Has Trump lost control of the Iran war?

The news from the East reached me as the lamps were being trimmed for the night. Israel and Iran have traded fire again, the ceasefire dissolved like salt in the rain. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest - the desire for a world that stays settled, for borders that remain quiet while I attend to the grain supply and the petitions of the poor.

I caught myself in this weakness. Why do I crave a stillness that the universe does not provide? To be surprised that men at war return to war is like being surprised that a fig tree produces figs. It is the nature of the thing. I asked myself: Does this “loss of control” by the American leader change my own standing? It does not. Whether he holds the reins or the horses bolt, my province remains the same: my own mind, my own reactions, my own duty to the Roman people.

Antoninus would not have paced the floor over reports from distant satrapies. He would have looked at the map, assessed the supply lines, and asked, “What is the next just act?” He never mistook the noise of the world for the voice of reason.

The missiles fly; the earth remains. In a hundred years, the names of these generals will be dust, and the grievances they kill for will be footnotes in a lost ledger. This is not to say the suffering is nothing - it is everything to those who bleed - but for me, the governor, the perspective must be wider. I cannot control the fire in the Levant. I can control the justice in my heart. I must return to the work at hand. The camp is cold, my joints ache, and the morning will bring more petitions. To do the work of a man, now, without complaint - that is the only victory available.

The headline asks, “Has Trump lost control of the Iran war?” This question wears the uniform of a genuine inquiry, like asking if a driver has lost control of his car. But the resemblance is misleading. A car, a machine, can be controlled. Its movements are predictable, governed by levers and pedals. We understand what “control” means in that context.

But “war”? What is this “war” that one might control or lose control of? Is it a thing, like a car, that moves according to a single will? We speak of “trading missile strikes” as if they were commodities, exchanged in a market. But these are not goods; they are acts, with consequences that ripple out in ways no single person can fully grasp, let alone direct.

“Control” here is a word lifted from its ordinary use. It suggests a mechanism, a clear cause and effect. But the actions of nations, the responses, the fears, the historical grievances - these are not gears in a machine. They are more like a tangled thicket, where cutting one branch only causes others to spring up unexpectedly. To ask if he has “lost control” implies he once had it, in the way a driver has control of a car. But was it ever truly “had” in that sense? Or is it merely a grammatical illusion, making us search for a lost object that never existed as we imagine it? The question itself is the problem, not the answer.

The situation, as it was presented to me over the morning kipper, struck me as a classic tangle of the most intricate order. One had the impression of a committee - let us call it the International Drones Club - where the chairman, a chap of forceful opinions, had made a rather bold proposal about the flower arrangements. This, naturally, caused a reaction from another member with strong views on horticulture, and before you could say “regatta,” potted plants were being lobbed across the room. The question of whether the chairman has “lost control” of the debate is, I feel, rather missing the point. The point is that everyone is now speaking at once, and the original motion about the petunias has been quite forgotten.

It has all the hallmarks of a scenario where a Jeeves would be invaluable. The present difficulty is not, I suspect, the one they are all shouting about. It is likely some older, quieter misunderstanding - a matter of a borrowed lawnmower in 1987, or a misinterpreted remark about the cricket scores - that has festered. The current exchange of missiles is merely the loud and inconvenient symptom. No one is a villain here; they are all simply fellows who have found themselves in a frightfully complicated spot, each believing his next move is the only logical one.

I maintain a sunny view. These things always look darkest just before the elegant solution presents itself. Somewhere, in a quiet room, there is a chap with an impassive expression who has already perceived that the entire crisis could be resolved by the strategic removal of a certain aunt to the seaside for a fortnight, or by the unexpected but timely victory of a minor county at bowls. The tangle must achieve its full glorious complexity before the exit becomes visible. It is, I am sure, already there. One must simply wait for the right person to clear his throat and say, “If I might suggest…”