In a move that has surprised precisely nobody outside of a comatose think tank, Hezbollah has, with the grace of a drunkard refusing last orders, rejected a renewed ceasefire between Lebanon and Israel. The news, which landed with all the thud of a wet fish at a garden party, has sent the Royal Navy scrambling to reposition its assets in the eastern Mediterranean. One pictures admirals sweating into their epaulettes as they pore over maps no bigger than a cocktail napkin, perhaps wondering if the gin ration has been doubled.
Let us dissect the absurdity with the delicacy of a surgeon wielding a sledgehammer. A ceasefire, that holy grail of diplomatic inertia, has been spurned by a group whose very name translates to 'Party of God' but whose actions suggest a party line more aligned with Beelzebub's PR department. Hezbollah, having dined out on resistance for decades, seems deeply disinclined to switch to a diet of peace. Why would they? War provides a splendid excuse for austerity, rationing and the kind of absolutist rhetoric that makes democratic debate look like a particularly tedious episode of a reality show.
Our beloved British government, never ones to miss an opportunity for performative naval shuffling, have duly dispatched a Type 45 destroyer and a frigate or three to 'increase presence' and 'show resolve'. One can almost hear the press release being drafted: 'Her Majesty's ships will patrol waters, bristle with missile tubes and provide a splendid backdrop for news cameras.' The actual utility of these vessels in influencing the behaviour of a determinedly non-maritime actor like Hezbollah is, of course, beside the point. It is theatre, dear reader, and we are all unpaid extras.
Consider the wider farce. The United States, that perennial broker of Middle Eastern off-ramps, has been reduced to issuing statements that read like frantic telegrams from a sinking liner. The United Nations, that temple of hand-wringing, will no doubt convene an emergency session to deplore the deplorable deplorability of it all. Meanwhile, the people of Lebanon, already staggering under the weight of economic collapse, a port explosion that still reeks of tragedy and neglect, and a political class that resembles a cartoon of feckless ghouls, are once again served the cold porridge of regional conflict.
What does Hezbollah want? Glory, perhaps. A justification for their arsenal. The continued ability to claim they are the only true defenders of Lebanese sovereignty whilst simultaneously subordinating that sovereignty to Iranian whims. The ceasefire was probably lovely on paper, a thing of diplomatic beauty, a veritable stradivarius of conflict resolution. But Hezbollah prefers the bagpipes: shrill, warlike and impossible to ignore.
And Britain? We are the world's most polite arms dealer, shuffling our warships about like we are rearranging deckchairs on the Titanic. Our 'reassurance' is the hot toddy offered to a man whose house is ablaze. Still, the eastern Mediterranean is lovely this time of year, if you like the smell of cordite and despair.
As I drain my glass of duty-free Beefeater (the gin, not the guardsman), I am struck by the eternal truth: peace is for the weak, or at least for those with better options. Hezbollah has options, but none that involve laying down arms. So the guns will keep their appointments, the diplomats will keep their circular conversations, and the Royal Navy will keep its station. And somewhere, a bureaucrat in Whitehall is no doubt drafting a very stern letter.
Imagine my surprise.
