One must grant the man this: he possesses an unerring instinct for the vulgar moment. The setting was presumptively solemn—the Knesset, a chamber that has known its share of bombast and crisis. The occasion was ostensibly historic—the ratification of a ceasefire that has, for the moment, halted the slaughter in Gaza. And the principal actor was, of course, the 45th and 47th President of the United States, a man who believes that history is a trophy to be won and then brandished at the nearest camera.
He came not to mourn the Palestinian dead, whose numbers are so vast they have become a macabre abstraction, but to preside over a victory lap for the Israeli right. He came to receive the adulation he believes is his contractual due. And he came, inevitably, to talk. Oh how he talked. To listen to Donald Trump address the Israeli parliament is to experience a peculiar form of auditory waterboarding: a torrent of self-congratulation, bizarre digressions about gas stations in the sky and generals named “Raisin,” and a level of sycophantic praise for his host, Benjamin Netanyahu, that would make a North Korean newsreader blush.
The core of the performance, beneath the bluster and the off-the-cuff suggestion that his counterpart be pardoned for his various legal embarrassments, was a claim of world-historic triumph. The “age of terror and death” was over, he announced. The “new Middle East” was dawning. One half expected the walls of Jerusalem to part to reveal a choir of angels singing “Hail to the Chief.”
Let us, for a moment, apply the cold compress of reason to this febrile rhetoric. This “peace” was achieved not through diplomacy in the sense that grown-ups understand it, but through the application of overwhelming and indiscriminate force, bankrolled and armed by the United States. The Gaza Strip is now a leveled, toxic ruin, its population traumatized, starved, and displaced. To call this a victory for peace is like calling the bombing of Dresden a triumph of urban renewal. It is a peace of the cemetery, a peace that resembles nothing so much as a successful pest extermination.
And what of the vaunted “deal”? It is, in essence, the product of a simple and brutal equation: when one side possesses a modern military arsenal and the unconditional support of a global superpower, and the other side possesses little more than desperation and primitive rockets, the outcome is not a negotiation. It is a decree. The terms are not discussed; they are imposed. Hamas, suitably pummeled into a state of momentary incapacity, has been forced to swallow them. To call Trump a peacemaker for overseeing this process is like crediting a bulldozer with architectural innovation.
…when one side possesses a modern military arsenal and the unconditional support of a global superpower, and the other side possesses little more than desperation and primitive rockets, the outcome is not a negotiation. It is a decree.
The most nauseating spectacle, however, was the sight of a nation that styles itself the Middle East’s only democracy feting a man who has expressed open admiration for the world’s strongmen and a visceral contempt for the norms of liberal democracy. Netanyahu, a man clinging to power like a limpet to a rusting hull, lauded Trump as a “colossus” who will be “enshrined in the pantheon of history.” One can only assume this pantheon includes such other luminaries as Caligula and the Emperor Nero.
They thanked him for moving the embassy to Jerusalem, a cynical provocation that solidified apartheid-like realities. They thanked him for recognizing the stolen Golan Heights. They thanked him for withdrawing from the Iran nuclear deal, an act of such profound geopolitical stupidity that it gifted the mullahs a perfect pretext to accelerate their nuclear program, necessitating the very bombing campaign Trump now boasts about. They are thanking the arsonist for showing up with a single bucket of water after he spent years dousing the house in gasoline.
And then, with a staggering lack of self-awareness, Trump extended a hand to the Iranian regime he had just finished bombing. “We are ready when you are,” he cooed, as if addressing a spurned lover rather than a nation whose facilities he had just obliterated. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated performance, utterly divorced from statecraft, history, or basic logic. The message was clear: I can smash your capital to dust one day and offer you “friendship” the next, because it is all about *my* narrative, *my* deal-making prowess.
The whole tawdry affair—the groveling, the grotesque self-praise, the willful blindness to the mountains of corpses upon which this “peace” is built—was a perfect epitaph for our era. It was not the signing of a peace treaty. It was the celebration of a successful mob hit. The don flew in, collected his tribute, assured his capo he was the greatest, and promised everyone a bright future in his new racket. The only thing missing was the cigar.
History will record this speech, but not in the way its participants hope. It will be remembered not as the dawn of a new age, but as a gaudy, ill-mannered party thrown atop a mass grave. The guns are silent for now. But the hatred, the injustice, the utter humiliation—those have been poured into the foundation of this “new Middle East.” And that is a foundation that cannot hold.
The entire grotesque charade can be viewed here. But a fair warning: make sure it’s been a few hours since your last meal.
Thank you for putting into words my exact feelings when watching this charade. It was cathartic to have someone articulate my thoughts. Again, thank you.
Well said! A perfect synopsis of the sheer hubris and insanity that our fair, rudderless, and psychopathic leaders display daily!