The Strait of Hormuz has reopened. The world’s oil arteries unclogged, and the British flag once again flutters over tankers navigating those perilous waters. A deal between the United States and Iran has been struck, and our shipping interests—those bulwarks of mercantile prosperity—are declared ‘protected.
’ The news is greeted with sighs of relief across the trading floors of London, from the boardrooms of BP to the quiet offices of Lloyd’s. But let us pause, and consider this moment with the cold eye of a historian. This is not a triumph.
This is a symptom. We have become a nation that expects its commerce to be guaranteed by the threat of American cruise missiles, rather than by the majesty of its own naval power. The Victorian era, that great age of British maritime dominance, would have blushed at such reliance on a foreign power.
Then, we could have closed the strait ourselves if it suited our interests; now, we must hope that the dealmakers in Tehran and Washington remember that we too have a pulse. The intellectual decadence of our age is nowhere more apparent than in our surrender to a post-imperial torpor, where the British lion has become a docile housecat. The reopening is welcome, of course.
But it should not be mistaken for a sign of strength. It is a reminder that the cycles of history have turned, and we are now passengers, not pilots, in the great game of nations. We must ask ourselves: when will we again stand as an equal, rather than a grateful beneficiary?
