Pakistan’s strategic depth turns strategic trap

M A Hossain,

For nearly half a century, Pakistan’s generals spoke in the language of geometry. Depth. Flanks. Strategic rear space. Afghanistan, in this cartography of fear, was never just a neighbor; it was a buffer against India, a fallback position in the event of war, a pliable hinterland that could be shaped through influence and proxies. The phrase was deceptively clinical—“strategic depth.” The consequences have been anything but.

It was a doctrine born of insecurity after 1971, hardened during the Soviet war, refined during the first Taliban emirate, and resurrected in the long American twilight in Afghanistan. Today, that doctrine lies in ruins. What was meant to be depth has become quicksand.

The policy’s unintended consequence is now unmistakable: internal militancy, cross-border insurgency, and a Taliban regime in Kabul that behaves less like a proxy and more like a sovereign actor with its own agenda. Blowback is no longer theoretical. It is measurable—in bomb blasts, funerals, refugee convoys, and diplomatic isolation.

Strategic Mirage 

Pakistan’s concept of strategic depth emerged in the 1980s, when the anti-Soviet jihad in Afghanistan offered both opportunity and leverage. Through patronage of Islamist factions—most notably the precursors to what would become the Afghan Taliban—Islamabad sought influence in Kabul. The assumption was simple: a friendly Afghanistan would prevent encirclement by India and provide fallback space in the event of conventional war.

That logic endured long after the Soviet collapse. During the 1990s, Pakistan backed the Afghan Taliban’s rise to power. After 2001, even as Islamabad formally joined the U.S. war on terror, elements within its security apparatus were accused of maintaining selective ties to Taliban factions. The gamble was that militant proxies could be calibrated—useful against external rivals, containable at home.

History is littered with examples of states believing they could tame irregular forces. The United States thought it could manage Afghan warlords. The Soviets assumed they could control revolutionary allies in Eastern Europe. Pakistan believed it could ride the tiger of jihadist militancy. Tigers, as it turns out, do not accept leashes.

Taliban’s Miscalculation

When the Afghan Taliban swept back to power in August 2021, many in Islamabad quietly celebrated. The expectation was not public but palpable: the new rulers in Kabul would reciprocate years of support. Pakistan anticipated cooperation against anti-Pakistan militants operating from Afghan soil, particularly the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP).

Instead, the Taliban prioritized autonomy. They sought legitimacy beyond Pakistan’s shadow—courting regional actors, consolidating internal unity, and resisting overt Pakistani pressure. Ideological affinity with the TTP complicated matters further. Both movements share Deobandi roots, tribal linkages, and a history of collaboration.

Rather than dismantle TTP sanctuaries, the Taliban adopted what might be called strategic ambiguity. Public denials. Private tolerance. Occasional mediation. No sustained crackdown.

The result? The TTP resurged with vigor.

TTP’s Resurgence

Since 2021, the TTP has grown in strength, organization, and ambition. Estimates suggest its fighting force has expanded into the thousands, bolstered by released prisoners, unification of splinter groups, and access to Afghan safe havens.

The numbers tell part of the story. Attacks surged dramatically after 2021. By 2024 and 2025, incidents ranged from ambushes in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa to bombings in urban centers and operations extending into Balochistan and Punjab. In early 2026, a single January week reportedly witnessed dozens of attacks.

This is not mere insurgent persistence. It is a strategic adaptation. The TTP has refined its tactics—improvised explosive devices, coordinated ambushes, targeted assassinations—while attempting to cultivate a narrative of disciplined resistance. The group’s leadership under Noor Wali Mehsud has emphasized unity and strategic focus. Blowback has a body count. Pakistani soldiers, police officers, and civilians have paid the price.

Safe Havens 

The Afghan Taliban’s role in enabling TTP operations is central. Reports from international monitoring bodies indicate that TTP fighters operate from eastern Afghan provinces such as Kunar, Nangarhar, Khost, and Paktika. Safe houses, logistical networks, and access to weaponry have provided operational depth to a group once battered by Pakistani military campaigns.

Financial and logistical facilitation, whether direct or permissive, has allowed the TTP to regroup. The Taliban leadership insists it does not allow Afghan soil to be used against neighbors. Yet actions—or inaction—suggest otherwise.

This dynamic reflects ideological kinship and political calculus. The Taliban fear that aggressively suppressing the TTP could fracture their own ranks or push militants toward rivals like Islamic State Khorasan Province (ISKP). Containing TTP without confronting it has become Kabul’s uneasy compromise. For Pakistan, that compromise feels like betrayal.

Management to Confrontation

Islamabad’s response has shifted from negotiation to coercion. Diplomatic talks mediated in cities like Doha and Istanbul collapsed. Cross-border artillery exchanges and airstrikes followed. By early 2026, Pakistani officials spoke openly of “open war” scenarios after alleged Taliban drone incursions and cross-border assaults.

Airstrikes in Afghan territory have reportedly caused civilian casualties, inflaming Afghan public opinion. Meanwhile, Pakistan deported hundreds of thousands of Afghan refugees in 2025, a move framed as a security policy but criticized as collective punishment.

The border, once imagined as a manageable frontier, has hardened into a volatile frontline. Strategic depth has inverted into strategic exposure.

Internally, Pakistan faces a convergence of crises: economic fragility, political polarization, and militant resurgence. Security operations drain resources. Casualties strain morale. Public frustration mounts.

The specter of a two-front dilemma—India to the east, instability to the west—haunts military planners. Even if a conventional war with India remains unlikely, the psychological pressure shapes policy. No state can sustain chronic insurgency without cost.

Trust erodes. Investors hesitate. Citizens question. Militant proxies once justified as instruments of national security now appear as liabilities undermining that very security.

Regional Recalibrations

Regional actors are adjusting accordingly.

India, long wary of Pakistan’s Afghan maneuvering, has deepened engagement with Kabul through humanitarian assistance, infrastructure projects, and diplomatic outreach. New Delhi has simultaneously strengthened counterterror vigilance along the Line of Control, wary of spillover from TTP–Al-Qaeda linkages.

China, for its part, approaches the crisis pragmatically. Beijing’s primary concern is the protection of Belt and Road investments, particularly the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC). TTP attacks on Chinese interests have prompted tighter security cooperation between Islamabad and Beijing. China has engaged the Taliban diplomatically, seeking assurances that Afghan territory will not endanger regional connectivity.

Neither India nor China desires chaos in Afghanistan. But neither will subordinate its interests to Pakistan’s strategic anxieties.

Al-Qaeda Dimension

The TTP’s historical and operational ties to Al-Qaeda add another layer of complexity. Access to training expertise, ideological reinforcement, and transnational networks elevates the threat profile. For the United States and other Western actors, such linkages violate the spirit—if not the letter—of the Doha Agreement.

Washington has relied primarily on sanctions and diplomatic pressure rather than renewed military intervention. Yet the perception that Afghanistan could once again serve as a platform for transnational jihadism unsettles global security planners.

Pakistan, ironically, now finds itself urging the very Taliban regime it once sheltered to fulfill counterterrorism commitments. History has a dark sense of humor.

The Strategic Trap

Analysts increasingly describe Pakistan’s predicament as a “strategic trap.” Escalation risks wider conflict with Kabul. Restraint invites continued TTP attacks. Mass deportations strain humanitarian norms. Airstrikes inflame nationalism across the border.

The Taliban, meanwhile, diversified diplomatic ties—with Russia, China, Iran, and regional forums—reducing reliance on Pakistan. Afghan nationalism resists subordination. The proxy era, if it ever truly existed, is fading.

Islamabad’s recalibrated approach now blends deterrence with selective engagement. Precision strikes coexist with offers of ceasefire. Multilateral diplomacy supplements unilateral force. Yet the core dilemma remains unresolved: how to neutralize a militant threat rooted in ideological affinity and geographic sanctuary without igniting full-scale war.

The Blowback 

As of February 2026, volatility persists. Ceasefires are fragile. Airstrikes invite retaliation. Refugee flows strain humanitarian systems. The possibility of miscalculation looms large.

Yet history offers cautionary lessons. States that cultivate irregular forces for short-term advantage often confront long-term blowback. The United States learned this in Central America. The Soviet Union learned it in Afghanistan itself. Pakistan is confronting its own iteration of that pattern.

Strategic depth, once heralded as strategic wisdom, now appears a strategic mirage. The buffer has become a breach. The backyard has become a battleground.

Whether Islamabad recalibrates decisively—or doubles down on coercion—will shape not only its own security but the stability of South and Central Asia. For now, one conclusion is unavoidable: the doctrine meant to shield Pakistan has returned as blowback, and the costs are still unfolding.

 

M A Hossain, senior journalist and international affairs analyst based in Bangladesh. He covers South Asia and Southeast Asian region for The News Analytics Herald. He can be reached at : writetomahossain@gmail.com

    

This article published at :

1. The News Analytics Herald, India : April, 26, edition 

Fuel, Fear, and Fiction of Scarcity

M A Hossain,

There is a peculiar pattern in modern crises: the line between real scarcity and perceived scarcity blurs faster than policymakers can respond. Bangladesh’s current energy predicament sits precisely on that fault line. It is, at once, a crisis born of geopolitics and one manufactured—quietly, incrementally—by human behavior.

To understand where we stand, one must begin not in Dhaka, but in the narrow waters of the Strait of Hormuz. History has taught us that chokepoints define outcomes. When Egypt nationalized the Suez Canal in 1956, global trade trembled. When oil embargoes followed the Arab-Israeli war in 1973, Western economies learned the hard way that energy is not merely a commodity—it is leverage. Today, with tensions in the Middle East threatening Hormuz, we are watching a familiar script unfold, albeit with new actors and higher stakes.

For Bangladesh, the vulnerability is structural. A nation that once relied entirely on domestic gas has, since 2018, tethered its economic engine to imported liquefied natural gas. Roughly one-third of its gas now arrives from Qatar and Oman, a dependency that seemed pragmatic in times of stability. It looks precarious in times of war.

The numbers tell a sobering story. Domestic gas costs a fraction of imported LNG—Tk 3 per cubic meter versus nearly Tk 55. Yet necessity has overridden prudence. When global prices spike, Bangladesh pays. When supply routes falter, Bangladesh waits. And when both happen simultaneously, Bangladesh strains—financially, industrially, socially.

But geopolitics alone does not explain the queues at petrol pumps or the “no fuel” signs appearing across cities. If anything, those are symptoms of a deeper, more uncomfortable truth: scarcity is being amplified from within.

Consider the psychology of panic. During the COVID-19 pandemic, shelves emptied not because supply chains had collapsed overnight, but because consumers acted as if they had. Hoarding became rational behavior in an irrational moment. The same dynamic is now visible in fuel markets. Motorcyclists visiting multiple stations, households storing petrol in containers, opportunistic traders diverting supply into black markets—these are not responses to absolute shortage. They are accelerants of perceived shortage.

In economic terms, this is the anatomy of an “artificial crisis.” Supply may be strained, but it is not absent. Yet demand surges irrationally, distribution falters, and the system buckles under pressure it was never designed to withstand.

Government responses, to be fair, have not been idle. Rationing measures, fuel cards, the deployment of monitoring officers at stations—these are necessary interventions. Price stability, maintained through subsidies, reflects a political commitment to shield citizens from immediate pain. But here lies the uncomfortable question: are these measures treating the disease, or merely its symptoms?

History offers a cautionary note. In the 1970s, many governments attempted to control oil crises through price caps and administrative controls. The result, more often than not, was distortion—shortages worsened, black markets flourished, and inefficiencies multiplied. Bangladesh risks treading a similar path if structural weaknesses remain unaddressed.

Take storage capacity. At present, the country holds fuel reserves sufficient for barely 8 to 12 days. In a volatile world, that is not a buffer; it is a gamble. Advanced economies maintain strategic reserves covering months, not days. The difference is not merely technical—it is strategic. Without adequate storage, every disruption becomes a crisis. With it, disruptions become manageable.

Then there is the question of distribution. Reports of fuel shortages amid claims of adequate national reserves point to coordination failures. In an era defined by data, the absence of real-time monitoring systems is more than an administrative gap; it is a vulnerability. Transparency in supply chains is no longer optional—it is essential.

Yet even if these immediate issues are resolved, a larger challenge looms: the structure of Bangladesh’s energy economy itself.

The reliance on LNG is not merely expensive; it is inherently unstable. Global markets are volatile, subject to geopolitical shocks far beyond Dhaka’s control. The Russia-Ukraine war should have been a warning. When LNG prices soared to unprecedented levels, Bangladesh was forced to retreat from the spot market, leading to widespread load shedding. That lesson, it appears, has not been fully absorbed.

Meanwhile, the economic consequences are already visible. Gas supply shortfalls—demand exceeding 4,000 mmcf against supply below 2,700—are constraining industrial output. The ready-made garment sector, which accounts for over 80 percent of exports, is operating under severe stress. Production has dropped in some cases to 30 or 40 percent of capacity. Exports are declining. Costs are rising. This is not merely an energy issue; it is an economic one with far-reaching implications.

And yet, within this crisis lies an opportunity—one that Bangladesh has been slow to seize.

Renewable energy is often discussed in abstract terms, as a distant aspiration. It should not be. The economics have shifted decisively. Solar power, once prohibitively expensive, is now among the cheapest sources of energy globally. With advances in battery storage, its intermittency is no longer an insurmountable obstacle.

The potential is staggering. Experts suggest that Bangladesh could generate up to 50,000 megawatts of solar power using just 1 percent of its agricultural land. This is not a utopian vision; it is a practical pathway. Countries far less endowed with sunlight have made the transition. The question is not feasibility, but will.

Diversification, too, must become more than a policy slogan. Reliance on a single region or route—be it Hormuz or any other—invites vulnerability. A resilient energy strategy requires multiple sources, multiple routes, and multiple technologies. It requires, above all, a shift in mindset: from short-term crisis management to long-term risk mitigation.

None of this, however, absolves society of responsibility. Crises reveal character, not just capability. Hoarding fuel in times of uncertainty may seem prudent at the individual level, but collectively it is destructive. Black marketeers exploiting scarcity are not merely breaking laws; they are undermining social trust. Enforcement matters, but so does civic behavior.

In the end, Bangladesh’s energy crisis is not a single problem with a single solution. It is a convergence of external shocks and internal weaknesses, of policy gaps and behavioral excesses. Addressing it requires more than administrative action; it requires strategic clarity.

The lesson from history is clear: energy security is not achieved in moments of crisis. It is built in the years before them. Bangladesh now finds itself at a crossroads—reacting to events it cannot control, while still possessing the agency to shape what comes next.

The choice is stark. Continue managing crises as they arise, or begin constructing a system resilient enough to withstand them. In that choice lies the difference between vulnerability and stability—and, ultimately, between stagnation and progress.

This article published at :

1. New Age, BD : 31 March, 26

2. Asian Age, BD : 31 March, 26

From Precision Strikes to Boots on the Ground

M A Hossain, 

Wars often begin with confidence in distance—precision strikes, remote control, minimal exposure. It is a familiar American instinct, visible from the early days of the Gulf War to the opening phases of the campaign against ISIS. Air power promises disruption without entanglement. It rarely delivers resolution.

That pattern is reappearing in the current confrontation with Iran. Airstrikes have degraded elements of Tehran’s missile and drone infrastructure, but degradation is not defeat. It is delay. Iran’s strategic posture—decentralized, redundant, patient—was built precisely to absorb such punishment. In that sense, the campaign is succeeding tactically while stalling strategically.

This is the moment when policymakers begin asking the question they hoped to avoid. If bombing does not compel change, what will?

The answer, increasingly whispered in Washington and occasionally stated aloud by figures like Donald Trump, is as old as war itself: troops. Not necessarily divisions marching toward Tehran, not yet. But something closer, more tangible, harder to reverse.

The Temptation of the “Small War”

The first step down that path is almost always framed as restraint. Special operations. Limited objectives. Surgical missions. The language is careful; the implications are not.

Elite units—SEALs, Delta Force, Green Berets—offer policymakers a seductive middle ground. They are politically quieter than conventional deployments and militarily more flexible. Congress hesitates to intervene. Public attention drifts. Failures, when they occur, can be contained—at least in theory.

But theory has a habit of colliding with memory. The shadow of Operation Desert Claw still lingers in American strategic thinking. A failed mission, a desert crash, a presidency weakened. The lesson was not simply about operational risk; it was about political fragility.

Iran presents an even more complex target set. Its nuclear program is dispersed, hardened, partially hidden. A raid to seize enriched uranium might delay the program, but only at considerable risk. Time—always the enemy of special operations—would become the decisive variable. The longer troops remain on the ground, the less “special” the operation becomes.

There are other options: sabotage facilities, eliminate commanders, support dissident networks. Each carries a logic. None offers finality. Iran’s military doctrine is deliberately fragmented; removing individuals does not collapse the system. It adapts. It absorbs. It continues.

So the “small war” remains what it has always been: an attempt to achieve strategic outcomes through tactical means. History suggests its limits are reached quickly.

Geography, and Its Unforgiving Logic

If escalation continues, the next phase will not be covert. It will be visible, measurable, and far harder to contain. Limited territorial operations—particularly along Iran’s coastline—represent the most plausible next step.

The deployment of Marine Expeditionary Units to the Persian Gulf is not a declaration of intent. It is a declaration of capability. Roughly 4,000 troops, amphibious ships, rapid insertion forces—these are tools designed for one purpose: controlled escalation.

The geography invites it. The Strait of Hormuz remains one of the world’s most critical energy corridors. Control over nearby islands—Qeshm, Kish, Abu Musa—offers leverage disproportionate to their size. Disrupt shipping, and you do not merely pressure Iran; you unsettle global markets.

Yet geography cuts both ways. Iran’s coastline is not defenseless. It is layered with radar systems, mobile missile batteries, naval assets designed for asymmetry. The United States would bring superior technology; Iran would bring proximity. Supply lines favor the defender. They almost always do.

Even a successful landing would not end the problem. Holding territory is a different exercise entirely. The United States learned this, painfully, in Iraq War. Rapid victory gave way to prolonged occupation. Tactical dominance dissolved into strategic exhaustion.

There is little reason to believe Iran would be easier. Its terrain is harsher. Its population larger. Its political structure more cohesive under external pressure. A coastal foothold could quickly become a liability—symbolic, costly, difficult to exit.

The Illusion of Decisive Invasion

Beyond limited operations lies the option few openly advocate but many quietly analyze: full-scale invasion. It is the logical endpoint of escalation. It is also the least likely—and the most consequential.

The comparison with Iraq is unavoidable, and misleading in one critical respect. Iran is not Iraq. It is larger, more mountainous, more populous, and more ideologically mobilized. If the 2003 invasion required roughly 200,000 troops, Iran would demand far more—perhaps multiples of that number.

Logistics alone would be daunting. Regional allies would need to provide basing and supply corridors. Political consent would be uncertain. Domestic support, fragile even in the early stages, would erode as costs mounted.

And costs would mount. Not only in lives and resources, but in strategic focus. A prolonged war in Iran would inevitably divert American attention from other theaters—Europe, where deterrence remains fragile, and Asia, where competition with China defines the long-term horizon.

This is the paradox of great power conflict. Engagement in one region creates opportunity in another. Rivals do not wait; they adapt.

Even in the unlikely event of battlefield success, the aftermath would be the true test. Regime collapse does not equal stability. It rarely does. Afghanistan and Iraq offer sufficient evidence. Iran’s internal complexity—ethnic, political, religious—would complicate any attempt at reconstruction.

Victory, in such a scenario, would not end the war. It would begin a different, longer one.

The Real Question: Time

There is a deeper asymmetry at work in this conflict, one that no amount of military planning can fully resolve. The United States seeks outcomes—clear, measurable, preferably swift. Iran seeks endurance.

It is a familiar dynamic. Insurgent groups have relied on it for decades. States, too, can adopt it when facing a stronger adversary. Survival becomes strategy. Delay becomes victory.

“America needs victory; Iran needs tomorrow.” The line is not rhetorical. It is operational reality.

This is why the discussion of ground troops keeps returning, despite the risks, despite the history. Air power can punish. It cannot compel. Special operations can disrupt. They cannot decide. Territorial seizures can pressure. They cannot conclude.

Ground forces, in theory, can do all three. In practice, they introduce a new set of uncertainties—political, logistical, strategic—that often outweigh their advantages.

An Uncomfortable Conclusion

The debate in Washington is not really about whether boots on the ground are desirable. It is about whether they become unavoidable.

So far, the answer remains uncertain. The thresholds—economic shocks, direct attacks, escalation spirals—have not yet been crossed. But they exist, and they are closer than policymakers might prefer.

History offers a warning, not a prediction. Wars have a tendency to expand beyond their initial logic. Limited objectives evolve. Red lines blur. What begins as a campaign of pressure becomes, step by step, a commitment.

And once that commitment is made, reversal becomes difficult. Not impossible—but politically, psychologically, strategically costly.

The conversation about ground troops, then, is less about intention than trajectory. It reflects the quiet recognition that air power has limits, that adversaries adapt, and that wars—once begun—rarely remain contained.

Boots on the ground are not inevitable. But neither are they unthinkable. And in the calculus of modern conflict, that distinction matters less than it should.

M A Hossain is a journalist and international affairs analyst, based in Bangladesh. He can be reached at: writetomahossain@gmail.com

This article published at :

1. Sri Lanka Guardian, lk: 27 March, 26

2. Asia Times, HK : 27 March, 26

3. EU Reporter, Brussels: 30 March, 26

কোন পথে মধ্যপ্রাচ্য যুদ্ধের সমাপ্তি

এম এ হোসাইন,

মানুষ প্রায়ই মনে করে যে যুদ্ধের জয়-পরাজয় নির্ধারিত হয় যুদ্ধক্ষেত্রেই। সেনাবাহিনী অগ্রসর হয়, শত্রুপক্ষ পিছু হটে, এবং শেষ পর্যন্ত এক পক্ষ বিজয় অর্জন করে। কিন্তু আধুনিক যুদ্ধ খুব কমই এইভাবে শেষ হয়। এগুলো শেষ হয় তখনই, যখন একসঙ্গে তিনটি বিষয় ভেঙে পড়ে—অস্ত্রভাণ্ডার, বাজার এবং রাজনৈতিক সময়সীমা। এই তিনটি  বিষয়ই নির্ধারণ করে যুদ্ধ কতদিন স্থায়ী হবে এবং কীভাবে তা শেষ হবে।

ইরানকে ঘিরে উদীয়মান সংঘাতও এই একই পথ অনুসরণ করবে। এটি কোনো নাটকীয় আত্মসমর্পণ বা যুদ্ধক্ষেত্রে সম্পূর্ণ পতনের মাধ্যমে শেষ হবে না। বরং এটি শেষ হবে তখন, যখন তিনটি আলাদা চাপ একত্রিত হতে শুরু করবে—যখন অস্ত্রভাণ্ডার ফুরিয়ে আসবে, বাজার অস্থির হয়ে উঠবে এবং রাজনৈতিক ধৈর্য শেষ হয়ে যাবে। হয়তো একসঙ্গে নয়, কিন্তু এতটাই কাছাকাছি যে নেতারা বাধ্য হবেন নিজেদের অবস্থান পুনর্বিবেচনা করতে, যা পরে তারা কৌশলগত সিদ্ধান্ত হিসেবে ব্যাখ্যা করবেন, যদিও বাস্তবে তা হবে প্রয়োজনের তাগিদে নেওয়া পদক্ষেপ।

প্রথমেই আসা যাক অস্ত্রের প্রসঙ্গে। আধুনিক যুদ্ধ প্রায়ই এমন একটি ধারণা তৈরি করে যেন সামরিক সক্ষমতা অসীম। নির্ভুল ক্ষেপণাস্ত্র, স্যাটেলাইট নজরদারি, বহুস্তরীয় আকাশ প্রতিরক্ষা—সবকিছুই যেন এমন এক প্রযুক্তিগত স্থায়িত্বের ইঙ্গিত দেয়, যেখানে উন্নত সামরিক শক্তি দীর্ঘ সময় ধরে উচ্চমাত্রার যুদ্ধ চালিয়ে যেতে পারে। বাস্তবে তা সম্ভব নয়, কখনোই ছিল না।

সমস্যা উদ্ভাবনে নয়, উৎপাদনে। একটি আধুনিক প্রতিরক্ষা ক্ষেপণাস্ত্র কেবল একটি অস্ত্র নয়; এটি একটি জটিল, বিশেষায়িত ব্যবস্থা, যা সীমিত সরবরাহ চেইনের উপর নির্ভরশীল। মাইক্রোইলেকট্রনিক্স, দুর্লভ উপাদান, নিখুঁত প্রকৌশল—এসব কোনো কিছুই রাতারাতি বাড়ানো যায় না, এমনকি এক বছরের মধ্যেও নয়। এগুলোর জন্য প্রয়োজন চুক্তি, দক্ষ শ্রমিক এবং সবচেয়ে গুরুত্বপূর্ণ—সময়। আর যুদ্ধ যে জিনিসটি সবচেয়ে দ্রুত গ্রাস করে, তা হলো এই সময়।

সংঘাতের শুরুতে মজুত অস্ত্র এই বাস্তবতাকে আড়াল করে রাখে। কমান্ডাররা তখন উদারভাবে অস্ত্র ব্যবহার করেন, কারণ তারা তা করতে পারেন। প্রতিরক্ষা ব্যবস্থা শত্রুর আক্রমণ প্রতিহত করে, লক্ষ্যবস্তুতে আঘাত হানে, এবং যুদ্ধের গতি টেকসই বলে মনে হয়। কিন্তু এটি একটি বিভ্রম। মাত্র একটি তীব্র রাতের ক্ষেপণাস্ত্র প্রতিরক্ষা ব্যবস্থাই কয়েক মাসের উৎপাদনকে শেষ করে দিতে পারে। আর যখন মজুত একটি নির্দিষ্ট সীমার নিচে নেমে যায়, তখন কৌশল পরিবর্তন শুরু হয়—নীতির কারণে নয়, বরং গাণিতিক বাস্তবতার কারণে।

এই সীমাবদ্ধতা উভয় পক্ষের ক্ষেত্রেই প্রযোজ্য, যদিও ভিন্নভাবে। যুক্তরাষ্ট্র নির্ভর করে অত্যাধুনিক, ব্যয়বহুল এবং সীমিত সংখ্যক অস্ত্র ব্যবস্থার উপর, যা প্রতিস্থাপন করা ধীরগতির। অন্যদিকে, ইরান নির্ভর করে পরিমাণ ও অসম কৌশলের উপর—সস্তা ড্রোন, সহজ ক্ষেপণাস্ত্র—যেগুলো সরাসরি জয়ের জন্য নয়, বরং প্রতিপক্ষকে ক্লান্ত করে তুলতে, চাপ সৃষ্টি করতে এবং ব্যয় বাড়াতে ব্যবহৃত হয়।

এটি এক ধরনের প্রতিযোগিতা যা হলো নির্ভুলতা বনাম স্থায়িত্ব, গুণমান বনাম পরিমাণ। ইতিহাস দেখায়, এমন প্রতিযোগিতায় কোনো পক্ষই একচেটিয়া সাফল্য পায় না। ১৯৪৪ সালে জার্মানি তা উপলব্ধি করেছিল, যখন মিত্রশক্তির শিল্প উৎপাদন তাদের কৌশলগত দক্ষতাকে ছাপিয়ে যায়। যুক্তরাষ্ট্রও ভিয়েতনাম এবং পরে ইরাকে একই ধরনের বাস্তবতা উপলব্ধি করেছিল, যেখানে প্রযুক্তিগত শ্রেষ্ঠত্ব দীর্ঘমেয়াদি প্রতিরোধের সামনে দুর্বল হয়ে পড়ে।

এখানে সময়ই হলো গোপন নিয়ামক। যে পক্ষ সময়কে ভালোভাবে পরিচালনা করতে পারে, সাধারণত তারাই টিকে থাকে—অথবা অন্তত বিজয়ের সংজ্ঞা পরিবর্তন করার মতো সময় পায়।

এরপর আসে বাজার। বাজার সেনাবাহিনীর চেয়েও দ্রুত প্রতিক্রিয়া দেখায় এবং কৌশলগত গল্পে খুব কমই আগ্রহী। বিনিয়োগকারীরা কোনো অঞ্চল কার নিয়ন্ত্রণে তা নিয়ে মাথা ঘামায় না; তারা চায় স্থিতিশীলতা, পূর্বানুমানযোগ্যতা এবং ঝুঁকি কম থাকা। এগুলো যখন নষ্ট হতে শুরু করে, তখন পুঁজি সরে যেতে শুরু করে—প্রথমে ধীরে, তারপর হঠাৎ করে।

জ্বালানি এখানে একটি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ নির্ধারক। পারস্য উপসাগরে যেকোনো বিঘ্ন পরিস্থিতি দ্রুত বিশ্বব্যাপী প্রভাব ফেলে। তেলের দাম বাড়ে, জাহাজ চলাচলের পথ পরিবর্তিত হয়, বীমার খরচ বেড়ে যায়। কিন্তু এর দ্বিতীয় প্রভাব আরও গভীর—সারের দাম বাড়ে, কয়েক মাস পরে খাদ্যের দামও বাড়ে। নিয়ন্ত্রিত মুদ্রাস্ফীতি আবার মাথাচাড়া দিয়ে ওঠে।

আধুনিক অর্থনীতি একে অপরের সঙ্গে ঘনিষ্ঠভাবে সংযুক্ত। জ্বালানির মতো একটি খাতে টান পড়লে পুরো ব্যবস্থাই নড়বড়ে হয়ে যায়। বিমান চলাচল বদলে যায়, সরবরাহ শৃঙ্খল দীর্ঘ হয়, উৎপাদন ধীর হয়ে যায়। এবং পৃথিবীর কোনো এক কোণে একজন ভোক্তা হঠাৎ করে রুটি বা বিদ্যুতের জন্য বেশি মূল্য দিতে শুরু করে, কারণটি না জেনেই।

আরও একটি নতুন মাত্রা রয়েছে—ডিজিটাল অবকাঠামো। ডেটা সেন্টার, ক্লাউড নেটওয়ার্ক—এগুলো এখন আর প্রান্তিক নয়, বরং অর্থনীতির কেন্দ্রবিন্দু। এগুলো লক্ষ্যবস্তু হলে প্রভাব পড়ে আর্থিক খাত, যোগাযোগ এবং সরবরাহ ব্যবস্থায়।

আমার মতে, ইরান এই বিষয়টি বেশ ভালো করে বুঝেতে পেরেছে। তাই, ইরান শুধু সামরিক লক্ষ্যবস্তু নয়, বরং সেই অর্থনৈতিক স্নায়ুতন্ত্রকে লক্ষ্য করছে, যা সামরিক শক্তিকে টিকিয়ে রাখে। যুক্তি সহজ—যদি একটি পরাশক্তির অর্থনৈতিক পরিবেশকে জটিল করে তোলা যায়, তবে দীর্ঘমেয়াদি যুদ্ধ চালানো তার জন্য অনাকর্ষণীয় হয়ে উঠবে।

এই অর্থে বাজার এক ধরনের অদৃশ্য বিচারকের মতো কাজ করে। তারা যুদ্ধ থামাতে পারে না, কিন্তু এর খরচ এত বাড়িয়ে দিতে পারে যে রাজনৈতিক নেতারা বিজয়ের নয়, বরং বেরিয়ে আসার পথ খুঁজতে শুরু করেন।

এবার আসা যাক রাজনীতির কথায়—যা সবচেয়ে অবমূল্যায়িত, অথচ প্রায়ই সবচেয়ে গুরুত্বপূর্ণ।

যুদ্ধ সাধারণত ঐক্যের মধ্য দিয়ে শুরু হয়। জনগণ পতাকার চারপাশে একত্রিত হয়, বিরোধিতা সাময়িকভাবে স্তিমিত হয়, এবং নেতারা সিদ্ধান্ত নেওয়ার সুযোগ পান। কিন্তু এই ঐক্য স্থায়ী নয়। খরচ বাড়ার সঙ্গে সঙ্গে এবং লক্ষ্য অস্পষ্ট হয়ে পড়লে এটি ধীরে ধীরে ক্ষয় হতে থাকে।

গণতান্ত্রিক দেশে সময়সীমা অত্যন্ত গুরুত্বপূর্ণ। নির্বাচন নির্ধারিত সময়ে অনুষ্ঠিত হবেই, যুদ্ধ শেষ হোক বা না হোক। আর এই নির্বাচনই পররাষ্ট্রনীতিকে অভ্যন্তরীণ সমস্যায় পরিণত করে। জ্বালানির দাম বৃদ্ধি তখন আর একটি বিমূর্ত বিষয় থাকে না; এটি হয়ে ওঠে নির্বাচনী ইস্যু। সরবরাহ শৃঙ্খলের সমস্যা রাজনৈতিক আলোচনার কেন্দ্রে চলে আসে। আর যদি হতাহতের সংখ্যা বাড়ে, তবে তা প্রতীক হয়ে ওঠে।

যুক্তরাষ্ট্রও এমন একটি সময়সীমার মুখোমুখি। মধ্যবর্তী নির্বাচন একটি অনিবার্য বাস্তবতা, যা রাজনৈতিক হিসাব-নিকাশকে বদলে দেয়। প্রতিদ্বন্দ্বিতাপূর্ণ আসনের আইনপ্রণেতারা তখন প্রশ্ন তুলতে শুরু করেন—এই যুদ্ধ কতদিন চলবে? কত খরচ হবে? এর উদ্দেশ্য কী?

এই প্রশ্নগুলোর উত্তর জেনারেলরা দিতে পারেন না। এগুলো এমন প্রশ্ন, যা রাজনীতিবিদদের এড়ানোর উপায় নেই।

ইতিহাস এখানে আবারও পথ দেখায়। ভিয়েতনাম যুদ্ধ সামরিক বিকল্পের অভাবে শেষ হয়নি; এটি শেষ হয়েছিল কারণ অভ্যন্তরীণ সমর্থন ভেঙে পড়েছিল। ইরাক যুদ্ধও একই ধরনের পথ অনুসরণ করেছিল, যদিও কম নাটকীয়ভাবে। উভয় ক্ষেত্রেই যুদ্ধক্ষেত্র গুরুত্বপূর্ণ ছিল, কিন্তু রাজনৈতিক সহনশীলতা ছিল আরও বেশি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ।

ইরানের কৌশলও মনে হয় এই বাস্তবতার উপর ভিত্তি করে তৈরি। দ্রুত জয়লাভ নয়, বরং দীর্ঘস্থায়ী চাপ সৃষ্টি করা—সামরিক, অর্থনৈতিক এবং মানসিক—যতক্ষণ না প্রতিপক্ষের জোট নিজের ভেতরেই দুর্বল হয়ে পড়ে।

এটাই হলো “অস্ত্র, বাজার এবং রাজনৈতিক সময়সীমা”র সারকথা। এটি কোনো স্লোগান নয়; এটি একটি কাঠামো, যেখানে প্রতিটি উপাদান অন্যটিকে শক্তিশালী করে। অস্ত্রের ঘাটতি সামরিক বিকল্পকে সীমিত করে, বাজারের অস্থিরতা অভ্যন্তরীণ অসন্তোষ বাড়ায়, আর রাজনৈতিক চাপ দীর্ঘমেয়াদি যুদ্ধ চালানোর ইচ্ছাকে দুর্বল করে।

এই চক্রের ভেতরেই যুদ্ধের সংজ্ঞা বদলে যায়। পূর্ণ বিজয় পরিণত হয় আংশিক সাফল্যে। লক্ষ্যগুলো নীরবে সংশোধিত হয়। আলোচনা, যা একসময় প্রত্যাখ্যাত ছিল, তা বাস্তবসম্মত বিকল্পে পরিণত হয়। নেতারা তখন স্থিতিশীলতা, প্রতিরোধ, ভারসাম্যের মতো শব্দ ব্যবহার করেন—যা আসলে সমন্বয়ের ইঙ্গিত দেয়, বিজয়ের নয়।

সম্ভবত এইভাবেই এই যুদ্ধ শেষ হবে—কোনো একক সিদ্ধান্তমূলক আঘাতের মাধ্যমে নয়, বরং বিভিন্ন চাপের একত্রিত হওয়ার মাধ্যমে। স্পষ্টতার মাধ্যমে নয়, বরং এমন এক অস্পষ্টতার মাধ্যমে, যাকে দক্ষতার সঙ্গে সমাধান হিসেবে উপস্থাপন করা হবে।

এখানে একটি বিদ্রূপ রয়েছে। যুদ্ধ প্রায়ই শুরু হয় সর্বোচ্চ লক্ষ্য নিয়ে—শত্রুকে পরাজিত করা, অঞ্চল পুনর্গঠন, আধিপত্য প্রতিষ্ঠা। কিন্তু শেষ হয় অনেক বেশি সীমিত ফলাফলে—নিয়ন্ত্রণ, প্রতিরোধ, এবং প্রায় আগের অবস্থায় ফিরে যাওয়া, যদিও অনেক বেশি খরচ ও কম ভ্রান্ত ধারণা নিয়ে।

ইরান এই ধরণটি বোঝে এবং এর সঙ্গে নিজেকে মানিয়ে নিয়েছে। যুক্তরাষ্ট্রও তা বোঝে, যদিও তা স্বীকার করতে সময় নেয়। পার্থক্য জ্ঞানে নয়, বরং দীর্ঘস্থায়ী অনিশ্চয়তাকে সহ্য করার রাজনৈতিক সক্ষমতায়।

শেষ পর্যন্ত সবচেয়ে গুরুত্বপূর্ণ যুদ্ধগুলো হবে না সেইগুলো, যা মানুষ টেলিভিশনে দেখে। এগুলো ঘটবে উৎপাদন প্রতিবেদন, বাজার সূচক এবং জনমত জরিপে। কম নাটকীয়, কিন্তু অনেক বেশি গুরুত্বপূর্ণ। আর যখন এই তিনটি ফাটলরেখা—অস্ত্র, বাজার এবং রাজনৈতিক সময়সীমা—একত্রিত হবে, তখন ফলাফল ঘোষণার প্রয়োজন হবে না। তা ইতিমধ্যেই নির্ধারিত হয়ে যাবে।

লেখক : রাজনৈতিক ও আন্তর্জাতিক সম্পর্ক বিশ্লেষক। 

এই লেখাটি প্রকাশিত হয়েছে :

১. দেশ রূপান্তর, ঢাকা : ২৬ মার্চ, ২৬

২. সাপ্তাহিক বাংলাদেশ, নিউইয়র্ক : ২৬ মার্চ, ২৬

৩. দৈনিক সংবাদ, ঢাকা : ২৭ মার্চ, ২৬

৪. আলোকিত বাংলাদেশ, ঢাকা : ২৭ মার্চ, ২৬

৫. সময়ের আলো, ঢাকা : ২৯ মার্চ, ২৬

The Samson Option

M A Hossain, 

There is a particular kind of danger that creeps into wars—not when the first missiles fly, but when the vocabulary begins to change. Words matter. They reveal intent, signal desperation, and sometimes foreshadow catastrophe. In the latest escalation between Israel and Iran, one word has begun to circulate with unsettling frequency: nuclear.

That alone should give pause.

For decades, Israel’s nuclear posture has been defined by ambiguity—what scholars politely call “opacity.” The world knows, but does not officially acknowledge, that Israel possesses nuclear weapons, developed in large part around the Dimona Nuclear Research Center. This ambiguity has served Israel well. It deters adversaries without inviting the full diplomatic and legal consequences of declared nuclear status. But ambiguity is a fragile strategy. It depends on restraint, on calculation, and above all, on the assumption that existential threats remain hypothetical rather than immediate.

That assumption is now under strain.

Iran’s recent strike near Dimona—carefully calibrated not to hit the facility itself but close enough to send a message—was not merely another tit-for-tat exchange. It was psychological warfare. Tehran was not trying to trigger a nuclear disaster; it was signaling capability and intent. The message was stark: your most sensitive assets are within reach.

History offers uncomfortable parallels. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, neither Washington nor Moscow initially intended to stumble into nuclear war. Yet through a series of escalations, miscalculations, and signaling maneuvers, both sides found themselves perilously close to the brink. What saved the world then was not strength alone, but restraint—paired with a mutual recognition of the abyss.

The present situation lacks that symmetry.

Israel perceives Iran’s actions not merely as military provocations but as existential threats. This perception is rooted in history, in geography, and in political rhetoric that has often crossed into open hostility. For Israel, nuclear capability is not just a weapon; it is an insurance policy against annihilation. This is where the so-called “Samson Option” enters the discussion—a doctrine, never officially confirmed, that suggests Israel could resort to nuclear weapons if its survival were at stake.

But doctrines, like weapons, exist within political contexts. And context matters.

To understand whether Israel might actually use nuclear weapons, one must first examine what has changed. The recent escalation includes three destabilizing elements. First, Iran’s demonstrated ability to penetrate Israeli air defenses—long considered among the most sophisticated in the world—raises questions about deterrence. Systems like Iron Dome and THAAD were designed to provide a protective shield, both physical and psychological. If that shield appears permeable, the pressure to reassert deterrence grows.

Second, the direct targeting—however symbolic—of areas near nuclear infrastructure alters the stakes. Nuclear facilities are not just strategic assets; they are symbols of national survival and technological sovereignty. Strikes near such sites blur the line between conventional and existential warfare.

Third, the role of the United States complicates matters further. Under Donald Trump, the use of ultimatums and compressed timelines introduces volatility into an already unstable equation. A 48-hour deadline tied to the strategic chokepoint of the Strait of Hormuz is not diplomacy; it is brinkmanship. And brinkmanship, history shows, is a dangerous game when multiple actors possess both advanced weaponry and conflicting red lines.

Yet for all the alarm, the leap from escalation to nuclear use remains enormous.

Nuclear weapons are not simply larger bombs. They are political weapons whose use would fundamentally alter the international system. The last—and only—use of nuclear weapons in war, during the Atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, reshaped global norms in ways that still constrain decision-makers today. Since then, a powerful taboo has developed around nuclear use. Breaking that taboo would not just isolate Israel; it would redefine it.

Israel’s strategic calculus is therefore constrained by more than military necessity. It must consider diplomatic isolation, economic repercussions, and the long-term erosion of its alliances. Even its closest partners would find it difficult to justify or support a nuclear strike, particularly if it were perceived as disproportionate.

There is also the question of effectiveness. Nuclear weapons are instruments of overwhelming destruction, but they are ill-suited for the kind of limited, targeted objectives that characterize modern conflicts. Using a tactical nuclear weapon against Iran would not “end the problem,” as some might simplistically argue. It would invite retaliation—perhaps not nuclear, but certainly asymmetric, widespread, and enduring. Iran’s strategy, as evidenced in its recent actions, already emphasizes distributed retaliation: energy infrastructure, maritime chokepoints, and even civilian systems.

In other words, escalation would not resolve the conflict; it would expand it.

Moreover, Iran’s approach reflects a broader shift in warfare. Rather than seeking decisive battlefield victories, Tehran appears to be pursuing a strategy of cumulative pressure—targeting vulnerabilities across economic, technological, and infrastructural domains. This includes threats to Gulf energy systems, global shipping routes, and even multinational corporate assets. Such a strategy complicates traditional deterrence models, which are often built around clear thresholds and symmetrical responses.

So where does this leave Israel?

Caught, perhaps, between the need to restore deterrence and the imperative to avoid catastrophic escalation. This is not a new dilemma. During the Yom Kippur War, Israel reportedly considered nuclear options as its conventional forces struggled in the early days of the conflict. It ultimately refrained, relying instead on conventional recovery and external support. The lesson is instructive: nuclear weapons are most tempting when conventional options appear insufficient—but they are also most dangerous at precisely that moment.

The current crisis may follow a similar trajectory. Israel will likely respond forcefully, but within the bounds of conventional warfare—cyber operations, targeted strikes, and perhaps intensified campaigns against Iranian proxies. These actions carry risks, certainly, but they stop short of crossing the nuclear threshold.

That threshold, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.

The deeper concern is not that Israel will imminently use nuclear weapons, but that the conditions which make such use conceivable are becoming more common. Escalation cycles are shortening. Red lines are blurring. And the mechanisms that once managed great-power tensions—backchannel diplomacy, clear signaling, mutual restraint—are increasingly absent or weakened.

Wars rarely begin with the intention of ending in catastrophe. They drift there, step by step, decision by decision. The language shifts. The stakes rise. And what once seemed unthinkable becomes, if not acceptable, then at least discussable.

That is where we are now.

The question, then, is not simply whether Israel will use nuclear weapons. It is whether the international system can still impose enough restraint—through diplomacy, deterrence, and sheer rationality—to ensure that it never has to.

M A Hossain is a journalist and international affairs analyst, based in Bangladesh. He can be reached at: writetomahossain@gmail.com

   This article published at :

1. The Nation, Pak : 24 March, 26

Power Behind the Throne: Mojtaba Khamenei and Real Authority in Tehran

M A Hossain, 

The announcement of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei’s demise came with unexpected speed, bringing to an abrupt close nearly four decades of dominance over the Islamic Republic’s political and religious order and triggering an equally swift transition. In a matter of days, Mojtaba Khamenei, his son, was appointed Supreme Leader by the Assembly of Experts, a smooth transition, at least in theory. However, the speed at which that decision was made raises a question that is far more intriguing than who will take over: Does it actually matter who sits in that chair?

Political systems often reveal their true structure during moments of crisis. Titles suddenly look ornamental; procedures become secondary. What matters instead are the forces that move quietly beneath the surface, the institutions capable of imposing order when everything else begins to unravel. In Iran, that institution is not the clerical establishment. It is the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

Iran has operated under an uneasy duality for many years. The clerics, who uphold a revolutionary ideology based on Shiite theology, are on one side. The Revolutionary Guards, on the other hand, are a vast military-economic network that has developed into the nation’s most potent organisation. Although they are related, the two are not the same. One gives legitimacy; the other provides muscle.

The elevation of Mojtaba Khamenei illustrates this dynamic perfectly. Formally, the Assembly of Experts selected him. Informally, the choice bears the unmistakable fingerprints of the Revolutionary Guards. The decision was less an ecclesiastical judgment than a strategic calculation. Mojtaba is not merely the son of the late leader; he is a figure closely aligned with the security establishment, reportedly a veteran of the Iran-Iraq War, and a man whose political instincts lean towards discipline and force rather than clerical debate.

History offers many examples of such arrangements. In the Soviet Union, the Communist Party provided ideological authority, but real power often resided within the security apparatus. In modern Egypt, presidents have come and gone while the military remains the ultimate arbiter of political life. Iran’s system follows a similar pattern. The clerics supply the doctrine; the Guards enforce it. Seen in that light, Mojtaba’s elevation resembles less a dynastic transfer than a managed consolidation.

Yet even that interpretation may exaggerate the importance of the individual. Iran today faces pressures that no single leader, however powerful, can easily control. The country is in the middle of a war that has already decimated much of its senior leadership: commanders, ministers, and intelligence officials. In the first days of the conflict alone, several of the state’s highest-ranking figures were killed. Continuity plans exist in every government, but few are designed for losses on this scale. This is where Iran’s political architecture becomes fragile.

The Islamic Republic was designed as a hybrid system. Elections exist, but within boundaries set by clerical oversight. The Supreme Leader holds ultimate authority, yet decisions traditionally emerge from consultation among factions. Presidents, jurists, commanders, and clerics each possess a slice of influence. It is messy, complicated, occasionally dysfunctional. But, for decades, it has endured. War changes that balance

When missiles fall and leadership circles shrink, consultation becomes a luxury. Authority gravitates towards the institutions capable of acting quickly. In Iran’s case, that means the Revolutionary Guards. They command the missiles, control major sectors of the economy, and oversee networks of regional militias stretching from Lebanon to Yemen. If the state is forced into a prolonged wartime posture, the Guards will inevitably become even more dominant.

This reality also explains why Mojtaba may prove less powerful than his father.

Ali Khamenei spent nearly forty years building a delicate equilibrium between competing factions. He mastered the art of playing institutions against each other, ensuring that no single group accumulated overwhelming power. Mojtaba inherits none of that accumulated authority. His legitimacy rests largely on the support of the very institution he is theoretically expected to supervise. That arrangement carries risks.

The Revolutionary Guards themselves are not monolithic. Generational rivalries exist within their ranks. Some commanders favour aggressive regional expansion; others emphasise internal stability. Israeli strikes over the past several years have killed numerous senior officers, accelerating leadership turnover within the organisation. New commanders bring new priorities. In such an environment, factional competition can intensify rather than fade.

The result may be a system in which the Supreme Leader serves more as a symbolic centre than an independent decision-maker. Iran has experienced similar moments before. After the death of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini in 1989, many analysts predicted the Islamic Republic would fracture. Instead, the system adapted. Institutions recalibrated. Khamenei, then considered a relatively weak successor, gradually consolidated power over the following decades.

But historical parallels only go so far. Iran today faces pressures that the early republic never confronted simultaneously: crippling sanctions, widespread economic discontent, a hostile regional environment, and a population increasingly sceptical of clerical rule.

Protests in recent years have revealed how thin the regime’s social legitimacy has become. Demonstrations that began over economic grievances quickly evolved into calls for the end of the theocratic system itself. The government responded with brutal, swift and effective action in the short term. Yet repression rarely solves the deeper problem; it merely postpones it.

The death of Khamenei has therefore created an unusual moment. Some Iranians reportedly celebrated; others remained silent, uncertain how events might unfold. Outside the country, opposition figures such as Reza Pahlavi have urged citizens to challenge the regime, while foreign governments have openly speculated about political change. But revolutions rarely emerge on command.

The Islamic Republic still commands formidable instruments of control: extensive surveillance networks, loyal security forces, and economic interests deeply intertwined with the regime’s survival. These structures cannot be dismantled overnight, especially while the country remains engaged in an external conflict. This returns us to the central question: Does Mojtaba Khamenei matter?

In the immediate sense, probably not as much as headlines suggest. Iran does not require a Supreme Leader to launch missiles or coordinate battlefield operations. The machinery of war operates through institutions that will continue functioning regardless of who occupies the clerical apex. In the longer term, however, leadership still matters though perhaps in subtler ways.

A Supreme Leader serves as the symbolic glue holding Iran’s hybrid system together. He mediates disputes between factions, defines ideological boundaries, and provides a figure around whom the state can organise itself during periods of uncertainty. Without that role, rival institutions might eventually pull the country in different directions.

So Mojtaba’s elevation is less about charisma or authority than about continuity. In moments of existential stress, governments often prioritise stability over procedure. Succession becomes an act of triage. Iran’s power brokers appear to have made exactly that calculation.

It remains to be seen whether the system they are attempting to maintain can withstand the current pressures. Historically, regimes seldom fall due to a single incident; rather, internal strife, economic downturns, and war combine to erode them over time.

Those forces remain unresolved even after a new Supreme Leader is appointed. At best, the transition delays the moment of reckoning.

(M A Hossain is a political and defence analyst based in Bangladesh)

This article published at :

1. New Delhi Post, India : 23 March, 26

The Fault Lines That End Modern Wars

M A Hossain, 

People frequently assume that the wars are won or lost on the battlefield. Armies advance, enemies retreat, and one side ultimately wins. However, modern wars rarely end in that manner. They end when three things break simultaneously. Munitions, markets, and midterms. These fault lines determine the realistic duration of hostilities.

The Illusion of Battlefield Decisiveness

The emerging confrontation with Iran will follow that pattern. It will not end with a dramatic surrender or a decisive battlefield collapse. It will end when three separate fault lines begin to converge—when munitions thin out, markets revolt, and political patience expires. Not simultaneously, perhaps. But close enough to force a recalibration that leaders will later describe as strategy rather than necessity.

Start with munitions. Modern warfare flatters the illusion of infinite capacity. Precision-guided missiles, satellite surveillance, layered air defenses—it all suggests a kind of technological permanence, as if advanced militaries can sustain high-intensity operations indefinitely. They cannot. They never could.

The problem is not ingenuity. It is production. A modern interceptor missile is less a weapon than a small, specialized system stitched together from fragile supply chains. Microelectronics, rare materials, precision engineering—these are not things that can be scaled overnight, or even within a year. They require contracts, skilled labor, and time—always time, the one resource war consumes fastest.

When Firepower Meets Industrial Limits

At the outset of conflict, stockpiles conceal this reality. Commanders fire liberally because they can. Interceptors meet incoming threats. Targets are struck. The tempo feels sustainable. It isn’t. One intense night of missile defense can erase months of production. And once inventories dip below a certain threshold, strategy begins to shift—not because doctrine changes, but because arithmetic does.

That constraint applies on both sides, though differently. The United States depends on exquisite systems—expensive, limited, slow to replace. Iran leans on volume and asymmetry. Cheaper drones. Simpler missiles. Tools designed not necessarily to win outright, but to exhaust, to saturate, to impose cost.

It is a contest between precision and persistence. Between quality and quantity. History suggests neither side enjoys a monopoly on success in such contests. The Germans learned that in 1944 when Allied industrial output overwhelmed tactical brilliance. The United States learned something similar, albeit more slowly, in Vietnam and later in Iraq—where technological superiority struggled against adversaries willing to stretch time and cost.

Time, in fact, is the hidden variable. The side that manages it better usually prevails. Or, more accurately, survives long enough to redefine victory.

Then there are markets. They react faster than armies move and care little for strategic narratives. Investors are not interested in who controls which piece of territory; they care about stability, predictability, and risk. The moment those erode, capital begins to shift—quietly at first, then all at once.

Energy is the obvious a fault line. Disruptions in the Persian Gulf ripple outward with unnerving speed. Oil prices rise. Shipping routes adjust. Insurance premiums spike. But the secondary effects are more consequential. Fertilizer costs increase. Food prices follow months later. Inflation, once contained, begins to stir again.

Modern economies are tightly coupled systems. Tug at one thread—energy—and the entire fabric shifts. Aviation reroutes. Supply chains lengthen. Manufacturing slows. And somewhere, far removed from the initial conflict, a consumer pays more for bread or electricity without fully understanding why.

There is also a newer layer, one that did not exist in earlier wars: digital infrastructure. Data centers, cloud networks, the architecture of the modern economy. These are not peripheral assets anymore; they are central. Target them, and the effects cascade through finance, logistics, communication.

Iran appears to understand this. It is not merely confronting military assets; it is probing the economic nervous system that sustains them. The logic is straightforward. You do not need to defeat a superpower militarily if you can complicate its economic environment enough to make prolonged conflict unattractive.

Markets, in this sense, act as a kind of informal referee. They cannot stop a war, but they can raise its price to the point where political leaders begin searching for exits. Not victories—exits. There is a difference.

Which brings us to politics. The most underestimated variable, and often the decisive one.

Markets as the Unseen Battlefield

Wars begin with unity. They almost always do. Public support rallies around the flag. Opposition quiets, at least temporarily. Leaders gain room to act. But unity is perishable. It fades as costs accumulate and objectives blur.

In democracies, the clock is relentless. Elections arrive whether wars conclude or not. And those elections transform foreign policy into domestic liability. Rising fuel prices are no longer abstract consequences; they are campaign issues. Supply chain disruptions become talking points. Casualties—if they mount—become symbols.

The United States faces such a clock. Midterm elections, scheduled with mechanical certainty, will force a reckoning. Lawmakers in competitive districts will begin asking questions—not necessarily about strategy, but about sustainability. How long? At what cost? To what end?

These are not questions generals answer. They are questions politicians cannot avoid.

The Tyranny of the Political Clock

History again offers a guide. The Vietnam War did not end because the United States ran out of military options. It ended because domestic support eroded beyond repair. The Iraq War followed a similar arc, though less dramatically. In both cases, battlefield dynamics mattered. But political endurance mattered more.

Iran’s strategy appears calibrated to this reality. It does not need to win quickly. It needs to endure, to impose steady pressure across multiple domains—military, economic, psychological—until the coalition arrayed against it begins to fracture under its own weight.

That is the essence of “munitions, markets, and midterms.” Not a slogan, but a framework. Each element reinforces the others. Depleting munitions constrains military options. Market instability amplifies domestic dissatisfaction. Political pressure, in turn, limits the willingness to sustain costly operations. A feedback loop forms.

And within that loop, definitions change. Total victory becomes partial success. Objectives are quietly revised. Negotiations, once dismissed, become pragmatic. Leaders speak of stability, deterrence, balance—words that signal adjustment rather than triumph.

This is how the war is likely to end. Not with a decisive blow, but with a convergence of fault lines. Not with clarity, but with ambiguity that has been skillfully presented as a solution.

There is an irony here. Maximalist goals, such as defeating an enemy, reshaping an area, or establishing dominance, are frequently the starting point of wars. They end with something far more modest. Containment. Deterrence. A return, more or less, to the status quo, though usually at higher cost and with fewer illusions.

Iran understands this pattern. It has studied it, adapted to it. The United States understands it too, though it sometimes takes longer to acknowledge. The difference lies not in knowledge, but in political tolerance for prolonged ambiguity.

In the end, the decisive battles will not be the ones most people watch. They will unfold in production reports, market indices, and polling data. Less dramatic. More consequential. And when those three fault lines—munitions, markets, and midterms—begin to align, the outcome will not need to be declared. It will already be decided.

M A Hossain is a journalist and international affairs analyst, based in Bangladesh. He can be reached at: writetomahossain@gmail.com

   

This article published at :

1. European Times, EU : 22 March, 26

2. Sri Lanka Guardian, lk: 23 March,26

3. Nepal Today, NP: 31 March, 26