Here we are again, children. The great Levantine jigsaw has once more been rattled, and the pieces are flying. Israel has struck southern Lebanon, a mere footnote in the annals of a broken ceasefire, and British peacekeepers are now on alert. Do you feel the shiver of historical déjà vu? You should.
This latest theatre of the absurd comes after a 'deal' with Hezbollah, a word I use loosely. A deal implies mutual consent, a handshake, a semblance of civilised discourse. What we witnessed was a pause, a breath between convulsions. Hezbollah, the state within a state, the Iranian proxy with ambitions of apocalypse, agreed to terms it never intended to keep. And Israel, the gilded fortress of the Middle East, responded with the predictable alacrity of a wounded lion.
The strikes are surgical, the reports assure us. 'Precision munitions' and 'targeted infrastructure'. How modern, how clinical. But war, my dear readers, is never surgical. It is messy, bloody, and endless. The British peacekeepers along the Blue Line, stoic in their pale helmets, are the ghosts of empire, haunting a conflict they cannot solve. They are there to keep the peace, a peace that never quite took root.
Let us consult the historian's index. The modern state of Israel has existed for 76 years. It has fought over a dozen named conflicts, countless skirmishes, and two intifadas. Hezbollah, born in the embers of the 1982 invasion, has been a persistent thorn. The cycle is as predictable as the tides: escalation, retaliation, ceasefire, repeat. We are in the 'repeat' phase, just after a ceasefire.
The roots of this endless dance trace back to 1948, to 1917, to 637 AD. The land is saturated with blood and prayer. But the proximate cause here is Iran, the puppeteer of Hezbollah, desperate to distract from its own domestic decay and nuclear ambitions. Israel, for its part, is led by a government whose survival depends on perpetual crisis. Add a dose of American election politics, and you have a cocktail that would make Bacchus blush.
What of the deal? A meaningless scrap of paper, signed in the knowledge that language is a poor substitute for power. Hezbollah violates it; Israel responds. The international community tut-tuts. John Kerry or his equivalent flies in for a photo opportunity. And the cycle continues. British peacekeepers are on alert, a phrase that has become as clipped as a BBC broadcast. They are there to observe, to report, to look dignified in the face of chaos.
Do not mistake this for despair, dear reader. I am not a pessimist; I am a realist. The human condition, especially in that corner of the world, is a tragedy with no fifth act. We can pretend that diplomacy works, that treaties bind, that international law matters. But the bombs falling on southern Lebanon are not dissuaded by sanctions, statements, or peacekeeping patrols.
The only constant is instability. The only truth is that tomorrow will bring a new violation, a new strike, a new ceasefire. And we will be here, pen in hand, watching the eternal flame of conflict flicker. British peacekeepers on alert: there is your headline, your symbol, your Sisyphean rock. They will stand guard until the next eruption.
So read this, file it, and wait. The rhythm of the Levant never stops. It is the heartbeat of history, and it is relentless.
