So Israel has once again rained fire upon Lebanon, with bombs falling even as Donald Trump’s flaccid disapproval echoes across the Atlantic. The man who promised to end wars is now merely a spectator, his criticism as toothless as a Victorian gentleman’s tea-time complaint. And what of our own British peacekeepers, those stoic figures in blue helmets? They are the unwilling players in a farce that reeks of imperial hangover, a mission stretched thinner than the patience of a weary diplomat.
Let us not mince words: this is not 2006, nor is it 1982. This is a new phase of the region’s endless tragedy, a cyclical violence that would make Gibbon weep. The Israeli Defence Forces, in their precision-strike arrogance, believe they can surgically excise Hezbollah’s nerve centres. Yet each explosion in southern Beirut or the Bekaa Valley only deepens the wound, ensuring that the next generation of fighters will be forged in the crucible of rubble and revenge. History teaches us that the iron fist breeds only clenched hands in return.
Trump’s criticism, of course, is the stuff of political theatre. Having handed Netanyahu the keys to the kingdom with the Jerusalem embassy and the Golan Heights recognition, he now tuts from the sidelines like a disappointed headmaster. It is the height of intellectual decadence to pretend that his words carry weight. A real statesman would either enforce a ceasefire or stay silent. Trump does neither; he merely performs, a man more concerned with his own brand than with the bodies piling up in an ancient land.
And what of Britain’s role? Our peacekeepers, part of the UNIFIL mission, are caught in the crossfire. Their mandate is to monitor, to report, to do the diplomatic equivalent of wringing hands. Yet they are increasingly seen by both sides as either collaborators or obstacles. The strain on these brave men and women is palpable, a reminder that the Empire’s legacy is not all tea and cricket. We sent them to keep the peace, but peace is a commodity in short supply when the great powers play their games of influence.
The real question is one of national identity. Israel, a nation forged in the ashes of the Holocaust, now acts with the hubris of a regional hegemon. Its sense of existential threat has curdled into a permanent war footing, a condition that erodes the very soul it seeks to protect. Lebanon, a mosaic of sects and loyalties, is again the battleground for others’ ambitions. And the West, led by a America in decline and a Britain that has yet to find its post-Brexit voice, looks on with the detachment of a aging aristocrat watching a street brawl.
We are witnessing the fall of the old liberal order, the one that believed in rules and alliances. In its place rises a brutish realism, where power is the only currency. The strikes on Lebanon are not just about Hezbollah or Iran; they are a symptom of a world order in decay. The intellectuals on the left cry for restraint, those on the right cheer for strength, and both are equally irrelevant. The bombs do not care for our opinions.
So here we stand, in this autumn of 2024, watching the same tragic script play out. The peacekeeping mission strains, the diplomatic channels crack, and the dead accumulate. There will be no grand solution, only the slow grinding of history’s mill. We can only hope that our leaders, both here and abroad, realise that the path of vengeance leads only to oblivion. But then, I have always been a pessimist. The evidence, after all, supports me.
