The US military conducted strikes on Iranian military facilities after Iran attacked three US destroyers transiting the Strait of Hormuz.

The working family in London, or Manchester, or any town where the hearth is kept by the sweat of a man’s brow, will notice this in the price of the loaf. That is where the analysis begins. The news comes to us wrapped in the silk of statecraft, speaking of “strategic deterrence” and “regional stability,” but the baker does not care for strategy. He cares for the cost of the flour, and the cost of the flour is tied to the oil that moves the ships, and the ships are now being shot at in the Strait of Hormuz. When the men in high places speak of “escalation,” they mean that the risk has risen. When the risk rises, the merchant adds a premium to his goods. When the merchant adds a premium, the labourer pays it. The bread on the table is the first thing to feel the weight of the cannon.

We are told that the United States military struck Iranian facilities because Iran attacked American destroyers. This is the language of the ledger, clean and balanced. Action, reaction. Cause, effect. But look closer at the words. “Strikes.” “Facilities.” “Transiting.” These are Latinate words, chosen because they are soft. They do not bleed. They do not smell of cordite. If we were to speak plainly, as a man speaks to his neighbour over the fence, we would say that one side fired upon the other, and the other fired back, and now the sea lanes are dangerous. The danger is not an abstraction. It is a fact that sits heavy on the stomach of the poor.

Consider the Strait of Hormuz. It is a narrow throat through which much of the world’s oil must pass. Oil is the blood of the modern machine. It moves the trucks that bring the coal to the factories. It moves the ships that bring the grain from the Americas. It heats the homes of those who cannot afford wood. When that throat is choked by fear, or by actual fire, the price of the blood rises. The men who own the refineries and the shipping lines will not absorb this cost. They will pass it on. They will say it is necessary for the “security of supply.” They will say it is a “market adjustment.” I say it is a tax on the poor, levied by the rich, under the guise of national defence.

Who profits from this? Not the sailor on the destroyer, who risks his life for a wage that barely covers his rent. Not the farmer in Kent, who sees the price of his fertilizer rise because the oil is dearer. The profit goes to the arms manufacturers, who sell the shells. It goes to the insurance companies, who charge more for the cargo. It goes to the politicians, who gain in stature by appearing strong against a foreign foe. These men do not work for their living. They do not till the soil. They do not weave the cloth. They sit in rooms far from the smell of the sea and the smoke of the factory, and they decide the fate of the working man’s dinner.

The official reports will speak of “collateral damage” and “proportional response.” These are phrases designed to hide the truth. The truth is that war is theft. It steals the peace of the mind. It steals the certainty of the wage. It steals the fullness of the cupboard. When the government says it is acting for the “national interest,” ask yourself whose interest it is. Is it the interest of the man who must choose between heating his home and feeding his children? Or is it the interest of the man who sells the weapons that make such a choice necessary?

I have ridden through the countryside, and I have seen the effect of distant wars on local tables. I have seen the price of bread rise when the continent is in turmoil, and I have seen the labourer’s face grow thin. The same pattern holds today. The conflict in the Middle East is not a distant storm. It is a leak in the roof of the working man’s cottage. The water drips slowly, but it rots the floorboards. The government tells us to be patient. It tells us that stability will return. But stability is a word used by those who have never known instability. For the poor, instability is a daily reality. A lost day’s work is a lost meal. A rise in the price of fuel is a cold night.

The contest over the details of the damage is a distraction. The newspapers will argue over how many missiles were fired, how many ships were hit, how many men were killed. These are numbers that mean nothing to the family at the table. What matters is the consequence. The consequence is that the cost of living has risen. The consequence is that the security of the trade routes is broken. The consequence is that the working class pays the price for the pride of nations.

We must look at the language of the state with suspicion. When they speak of “defending freedom,” they often mean defending markets. When they speak of “protecting allies,” they often mean protecting investments. The plain English translation is simple: the powerful are fighting, and the weak are paying. The bread price audit reveals this clearly. The price goes up. The wage stays the same. The gap widens. This is not an accident. It is the natural result of a system where the decisions are made by those who do not feel the pinch.

The image that remains is not of the exploding ship, nor of the burning facility. It is of the kitchen table in a small house in the East End. The mother looks at the loaf. It is smaller than it was last week. The price is higher. She does not know why. She does not care about the politics of the Strait of Hormuz. She knows only that the bread is dear, and the children are hungry. The men in power speak of grand strategy. The woman at the table speaks of survival. And in the end, it is the survival of the family that matters, not the pride of the state. The bread is the measure. If the bread is too dear, the policy is wrong. If the table is empty, the victory is hollow.