In a development that has all the coherence of a drunkard's Thursday, Israel has launched a series of strikes on southern Lebanon while the partial truce with Hezbollah continues to hold with all the grace of a one-legged tightrope walker. The strikes, which targeted what the IDF described as 'Hezbollah infrastructure,' occurred simultaneously with the festive lighting of a diplomatic candle that might just burn the house down.
Let us be clear: this is not a ceasefire. This is a beautifully British version of a ceasefire, wherein both sides agree to stop shooting for a bit while reserving the right to pummel each other senseless the moment something mildly irritating happens. The partial truce, brokered by a gentleman who looks like he sells used cars in a back alley, covers the immediate border area but leaves the rest of Lebanon open for business as usual.
The IDF announced these strikes with the solemnity of a vicar announcing tea time. They claim to have hit a weapons cache, a command post, and possibly a really nice olive tree that had been looking at Israel funny. Hezbollah, for its part, responded not with rockets but with a press release, a move so disappointingly civilised that I nearly choked on my gin.
Now, the phrase 'fragile peace' is being thrown around by journalists with all the care of a toddler juggling fine china. This peace is not fragile. It is a paper umbrella in a hurricane. It is a single-ply loo roll in a gastroenteritis outbreak. The partial truce is holding because both sides are busy having a cup of tea and a biscuit before they go back to blowing each other up. It is the political equivalent of 'you wait here, I'll be right back' in a horror film.
The strikes themselves were surgical, precise, and completely pointless. They were the military version of kicking a man while he's tying his shoelaces. Hezbollah, of course, has reserves of patience that would make a Buddhist monk weep with envy. They are waiting for the right moment, possibly tied to the next Netflix series release.
Meanwhile, the international community is doing what it does best: wringing its hands and pronouncing that both sides should show restraint. The United Nations has called an emergency meeting to discuss the colour of the curtains in the briefing room. America has expressed 'grave concern' which is diplomatic for 'we will continue to give Israel money.'
This is the Middle East peace process in a nutshell: a delicate dance of aggression and apology, where every step forward is followed by two steps back into a pothole. The truce is held together by string, hope, and the sheer unwillingness of anyone to be the first to say 'I'm sorry.'
As I sit here, sweating gin from every pore, I wonder: what is the point of a partial truce? It is like being partially pregnant. You cannot be partially at peace. Either the guns are silent or they are not. And right now, they are doing a very poor impression of silence. They are the silence of a pub at closing time, with the lingering threat of a drunken brawl.
So raise a glass to the fragile peace. May it hold as long as my patience. And may the strikes continue to be meaningless enough to allow us all to pretend we are not watching a slow-motion train wreck in the Levant.
