On: Iran war: 100 days on, a costly stalemate

I have read today of a conflict now one hundred days old. They call it ‘Operation Epic Fury,’ a name which suggests a grand opera, though the libretto appears to be written in blood and rubble. It was promised to be brief, a surgical lesson in reason, but it seems the patient has proven most uncooperative. Seven thousand souls have been subtracted from the world’s ledger, and countless others uprooted from their gardens, all to achieve what is now politely termed a ‘costly stalemate.’

One cannot help but admire the optimism of those who begin these ventures. They are like gardeners who, upon seeing a weed, decide the most prudent course is to set the entire orchard ablaze. They then express a measured surprise that the harvest has been somewhat diminished. The experts now tell us the war has lasted ‘far longer than expected.’ This is a most instructive phrase. It implies that expectation itself is a fragile thing, and that reality possesses a stubbornness unbecoming of a well-ordered plan.

I am reminded of a principle once explained to me: that all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds. Surely, then, this stalemate is the best possible stalemate. The loss of life demonstrates the fortitude of the human spirit in the face of adversity. The displacement of families offers them the opportunity for novel travels and new vistas. The ruin of cities provides ample work for future masons. One finds a silver lining in every cloud of smoke, if one looks with sufficient philosophical determination.

Yet, a quiet, unphilosophical thought persists. How much simpler, and how much more honest, is the cultivation of one’s own small plot. To grow a bean, to mend a fence, to share water with a neighbor - these are actions whose consequences one can see and whose value one can understand. They do not require the splendid fury of epic operations, which seem only to prove that when men play at being gods, they succeed chiefly in creating a hell of their own design. I shall go and tend my roses. Their thorns, at least, are honest.