledged by Western capitals, no formal consultative status in multilateral institutions, and no structured diplomatic channel through which diaspora leadership participates in high-level negotiations. At most, there are symbolic meetings and photo opportunities—gestures of visibility rather than markers of authority.

Foreign capitals engage institutional organisations, not general social movements. They negotiate with actors who have legitimacy, obtain institutions, and bureaucracies. Even when governments are deeply critical of Tehran, they continue to deal with it because it holds sovereign authority within Iran’s borders. Symbolic opposition, however visible, cannot substitute for institutional control.

International actors ultimately prioritise stability, predictability, and structured alternatives. Emotional alignment or moral sympathy alone is insufficient. Recognition follows organisation and capacity—not rhetoric.

No Ground Game Inside Iran

The most decisive structural limitation lies inside Iran itself.

Diaspora activism has only limited organisational presence within the country. There is no visible nationwide network operating under a unified leadership connected to exile figures. Protests erupt, but they are locally driven, episodic, and disconnected from an external command structure. Visibility abroad does not translate into coordinated infrastructure at home.

It is, of course, understandable why this gap exists. Publicly expressing support for diaspora opposition leadership inside Iran carries immense personal risk—arrest, imprisonment, professional exclusion, or worse. Open affiliation is costly. Yet this reality, while real, cannot become a structural excuse. Leadership does not require public declarations; it requires communication channels, trusted intermediaries, quiet coalition-building, and the gradual construction of functional networks. The absence of visible endorsement does not absolve external leadership from the responsibility of building internal organisational bridges.

Equally important, there have been no meaningful elite defections aligned with diaspora leadership. No senior military commanders, high-ranking bureaucrats, provincial governors, or institutional blocs have publicly tied their political future to an exile-based alternative. In political transitions, elite splits are often decisive. Their absence signals that diaspora leadership has not penetrated the internal power structure.

Ties to labour unions, civil society organisations, student movements, professional associations, and segments of the bureaucracy remain weak, fragmented or absent. These domestic actors may express dissent, but they do not appear institutionally aligned with any diaspora political architecture. Without these bridges, external advocacy floats above the realities of domestic power.

Without internal leverage—no elite defections tied to diaspora leadership, no organised constituencies on the ground, no administrative blueprint—the diaspora lacks bargaining power in geopolitical negotiations. It cannot credibly promise stability, manage transition risks, or guarantee outcomes. External visibility, absent internal alignment, remains structurally detached from the mechanics of change.

The Bottom Line

The limits facing Iran’s diaspora opposition are structural—not merely tactical. The problem is not energy, nor visibility, nor even passion. It is architecture.

Rallies, hashtags, and media appearances create presence. They do not create power. Influence in international politics is built on organisation, representation, institutional design, and credible links to domestic actors. Without those foundations, visibility remains symbolic.

An opposition that cannot demonstrate internal networks, elite engagement, policy clarity, and transitional planning will struggle to be treated as a serious alternative by foreign governments or domestic stakeholders alike. Emotional mobilisation alone cannot substitute for strategic structure.

Sustainable political change requires alignment between internal actors and external advocacy. It requires negotiation, organisation, and legitimacy—not performance politics alone. Until those structural elements are built, the diaspora opposition might remain visible—but politically marginal.

The emotional logic is powerful. If the system is closed, break it. If reform seems impossible, collapse it. If negotiation fails, force the outcome. Quick solutions are seductive precisely because they bypass the slow, uncertain, and often humiliating work of political bargaining. They offer catharsis where politics offers compromise.

But beneath the anger lies a more serious question—one that cannot be answered emotionally. Do we want justice in its most immediate and retributive sense, or do we want survival as a functioning society? The two are not always the same. History suggests that when collapse is chosen as a shortcut to justice, survival often becomes the first casualty.

Revolutions Devour States, Not Just Regimes

Revolutions are often imagined as surgical acts: the tyrant falls, the system resets, the people rise. But history tells a different story. Revolutions rarely remove power structures cleanly. They dismantle institutions, fragment authority, and create vacuums in which the most organised and disciplined actors—usually armed and ideologically rigid—prevail.

The first dynamic is ideological purification. Revolutions are powered by moral clarity, but once in motion, that clarity becomes exclusionary. Moderates are accused of betrayal. Pragmatists are labelled corrupt. Purges follow—not only of the old regime’s loyalists, but of fellow revolutionaries who fail the test of “purity.” What begins as liberation becomes internal cleansing. We can see plently of examples now among the opposition groups who are attacking each others even bwefore getting into power.

Second, revolutions unleash intra-elite conflict. When the old order collapses, multiple counter-elites compete to define the future. Secular versus religious, nationalist versus separationalists, armed versus civic—these factions do not peacefully negotiate authority. They fight for it. The revolution begins devouring its own children long before it consolidates power.

Third, the collapse of institutional authority produces a vacuum. Armies fracture, bureaucracies stall, courts lose legitimacy. In that space, the most organised networks—often those already structured around armed struggle—move quickly to monopolise force. A temporary “revolutionary guardianship” emerges, justified as necessary to protect the revolution from enemies. That guardianship often hardens into permanent rule.

Revolutions also destroy social architecture. They do not merely replace leaders; they dismantle the frameworks that hold society together: administrative continuity, economic systems, professional classes, civil associations. The result is not simply regime change, but state erosion.

Paradoxically, while revolutions claim to dismantle authoritarianism, they frequently generate stronger, more centralised states, if they become eventually successful in overcoming the choas. In order to defend against internal and external threats—real or perceived—the new leadership expands security powers, institutionalises emergency rule, and builds parallel enforcement bodies. The revolution that began as a rejection of domination ends by concentrating authority more intensely than before.

Finally, many revolutions experience what scholars describe as the “second revolution” phenomenon. Once power is secured, new enemies must continually be identified to preserve revolutionary legitimacy. The logic of permanent mobilisation replaces the logic of stable governance. Vigilance justifies repression; repression justifies further vigilance.

Iran’s 1979 revolution followed many of these patterns—an experience examined in more detail in my previous piece, “Arming Iranian Protesters: What Would Actually Happen?” What began as a broad-based uprising against monarchy evolved into prolonged internal conflict, the rise of parallel armed structures, and the consolidation of a securitised state. The lesson was not unique to Iran. It was structural.

Why the American Revolution Is Often Treated as an Exception

At first glance, for many, the American Revolution appears to contradict the argument that revolutions devour institutions and destabilise societies. The United States did not descend into prolonged cycles of terror or dictatorship after 1776. Instead, it produced a durable constitutional order. But this outcome is less evidence that revolutions create democracy—and more evidence that democracy had already been socially embedded before the rupture with Britain.

By the time independence was declared, much of the democratic infrastructure in the American colonies already existed at the societal level. Colonial assemblies, town halls, local councils, and forms of representative governance had functioned for decades. Property-owning male citizens were accustomed to electing local officials, debating public matters, and exercising a degree of self-rule. Political participation was not invented in 1776—it was institutionalised long before.

Crucially, the American Revolution did not dismantle the entire administrative, legal, and social infrastructure of colonial society. Courts continued to function. Property rights remained largely intact. Economic elites retained influence. The revolution replaced imperial sovereignty with domestic sovereignty—but it did not fundamentally overturn the underlying social hierarchy. Enslavement persisted. Indigenous dispossession continued. Women were excluded from political rights. The “power structure deep down” remained largely intact; what changed was the locus of ultimate authority.

The American case was different because authority did not emerge from revolutionary violence alone. It emerged from a process of negotiated foundation. Local town meetings elected representatives to state constitutional conventions. State delegates then selected representatives to draft the federal constitution. This stepwise delegation of power under mutual consent allowed citizens to experience what Arendt called “public freedom”—the act of collectively founding a political order. Authority flowed not from destruction, but from participation.

In that sense, the American Revolution did not create democracy out of collapse. It formalised and nationalised political practices that were already in place. It was less a social rupture than a sovereign transfer.

This is why the American case is often misapplied in contemporary debates. It is remembered as proof that revolution produces liberty. But its success depended on pre-existing institutions, local self-governance traditions, and gradual political development. Without those foundations, a revolutionary break would likely have produced fragmentation rather than stability.

The lesson is not that revolution can never succeed. It is that where democratic norms and institutions are already socially rooted, rupture may formalise them. Where they are not, rupture tends to destroy more than it builds.

Foreign Intervention: You Cannot Bomb Your Way to Democracy

External force can remove a regime. It cannot construct political legitimacy.

Modern history offers repeated evidence of this distinction. Military intervention may achieve rapid battlefield success, but democracy is not a battlefield outcome—it is a political architecture built slowly through institutions, bargaining, and social consent.

Iraq in 2003 demonstrated the gap between regime removal and state survival. The U.S.-led invasion achieved swift military victory. Baghdad fell in weeks. Yet the dismantling of state institutions—army, bureaucracy, and security apparatus—produced institutional collapse, sectarian fragmentation, insurgency, and years of instability. It took more than fourteen years and well over a million casualties before Iraq reached even a fragile and incomplete equilibrium—and it remains structurally unstable.

Libya followed a similar trajectory. International intervention removed Muammar Gaddafi quickly. But there was no coherent post-conflict architecture. The result was militia rule, competing governments, and the erosion of sovereignty. Regime removal did not produce a unified state; it produced fragmentation.

Syria offers an even more devastating lesson. What began as largely peaceful protests became militarised, then internationalised, and ultimately transformed into a multi-layered proxy war. Fourteen years of conflict, roughly 700,000 deaths, and the destruction of much of the country’s infrastructure later, the regime was eventually weakened and reshaped—but the state itself was shattered in the process. Victory, if it can even be called that, came at the cost of national devastation.

The structural reason is simple. Democracy requires institutional continuity, political bargaining, social contracts, and a monopoly of violence under law. War systematically destroys each of these foundations. It fragments authority instead of consolidating it. It empowers armed actors rather than civic ones. It replaces negotiation with coercion.

Foreign intervention may accelerate the fall of a government. But it rarely accelerates the birth of a stable democracy. More often, it prolongs instability, multiplies casualties, and leaves societies to rebuild from ruins that did not previously exist.

Iran Is Not an Exception

A common response to these comparisons is immediate and confident: Iran is not Iraq. Iran is not Libya. Iran is not Syria. The implication is that Iran possesses some structural immunity to the fate that befell those states.

History and present realities suggest otherwise.

Iran is indeed a historically cohesive civilisation with deep bureaucratic traditions and a strong sense of national identity. But those characteristics did not prevent systemic rupture in 1979. As discussed in my previous article, “Arming Iranian Protesters: What Would Actually Happen?”, the Iranian Revolution did not produce an orderly democratic transition. It dismantled institutions, empowered the most organised armed actors, triggered internal armed conflicts in multiple regions, and consolidated a new securitised state under the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. The lesson is clear: national depth does not immunise a country from revolutionary fragmentation.

Today’s structural conditions are not fundamentally different in ways that would guarantee a better outcome under foreign intervention.

First, Iran’s security apparatus remains highly capable, centralised, and ideologically cohesive. Unlike Iraq in 2003, there are no visible fractures at the top command level that suggest imminent institutional collapse. Any sudden external shock would likely trigger intensified securitisation rather than orderly transition.

Second, opposition forces lack unified organisation inside the country. The most vocal external current—monarchist groups advocating the return of the crown—has almost no organisational infrastructure on the ground. There is no parallel chain of command, no shadow bureaucracy, and no demonstrated ability to mobilise or coordinate nationwide institutions. Crucially, there is no visible pathway for large-scale elite defection from within the state apparatus in their favour.

Third, Iran contains its own internal fault lines—ethnic, sectarian, regional, and economic. These divisions are currently managed within a centralised state structure. A sudden collapse under military pressure would not automatically produce democratic pluralism; it could just as easily produce fragmentation, armed competition, and competing power centres—particularly in border regions.

Fourth, Iran’s regional entanglements make it even more vulnerable to proxy dynamics than pre-2003 Iraq. Any external intervention would not occur in isolation; it would activate regional rivalries, intelligence networks, and non-state actors with experience in irregular warfare. The battlefield would not remain contained.

The argument that “Iran is different” often rests on emotion if not Persian-supremacy racism rather than institutional analysis. It assumes that anger will translate into cohesion, that regime collapse will automatically produce democratic order, and that foreign backing will accelerate rather than distort domestic political development.

But democratic transition is not a reward automatically triggered by regime removal. It is the product of negotiated political architecture, institutional continuity, and elite bargains that prevent total collapse. None of these conditions are strengthened by external military intervention.

Iran’s history does not show structural immunity to fragmentation. On the contrary, it shows how rapidly revolutionary rupture can produce a securitised state. The absence of a unified, internally organised, institutionally embedded alternative today makes the risks of externally induced collapse even more acute.

The real question is not whether Iran resembles Iraq, Libya, or Syria. The question is whether it has the institutional safeguards that those countries lacked when their state structures were violently disrupted. At present, there is little evidence that such safeguards exist outside the very system many seek to dismantle.

I Saw Regime Change Up Close. It Did Not Bring Democracy

I was not a defender of Saddam Hussein’s regime. I was an opponent of it. I believed it had to end. Like many Iraqis inside and outside the country, I saw 2003 as the beginning of a long-awaited liberation. When Baghdad fell, I felt hope—real hope—that democracy was finally within reach.

I returned to Iraq in mid-April 2003. I expected to witness the birth of a new political order. Instead, I witnessed the collapse of a state.

There is a critical difference between the fall of a regime and the destruction of a state. In Iraq, both happened simultaneously. The army dissolved. The police vanished. Ministries were looted. Archives burned. Courts stopped functioning. Borders became porous. Authority evaporated overnight.

What followed was not an orderly transition but a vacuum.

Into that vacuum stepped militias—some ideological, some sectarian, some criminal, some backed by foreign powers. The logic of weapons replaced the logic of institutions. Politics became militarised. Identity hardened. Suspicion deepened.

I worked in Iraq as a journalist, activist, and later as a politician. I founded civil society organisations focused on human rights and minority protection. I served as an international media editor. Years later, I became a senior adviser to the Iraqi prime minister. I witnessed the state’s destruction from multiple vantage points: on the street, in the newsroom, in civil society, and inside government itself.

The country stood on the edge of total collapse. Division was not theoretical—it was unfolding. Civil war was not speculation—it arrived. Entire communities were displaced. Sectarian killings scarred cities. Public trust disintegrated. The very idea of a shared national future fractured.

And rebuilding did not happen quickly.

It took years—long, painful, exhausting years of negotiation among rival politicians who had little trust in one another. It required reluctant cooperation from neighbouring countries that had initially fuelled competition. It required enormous international involvement. In some moments, it required luck.

Even today, after all that effort, Iraq remains fragile. Its institutions function, but unevenly. Its democracy exists, but it is incomplete and contested. It survives—but not granteed and survival is not the same as stability.

The human cost was immense. Civilians paid first and longest. Institutions paid in credibility and continuity. The state was perhaps the hardest casualty to repair.

This is the part that is often misunderstood from afar: foreign intervention externalises the decision, but internalises the chaos. The bombs fall from outside, but the fragmentation unfolds within.

State collapse is not a transition. It is a cross-generational trauma.

Democracy Is Negotiated: It Is Long, Painful, and Hard

The most enduring democracies of the late twentieth century did not emerge from total collapse. They emerged from negotiation.

This is not an abstract claim. It is one of the central findings of comparative political science. Scholars of democratic transition—from Guillermo O’Donnell and Philippe Schmitter to Juan Linz and Alfred Stepan—have shown that stable democracies most often arise through what they called “pacted transitions”: negotiated transformations between reformist elements within the state and organised forces within society. Democracy is not imposed; it is bargained into existence.

The Evidence of Negotiated Transitions

Consider Spain after Franco. The dictatorship did not fall through foreign invasion or armed revolution. It evolved through internal elite splits, reformist factions within the regime, and negotiations with opposition forces. The 1978 Constitution was the product of compromise—imperfect, painful compromise. But Spain avoided civil war, preserved institutional continuity, and transitioned into a stable democratic order. Spain tried revolution a few decades before. After about three years of civil war and after a million people were killed, Republicans surrendered to the forces of General Franco in 1939, and he was able to establish a dictatorial government similar to the fascist regime throughout the country.

Chile after Pinochet followed a similar path. The regime did not collapse militarily. It was pressured—internally and externally—into accepting a referendum. Opposition groups mobilised civil society, but the transition preserved key state institutions. The military was not dismantled overnight. The bureaucracy did not implode. The result was gradual democratisation without state disintegration.

South Africa’s transition from apartheid remains perhaps the most striking example. The African National Congress and the ruling National Party entered negotiations despite decades of violence. The outcome was not revolutionary justice. It was negotiated power-sharing, constitutional reform, and institutional continuity. It prevented civil war. It preserved territorial integrity. It created the framework for democratic consolidation.

In each case, democracy did not emerge from the ashes of total collapse. It emerged from structured bargaining.

Negotiation works not because it is morally superior, but because it is structurally stabilising.

1. It avoids total institutional collapse.

When armies, courts, and bureaucracies remain functional—even if reformed—society avoids the vacuum that armed actors rush to fill.

2. It preserves administrative continuity.

Governance is not rebuilt from zero. Services continue. Borders remain managed. The state remains recognisable.

3. It reduces civil war risk.

By incorporating former regime elements into the new order, negotiation lowers the incentive for violent spoilers to fight to the end.

4. It protects territorial integrity.

Collapse invites fragmentation. Negotiation maintains a single political arena within which conflict can be institutionalised rather than militarised.

Political theorists call this the transformation of conflict from violent to institutionalised competition. Democracy does not eliminate struggle; it relocates it into procedures.

Negotiated transformation is not passive. It demands structural conditions:

• Internal political actors capable of bargaining.

• Civil society pressure strong enough to demand reform but disciplined enough to avoid total breakdown.

• Elite splits within the ruling system that open space for compromise.

• Gradual institutional reform rather than instant purification.

It requires patience and restraint—qualities rarely celebrated in revolutionary moments.

Why It Feels Unsatisfying

Negotiation rarely produces catharsis.

There is no dramatic overthrow.

No moral spectacle of total victory.

No instant justice.

France VS Britain Example

Compromises offend purists. Former regime actors survive politically. Transitional justice may be incomplete. The pace feels slow. Anger feels unfulfilled.

But that very dissatisfaction is often the price of stability.

Revolutions promise moral clarity. Negotiations produce durable systems.

A useful historical contrast is France and Britain in the long transition from absolutist monarchy to modern democracy.

France chose rupture. The 1789 Revolution dismantled the ancien régime through mass mobilisation and violence. It abolished feudal structures, executed the king, and declared a new political order. But the revolutionary path also unleashed cycles of radicalisation—the Reign of Terror, factional purges, counter-revolutionary wars, and eventually Napoleon’s military dictatorship. Over the next century, France experienced repeated regime breakdowns: empire, restoration, republic, empire again, and more instability before democratic institutions consolidated. The revolution destroyed the old order decisively—but at immense human cost, institutional collapse, and decades of political turbulence.

Britain followed a slower, negotiated path. There was no single dramatic revolutionary rupture in the modern era. Instead, power shifted gradually through reform acts (1832, 1867, 1884), expansion of suffrage, parliamentary bargaining, and incremental curbing of monarchical authority. Elites compromised rather than annihilated one another. Institutions were reformed, not dismantled. The cost was frustration and inequality that persisted for long periods—but the benefit was continuity, relative stability, and the avoidance of large-scale political violence.

The comparison does not suggest that Britain was morally superior or that France’s revolution was unnecessary. Rather, it highlights structural differences in transition paths. France achieved rapid symbolic transformation but endured prolonged instability. Britain moved slowly, often imperfectly, but preserved institutional continuity and avoided repeated systemic collapse.

In short: France won a revolution and paid for it in blood and instability; Britain negotiated reform and paid for it in patience and compromise. Both eventually built democracies—but the routes, costs, and timelines were profoundly different.

The Structural Lesson

Comparative evidence is consistent: where regimes collapse through external force or uncontrolled uprising, institutional destruction often precedes democratic possibility. Where transitions are negotiated, democracy stands a chance.

This is not a romantic argument. It is a structural one.

Democracy requires:

• Institutional continuity

• Political bargaining

• Social contracts

• A monopoly of violence under law

War and collapse undermine each of these foundations.

The temptation of revolutionary rupture is powerful, especially under repression. But the evidence suggests that societies survive—and eventually democratise—when transformation is negotiated rather than detonated.

Democracy is not a moment. It is a process.

Who Is Calling for Arming the Protesters?

Calls to arm Iranian protesters are not emerging from the margins alone. They have been articulated openly by senior political figures, amplified by media outlets, and echoed by opposition voices abroad—often in moments of peak emotional intensity following reports of state violence.

In the United States, Senator Ted Cruz (R–Texas) made one of the most explicit interventions. Responding to reports of repression during the protests, Cruz wrote on X: “We should be arming the protesters in Iran. NOW.” The statement marked a shift from rhetorical support for protests to an overt call for militarisation.

Cruz’s post came in reaction to a widely circulated thread by “Tehran Bureau”, which described alleged mass atrocities during the crackdown, including claims of 20,000 to 30,000 people killed, beheadings, and large-scale executions. Many of these allegations including the figures were later disputed or revised downward by more reliable human rights reporting, with the highest credible estimates placing deaths in the range of several thousand rather than tens of thousands. The same thread concluded with a stark assertion: that peaceful protest had become impossible without arms, arguing that gathering was futile unless protesters were “armed like them.” The emotional force of such claims played a key role in normalising the idea of weaponisation as a necessary response.

Similar narratives appeared in Israeli media. During the protests, Channel 14 reported that foreign actors were allegedly supplying Iranian protesters with live firearms, attributing the deaths of regime personnel to armed resistance. While no independent evidence substantiated these claims, the implication was clear: that covert external involvement was already underway. The channel left the identity of these actors to speculation.

Former U.S. Secretary of State Mike Pompeo also contributed to this atmosphere of ambiguity. In a New Year’s message posted on X, he wrote: “Happy New Year to every Iranian in the streets. Also to every Mossad agent walking beside them.” When later asked in an interview whether the United States had helped protesters—following statements by then-President Trump suggesting that “help is coming”—Pompeo responded that assistance had indeed been provided, even if it was not visible. While he did not specify the nature of that help, the implication of covert support, possibly including arms, was widely inferred.

Beyond official statements, calls for militarisation have also come from segments of the Iranian opposition abroad, particularly pro-monarchy groups. Some activists outside Iran openly demanded foreign military intervention, called for weapons to be supplied to protesters, and issued threats of violent retribution against regime supporters, including language advocating executions and collective punishment in a post-regime scenario.

Taken together, these voices illustrate how quickly moral outrage can slide into advocacy for armed escalation. What begins as solidarity with civilian protesters can transform into a narrative that frames weapons not as a tragic last resort, but as the primary solution—often without serious engagement with the historical consequences of turning mass protest into civil war.

Iran’s Own Historical Memory: The Shadow of 1979

For Iranians, the idea that weapons can liberate society is not abstract theory—it is lived history. The 1979 Iranian Revolution is often remembered as a broad-based civilian uprising, and in its initial phase that description is largely accurate. The Shah left the country, the military fractured and then largely stood aside, and power transferred with far less immediate bloodshed than many revolutions. Yet what followed offers a far more cautionary lesson.

The collapse of the old order was quickly followed by rapid militarisation. Armed factions proliferated across the country as competing visions of Iran’s future moved from politics to force. Separatist uprisings erupted in Kurdistan, Baluchistan, and Khuzestan. The Mujahedin-e Khalq and other armed groups turned against the new leadership, carrying out bombings, assassinations, and street-level violence. What had begun as a popular revolution slid into years of internal armed conflict, insecurity, and repression.

This environment did not produce pluralism or democratic consolidation. It produced the opposite. Armed struggle rewarded organisation, discipline, and ideological rigidity—not popular legitimacy. Revolutionary committees, militias, and parallel security structures emerged, gradually eclipsing civilian institutions. Among them, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) proved the most coherent, unified, and strategically positioned actor.

Crucially, militarisation enabled the consolidation of power. The IRGC grew not simply as a military force, but as a political, economic, and intelligence institution embedded at the core of the state. The logic of permanent threat justified permanent securitisation. Dissent became synonymous with subversion, and the revolution hardened into a new authoritarian order.

The lesson is stark. Weapons did not empower Iranian society; they empowered those best positioned to monopolise violence. In revolutionary environments, arms do not level the playing field—they tilt it decisively toward actors with ideological cohesion, command structures, and external backing. The shadow of 1979 serves as a reminder that militarising protest does not dismantle authoritarianism; it often rebuilds it in a more durable form.

Regional Precedents: When Uprisings Become Proxy Wars

The call to arm protesters does not emerge in a historical vacuum. Across the Middle East, recent uprisings offer stark evidence of what happens when popular protest is militarised by external actors. Syria and Libya stand as the clearest warnings—not because their contexts were identical to Iran’s, but because the dynamics that followed external arming were tragically consistent.

A. Syria

When protests began in Syria in 2011, they were overwhelmingly peaceful. Demonstrations cut across social classes and sects, and for months protesters demanded reform rather than regime collapse. The turning point came when the uprising was militarised—first internally, then externally.

Foreign arms did not unify the opposition; they fragmented it. Competing factions emerged, each backed by different regional and international sponsors, each pursuing its own agenda. Ideology hardened, sectarian identities were weaponised, and jihadist groups flourished in the chaos. What followed was not liberation, but civil war.

The consequences were devastating: mass displacement, foreign military intervention, the destruction of state institutions, and the entrenchment of sectarian violence. ISIS rose directly out of this environment. Yet after more than a decade of bloodshed, one fact remains unavoidable—the Syrian regime survived for another 13 years. It did so at the cost of society itself. The state was hollowed out, sovereignty compromised, and millions of Syrians displaced or killed. The war destroyed the country without achieving the political outcome its early supporters promised.

B. Libya

Libya offers a different but equally instructive trajectory. Here, international militarisation came swiftly. NATO intervention helped topple Muammar Gaddafi in a matter of months. The regime fell—but nothing replaced it.

There was no post-conflict political architecture, no unified security sector, and no mechanism for national reconciliation. Armed groups filled the vacuum, each claiming legitimacy through force. Militias became power brokers. Competing governments emerged. Foreign actors entrenched themselves through proxies. Libya lost not only its regime, but its sovereignty.

More than a decade later, the country remains trapped in chronic instability. Elections fail, institutions fracture, and violence remains a recurring tool of politics. The lesson is blunt: removing a regime is not the same as preserving a state. In Libya’s case, the former destroyed the latter.

Together, Syria and Libya illustrate a hard truth often ignored in moments of moral urgency. When uprisings become proxy wars, societies pay the price. External arms (in the form of armed protests or foreign intervention) rarely if not never deliver democracy. They deliver fragmentation, warlordism, and long-term instability—while regimes either survive or are replaced by something no less coercive.

What Arming Protesters Would Do to Iran

Calls to arm Iranian protesters often assume a simple escalation: weapons balance power, power forces change. In reality, Iran’s internal conditions make such an outcome not only unlikely, but dangerous.

Iran is not a fragile or hollowed-out state. It is a densely governed society with deep internal fault lines—ethnic, sectarian, regional, and ideological—that have been managed, instrumentalised and sometimes suppressed over decades. Kurdish, Baluchi, Arab, religious, and secular grievances coexist within a highly securitised system. Introducing weapons into this environment would not unify resistance; it would expose and inflame these divisions.

The state itself is exceptionally prepared for internal conflict. Iran possesses one of the most sophisticated domestic security and intelligence apparatuses in the region, refined through decades of counterinsurgency, surveillance, and population control. It has also accumulated extensive experience running proxy warfare beyond its borders—from Lebanon to Iraq, Syria, and Yemen. A state that has mastered the art of fragmented warfare abroad would have little difficulty managing, infiltrating, and ultimately exploiting armed fragmentation at home.

The most immediate outcome of arming protesters would be the fragmentation of the opposition itself. Competing armed groups would emerge, each claiming legitimacy, each shaped by local dynamics and external patrons. Political demands would quickly give way to military calculations. Leadership would flow to those who control weapons, not those with broad social support or political vision.

Militarisation would also hand the state its most powerful justification: total repression. Peaceful protest challenges legitimacy; armed resistance legitimises overwhelming force. Once weapons enter the streets, the conflict shifts from a struggle between society and the state to violence within society itself. Protest becomes civil conflict. Dissent becomes insurgency. The moral and political high ground is lost.

In this environment, the beneficiaries are rarely the people who first took to the streets. Armed factions gain leverage. Foreign intelligence services gain access and influence. Regional rivals gain opportunities to weaken Iran from within. What disappears is civilian protection, political coherence, and the possibility of a negotiated or unified transition.

The losers are predictable and consistent across history: protesters who sought dignity rather than war, civilians caught between armed actors, and any realistic chance of a national political project capable of replacing authoritarian rule with something better.

Arming protesters does not shorten the path to freedom—it reroutes it through chaos, bloodshed, and outcomes that history has already shown to be far worse than the status quo.

At the time, this was clearly fiction. But it was not accidental fiction. It was an early cultural experiment in turning diplomacy into spectacle—where power was expressed not through negotiation or law, but through shock, symbolism, and performative defiance. What appeared playful or grotesque on the surface carried a serious subtext about how threat and authority could be communicated beyond conventional diplomatic language.

This matters because it foreshadowed a deeper transformation that is now fully visible. Contemporary diplomacy increasingly relies less on formal statements, legal frameworks, or quiet signalling, and more on spectacle, cultural shorthand, and emotionally charged imagery. In this environment, symbols often speak louder than policy, and provocation travels faster than restraint. The question is no longer whether such references are appropriate or offensive, but what it means when states adopt the language of comic-book villains in arenas meant to manage conflict rather than perform it.

The irony is striking. The term “comic-book diplomacy” originally referred to something very different: the use of comics, graphic novels, and animation as tools of public diplomacy and cultural exchange. For decades, governments—most notably the United States—employed visual storytelling to promote dialogue, empathy, and social awareness abroad. U.S. embassies commissioned comics addressing human trafficking in Mexico, women’s empowerment in Kazakhstan, and trauma recovery in Georgia. During World War II and the Cold War, comic books served as ideological instruments, framing global struggles in accessible moral narratives. More recently, works such as Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi or March by John Lewis offered humanised, reflective accounts of identity, resistance, and political struggle—forms of cultural diplomacy aimed at understanding rather than intimidation.

Persépolis (2007): story of a childhood coinciding with regime  change and war in Iran, Marjane Satrapi, Winshluss

Yet popular culture has always carried a darker mirror of international politics. In A Death in the Family, the Joker’s appointment as Iran’s UN ambassador was a grotesque exaggeration—a satirical commentary on diplomatic cynicism and the performative nature of hostility. What once felt absurd now feels unsettlingly familiar.

The 1988 Batman comic was not merely a joke; it was an early illustration of how geopolitics could be flattened into spectacle through popular culture. Today, that logic dominates international discourse through memes, virality, and narrative warfare. When states borrow from comic-book symbolism, they are no longer practicing cultural diplomacy designed to persuade or build legitimacy. They are engaging in performative psychological warfare—where symbolism replaces persuasion, defiance replaces dialogue, and spectacle displaces negotiation.

This is not only diplomacy slipping into humour, it is diplomacy slipping into theatre.

Meme Warfare

The return of religion to politics in the early twenty-first century has not only reshaped policy and ideology—it has also transformed the visual language of political communication. Nowhere is this clearer than in the rise of meme warfare, where religious figures, sacred narratives, and theological symbolism are repurposed into viral political imagery. What once belonged to sermons and scripture has migrated into timelines, feeds, and digital battlegrounds.

Religious memes function differently from conventional political messaging. They bypass policy debate and appeal directly to moral certainty, destiny, and divine legitimacy. By invoking sacred figures, leaders and movements present contemporary struggles not as contingent political conflicts, but as timeless battles between good and evil. In doing so, they collapse the distance between theology and statecraft.

This phenomenon cuts across ideological lines. In the United States, religious symbolism has long been mobilised opportunistically in politics—most visibly in portrayals of Donald Trump as a messianic figure, or in Trump’s own selective invocation of Christianity to frame himself as a defender of faith, nation, and civilisational order. These images are not about theology; they are about authority, identity, and mobilisation. Religion becomes a prop, stripped of nuance and deployed for emotional resonance.

In Iran, the use of religious imagery is more overt and institutionalised. Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei has repeatedly shared visual content framing contemporary political struggles through Qur’anic and prophetic metaphors. Memes depicting Moses wielding his miraculous staff, implicitly linking Khamenei’s leadership to prophetic continuity, are designed to situate present-day confrontation within a sacred historical arc. Others portray Donald Trump as a fallen Pharaoh—a ruler brought low by divine justice—invoking the Exodus narrative to suggest inevitability, moral superiority, and eventual triumph.

These are not casual or humorous gestures. They are acts of theopolitical signalling. By drawing on shared religious memory, such imagery speaks to domestic audiences in a language of faith and destiny, while simultaneously projecting defiance to external adversaries. The message is not “we will win,” but “we are on the right side of history—and God.”

Meme warfare thus represents a fusion of digital culture and sacred symbolism. It thrives on ambiguity, virality, and emotional compression, allowing complex political claims to be reduced to instantly recognisable moral frames. In this environment, cartoons and memes become weapons—not because they persuade rationally, but because they sanctify power, delegitimise opponents, and transform politics into a theatre of cosmic struggle.

When religion enters meme warfare, politics no longer argues—it prophesies.

Sarcasm, Humiliation, and the Risk of War

Sarcasm, personal humiliation, and public insult have increasingly become tools of diplomacy—especially in the phase before negotiations begin. These are not random outbursts or undisciplined rhetoric. They are often deployed deliberately to weaken the other side psychologically, undermine its legitimacy, and improve bargaining position at the table.

President Donald Trump’s statements are a clear example. When he claimed, “I saved Khamenei’s life” implying that his location was known during the 12-day war and he stopped the attack, the message was not merely boastful. It was a calculated assertion of dominance: a reminder that restraint was a choice, not a limitation. When he followed this by calling Khamenei “sick man” and a “killer,” the intent was to delegitimise Iran’s leadership personally, not just politically.

Tehran responded in kind. Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei’s references to Trump as a “clown” and a “criminal” were not aimed at persuasion or de-escalation. They were acts of symbolic resistance—designed to deny Trump moral authority and project defiance to domestic and regional audiences.

This exchange is more than political rhetoric. Each insult alters the strategic environment. Like financial markets reacting to central bank statements, the probability of war or negotiation fluctuates with every word. Public humiliation raises reputational stakes, narrows room for compromise, and locks leaders into positions from which retreat becomes politically costly.

History shows how dangerous this dynamic can be.

In 1914, European leaders wrapped a solvable crisis in rhetoric of honour, destiny, and inevitability. Diplomatic exits existed after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but public commitments and escalating language turned mobilisation itself into a point of no return. War followed not because it was desired, but because rhetoric eliminated off-ramps.

In 2003, the Iraq War was preceded by moral absolutism: an “Axis of Evil,” “mushroom clouds,” and existential framing that transformed a containable regime into an urgent threat. Once humiliation and demonisation dominated discourse, backing down became politically impossible—even when inspections and alternatives were still viable.

In 1967, Arab leaders’ maximalist rhetoric about destroying Israel helped create a perception in Tel Aviv that delay was more dangerous than action. The result was pre-emptive war—driven as much by language as by troop movements.

More recently, India–Pakistan crises show how nationalist insult and public threats force leaders into escalation to preserve credibility, even when neither side benefits strategically from war. Each verbal escalation reduces space for quiet diplomacy and increases the risk of miscalculation.

These cases illustrate a recurring pattern: humiliation rhetoric does not merely signal resolve—it creates commitment traps. Leaders become hostages to their own words. The political cost of restraint rises. Escalation becomes easier than compromise.

The logic behind this strategy is coercive. By flexing muscles verbally and signalling readiness for war, each side seeks to force the other into negotiations on unfavourable terms. Humiliation becomes a pressure tactic; mockery becomes psychological warfare. The aim is to enter talks from a position of perceived superiority.

But the result is never guaranteed. Escalatory rhetoric can overshoot its purpose. Instead of producing submission, it can harden resolve. Instead of facilitating negotiation, it can push both sides toward extreme positions from which retreat appears humiliating—or impossible.

As Thomas Schelling warned, when public commitments are fused with emotion and reputation, leaders lose control over escalation. In this sense, sarcasm and humiliation are not harmless preludes to diplomacy. They are dangerous instruments of brinkmanship—capable of extracting concessions, or igniting wars that neither side initially intended to fight.

Tehran has announced joint naval manoeuvres with Russia and China, signalling that it is not facing U.S. pressure alone. At the same time, a flurry of regional and international diplomatic activity suggests that multiple actors are searching for an off-ramp before deterrence gives way to confrontation. Iran’s foreign minister has travelled to Ankara; Russian President Vladimir Putin met Ali Larijani, Secretary of Iran’s Supreme National Security Council, at the Kremlin; Saudi Defence Minister Prince Khalid bin Salman arrived in Washington for high-level talks; and Qatar’s prime minister met Larijani in Tehran to discuss easing regional tensions.

Even Washington’s tone has shifted. President Donald Trump, while maintaining military pressure, has softened his rhetoric, leaving the door open to a deal—just as Iran signals readiness for negotiation without lowering its guard. The choreography is striking: military escalation on the surface, diplomatic motion beneath it.

The pattern suggests that no actor wants war, yet no actor wants to blink first. Deterrence is being tested not only between Iran and the United States, but across a wider geopolitical field that now includes Russia, China, and key regional powers. The central question is no longer whether pressure will continue, but where it is meant to lead: toward a strike, a deal, or another prolonged cycle of unresolved confrontation.

At this moment, deterrence sits at the brink—strained, ambiguous, and increasingly dependent on whether the emerging “Eastern axis” can alter the strategic balance, or whether U.S. gunboat diplomacy is designed to force a final decision while time still allows it.

The Question of Deterrence and the Rationality of Irrationality

Thomas Schelling fundamentally reshaped how strategists understand deterrence. For him, deterrence was never simply a matter of military balance or firepower; it was a psychological process rooted in signalling, perception, and bargaining under conditions of risk. Power mattered less than credibility—and credibility depended on convincing an adversary that escalation was possible even when it appeared irrational, dangerous, or costly.

Schelling famously defined brinkmanship as “the manipulation of the shared risk of war.” Rather than threatening deliberate aggression, brinkmanship involves pushing a confrontation to the edge and allowing uncertainty itself to become a weapon. A classic illustration is the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, when the United States imposed a naval blockade on Cuba, knowingly escalating tensions and forcing the Soviet Union to choose between retreat and the risk of nuclear war. The danger was not accidental; it was integral to the strategy.

At the core of Schelling’s theory is the idea of “leaving something to chance.” By partially surrendering control over escalation, a state makes its threat more credible. In cases of extended deterrence—where a power seeks to protect allies or enforce red lines beyond its own territory—the deterrer must persuade its opponent that it is willing to accept catastrophic risk. Escalation is no longer fully managed; it is made dangerous by design.

This logic underpins Schelling’s concept of the “rationality of irrationality.” By behaving as if it is prepared to contemplate the unthinkable, a state strengthens its bargaining position. The appearance of recklessness becomes a strategic asset. During the Cold War, nuclear stability rested precisely on this dynamic: each side was deterred by the fear that events could spiral beyond anyone’s control.

This framework maps closely onto the current U.S.–Iran confrontation. Washington is signalling a willingness to contemplate an action no previous U.S. administration has undertaken: a large-scale strike on Iran itself. Tehran, in turn, is signalling readiness to regionalise conflict on a scale it has historically sought to avoid. Both sides are projecting a posture of controlled recklessness—suggesting that escalation is not only possible, but acceptable if pushed far enough.

In this context, force is being used less as a prelude to war than as a tool of negotiation. Military deployments, joint manoeuvres, and sharpened rhetoric are designed to establish deterrence by demonstrating resolve, while simultaneously coercing the other side toward the bargaining table on unfavourable terms. Each actor is testing the other’s tolerance for risk, probing where red lines harden into action.

Negotiations, in this model, do not begin when tensions subside, but when the costs of continued brinkmanship begin to outweigh its benefits. The paradox of deterrence is that stability is produced not by calm, but by proximity to catastrophe.

Could China and Russia Recover Iran’s Deterrence?

Since the Islamic Revolution, Iran has rhetorically leaned toward an “Eastward” orientation, but in practice it never fully committed to a strategic Eastern alliance. Relations with China and Russia have been transactional rather than transformative—marked by arms sales, energy deals, and diplomatic coordination, but falling short of a genuine security pact. For both Moscow and Beijing, Iran was useful, but not indispensable. Supporting Tehran never rose to the level of a core national interest that would justify confrontation with the United States.

That calculus may now be shifting.

Historically, China and Russia have offered Iran limited protection: diplomatic cover at the United Nations, selective military cooperation, and economic engagement calibrated to avoid secondary sanctions. Neither treated Iran as a treaty ally, and Tehran itself hedged—seeking autonomy rather than dependence, and avoiding full alignment with any bloc. The result was a loose partnership, not a deterrent alliance.

Recent developments, however, are compressing strategic choices. Simultaneous pressure on Iran, Russia, and China—through sanctions, military encirclement, and technological containment—creates incentives for deeper coordination. A collapse of the Iranian regime would not be a local event. For both Moscow and Beijing, it risks either prolonged chaos along critical corridors or the emergence of a U.S.-aligned government in Tehran—a strategic loss with long-term geopolitical consequences.

This dynamic mirrors another of Schelling’s insights: the interaction of threat and chance. By escalating pressure across multiple fronts, Washington may succeed in isolating adversaries one by one—or, conversely, push them into a tighter coalition. Brinkmanship cuts both ways. What is intended as coercion can instead generate alignment.

From Iran’s perspective, the lesson of the 12-day war appears clarifying. The erosion of its regional proxy network and the exposure of vulnerabilities at home have underscored the limits of deterrence built solely on non-state allies. Survival, in Tehran’s view, now requires repairing deterrence through state-level backing. That logic points toward deeper reliance on China and Russia.

Signals of this shift are already visible. In the aftermath of the conflict, high-ranking Iranian military and security officials travelled to both Moscow and Beijing. Reports of expanded defence procurement—from air defence systems to surveillance and missile-related technologies—suggest an effort to rebuild deterrence through external reinforcement. For China and Russia, such cooperation may now align with their broader interest in constraining U.S. power and preventing another regime-change precedent.

Whether this evolves into a true “Eastern axis” remains uncertain. China remains risk-averse, Russia overstretched, and both are cautious about inheriting Iran’s conflicts. But deterrence does not require formal alliances to be effective. Even the perception of coordinated backing—military, diplomatic, or economic—can alter strategic calculations in Washington.

In that sense, the question is not whether China and Russia will fight for Iran, but whether their involvement can raise the cost and uncertainty of coercion enough to restore a measure of deterrence. If so, Iran’s deterrence would not be rebuilt as it once was—through proxies and regional dominance—but through embedding its fate more deeply within a wider confrontation between great powers.

Gunboat Diplomacy

What is unfolding around Iran increasingly resembles a classic case of gunboat diplomacy—the use of visible military power not to initiate war, but to shape negotiations before they begin. The United States’ deployment of heavy assets, including the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln and its strike group, is not neccessarily a signal of imminent invasion as much as it is a message of leverage. It is a reminder that force remains available, credible, and close at hand.

Iran’s response mirrors this logic. By announcing plans for joint naval drills with China and Russia, Tehran is not seeking confrontation at sea, but signalling that pressure will not be one-sided. The message is equally political: Iran is not isolated, and any escalation would carry wider consequences. Both sides are raising the visibility of force while carefully avoiding a step that would lock them into open conflict.

Crucially, these military signals are unfolding alongside parallel declarations of openness to negotiation. Washington continues to stress that diplomacy remains preferable. Tehran insists it is ready to talk—on its own terms. This combination is not contradictory; it is strategic. Force here is not an alternative to diplomacy, but its precondition.

Gunboat diplomacy works by pushing threats to the edge of credibility without crossing it. The goal is to shape the bargaining environment so that when talks begin, they do so under maximum pressure. Each side seeks to enter negotiations with the strongest possible hand, having demonstrated resolve, risk tolerance, and escalation capacity.

In this sense, the build-up around Iran is less about choosing between war or peace than about defining the terms of any eventual deal. Both Washington and Tehran appear to believe that the closer they move toward the brink without falling over it, the better their position will be when they finally sit at the table.

Is This the Last Chance to Strike?

The current moment may represent a narrowing window rather than an open-ended crisis. If President Trump neither authorises a strike nor secures a deal, the confrontation is likely to harden into a prolonged period of strategic standoff—a new form of cold war rather than a decisive rupture.

In such a scenario, Washington would likely intensify maximum pressure without crossing the threshold of open conflict. This would include tighter enforcement against Iranian oil exports at sea, expanded sanctions, financial isolation, and persistent military presence designed to contain rather than collapse the regime. The objective would shift from forcing immediate concessions to steadily degrading Iran’s economic and strategic capacity over time.

Iran, for its part, would adapt. Cut off from relief in the West, Tehran would accelerate its pivot toward China and Russia, deepening economic, military, and technological cooperation. It would work to repair the deterrence damaged by recent conflicts—closing air defence gaps, strengthening internal security, and restructuring its regional posture. Domestically, the regime would likely rely on an increasingly heavy hand to suppress unrest, calculating that survival depends on control first and reform later.

This outcome would not resolve the confrontation; it would freeze it. Both sides would accept a long-term, hostile equilibrium marked by sanctions, covert action, periodic crises, and mutual containment. For Washington, that risks entrenching Iran within an Eastern strategic bloc. For Tehran, it means living under sustained pressure with limited room for recovery.

Seen from this angle, the present escalation may indeed be the last moment when decisive action—whether military or diplomatic—can still reshape the trajectory of the conflict. Once the lines harden and adaptation sets in, leverage diminishes. What follows would not be peace or war, but a drawn-out contest in which neither side wins quickly, and instability becomes the permanent condition.

A familiar example is al-Qaeda. When its predecessors fought the Soviet Union in Afghanistan during the Cold War, they were widely framed as resistance or liberation forces. The same networks, when later active in Chechnya against Russia, continued to benefit from a degree of geopolitical ambiguity. Yet after 9/11—once their violence directly targeted the United States—those actors were unequivocally reclassified as terrorists, triggering a global war in their name. The violence itself had not fundamentally changed; its targets and strategic implications had.

A similar pattern is now visible in Syria. Jihadist groups that were once condemned as extremist threats are being rebranded after their incorporation into government-aligned forces. Their methods—executions, intimidation, collective punishment, and forced displacement—remain disturbingly familiar. What has changed is their political positioning. As they move closer to state power and align with actors favoured by influential international stakeholders, the language surrounding their violence shifts from outright condemnation to hesitation, justification, or strategic silence.

Violence is no longer judged primarily by what is done to civilians, but by who commits it—and who stands to benefit. When terrorism becomes a matter of alignment rather than action, accountability erodes, victims become negotiable, and the very meaning of counterterrorism is rewritten by geopolitics rather than principle.

The Problem of Syria’s New Military Forces

Moving beyond headlines reveals a far more troubling reality than the language of “security operations” or “state consolidation” suggests. The pattern of behaviour displayed by Syria’s new military forces over the past year—particularly in southern, western, and eastern Syria, where minority communities are concentrated—raises serious alarms. These forces are routinely described as government-aligned, but that label obscures who they actually are and how they operate. What is emerging instead is a pattern of ISIS-style violence carried out under state cover.

These units are not conventional national forces in any institutional sense. They are composed largely of former jihadist factions, rebranded militias, and foreign Salafi fighters who have been absorbed into the state’s security architecture without undergoing any meaningful ideological, organisational, or accountability-based transformation. What has changed is not their worldview or methods, but their political utility. Alignment with state authority has granted them legitimacy, protection, and international tolerance—without accountability.

The human cost has been severe and unevenly distributed along communal lines. According to Syrian human rights organisations and local monitoring groups:

• In southern Syria, particularly in predominantly Druze areas, hundreds of civilians have been killed over the past year during so-called security operations, including targeted assassinations and reprisals following local resistance.

• In western Syria, Alawite communities have faced waves of arrests, disappearances, and killings. Rights groups estimate that hundreds of Alawite civilians have been killed or disappeared since government-aligned forces reasserted control, often under the pretext of rooting out “regime remnants” or “security threats.”

• In eastern and northeastern Syria, Kurdish civilians have borne the brunt of the violence. Reports document hundreds of civilian deaths, mass displacement, and systematic intimidation as Kurdish-controlled areas were overrun. Entire villages have been emptied through raids, arbitrary detention, and property destruction.

Across these regions, the tactics are consistent: summary executions, forced displacement, and collective punishment aimed at breaking communal resistance rather than restoring order. Entire communities are treated as suspect, with violence deployed not to neutralise specific threats but to impose submission through fear.

Analytically, the violence bears unmistakable structural similarities to ISIS methods. The use of terror as a tool of governance, the targeting of communities based on identity, and the instrumentalisation of brutality to enforce control are all hallmarks of ISIS rule. The difference lies not in tactics, but in context. Where ISIS operated openly as an insurgent organisation, these forces act under the umbrella of state authority or state tolerance.

This distinction may matter politically, but it does not matter morally—or empirically. When identical methods are deployed—execution, displacement, intimidation—the reclassification of perpetrators does not alter the nature of the violence. What is unfolding in Syria today is not a deviation from extremist behaviour, but its institutionalisation under a new flag, shielded by geopolitical convenience rather than transformed by genuine reform.

One ISIS, Two Judgments

This is the conceptual core of the argument—and the most uncomfortable part of the story.

Between 2014 and 2019, the international response to ISIS violence in Syria and Iraq was unambiguous. Mass executions, ethnic cleansing, sexual enslavement, forced displacement, and rule through terror were universally condemned. The Yazidis and Kurds were recognised as victims of crimes against humanity. Emergency resolutions were passed, air campaigns launched, tribunals discussed, and humanitarian corridors opened. The moral language was clear because the perpetrator was clear: ISIS. Violence had a name, and accountability followed—at least rhetorically.

Fast forward to 2024–2026, and the picture becomes morally distorted. In southern, western, and eastern Syria, Druze, Alawite, and Kurdish communities have faced patterns of violence that are structurally familiar: summary executions, forced displacement, intimidation, and collective punishment. The methods resemble those once attributed to ISIS rule. The suffering, from the perspective of civilians on the ground, is no less real.

Yet the international reaction has changed.

Instead of condemnation, there is silence.

Instead of emergency language, there is hesitation.

Instead of accountability, there is “complexity.”

Why? Because the perpetrators are no longer framed as terrorists. They are now described as government-aligned forces, security actors, or partners in stabilisation. Their violence is reclassified—not denied, but contextualised, diluted, and politically managed. The same acts that once triggered airstrikes are now discussed as unfortunate excesses of state consolidation.

This is not a shift in moral standards; it is a shift in alliances.

The victims did not change.

The perpetrators did not change.

Only the alliances did.

And when alliances become the lens through which violence is judged, terrorism does not disappear. It is merely rebranded—absorbed into state structures, shielded by diplomatic necessity, and rendered selectively invisible. This is how extremist violence survives defeat: not by winning, but by being useful.

Why This Matters Beyond Syria

It is geopolitics over principles.

What is unfolding in eastern Syria cannot be understood as a local security matter. It reflects a broader geopolitical recalibration in which principles—human rights, minority protection, accountability—are increasingly subordinated to strategic convenience. The Kurdish question sits at the center of this shift as a clear example of shifting positions based on pourly geopolitical interests.

1. The New Syrian Government: Normalisation Over Accountability

The emerging Syrian leadership has sent clear signals that its priority is international rehabilitation, not internal reconciliation. Chief among these signals is a willingness to normalise relations with Israel and align more closely with Western security expectations. This positioning has dramatically altered how violence carried out by government-aligned forces is perceived abroad.

By presenting itself as a stabilising authority, committed to regional order and hostile to Iranian expansion, the new Syrian government has gained a degree of political immunity. Abuses committed in the process of consolidating control—particularly against Kurds, Druze and Allawites—are reframed as transitional excesses rather than structural crimes. In this equation, accountability becomes negotiable, so long as Damascus is moving in the “right” geopolitical direction.

2. Türkiye: Crushing Kurdish Autonomy at the Source

For Türkiye, Kurdish autonomy in Syria is an existential red line. Ankara views any form of Kurdish self-rule—especially one linked to PKK-affiliated structures—as a direct threat to its domestic stability. The fear is contagion: that Syrian Kurdish autonomy would embolden Kurdish political demands inside Türkiye.

This explains Ankara’s readiness to tolerate, and in some cases support, aggressive measures against Kurdish forces in Syria. From Türkiye’s perspective, dismantling Kurdish governance structures outweighs concerns about extremist violence, civilian harm, or the long-term risk of ISIS resurgence. Anti-Kurdish strategy takes precedence over counterterrorism consistency.

3. The United States: One Loyal Authority, Not Fragmented Partners

Washington’s position reflects a strategic fatigue born of years of fragmented alliances. After relying on Kurdish forces as tactical partners against ISIS, the U.S. now appears increasingly committed to a different objective: a single, controllable, and cooperative authority in Damascus.

From this standpoint, Kurdish autonomy is no longer an asset but a complication. It fragments sovereignty, complicates diplomacy, and risks entangling the U.S. in perpetual intra-Syrian conflict. The result is a quiet shift: pressure on Kurdish actors to integrate, disarm, or accept a diminished role in exchange for nominal protection—despite the clear risks this entails.

4. Iran: Should be Constrained

Iran remains a factor, but a weakened one. Historically, Tehran cultivated influence through PKK-linked networks and non-state actors across Syria and Iraq. Recent reports of Kurdish outreach to Hezbollah—however limited—have heightened U.S. and Israeli anxieties that Iran could rebuild regional leverage through alternative channels if Kurdish actors are marginalised.

This fear paradoxically reinforces pressure on the Kurds. Rather than being protected as former allies, they are treated as potential liabilities—spaces where Iranian influence might re-emerge. Iran’s role, therefore, is not dominant but catalytic: its shadow shapes decisions even where its direct power has receded.

5. Israel: From Tactical Ally to Strategic Silence

Israel has historically maintained quiet, tactical ties with Kurdish actors, viewing them as a counterweight to hostile regional forces. But that relationship was never strategic in the long-term sense. Today, Israel’s overriding priority is a weakened, predictable Syria that poses no military threat and signals openness to normalisation.

Positive messages from Syria’s new leadership—particularly under Ahmed al-Sharaa—have shifted Israel’s calculus. Strategic silence has replaced vocal concern. Past alliances with Kurdish forces are deprioritised in favour of a broader regional realignment that promises security, territorial dominance, and diplomatic breakthroughs.

The Broader Logic

Taken together, these positions reveal a stark hierarchy of values:

• The United States prioritises order over justice.

• Israel chooses silence over past alliances.

• Türkiye places anti-Kurdish objectives above ISIS risk.

• Iran probes for openings but operates under constraint.

The result is a system in which the conversation on human rights and terrorism have become inconvenient to everyone at once. This is not an accident of policy, but the outcome of a geopolitical consensus in which stability is defined narrowly, and accountability is conditional.

In such an environment, violence does not disappear. It is simply tolerated—so long as it serves the right alignment.

ISIS Risk for Iraq

Why Iraq Is Alarmed?

Beyond the immediate humanitarian and political consequences in Syria, recent developments have triggered deep anxiety in neighbouring Iraq—an anxiety rooted in bitter historical memory and hard intelligence assessments.

One of the most destabilising elements of the current phase has been the release of ISIS-affiliated individuals and families from al-Hawl camp without meaningful security vetting. Al-Hawl has long been recognised as a volatile incubator of radicalisation rather than a neutral humanitarian space. Its population includes thousands of women and children tied to ISIS networks, many of whom have maintained ideological commitment and informal organisational structures inside the camp. Releasing individuals from this environment without proper screening or deradicalisation mechanisms does not neutralise risk; it redistributes it.

Compounding this danger is the breakdown of detention control across parts of eastern Syria. Prison chaos, administrative collapse, and shifting chains of authority have weakened oversight of ISIS detainees. Facilities once guarded by Kurdish-led forces—under close international monitoring—are now subject to uncertain control arrangements. This creates gaps that militant networks are historically adept at exploiting.

Most alarming for Baghdad is the transfer of thousands of ISIS detainees from Syria to Iraq, facilitated with the US coordination. While framed as a burden-sharing or security-management measure, the move has reignited fears of repeating a catastrophic precedent. Iraq has lived through this scenario before.

The 2014 parallel looms large. Then, mass prison breaks in both Iraq and Syria, porous borders, and cross-border movement from Syria into Iraq enabled ISIS to regenerate with stunning speed. Fighters escaped detention, regrouped, crossed borders, and transformed from a weakened insurgency into a proto-state controlling vast territory. Iraqi institutions paid the price in blood, collapse, and long-term instability.

This historical trauma is now reinforced by current intelligence. Iraq’s intelligence chief, Hamid al-Shatri, has publicly warned that the number of ISIS fighters operating in Syria has increased tenfold within a single year. Such an assessment is not rhetorical—it reflects operational indicators, recruitment patterns, and movement across ungoverned or weakly governed spaces.

For Iraq, the danger is not abstract. It is immediate and structural. The release and transfer of ISIS-linked individuals risk recreating the precise conditions that allowed the group’s previous resurgence: fragmented authority, overstretched security forces, ideological continuity, and regional spillover. In this sense, what is unfolding in Syria is not only a Syrian crisis—it is a regional security gamble, with Iraq once again positioned on the front line.

In conclusion, what is unfolding in Syria illustrates a broader and deeply consequential shift in how violence is interpreted and managed in international politics. When acts that once triggered universal condemnation are reclassified or relativised because the perpetrators are now aligned with state authority or strategic partners, the definition of terrorism itself becomes unstable. This does not only undermine moral consistency; it weakens the very mechanisms intended to prevent the recurrence of mass violence.

Selective enforcement and strategic silence may appear to offer short-term order, but they obscure risks that accumulate over time. Communities that were once protected become exposed, extremist methods are normalised under new labels, and accountability is deferred rather than resolved. In such an environment, the problem is not that extremist violence disappears, but that it is absorbed, repackaged, and redeployed within new political arrangements.

Following intense internal negotiations, Iraq’s Coordination Framework—the largest parliamentary bloc, bringing together almost all Shiite political parties—announced its nomination of Nouri al-Maliki for the prime ministership. The move immediately reignited long-standing tensions around Iraq’s political direction, its relationship with Iran, and its standing in Washington.

Well before the nomination, U.S. officials had signalled—both publicly and through diplomatic channels—that Washington would not support figures perceived as closely aligned with Tehran, not only in the prime minister’s office but across the entire cabinet. The message was clear: the problem, in Washington’s view, is no longer limited to individual appointments but extends to the political ecosystem that sustains them.

Donald Trump’s response removed any remaining ambiguity. Rejecting the nomination directly and publicly, he made clear that the United States would not assist Iraq under a government led by figures associated with the old order. This was not casual commentary or impulsive rhetoric. It was a strategic signal.

To Baghdad, the message was that continuity would no longer be rewarded with engagement or support. To Tehran, it signalled that Iraq is now being treated as a critical front in the broader effort to dismantle Iran’s regional influence. And to Washington’s regional partners, it underscored a shift in U.S. posture: patience with Iraq’s political recycling has run out, and ambiguity is no longer acceptable.

In this sense, Trump’s reaction was not merely a rejection of one nominee. It was a declaration that the rules governing U.S.–Iraq relations have changed—and that Iraq’s next political choices will be interpreted not as domestic compromises, but as strategic alignments.

Never Trust a Broken Sword

Washington’s rejection of Iraq’s political recycling did not emerge overnight. It is the product of accumulated lessons from two decades of failed experiments—experiments in which the United States repeatedly invested in leaders who promised alignment, reform, and distance from Iran, only to deliver dependency, ambiguity, and strategic double-dealing.

At the core of this disillusionment is a simple conclusion: Washington no longer believes Iraq’s old political class can produce a reliable partner capable of maintaining meaningful distance from Iran. Successive prime ministers presented themselves to the United States as reformers willing to curb Iran-backed militias, strengthen state institutions, and rebalance Iraq’s foreign policy. In practice, all previous PMs played a different game.

The pattern was consistent even though the tactics were diferent. Publicly and diplomatically, Iraqi leaders reassured Washington that they were committed to U.S. demands—containing militias, asserting state authority, and limiting Iranian influence. Privately and structurally, they treated Iran as the natural, long-term ally: geographically entrenched, ideologically aligned, and indispensable for regime survival. The United States, by contrast, was often viewed as a temporary power—dangerous if provoked, useful if appeased, but ultimately something to be managed rather than partnered with.

This duality was not abstract. During my service in Iraq, I witnessed senior Iraqi officials openly claiming to stand with Washington while simultaneously sending loyalty messages to Iran’s Supreme Leader, coordinating with Quds Force commanders such as Qassem Soleimani and later Ismail Qaani, and enabling Iran-aligned militias to entrench themselves across Iraq’s economy, security apparatus, and political system. These were not isolated incidents or rogue behaviours; they were features of a political culture built on hedging, duplication, and strategic ambiguity.

For years, the United States tolerated this contradiction in the name of stability. That tolerance has now evaporated. In Washington’s current calculus, Iraq’s political class resembles a broken sword—wielded repeatedly, promised reliability, but failing at the decisive moment. Trust has been exhausted not by one leader, but by a system that perfected the art of telling Washington what it wanted to hear while delivering Tehran what it needed.

The message today is blunt: the old game no longer works. The United States is no longer buying assurances, intermediaries, or performative alignment. In its view, Iraq’s traditional political elite has proven structurally incapable—or unwilling—to break from Iran. And a broken sword, once recognised as such, is no longer carried into battle.

No Grey Zone Anymore

From Washington’s perspective, Iraq is no longer a state that can balance comfortably between Iran and the United States. The era of strategic ambiguity—of hedging, dual messaging, and calibrated neutrality—has ended. Alignment is now viewed as binary.

For years, U.S. policy toward Iraq rested on engagement despite frustration. Washington accepted imperfect partners, tolerated delays, and overlooked contradictions in the hope that gradual reform, economic support, and security cooperation would pull Iraq closer to the Western orbit over time. That approach assumed that Iraq’s political system, even if slow and compromised, was ultimately capable of recalibrating itself.

That assumption has collapsed. Repeated compromises, recycled leadership, and unfulfilled promises have exhausted U.S. patience. Each political cycle reproduced the same figures, the same power-sharing logic, and the same dependence on Iran-aligned actors. Engagement, in Washington’s eyes, no longer produced leverage—it produced stagnation.

The post–7 October regional escalation accelerated this shift. What began as a campaign to dismantle Iran’s regional network has progressively moved closer to Iran’s core spheres of influence. Hezbollah, Hamas, and other fronts were weakened. Syria was reshaped. And now the logic has reached Iraq. In this context, Iraq is no longer treated as a special case or a fragile exception. It is being folded into a broader strategy aimed at severing Iran’s remaining channels of influence.

Under these conditions, compromise is no longer tolerated. The message from Washington is stark: Iraq must choose. Full alignment with the United States and its regional framework comes with political and economic support, security cooperation, and reintegration. Alignment with Iran, by contrast, carries clear consequences—withdrawal of support, isolation, and pressure that will no longer be softened by appeals to stability or sovereignty.

The grey zone that once allowed Iraq to maneuver has narrowed to the point of disappearance. What Washington sees today is not a country balancing between powers, but a decision deferred for too long. And in the current strategic climate, deferral is not a choice for Washington.

So Who Does Trump Actually Want?

The signals coming from Washington leave little room for interpretation. Through Trump’s own statements, as well as messaging delivered by his envoy to Iraq, Mark Savaya, and regional figures such as Tom Barrack, the United States has made clear that it is no longer negotiating personalities—it is setting conditions. What Washington wants is not a familiar name or a recycled figure from Iraq’s political class, but a fundamentally different profile of leadership.

At the core of these demands is a red line that did not previously exist in such absolute terms: zero participation of militias in government. This goes beyond cosmetic reforms or symbolic distancing. Washington is calling for the full dismantling of militia influence within the state, including the political and economic role of the Popular Mobilisation Forces (PMU). The militia-state hybrid that has defined post-2014 Iraq is now viewed not as a stabilising force, but as an obstacle to sovereignty and a conduit for Iranian power.

Equally explicit is the expectation of a clean break with Iran. No strategic coordination, no economic dependency, no back-channel bargaining. In Washington’s framing, Iraq cannot claim independence while remaining structurally tied to Tehran’s security and political architecture. Ambiguity is no longer acceptable.

The third pillar is regional realignment. The United States expects Iraq to abandon any posture of hostility toward Israel and to move—gradually but decisively—toward normalisation. This is not presented as a moral demand, but as a strategic requirement for reintegration into a U.S.-led regional order. Silence is no longer enough; neutrality itself is now interpreted as resistance.

Taken together, these conditions define the leadership profile Washington is seeking: a government with exclusive control over arms, independent from Iranian influence, aligned with U.S. regional priorities, and willing to break with the post-2003 political formula. Such a profile is not currently represented by most of Iraq’s dominant political forces.

The implications for Iraq’s political future are profound. Meeting these demands would require not just a change of leadership, but a transformation of the entire system that has governed Iraq for two decades. Failing to meet them, however, signals a different path—one in which Iraq is treated less as a partner to be stabilised and more as a problem to be contained.

Trump’s message is ultimately simple, if brutal: Washington is no longer prepared to work with half-measures or managed contradictions. Iraq can remain trapped in its old order, or attempt a painful redefinition of sovereignty. What it cannot do anymore is pretend that both paths are still open.

What Can Iraqi Politicians—Particularly Shiite Leaders—Do Now?

The reaction inside Baghdad was immediate. Following Trump’s rejection, the Coordination Framework convened an emergency meeting to reassess its options. The move itself underscored how seriously Washington’s message was taken—not as commentary, but as a veto with real consequences.

Within this context, the dynamics around Prime Minister Mohammed Shia al-Sudani deserve close attention. Sudani, who had been competing with Maliki, ultimately withdrew from the race, apparently calculating—correctly—that Maliki’s nomination would trigger U.S. rejection. Yet this tactical manoeuvre does not translate into strategic advantage. Sudani’s own record places him firmly in the category Washington is moving away from: a leader positioned in the middle, managing contradictions rather than resolving them.

During Sudani’s tenure, Iran-aligned militias intensified hostile actions against Israel, and Iraq deepened strategic economic ties with Tehran, including agreements such as the Shalamcheh–Basra railway project. From Washington’s perspective, this reinforced the view that “centrist” governance has functioned less as balance and more as cover for continuity. Trump’s current posture leaves little room for this kind of political ambiguity.

The Coordination Framework now faces a defining choice: does it intend to lead Iraq into a new strategic phase, or merely manage the remnants of the previous one? The answer to that question will determine not only the next prime minister, but Iraq’s position in a rapidly hardening regional order.

The next government will not be a traditional “services government” focused on electricity, salaries, and short-term stability. It will be tasked with navigating a far more complex environment—economic pressure, regional realignment, and direct international scrutiny. Baghdad needs a prime minister capable of strategic negotiation, crisis management, and absorbing geopolitical friction, not simply defusing it.

Trump’s message, therefore, goes far beyond vetoing a single candidate. Maliki’s nomination—secured with the explicit blessing of Ali Akbar Velayati, senior adviser to Iran’s Supreme Leader—symbolised precisely the political continuity Washington now rejects. The signal from Washington is not for substitution within the same framework, but for structural change.

For Shiite political forces in particular, the moment is stark. Persisting with familiar figures and familiar tactics risks pushing Iraq into isolation at a time when regional margins for error are shrinking. Adapting, by contrast, would require confronting internal power structures that have defined post-2003 politics. The decision they make now will shape not just the next government, but whether Iraq is treated as a strategic actor—or as collateral—in the unfolding regional contest.

The phrase reflected a broader post-9/11 ambition: to reorder the Middle East through force, dismantle hostile regimes, and eliminate what was later labelled the “Axis of Evil.” Afghanistan fell first, then Iraq. Libya and Syria followed through different forms of intervention. Iran, however, remained unfinished business—too complex, too costly, too dangerous to confront directly, yet never removed from the strategic imagination.

Two decades later, the slogan has resurfaced—not as rhetoric, but as a question. Iran is under unprecedented internal pressure, its regional network has been severely weakened, and its deterrence exposed in ways few anticipated. U.S. military posture has hardened, Israel has escalated, and the language of confrontation has returned to the centre of policy debates in Washington. What once sounded like bravado now appears, to some, like delayed inevitability.

The question, then, is no longer whether Iran was always meant to be confronted, but whether the conditions imagined by those early slogans have finally materialised?

The Neocon Vision: The War Against the “Axis of Evil”

The attacks of 11 September 2001 did more than trigger a global security response; they produced a new strategic worldview in Washington. Under the banner of the “War on Terror,” a group of neoconservative policymakers advanced a far more ambitious project: the remaking of the Middle East through force. Terrorism, in this framework, was not merely a security threat but a symptom of hostile regimes that needed to be removed and replaced.

This vision quickly took institutional form. In his 2002 State of the Union address, President George W. Bush publicly identified an “Axis of Evil,” placing Iran alongside Iraq and North Korea as core threats to U.S. security. But behind the public rhetoric was a broader, less formal list of states viewed as obstacles to a new regional order. Afghanistan was first, toppled within weeks of the 9/11 attacks. Iraq followed in 2003. Libya was later dismantled through NATO intervention. Syria was targeted through sustained pressure, proxy warfare, and sanctions aimed at regime collapse.

Iran stood apart. It was always on the list, but it was also the most difficult case: larger, more cohesive, militarily capable, and deeply embedded in the region through ideological and proxy networks. Unlike Iraq or Libya, Iran could not be isolated or overwhelmed without risking a regional war. As a result, while other targets were confronted directly or indirectly, Iran was deferred.

This deferral should not be mistaken for abandonment. In neocon thinking, Iran was never forgotten—only postponed. The assumption was that once easier regimes fell and the region was reshaped, Tehran would either collapse under pressure or face confrontation from a position of American strength. The slogan “Boys Go to Baghdad, Real Men Go to Tehran” captured this hierarchy clearly. Iraq was a step; Iran was the destination.

What history would later reveal is that postponement was not neutral. Each intervention reshaped the region in ways that strengthened Iran’s influence rather than weakening it. Yet the original ambition never disappeared. It lingered beneath policy debates, waiting for a moment when conditions might once again make Tehran appear vulnerable—and confrontation seem feasible.

Why Iraq Was the Easy Target

By the time U.S. forces crossed into Iraq in March 2003, the country had already endured more than a decade of systematic weakening. The invasion did not strike a functioning state at the height of its power; it hit a society and political system that had been steadily dismantled since the 1991 Gulf War.

That war marked a decisive rupture. Iraq’s military—once one of the largest in the region—was crushed in weeks. Critical infrastructure was destroyed, including power grids, water treatment facilities, transportation networks, and industrial capacity. Although the regime survived militarily, the foundations of the state did not. Iraq emerged from the war severely degraded, dependent on emergency repairs and international relief.

The sanctions regime that followed compounded the damage. Throughout the 1990s, comprehensive economic sanctions collapsed Iraq’s economy and hollowed out its institutions. State salaries became symbolic, public services disintegrated, and governance shifted from bureaucratic administration to informal survival networks. Crucially, sanctions did not merely punish the regime; they dismantled the state’s capacity to function.

The social consequences were equally profound. Large segments of Iraq’s technocratic and professional classes emigrated, taking with them administrative expertise, institutional memory, and technical skill. The middle class—historically the backbone of state capacity and social stability—was eroded. What remained was a society fractured by poverty, dependency, and fear, with institutions unable to absorb shock or manage transition.

As a result, Iraq entered 2003 already weakened, isolated, and fragmented. The regime collapsed quickly once confronted with overwhelming force, but there was no resilient state beneath it. This distinction proved decisive. Removing Saddam Hussein did not simply remove a ruler; it removed the last remaining structure holding the country together.

The lesson was stark: regime collapse does not equal state survival. Iraq fell easily not because regime change is inherently simple, but because the state itself had already been dismantled. This is precisely what made Iraq an “easy” target—and precisely why the same logic cannot be mechanically applied to Iran, at least at this stage.

Winning the War, Losing the Peace

Iraqi scholar and former finance minister Ali A. Allawi captured the core failure of the 2003 invasion with a phrase that has since become diagnostic: winning the war, losing the peace. The United States achieved a swift and overwhelming military victory, but it entered the post-war phase without a coherent political strategy for what would follow. What unfolded was not reconstruction, but unraveling.

The invasion was planned almost exclusively as a military operation. There was no serious, unified plan for post-war governance, no agreed vision for state reconstruction, and no institutional continuity strategy. The dismantling of Iraq’s army and bureaucracy removed what little remained of state capacity, while no viable political alternative was prepared to replace it. Power vacuums were filled not by democratic institutions, but by militias, sectarian actors, and external patrons.

The method of intervention deepened the problem. A full-scale ground invasion placed tens of thousands of U.S. troops inside a complex social and political landscape they neither controlled nor fully understood. This made American forces highly vulnerable to insurgency, asymmetrical warfare, and local resistance. The longer the occupation lasted, the more legitimacy eroded—both for the occupiers and for any political order associated with them.

Regionally, the invasion triggered widespread rejection. Neighbouring states did not see Iraq’s transformation as stabilising or legitimate; they viewed it as a threat or an opportunity. Some became active spoilers, fueling insurgency, supporting proxies, or exploiting the chaos for their own strategic gain. Instead of reshaping the region in Washington’s image, the war destabilised it.

The lesson of Iraq is not that military force is ineffective, but that force without political architecture is destructive. Winning battles does not produce order; it merely removes obstacles. Without a credible post-conflict framework, military victory creates conditions for chaos rather than control. This failure would later loom large over every discussion of Iran—serving as both a warning and a constraint on those tempted to believe that Tehran could be handled the same way Baghdad was.

Iran Contained, Not Confronted: The Boiling Frog Strategy

After the experience of Iraq, direct invasion lost its appeal as a tool for dealing with Iran. The costs were too high, the risks too unpredictable, and the political fallout too severe. Instead, U.S. strategy shifted toward a slower, more indirect approach: containment through overextension. Iran would not be confronted head-on; it would be allowed—and in some cases encouraged—to stretch itself thin.

This strategy rested on a calculated assumption. By permitting Iran to expand its regional footprint, build proxy networks, and insert itself into conflicts across Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, and Yemen, Tehran would gradually exhaust its resources and legitimacy. Influence would come at a price: financial strain, growing enemies, and deepening exposure. Regional expansion, once framed as strategic depth, would become strategic liability.

Sanctions became the central lever of this approach. Under the banner of “maximum pressure,” economic restrictions were designed to serve two interconnected goals. Externally, they aimed to weaken Iran’s ability to sustain regional allies and military capabilities. Internally, they were intended to generate social and economic pressure that would translate into political unrest. U.S. Treasury officials openly framed sanctions as a mechanism that constrained the state by squeezing society—an approach that, by their own assessment, contributed to protests and the erosion of domestic legitimacy.

Over time, the effects compounded. Iran became increasingly overextended abroad, forced to defend a wide arc of influence with diminishing resources. At home, economic hardship deepened grievances, exposing cracks between state and society. Regionally, Iran found itself surrounded not by allies, but by wary neighbours—many openly hostile, others quietly distancing themselves, choosing silence over confrontation.

This was the logic of the boiling frog. Iran was not pushed into immediate crisis; it was allowed to adapt, expand, and commit—until the accumulated weight of commitments, sanctions, and isolation left it vulnerable. Containment did not seek collapse in one decisive blow. It aimed instead at gradual weakening, setting conditions where Iran would face pressure from all directions at once, with fewer options and fewer friends.

The 7 October Moment: From Containment to Exposure

The attacks carried out by Hamas on 7 October marked a decisive rupture in the regional balance. More than a shock event, they became a strategic opening—one that rapidly shifted the logic of dealing with Iran from indirect containment to direct exposure. What followed was not an isolated military response, but a broader effort to dismantle Iran’s regional network under the cover of crisis.

The scale and brutality of the attack provided political justification for actions that had long been debated but rarely executed at full force. Iran’s proxies, once treated as manageable irritants within a contained framework, were reframed as existential threats requiring systematic degradation. The response unfolded across multiple theatres, targeting command structures, logistics, leadership, and operational depth. What had previously been tolerated as part of a proxy equilibrium was now treated as an integrated adversarial system to be broken.

Regional dynamics amplified this shift. Across much of the Arab world, dissatisfaction with Iran’s regional role had been building for years. Tehran’s strategy—whether intentionally or as a by-product of its security calculations—was structured in ways that contributed to the destabilisation of neighbouring states and the entrenchment of sectarian politics. Even where this outcome may not have been Iran’s original intent, the cumulative effect eroded sympathy among governments that had traditionally been cautious about direct confrontation. As the escalation unfolded, many regional states either quietly supported efforts to weaken Iran’s network or chose strategic silence—an absence of resistance that proved as consequential as overt backing.

The escalation culminated in what became known as the twelve-day war, a turning point that brought conflict closer to Iran’s own territory in ways previously unthinkable. Air defence systems were penetrated. Senior military commanders were eliminated. Sensitive and strategically significant military and industrial sites were struck. For the first time in decades, Iran’s internal security architecture appeared exposed rather than insulated.

The implications were profound. Iran was no longer the fortified stronghold many had assumed—capable of projecting power outward while remaining immune at home. The events shattered long-standing threat assessments that portrayed Iran as resilient, impenetrable, and strategically untouchable. Containment had given way to exposure, and with it came a recalibration of how Iran’s strength, deterrence, and vulnerabilities were understood.

Will Trump “Go to Tehran”?

If the neoconservative era was defined by regime change through occupation, Trump’s approach represents a clear departure. His central lesson from Iraq is not moral but strategic: boots on the ground create vulnerability, drain legitimacy, and entangle the United States in conflicts it cannot control. Occupation is off the table. So is nation-building.

Instead, Trump’s preferred model relies on short, fast, coercive action—combining military pressure with psychological warfare. The objective is not conquest, but submission: to shock, disorient, and force compliance without triggering a prolonged war. Airpower, standoff strikes, cyber operations, sanctions, and constant signalling are used to compress decision-making time in Tehran and raise the cost of resistance.

The terms Trump seeks are explicit and maximalist. Iran would be required to abandon any nuclear program entirely, accept severe and verifiable limitations on its missile capabilities, and end all support for resistance movements across the region. In effect, Iran would be asked to surrender the pillars of its deterrence and ideological reach without the regime itself being formally removed.

This leaves Tehran facing a stark dilemma. Acceptance would not stabilise the regime; it would initiate a slow erosion of its foundations. Stripped of its strategic tools and regional identity, the state would lose both its external leverage and much of its internal ideological base. Resistance, however, carries the risk of massive destruction—military, economic, and institutional—at a scale that could permanently cripple the country.

The decisive variable is Iran’s capacity to retaliate. If Tehran can impose costs high enough to credibly threaten a wider war—drawing in U.S. forces, destabilising allies, or disrupting global markets—Trump is likely to pull back. In that scenario, a new deterrence balance would emerge, and terms would inevitably shift in Iran’s favour. If Iran cannot do so, the alternative is prolonged coercion: keeping the country weakened, sanctioned, and strategically broken, waiting for a future moment of collapse—much as Iraq was contained after 1991 and finally shattered in 2003.

Whether Trump ultimately “goes to Tehran” depends less on intent than on calculation. The question is not whether force will be used, but whether Iran can make the cost of using it intolerably high.

What the Strategy Says About Iran?

The 2026 U.S. National Defense Strategy places Iran firmly within Washington’s top tier of security concerns. By grouping Iran alongside China, Russia, and North Korea, the document signals that Tehran is no longer viewed merely as a regional problem, but as a strategic adversary whose actions affect U.S. global interests. This framing elevates Iran’s status in the U.S. threat hierarchy and justifies sustained military attention, even as Washington prioritises competition with great powers.

The language used in the strategy is unusually blunt. It reiterates that Iran will not be allowed to acquire nuclear weapons and presents recent U.S. military actions as proof of resolve and capability. The document describes Iran’s nuclear program as having been effectively dismantled through decisive military action and portrays this outcome as a demonstration of unmatched U.S. operational superiority. At the same time, it leaves no ambiguity about Washington’s assessment that Tehran may attempt to rebuild its nuclear and conventional military capabilities, especially if it refuses to engage in what the U.S. defines as “meaningful negotiations.”

Regionally, Iran is framed primarily through the lens of its network of allies and proxies. The strategy argues that Iran’s so-called “Axis of Resistance” has been severely degraded, citing the weakening of Hezbollah, Hamas, and the Houthis as strategic successes for the U.S. and its partners. Yet this assessment is paired with a warning: despite recent setbacks, Iran and its proxies remain capable of reconstitution and continued destabilisation. Iran is portrayed not only as a persistent military challenge, but as a state that routinely fuels regional crises, threatens U.S. forces, and remains committed to the destruction of Israel.

Crucially, the strategy situates deterrence of Iran within a broader regional realignment. Rather than relying on large-scale U.S. deployments, Washington’s approach emphasises empowering regional allies—particularly Israel and Gulf states—to take primary responsibility for countering Iran. The document highlights Israel as a “model ally” and stresses deeper military integration between Israel and Arab partners, explicitly linking this to the Abraham Accords. In this framework, Iran is the central threat around which a new regional security architecture is being constructed.

Taken together, the strategy presents Iran as weakened but dangerous: diminished in capability, yet undeterred in intent. Its placement alongside other major adversaries signals that the United States views Iran less as a candidate for reconciliation and more as a long-term problem to be managed through pressure, deterrence, and regional containment rather than accommodation.

How Iran Has Been Weakened?

The 2026 U.S. National Defense Strategy presents Iran as a state that has suffered significant degradation across economic, military, and regional dimensions, even if it remains dangerous and defiant. While the document avoids detailed metrics, its language reflects a clear assessment in Washington: Iran today is weaker, more constrained, and more vulnerable than it has been in decades.

One central factor is economic pressure. U.S. officials have been explicit about the intended impact of sanctions. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent has stated that U.S. sanctions pushed Iran into a deep economic crisis that directly affected ordinary people and contributed to widespread social unrest. From Washington’s perspective, this economic strain is not a side effect but a core instrument of pressure—designed to limit state capacity, weaken public-sector patronage, and erode the regime’s ability to buy social stability.

Years of sanctions have crippled key sectors of Iran’s economy, sharply reduced oil revenues, driven inflation and currency collapse, and undermined access to medicine, food security, and basic services. While President Trump has claimed that sanctions are intended to pressure the regime rather than harm the population, in practice the economic burden has fallen disproportionately on ordinary Iranians—fueling public anger and repeated waves of protest.

Iran has also been weakened by regional military confrontation. The aftermath of the 7 October attacks marked a turning point, drawing Iran into a sustained confrontation with Israel across multiple fronts. Israeli operations significantly degraded Iran-aligned militias, including Hezbollah and Hamas, eroding what Tehran has long relied on as forward deterrence. The subsequent 12-day war further exposed vulnerabilities in Iran’s defensive capabilities, from air defense to command-and-control systems, reinforcing U.S. confidence in its ability to strike Iranian assets decisively if needed.

Internally, these pressures intersect with persistent instability. Economic hardship, elite anxiety, intelligence penetration, and repeated mass protests have strained the regime’s governance capacity. While Iran’s security apparatus remains large and loyal, U.S. policymakers increasingly view the state as overextended—forced to manage domestic unrest, economic crisis, and regional setbacks simultaneously.

Taken together, the strategy reflects a U.S. interpretation of Iran as a power whose strategic depth has narrowed. Sanctions have constrained resources, military pressure has exposed limits, regional conflicts have weakened proxy networks, and internal unrest has reduced political resilience. This does not mean Iran is near collapse—but it does mean Washington believes Tehran is operating from a position of cumulative weakness rather than strength, a belief that underpins the strategy of sustained pressure, deterrence, and containment outlined in the 2026 NDS.

What the U.S. Defense Strategy Toward Iran Actually Is?

The 2026 U.S. National Defense Strategy reflects a calibrated strategy of deterrence and coercion, rather than direct confrontation or classic regime-change warfare. The central objective is clear: Iran must not be allowed to rebuild its strategic deterrent, whether nuclear, missile-based, or regional. Washington’s focus is on preventing reconstruction of Iran’s defense capabilities and rolling back its regional presence so that Iran remains strategically weakened and constrained.

Crucially, this strategy does not prioritise regime change. Unlike neoconservative models pursued in the early 2000s, the current approach accepts the continued existence of the Iranian regime and seeks instead to reshape its behaviour. The goal is not to overthrow the system, but to force it to operate within limits defined by U.S. interests—particularly on nuclear weapons, missile development, and support for regional armed groups.

This approach resembles the Venezuela model more than the Iraq model: eliminating or degrading specific state capacities, imposing maximum economic and military pressure, and leveraging internal strain to compel compliance. It is a carrot-and-stick strategy embedded within broad psychological warfare, delivering a stark message to Tehran: accept “peace on U.S. terms,” or face sustained, destructive pressure without the deployment of American ground forces.

Military pressure plays a central role, but it is designed to remain limited and asymmetric. Rather than full-scale war, the strategy relies on precision strikes, sanctions, intelligence operations, and persistent threat signaling—combined with regional burden-sharing. Israel and Gulf partners are empowered to shoulder more of the deterrence mission, while Washington retains the ability to deliver focused, decisive action when necessary.

Another notable feature of this strategy is the elimination of the middle ground. Iran is not being offered incremental concessions or partial reintegration. Instead, the space for manoeuvre is narrowed to two outcomes: voluntary compliance under extreme pressure, or enforced compliance through sustained erosion of power. In this framework, Iran’s traditional tools—regional proxies, strategic ambiguity, and calibrated escalation—are systematically targeted and stripped away.

The result is a strategy aimed at long-term erosion rather than sudden collapse. By keeping Iran weak but intact, Washington seeks to neutralise Tehran as a strategic actor without triggering the chaos and regional instability that outright regime change would likely produce. Whether this approach can succeed without provoking escalation—or whether it ultimately creates new existential pressures that destabilise the regime anyway—remains the defining question of the strategy.

Implications for Iran

The U.S. defense strategy outlined in the 2026 National Defense Strategy reshapes Iran’s future security environment in fundamental ways. Iran is now operating under a framework designed to deny recovery rather than merely deter aggression. This means sustained pressure on every pillar of Iranian power—nuclear capability, missile development, regional networks, and economic resilience—without the stabilising prospect of reintegration or normalisation. The result is a far more constrained strategic space, where even defensive reconstruction is treated as a provocation.

This posture significantly raises the risk of escalation, even if neither side actively seeks full-scale war. By narrowing Iran’s options and framing restraint as weakness, the strategy incentivises Tehran to demonstrate resolve through asymmetric retaliation, proxy activity, or calibrated regional disruption. At the same time, Washington’s reliance on partners and indirect pressure increases the likelihood of miscalculation, where localised clashes spiral into broader confrontation without clear off-ramps.

Diplomacy remains formally available, but it is highly conditional and asymmetric. Negotiation is offered not as mutual compromise, but as compliance under duress. Any deal would require Iran to surrender core elements of its deterrence and regional posture, concessions that strike at the ideological and strategic foundations of the regime. As a result, diplomacy under this framework is less a path to stabilisation than a test of regime survival, making voluntary acceptance politically dangerous for Tehran.

In response, Iran is likely to pursue a dual-track strategy. On one hand, it will seek to avoid direct war with the United States by calibrating retaliation and maintaining ambiguity. On the other, it will attempt to preserve leverage by quietly rebuilding capabilities, deepening ties with non-Western powers, and exploiting regional and global divisions. Internally, the regime may further securitise politics to manage pressure, even as economic strain and social discontent intensify.

Ultimately, this evolving U.S. posture places Iran in a prolonged state of strategic limbo: too constrained to act freely, too pressured to concede safely, and too intact to collapse quickly. Whether this environment produces forced accommodation, dangerous escalation, or slow internal erosion will depend not only on Tehran’s choices, but on how rigidly Washington enforces a strategy that leaves Iran with increasingly few acceptable outcomes.