opinion

What should I wear today?

Do I want to choose between my comfort or someone else’s comfort? If I buy this shirt, it will be a bargain for me, but it risks someone else’s life. Is that worth it? Those workers need work, so I am helping by creating demand for their products. Right?

As a college student, I want to fit in: same styles, same jewelry, same colors, same brands. However, I am also in search of a job and living off savings from my high school job. I have bought clothes from Shein as well as other questionable fast fashion brands. I justified my purchase for my bank account’s comfort and to make me feel like I fit in. I pretended to know about the environmental harm and the treatment of garment workers, but it was a selfish decision.

Fast fashion is not new.

It started in the late 1970s and rose to popularity in the 1990s as companies tried to keep up with trends (Kelleher, 2026). Companies started offering lower prices to encourage consumers to continue buying more clothes. The lower prices often came at the cost of garment workers as well as the toll on the environment. Companies like Shein, Amazon, Forever 21, H&M, Primark, Uniqlo, Fashion Nova, and many other brands worldwide are accused of working with suppliers who violate international human rights.

Gender in the garment industry.

The garment industry consists of almost 100 million people, with 75% of the workforce being employed in Asia. However, with high levels of informal employment, a true number is hard to estimate, but around 60 to 80% of the workforce is female (Amnesty International, 2025). For women, the garment industry is seen as a way to enter the workforce (Tahir, 2024). These women are predominantly young women who are internal migrants without family and support networks, making them more vulnerable to abuse and exploitation by companies (Amnesty International, 2025). Common violations are wage theft, harassment, inhumane working hours and conditions, and restrictions on speaking out (Business and Human Rights Centre, 2023).

They also face discrimination from male management, reporting a lack of access to childcare, maternity pay, and other benefits. Pregnant women are also a target because they are considered “unproductive.” When workers unionize, they face threats and retaliation from management and hostility from the government, making negotiating better conditions impossible (Amnesty International, 2025).

Who is responsible?

Big-name brands are the ones who are profiting, because they get cheap labor and fast production time, and they get to blame the suppliers for the inhumane conditions. Brands demand that suppliers respect human rights in the workplace but incentivize them to do the

opposite. In Pakistan, they force suppliers to use price-bidding systems to undercut other factories to win contracts, which leads to cutting corners in terms of safety conditions for workers (Kashyap, 2023). After brands foster these conditions, they avoid responsibility by citing lack of control over international suppliers.

While the International Labor Organization (ILO) sets out freedoms for workers, it is up to member countries to supervise, enforce, and report on the implementation of standards. Bangladesh, Cambodia, India, Myanmar, and Pakistan are all member states of the ILO and should be backing up workers’ rights, but these governments often lack capacity to address these issues (Helm, 2025). This is often seen as the government overlooking the abuses as the industry benefits economic development and growth (Amnesty International, 2025).

What can I do?

Not all consumers might have bought from companies like Shein, but you probably have bought from Amazon, Gap, Walmart, Target, IKEA, and other “higher quality” brands. You should not go to your closet and throw out all brands that are unethical; that would contribute to the environmental damage from the garment sector. Students can focus on creating a wardrobe of capsule essentials rather than today’s trendy clothes. By using articles like the Fashion Transparency Index and other credible sources to inform your consumption choices, you can support ethical practices and treatment of women in the garment industry. On an international level, you can follow and sign the accord by the Clean Clothes Campaign to ensure safety in the workplace and empower workers to speak up without fear (Clean Clothes Campaign, 2026).

Now, I stare at my closet, wondering what I should wear. My clothes help express my personality, keep me comfortable, and help my confidence, but is that really worth the cost of other women suffering? These trends will be over by the time my Amazon package arrives. The women making my clothes are more than just workers and should be treated first as humans. I know I vote with my dollars, so I will vote for the protection of workers’ rights over my own comfort.

The smartest thing Trump can do for the United States is to adopt a “cake-sharing” strategy to cope with the arrival of a multipolar era. He wants to ensure that America still gets the largest slice of the cake, with its power base rooted in traditional energy—oil and natural gas.

This aligns well with “Cold War thinking.” From the perspective of oil reserves, the United States plus its friendly Gulf states accounts for about 55%–60% of the global total. If Venezuela—now under U.S. control—is added, the share rises to 72%–77%.

Spreading out the energy map, according to estimates by the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), Greenland holds approximately 39 billion barrels of oil equivalent (combining East and West Greenland). Cuba has 4–5 billion barrels.

Nigeria, a major oil-producing country in Africa, has 37 billion barrels of oil reserves. The Trump administration has threatened military action against it under the pretext of “persecuting Christians.”

Iran’s oil reserves stand at 2,086 billion barrels, accounting for 13.3% of the global total.

The regions Trump has singled out—Iran, Venezuela, Greenland, Cuba, and Nigeria—clearly show that he is deciding how to “share the cake” with China and Russia based on the traditional energy map.

Although reserves and actual output are two different things, for Trump this is irrelevant. What he puts on the negotiating table is merely a piece of paper for “bidding”—he doesn’t need to worry about minor details.

On the other side of the negotiating table, China’s chips are new energy and critical minerals. In the area of critical minerals, Iran, Venezuela, Greenland, Cuba, and Nigeria all possess rich potential, and all have varying degrees of investment and cooperation ties with China.

One reason Trump scorns “new energy” may be that, within his limited term, competing with China in the new energy field is simply impossible. In the traditional energy domain, however, the United States holds a significant advantage.

Successfully pocketing Venezuela has encouraged Trump to take risks in Iran. Originally, Trump wanted to approach Beijing for a major deal from the position of a traditional energy hegemon, but Iran’s fierce resistance has dampened his ambitions. The United States has been outmaneuvered by Iran, and Trump has postponed his visit to China.

Iranian President Pezeshkian publicly stated: “China is now also seen by the United States as its main enemy; we are just next in line. They want to take us down first, then deal with China.” Behind this statement lies the landscape of U.S.-China competition over energy and critical minerals.

It cannot be said that Trump is unrealistic—this “cake-sharing” strategy has its own rationality. Nor can it be said that Trump has overestimated America’s military strength, because he knows very well that the United States cannot even handle the Houthis, let alone Iran. One can only say that the success of the “decapitation operation” in Venezuela has inflated his sense of luck, and Israel has exploited this psychology to successfully lure Trump into risking involvement in Iran.

The United States and Israel jointly eliminated the appeasement faction in Tehran and greatly underestimated Iran’s counterattack capability. They wanted to control oil but ended up being controlled by Iran on oil export routes. This is a complete strategic failure, and its medium- to long-term damage to the United States far exceeds the energy sector.

We don’t even need to discuss the rise and fall of petrodollars versus petroyuan—just look at the new energy sector. This round of energy crisis has greatly heightened the global urgency for new energy development, and the countries and regions most urgently in need are precisely America’s allies worldwide, including the Gulf states.

America’s allies are mostly developed countries. They have long recognized that China is a superpower in new energy. Before the Iran war, the broader Western camp was developing new energy while trying to reduce dependence on Iran. Now, however, the sense of urgency has pushed these countries to rely even more deeply on China.

These countries and regions include France, Germany, Portugal, Spain, the United Kingdom, and the European Union, as well as India, Japan, South Korea, and Southeast Asian nations such as Vietnam, Thailand, the Philippines, and Indonesia. They are either industrially advanced or rapidly industrializing countries that heavily depend on stable energy supplies.

In the core area of the Iran war—the Gulf states—are also actively accelerating the development of new energy industries, with the solar industry as the key focus. China is the only source capable of providing cheap, high-quality equipment and products. After the war ends, Iran may also exchange oil for the components needed for new energy development with China, achieving economic diversification like the Gulf states and reducing reliance on oil exports.

China’s solar equipment originally suffered from overcapacity; now it stands to gain relief.

What revolves around the core issues of new energy is nothing more than industrial supply chains and critical minerals. In this regard, mainland China’s industrial strength needs no emphasis. In critical minerals, the Democratic Republic of the Congo—China’s deep cooperation partner—will see half of its cobalt mines belong to Chinese enterprises. Given that Congo holds the world’s largest cobalt reserves, China will possess an indisputable “cobalt dominance.” Cobalt is a key mineral for lithium-ion batteries.

In addition, graphite and tantalum are also dominated by China. Tantalum is a critical metal for capacitors, which are essential for stabilizing wind and solar power generation. Graphite is the anode material for lithium-ion batteries and an indispensable mineral for renewable energy storage systems and solar panel production.

Currently, renewable energy plus nuclear power accounts for 40% of global electricity generation, while fossil fuels still account for 60%. However, when looking at the global share of “capacity” (installed capacity) for renewable energy plus nuclear, it has already reached about 55%. Among this, renewable energy accounts for 49.4% and nuclear for about 5%.

“Capacity” refers to installed capacity—in plain terms, the theoretical maximum power generation. The actual global generation share of renewable energy is about 32%. The gap between theoretical and actual values exists because renewable energy generation is less stable than fossil fuels. Adding nuclear’s actual generation share (about 8%), the actual generation share of so-called low-carbon energy reaches 40% globally.

There is no doubt that the oil crisis will inevitably trigger a “green energy surge.” Looking ahead five years, the actual generation share of green energy will exceed 50%. Assuming nuclear can grow to 10% of actual generation and renewables grow by 8%, China’s additional revenue from the global renewable energy business in the next five years could reach the level of hundreds of billions of dollars.

From this perspective, China—which strongly supported green energy development from the very beginning of the climate agenda—did so not so much for carbon reduction as for industrial preparation in the name of energy security. Expanding the global new energy business is merely an added value.

Of course, the key technologies for manufacturing new energy equipment may be even more important than critical minerals. Last November, China imposed export controls on certain lithium batteries, key cathode and anode materials, and their manufacturing equipment and technologies. Given that China controls about 96% of global anode material production capacity and 85% of cathode material capacity, the impact of these export controls is enormous.

On April 15, according to Reuters, China has held preliminary consultations with solar panel production equipment suppliers and is considering restricting exports of the most advanced technologies and equipment to the United States. If true, Beijing is raising the stakes in new energy, waiting for Trump to come to the negotiating table in May.

Admittedly, Trump has no intention of developing new energy. However, considering that the Democrats may return to the White House in three years, Beijing is now blocking America’s path to new energy development, essentially laying the groundwork for U.S.-China competition three years from now.

If Trump’s energy strategy map on the table also included a new energy layer, he should realize that the setback in the Iran war has allowed the new energy domain to encroach upon the traditional energy domain, enabling China to expand its energy power without firing a single shot. As for critical minerals, the United States has made no outstanding progress—at least nothing sufficient for Trump to boast about.

Now, the “cake” being pushed in front of Xi Jinping is getting bigger and bigger. On the surface, Beijing has gained it effortlessly, but today’s harvest is mainly due to strategic 布局 made one step ahead. These layouts are often “low-profit” but highly effective investments, and new energy is merely one of them.

In an uncertain world, those who provide “certainty” win. Therefore, the winner of the Iran war is China—even if Beijing is extremely reluctant to admit it.

The recently concluded 14th Ministerial Conference of the WTO produced mixed results. While the multilateral system remains stuck on Appellate Body appointments, one of the most extensive pre-conference discussions focused on the Chinese-led Investment Facilitation for Development Agreement (IFDA). With 129 member states backing the IFDA, including countries like Bangladesh and several least developed countries (LDCs) from Africa, this has put India’s position as a key representative of the third world into question.

However, a thorough examination of India’s position reveals deeper concerns about the WTO within the ever-changing framework of global economic governance. In this article, I argue that India’s opposition to the IFDA is based not merely on apprehensions about China’s strategic influence, but also on other considerations founded on the grounds of jurisdiction, sovereign right to regulate and the procedure.

The Jurisdictional Argument & Potential Fragmentation of the International Trade Regime:

India’s primary objection to the IFDA emerges from a very pivotal question in the field of international law, challenging the jurisdiction and mandate of the WTO. In a rules-based transnational system, international organizations operate on a mandate-based framework. This mandate is primarily derived from the substantive provisions of their founding agreements and the consent of member states. Historically, the WTO’s mandate has centred on trade, specifically the regulation of trade in goods and services, as well as certain trade-related aspects of intellectual property and investment. While instruments such as the Agreement on Trade-Related Investment Measures (TRIMs) and the General Agreement on Trade in Services (GATS) incidentally touch upon investment, they do so only insofar as it is in relation with trade.

Given that the WTO’s mandate and primary focus are on trade, India maintains that the regulation of investment as an autonomous domain fall outside its negotiated competence. This position is grounded in the collapse of the “Singapore Issues,” which included investments as one of its four development agenda and were explicitly dropped from the Doha Developmental Agenda in 2004. The reintroduction of investment facilitation through the IFDA is thus viewed as lacking a legitimate mandate, raising serious concerns about the WTO’s overreach.

Another factor closely linked to the lack of mandate is the plurilateral character of the proposed agreement. Unlike multilateral agreements, which bind all WTO members on the basis of consensus, plurilateral agreements apply only to a subset of willing participants. While such arrangements are not unprecedented within the WTO framework, India views the IFDA as a symbolic representation of a broader trend towards fragmentation. The primary concern of New Delhi is the risk that plurilateralism brings to the system. India’s apprehension stems from creation of a two-tier system within the WTO, wherein economically powerful states effectively set the rules, leaving others in a position of reactive compliance. This seriously undermines the foundational principle of sovereign equality among the WTO members and erodes the consensus-based decision-making model that has historically been a salient feature of the WTO.

Right to Regulate

A further dimension of India’s opposition to the IDFA pertains to the preservation of regulatory autonomy. The IFDA, although framed as a facilitative instrument, introduces disciplines that may constrain domestic policymaking. The current bilateral system on which international investment law is based relies heavily on bilateral investment treaties (BITs) and dedicated chapters on investment in comprehensive economic partnership agreements (CEPA). This empowers developing countries such as India to specifically negotiate foreign investment policy in accordance with domestic requirements and national priorities.

However, under the IFDA’s plurilateral approach, India’s apprehension is grounded in obligations relating to non-discrimination, administrative review, and procedural standardisation, which over time may limit the flexibility required to implement industrial policy, promote local value addition, or regulate sensitive sectors in the public interest.

Further, India is also careful of the potential consequences that may arise from incorporating investment-related disciplines within the WTO framework. Although the IFDA does not formally include investor–state dispute settlement (ISDS) mechanisms, its provisions could nonetheless be invoked indirectly in arbitral proceedings under bilateral investment treaties (BITs).

Given India’s prior experience with investment treaty arbitration and the subsequent revisiting of its Model BIT in 2016 to ensure regulatory balance, this concern carries considerable weight. While at face value these provisions might seem benign and aimed at facilitation of flow of investments, their pro-investor interpretations might create problems by exposing India to international liability.

Another vital dimension of India’s critique pertains to the procedural legitimacy of the IFDA negotiations. It is quite commonly observed that the legitimacy of outcomes is intricately linked to the legitimacy of the processes that produce them. These negotiations were initiated through a Joint Statement Initiative (JSI) which remains controversial within the WTO system. India’s argument relies on the absence of an explicit mandate which contradicts the WTO’s decision-making framework, which is based on consensus.

Beyond these factors, India’s position can also be understood as a negotiation strategy. By resisting the incorporation of new issues such as investment facilitation into the WTO package, India seeks to preserve negotiating leverage in ongoing and future discussions. Accepting the IFDA could open a pandora’s box for the introduction of other areas, including digital trade and e-commerce, thereby shifting the balance of negotiations away from priorities of developing countries, such as agricultural subsidies.

It is important to note that India does not oppose investment facilitation in principle; rather, its criticism is related to the form, venue, and legal consequences of introducing non-trade disciplines at the WTO. India has, in fact, undertaken substantial domestic reforms aimed at improving the ease of doing business and attracting foreign investment. Its objection is more precisely directed at the form, forum, and legal implications of embedding such non-trade disciplines within the framework of WTO.

In summary, the refusal of India to sign the IFDA is a reflection of careful consideration of complex legal factors combined with prudence regarding institutional development and developmental policy. It underscores a broader tension within the contemporary multilateral trading system aiming to balance the ever-expansive rule-making to protect & promote investments, with preservation of regulatory policy space for host states.

There is another way to read the ongoing Middle East crisis, one that makes legible what standard analysis consistently struggles to explain. It begins not with capability but with the geometry of the system through which capability must travel to produce effects. The United States and its partners possess overwhelming military superiority over Iran, and that superiority is not in question, yet the conflict has produced a pattern that defies its logic. A superpower coalition has been unable to impose coherent strategic outcomes against an adversary operating through proxies, low-cost disruption, and the systematic exploitation of global commercial vulnerabilities.

Over the past two years, we have seen multiple instances of this kind of disruption with consequential effects on the global system. Houthi drones force the rerouting of global shipping, with Red Sea cargo volumes falling by roughly 50% through early 2024 as major carriers diverted around the Cape of Good Hope, adding up to two weeks to transit times, driving freight costs sharply higher across European markets, and costing Egypt nearly $800 million per month at peak in lost Suez Canal revenue. A non-state network spanning Lebanon, Yemen, Iraq, Syria, and Gaza has absorbed sustained air campaigns, targeted eliminations of senior commanders, and repeated ground operations without losing its capacity to generate coordinated pressure across multiple theaters simultaneously. The asymmetry seems to follow a deliberate strategic logic that raw power analysis struggles to read, precisely because the conflict operates on a surface that capability assessments were never designed to map. What this suggests is that the decisive variable is not what actors possess but whether the relationships connecting them can transmit coordinated action when the system is under strain.

When that system cannot coordinate, something important breaks down. An alliance that formally exists but faces operational friction at every decision point ceases to be an alliance in any meaningful strategic sense. A security guarantee that cannot be transmitted rapidly to the partner it is meant to protect has, in effect, already failed its primary function. It follows that the gap between what a system formally is and what it can actually do under pressure is not a secondary consideration but the surface on which this conflict is being decided. Conventional analysis, calibrated to count warheads and assess intentions, consistently leaves this gap unmapped.

Analysts know that Saudi Arabia’s OPEC production decisions have repeatedly positioned Riyadh against Washington’s economic preferences, they know that European energy dependency complicates transatlantic alignment, and they know that Iran’s proxy network extends across five countries and absorbs military pressure without fracturing. Yet what the available frameworks cannot do is convert that knowledge into a structural reading of the system. They show that these conditions exist. What they cannot show is how those conditions interact, where they compound, and what the aggregate geometry of their interaction means for whether coordinated action is possible at all.

Power analysis was built to read capability differentials between states, and it does that well. Alliance theory was built to read the conditions under which formal commitments hold or fail, and it does that too. Neither, however, was built to read the operational weight of the ties through which capability and commitment must travel to produce effects.

The instruments available are calibrated to answer questions different from those the current situation poses. Deploying them on a problem they were not designed to read produces the consistent failure to explain what is actually happening that has marked analysis of this conflict from the start.

Adjacency mapping is an instrument designed to read that gap by mapping connectivity, by which I mean their operational weight, specifically their capacity to carry coordinated action under strain. What distinguishes it from standard approaches is its unit of analysis. Rather than the actors themselves, it treats the weight of the relationships as primary. The question it asks is not who holds power but whether the ties connecting power-holders can transmit that power when the system needs them to. Two states can be formally allied, operationally integrated in name, and structurally disconnected at the same time, and nothing in standard analysis will tell you which of those conditions is actually operative until the moment of crisis reveals it.

The instrument assigns each significant relationship in the system a weight between 0 and 1, reflecting how frequently the two actors interact operationally, how reliably information moves between them, how the tie has behaved under recent stress, and how quickly it transmits pressure when the system is under strain. At the higher end of the scale, a weight at or above 0.6 indicates that coordination approaches automaticity, and the tie carries load without constant investment to maintain it. Around 0.3, friction accumulates. In this setting, decisions require deliberate effort at every juncture, slowing the system and making it susceptible to gradual degradation that never triggers a visible rupture. At or below 0.2, the tie has effectively ceased to function as a transmission pathway, leaving the actors operationally disconnected regardless of what their formal relationship nominally says.

These weights are analytical judgements calibrated against observable evidence. In other words, their value lies in making visible what experienced analysts already carry as intuition and in giving that intuition a structure precise enough to argue about. The numbers are therefore analytical judgements, not measurements. A more rigorous application would derive them from quantifiable indicators across each dimension, including military interoperability, intelligence exchange depth, crisis responsiveness, economic interdependence, and signaling consistency, averaged and weighted systematically. That work lies beyond the scope of this piece, but the architecture is designed to accommodate it.

There is a risk management dimension to this reading that is worth making explicit. Standard geopolitical risk assessment focuses on actor-level variables such as regime stability, military capability, and leadership intentions. What adjacency mapping adds is a structural layer that those assessments typically miss. A coalition whose load-bearing relationships operate in the friction zone is exposed to a category of risk that capability assessments do not capture and that becomes visible only when the system is read structurally.

What the matrix adds is the ability to see how compound weakness across multiple relationships produces cascading effects that bilateral assessment alone would struggle to predict. A system whose dominant actor holds several weak partnerships faces more than friction. As a consequence, the geometry of those weaknesses determines whether any concerted response is structurally possible at all. Aggregate capability becomes, in that light, secondary to that question.

If we apply this to the Middle East security complex, the instrument produces one possible reading. This reading differs considerably from the picture conventional analysis generates. Its value is not in the precision of the numbers but in making the system’s geometry visible enough to argue about.

The matrix below maps operational connectivity across the system’s key actors. The numbers are analytical judgements, not measurements.

The geometry they make visible is what matters here.

The matrix is intentionally non-symmetric. Where operational influence flows asymmetrically between two actors, the weights reflect that directionality.

The matrix reveals, in this light, a system whose dominant actors are connected at fundamentally different weights. And more significantly, its most important bilateral relationship is operating in the friction zone. It’s formally excluded adversary has constructed the only alternative connectivity architecture in the system. What this implies is that the geometry of the conflict runs considerably deeper than standard alliance analysis tends to suggest.

On the coalition side, the US has high adjacency with Qatar, Bahrain, Israel, and Kuwait, ties that enable rapid coordination and require little maintenance, constituting the operational backbone of what Washington can actually activate quickly.

Its relationship with Saudi Arabia, however, sits at 0.4. That number is analytically more significant than almost anything else in the matrix. Saudi Arabia remains, on most readings, the relationship on which Gulf order coherence formally depends, the anchor of the security architecture since the 1970s, and it is operating in the friction zone where every significant decision requires renegotiation from scratch rather than flowing through an established channel. Saudi Arabia’s invitation to join BRICS in August 2023, yuan-denominated oil transactions with China, and its participation in the Chinese-brokered rapprochement with Iran in March 2023 all point in the same direction. Riyadh is hedging structurally toward China and the broader non-Western order, a posture that sits uneasily alongside its formal security alignment with Washington. Taken together, these are not isolated political episodes but evidence of a tie that has been operating below the coordination threshold for years and whose weakness is, on this reading, the system’s most consequential structural vulnerability.

Through the normalization architecture, the UAE has arguably become the system’s most structurally reliable node at 0.6 with both the US and Israel, its operational integration exceeding Saudi Arabia’s despite Saudi Arabia’s formal primacy. The Abraham Accords of September 2020 established the formal foundation for that integration. The operational depth it has since generated, across intelligence sharing, defence cooperation, and coordinated positioning on Iran, has made the UAE the coalition’s most functionally connected Gulf partner. Oman holds what is perhaps the system’s most anomalous position, meaningful adjacency with both the US coalition and Iran simultaneously, a profile no other state actor in the matrix replicates. That structural position gave Oman the back-channel role it played through the early phases of the conflict, with documented precedent in the secret US-Iran nuclear negotiations that began in Muscat in 2012 and ran through 2013. As the conflict has intensified, Pakistan has assumed the primary mediation function, but Oman’s position as a quiet facilitator has not disappeared; it has simply been supplemented by a node with more direct access to both capitals at this particular moment.

Pakistan has emerged as the conflict’s primary mediation node, hosting the highest-level direct negotiations between Washington and Tehran since 1979 and brokering the April 2026 ceasefire. That role reflects a structural position the matrix makes legible: high Saudi adjacency, a functioning Iran tie, and a rehabilitated relationship with Washington that no other regional actor currently combines. China’s influence over both Pakistani and Iranian decision-making operates as an exogenous pressure that the matrix only partially captures, and Pakistan’s own domestic constraints, including its difficulty developing direct channels with the IRGC, limit how far that mediation role can ultimately reach.

Iran’s position is where the matrix becomes most analytically revealing. Across the state actors in the system, Iran’s adjacency sits at or near fragmentation, built up through sanctions, absent operational channels, and decades of adversarial signalling that have left Tehran formally isolated from the coordination architecture the United States and its partners have constructed.

And yet the only high-weight tie Iran holds is with its proxy network at 0.7. That single number may go further toward explaining the architecture of the entire campaign than any other figure in the matrix.

It is an asymmetric relationship in which Tehran’s capacity to activate and direct exceeds the reverse influence those actors exert over Iranian strategic decisions. What that single structural condition implies goes further toward explaining the architecture of Iranian pressure operations than most analyses of Iranian intentions or capabilities tend to reach. Iran is geographically central and formally excluded. It is precisely that combination, positioned to apply pressure across every theatre while bearing none of the coordination costs that formal inclusion imposes. That, from this vantage point, is what makes legible a strategy that standard analysis, focused on actors and their capabilities, cannot see.

Seen through this lens, what Iran is doing across the region is something more structurally ambitious than a military campaign. It is attempting to restructure the matrix itself. The goal appears to be less about battlefield victory than about the gradual degradation of the ties connecting the United States to its regional partners, below the threshold at which coordinated response becomes automatic, eroding the will to keep paying the price of alignment while simultaneously building alternative adjacency in the nodes where US-aligned connectivity is weakest.

The Houthi campaign against Red Sea shipping is calibrated to stay below the threshold that would compel a unified military response. It introduces friction into the economic relationships connecting European states to the Gulf system, raising the cost of alignment with Washington’s regional posture without forcing the kind of direct confrontation that would unite the coalition. Strikes on Gulf infrastructure follow the same calibration, persistent enough to signal that the US security guarantee cannot insulate its partners from costs, yet restrained enough to avoid crossing the point at which coalition fragmentation becomes irrelevant because a unified response becomes compulsory. Across Iraq and Syria, simultaneous pressure from affiliated militias prevents the concentration of attention that sustained coalition coordination requires. In each case, the instrument targets a relationship rather than a capability, specifically the weight of the ties whose degradation would restructure the system’s geometry without requiring Iran to displace the existing order directly.

The US-Saudi tie at 0.4 is the primary focus of that degradation effort. Should that threshold be breached, Saudi Arabia hedges. As hedging reduces operational interactivity the tie weakens further. The process risks becoming self-reinforcing. Iranian military superiority over any individual partner is not required to sustain it.

The same logic extends across European actors, though not uniformly. Germany’s industrial exposure to energy price volatility, France’s residual strategic autonomy instinct, and the EU’s institutional preference for de-escalation all produce different thresholds for continued alignment with Washington. Their shared energy dependency gives them asymmetric stakes in the Gulf system’s stability, but their appetite for risk diverges from Washington’s in ways that are not identical across capitals, and each time Iran forces a decision about the cost of continued alignment, that divergence fragments the coalition’s coordination surface further.

By sustaining operational ties with non-state actors across the region, Iran is constructing alternative adjacency in precisely the nodes where US-aligned connectivity is weakest. These are populations and factions that the existing regional order has excluded from the dominant coalition’s coordination architecture. Deliberately so — Iran is building in the structural gaps the system leaves open. Displacing the existing order appears unnecessary. Becoming the more reliable pole of alignment for the actors that order has failed to integrate may be sufficient. All that is required is that the order fragment sufficiently at its margins for that offer to appear credible, and the current trajectory of US-Saudi friction and European hedging is steadily moving in that direction.

The coalition’s instruments are calibrated to military threats. The system, however, is failing along a different surface entirely, or so this reading suggests. The formal architecture remains largely intact, security guarantees have not been withdrawn, Gulf states remain formally aligned, and normalisation agreements hold. And yet the operational adjacency that gives that architecture its functional weight is under sustained pressure from an actor that has correctly identified the gap between formal commitment and operational tie as the system’s primary vulnerability. That identification is outpacing the coalition’s capacity to respond.

On this reading, the surface on which the conflict appears to be decided is not the one the coalition is defending.

What adjacency mapping reveals is a story about geometry. The system’s dominant actor holds formal commitments at weights the system cannot sustain under the pressure being applied to it. Its adversary, in turn, has built the only alternative coordination architecture in the space that those weakening ties leave open. The conflict is likely to be determined by which ties the system can no longer afford to lose under sustained and calibrated pressure. The question is whether the actors currently holding those ties in the friction zone can rebuild them to the coordination threshold before the process of degradation becomes irreversible. That is a question that capability assessments are not well-positioned to answer, and one that a structural reading of the system’s connectivity at least helps to make visible.

In the midst of the escalation of the Gaza conflict that has been going on since 2023, the world is once again witnessing the heartbreaking reality of women crying among the ruins of their homes and the burning of property, mothers who have lost children, and families separated by military attacks. Global media were quick to point to this event as a symbol of the suffering of civil society. But behind the empathy shown, there is also a question that is rarely asked: how exactly can Palestinian women be represented, and who can shape that narrative?

For decades, women in conflict zones, such as the Middle East, have often been portrayed in the same framework, as passive victims who need to be rescued and protected. In the context of Gaza, this pattern has resurfaced. Global media coverage often only highlights women’s plight without giving enough space for their voices, perspectives, and agency in conflict. This narrative does look humanistic, but it also contains an element of simplification that makes the world unaware of the more complex reality behind it.

This is where postcolonial feminism offers a sharper critique and helps us to look further at this issue as a form of epistemic violence. This perspective emphasizes that in understanding women’s experiences, it cannot be separated from considerations about the history of colonialism and global power relations. In the context of the Gaza conflict, this means that violence is experienced by women. Not only a patriarchal problem but also supported by aspects of colonialism, militarization, and inequality politics (Enloe, 2014).

This phenomenon cannot be separated from the thoughts of Lila Abu-Lughod, who mentioned “politics of saving” in her work entitled Do Muslim Women Need Saving? Abu-Lughod (2013) criticized how the Western world portrays Muslim women as an oppressed group in need of rescue. This narrative is not only a form of simplifying women’s representation but can also be used as a legitimacy for political, cultural, and even military intervention from external actors. Such as the concept of militarization of daily life raised by Enloe (2014), who explains that militarization does not only occur on the battlefield but also enters into the reality of daily life, including in how the media frames conflicts. Where in this context the representation of Palestinian women as passive victims is used to affirm certain narratives about war, security, and the legitimacy of power.

The term “security politics” in the Gaza conflict appears in a more subtle form. Palestinian women are positioned as a universal form of suffering but are rarely seen as political subjects with diverse experiences and aspirations. The suffering they experience in conflict becomes a global consumption, while structural contexts, such as colonialism and power inequality, are often ignored.

An important question then arises: who really has the right to speak on behalf of Palestinian women? This is where Spivak’s (2009) thoughts on the concept of the subaltern become relevant. Spivak himself argues that the subaltern group is a group that is in a marginalized position so that its voice is not heard in the dominant discourse. Even when they are “represented,” their voices are often mediated or even filtered by stronger actors.

In many news narratives about Gaza, Palestinian women rarely appear as the main narrator of their own experiences. Brand awareness is often told by foreign journalists and international organizations. Or humanitarian institutions as “representatives.” As a result, the narrative that is born is not a complete reflection of the reality they face, but rather a form of representation that has been framed according to the logic and direction of global media reporting.

This issue becomes more complex when we look at how the media tends to ignore the agency dimension. Palestinian women not only live in the shadow of conflict but also have active agency in various forms of resistance, both as activists, journalists, medical personnel, and community leaders. They have the capacity to build solidarity and even contribute to political struggles as well as peace. However, aspect II rarely gets the same spotlight as the narrative of suffering.

This disregard of agency can create an imbalance of representation. Palestinian women are only seen as passive victims, which makes them look like they also have no capacity as active actors. This inequality is not only a question of representation but also a question of power regarding who has the right to define reality for a particular purpose.

In the digital era, this is certainly starting to change. Social media provides a space for Palestinian women to be able to speak directly to a global audience. Through various social media platforms, they can share experiences and aspirations that are often not featured in the mainstream media. This ultimately opens up the possibility of a more authentic and diverse counternarrative.

However, the digital space is still full of limitations. Certain narratives can easily go viral, while others sink and disappear without a trace. In other words, while social media can offer opportunities, the space is not completely free from the influence of broader power structures.

Rereading the narrative of Palestinian women in the era of the Gaza conflict is a form of recognition that representation is not neutral. It is always related to interests, ideologies, and power relations. The narrative of “rescue” may seem like a form of concern from the surface, but if you look further, it can also be a form of control over the other party’s representation. Looking at the Gaza conflict through the lens of feminism is to question basic assumptions in global reporting. Do we really see them as individuals? Do we really hear their voices, or just voices about them?

Therefore, it is important to change our perspective. Instead of seeing Palestinian women as victims who need to be saved, we need to recognize them as subjects who have the capacity to speak, form agencies, and share their experiences in the form of real reality. This is not to ignore the real suffering but to place Palestinian women’s experiences in armed conflict in a broader, fairer, and closer context to reality. As Abu-Lughod (2013) reminds us, the more important question that arises is not how to save Muslim women, but how to understand the conditions and realities that shape their life experiences.

Ultimately, the lens of feminism, particularly postcolonial feminism, invites us to not only have empathy but also to be more critical. By looking further at how the narrative is formed, who can benefit, and which voices are ignored.

Perhaps the more relevant question is not whether Palestinian women need protection and rescue, but whether the world is ready to hear and see them as subjects who have the capacity to speak and move. Because what needs to change is not them, but the way we understand them.

Inside a hangar located near a motorway and a port, sleek fiberglass unmanned attack boats, resembling oversized canoes and painted naval grey, await engine fitting. These boats, initially built by Ukrainian special forces, have been effective in pushing the Russian Black Sea Fleet from nearby waters. If conflicts intensify in the Middle East between Israel and the U. S. and Iran, these British boats may be deployed. Such vessels are increasingly recognized as the future of naval warfare, as well as suitable for various offshore roles like search and rescue.

The manufacturing facility belongs to Kraken, a fast-expanding British defense company that has secured a contract to supply 20 small attack boats to Britain’s Royal Navy and has other agreements with U. S. Special Operations Command. Fueled by venture capital, similar companies globally are producing autonomous attack craft essential for potential conflicts, such as a Chinese invasion of Taiwan or NATO actions against Russia in the Baltic. Kraken offers various drones; the 8.5-meter Scout Medium is highly popular, though it hasn’t confirmed whether any of its boats have been used in the Middle East or Black Sea.

The U. S. military has deployed similar boats like the Global Autonomous Reconnaissance Craft in Gulf operations. U. S. Central Command has been testing unmanned vessels for years, while European nations have advanced their skills with NATO’s Task Force X-Baltic. These vessels, whether autonomous or remotely operated, can carry weapons and surveillance tools, showcasing the rapid evolution of naval warfare, as evidenced by Iranian attacks on commercial ships.

Heavy jamming in Ukraine and the Gulf has led to challenges in keeping remote human-piloted systems operational and has shifted focus towards developing autonomous systems that do not require a communication link. Reports indicate that there were several problems in last year’s tests of these autonomous systems, which is not surprising given the contested regions like the Black Sea and Baltic Sea. Currently, the British Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessel Lyme Bay is expected to load drones for potential mine clearance in the Gulf, but only when the conflict ends and it is safer to operate such craft.

If this mission proceeds, it would highlight the reduced number of functional warships in the UK’s financially constrained navy and showcase changes in military technology. However, experts do not believe that vessels built by companies like Kraken will completely replace traditional warships, despite the reminder from Trump’s “armada” of the significant power that traditional ships hold. Notably, U. S. commanders have deployed these vessels away from battle zones to reduce risks.

Kraken claims it can produce as many as 500 remote-controlled vessels within the current year, with plans to double that by 2027 through partnerships with shipyards in Germany and the Pacific region. Kraken’s founder, Mal Crease, aims to establish a leading maritime offshore systems manufacturer by applying his experiences from Formula One racing and high-performance offshore boats. He acknowledges the complexities of producing quality systems amid conflict while also striving to mass-produce boats in peaceful environments.

Kraken’s team utilizes modular construction to rapidly assemble a variety of vessels by hand, similar to how supercars are made, allowing for quick scale-up in production. However, uncertainties about military spending in the UK remain, with ongoing debates regarding the Defence Investment Plan and budget allocations between the prime minister and the Treasury.

A broader trend is evident as new defense firms such as Kraken and others emerge, differing from traditional defense contractors like Lockheed Martin and BAE Systems, which are known for long development times and high costs. Newer companies, some less than two years old, are more agile and focused on producing weapons systems quickly and affordably.

Many former military personnel are now working with these companies and engaging with clients in various countries, including Ukraine, which is both buying and manufacturing these systems. Reports suggest that missile supplies, like the Tomahawk and Patriot missiles, are dwindling, while drone manufacturers expect to produce hundreds of thousands or even millions of systems annually. Ukraine, in particular, has rapidly grasped the importance of these new technologies and has been sharing its expertise with nations in the Middle East. Conversely, Western nations outside the conflict have been slower to adapt, but some firms are already making swift advancements.

With information from Reuters

I thought I had all the time in the world, but it turns out I needed even more.

For over a year, I’ve been writing articles about the new Entry/Exit system introduced at European borders. This system, which mandates UK travellers to provide biometric data when entering or exiting the Schengen area, began its phased implementation in October 2025.

It’s expected to be fully operational across all airports by 10 April 2026. I’ve extensively covered the rollout and its potential to cause delays for travellers. However, when my partner and I flew back from Paris last month, it completely slipped my mind.

We were returning to London, and since we both prefer lounging in the airport rather than outside, we had some time to spare. We enjoyed a drink, a meal, and then decided it was time to meander towards our gate.

We had been awaiting the gate announcement, and as soon as it was made, we set off to locate it. Imagine my astonishment when we turned the corner to find a queue of people waiting for gate access.

I had entirely forgotten about the additional security checks. Even though I believed we had ample time, that time was now rapidly slipping away.

Only one kiosk was open, with a queue of at least 30 people, and the clock was ticking down to our flight’s departure. As we stood there, another 40 individuals joined the queue behind us, yet still, only one kiosk was operational.

Passengers were slowly allowed through, with groups permitted to approach the kiosk together to have their passports verified, fingers and faces scanned, before being sent on their way.

The process was painfully slow. The queue barely seemed to budge, and more people continued to join behind us. From the snippets of conversations I caught, everyone appeared as taken aback — and stressed — as I was.

I heard more than one person mutter something along the lines of “surely they won’t let us miss our flight?” Another responded: “I wouldn’t put it past them to be honest.”

Fortunately, my partner and I had started relatively close to the front, so we managed to reach the gate just in time. As for the people behind us, I have no clue.

This wasn’t even peak season, and it more than doubled the time it took to board our plane. We were flying at the end of February — very much the off-peak period. I can only envisage the chaos as the rollout completes across all of Europe, and summer travel commences.

Travelling during peak season is already stressful, and if my experience is anything to go by, it’s about to become even more so. All I can suggest is even if you think you have enough time at the airport, add more.