Over the next eight weeks, as winter envelopes Ukraine, Russia plans to use the frigid weather as a weapon. Its arms factories have already made enough missiles and drones to take down Ukraine’s electrical grid, as well as the heating systems that millions of people rely on to stay warm. Homes far from the front will become deadly for their inhabitants as temperatures fall.
In that same time frame, three events taking place thousands of miles away could determine Ukraine’s future. The first is America’s Election Day, now two weeks away; leaders in Kyiv fear that if Democrats win one or both chambers of Congress, President Trump may turn even further against them in those final weeks of full Republican control of Washington. The second is a proposed summit in mid-November in southern China, where Russian President Vladimir Putin wants to meet with Trump and Chinese President Xi Jinping to plan how to end the war—without having a seat at the table for Ukraine.
The third is the G20 summit at Trump’s Miami-area golf course, scheduled to take place in mid-December. The president has visions of standing between Putin and Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky as they sign a peace deal, even if he has to strong-arm Ukraine to do it, according to advisers. One Ukrainian official, speaking on the condition of anonymity to candidly discuss internal conversations, told us that it’s hard not to feel left out of decision making that will dictate the country’s future: “It looks like this is all happening without us.”
The U.S. president, who used to brag that he could resolve the war in 24 hours, has tossed aside some sanctions on Russia and struck a deal with Putin to import diesel from Moscow, giving a boost to the Russian war machine. He and his allies have threatened Kyiv, demanding that Zelensky stop attacking Russian oil refineries or risk losing access to American intelligence, weaponry, and satellite communications that it uses to defend itself. The calendar is now Ukraine’s foe—and so, Ukrainians fear, is Donald Trump.
Trump’s war in Iran has appeared to throttle Republicans’ chances in the midterms; the unending conflict, and the resulting surge in oil and gas prices, has eroded the GOP’s poll numbers and fueled Democrats’ hopes of taking both chambers of Congress. Stymied in his efforts to bring that war to a close, Trump recently shifted his focus to resolving the Ukraine conflict, in part to bring fuel prices down. But the way he’s chosen to try to do that has provided his fellow Republicans with a nasty October surprise. In a first for a U.S. president, Trump has sided with a traditional adversary, Russia, over a democracy that is not only fighting for its existence but also acting as a bulwark against a wider war. Trump’s diesel deal with Putin will have a negligible impact on American energy prices, but it’s a financial lifeline for Moscow.
Trump has demanded an energy cease-fire—he even announced one earlier this month that had no basis in reality—yet has focused his ire entirely on Ukraine’s attacks on Russian oil refineries. He blames those strikes for the rise in energy prices while ignoring the real culprit, Iran’s ability to defy the United States and close the Strait of Hormuz. He’s convinced himself, three people close to him have told us, that Ukraine’s attacks on the refineries are, in part, meant to undermine Republicans’ chances next month—and, by extension, Trump. The president has ignored Moscow’s attacks on Ukraine’s electrical grid, and yesterday, hours after a drone strike on a public park killed six people, including two children, he downplayed its strikes on Ukraine’s cities, declaring that Russia had not “been doing much.” An image of one of the dead children, a 1-year-old killed as she sat in her stroller, was broadcast around the globe.
More pressure could be coming. Trump aides have threatened to withhold arms sales unless Kyiv stops targeting Russian diesel plants; this week, the administration delayed approving the transfer of missiles that Ukraine needs for its defense. Ukraine in the past week has said that it has not consistently received early warnings of attacks and no longer has full Starshield satellite access, which is impeding its ability to defend itself against Russia’s new fleet of jet-powered drones. (The Wall Street Journal reported today that Starshield’s creator, Elon Musk, ordered the slowdown. The White House and Musk had previously denied involvement.)
Some in Trump’s orbit have suggested that the United States go further and stop sharing intelligence with Ukraine. Trump’s deference to Putin has been a theme for a decade, yet this new round of kowtowing has handed Republicans another obstacle ahead of the elections. In a rare act of defiance, a handful in the party have denounced the president’s decisions, including his move to undercut a Russia-sanctions bill that he signed only a month ago in honor of its champion, the late Senator Lindsey Graham. The quick betrayal of Graham’s legacy was a blow for some of his Senate colleagues; GOP aides told us that Graham’s sudden July death cost Ukraine its most vocal champion in Trump’s inner circle, and that no one has stepped up to fill that void.
Michael Froman, who worked in the Clinton and Obama administrations and is now president of the Council on Foreign Relations, told us that cutting off Kyiv from American weapons or intelligence might, in fact, prolong the war because it “would undermine Ukraine’s position at the negotiating table and make it less likely Russia would be willing to negotiate on any of the key outstanding issues.”
Officials with both parties predict that the Democrats will capture the House next month; the Senate appears to be a true toss-up. Kyiv will be carefully watching the results. A Democratic win next month will, in the long run, likely help Kyiv, and some of the more hopeful members of Zelensky’s camp believe that Republican defeats could force Trump to focus more on domestic issues, resulting in him leaving Ukraine alone. But other observers on both sides of the Atlantic fear that the opposite could be true. A president without a friendly Congress tends to fall back more on foreign policy, where he needs little help from Capitol Hill. Either way, the new Congress won’t be seated until January 3, leaving Trump unchecked for two more months and perhaps motivated to wield power before his party moves into the minority. Another major national election would not be for two years—plenty of time for Trump to push Ukraine without fear of voters punishing Republicans. “He could get distracted at any time,” one outside Trump ally told us. “But right now, he’s furious at Ukraine, and he wants Zelensky gone.”
Two weeks after Election Day, Trump plans to board Air Force One bound for a series of summits in Asia. Earlier this month, Trump overruled White House aides who had counseled against him calling to wish Putin a happy birthday, warning that little good would come of it. In that conversation, Trump authorized the diesel deal, and Putin suggested something grander: a meeting of the world’s great powers to divide up the world. Or at least Ukraine.
Putin proposed that he, Trump, and Xi hold a trilateral meeting on the sidelines of the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation in Shenzhen, China, in mid-November to discuss a variety of issues, including Ukraine. Trump told reporters yesterday that he is open to attending the meeting, which would be his first face-to-face encounter with Putin since their unproductive summit in Alaska last year. It is no surprise that Trump is drawn to the idea; his deference toward Putin is rivaled only by his regard for Xi, whom he hosted in lavish fashion at the White House last month. He has previously been intrigued by the idea of the three powers—China, Russia, the United States—dividing the globe into spheres of influence, although Moscow these days hardly wields the international clout of Washington or Beijing.
The idea of two authoritarians and their admirer plotting to slice up sovereign nations alarmed much of the West. And how, Kyiv demanded, could Ukraine’s future be decided with no input from Ukraine? But some in Trump’s orbit have backed the idea, belittling Ukraine as a corrupt backwater with no autonomy. Putin has never viewed Ukraine as a legitimate country, and Trump has held a grudge against it since 2019, when he was impeached (for the first time) after pressuring Zelensky to dig up damaging information about Trump’s political rival Joe Biden. He and his Ukrainian counterpart had a shouting match at the White House early in Trump’s second term, causing the U.S. to briefly withhold intelligence. Since then, Zelensky has tried to flatter Trump to stay on his good side, but those niceties have vanished as the American president has demanded that Ukraine pick a new leader.
Many of those in Trump’s orbit are unsympathetic to Ukraine’s plight and see the war not as a battle for the modern, rules-based world order—with its cardinal tenet prohibiting the seizure of land by force—but as an impediment to future business deals with Russia, some of which could enrich members of the president’s inner circle. Pushing Ukraine into taking a deal, even if that means it has to give up its claim on the Donbas, would open up avenues to dealmaking on Russia’s diesel, rare-earth minerals, and other resources. Zelensky has balked at any territorial concessions. “Our worry is that they are looking at this as a new Yalta Conference, to divide the world into spheres of influence,” another Ukrainian official told us.
Trump’s ideal timeline for some sort of Russia-Ukraine peace agreement, as we reported last week, would be in December at the G20 summit. That bit of history, were it to occur, would take place at one of Trump’s own properties. In Trump’s first term, he pushed to host the 2020 G7 at his golf course in Doral, just outside of Miami. But Trump abandoned the idea amid bipartisan blowback over his plan to personally profit off the event.
This time, there has been nary a Republican whimper of protest about Trump’s venue choice, but some have lodged complaints about the president’s other idea for the summit: to invite Putin. The Russian leader has yet to agree to show up, but if he does, it would be the first time he has attended a multilateral summit in a Western country since his invasion of Ukraine. It would allow him to take another step in shedding his status as an international pariah, though it is hard to imagine that European leaders are eager to talk with Putin.
Zelensky, who has already committed to attending the G20, has made clear that he would be willing to sit down with Putin, no matter the venue, to work out an agreement to end the war. If Trump has his way over the next eight weeks, it might be not a negotiation, but a capitulation.
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Many people are understandably focused on the question of how AI will transform our civilization. Will it cure cancer? Will it end world hunger? Will it hack everyone’s bank accounts and incubate the next pandemic? But those who are already profiting from this technological revolution also have a more immediate concern. Their problem is—to paraphrase one of my favorite lines from Scarface—what to do with all the cash.
Over the past few days, two of America’s most prominent AI leaders have offered proposals for returning some of the spoils of the AI boom to the public. On Sunday, Anthropic announced that it would set aside 5 percent of the company’s stock in a new LLC—the Anthropic Public Benefit Fund—to be spent on causes it deems to be in the public’s interest. More stock may be added as the company becomes more valuable. If the company goes public at its current projected valuation of $1.5 trillion, the fund could hold $75 billion, making it one of the largest charities on the planet. (For context, the Gates Foundation Trust had about $89 billion in it at the end of last year.) Elon Musk, a centibillionaire and a longtime skeptic of traditional philanthropy, criticized the move and tried to one-up it, writing on X that he’d be giving one share of SpaceX to “every kid in America.” According to The New York Times’ back-of-the-napkin math, this could end up being a donation of more than $10 billion.
What AI’s biggest winners decide to do with their money could have profound consequences for how Americans live their lives. The birth of modern AI may turn out to be the biggest wealth-creation event in human history, yet most Americans are feeling those effects indirectly. AI is making some people’s jobs easier and driving innovation, but it isn’t hitting everyone’s personal finances equally, and almost half of U.S. adults think the technology will widen the gap between the rich and the poor. Musk and Anthropic are now laying out two different visions for AI-driven philanthropy—raising thorny questions about the level of control that the investor class will exert over our shared future.
The first and most obvious question for Anthropic: What if the company’s understanding of the “public good” doesn’t line up with the public’s wants or needs? Anthropic’s leaders, Dario and Daniela Amodei, have already committed to giving away most of their own personal wealth, and Dario has written on his blog about the kinds of philanthropy he admires. The Gates Foundation and PEPFAR, President George W. Bush’s public initiative for global AIDS relief, are both on his list. But how the firm’s leaders will actually decide to apportion these gifts remains somewhat nebulous. A press release for Anthropic’s fund lists “large donations to traditional nonprofits” and “direct distributions to specific populations” as examples of possible projects. Another stated goal is to remediate the effects of a massive, AI-driven labor-market transformation—an ironic instance of a company trying to solve a problem it helped create.
As many politicians and even AI corporations themselves have argued, this tech is powerful enough, and potentially such an important part of the global economy, that the wealth it creates may merit some degree of public control. Last October, as one possible plan for reckoning with the economic consequences of AI, Anthropic floated the idea of using “sovereign wealth funds to give citizens stakes in AI revenues.” (OpenAI’s leaders have also reportedly considered giving 5 percent of the company to the government.) At least for now, though, the Anthropic Public Benefit Fund isn’t giving anyone outside of the company a stake. And the fact that it won’t be a 501(c)(3), like the Gates Foundation, means that it won’t have to deal with the kinds of mandatory financial disclosures that are meant to keep charitable organizations maximally transparent. A democratic way to approach this project would be for the government to aggressively tax the company and decide for itself how to spend the money. Not every American agrees with their government representatives’ approach to resource allocation, but at least in the public sector, the people have a voice.
Although Musk’s path is also billionaire-led, it gives Americans a much more direct stake. Donald Trump clarified yesterday that Musk’s donation, if it happens, would use the country’s new child-savings accounts (known as “Trump Accounts”) as a vehicle. Rather than earmarking shares for a self-sustaining charitable foundation, Musk would be effectively cutting out the middleman, giving American children a piece of the company that houses his biggest AI bets. It would likely be a smaller total donation than Anthropic’s; one share per child may not turn out to be all that much money in the long run. And Trump Accounts aren’t a perfect dispersal mechanism; parents can’t reject donated shares, and they can’t immediately sell them. Once account holders turn 18, though, they can spend Musk’s gift on whatever they want.
Musk, like other tech billionaires, has questioned traditional modes of philanthropy. He knows that the public knows that giving can be an expression of power and control—a way to rehabilitate a donor’s image or provide political insulation for the donor and his enterprises. Musk may be getting something out of this too. If more people own a little chunk of the AI economy, will they start to become more receptive to data centers and other Big Tech interventions? The donation could also give recipients a reason to be less critical of Musk and his businesses; people with a stake in the company might be more inclined to tolerate unscrupulous behavior. Still, if he can follow through on his approach (and especially if he continues to donate AI stock, as he hinted in his post yesterday), his gift could have a real impact.
When SpaceX was about to go public earlier this year, my colleague Matteo Wong observed that “by weaving itself into the finances of most businesses and households in America, the AI industry is quickly making itself too big to fail.” AI is already deeply embedded in our life: in the businesses we interact with, in the pension funds and 401(k)s around which we plan our future. These massive donations, which represent a deviation from tech-industry norms, could reshape society for the better. But if the public comes to rely on Anthropic’s investments or on direct payouts from SpaceX, it’ll need to start caring even more about how well these companies perform. Public welfare needn’t be contingent on the whims of a few powerful firms; so much else already is.
Former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg is donating roughly $80 million to support Democrats in the midterm elections, and is focused on helping the party win control of the House. Meanwhile, the Republican National Committee is transferring $50 million to groups supporting Republican House and Senate candidates.
The United Kingdom announced that it will deploy Royal Air Force fighter jets to Saudi Arabia to defend against missile and drone attacks by the Iran-backed Houthis in Yemen. The jets will protect Saudi cities and infrastructure but will not conduct offensive strikes inside Yemen, British officials said.
Elon Musk ordered restrictions on Ukraine’s military-grade Starlink service last week, disrupting drone operations and air defenses,according to The Wall Street Journal. Musk reportedly discussed the decision, and President Trump said he did not know who was responsible for the move.
Dispatches
The Weekly Planet: The Trump administration has mandated that federal firefighters pursue a policy of “full suppression” on every wildfire, Joshua Partlow reports. He explores the sometimes fatal dangers of this aggressive approach.
Illustration by Adam Maida / The Atlantic. Source: Michael Kovac / Getty.
Theranos-Style Fraud Has Become the Norm
By Idrees Kahloon
Perhaps Elizabeth Holmes was simply ahead of her time: Today, the Theranos founder’s crimes look less notorious amid a pervasive culture of grift and graft.
Her biotechnology company infamously promised to revolutionize medicine by conducting hundreds of tests on mere pinpricks of blood. A decade after it fell into disgrace, and three years after she began serving her 11-year federal-prison sentence for defrauding investors of hundreds of millions of dollars, Holmes is the subject of a new documentary. You Can See Everything, directed by Lance Oppenheim and Nathan Fielder, came about because Holmes and her partner, the hotel heir Billy Evans, invited Fielder, a surrealist sketch comedian, to live with them just before she went to prison. They allowed him to film whatever he saw. The result is unsettling, because Holmes’s placid indifference toward the truth has become more familiar than it was when Theranos unraveled.
Reflect. Lego’s overt outreach to an adult market has changed the nature of its products, Sophia Nguyen reports. She explores what the company lost when it grew up.
It was fitting that, just hours after the first public screenings of the Elizabeth Holmes documentary began last Thursday, Elon Musk put on a show of his own.
That night, in Texas, Musk unveiled the company’s new Roadster prototype, a car that would defy gravity. Tesla built what was roughly one-half of a roller-coaster loop, which the Roadster climbed before momentarily hanging upside down and then executing a controlled flip and gliding down to Earth. The demo worked. In another stunt, it did a barrel roll over a semi-truck. Each maneuver was powered by air thrusters that guided the car to a soft landing.
The demo was impressive. But watching the clips, I could feel my brain struggling to process what I was being shown. Was this real? The car did climb vertically, flip, and land. But Musk, who has built wildly successful companies, is also famously prone to outlandish claims that don’t always pan out. I couldn’t help but wonder what, if anything, Tesla’s demonstration or Musk had elided. “This will be an actual car that’s on the roads,” Musk said. He got the flying-car headlines he wanted, but will this car actually be released? There are already reasons to doubt it: The car displayed on Thursday won’t be in production until at least 2028, and it features 10 thrusters powered by 600 liters of compressed air. The flying version of the Roadster will be sold “invite-only.” Its price tag is likely to be astronomical. And so Musk isn’t exactly lying here. Rather, he’s making bold proclamations and asking people to take his pledge to deliver as an article of faith.
Less than 48 hours later, I found myself sitting in a crowded theater, watching the new documentary You Can See Everything, about the disgraced and convicted founder of Theranos, Elizabeth Holmes, and her husband, Billy Evans. In one scene, Holmes and Evans are hurriedly trying to court investors and research talent to build out what they refer to as Theranos 2.0. This scene is arguably the only time in the film where the duo don’t appear to be filled with existential dread. During phone calls and Zoom meetings, they spit out jargon and look earnestly excited about what they can build if they “get the band back together.” At the end of the sequence, Holmes is asked about why she’s spending her last days with her family building a company, and she responds that this is what she’s meant to be doing here on Earth. It is one of the few moments where I confidently believe her. Whatever she earnestly believes about her own guilt, it seems clear that her identity is inextricably tied to her notion that she is, in Silicon Valley parlance, a builder: a high-agency, visionary type with a remarkable risk tolerance who makes things and isn’t afraid to fail, because she has a monomaniacal obsession with pushing the bounds of what’s possible.
The film, which had the biggest opening for a documentary in more than 20 years, is extremely well suited to a post-truth era. The co-directors, Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim, bury the audience with unreliable narration such that, when you get to the end, you feel like a participant in the film. It also left me exhilarated, slightly repulsed, and feeling as if I was going insane. In that way, the documentary replicates what it’s like to navigate the informational hall of mirrors we all inhabit. But what I found most bracing about the film—more so than the supposed unknowability of anyone or anything—is how Holmes’s act and affect do not feel like an aberration in 2026. In fact, her behavior embodies the current ethos of Silicon Valley.
When she built Theranos, Holmes was a college dropout with boundless ambitions who styled herself after Steve Jobs. Jobs famously said things such as “People don’t know what they want until you show it to them,” and Holmes, like Jobs, projected the aura of a person ready to pull the future into the present by any means necessary. Jobs routinely delivered on these promises, and kept many projects secret until they were ready for the masses. Holmes did the opposite, offering a fantastical version of a product that did not exist, obscuring the actual capabilities and lying about the financials. She wasn’t alone; over time, the idea of the builder became more synonymous with a founder’s ideas, charisma, and salesmanship than with the products themselves. “I watched countless founders of hard tech companies present fraudulent products at conferences,” Nikita Bier, a tech entrepreneur who was recently Elon Musk’s head of product at X, wrote on the platform this weekend in response to the documentary. “They had fake studies with fudged numbers. Most of the adults in the room excused it as ‘faking it ‘til you make it.’”
Holmes’s high-profile failure and the collapse of Theranos in 2018 didn’t kill the builder archetype. If anything, the very structure of Silicon Valley became more deeply intertwined with the builder mindset. Fake it ’til you make it (provided it isn’t outright fraud) is a necessary outcome of an industry that’s funded by venture capitalists, who often make strategic bets on projects so early in development that the products are still hypothetical. And so VCs threw unfathomable money at promising but half-baked ideas in the hopes of fabulous payouts. Failures were overlooked, even celebrated as necessary or teachable moments—honorable proof of being a “man in the arena.” In 2022, after Sam Bankman-Fried’s crypto empire was revealed to be an elaborate Ponzi scheme, the writer John Ganz argued that, in an industry built on big bets, the line between frauds and visionaries becomes difficult to suss out until everything implodes. “This is the Fyre Festival era of capitalism: outlandish promises and then a ludicrous debacle.”
Much of that rush to invest has been driven by a culture progressively gripped by the fear of missing out on the next industry-shaking payout. Untold billions were poured into crypto, then NFTs, Web3, and the ill-fated metaverse. In crypto, rug-pulling scams and Ponzi schemes abounded; its boosters said things such as “Have fun staying poor.” Today we’re living through what many suggest could be an AI bubble, and the same mentality persists. Have fun staying poor has been replaced with the idea of a “permanent underclass” of people who failed to get in early and now stand to lose their economic viability, and potentially their human agency altogether. Like Theranos, crypto, and NFTs, the AI industry is defined by claims of its inevitability and its future power (to be certain, chatbots and coding agents are real and powerful in ways the other technologies were not). In this way, AI is a faith-based technology; one’s desire to work on it, bet the success of the global economy on it, love it, or fear its End Times powers is typically predicated on what one can imagine it might become.
The past eight years have warped the tech industry to the point that it can feel untethered from the constraints of reality. You can see it in headlines everywhere if you’re looking. On Saturday, an Anthropic co-founder, Jack Clark, suggested that the U.S. GDP could jump in the next four years from about $30 trillion to $44 trillion thanks to rapid AI-driven progress in many industries. This would be one of the largest periods of growth in U.S. history, a prediction based on nothing more than the most “extreme parameter setting” of an Anthropic economic model the company released this fall. You can see it in the IPO prospectuses for a company like SpaceX, which includes in its ambitions the goal to “extend the light of consciousness to the stars” and initiatives such as asteroid mining and space tourism. And earlier this month, Musk noted that “this will sound super crazy, but I see a path to SpaceX being worth orders of magnitude more than the current Earth economy.” You could call all these claims tech optimism or, as the famed venture capitalist Marc Andreessen wrote in his 2023 manifesto, necessary for the “glory of human ambition and achievement, the spearhead of progress, and the realization of our potential.” You could also call it speculative fiction.
About halfway through the film, Holmes heads to prison and the documentary shifts to focus on Billy Evans, the man with whom Holmes has two children. With Holmes in prison, Evans has become her unreliable narrator. He is, as others have noted, also a helpful lens to understand the transformation of Silicon Valley. Evans has seemingly embraced Musk and Andreessen’s brand of vice signaling. We see him shooting guns, extolling Charlie Kirk, and lashing out at people on X under the cloak of anonymity (posting as Holmes, using her X account). He makes grandiose claims about his new company but seems embittered and incapable of submitting to hard questions about it. The veneer of excitement that the couple project in the Theranos 2.0 montage is replaced by a paranoia and resentment that people, including possibly Fielder, might be trying to take him down.
It all made me wonder how Silicon Valley might respond to Theranos’s collapse if it were happening today. Reactionary types in the industry might rally around Holmes, insisting that she was too early or needed more time. They might attack the press more forcefully for trying to bring her down (Holmes and Theranos did try to retaliate against whistleblowers and the reporter who broke the story). Trust in traditional media is even lower now than it was back then, and Silicon Valley has a robust ecosystem of very popular, industry-friendly podcasts and creators who could champion Holmes’s narrative. Evans, for instance, appeared last week on the popular All-In podcast. X is now owned by Musk. The truth takes longer to come out; in some cases, it might feel almost irrelevant. The universal outrage that Theranos sparked in 2015, when news first emerged that something was deeply wrong, sounds quaint now.
“When people ask how she got so far, it’s largely explained by the period she did it in,” Bier wrote in his X post about Holmes. “And she got caught when the world suddenly woke up.” I agree with the first part of Bier’s statement and take issue with the second. The brand of delusion that defined Holmes and the twisted epistemological game that You Can See Everything showcases is still deeply embedded in the industry. None of this is to suggest that everyone in Silicon Valley is engaged in rampant, Theranos-like provable fraud. But today’s entrepreneurs are emboldened to make even more outlandish claims about the future, and it’s more difficult than ever to parse what is real, what is knowingly fake, and what is being offered in good or bad faith.
In response to Bier’s post, Jason Calacanis, an investor and a co-host of All-In,noted that there was “much truth” to Bier’s explanation before he offered a rebuttal befitting a true builder—AI will soon solve the Theranos problem: “In the next ten years, a blood testing product will emerge that will make folks go, ‘See, @ElizabethHolmes was just 20 years too early!’”
The builder is never wrong. If anything, they are just early. The future is coming. Just have faith.
At 8 p.m. on Sunday night, President Emmanuel Macron delivered a national address to condemn the rioting and looting that convulsed France this weekend, from Brittany to Perpignan. His suit and tie were black, instead of his customary navy blue, and he denounced the “seditionists from far-left fringe groups, joined by many criminals, engaged in unbridled violence in our cities.” He decried the grotesque destruction—crystallized in the viral image of a fire consuming the 19th-century wooden roof of the town hall in Limoges—and the methodical sacking of businesses. “Rien ne le justifie, rien ne l’explique, rien ne l’excuse,” he said: Nothing justifies it, nothing explains it, nothing excuses it. Macron acknowledged legitimate concerns about education and the cost of living, distinguished between peaceful protesters and rioters, and called for prosecutions while instructing prefects to consider banning mass gatherings.
It sounded good. But as I was watching Macron live from New York, I called my children in Paris and heard the giddy chaos—the shouts and cheering—still vibrating through the streets below their open window. They told me that some of the stores beneath their apartment were being ransacked as the president was speaking. I had to push from my mind the appalling thought that these rioters might climb into the building’s residential upper levels. Words aren’t enough anymore.
Slowly, the French authorities are starting to grasp that. “The day of disorder and violence that we have just experienced in France is one day too many,” Bruno Le Maire, a former government minister under Macron, wrote on X on Saturday, when there were roughly 2,400 arrests and 1,000 police officers and gendarmes injured, seven of them grievously. At least 3,000 businesses were damaged or looted over the weekend. Yesterday, Prime Minister Sébastien Lecornu announced “localized” curfews in Paris and other cities across the country, which is a start. Today, Lecornu added that the military would be deployed this weekend, when further protests are planned. These interventions are welcome. But if the government cannot restore peace quickly, then a state of emergency is the only sane option.
The “internal decay” besetting France, as my friend the writer Pascal Bruckner phrased it, piggybacks on other, more intelligible causes. Some of the protests began in response to genuine grievances about France’s underfunded schools and exorbitant cost of living. But they have since turned into paroxysms of disdain for healthy civic life—nothing more cerebral, nothing to do with policy. “The high-school students’ cause died on Saturday, October 17,” Bruckner wrote in Le Figaro. “It will not recover, however legitimate its original demands may have been.”
An investigation published in Le Parisien yesterday concurs with Bruckner, suggesting that the recent violence is detached from the educational grievances that originally sparked the student protests. The paper reports that according to French intelligence sources, there is an alliance de circonstance between organized ultra-left militants and a larger group of young people from the banlieues encircling major urban areas, many of whom were not politically engaged and likely never expressed an interest in the movement’s original demands. Some of these insurgents sought confrontation with the state before the scheduled demonstrations even began. Others merely took the opportunity to stuff their pockets and watch their country burn.
These past weeks of pandemonium have driven home for me that no society, not even a society as generous and in many ways enlightened as France’s, can make life sweet enough for angry young men. Nihilists of the kind we’ve seen flood the streets of France from coast to coast will never uphold their end of the social contract, no matter how beautifully it is drafted. This is the essence of Tocqueville’s famous paradox: As societies become more equal—and few societies strive to be more egalitarian than France, thanks to heavy taxation of the rich and a generous social safety net—any perceived or remaining inequalities become intolerable.
The rioters in France are not political actors expressing the “language of the unheard,” but nihilists rebelling against the very idea of a collective national life. Whether their stated justification is racism, Islamophobia, neoliberalism, or something else, they are agents of chaos and spite, lashing out against their productive, decent neighbors, perhaps precisely because those neighbors are productive and decent. And so they burn, shatter, and humiliate the symbols of the established order.
Official government estimates place the number of protesters at more than 500,000. Images from last weekend showed patrols of police forces overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the pillaging. The Macron administration was drastically underprepared for the size of the rebellion and now faces an impossible situation. Any confrontation or escalation risks providing the protesters with a martyr; if that victim comes from a marginalized demographic, the conflagration could spark a full-fledged riot.
But the alternative—appeasement—is equally unacceptable. The state cannot expect its law-abiding citizens—the majority of the population, which includes the peaceful protesters—to accept its repeated failures to safeguard them and their livelihoods. A people’s ability to move freely, conduct business, and come and go from their homes through streets that are neither dangerous nor desecrated is a fundamental right. The cost of indulging the anarchists, looters, and rioters who infiltrate mass movements has fallen on the rest of France, who never consented to cover it.
“We are six months away from our presidential election,” Macron reminded the country toward the end of his speech. “And so all those who are telling you today that the urgent thing is to take to the streets—to demonstrate, to create disorder—have only one goal: to damage the republic and hijack the debate.”
He’s correct. But if Macron is unable to contain these forces, which seek to push the political debate into flame-scorched streets and schools and places of business, then he will be handing votes to the far-right leaders who have promised to do so.
Donald Trump is treating the championship golf course he wants to build in Washington, D.C., with the gravity of an actual emergency. He has posted on Truth Social about the course at least 15 times in the past few days, including a dozen posts around 1 a.m. this morning. He wrote yesterday that work “is scheduled to begin IMMEDIATELY!” And the Trump administration has brought in a team of senior Justice Department lawyers, including the agency’s third in command, to defend its actions in court. Last week, when Katie Zacharia praised Trump after he fired her as press secretary, a photo she posted contained a blurred-out map on Trump’s desk of what appeared to be the golf site. It is literally at the top of Trump’s pile.
A golf-course renovation is probably not the big priority you’d expect from the president just two weeks before the midterm elections, where his party will face voters who are frustrated by high prices and dislike his many vanity projects. But Trump doesn’t seem concerned that he may be risking another Reflecting Pool scandal at a high-stakes moment. On Sunday, he posted design plans for his PGA-worthy golf course. Right before a hearing yesterday, he called the federal judge presiding over a case about the golf course a “crazed lunatic” and claimed that the Interior Department could go ahead with his plan with no approval.
Trump has pushed to glam up the municipal golf course in East Potomac Park near the National Mall for months, insisting in June that work would begin on “one of the Greatest Golf Courses anywhere in the World” on September 1. But starting such a project is more complicated than such a timeline would imply. The entire park is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and would be subject to extensive bureaucratic reviews.
On October 10, the National Park Service, with little notice, cut down more than 400 trees, leaving the timber piled up in the middle of the course and setting off fears among locals that the president planned to blow through the usual red tape and start building. But preservationists and two golfers had sued over the pending changes earlier this year. So it was back to court. There, the government said that the tree removals are part of a 2019 plan to restore the course to its historic state, even though the plan is seven years old and there was no rush before. Ana C. Reyes, the judge in the case, has been skeptical that overgrown vegetation in the park suddenly became urgent enough to necessitate removal over a holiday weekend, especially because it coincided with Trump’s pressure over the course. Reyes insisted yesterday that this could not be a coincidence.
“Both can be true,” a lawyer for the government told Reyes.
“No,” Reyes replied. “Both cannot be true. We’re not dealing with quantum physics here.”
Meanwhile, the design plans that Trump posted have sparked anger among the many locals who use East Potomac Park for recreation. The map appears to remove Ohio Drive, a popular running and cycling route, and to extend the golf course to the man-made island’s perimeter, removing space for picnickers and fishers; it also replaces the park’s three affordable golf courses (one 18-hole and two nine-holes) with a single, pro-level 18-hole course. Even the famous cherry-blossom trees there seem to be at risk of removal. The renovation would significantly shrink who is able to use a place Congress designated in 1897 “to be forever held and used as a park for the recreation and pleasure of the people.”
To get to the bottom of who ordered the tree removals and for what purpose, Reyes called in several Interior and Park Service officials to testify yesterday during a hearing that stretched some seven hours. She wanted to make sense of the contradiction between the government’s position—that this was routine work, not part of any championship-golf-course plan—and Trump’s public statements.
The entire affair has been dizzying. According to Trump’s recent posts, work on the new golf course is ready to begin, the golf architect Tom Fazio has a design, Interior Secretary Doug Burgum is “very excited,” and the park will soon be closed for its big makeover. If you ask the Department of Justice, as Reyes did, Trump’s golf-course plan has not been finalized. There has been no “final agency action,” DOJ lawyers argue, meaning that according to the Administrative Procedure Act, the plan cannot yet be scrutinized in court. Fazio has no contract with the government, they said, and there are not yet official plans to close the park. Still, a DOJ lawyer asserted, when pressed by the judge, that Trump’s statements are not incorrect but can be compared to executive orders that are then interpreted by agencies in ways that are consistent with the law. (On Truth Social, Trump also added that “any variance or changes will be made, depending on site conditions, by the Experts in Parks and Recreation, whose experience and knowledge in Seawalls, Landscaping, and Design are second to none.”)
If this seems confusing, that’s because it is. In a summer hearing for the case, Reyes likened the government’s stance to Schrodinger’s cat. Trump’s golf course is somehow simultaneously being built and not being built. Yesterday’s hearings captured the absurdity of the situation and the acrobatics the government seemingly must perform to defend a president who wants what he wants.
Trump has focused on renovation projects with an unprecedented intensity during his second term, working to put his stamp on the nation’s capital in arch, ballroom, and sculpture-garden form. The golf course is unique, though, in that it deals not with the widely known part of Washington’s monumental landscape but with a space people use in their everyday life.
The government has downplayed its golf-course efforts in court; in a filing on Sunday, DOJ lawyers likened the changes to East Potomac to redesigning “all the art exhibits in a Smithsonian Museum” and claimed that they’re relatively minor. Reyes didn’t buy that in court yesterday. Changing the layout of an entire historic golf course is not like changing exhibits, she said; it’s like tearing down an entire museum and building a new one.
The lawsuit has gotten heated at times. Government lawyers have tried and failed to have Reyes taken off the case, asserting in a court filing that “no reasonable observer could consider Judge Reyes sufficiently impartial to adjudicate this case.” Yesterday, she appeared especially careful, sustaining a number of objections from the government to her questions. After a more pointed exchange, she insisted that a government lawyer tell her whether she was yelling. The lawyer said that the question would be very difficult to answer.
Foreshadowing the government’s arguments, White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Miller wrote on X last week that “I missed the part of the Constitutional Convention that put federal judges in charge of golf-course maintenance.” (Reyes had not actually barred routine work on the course; rather, she’d requested notice of “major developments.”)
As the hearing wound down, Reyes noted that during the final break, she had received worried texts from her mother and brother about reported death threats against her. Then she, like Miller, invoked the early days of the republic. A federal judge receiving threats over a golf course, she said, is probably not what the Founding Fathers envisioned.
On October 14, the publisher Faber & Faber announced that it would stop selling books by the Irish novelist Sally Rooney in the United Kingdom. Rooney has declared her intention to donate her earnings to a group called Palestine Action, which was banned last year by the British government. Her publisher concluded that it could not continue to pay royalties that would end up in the hands of a registered terrorist organization. “To sell a writer’s work and not be able to pass on earnings is an unconscionable situation for a publisher,” Faber said in a statement. “As such, and in full agreement with Sally, we have taken the decision that we can no longer supply her works in the UK in any format.” Almost immediately, international best sellers such as Normal People and Conversations With Friends began to disappear from the shelves of British bookstores.
Because of Rooney’s fame as both a “voice of her generation” and a pro-Palestinian activist, Faber’s decision provoked an outcry among advocates of the Palestinian cause, defenders of free expression, and writers and readers. But Rooney’s books haven’t been banned. Rather, their author, an Irish citizen, has decided to challenge the law of a foreign country, the United Kingdom. Britain’s 2000 Terrorism Act makes it a crime if a person “provides money or other property” and “knows or has reasonable cause to suspect that it will or may be used for the purposes of terrorism.” In this expansive language, the publisher would be on the hook along with its star author.
By promising her royalties to Palestine Action, Rooney has forced her publisher’s hand—the key phrase in Faber’s brief statement is “in full agreement with Sally.” Faber could have tested the law in court, as courageous publishers have done in other cases, but it took a more direct course in cooperation with Rooney. No doubt she knows what she’s doing. She must have anticipated the storm of indignant editorials, social-media posts, and open letters that has followed the withdrawal of her books. At considerable cost to herself and her publisher, she’s using her cultural power to draw attention to the ban on Palestine Action and embarrass the British government into reversing it. This is not a story of literary censorship, but one of civil disobedience for political ends.
If Rooney had earmarked her royalties for Hamas, there would be nothing more to say—she would deserve the wrath of a reasonable law. But Palestine Action isn’t Hamas; nor is it the Hilltop Youth, the movement of violent West Bank settlers. It’s a loosely organized “direct action” group of pro-Palestinian British activists whose immediate goal is to interrupt the transfer of weapons to Israel, and whose tactics amount to vandalism of property. In the summer of 2025, members broke into a Royal Air Force base in Oxfordshire and sprayed red paint on a pair of military planes, which provoked Britain’s Labour government into designating Palestine Action a terrorist organization.
Other acts have been less spectacular but, in some ways, more vile. Vandals defaced and smashed the windows of a Jewish-owned investment business in an Orthodox neighborhood of North London because of its supposed ties to a weapons manufacturer. Thieves announced that they had stolen two busts of Chaim Weizmann, the first president of Israel, from the University of Manchester, where he had once been a senior lecturer in chemistry. They beheaded one, and when a pro-Israel group offered $10,000 for the busts’ return, they proposed sending an amputated ear in exchange for the money. “First bust of Weizmann is dead,” Palestine Action posted on X. “Soon, his Zionist project will be too.” (The second bust turned out to be that of a different chemist.) So far, the group has seriously harmed one flesh-and-blood human being, when a member swung a sledgehammer at a kneeling police sergeant and fractured her back during a break-in at a weapons factory.
Sally Rooney’s favored activists play at being terrorists, but in fact they’re merely criminal and, by almost any definition, anti-Semitic. Britain already has laws that can deal with them. To lump Palestine Action with the Islamic State and al-Qaeda makes the word terrorism almost meaningless. Even worse, the Terrorism Act has been amended so broadly that anyone who “expresses an opinion or belief that is supportive of a proscribed organization” in a “reckless” way could get arrested. As a result, hundreds of protesters—white-haired pensioners and vicars as well as keffiyeh-muffled fellow travelers—have been detained in the past year just for holding up placards that say I Oppose Genocide. I Support Palestine Action. This absurdity shows up in a recent report from Britain’s Home Office: There were “3,867 arrests for terrorism-related activity in the year ending June 2026”—an increase of 1,553 percent over the previous year, before Palestine Action was banned.
If the withdrawal from sale of Rooney’s immensely popular novels can persuade the British Parliament to amend the law and expand the permissible speech of political activists, she will have done a service for freedom of expression. But there’s no reason to believe that this is her aim, or that she even cares very much about free speech. Rooney has become a prominent advocate—the literary name and face—for the cultural boycott of Israel, including those writers and publishers who fail to meet her exacting criteria for total separation from the state where they were born and live. She refused to allow her most recent books to be translated into Hebrew until she found an Israeli publisher that supports the boycott movement.
The purpose of a boycott is to ostracize its targets—to make it difficult or impossible for them to carry on a normal public existence. For writers, this means to be silenced. The only test of a commitment to free speech is the speech of people you disagree with, dislike, even despise. It’s a test that Rooney doesn’t pass and seems to have no interest in passing. Palestine Action should be undesignated as a terrorist organization; its vandals should be prosecuted under ordinary laws; its supporters should be allowed to hold up placards; Rooney’s books should be stocked, sold, and read. But she shouldn’t be turned into a martyr for a principle in which she herself has no real belief.
Donald Trump Jr. had a simple vision for his father’s foreign policy during the 2024 presidential campaign: If elected, Donald Trump was going to keep America out of another war in the Middle East.
“Remember when they said Trump would get us into a full-blown war with Iran?” he wrote on X that April, as Iran launched a barrage of missiles and drones toward Israel. “Times like these should make us all realize how lucky we were to have Trump, his strength and his resolve.”
Two and a half years later, the president has enmeshed the United States in a full-blown war with Iran—and Trump Jr. isn’t happy about it.
Trump Jr. has repeatedly voiced his opposition to the ongoing Iran war in private conversations, two people who have spoken directly with him about the conflict told us. The president’s son, these people said, opposed the war from its outset and made his opposition known to his father. He has long been skeptical of foreign intervention, these people told us, and believed the U.S. should not enter another Middle East war. Trump Jr. was also especially close to Charlie Kirk, the late conservative activist, who had broken with the Trump administration to oppose the war in Iran.
“Don has kept his views on the subject private, as he would never publicly break with his dad on an issue like this, but I can’t imagine anyone who knows Don would be surprised by his personal views on the subject,” a person close to the president’s son told us. A spokesman for Trump Jr. declined to comment. The White House didn’t respond to questions about Trump Jr.’s position on the war, and an official said in a statement, “Iran has been decimated, and one way or the other, the conflict in Iran will be over very soon.”
The White House’s decision to ally with Israel against Tehran has exposed a deepening rift within MAGA—not just over Iran, but also over what “America First” actually means. The divide pits nationalists who see foreign wars as a betrayal of domestic priorities against hawks who argue that American power must be wielded more aggressively against its adversaries. For years, the two camps coexisted under Trump’s promise of strength without the cost of another major war. Iran has made that balancing act harder to sustain. “Don Jr. is the most MAGA of them all,” one of the people who spoke with him about his opposition to the Iran war told us.
Even within the administration, some of the president’s closest advisers, including Vice President Vance, have voiced private opposition to the war as they deliberated whether to join Israel in its military campaign. Others, including CIA Director John Ratcliffe and Secretary of State Marco Rubio, were skeptical of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s initial pitch in February that a regime-change operation—particularly one conducted from the air—was remotely realistic.
The political costs are mounting. A Pew Research Center survey conducted over the past month found that 65 percent of Americans disapproved of Trump’s handling of the Iran operation, compared with 33 percent who approved. Republican approval fell from 69 percent in March to 63 percent. Nearly half of Americans expected the conflict to drag on for more than a year—far beyond the administration’s initial estimate of about four to six weeks.
The economic consequences have sharpened the political fallout. Rising gas prices, driven by disruptions to the energy markets, are squeezing already strained household budgets. The midterm elections will test whether Republicans can defend a war that many voters oppose, while convincing those same voters that the administration is focused on their economic concerns. Republican candidates have been forced to defend a war with immense costs and an uncertain conclusion—one that the president initiated without congressional approval.
Trump Jr.’s private opposition offers yet another reminder that doubts about the war are not confined to the president’s critics or the fringes of the Republican Party. It also points to a deeper sentiment within the president’s base that he has betrayed key campaign promises: to avoid foreign wars and to make life more affordable for the average American.
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“There are some reasons to be president,” Donald Trump mused at a rally in Georgia earlier this month. Take a wild guess what these might be. The cool armored car? Custody of the nuclear button? The opportunities for immense corruption? Wrong. The leader of the free world was referring to the joy of living in a house guarded by “big, strong, handsome soldiers.” Under Joe Biden, soldiers were not allowed to be hot, because of woke. Even worse, some of them were girls.
Yes, after two grinding years of governance, Trump is back in his happy place, out on the campaign trail, voicing whichever disconnected thoughts crackle and fizz through his frontal cortex. His favorite rhetorical theme lately is an unexpected one: the official presidential dreamboat rankings. In multiple rallies, Trump has gone on and on about the relative hotness of male politicians, soldiers, and even protesters. As a result, people on the internet have diagnosed him with a novel medical condition: gay dementia. After putting in a solid shift in the heterosexuality mines, has the former beauty-pageant proprietor now become so disinhibited that he can no longer repress his thirst for man-flesh?
A less salacious explanation might be that the president has always refined his speeches based on audience feedback, and he’s discovered that his hot-guy material absolutely kills. In 2024, he kept going on about “the late, great Hannibal Lecter” and whether being electrocuted is preferable to being eaten by a shark, simply because the crowds enjoyed those riffs. Today the MAGA faithful get a transgressive thrill from hearing a man put into office by Christian conservatives deliver homoerotic stylings on male beauty. Calling women hot would read as creepy, and might remind audiences of the sexual-assault allegations against Trump, or the locker-room gaucheness of “grab ’em by the pussy.” But lusting after men is good, clean fun, and after a decade pushing the limits of outrageous behavior, here is a taboo that Trump can harmlessly break. Which Democrat is going to mock a guy for being a little bit swishy? Stephen Miller will not dare whisper to his boss: Sir, you know that we keep snidely implying that James Talarico is secretly gay? Your obvious love of buff soldiers is giving—mixed messages.
Enough of the serious chin-stroking electoral analysis, though. You want to hear which men America’s greatest president considers to be stone-cold babes. Step forward, Jon Husted of Ohio, with your glorious, rippling glutes and your valiant crusade against energy-efficient dishwashers. At a campaign stop for the Republican Senate nominee in Dayton, Trump discovered that Husted used to be a star football player. Naturally, the president looked for evidence of this in Husted’s buttocks—the windows to the soul. As he later told a crowd in Youngstown: “I don’t do this with men very often.” (A lie.) “I started examining his body because I didn’t know he was a great athlete. And I looked and I watched up and down. I looked at his ass.” The crowd laughed, which encouraged Trump to add that he also admired Husted’s hands, which he said were “like claws.”
Days later in Kentucky, Trump returned to the theme of Husted’s badonkadonk. “I examined his ass, and then I looked at his shoulders. I looked at his feet. I looked at his hand. I looked at his jawline,” he told the crowd. “I then patted him on the shoulder, and it was like a piece of steel. I’m still recovering.” The Ohio candidate had gained “nine or 10 points since I talked about that,” he said. (Also a lie.)
Trump has always had a weakness for a photogenic guy. He reportedly chose members of his Cabinet, such as Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, after seeing how good they looked on television. He’s long made a habit of singling out attractive men in his audiences, entreating the rest of the crowd to join in his appreciation. (“Get up here, please. I want to see,” he told a muscled young man at a Coast Guard ceremony this spring.) Back in February, the president described a “very powerful” steel-factory owner who was so grateful for his policies that “he said, ‘Sir, I want to kiss you so badly.’” In May, my colleague Ashley Parker chronicled some of the men whose looks had Trump favorably assessed. These included the president of Paraguay (“young and handsome”), military pilots (“perfect specimens”), and Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent (“under that beautiful exterior is a killer”).
The president’s homoerotic stylings have become more obvious, however, because he has so little else to talk about on the campaign trail. Crooked Hillary and Sleepy Joe have long since departed the scene, Shifty Schiff’s impeachment plans went nowhere, and the fake-news media have been replaced by MAGA toadies. With few enemies left (except his own terrible judgment) Trump is struggling to develop new material. Like many older people, he has retreated to his comfort zone, and his comfort zone is guarded by big, strapping men in uniform. “They’re always great-looking, these four-star guys. I don’t know if they get the job by their look,” he told a rally in Kansas this week. He also praised the rock singer Ted Nugent for having a son who was “a beautiful-looking guy.”
The president has ruminated so often on male beauty lately that it’s become very obvious that he has a type. His taste in men turns out to be somewhat basic—white, beefy, butch; think corn-fed midwestern fireman—and thoroughly partisan. At the same rally in Georgia where he enthused about the White House guards, Trump incorrectly declared that Senator Jon Ossoff, a Democrat, was not a “good-looking man,” unlike his Republican challenger. “I actually think Mike Collins is a good-looking man—and he’s all man. He’s all man,” added Trump. “I’m not sure about Ossoff.” (Let me save you a click: Collins is a mulleted 59-year-old with a touch of latter-day Newt Gingrich about his facial features, whereas Ossoff is so cute that he clearly had to shave off his beard in order to be taken seriously.) Trump went on to declare that the GOP candidate for Georgia governor, Rick Jackson, was also a “very handsome, distinguished, beautiful-looking guy.” In Kansas, Trump expanded his hotness rankings to encompass the crowd. Describing one loyalist’s confrontation with a protester, he noted approvingly that “the MAGA guy beat the crap out of him. Not that that matters. Good-looking guy.”
Trump’s MAGA goggles do have some limits. Last month, he went through a phase of roasting Ken Paxton, devoting sections of multiple speeches to what a schlub he found the Republican Senate candidate in Texas to be. “He may not be the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen,” the president observed on September 9, adding the next day: “I’m not sure if I like your look. I’m not sure if I like the way you dress. I don’t like the way you talk.” Sad! Paxton, apparently, has a face not even a homoerotically inclined Republican president can love.
An enthusiasm for buff young men in uniforms (or out of them) has always been one of the hallmarks of authoritarianism—a form of governance enamored of strong male bodies, and the promise of violence that they contain, even when the rulers consider overt homosexuality degenerate. Mussolini’s Italy simultaneously exiled dozens of gay men to the island of San Domino and produced the jaw-droppingly campy naked statues at the Stadio dei Marmi in Rome. Many dictators end up mired in camp: Muammar Qaddafi had an all-female bodyguard troop. Turkmenistan’s Saparmurat Niyazov renamed April after his mother and built a gold statue of himself that rotated to face the sun. Emperor Bokassa I of the short-lived Central African empire tried to make his coronation ceremony an exact replica of the one held by Napoleon Bonaparte, but was hampered by having to hold it in a basketball stadium.
Donald Trump’s simultaneous love for unchecked executive power and a well-turned male ankle is therefore part of a rich historical tradition. At the same time, it is also one of the many ways in which his political style represents a departure from typical American conservatism. From the 1970s onward, the Republicans were the party of the “moral majority” and “traditional values.” The idea that the party’s base is casually homophobic is still such conventional wisdom that J. D. Vance, a Millennial who very obviously had LGBTQ friends in his student years, now has to play-act as an old-school social conservative to show the depth of his political conversion. When a man at a rally in Texas shouted out that he loved Vance, the vice president replied: “I love you too, sir. In a totally platonic way, to be clear. I’m the vice president, not James Talarico.”
Vance does not seem to have grasped that his boss’s campiness is key to his political appeal—it’s the secret sauce that transforms nastiness into showbiz sass. Trump is politics’ answer to Joan Rivers, and his persona is influenced by all the flavors of American fakery: the carnival barker, the reality-TV host, the kayfabe world of professional wrestling. He looks like a man doing a drag performance as himself.
Trump’s embrace of camp also reflects his immunity to shame. I get the sense that Vance is crippled with embarrassment by the thought of that famous picture of him in eyeliner and a blond wig. His unease with gayness, campiness, and femininity reads as insecurity. By contrast, Trump loves Sunset Boulevard and doesn’t care who knows it. Hell, he even went to Liza Minnelli’s wedding. That authenticity and disinhibition means he can get a crowd of white Christians in Kentucky to listen to his homoerotic ramblings—and applaud.
Center of the Cosmos. Winner, Open-Built Environment. Times Square, New York City. Liu: “Times Square is one of the most photographed places in the world, so my challenge was to find a perspective that could make such a familiar place feel unfamiliar again. From above, the dense architecture, streets, and illuminated billboards seem to radiate around the square.”
The Sleeping Giant. Winner, The Raw Planet Award. Garcia: “Parinacota Volcano was one of the main photographic goals of my trip to Chile. Rising to more than 6,300 meters, the mountain has a distinctive snow-covered cone with an almost perfect symmetry that immediately reminded me of volcanoes such as Mount Fuji. Beside it stands Pomerape, another giant reaching more than 6,200 meters, together forming one of the most impressive landscapes I encountered during the journey.”
In the past few weeks, President Trump has seemingly done an about-face in his support for Ukraine and President Volodymyr Zelensky. The two leaders have long had a fraught relationship, to say the least, which reached a zenith in February 2025, when they got into a heated shouting match in the Oval Office. “I’m not aligned with anyone,” Trump said at the time. “I’m aligned with the world. I’m aligned with Europe.”
Now, four years after Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Trump has struck a deal with Vladimir Putin to import Russian diesel fuel into the United States. He’s also calling for Zelensky to be replaced, and exempting Russia from a sanctions bill passed by Congress—which Trump himself signed. Several congressional Republicans now count themselves among the inquiring minds desperate to know: Is Ukraine the United States’ ally, or is it Russia?
On today’s episode of Radio Atlantic, my colleagues Jonathan Lemire and Simon Shuster join me to discuss the conflict between the two nations and the reasons behind Trump’s realignment.
The following is a transcript of the episode:
Jonathan Lemire: We are now just 15 days until Election Day. Voters in many states are already casting their ballots and early-voting. And it is not only seemingly un-American to side with Moscow over a European democracy, but also it’s yet another case of where Democrats can make the argument that [Donald] Trump is kowtowing to a dictator, but also is simply distracted and doesn’t have the right priorities.
Adam Harris: This is Radio Atlantic. I’m Adam Harris, and today we need to talk about what’s happening in Ukraine, and why President Trump is choosing now to step in.
Over the last few weeks, the president has turned on Ukraine. He struck a deal with Vladimir Putin to import Russian diesel fuel. He exempted Russia from a sanctions bill he himself signed. He’s repeatedly attacked Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky. And last week, sudden restrictions on Starshield, a version of Starlink that is crucial to Ukraine’s military operations, caught the world by surprise.
What is going on here? Is this a last-ditch midterm effort by a deeply unpopular president looking to maintain his party’s control of Congress? What impact does Trump’s meddling have on the war? Is there anything Ukraine can do?
I’m joined today by my colleagues Jonathan Lemire and Simon Shuster, who have reported extensively on the prolonged conflict between Russia and Ukraine, and Trump’s diminishing return on his promise to end the war.
Let’s get to questions. Jonathan, Simon, welcome to the show.
Simon Shuster: Thank you; great to be with you.
Jonathan Lemire: Thank you for having us.
Harris: Over the weekend, the president signed an executive order exempting Russia from new sanctions measures that Congress put into place last month. This came shortly after Trump announced that he had reached an agreement with Vladimir Putin to import Russian diesel fuel. So, Jonathan, I want to start with you. Why does it seem that the president is siding with Russia now?
Lemire: This is the first time, I’d argue, in American political history that our campaign October surprise is a U.S. president throwing in his lot with the Kremlin. President Trump is deeply concerned about the impact of fuel prices, gas prices, that’s impacting Republicans’ chances in November. Now, the biggest reason why, of course, prices are so high is Trump’s war with Iran and Iran’s ability to limit the amount of oil coming out of the Middle East through the Strait of Hormuz.
But Trump has found another scapegoat here in President Zelensky and Ukraine. And it’s a pretty staggering one-two punch: this move on the diesel, which really won’t even impact prices all that much, and then to unwind these sanctions—sanctions he had just signed a short time ago in honor of his friend the late Senator Lindsey Graham. It has clearly left Kyiv reeling and even some of Trump’s own party deeply upset.
Harris: And Simon, when you think about this support for Russia, is there any evidence that it could potentially help lessen Russia’s support for Iran? Or is that in any part of this equation for the president?
Shuster: That’s what Trump has argued in his most recent statements about this. And it was a really bizarre statement, honestly. He said, Look, of course I have to be nice to Russia; we have to prevent them from helping Iran. And we have to give Russia these goodies so that it doesn’t go and help Iran essentially kill American servicemen and women in the Middle East.
And that’s such a weak argument, honestly. That’s also the word that President Zelensky incidentally used to describe a lot of these decisions from President Trump. It’s a sign of weakness.
If you’re really out to prevent the Russians from assisting Iran, is there no better leverage that the United States, the world’s most powerful country, has than to offer sanctions relief to Russia as a preemptive request and a preemptive offer to Vladimir Putin not to help America’s adversaries? It’s just a bizarre situation. But then, that is the argument that Trump himself made in a social-media post.
Lemire: And it’s so deeply flawed because Russia’s already been helping Iran. U.S. intelligence has assessed that they have provided Tehran with information targeting coordinates and the like of American assets in the region and Americans’ allies.
Shuster: Yeah, and there have been ships spotted going from Russia across the Caspian Sea to Iran. But when this issue comes up of Russia providing military and intelligence support to the Iranians, Trump just consistently brushes it off as, It’s not that big a deal, or, Russia could be doing much worse.
Yeah, probably—Russia could be doing a lot worse. There are a lot of weapon systems it’s using in Ukraine that it has not yet given, apparently, to Iran, but it could. But I think the flaws in that argument are just insane.
Harris: The president has tried to both pressure Russia and Ukraine in recent weeks into stopping attacks on energy infrastructure, but that hasn’t necessarily worked out. Simon, what exactly happened there with those negotiations, and why did it fail?
Shuster: The “energy cease-fire,” as it’s known, has been on the table certainly since President Trump returned to the White House, about a year and a half ago. They’ve been trying to get this energy cease-fire, which would mean basically Ukraine stops hitting Russian energy-sector assets, like oil refineries and things like that, and the Russians would then reciprocate by agreeing to stop hitting Ukrainian power plants and other energy infrastructure.
So that has been discussed. Russia—Putin—has just refused to go for it in any way, shape, or form. And it seems like this summer, the Americans gave up trying to pressure Putin into accepting this partial cease-fire, and began preemptively pursuing business deals with Russia, and now more recently, easing sanctions including on Russia’s energy sector.
All of these goodies for the Russians were supposed to come—according to the negotiations with Ukraine, the Europeans, and with the Russians—after Russia agreed to a partial cease-fire. Russia refused to agree to a partial cease-fire, and it is still getting the benefits that the Trump administration were dangling in front of the Russians to get them to stop hitting Ukrainian energy-sector sites and agree to at least this partial cease-fire that the Ukrainians certainly hoped they could build a larger truce, a larger end to the war, on top of that partial end to the fighting, on one dimension of the fighting.
Lemire: As Simon so well put, this is such an extraordinarily one-sided deal—that basically Trump is not pressuring Putin to stop hitting Ukrainian infrastructure, energy infrastructure, including its electric grid, as Ukraine braces for what’s gonna be a very tough, dark, cold winter. And yet [he] is angry, furious at Ukraine because they won’t stop hitting Russian refineries. And Zelensky made it clear he would stop if Putin would agree to his end of the cease-fire. Putin won’t. So Zelensky’s like, Well, why should we? And yet Trump won’t make this an equivalence, and in fact, he’s only angry at Ukraine. And as Simon and I reported in our story last week, there’s a chance that it will escalate, Trump’s anger, that he stops sharing intel perhaps, stops allowing Europeans to purchase American weapons and ship them to Ukraine for their use.
So there are levers here that Trump could pull, and right now there’s real concern across Europe that he has just completely abandoned any pretense of being neutral and is fully on Putin’s side.
Harris: Ukraine has refrained from targeting civilians in this conflict, whereas Russia has not. How has that impacted the landscape of the war?
Shuster: That’s been a really fascinating thread in my reporting in the last few months. Particularly I’ve been writing about how Ukraine has had this plan on the table to strike Russian airports, to use drone attacks on Russian airports that would, of course, severely disrupt everyday life in Russia and the Russian economy. And from my sources in Zelensky’s team and the military in Ukraine, it’s been clear that Zelensky has been holding back.
He has approved a version of these strikes, which are very painful for Russia, but ones that don’t endanger civilian aircraft and civilian travelers. So it essentially has drones hovering over airports and disrupting the traffic and forcing the aviation authorities to slow down and delay flights and cancel flights, but it doesn’t endanger civilians. So this is an interesting dynamic, and I think what’s on Zelensky’s mind is, Hey, we are not like Russia. We are fighting this war to remain a democracy, to remain a country that values human rights and human life. And we don’t want that to allow this war to turn us into them, into the evil that Ukraine is seeing unleashed upon them.
So that’s been very important to Zelensky, and I think more pragmatically, he’s very concerned about maintaining international support. To your question, he sees attacks against civilians, even inside Russia, as something that would really hurt Ukraine’s ability to keep the world on its side. Now, again, that doesn’t seem to matter for President Trump. He appears to be turning his back on Ukraine regardless of that caution. But I think the European partners—Germany and others, European partners of Ukraine—for them, it’s quite important to see that Ukraine is not resorting to the strikes against civilians that Russia carries out on a daily basis in Ukraine.
Harris: Last week, Ukraine faced some sudden disruptions to Starshield, which is a military version of Elon Musk’s Starlink. Jonathan, what do we know about who shut that down and why?
Lemire: Basically, a speed limit was capped, and Russia now has, first of all, drones that are jet-engine-powered, which go faster than ones before.
And if Starlink or Starshield is limited in the speed it can operate on, then that’s gonna limit Ukraine’s ability to shoot those drones down. It will also limit Ukraine’s ability to have any strikes in Russian-controlled territory within Ukraine. Already Elon Musk and Starshield do not let Ukraine have access to Starlink for attacks in Russia, but they do have it within the borders of Ukraine.
There’s been a lot of finger-pointing here. Our colleagues at The Atlantic have spent days on this, as to who exactly ordered it, whether it came from the White House—and there’s been some media reports that it has, and the White House has denied it. Some have floated the idea it was a glitch—no one in Ukraine believes that.
But certainly, a significant moment here reveals the power once more that Elon Musk has over human lives across this country. And Simon, go for it here. But it’s something that I know Zelensky—even in the last couple of days, even after it seemed like maybe the service was restored—has cast doubt about.
Shuster: Yeah, and Zelensky, to your point, has said—I’m paraphrasing here—basically, We’re not stupid; we know what happened. We know how Starlink works. And it just cut off. The disruptions happened in ways that leave very little possibility, if any possibility, that this was some kind of technical glitch. The scale and the timing of these disruptions made it clear that somebody made a decision to do this to Ukraine. And there has been a lot of finger-pointing.
Harris: And we should say Musk has denied that it was him, and on X said that this was the decision of the U.S. government and Trump.
When we come back, we discuss Trump’s fraught relationship with Zelensky and how Republicans and world leaders are reacting to his latest overtures to Putin.
[Music]
Harris: Trump and Zelensky have had this really fraught relationship since the president returned to office in 2025, and it now seems more contentious than ever, with the president saying that Zelensky should be replaced. What is Zelensky supposed to do here? What is he to do here? Does he need Trump on his side in order to win this war?
Shuster: I’m afraid so. And I had sources in Zelensky’s team saying basically—even some of the more hawkish ones who are calling for more aggressive strikes against Russia, including the airport strikes that I mentioned earlier. One of them even told me, If Trump now sides with Putin, if the Americans now become allies of Russia, we really need to change our strategy and basically take a deal.
And that got a lot of blowback from many people in Ukraine, including government officials who were like: No, no, no; that’s alarmism. But just in the last couple of days, President Zelensky has said something very similar in one of the interviews he gave on American TV or to the U.K.
Harris: It was on Meet the Press.
Shuster: Was it Meet the Press? And he said …
Volodymyr Zelensky: If the United States will take,—officially will take—the side of Russia, of course, if these two countries will be together, of course we will not prevail, and we will not be able to stand.
Shuster: As we’ve reported, Ukraine has many cards to play militarily still. There are many targets that are pressure points inside Russia, for the Russian economy, that it could hit. But it doesn’t seem like Putin is going to budge. Those kinds of strikes, those kinds of escalations on the Ukrainian side are going to force Russia to come to the table. So it really puts Ukraine in a very difficult position if it loses this ally. And it’s not at all clear that the Europeans can pick up the slack.
Lemire: And you’re right to zero in on the relationship between Trump and Zelensky. Obviously, we had the famed Oval Office blowup in February of 2025, but it even predates that. There’s been some in Trump’s orbit who have said to me that Trump holds a grudge against Zelensky for his first impeachment, from his first term—when Trump leaned on Zelensky to try to find politically damaging information about Joe Biden and his family ahead of the 2020 election, and Zelensky refused. It was captured on the call; it was captured by a whistleblower; and Trump was impeached for the first time. So he’s always had this animus there.
And it’s completely in contrast to his feelings for Vladimir Putin, who he sided with repeatedly in the first term, including in their infamous summit in Helsinki, and to even now, where Trump is trying to allow Putin to reenter the global stage, where he is trying to pressure Europeans to make more deals with Russia. He obviously wants to open up American business interests, have their access to Russia. And he’s even invited Putin to join the G20 Summit, which Trump is hosting at his golf course just outside Miami later this year.
Harris: And Jonathan, how are Republicans who support Ukraine reacting to all of the president’s overtures to Putin and Russia, and what does this mean to their broader efforts to pressure Moscow?
Lemire: Well, there’s a few things here. First of all, there’s still largely bipartisan support for Ukraine. There are some hold-out Republicans who don’t want to do it, and there’s skeptics even in the administration; obviously J. D. Vance was a loud one. But Ukraine’s biggest champion on the hill was Lindsey Graham. And Graham also played an important role as a conduit to Trump about their plight. In fact, Graham died shortly after returning from a trip to Kyiv.
There are Republicans who have voiced some public concern about this. Others are choosing to remain quiet, as they often do when Trump does something they don’t like, because they dare not cross them. But I’ve certainly spoken to a few of them the last couple of days who voiced real unhappiness about this decision for two reasons. One, simply because they do believe in Ukraine’s cause and do not think we should be backing Russia. And there’s even been some Republicans on the Hill who say, We should have hearings on this. Again, not too many voices, but they have spoken out. But others have remained quiet but are still privately seething because this is yet another distraction for them on the campaign trail. We are now just 15 days until Election Day. Voters in many states are already casting their ballots and early-voting. And it is not only seemingly un-American to side with Moscow over a European democracy, but also it’s yet another case of where Democrats can make the argument that Trump is kowtowing to a dictator, but also is simply distracted and doesn’t have the right priorities.
Shuster: If I could just add quickly on Lindsey Graham, just how ugly this looks to so many people on the Hill. I talked to Lindsey Graham about the sanctions bill that he championed and he said, Look, Simon, we’re not going to get this thing passed unless we couch it in a way that Trump will accept. And the way Lindsey Graham came up with doing that is: It’s all options. He wrote the bill as a tool kit, as he put it, for Trump to use against Russia if he chooses. It left a lot of the power in Trump’s hands to punish Russia or not to punish Russia. And that, Lindsey Graham told me, was the only way it was gonna get the necessary support from the White House to pass.
So now what we’ve seen just over this weekend: Yes, Trump after the death of Lindsey Graham agreed to sign this sanctions package, the sanctions law against Russia. But not only did he not implement it, but he basically granted an indefinite waiver for Russia to all of these sanctions. And that is such a blow to the legacy of Lindsey Graham, who really staked so much of his political capital and his efforts as a senator on getting this thing passed, certainly in the last year or so of his life, that it’s just so ugly to see, the way that that’s being trampled on.
Harris: It’s been more than four years since Russia launched its full-scale invasion into Ukraine. I’m gonna ask you all to both open your reporters’ notebooks a little bit here. What will you be looking for as this situation continues to develop throughout the next week and on into the midterms?
Lemire: Well, I think it’s a couple of things. First of all, this seems to be Trump’s focus right now in this closing stretch of the campaign, which I think is, as just noted, not particularly helpful to Republicans. But as the weather gets colder, I think the whole world is gonna be watching a pair of potential summits.
One is there’s a summit coming up in China, in November, shortly after the election, where, per reporting, Putin has floated to Trump that he should meet alongside Xi Jinping of China and the three of them should come up with a plan for a deal to end the conflict in Ukraine—i.e., leaving Zelensky and Ukraine off to the side.
And then the G20, in December, where this would be Putin’s first, if he goes—and the Kremlin has not committed yet that he will. But if he goes, it would be his first appearance at a one of these big, multilateral summits in a democracy since the war began and perhaps end his status as international pariah, at least in some way.
And these are things that, as Simon covers so well for us, deeply unnerves Ukraine, which is just simply taking a pummeling right now from Russia—one that’s only increased in recent days after Trump’s moves here to help Putin.
Harris: And Simon, same thing to you.
Shuster: I’m gonna be watching very closely how Ukraine is responding to these suspensions of U.S. support. Whether it’s Starlink, whether it’s intelligence sharing, they’ve proven themselves to be extremely innovative in meeting various threats. Whether they’re diplomatic or Russian ballistic missiles or whatever, they come up with ways to adapt, whether it’s through technology or sly and clever diplomacy. So I’m watching that. They have various technologies that they’re trying to bring online as fast as possible to replace what Elon Musk has let them use so far.
And I’m also, by the same token, watching what the Europeans are doing very closely, because they see all this as a massive betrayal by the Americans. The Europeans have so much at stake in this war, and they’re going to be adjusting their understanding of the alliance with the United States, their dependence on the United States for security and military assistance, and doing their best to again rush out military assets and technologies to try to give them some autonomy from America.
Now, in the years, decades, when we look back on the situation today, I think this is gonna be a turning point in that rift between the U.S. and its closest traditional allies. So I’m gonna be watching very closely how that rift widens, and how the Europeans try to step up and do what they can to gain some greater autonomy from the United States.
Harris: All of this is evolving really quickly, and thank you both for joining me to help us understand it a little bit better. We have a lot to look out for in the coming days. Thanks so much for joining me today.
Shuster: Thank you.
Lemire: Thank you. Anytime.
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Harris: That’s all for today’s show.
This episode of Radio Atlantic was produced by Mike Pesoli and edited by Hadley Robinson. It was engineered by Miguel Carrascal and has original music by Rob Smierciak. Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor. If you like what you saw here, new episodes of Radio Atlantic drop every Monday and Thursday. You can subscribe on The Atlantic’s YouTube page, on Apple or Spotify, or wherever it is you get your podcasts. And if you want to support this work and the work of my colleagues, you can subscribe to the publication at TheAtlantic.com/Listener.
Next month, just in time for the holidays, Lego will launch its largest set yet: a miniature version of the Basilica of the Sagrada Familia. (“Perfect for anyone who loves visionary design, architecture or travel,” the website proclaims.) The price tag, at $799.99, is a bargain if you assess it on a per-brick basis: The set contains 12,060 pieces, most of which are beige. The instructions are laid out such that the person building the model will re-create the historical timeline of the church’s construction, starting with the crypt. When complete, the model stands about two feet tall and is densely ornamented, frosted with wings and spires and 42 hook-handed figures serving as statues of biblical characters. Antoni Gaudí meant for his masterpiece to inspire awe and, at times, fear; so, too, may this heap of bricks.
Lego fans sometimes refer to their “dark ages”—the period of their life, usually starting in their teens, when they lost interest in their brick sets. Such angst has gone the way of dial-up internet now that Lego, like many other toy brands, actively courts older customers. In the early 2000s, Lego was near bankruptcy; today, powered by an emergent adult demographic, the company is earning record revenues and growing faster than many of its competitors. The situation sounds like a CEO’s daydream: a toy maker that’s ensured its customers will never age out of its merchandise. Yet by embracing the tastes and preferences of the Lego adult, the company has started to make wares that are distinctively un-toylike, losing something essential to their appeal in the process.
Of course, adults have always been able to buy and tinker with Lego sets as they pleased. Only in recent years, however, has the brand been so overt, and so enterprising, in reaching out to this audience. In 2020, the company officially launched its “Adults Welcome” marketing campaign, casting brick-building as a form of stress relief. The next year, when that campaign launched its first global TV ads, the company’s chief product and marketing officer told Ad Age that “children are at the center of everything we do, but we are delighted that the love of Lego building transcends age.”
Since then, the brand has rolled out hundreds of brick sets to suit grown-up interests—packaged in sleek black boxes rather than its traditional cheery egg-yolk yellow. The LEGO Masters reality show, in which two teams face off in preposterously elaborate building challenges, premiered in 2020, has aired for five seasons (with a sixth on the way), and spun off a celebrity holiday special. (A version starring kids was only announced in 2025.) The company’s indoor theme parks, which were originally designed for families, now host special adults-only nights. Today, if anyone tried telling Lego to dial back its engagement with adult fans, it would “run you out of town,” a former executive told National Geographic.
The toy business at large has also started courting older consumers, in response to all sorts of social shifts. Birth rates are falling; kids, favoring screen time, are said to age out of traditional toys earlier and earlier. But adults—a growing share of whom say they don’t expect to have children—have changed too. They’re less invested in traditional markers of maturity, and they hold tight to their youthful passions (and have more discretionary income than kids to pursue them). All sorts of companies now pander to those desires: As my colleague Valerie Trapp reported, Pop Mart’s Labubu campaign last year seemed squarely focused on entry-level office workers; this month, American Girl published its first novel for adults.
What’s been called the “kidult” market—which covers any consumer older than 12—has reached a more advanced stage. Just under half of adults in 2024 had bought a toy for themselves in the prior year, according to a report from the research firm Circana. Households without children now account for 55 percent of toy sales. In another sign of the times, the once-struggling chain Toys ‘R’ Us, which filed for bankruptcy nearly a decade ago, now plans to open 120 new stores, quadrupling its stand-alone locations. Some analysts argue that, in the toy business, grown-ups are no longer a mere sideline but its central source of growth.
For Lego, catering to adult fans represents a dramatic reversal from past practice. In the ’90s, “when they first became aware of us, they were, quite frankly, appalled,” Daniel Konstanski, the author of The Secret Life of LEGO Bricks, told me. Company leaders once worried that the overt enthusiasm of mature hobbyists “would tarnish the brand,” Konstanski said, “or be considered weird, kind of creepy.” That shifted in the early 2000s as the cash-strapped company made tentative overtures to these customers, creating Lego models of an Eiffel Tower, several airplanes, the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars.
The company generally avoided any theme that would be perceived as too adult; even very expensive or intricate sets, such as a model of NASA’s Apollo Saturn V rocket, had roots in topics that might at least theoretically appeal to a child’s interests. “It used to be that there was subject matter that the Lego Group wouldn’t touch,” Graham E. Hancock, the editor of the fan magazine Blocks, told me. Then, in 2015, Lego released a model of the living room that functions as the main set of the sitcom The Big Bang Theory. From then on, in Hancock’s view, the brand shed any hang-ups about making toys aimed exclusively at adults. Many sets now seem like they would baffle a child: Recent releases include models based on The X-Files ($199.99) and The Goonies ($329.99), cultural touchstones from decades before kids today were even born.
Grown-ups may handle toys very differently than kids do—treating them as pristine collectibles, fodder for social-media posts, or even financial investments. But once they’re out of the box, the toys function the same. A plushie shaped like an espresso cup might appeal more to adult sensibilities than to a child’s, but it’s still meant to be cuddled. Similarly, a NeeDoh sensory cube is there to be squished; a Hot Wheels car goes vroom; a Polly Pocket compact unfolds to reveal its Lilliputian world. Regardless of its owner’s age, the telos of the toy remains constant.
In this respect, Lego stands apart from other toy makers. Its grown-up sets don’t just come with different packaging and higher price tags; they also function differently. “It’s important to make that distinction,” Sarah Herman, the author of A Million Little Bricks, a book on Lego history, told me. “The more adult-targeted products are not just a more complicated version of what they’re making for children.” Classic Lego sets provided kids with relatively basic elements, either for open-ended creative building or as props for games of pretend. A kit would provide pieces to build a setting such as a town or space station, along with mini figures to move around.
Adult sets, by contrast, serve almost entirely as decor. Once you’ve constructed your model of a Gustav Klimt painting, potted hibiscus plant, or Darth Vader’s star destroyer—all currently available on Lego’s website—you can’t do anything else with it. It sits on a shelf as a trophy: gleaming, inert, and quasi-sculptural. These bricks do not invite further interaction. Some, forbiddingly, come with informational plaques to stand next to the finished object. At this point, Konstanski estimates, only about half of Lego’s sets are intended for play; the remainder are meant for display.
But the display mindset isn’t strictly confined to adults: Some new sets geared toward a younger audience—a Christmas tree, an Olivia Rodrigo–licensed faux vinyl record—appear purely ornamental. Kids today, more accustomed to digital entertainment, seem to have lost interest in handling physical toys—so much so that Lego, apparently hoping to reengage them, recently rolled out new high-tech bricks, fitted with bespoke computer chips, that light up and make sounds in response to movement. Nearly a decade of research and development went into inventing these brick sets, perhaps in the hope that, after they’re assembled, they won’t be abandoned on a shelf somewhere. The company describes them as “play-focused toys.”
Lego aficionados talk about the toy as a timeless classic. The genius of the product, in their telling, is that its essential components have remained unaltered for decades: A brick from as early as 1958 will click, satisfyingly, with one that comes fresh off the factory line today. This property—the grip between two Lego pieces after they’ve been snapped together—is called “clutch power,” and its constancy is oddly reassuring. It’s a physical sign that our old pleasures still have a secure, precise connection to the present moment, especially when everything else about toys—who buys them, their place in our lives—seems to have changed.
President Trump has previously called climate change a “hoax” and a “scam.” But last month, when the Environmental Protection Agency proposed rescinding the conclusion that greenhouse-gas emissions from the power sector “may reasonably be anticipated to endanger public health or welfare,” it did not question the reality of climate change. Instead, it claimed that large emissions reductions will not be enough to avert harm, and the country is better off doing nothing at all. This is utter nihilism. It is also completely wrong.
The power sector is the second largest emitter of greenhouse gases in the United States (only transportation emits more), accounting for approximately 24 percent of the country’s emissions. The U.S., in turn, is the second largest emitter of greenhouse gases in the world, after China, accounting for approximately 12 percent of the global total. If the U.S. power sector were a country, it would be the sixth largest emitter of greenhouse gases (fifth if European Union countries were counted individually rather than as a single jurisdiction).
The EPA’s argument is similar to one the agency made in February, when it said that eliminating such emissions from the transportation sector would likewise not make an appreciable difference. Putting these two claims together magnifies the brazenness: The EPA argues that eliminating or substantially reducing about half of U.S. greenhouse-gas emissions would be futile and would not meaningfully slow the pace of climate change. It follows from the EPA’s logic that eliminating or substantially reducing the greenhouse-gas emissions of any other sector of the economy would be even more pointless. And the same goes for the emissions of any sector of any country, anywhere in the world.
In fact, according to the EPA’s reasoning, nothing anyone could do anywhere would make any difference. (It also, relatedly, makes a legal claim that it doesn’t have the authority to regulate greenhouse-gas emissions in the first place.) The agency’s approach is akin to saying that eating a whole loaf of bread is calorie-free as long as the bread is cut in sufficiently thin slices—they’re all so thin that they can’t possibly matter.
These are standards I know well. From January 2023 to January 2025, when I served as the administrator of the White House Office of Information and Regulatory Affairs, I was responsible for the review of all significant executive-branch regulations, including this one. The fact is that some of those slices are not thin at all. The U.S. power sector’s greenhouse-gas emissions create enormous damage. In 2022, the power sector emitted more than 1.5 billion tons of carbon dioxide, more than 68,000 tons of nitrous oxide, and more than 35,000 tons of methane, all three of which are powerful greenhouse gases. Reducing this pollution—and the climate and health damages it creates—would greatly benefit life on Earth. The global advantages of the EPA’s carbon-pollution standards, which the Biden administration announced in 2024 and the Trump administration now seeks to repeal, were estimated to be $20 billion a year—a total that includes savings both from avoiding climate change and from reducing localized pollution that harms human health. Of this total, several billion dollars’ worth of avoided economic damages would accrue to Americans specifically.
A report by the Institute for Policy Integrity estimated that one year’s worth of greenhouse-gas emissions from the U.S. power sector would produce roughly 5,300 additional yearly premature deaths from heat waves and wildfires in the U.S. alone. This figure does not include the significant number of additional deaths from co-pollutants, such as particulate matter, that power plants emit. Putting the magnitude of this effect in context, the report noted that 5,300 deaths are “more than the annual U.S. deaths caused by kidney infections, the flu, firearm accidents, meningitis, bronchitis, appendicitis, and salmonella combined.”
In its proposed repeal of emissions limits, the EPA ignores these effects. Instead, the agency presents an estimate showing that even if the greenhouse-gas emissions of the U.S. power sector were eliminated, the impacts on global mean surface temperature and sea-level rise would be small. The agency wholly ignores the scientific evidence that increased weather-pattern volatility, such as storm surges, not averages of measurements such as temperature, drives most negative impacts of climate change. The EPA’s approach is like saying that an office building is comfortable if its mean temperature is 70 degrees, without checking whether some rooms are at 90 degrees and others at 50 degrees.
The EPA has no good arguments to call the existing evidence into question. The Biden administration’s process to determine the economic damages from greenhouse gases unfolded over several years, and included robust public input and peer review. The EPA casts all of this aside in three steps: First, it acknowledges (against its own interest) that, under the relevant provision of the Clean Air Act, “the appropriate indicator of impact is not emissions or concentrations, but public health and welfare impacts.” Second, although this would suggest that negative consequences of rescinding endangerment findings would be measured by additional forecasted deaths, for example, the EPA in fact does not consider any such impacts. Third, the EPA waves aside all estimates of such consequences using just one word: uncertainties. In its view, uncertainty renders careful estimates of future damages completely invalid.
Hiding behind uncertainties is a cruel trick that the Trump administration has used with abandon. In multiple proceedings from February onward, it has cited “uncertainties” as a reason to stop estimating the local damage from dangerous air pollutants, such as particulate matter and ozone. For decades, those estimates had been provided on the basis of extensive peer-reviewed scientific literature, but the EPA now essentially assumes that this pollution causes no negative health effects, because whatever consequences existed were too “uncertain.”
One curiosity: In proposing the rescission of the endangerment finding, the agency does not dispute the seriousness of climate change. The proposal discusses at some length a July study by the National Academy of Sciences on the attribution of extreme weather events to global climate change—a study well within the mainstream of climate science. The EPA does not take issue with the academy’s study and is therefore implicitly saying that climate change is a serious problem, but that it can do nothing to ameliorate the severely negative consequences.
But this too is wrong. Of course, the benefits of U.S. emissions reductions would be augmented if they were accompanied by correspondingly ambitious actions by other countries. If the U.S. believed that other countries were not doing enough on that front, instead of rescinding its own restrictions, it could use its considerable power on the world stage to induce other countries to do more. The Trump administration is doing the opposite: It withdrew from the Paris Agreement, under which countries, including the United States, pledged to meet emissions-reduction targets, and it stopped participating in international climate negotiations altogether.
The Trump administration is not merely cynical; it is also irrational and wrong. If its nihilism becomes our national policy, as it is proposing, everyone will suffer the consequences.
When I first set out to report and write about what we now call the food system, I ran into a brick wall with editors in New York. This was in the late 1990s and early aughts. I was chasing stories about the new genetically modified crops, the fight over the federal definition of organic, and the rise of gigantic factory farms—stories that would eventually find their way into my book The Omnivore’s Dilemma—but few editors seemed interested.
At first I was baffled. I had read my Wendell Berry and had taken to heart his famous dictum, “Eating is an agriculture act.” Didn’t everybody know that?
A century or so ago, the question of where our food comes from would have been too obvious to pose, let alone investigate and write a book about. In 1900, about four of every 10 Americans were farmers, and everyone else was likely related to one. But as the food chains that fed us grew longer and more intricate, they became invisible to most of us, to the point where urban Americans seemed satisfied with the answer “Food comes from the supermarket.”
For cosmopolitan Americans around the turn of the millennium, the seemingly obvious connection between agriculture and eating was not obvious at all. Maybe that was my problem! “Agriculture” was a distant and musty abstraction, something that happens in I states such as Iowa and Indiana, and was of no conceivable interest to urban readers.
I revised my pitches, dropped the word agriculture, which to the typical editor in New York might as well have been something that happens in Alpha Centauri, and replaced it with food. Instead of pitching a piece about factory farms, for instance, I proposed a story about “how a prime cut of beef finds its way from a pasture in South Dakota to a steakhouse in New York.” It worked, almost like magic. Who isn’t interested in food? It turned out that editors in New York were especially keen on it; many of them were foodies and, at least in those days, had healthy expense accounts.
Mine wasn’t the only or even the first such book: Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation (2001) and Marion Nestle’s Food Politics (2002) had come out a few years before. All three books sought to connect a series of far-flung dots: between the way we farm and the way we eat, but also between industrial agriculture and obesity (and chronic disease); farm policy and the environmental crisis; the rise of fast food and the collapse of home cooking; monoculture farming and fossil fuels; concentration in the food industry and the hollowing-out of rural America. Another concept you hardly ever heard about back then was “food politics,” as Marion reminded me recently. When in the early 2000s she told the dean of her school at New York University the title of her latest book, he wrinkled his brow and asked, “What does food have to do with politics?” (“No one ever asks me that question anymore,” Marion recently pointed out.)
Food has become a political issue. In the years after The Omnivore’s Dilemma came out, in 2006, something that looked very much like a movement began to take shape. True, it never coalesced around any single issue. For better or worse, the food movement was and remains a baggy coalition of a great many groups pushing a great many different issues: fighting food insecurity, curbing pesticide use, reforming farm policy, promoting farmers’ markets, advancing farmworker and food-worker rights, passing stiffer food-safety laws, promoting animal welfare, and so on.
These factions sometimes work at cross-purposes. For example, activists working to strengthen food-safety rules sometimes run afoul of local food advocates, who worry that the burden of new regulations will hinder the revival of small-farm agriculture. Still, to watch so much activism galvanize around food and farming filled many of us with hope that things might actually change. For me, the high-water mark of that hope came during the 2008 presidential campaign, when Barack Obama gave an interview to Time magazine in which he referenced my critique of the food system.
Because “our entire agricultural system is built on cheap oil,” he said, “our agriculture sector actually is contributing more greenhouse gases than our transportation sector. And in the meantime, it’s creating monocultures that are vulnerable to national security threats, are now vulnerable to sky-high food prices or crashes in food prices, huge swings in commodity prices, and are partly responsible for the explosion in our health care costs because they’re contributing to Type 2 diabetes, stroke and heart disease, obesity.”
Could the nascent food movement have found a powerful new champion? It certainly seemed that way. Obama campaigned aggressively in Iowa, promising to stand up to Big Food and vowing to regulate concentrated animal feeding operations, or CAFOs, “just as any other polluter.” On the campaign trail, as I’ve previously written, he told Iowans that they had a right to know where in the world their food came from and whether it had been genetically modified. To critics of the food system, the Obama campaign gave many of us hope that we would have an ally in the White House. (By the way, Obama won Iowa—twice!—the last Democrat to do so.)
But as the candidate and the movement soon learned, the power of agribusiness is formidable. A few short days after his interview with Time, Senator Charles Grassley, a.k.a. the Senior Senator From Corn, seized on Obama’s Time interview as evidence that he was blaming farmers for obesity and pollution. A campaign spokesman played down Obama’s remarks, saying he had simply been “paraphrasing” something he’d read. The episode taught Obama and the rest of us a painful lesson about just what we were up against with Big Food.
Once in the White House, the Obamas occasionally nurtured the hopes of food reformers. In the spring of 2009, Michelle Obama planted an organic vegetable garden on the White House lawn. The small patch excited the food movement but brought down the wrath of the chemical industry.
Chemical-industry groups labeled the Obamas “organic limousine liberals” while an agribusiness trade organization called on the first lady to use pesticides in her garden, never mind that she had no need for them. The dustup was a preview of things to come: Whatever steps the Obamas took to reform the food system would be met by ferocious attacks from industry—and, alas, would all too often result in retreat by the administration. Although Michelle did notch a significant victory with the Healthy, Hunger-Free Kids Act of 2010, which made meaningful reforms to the school-lunch program—reforms that the first Trump administration has rolled back.
Big Food’s favorite line of attack? Depicting efforts to improve the food system as “elitist,” leading America down the path to a “nanny state.” The charge of elitism stung, not least because it contained more than a kernel of truth. The food movement has been mainly a coastal phenomenon, attracting the well-heeled and well educated who could afford to buy sustainably and humanely grown food. Many of the changes the movement sought—such as tighter regulation of factory farms and pesticides, higher pay for food workers, and rules favoring organic agriculture and grass-fed meat—threatened to increase the price of food.
This fact, I think, sharply circumscribed the movement’s power and appeal. Cheap food—which stands as the single great accomplishment of the industrial food system—is bound to be politically popular, even if that cheap food comes at a very high price to our health and the health of our planet, not to mention to the taxpayers footing the bill for crop subsidies. And food has become dramatically more expensive since the Obama years. Americans are living through the biggest jump in grocery prices in half a century; prices have climbed by roughly 33 percent since 2019 alone. Since at least the French Revolution, politicians have been very fond of cheap food, and understandably so.
The legacy of the Obamas’ engagement with food issues has been to make clear to anyone paying attention that food is political, a matter of public debate, and is likely to become more so in the future. How do we know that? Because it will be difficult, if not impossible, to address the climate crisis without addressing the carbon footprint of industrial agriculture—and difficult, if not impossible, to address the explosion in health-care costs without addressing the American diet, which contributes to many of the chronic diseases that most of our health-care dollars go to treat.
Twenty years after the publication of The Omnivore’s Dilemma, you might think—and I certainly hoped!—that my book would have fallen hopelessly out of date. But looking at the landscape of food and farming today, I’m sorry to report that things haven’t changed all that much. King Corn still rules the American heartland, where 95 million acres are dedicated to that single crop, up from 78 million acres when the book was first published. Chemically intensive monoculture farming remains the rule, encouraged by lavish federal subsidies that discourage farmers from trying anything else. The American taxpayer continues to subsidize the least healthy calories in the supermarket. Our government is backing both sides in the war against type 2 diabetes and obesity, spending billions to treat these chronic diseases while subsidizing the crop that gives us high-fructose corn syrup.
Corn remains the essential building block of the food Americans eat; along with soy, its partner in the fields, it gets turned into the meat and dairy and processed foods that dominate the American diet. Meanwhile, the small number of corporations that dominate meatpacking, seed production, chemical fertilizers and pesticides, grain trading and processing, fast-food chains, and supermarkets has only gotten smaller since 2006, as oligopolies tighten their grip on the industrial food chain that feeds most of us.
But not all the news is dire. Some things have changed for the better. Americans are paying more attention to what they eat—both the food’s healthfulness (or lack thereof) and its provenance. Many of us have opted out of the industrial-food economy. Today, you can find organic food in virtually every supermarket; organic is now a thriving $65 billion industry (up from roughly $13 billion in 2005). Add to that the market for local food—the Department of Agriculture estimates that there are now more than 8,100 farmers’ markets in America (up from about 4,000 in 2005) and another 7,200 CSAs, or subscription farms—plus all the animal products labeled grass-fed or humanely raised, and you have an alternative food economy easily approaching $75 billion a year. While the government dithers, consumers are voting with their forks for a different kind of food system.
Another important change since The Omnivore’s Dilemma was published was the emergence of a word: ultra-processed, as in ultra-processed foods. The term does not appear in the book, because it wasn’t used to describe a particular type of food until 2009. It was introduced by Carlos Monteiro, a Brazilian epidemiologist, who had been puzzling over a paradox: Brazilians were getting fatter and more diabetic and yet, as a population, they were eating roughly the same quantities of fat, carbohydrates, and protein. He investigated and discovered that what had changed was the form in which people were consuming these nutrients. In place of traditional dishes, they were consuming more ready-to-eat meals, snack foods, and soda. He dubbed these products “ultra-processed,” which he defined as ready-to-eat foods you can’t make at home, because they require a factory and a suite of ingredients—including additives, dyes, and emulsifiers—that no ordinary person keeps in their pantry. (I call them “edible food-like substances.”)
Monteiro’s insight is a powerful one: that the form in which we get our nutrients—whether as traditional whole foods or highly processed food products—has a significant bearing on our health and weight. Subsequent research has shown that people who eat ultra-processed foods end up consuming several hundred more calories a day than those who don’t. Consumption of these foods—most of which contain ingredients derived from corn and soy—has also been linked to several chronic diseases. How big a problem is ultra-processed food? Today it is the source of 55 percent of the calories in the American diet, and that figure is even higher for children—62 percent.
Much to the dismay of the food industry, the term has broken through with the public. (Just the other night, I saw an ad on television for a brand of dog food that boasted it was “real food, not ultra-processed.”) A poll taken in 2025 by a conservative think tank found that 70 percent of likely voters opposed serving ultra-processed foods in school meals; 96 percent favored putting warning labels on such foods. The current secretary of health and human services, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., has no doubt driven up these numbers with his vow to get ultra-processed foods out of the national school-lunch program. We shall see if Big Food lets him.
But the secretary has at his back a large army of activists and voters who are changing the politics of food in ways that could help propel reform. I’m referring to the “Make America Healthy Again,” or MAHA, movement, which Kennedy helped galvanize and then brought into the Trump tent. This is potentially significant. As long as the food movement was coded liberal or left and vulnerable to charges of elitism, there was a ceiling on its political power. But now the people who are calling for a ban on certain pesticides and getting ultra-processed foods out of the school-lunch program are the MAHA moms, and you no longer hear talk of elitism or the nanny state.
I should have seen this coming. There’s a moment in The Omnivore’s Dilemma when I ask a farmer named Joel Salatin who his customers are. His Polyface Farm is one of the most radical in America, and he is a libertarian free spirit with no patience for government regulation or agricultural convention.
He’s designed an intricate food chain that starts with sunlight and grass and supports half a dozen animal species living symbiotically. Who, I wondered, would schlep all the way to Swoope, Virginia, the remote, far-off-the-interstate burg where he farms, to buy his pastured chickens and grass-fed beef?
He described young mothers concerned about the health of their children, many of them drawn from the homeschooling and homesteading community. “People who have already opted out once,” as Joel points out. I met some of these mothers the week I spent working on Joel’s farm. They held fierce views on nutrition that weren’t always aligned with science: Seed oils and grains were a problem; raw milk was a solution; “clean” food was medicine.
These moms were deeply suspicious of institutions of all kinds, including food corporations, the medical system, and especially the FDA; they bridled against the agency’s food-safety rules. Many of these moms had kids with serious health issues that they hoped to address with a change in diet—hence their willingness to travel hundreds of miles to fill their coolers with Joel’s pastured meat and eggs.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was meeting future MAHA moms; it never occurred to me that they might coalesce into a movement that would have the ear of a president. Perhaps not surprisingly, Salatin has become a MAHA hero, invited to appear at rallies and brought in to consult with administration officials. He recently told me that the administration had reached out during the transition to gauge his interest in becoming the agriculture secretary. Imagine that!
It’s not at all clear what, if anything, will come of this new politics. The underlying DNA of MAHA is very different from the DNA of the first-wave food movement. MAHA is fundamentally libertarian, allergic to the sort of government intervention that people in the earlier food movement consider necessary to build a healthier, more just, and sustainable food system.
MAHA’s primary interest is our health as individuals, not the health of the environment; the movement has shown little interest in food insecurity or the rights of food workers. As Marion Nestle put it to me in an email, “The MAHA movement is like Joel Salatin. Everything up to the individual with little attention to policy.” And yet there are promising areas of overlap—around banning agricultural chemicals and the ingredients in ultra-processed foods, as well as supporting local food systems and regenerative farming.
The prospect that MAHA will get very far with an administration that regards all regulation as anathema seems doubtful. The Trump EPA is bent on deregulating agricultural chemicals, much to MAHA’s frustration, and the Trump USDA has been gutting support for small farms and local food systems. (It’s also worth pointing out that a diet of real food is not going to save children from the measles; what the Trump administration is doing to public health in America needs to be viewed in its totality.)
What is encouraging, I think, is that a vocal constituency seeking reform of food and agriculture has emerged on the right, adding its numbers and energy to the earlier wave of food activism coming from the left. Should the Trump administration disappoint or frustrate the MAHA moms, as appears to be happening, they may well look to form alliances with groups that share their priorities. They are nothing if not fierce. Could a new, bipartisan, and far more powerful food movement be built upon these areas of overlap? Early this year, we saw the first evidence of the power of that alliance, when MAHA activists teamed up with Democratic Representative Chellie Pingree, a Maine organic farmer and a leader of the food movement, to strip a provision from an appropriations bill that would have shielded pesticide manufacturers from lawsuits.
The building of coalitions like this one is surely cause for optimism. The demand for healthy food produced in a safe manner is something with the potential to unite us. Who can be against that kind of food? Only a powerful lobby, and one that has been very good at dividing us along lines of class and culture. But that strategy may no longer work, now that there are tens of millions of Americans on both sides of the ideological divide who recognize that our food system is badly broken, that it is responsible for our national eating disorder. This could be the start of something big. We can hope.
One might think that the meaning of a word as common as strategy is clear, but it is not. The invaluable Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus inadvertently captures the confusion: “master plan, grand design, game plan, action plan, policy, program, tactics.” But a master plan is something more specific than a grand design, a policy is what should direct strategy, and tactics exist at a level of intentional action below strategy.
The muddle becomes serious when applied to strategy’s original and most important field of human endeavor: war. The roots lie in ancient Greek, which is why stratēgos was the word for “general.” Many weighty works on strategy in war make the basic ideas clear, and yet, as one can see from the badly botched American war with Iran, strategy is acutely difficult. Here we have a war in which the United States has the world’s most advanced technology, highly skilled personnel, and well-trained and -staffed organizations. The U.S. is operating in a theater of war that it has studied for many decades, in partnership with Israel—the most militarily advanced country in the Middle East—as well as, more quietly, most of the Gulf States, and it is receiving the tacit support of countries such as Great Britain. Its enemy is poor and corrupt, and recently lost a large chunk of its senior leadership in a series of bombings and assassinations. But the result is, in important respects, a shocking setback, as Iran continues to throttle one of the world’s most important waterways.
This happened not because America’s weapons malfunctioned, its sailors and airmen were incompetent, or the problems were novel and unanticipated. Rather, America’s battlefield reversals represent a strategic failure of an acutely embarrassing kind.
Nor is the issue simply incompetent American political leadership, although that has played its role. The history of strategy is a tale of errors, misjudgments, poor assessments, and inadequate follow-through. It was true of the ancient Greeks, when Athens held the high cards in the Peloponnesian War and lost; it was true of Germany and Japan in the two world wars they launched at times and places of their choosing; it is true of Russia today in Ukraine; it is, for that matter, true of the Iranians themselves, who suffered their own strategic failures against Iraq in the 1980s and Israel in recent years.
The seven core questions of strategy may seem extremely simple, and yet they are rarely answered well.
The first is What else is going on? Strategy requires its practitioners to orient themselves to the surrounding environment, for almost never is a country simply facing off against another in isolation. When the Trump administration launched the current round of fighting with Iran, it did so having neglected its environment—indeed, in some ways, having made that environment worse. The U.S. had alienated its European allies, whose active help it needed in keeping the Strait of Hormuz open in the face of mine and surface attacks; it failed to prepare the ground with Gulf allies who would be exposed to Iranian attacks; and it underestimated the extent to which Russia and China had put themselves into a deep partnership with Iran, providing targeting intelligence, the components of military systems, and even some weapons. By fixating on the enemy at hand, the administration neglected the context that had shaped everything else.
Governments collect a great deal of intelligence about things that can be counted—tanks, ships, missiles. They do a much worse job of answering the second question, which can be derived from an unlikely classic of strategy: the 1969 movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Paul Newman and Robet Redford play two relatively nonviolent train robbers in the last days of the frontier. One day, as they are holding up a train, a boxcar door slides open and they are pursued by half a dozen men on horseback. Exciting chase scenes ensue as Butch and Sundance try every trick in their extensive playbook to shake them off, but still the pursuit continues. In bafflement, Butch asks Sundance, “Who are those guys?”It is the second great strategic question, and a subtle one.
The two robbers knew how many riders were pursuing them and what weapons they carried. They could probably even tell the breed of horses they were riding. But they did not know what made this band of lawmen so much more persistent and so adept in seeing through their dodges—what motivated them, and what that would mean for Butch and Sundance.
That sort of intelligence is difficult to come by, particularly if you do not know that that is the information you need. President Trump and his key advisers likely knew little about the leaders of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, who are now their primary opponents. It is clear that they still cannot fathom how their enemy makes decisions. It is not uncommon for Western leaders to underestimate or simply fail to grasp the ideological or religious motivations of their enemies, and that seems to be part of what has happened in the conflict with Iran. But it seems as well that the administration and its advisers misjudged Iran’s preparedness to launch a protracted, complex war in which it would be outgunned but not necessarily outsmarted.
The problem is probably reciprocal: If Iran’s leaders have taken the so-called TACO bet—“Trump Always Chickens Out”—they have been repeatedly proven wrong, as indeed have been many of Trump’s domestic critics. They may understand Trump, his motivations, his stock of resolve, and his fears as little as he understands them. Or for that matter, as little as the Israelis understood Yahya Sinwar, the leader of Hamas, even though they had had him in their prisons for 10 years, or as little as Americans understood the calculus of Japanese decision makers in the fall of 1941.
Sometimes it is possible not even to know who is in charge on the other side. During most of the Vietnam War, American leaders believed that the charismatic Ho Chi Minh or the experienced General Võ Nguyên Giáp were making the decisions. Later they suspected that it was a collective leadership. In reality, the dominant figure was the colorless first secretary of the Communist Party, Lê Duẩn. In the current war, Trump has frequently expressed his frustration at not knowing who is in charge on the other side.
What are we trying to do? is the third and most obvious strategic question, perhaps the easiest to pose and the most deceptive. When critics have gone after the Trump administration over the Iran war, they have usually focused on the supposed unclarity of its goals. They have something of a point, but to a more limited degree than one might think. In truth, the setting of goals, although vital, is a murky and shifting enterprise.
Carl von Clausewitz, who in his lifetime witnessed numerous strategic defeats as well as the ultimate victory of the allied coalition over Napoleonic France, taught that war is a continuation of policy by other means. It may be the most important teaching to take away from his classic, On War, and is certainly the most memorable. But if the ultimate objectives in war are political, then they also have political characteristics—that is, they may be vague, inconsistent, and above all changeable.
George H. W. Bush famously outlined four objectives for American forces in advance of the 1990–91 Gulf War, in an oft-cited example of strategic clarity. A closer look, however, shows that they were anything but clear. The first objective was ensuring the safety of American citizens in the Gulf—but before the bombs fell, that had already been achieved, because the Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein had released his American and European hostages. American citizens—the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines going into Iraq—were the ones endangered by the war. Expelling Iraq from Kuwait was straightforward enough, but restoring the “legitimate government of Kuwait”—a monarchy backed by a citizenry that included scarcely a quarter of the country’s inhabitants—was not. And as the events of the past 35 years have proven, the fourth objective, ensuring the stability of the Persian Gulf, was a pipe dream.
Moreover, some of the objectives the United States pursued either were unstated (stripping Saddam of his nuclear program and setting up the conditions for his overthrow) or evolved only in reaction to events on the ground (protecting the Kurdish population in the north and, to some degree, the Shia in the south).
This kind of shift in objectives occurs in all wars. Britain entered World War II nominally to save Poland from Germany. It ended up prohibiting Polish troops from marching in the victory parade in London. The United States invaded Afghanistan to destroy al-Qaeda; it ended up attempting to create an Afghan democratic republic.
Considered in this light, the Trump administration’s objective-setting in the Iran war, though messy, is not entirely implausible. Clearly, one objective has been to destroy, or at the minimum badly damage, Iran’s nuclear enterprise; another to limit its ability to threaten its neighbors with missile and drone attacks by dismantling some of its key military industries. A third, and the most questionable, seems to have been to overthrow and replace the regime. That last goal is evidently beyond the current reach of the U.S. military, although the other two have been achieved in some measure. As the war has wound on, the administration has reached for other goals, including the bizarre one of keeping “oil and gas cheap for Americans all over the country,” which Vice President Vance has declared now has primacy over avoiding a nuclear Iran.
One problem with the Trump administration’s objective-setting is the president’s foolish insistence that he has achieved more than he has: His repeated use of the word obliteration actually obscures some real, if far from absolute, successes in pursuit of his first two objectives. As for the third, it was always bound to be a reach but was not beyond the realm of possibility. The administration’s real failures have come in setting what were essentially defensive objectives in addition to the offensive ones, above all securing the Strait of Hormuz. For the rest, like many administrations before, it has promised much more than war can ever deliver—think of the hubris of the “war to end all wars,” or the objective of ending tyranny. In democratic societies, the temptation to justify the hazards and sacrifices of war with overblown rhetoric and absurd aspirations usually overcomes the good judgment of political and military leaders alike.
What are our means? is the fourth question. At a strictly quantitative level it is usually easily answered by counting tanks, missiles, or ships. But those are often the least important variables in the equation. The real variables are whether organizations can do what we want them to do; whether the technical means we have at our disposal are adequate to the task; and whether, if new challenges arise, we have the resources to meet them.
The United States entered the current war with limited stockpiles of its most advanced weapons, limited mine-clearing capabilities, and no frigates whatsoever to escort convoys. It had very little in the way of hardened bunkers for its aircraft in the Persian Gulf, and so suffered some shocking losses on the ground to accurate Iranian missiles (possibly guided by Russian intelligence). And the entire campaign has been predicated on expectations about what bombing could do that were at best highly improbable and at worst totally unrealistic.
The administration clearly overestimated what the U.S. military could do, but one has to wonder whether the armed forces also misjudged their own capabilities. Decades of underinvestment in both passive defenses (for example, concrete shelters, underground command posts) and active ones (for example, surface-to-air missile batteries), not any particular decision of the Trump administration, have exposed the U.S. Air Force to high losses. A similar decades-long lack of commitment to the counter-mine-warfare and the escort-of-convoy missions has made the Strait of Hormuz operation so difficult.
“Know the enemy and know yourself and in a hundred battles you will not be defeated,” goes the saying of the Chinese general Sun Tzu. But military organizations and their leaders frequently fail to understand themselves, and in particular their own weaknesses. America’s lack of preparedness to conduct classical counterinsurgency warfare in Iraq and Afghanistan cost it dearly in blood, money, and time. Most militaries fail to conduct a sober reckoning with their own deficiencies by examining their lack of resources, organizational preparation, or aptitude.
The fifth and sixth questions are What is our priority? and In what sequence should we act? For a country as wealthy and powerful as the United States, these are particularly uncomfortable questions. American leaders often act as though their resources are infinite and few really difficult strategic choices need to be made. That flexibility is one of the blessings (and occasionally the curse) of an astoundingly wealthy and populous country.
Economists like the word trade-off—to get this, you have to give up that. The military uses instead phrases such as economy of force or acceptable risk that mask the blunter truth that some things are more important than others. In the current Iran war, it has become clear that getting control of the Strait of Hormuz has never been the top priority—had it been so, the U.S. would have conducted a variety of operations, probably including seizing some of the smaller islands near the strait.
Setting priorities can be acutely difficult in war. The best decision Franklin D. Roosevelt made during the Second World War was one of priority. Military and political leaders alike had believed in 1941 that Germany would be a more important enemy than Japan and needed to be tackled first. But the war began for the United States with the Pearl Harbor attack of December 7, 1941. Over the next six months, Roosevelt agreed to the British proposal to invade French North Africa in November 1942. General George C. Marshall, the chief of staff of the U.S. Army, and Admiral Ernest J. King, the chief of naval operations, thought it a strategic error and opposed it, favoring instead an invasion of France in 1943.
Roosevelt’s calculation was chiefly political: To sustain domestic support for the “Germany first” policy, American forces had to be in action somewhere in the European theater of operations within a year of Pearl Harbor. He got his priorities right, and Marshall and King, who did not think politically, were wrong. (As it happened, a 1943 invasion would probably have been an operational debacle as well for the untried U.S. Army, but that was a separate matter.)
If Roosevelt got priority right, however, he got sequencing wrong. Like most politicians, he did not want to feel trapped by prior decisions—what political scientists call “path dependence.” He believed that he could have the North Africa invasion and still invade France in 1943, and he was wrong. The defeat of German armies in North Africa took longer than expected, and was not completed until March 1943. Sicily loomed as an easy target, and besides, shifting large forces to Britain, particularly before the U-boat menace in the Atlantic was defeated, would take time, so in July the Allies attacked the island and took it. That triggered the fall of the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini; the logical next Allied move was therefore a landing in Italy. That occurred in September 1943, in the immediate aftermath of Italy’s defection from the Axis. And that, in turn, led to a swift German occupation of Italy and an ensuing front in Europe that no one had anticipated.
Sequencing, then, was only partially under Roosevelt’s control, or anyone else’s for that matter. One thing led to another, and as is so often the case in war, the contenders looked as though they were playing chess one move at a time, seizing an opportunity without fully anticipating the consequences of doing so.
The final question is in many ways the most difficult: What is our theory of victory? Or, put more simply, Why do we think this will work?
In the case of the Iran war the theory of victory seems to be: We will inflict so much economic pain on the regime that it will give in, either because it will hate to see the Iranian economy ruined or because its people will rise up and overthrow it. But Iran has been suffering self-imposed economic misery for decades, and its leaders, with their own corrupt networks, can live in splendor while others suffer. And as for an uprising, the time to support that would have been when Iranians took to the streets in December and January 2026, before 30,000 were massacred by the Islamic Republic’s repressive apparatus. If there is any theory of victory left for the United States, it is that more reasonable Iranian leaders will replace the extremists—but it would appear at the moment that the hardest of the hard-liners are the ones with the guns.
Articulating a theory of victory is no different from constructing a plausible story—the different characters find themselves in a situation, they do this and that, and there is an outcome. In practice, though, such theories are rarely offered in governmental deliberations—and here I speak from personal experience. I saw that play out while sitting in the Situation Room as senior officials discussed sending more soldiers, or diplomats, or aid money to Afghanistan, without anyone quite broaching the question of how the moves under consideration were supposed to lead to success.
Such failures are entirely common, as the perusal of archival records confirms. Strategy is chiefly about execution—the exceedingly complicated and difficult task of moving forces from one place to another, guiding them through combat, and responding to unforeseen circumstances. There are ancillary activities—diplomatic initiatives, the public presentation of the reasons for war or expositions of why it is going the way it is, the gathering and deployment of financial and industrial resources. All of this requires serious, detailed, and extremely consequential work. To begin telling a story, or even to ask for one, in such a circumstance can seem frivolous at best, and at worst downright subversive of the efforts officials are investing and the sacrifices soldiers are making.
Why is it all so hard? One reason lies in the sheer uncertainty of all wars, in which personalities, contingent events, accidents, bloodlust, shifting political calculations, and sheer good or bad luck play their part. But no less important are the weaknesses of the decision makers themselves.
For one, they are often, if experienced, old and suffering the afflictions of age, or if young, inexperienced and either cocky or timid. Historians will parse the records of the Trump administration or, like the cardiologist of the late Vice President Dick Cheney, wonder what it meant that the president was clearly in poor physical and possibly mental health. He would hardly be alone.
Prime Minister Anthony Eden launched the Suez operation of 1956 against Egypt’s Gamal Abdel Nasser. At the time, he had been hospitalized with a fever of up to 106 degrees following a set of badly botched gallbladder operations. He had been taking amphetamines and sleeping pills. In a fascinating study of Eden, David Owens, himself a former foreign secretary and a physician, concluded that Eden’s physical health played a large role in the poor decision making that helped produce a major debacle.
Roosevelt was on the edge of death in the last year of World War II; Winston Churchill had a heart attack; and Joseph Stalin, in addition to suffering from hypertension, had become increasingly paranoid. John F. Kennedy took a horrifying cocktail of drugs for his bad back and suffered from Addison’s disease. Woodrow Wilson had an incapacitating stroke that left the U.S. government largely in the hands of his protective wife. These are not isolated cases.
Even healthy younger leaders may find themselves suffering from acute sleep deprivation and other disorders. A flattering portrayal of President Biden’s national security adviser noted that, during the American withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021, Jake Sullivan was getting two hours of sleep a night for days on end. As those who have studied medical residents know, going that short of sleep practically guarantees poor decisions.
The psychologist Daniel Kahneman and his colleague Amos Tversky have examined many heuristic shortcuts that distort rational decision making. Almost all of them apply in strategic decision making as well. Take anchoring, our tendency to judge an event, problem, or cost based on some existing piece of information. The trivial case is the extremely expensive bottle of wine put on a restaurant menu with the idea of making the second- or third-most-expensive bottle look reasonably priced.
Strategic anchoring occurs frequently. In the run-up to the German invasion of the Soviet Union in June 1941, not only Hitler but also his generals concluded that Russia was a fragile giant. They anchored their perceptions on the 1939–40 winter war between the U.S.S.R. and Finland, when 200,000 Soviet troops were killed, wounded, or captured by Finnish militiamen. They paid no attention to the way in which the Soviets had learned swiftly from their failures in that war, and did not account for all of the advantages that Russians would derive from fighting on their own ground.
In a similar vein, both the Russian military and Western observers anchored their perception of Ukrainian fighting power in the 2014 and 2015 rounds of conflict in the Donbas as well as the Russian seizure of Crimea. They had discounted, or simply ignored, the improvements in Ukrainian training and equipment since then, or, in parallel with the 1941 case, the differences that would emerge when Ukrainians were fighting to protect their villages and cities from an army that would commit rape and murder with abandon.
Strategic decision making is rarely a matter of individual choices; more often it is the result of some kind of deliberation. This is true even in the most extreme totalitarian countries. Stalin called the shots, but Marshal Georgy Zhukhov could get a hearing. This leads to another obstacle to sound strategic judgment: collective pathologies. The phenomenon described by Irving Janis as groupthink applies particularly forcefully to strategic decision making: illusions of invulnerability, collective discounting of warnings, unquestioned belief in one’s own inherent morality, stereotyped views of adversaries, self-censorship, and the exclusion of dissidents, or their reduction to marginal status. Lyndon Johnson heard out George Ball, the in-house dissenter on Vietnam, and then moved swiftly on.
These and many other pathologies have beset not only the Trump administration in Iran, but most countries at war. They can be mitigated but not resolved. Formal procedures are less helpful than qualities of character. Of these the most important are empathy, to understand both the enemy and one’s own side; curiosity, because every war is new and distinctive; humility, to accept that one has made mistakes; and above all moral courage, to face facts for what they are and to make decisions accordingly.
The president is singularly deficient in all of these aspects. He finds it difficult to imagine the world as seen by others; he seems to be incurious about the important details of military operations; he is far from humble; and if he is averse to anything, it is admitting that he might be wrong. These traits do not seem, moreover, to be confined to him but are shared by many in his administration.
The strategic virtues, to be clear, are rarely found. But they do exist. Churchill, whose courage was justly famous, was a great war leader. He benefited as much, however, from his empathy as from his courage. His great advantage over Hitler, as the historian John Lukacs has shrewdly noted, is that he could imagine what it was like to be Hitler, but Hitler could never imagine what it was like to be Churchill. One cannot study Abraham Lincoln’s conduct of the Civil War without being struck by his curiosity and humility—neither of which interfered with his resolve and decisiveness.
Nor is it the acknowledged great figures of history alone who show these qualities: When President George W. Bush made the call in December 2006 to surge forces to Iraq despite the apprehensions of his military and political subordinates, he exhibited considerable moral courage. Israeli Prime Minister Levi Eshkol made a number of decisions in the run-up to the Six-Day War that bought Israel at least a modicum of the support and understanding that it would need from abroad, and which, in very different circumstances, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has so profligately squandered.
Some view strategy as so difficult that it is not even worth attempting. These are not only counsels of despair but of nihilism. Some decision makers have shown excellent strategic judgment and used war to achieve their political objectives. The most notable might be Anwar Sadat, the long-underestimated Egyptian president who launched the 1973 Yom Kippur War and used a spectacular early success that could have easily ended in catastrophe to secure the peace he wanted.
War is a hideous thing. There are even more hideous things, however, as anyone who has visited the mass graves of Sarajevo or the slaughter field of Bucha in Ukraine will know. A war with Iran now may well be far less terrible than a war launched by an Iran with nuclear weapons later. Moreover, sometimes war is unavoidable: True pacifists are few, and no nation committed to pacifism has survived the predations of a hostile neighbor that is not.
The chances are good that anyone reading this article lives in a country that is currently at war, or has been at war, or is closely affected by war. It is a near certainty that they live in a country whose borders have been shaped by war, and quite probably one whose form of government has resulted from war. All of us therefore have, or should have, a keen interest in strategy.
Unfortunately, however, its practice will not get any easier in the future. War is spreading to new domains, and employing new and terrible conventional weapons, many capable of acting on the basis of decisions that machines will make in fractions of a second. Nuclear weapons are spreading, and we now face the potential of devastating biological weapons manufactured with the aid of artificial intelligence. The previous experiences and professional knowledge of generals and admirals becomes ever more swiftly obsolete; the hazards of untried political leaders wading through such uncertainty, immensely greater. More countries have the capacity to do terrible things, and are seemingly willing to do so.
None of that is an excuse for neglecting the subject that Aristotle thought essential for a citizen. In his Rhetoric, he talks at length about the subjects an orator must master, including “the military strength of his country, both actual and potential, and also the nature of that strength; and further, what wars his country has waged, and how it has waged them. He must know these facts not only about his own country, but also about neighboring countries; and also about countries with which war is likely, in order that peace may be maintained.”
Strategy is one of the oldest of subjects. It is powerfully shaped by current events and technologies but best learned through a deep encounter with the history of war. It can be studied but rarely mastered, and it is the domain of both calculation and inevitable error. Of one thing we can be certain: As we look at a world in which violence is not the last resort for many countries and organizations hostile to our values and interests, and may very well be the first, strategy will be needed more than ever.
In this new season of Autocracy in America, host Anne Applebaum sits down with leaders in politics, technology, and culture to discuss what can be done now to reverse the slide toward autocracy.
The following is a transcript:
Anne Applebaum: The midterms mark the beginning of the end of President Donald Trump’s second term in office. Although we don’t know who and what the results will bring, we do know that, regardless of what happens, there will now be opportunities to prevent the further degradation of our democracy. This November, the Autocracy in America podcast is coming back, this time to focus on that recovery.
I’m Anne Applebaum of The Atlantic. Join me for interviews with the people who will be leading the charge. I’ll talk with leaders about their plans to work with the administration, to restore international relationships, and to repair the damage done to our economy. I’ll ask what it could look like to retrain and restrain ICE, rescue our cultural institutions, and keep our elections safe.
The new season of Autocracy in America arrives Tuesday, November the 10th, and will be available in video and audio. Subscribe on YouTube or wherever you get your podcasts.
For the first time since the dawn of the automobile, the majority of new cars are not powered exclusively by gasoline: So far in 2026, electric vehicles and hybrids are outselling traditional gas-powered cars. As oil prices have gone up and up since the start of the war in Iran, drivers from Hanoi to Hamburg are picking up EVs like never before. According to the energy think tank Ember, 49 countries have broken EV-sales records this year. The prime minister of Thailand recently ditched his Rolls-Royce and commuted to work in an all-electric BYD Sealion.
And then there’s the United States. For all the angst over high gas prices, EVs accounted for just 6.4 percent of new-car sales in the U.S. from July to September. That’s a slight rise from January, before the beginning of the war with Iran—but just barely. The U.S. has long been something of an EV laggard, full of drivers (and a president) who are skeptical of battery-powered cars. But even as gas prices have jumped from $3 to $4.50 over the past year, drivers won’t budge.
America’s car fleet was never going to flip overnight. No one forks over $50,000 for a Tesla the moment gas hits $5 a gallon. “If gas prices are higher for a little while,” Elaine Buckberg, a senior fellow at Harvard University’s Salata Institute for Climate and Sustainability and a former executive at General Motors, told me. “People say, ‘Oh, this is going to pass. I’m not going to go and change what vehicle I own.’” But when high gas prices linger for half a year or longer, Buckberg added, the direction of the car industry can shift. The shortages and lines of the 1970s helped kill the mid-century land yacht. In the 2000s, record-high gas prices tempered the craze for gas-guzzling SUVs and pushed millions of Americans to buy hybrids like the Toyota Prius. Now drivers have a real alternative to the whims of the world oil market. They’re just not taking it.
Americans are not all gasoline loyalists who’ve forsworn battery power. In fact, most drivers now say that they are strongly considering an EV as their next vehicle, and the trend is even stronger among people under 35. Pre-owned EVs are surging, but they represent a sliver of the used-car market, because so few of them are out there. The biggest winner from the gasoline spike has been the plain old hybrid, the green-car solution of the George W. Bush years. Sales in the U.S. have jumped 27 percent over the past year.
To some degree, Americans aren’t making the leap for several long-standing reasons: EVs are too expensive, and the options are lacking. Because the U.S. effectively bans electric cars made in China, we are cut off from buying something such as the BYD Dolphin Surf, an electric sedan that sells for about $22,000 in Europe. Many of the models that drivers are familiar with still cannot be had as an EV. Toyotas such as the RAV4 and Camry now come only as hybrids; last year, Ford killed the electric version of the F-150 pickup truck, this country’s most popular vehicle, citing low sales. Ford is now hyping up a roughly $30,000 electric pickup truck, but that won’t arrive until 2027. Meanwhile, America’s only electric minivan is the struggling Volkswagen ID. Buzz, a modern take on the flower-power bus. And although Tesla’s cars have a lot going for them, plenty of Americans say they won’t touch the brand because of Elon Musk. In short, the EV market is full of holes.
That said, it’s hard not to look at tepid EV sales and wonder whether Americans have lost the plot on electric cars. The price gap between gas and electric cars is closing; more EVs are now available for under $40,000. Charging networks are expanding, and battery ranges are climbing. Compared with even just a year or two ago, buying an electric car comes with fewer trade-offs. And in plenty of ways, EVs are just better. They’re zippy and fun to drive. They don’t require much of the routine maintenance, such as oil changes, that make car ownership annoying. They can do all sorts of things that fossil-fuel burners cannot: refuel at home, keep a house’s lights on during a blackout, store luggage in a “frunk.”
But if gas that’s creeping up on $5 a gallon isn’t enough to persuade people to go electric, what will? When I posed the question to Buckberg, she told me about research she’d worked on while at GM: Drivers were “happy to buy an EV—as long as they don’t have to give up anything they like about their current vehicle,” she said. In other words, it’s not enough for EVs to be good at what they’re good at—especially when relatively few Americans know someone who has one. They need to match the things that gas cars are good at too. Fast chargers are spreading, but not fast enough to free us from the mental load of worrying about where to refuel—something that’s been a given in a nation with a gas station at every corner. And what EVs can’t do yet (unless you’re in China) is recharge in as little time as it takes to pump gas. That’s something American drivers see as a prerequisite, even though most of us don’t regularly take very long road trips and drive an average of 30-some miles a day—a total easily handled by charging at home.
There’s every reason to think that EVs will continue a gradual climb, Corey Cantor, the research director at the Zero Emission Transportation Association, told me. A new wave of hyper-capable electric cars is arriving in America, with ranges above 400 miles per charge. But if EVs really have to do everything gas-powered cars do—and more—before drivers give them a chance, it’ll be a long time before America embraces them en masse. We’re nowhere near the charging speeds that China has achieved nor the density of plugs that would rival the ubiquity of gas stations. Until then, Americans will keep pumping gas into worse cars while the rest of the world has long moved on.
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You might imagine that, given the imminent midterm elections, a spluttering war in Iran, and his sinking personal approval, Donald Trump has enough to worry about. Not so. The president has been posting prolifically on Truth Social over the past two days about protests in France. “The migrants have taken over France. They must CLOSE THE BORDERS, FAST!” he wrote this morning. Trump’s reactions don’t tell us a great deal about the protests or about French society, but they do reveal three things about Trump.
First, Trump’s favorite mode is punditry. Even as the world’s most powerful man, he frequently seems to prefer watching TV and shooting opinions from the hip to engaging in governance. This explains why he continued to give freewheeling briefings, full of his own speculation and medical advice, while the coronavirus swept the United States in 2020, and it might be one reason he’s fixated on France at a time of political peril for his own party.
Second, and related, Trump can’t resist meddling in other countries’ affairs, engaging in behavior that previous presidents would have concluded was inappropriate. The U.S. government has long worked to covertly influence foreign elections, and in some cases encouraged or fomented coups. But presidents have mostly avoided issuing public endorsements or other interventions in partisan politics overseas, two things Trump loves to do. He endorsed the prime minister of Japan for reelection, backed a right-wing candidate for president of Poland, placed tariffs on Brazil for prosecuting his ally Jair Bolsonaro, and lent his administration’s credibility to the reelection campaign of Hungary’s then-President Viktor Orbán. (Orbán lost.) This weekend, he endorsed embattled Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Trump’s blaming of immigrants in France amplifies the platform of National Rally, a far-right party with fascist roots that is ideologically aligned with MAGA and has its best shot yet at capturing the French presidency for the first time next spring.
But U.S. interference abroad tends to produce some pushback. Leaders and voters in sovereign countries may not like a superpower telling them how to live—especially in a nation such as France, which still sees itself as a global player. Apologists might contend that Trump’s meddling in foreign politics is a sign of strength, projecting American power worldwide, but the brush-off Trump received when begging for international assistance in the Persian Gulf showed the cost of treating allies dismissively. Trump’s approach to the protests is notable because for years, he seemed to get along with French President Emmanuel Macron better than with almost any other foreign leader, a bromance sealed with history’s most awkward handshake. Their friendship seems to have cooled more recently, in part because of tariffs and Trump’s antagonism toward Ukraine. (Notably, the Kremlin is also using France’s protests to score political points.)
Third, Trump views all forms of protest—at least those with which he disagrees—as inherently illegitimate. The violence in France warrants concern: This past weekend, the country saw some of its worst riots in decades; shops were looted and landmarks were destroyed as rioters seemed to take advantage of the mass marches. But in his posts on Truth Social, the president does not simply condemn the violence—he suggests that the riots must be the work of foreign seditionists. The protest movement was in fact sparked by domestic concerns, particularly demands for better funding for the nation’s school system. Macron, in contrast to Trump, has said that many protestors have legitimate demands, even as he has fiercely condemned violence, which he blames on “troublemakers from far-left fringe groups.”
Authoritarians see any popular resistance as a danger to their power, which is why the autocratic Russian regime and the aspiring strongman Trump are united in condemning French demonstrations. And as nationalists, they must also blame the danger on outsiders, even though French authorities have not made any link between immigrants and unrest. “Western liberals imported the third world into France and other countries in the name of diversity and compassion,” Vice President Vance posted on X this weekend, along with a clip of the city hall in Limoges, in the old province of Limousin, burning. “They ignored fundamental questions of assimilation and compatibility. They were told it would lead to this and they didn’t listen.” This was not only a missed opportunity for Vance to blame literal limousine liberals for the riots; it was patently absurd. The French don’t need outsiders to teach them how to rage in the streets. They’ve been doing it for centuries. (Trump, an aficionado of Les Misérables, might not have made this mistake.) To the extent that migrants are involved in these protests, it is proof that they have assimilated fully to the French way of life.
Suggesting that Trump and Vance might be wiser to focus on getting their own house in order than to look overseas would be easy, but it misses the point. This weekend, while Trump was posting about French protests, Americans were participating in thousands of “No Kings” demonstrations around the country and Trump’s “border czar” was insinuating that Ilhan Omar, a Democratic lawmaker who is a naturalized citizen, committed immigration fraud. Trump’s attempts to delegitimize protest and whip up xenophobia aren’t ultimately about France. They’re about the United States.
The Supreme Court rejected an appeal by Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and two other accused September 11 plotters who are seeking to reinstate a 2024 plea deal that would have given them life sentences. The three men are scheduled to stand trial before a military commission in 2028 and could face the death penalty.
Yesterday, President Trump defended his decision to ease sanctions and tariffs on Russia, saying the move was intended to keep Moscow at the negotiating table for a peace agreement with Ukraine. He also suggested that the talks included negotiations over the release of a hostage, but he did not identify anyone involved.
Houthi forces launched three ballistic missiles at a military camp in Yemen’s Shabwa province, killing at least 47 people and injuring at least 53 others, according to Yemeni military officials. The attack comes amid renewed fighting between the Iran-backed group and Yemeni government forces supported by Saudi Arabia.
The Minimal Requirements for a Society Free From Fear
By Adam Kirsch
In 1989, the year the West won the Cold War, Francis Fukuyama published an essay announcing “the end of history.” He wasn’t claiming that historic events would stop taking place; what was over, rather, was the debate about the meaning of those events. Since the Enlightenment, Western thinkers had believed that history was progressing toward a final destination. According to communism, the engine of progress was class conflict, and history would end in the creation of a classless society. With the failure of the Soviet empire, Fukuyama argued, this idea had been discredited. Only one alternative remained: It was now clear that the “end point of mankind’s ideological evolution” was “the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government.” There would still be disagreements within liberalism—Fukuyama named religion and nationalism as likely fault lines—but there could no longer be any disagreement about liberalism.
Read. Sarah Anderson’s latest novel accomplishes what Yesteryear couldn’t, Stephanie Hayes writes. In the corporate satire Fallow, a woman is hired to bear children for executives, and her experience skewers the ideal of “having it all.”
Explore. This may be the golden age of sex toys, Sarah Hepola writes. But relying on the convenience of self-pleasure may also be keeping us “cocooned in a little pod of self-gratification.”
This year, the Trump administration gave federal firefighters a mandate: no more letting fires burn. Conventional wisdom among firefighters and public-land managers has held that allowing fires in remote areas to run their course can be beneficial. But now the administration’s new U.S. Wildland Fire Service was to pursue a policy of “full suppression” on every wildfire, Interior Secretary Doug Burgum instructed his workforce, to avoid the possibility of dangerous spread. “Accelerate initial attack,” Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins put it in her own directive to the Forest Service. “Suppress fires early and limit growth.” And when Yosemite National Park caught on fire last month, that is what firefighters did.
The hazy skies above the park filled with aircraft—planes dropping fire retardant on forested slopes; helicopters ferrying hotshot crews to the blaze. At one point, at least 17 helicopters were in rotation, along with more than 1,000 firefighters. “I’ve worked in Yosemite and with Yosemite for almost 40 years,” Tom Nichols, a former head of fire and aviation for the National Park Service (and no relation to the Atlantic writer Tom Nichols), told me. “I’ve never seen that kind of response.”
At the start, attacking the fire aggressively made sense: It had started near a popular hiking trail and was burning on a slope above Wawona, a small community in the park. It looked to be human caused. In such situations, federal policy, even before this year, called for firefighters to use “full suppression” to try to put it out as quickly as possible, former Yosemite fire officials told me.
But as it developed, the Dome Fire spread to the north and east, farther up the mountains, away from any homes or communities. The resources being poured into fighting it began to baffle some fire veterans. As a former Yosemite official put it to me, “There’s really no reason to be attacking a fire like that.” (I spoke with several sources for this story who requested anonymity because they were not authorized to speak publicly and hoped to avoid professional repercussions.) Such an aggressive approach can be dangerous. Five days into the effort to put it out, one of the helicopters was doing water-bucket drops from a nearby lake when it crashed. Both pilots died.
“For what?” one federal fire official told me. “There’s nothing out there. Just let nature do its thing.” Another official had to ask: “Did they die in vain?”
Under the Trump administration’s policy of full fire suppression, so far this year entrapments—when firefighters’ positions are surrounded by flames—are above the average for the previous two decades. At least 17 wildland firefighters, pilots, and contractors have been killed, surpassing the full-year average over the past decade, according to the Wildland Firefighter Foundation. That number includes four firefighters in Colorado who died this summer responding to the Knowles and Gore fires as flames spread amid high winds and low visibility. After that incident, several Democratic senators called on the Interior Department to investigate whether the full-suppression policy put firefighters at undue risk.
Brian Fennessy, the Wildland Fire Service chief, doesn’t think that the new policy is putting firefighters in more danger, he told me. The two pilots’ deaths in the Dome Fire were a tragedy—one he hopes his agency can learn from—but “this was not the year to allow managed fire on the landscape,” he said. The winter was historically warm, and snowpacks were at record lows across much of the western United States. Federal authorities were not about to let fires burn unattended, even in the wild. And the administration’s policy of suppression does mean increasing the number of people and helicopters fighting a given fire, he said: “Instead of two engines and a helicopter, maybe you’ve got four engines, two helicopters, maybe an air tanker.” Given how hot and dry it’s been, had firefighters not focused on putting out fires, in Yosemite and elsewhere, many could have been worse, he said.
The question of whether to harness or extinguish fire is particularly relevant in Yosemite. This is where America’s formal debate over that policy began, after Abraham Lincoln signed a bill in 1864 to grant the Yosemite Valley and the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias to California as a public trust. The commission to oversee the area disagreed about the question of annual burning by Native Americans, Stephen Pyne, a historian of fire, told me. Fires set by the Ahwahneechees were “deliberate and purposeful, even artful,” Pyne writes in his book about Yosemite’s fire history, Pyrocene Park: “They burned to keep grasslands open and attract game animals like deer to fresh forage; to keep trees from crowding out annual-grass prairies; to help harvest acorns; to stimulate willows useful for basketry; to promote berries.” Some of the Yosemite’s first commissioners saw the value in that. Others, such as Frederick Law Olmsted, considered such fires vandalism that undermined, as he put it, “the duty of preservation.”
For more than a century afterwards, the suppressionists prevailed until, in 1974, Yosemite leaders allowed a major lightning-caused fire to burn in the Illilouette Creek basin, whose creek runs behind Half Dome, the park’s famous bald mountain. This was the first big test of its new policy to manage certain fires for ecological benefit. Since then, more than 100 fires have come through that basin, and scientists have documented its renaissance. The proportion of the basin covered by dense conifer forest fell by 20 percent, and a mosaic of meadows and grasslands emerged. Biodiversity bloomed, as bees and bats and understory plants thrived. Even streams flowed a bit more abundantly, as fewer trees competed for water and snow had more open space to accumulate, Scott Stephens, a professor of wildfire science at UC Berkeley, told me. The regular burning also makes the basin more capable of handling future fire, he said, by minimizing how much of it burns at a destructive intensity. It’s now “one of the most resilient, functioning forests in all of California.”
Set under the right conditions, prescribed fires, too, can help prevent hotter-burning conflagrations. The evidence was plain just four years ago in Yosemite, when the Washburn Fire bore down on the Mariposa Grove and its revered giant sequoias. The park had conducted more than 20 prescribed fires in that area since the 1970s. And when the Washburn Fire approached the grove, the flames moved around the treated areas as if they were boulders in a stream, sparing the sequoias that have been burning up in great numbers elsewhere in California.
But this year, at least, under the Trump administration’s leadership, the park seems to have stepped back from prescribed burns as well. Although in many recent years Yosemite has done several prescribed fires, this year the park has done none and even canceled a long-planned prescribed fire near the Mariposa Grove scheduled for May, around Memorial Day, according to two people familiar with the decision. They added that Ray McPadden, the superintendent of the park, was concerned it would affect park visitation because it required closing parts of the grove temporarily. (McPadden did not respond to a request for comment; the Wildland Fire Service said Yosemite was looking for an opportunity to complete the burn this fall.)
Over the long term, avoiding fire puts the sequoias at risk, Cicely Muldoon, who retired as Yosemite’s superintendent last year, told me. And on top of that, jettisoning controlled burns, which ultimately keep fires modest, also means that “you’re really putting people in harm’s way.” A little fire—however it starts—can help prevent future huge fires.
Under the Trump administration’s reorganization of federal firefighting resources, superintendents of national parks no longer decide how to manage fires that start within their borders. That authority now lies with the Wildland Fire Service, which is housed within the Department of the Interior. After last summer’s Dragon Bravo fire at the Grand Canyon, a lightning-caused fire that destroyed more than 100 buildings, Trump-administration officials have shunned the notion of letting fires burn for the health of the landscape.
From the beginning, people fighting the Dome Fire—including those from the National Park Service and two different California interagency incident-management teams—did all that they could to put the fire out, for weeks. Because it was burning on remote slopes, these firefighters relied heavily on helicopters to reach the flames, haul in supplies, and drop water. (The teams also sent in mule trains and firefighters hiking on foot.) Crews camped in the woods as they cut fire lines by hand. Such a response is expensive too. Fighting a 6,700-acre fire that has burned no buildings has cost at least $55 million so far, according to the National Interagency Fire Center. The Wildland Fire Service said in a statement that fire managers were concerned about different assets as the fire progressed, including Yosemite West—another nearby community—and the Badger Pass ski area.
In the field, the work was logistically complex, and its tempo was high. Six firefighters got injured or became ill, according to the Wildland Fire Service. People were reporting falls, bee stings, smoke inhalalation, one firefighter told me, and the frequency of incidents was “more than you’d expect” for what they were gaining from keeping the fire at bay, the firefighter said. “People were like, What are we doing? There’s nothing out here. We’re slamming this fire shut,” this person added. “People were questioning that.”
Congestion from so many helicopters caused safety concerns, too, including a close call on September 19 between a firefighting helicopter and skydivers near the Mariposa-Yosemite Airport, a small airfield outside the park. Although an employee from Skydive Yosemite had alerted firefighters about their plans in a morning briefing, when five people jumped from 14,000 feet later that day, they floated down as a helicopter carrying cargo hovered in the vicinity of their landing zone, Paul Wignall, the company’s owner, told me. The helicopter pilot did not appear to be monitoring radio messages from the skydiving plane, Wignall said, and one of the divers drifted close enough to make eye contact with the helicopter pilot. By the time others in the group came down, the helicopter had flown off. Wignall was particularly concerned about the powerful rush of air from the helicopter’s blade. “If he can see a parachute coming, he should get the hell out of there,” Wignall said.
During the incident, the helicopter pilot “took action in response” to the skydivers, the Wildland Fire Service said in a statement, and firefighters later met with the skydiving operator to discuss the incident. The FAA brought in a temporary control tower, and firefighters moved equipment to avoid potential problems, Adrienne Freeman, a spokesperson on one of the interagency incident-management teams for the Dome Fire, told me. Authorities would later close the airport for a week. The day after the skydiving incident, another helicopter went down fighting the fire.
The circumstances of the deadly crash on September 20 remain under investigation. The firefighting community has rallied support for the families of the two pilots who died—Greg King and Ryan Cutter—and held ceremonies to honor their service. The pilots worked for Precision, a Forest Service contractor based in Oregon. After the crash, the use of aircraft on the fire paused as Fire Service managers assessed the safety risk. The losses cast a shadow over the whole enterprise.
The danger of letting a fire burn might very well have been higher than normal because of the hot, dry conditions this year, as Brian Fennessy, the federal fire chief, said. But these types of years are more common now. The next one could be hot and dry too. In Yosemite, and across America, the choice to always put the fires out carries its own risks. The kindling keeps piling up, increasing the chance that the next one will be so big that no one can control it.
In 1996, during the early years of the web, I could see that those of us who were participating online were creating an extraordinary new record of human activity—and allowing it to disappear almost as quickly as we made it.
The web was becoming the place where government officials made promises, journalists published information in the public interest, and ordinary people shared ideas and documented their lives. Yet it was fragile—equal parts consequential and ephemeral.
Many people assume that once something is published online, it will remain forever retrievable. The saying that “the internet never forgets” has produced a dangerously false sense of permanence. In reality, the internet forgets continuously. Websites are constantly revised, deleted, and abandoned altogether.
This is why, 30 years ago, I founded the Internet Archive. I wanted to build a mechanism for permanence in the internet age. Soon after that, I helped build the Internet Archive’s most-used resource, the Wayback Machine, a system that would preserve webpages as they appeared at any one moment in time, allowing future readers to return to those moments. The idea was simple but urgent: If the internet was going to become humanity’s principal publishing platform, then it needed what every great publishing system that came before it had needed. It needed a library.
People all over the world use the Wayback Machine all the time. What began as an effort to preserve the web has become an essential tool for journalists, researchers, historians, and the broader public.
Yet the future of this tool has become extremely vulnerable. The New York Times is now blocking the Internet Archive’s ability to preserve its articles. The Guardian has restricted our access to its published articles and removed articles from some of the Wayback Machine’s interfaces. USA Today and a growing number of other news organizations have also placed barriers in the path of web archivists (even, yes, The Atlantic). As of May 2026, Harvard’s Nieman Journalism Lab had identified more than 340 local-news sites that were limiting the Internet Archive’s ability to preserve their journalism.
The publishers taking these steps have all pointed to one reason: the unauthorized use of their work by AI companies to train large language models. They complain that our library serves as a back door around paywalls, licensing negotiations, and technical restrictions. The Times has said that it is blocking us because the Wayback Machine allegedly provides “unfettered access” to its work. But this fear-based approach does not take into account that the Internet Archive is taking steps to prevent AI companies from scraping the materials we preserve.
I understand why publishers are angry. Journalism is expensive. Reporting requires skilled people, time, courage, legal support, and institutions willing to withstand pressure. Journalists have watched advertising revenue disappear and subscription growth slow while technology companies build enormously profitable products using material created by others. Publishers have every right to challenge commercial businesses that they believe are inappropriately exploiting their work.
But blocking a nonprofit library is the wrong response to this problem. Impeding the Wayback Machine’s preservation work will not prevent powerful AI companies from gathering training data. It will certainly not restore the advertising-based business model that supported newspapers in the 20th century, a business model that has long since collapsed. What it will do is prevent historians, researchers, courts, ordinary readers—and, most ironic, journalists themselves—from consulting an accurate record of what once appeared on the web. It is difficult to quantify the scale of what we stand to lose. A continuous record of web activity is an enormously powerful accountability tool, especially at a time when seeking the truth and reporting it has become ever more complicated and the informational environment is growing only more complex.
Joe Mullin, who is a senior policy analyst at the Electronic Frontier Foundation, has offered a fitting analogy: Imagine a newspaper announcing that physical libraries will no longer be permitted to preserve copies of its past issues. That is effectively what is happening now. For the past three decades, the Wayback Machine has served as a library for the public web. The destruction of that library is creating holes in the historical record.
A crucial fact in this debate is one that publishers themselves know better than anyone: Journalists rely on the Wayback Machine. They use it to recover deleted tweets, verify past public statements by powerful individuals who wish to avoid scrutiny, examine earlier versions of government documents, and establish what a person or institution said about a subject before some controversy or scandal prompted them to change course. Journalists use the Wayback Machine to see defunct websites and the archives of closed newsrooms. They use it when the primary evidence for a story has vanished from the web.
A news organization that blocks the Wayback Machine may believe it is acting in the best interest of its journalists. But instead it is dismantling one of journalism’s most important investigative instruments.
My argument is simple: The public record needs an independent steward. A society that cannot inspect its past is easier to deceive. In 2017, Katie Hafner and Griffin Palmer, writing for The New York Times, relied on the Wayback Machine to report that private-equity investment was reshaping dermatology practices—expanding the use of physician assistants, increasing the volume of biopsies and procedures, enacting ever more aggressive screening and treatment protocols, and exposing elderly patients to treatments whose benefits were doubtful.
The Wayback Machine gave Hafner and Palmer an empirical record that proved crucial for their story: evidence of change over time. The current website of Advanced Dermatology and Cosmetic Surgery (one of the companies they were looking into) showed a sprawling operation with more than 180 locations and 124 physician assistants. But earlier versions of the site showed that the number of physician assistants listed by the company had increased by 400 percent since 2008, amid a debate over whether physician assistants are qualified to properly make diagnoses. When I spoke with Hafner about the story, she told me she could not have made her point as powerfully as she did without the Wayback Machine. The records she retrieved from our archive enabled her to demonstrate the scale, speed, and direction of a corporate transformation, including the rapid growth of a business model that placed many more lesser-trained practitioners in clinics serving vulnerable patients.
Hafner and Palmer are among thousands of reporters whose use of the Wayback Machine has contributed to extraordinary journalism. A politics reporter may find that an agency quietly removed a document, or even a single sentence, in the face of criticism. A city-hall reporter may need an earlier version of a municipal page containing budget figures, meeting records, and public-health guidance. A technology reporter may need to compare successive versions of a platform’s terms of service. An investigative journalist examining allegations against a public figure may need to scour a decade-old webpage that has since been deleted.
Government agencies routinely scrub important information from their sites, and the Wayback Machine is a faster and more practical method of discovery than a Freedom of Information Act request. These are not hypothetical benefits. Over and over and over again, the Wayback Machine has confirmed facts that would be irretrievable without an independent archive.
Our own monitoring finds that more than 100 news articles in a typical month cite or rely on material preserved by the Wayback Machine. We can reasonably assume that there are tens of thousands of additional visits to the Wayback Machine every month, when an archived page might help illuminate the truth.
Mark Graham, who directs the Wayback Machine, recently described having visited The New York Times to meet with data journalists and reporters—and being approached by a senior researcher who thanked him profusely. The researcher said Times staffers used the Wayback Machine constantly and had even found material there that they could not find anywhere else. Consider what that means. Even one of the best-resourced news organizations in the world does not possess a complete, easily usable record of the material it needs.
Plenty of journalists—including at The Atlantic—have championed and defended the importance of the Wayback Machine. MS NOW’s Rachel Maddow has called the Internet Archive a national treasure and said she uses it daily. She and hundreds of other journalists have signed a statement calling for web preservation.
These journalists understand that their work is cumulative. A story links to documents, earlier articles, public statements, data sets, and numerous other verifiable facts in the public record. Future stories return to (and build upon) that evidence. When underlying links die, one of the chains of verification breaks along with it.
In 2024, the Pew Research Center announced the findings of a study that tracked 1 million webpages over a 10-year period. At the end of the study, one-quarter of those pages were no longer accessible. Among pages that existed in 2013, the first year of the study, the loss rate was 38 percent. Even among pages collected as recently as 2021, roughly one in five had disappeared within two years.
This is not the timescale of ancient history. But it is often the timescale of someone’s political career, a long-running lawsuit, or a company’s rise and fall.
Elements of the web disappear for all kinds of reasons, nefarious and mundane. Perhaps a page is deleted during a redesign. Maybe a publication changes ownership, or a content-management system is replaced.
After the Pew study came out, the Internet Archive took a closer look at its data set to determine how much of the lost material had been preserved by the Wayback Machine. The analysis found that 16 percent of the vanished URLs are accessible via the Wayback Machine.
Consider the Rocky Mountain News. Colorado’s oldest newspaper published for nearly 150 years and earned a reputation for forceful accountability journalism that exposed corruption, misspent public money, and institutions that were failing the people they were meant to serve. In its final decade, the paper won four—I repeat, four —Pulitzer Prizes: for photographic coverage of the Columbine school shooting, for its images of Colorado’s devastating wildfires, and for the writing and photography of “Final Salute,” a deeply reported account of Marines killed in Iraq. In 2015, The Atlantic’s Adrienne LaFrance reported the story of how one of the paper’s Pulitzer finalists successfully resuscitated an investigative series of his that had vanished from the web when the paper did. Her story concluded with a link to the series that he’d saved. Even that link is now dead. (Though you can still find the series here.)
No institution, however prestigious, is immortal. The Wayback Machine holds the work of publications that no longer exist, such as the Rocky Mountain News. It preserves the archive of MTV News and BET.com, including decades of cultural reporting removed from the web without warning. It preserves a robust record of early-2000s web culture from Gawker Media. It provides access to work produced by Apple Daily and Stand News, Hong Kong–based news outlets that were forced to shut down in 2021 as part of a government crackdown, as well as independent Russian-language journalism, some of it produced in exile. It holds the only copy of USA Today from September 11, 2001, because the paper’s website was overwhelmed and its online editors continuously updated stories by hand without preserving the changes made along the way.
The Internet Archive is not an AI company. A commercial AI laboratory, a search engine, a research project, and a nonprofit library may all use automated systems to retrieve publicly available webpages. From a server’s perspective, each may appear to be a bot. But not all bots are bad bots. They do not have the same mission, business model, or conduct.
Publishers’ concerns about abusive scraping are merited. I know this acutely because the Internet Archive has itself been subjected to extreme machine traffic. In one incident, an AI startup sent tens of thousands of requests per second and overloaded our systems. We blocked the offending hosts, contacted the company, and worked to stop the behavior.
When a company attempts to extract material at scale, it burdens our nonprofit infrastructure and interferes with access by ordinary users. We understand why publishers object to how AI companies have used their work. But recognizing a problem does not justify attacking the wrong institution and disregarding the public interest. In short, the Wayback Machine has become collateral damage in a fight between publishers and AI companies. Blocking the Internet Archive will not stop AI. Commercial AI companies have crawled the live web, licensed large data sets, purchased access from platforms, obtained third-party collections, and built their own retrieval systems. Publishers can sue those companies, negotiate with them, or build technical controls specifically directed at them. We have already built such controls to protect the material on our site—including the material we preserve from news organizations.
Web archiving belongs to a well-established legal tradition. Courts have repeatedly recognized that copying material for indexing and search can be a transformative fair use. A searchable system cannot function without making technical copies of the material it indexes. In the now-famous Google Books litigation, in which authors sued Google over the digitization of millions of books, courts held that scanning books to create a searchable research tool served a different purpose from selling or reading the original books, and was fair use under U.S. copyright law.
Defending preservation does not require ignoring publishers’ legitimate concerns. The Internet Archive has adapted repeatedly as the web has changed. We use rate limits, filtering, monitoring, and network-security systems to respond to abusive access. We have restricted bulk functionality in particular contexts and optimized important parts of the Wayback Machine for human use.
Those efforts can and should continue. Publishers and archives can distinguish ordinary human consultation from sustained bulk extraction. We can develop better methods for identifying abusive traffic, create responsible-access arrangements, improve communication during high-volume incidents, and discuss access to application programming interfaces separately from the preservation of publicly available pages. Most important, we can preserve records while applying reasonable protections against mass downloading.
The press cannot have it both ways. Journalists describe their work as the first draft of history—but a draft of history must survive if it is to be revised, improved upon, and understood.
That’s a question I get asked a lot as a former federal prosecutor. Donald Trump, his family, and members of his administration are most often the inspiration. Last year, the Qataris gave the U.S. Defense Department a $400 million luxury jumbo jet for the president’s use, which he plans to take with him to his presidential library when he leaves office. Then Trump gave Qatar NATO-like security guarantees. Does that sound like a bribe? Exactly four days before Trump was inaugurated for the second time, the Emiratis invested $500 million in the Trump-family crypto business. Four months later, Trump green-lighted selling them advanced AI chips, which the Biden administration had blocked out of fear that they would fall into the hands of the Chinese. Same question. But even though I hear “Isn’t that illegal?” a lot more than I used to, it isn’t a new question. Former Agriculture Secretary Mike Espy and former Virginia Governor Robert McDonnell, a Democrat and a Republican, both took lavish gifts from individuals and entities seeking their help and made national news when they were prosecuted for it. Surely that was illegal?
Common sense notwithstanding, however, the answer is no. Neither Espy nor McDonnell was held accountable, and even Trump’s seemingly egregious misbehavior likely can’t be prosecuted. That’s because starting in the 1980s, the Supreme Court has interpreted anti-corruption laws in ways so narrow as to effectively legalize flat-out corruption. These decisions put whole categories of politicians’ conduct beyond a prosecutor’s reach. It’s an absurd result. But we live in the Court’s world.
For 20 years, I prosecuted white-collar crime at the U.S. Department of Justice. My first criminal trial was Enron. My last was Hunter Biden. In between, I prosecuted on corruption charges the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; the mayor of Baltimore; the Baltimore police commissioner; the Baltimore City state’s attorney; and dozens of other politicians, government employees, police officers, and prison guards. I served in leadership positions at the Justice Department and on Capitol Hill focused on corruption. I finished my DOJ career in the department’s Public Integrity Section in Washington, the specialized unit that prosecuted public corruption around the country—until February 2025, when it was effectively shut down. I was one of the prosecutors asked to dismiss the case against New York Mayor Eric Adams. Like nearly all my colleagues in Public Integrity, I declined to do so and left the department that year.
In all that time, I experienced how the Supreme Court restrained prosecutors in cases involving public officials. Even before the start of my career, the justices had begun to chip away at federal anti-corruption statutes, and this project accelerated during my tenure. When FBI agents brought me evidence of misconduct, I often had to turn the cases away, knowing I’d never be able to make charges stick. The longer I served, the harder my job became.
The first of these Supreme Court rulings was McNally v. United States, decided in 1987. In that case, a member of the Kentucky governor’s Cabinet, a local businessman, and a former chair of the Kentucky Democratic Party received hundreds of thousands of dollars in kickbacks from an insurance company that did business with the state. Prosecutors charged them with depriving the public of its right to their “honest services,” a crime under the federal mail- and wire-fraud statutes. The Court reversed their convictions and declared that the public enjoyed no such right. Although federal courts had upheld similar convictions for more than 40 years, the Supreme Court ruled that all those courts had gotten it wrong: It declared that the mail-fraud—and, by implication, the wire-fraud—statute was limited to protecting money and property, not intangible rights such as citizens’ right to good government. Congress reacted swiftly. One year later, a broad bipartisan majority in Congress passed legislation effectively reversing the Court’s decision. But McNally is an outlier in that regard.
In 1999, in United States v. Sun-Diamond Growers of California, the Supreme Court reversed the conviction of an agricultural trade association that gave gifts—tickets to the U.S. Open, expensive luggage, even a crystal bowl—to the U.S. secretary of agriculture in the Clinton administration. The Supreme Court held that giving a politician lavish gifts because of his official position was not illegal. Rather than focusing on the conduct at hand, Justice Antonin Scalia, writing for a unanimous Court, spun out a ridiculous hypothetical—that the government’s interpretation of the statute would allow the president to be prosecuted for accepting “replica jerseys given by championship sports teams.” What that claim ignored was the reality that no Justice Department would ever authorize such a prosecution.
In Skilling v. United States, decided in 2010, the Supreme Court reversed the conviction of Jeffrey Skilling, a former CEO of Enron Corporation, for conspiring to commit honest-services fraud. I had been one of the prosecutors in Skilling’s trial. Although Skilling was the president of a publicly traded company, not a politician, he was charged with conspiracy to commit honest-services wire fraud for undisclosed self-dealing. Self-dealing is a problem whether the perpetrator is a corporate executive hiding a conflict of interest from shareholders or an elected official hiding one from voters. Except the Supreme Court held that it wasn’t illegal. Confronted with the fact that lower courts had for years upheld honest-services-fraud convictions for undisclosed self-dealing, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s majority opinion noted the “infrequency” of those decisions and how they were not “models of clarity.” That, of course, didn’t mean those decisions were wrong. Remarkably, Ginsburg didn’t even say they were. Instead, she claimed that because bribery and kickbacks were the “basis of most honest-services prosecutions,” that’s what the statute’s application would be limited to. In place of legal analysis, the Court resorted to a game of numbers, and the practical effect was to restrict the number of corruption cases prosecutors could bring under this statute.
In perhaps its grossest pro-corruption decision, the Supreme Court in 2016 reversed Robert McDonnell’s conviction. A jury had convicted the former governor on bribery charges for accepting $175,000 in loans and gifts from the CEO of a nutritional-supplement company that wanted Virginia’s public universities to run clinical trials on his product. The Court held that what McDonnell did for the CEO—setting up meetings, hosting events, talking to other elected officials, all to benefit his company—did not qualify as “official acts,” for which McDonnell could be bribed. Chief Justice John Roberts, writing for a unanimous Court, adopted the most restrictive of definitions of official acts, things such as voting in the Senate or in an official committee. The decision leads directly to the question Why would a CEO give a governor that much money if these weren’t official acts? The Supreme Court didn’t offer an answer.
Then, in 2024, in Snyder v. United States, the Supreme Court reversed the conviction of the mayor of Portage, Indiana, for accepting $13,000 from a company that got more than $1 million in city contracts. Prosecutors charged him with violating a statute Congress had enacted to protect federal money administered by the states, called “666,” after its numbering in the United States Code. The indictment had charged these payments to the mayor as illegal gratuities, which is what the law calls “illegal gifts.” In reversing his conviction, the Court held that 666 covered only bribery, not gratuities. In that year alone, approximately $1 trillion in federal funds flowed to the states. As Justice Brett Kavanaugh noted in his majority opinion, as many as 19 million state and local officials administer this money. But according to the Supreme Court, there’s nothing wrong with giving them a little something extra for the effort.
That same year, the Court decided Trump v. United States,announcing a sweeping and previously unrecognized doctrine of official-acts immunity for former presidents. Whereas the decisions discussed above left prosecutors room to pursue certain kinds of corruption, the Trump ruling means that presidents, alone among elected officials, can likely never be prosecuted for corruption. That’s because the Court, with Chief Justice Roberts writing for the majority, held that former presidents enjoy absolute immunity for actions within their “core” constitutional authority and presumptive immunity for all other official acts. And worse, unlike the earlier decisions that interpreted statutes and that therefore Congress can reverse by passing new legislation, the Court claimed that presidential immunity was required by the Constitution itself. So only a future Supreme Court that decided to reverse the Trump decision, or an amendment to the Constitution, could cancel the get-out-of-jail-free card the Court gave presidents.
All but the last two decisions, Snyder and Trump, spanned the Court’s conservative-liberal divide. Sun-Diamond and McDonnell were even unanimous. This isn’t partisan politics; it’s political elites protecting political elites. The facts in these cases were egregious, but the Court purported to be saving hapless bureaucrats from overzealous prosecutors in the future. In any event, they haven’t. Instead they’ve told juries of ordinary Americans that what they concluded to be corruption was not. Perhaps to try to obscure what it was doing, the Court used technical rather than normative language, something the Fordham law professor Zephyr Teachout explored more broadly in her paper “Demoralizing Elite Fraud,” in The Yale Law Journal. But that technical language can’t obscure the underlying badness of the conduct that the Court blessed.
Congress can undo much of what the Supreme Court has done: address Sun-Diamond by making it illegal to give a politician gifts because of his position; address Skilling by designating undisclosed conflicts of interest as honest-services fraud; address McDonnell by expanding the definition of official acts in the bribery statute to cover what politicians actually do all day; and address Snyder by amending 666 to cover gratuities. As noted above, Congress already reversed the Court’s decision in McNally, and prosecutors have brought hundreds of honest-services prosecutions ever since, albeit with the limitations the Skilling decision imposed. Addressing Trump v. United States is tougher, but options still exist: Congress could close off the avenues a president can use to enrich himself and try to build his legacy by, for example, prohibiting the U.S. government from accepting gifts such as the Qatari plane, or disqualifying companies that invest in a president’s businesses or donate to his library from bidding on government contracts. That would be a good first step, but more ambitious approaches are needed, such as Senator Elizabeth Warren’s Anti-Corruption and Public Integrity Act. Unfortunately, Congress, like the Supreme Court, has so far chosen to protect political elites—in Congress’s case, by doing nothing.
This behavior should be illegal because corruption is poison to democracy. Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson wrote in dissent in Snyder, “Greed makes governments—at every level—less responsive, less efficient, and less trustworthy from the perspective of the communities they serve.” And Americans know it. Results of a Gallup survey announced last month show that Americans’ perceptions of government corruption are at their highest in 20 years: 89 percent of adults say it is widespread. That is a 10-percentage-point increase since 2025 and includes strong majorities of both Democrats and Republicans. Although the Court has placed politicians beyond the law’s reach, at least for now, the public gets it. Hopefully, a new Congress will too.
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