Towards a New Theory of War - Part 3 ~ Elder Of Ziyon

Friday, March 06, 2026

Towards a New Theory of War - Part 3

Parts 1 and 2 diagnosed the problem. Revolutionary movements treat war as permanent. The West treats it as episodic. The international framework built on that episodic assumption has been systematically weaponized by the very movements it was supposed to constrain. The historical record is unambiguous.

But diagnosis without prescription is just despair. If the existing framework fails, what replaces it?

To answer that we need to start with the most fundamental reframe in this entire series — one that is obvious once stated but has enormous consequences for everything that follows.

War is not an event. It is a relationship.

The Western tradition treats war as something that happens — a discrete episode with a beginning, a legal trigger, a period of hostilities, and an end. Before the war there is peace. After the war there is peace again. The war itself is the exception, bounded and temporary, something that interrupts the normal state of affairs and then stops.

But that description doesn't fit what actually happens between Israel and Iran, between the West and revolutionary Islam, between liberal democracy and continuous-war movements. What exists there isn't a series of wars interrupted by peace. It is a relationship — continuous, evolving, with a history and a trajectory and declared intentions that persist regardless of whether guns are currently firing.

This is not a new idea. John Locke, one of the foundational thinkers of liberal democratic theory, defined the state of war in his Second Treatise of Government not as active hostilities but as declared hostile intent combined with the power to act on it. For Locke, you did not need to wait for the blow to land. The state of war existed when one party had made clear its intention to destroy another and was building the capacity to pursue that intention. That is precisely the relational understanding this framework is recovering.

The irony is pointed. Modern international law, built in the liberal democratic tradition that traces directly to Locke, quietly abandoned his insight in favor of a simpler imminence doctrine. The post-WWII legal framework didn't represent progress beyond Locke. In the most important respect, it represented a step backward — trading a sophisticated relational understanding of threat for a binary that revolutionary movements have spent decades learning to exploit.

Consider how this relational framework applies to cases the reader already knows.

The United States and Mexico have genuine conflicts — immigration, drug trafficking, trade disputes, border tensions. These are real and sometimes serious. But neither party questions the other's right to exist. Neither seeks to replace the other's system. Neither defines its national identity through opposition to the other. The relationship is adversarial on specific issues and cooperative on others. That is normal international relations — disagreement within a relationship both parties want to preserve. No state of war in Locke's sense exists, whatever the current temperature.

China is different. The relationship looks superficially similar — trade disputes, competing interests, diplomatic friction. But the underlying doctrine is not similar at all. China's stated strategic goal is to replace the US-led international order with a Sino-centric one. Its economic warfare, technology theft, political interference in democratic institutions, and military buildup are not discrete policy disagreements. They are instruments in a continuous strategic competition aimed at the fundamental transformation of the global order. The hostility is not episodic; it is structural and declared. That is a state of war in Locke's sense: not because shots have been fired, but because one party has declared through consistent doctrine and behavior its intention to displace the other's position and replace it with something fundamentally incompatible.

Iran is clearer still. Iran has not merely competed with Israel and the West. It has defined itself through that opposition. "Death to America" and "Death to Israel" are not diplomatic positions or negotiating tactics. They are constitutional to the regime's identity — institutionalized in its schools, its Friday prayers, its Revolutionary Guard doctrine, its proxy network across four continents. Khomeini said explicitly: "We do not worship Iran. We worship Allah. Let this land burn, let it go up in smoke as long as Islam wins in the end." That is not a state expressing a foreign policy preference. That is a state defining itself as being in a permanent state of war — in Locke's precise sense — with the existing order.

The diagnostic question this framework provides is simple but clarifying: look past the current incident and ask what the relationship is actually aimed at. Disagreement, or destruction? Competing interests that both parties want to resolve, or a declared intention to replace the other entirely? That question — asked honestly and answered with reference to doctrine, behavior, and declared intent rather than the current temperature of relations — is the first step of any honest war ethics. And it is the step that existing international law almost never takes.

Relationships have completely different logic than events.

You don't evaluate a relationship by any single incident. You evaluate it by the pattern, the trajectory, the structural incentives that shape behavior over time. A ceasefire doesn't end the relationship — it's a moment within it. A peace agreement between parties who define themselves by the struggle isn't peace — it's a chapter.

This is why the entire apparatus of international law keeps producing the wrong answers. It was designed to evaluate events but it has no tools for evaluating relationships. It looks at a specific strike and asks: was this proportionate to the triggering attack? But the right question is: what does this action mean within a relationship in which one party has declared permanent hostile intent and is building the capability to act on it?

This is also why the West's false binary — war or not-war — fails so completely. A binary works for events. Events either happen or they don't. But relationships don't switch off. They evolve, intensify, recede, and evolve again. The space between war and not-war isn't empty — it's where most of the relationship actually lives.

The episodic model codified in international law is not merely incomplete. It is a category error — applying event logic to something that is fundamentally relational. And category errors don't produce wrong answers. They produce answers to the wrong questions, like whether a specific act is legal or illegal, proportionate or disproportionate, done with intent to hurt civilians or not.

But there is another tradition. And it has been grappling honestly with this problem for considerably longer than international law has existed.

Jewish political thought approaches the ethics of war from a fundamentally different starting point. Where international law begins with restraint — force is the exception, requiring justification against a presumption of prohibition — Jewish thought begins with responsibility. Pikuach nefesh, the obligation to preserve life, overrides virtually everything else. It is not a permission, it is a mandate. Inaction that leads to preventable death is itself a violation.

Milchemet mitzvah — obligatory war — states that the nation has not merely the right but the duty to defend itself and its citizens.

International law asks: can you justify your use of force? Jewish political thought asks: can you justify your failure to protect your people? One system places the burden of proof on action. The other places it on inaction.

While Jewish ethics recognizes the sacredness of the lives of the enemy, it prioritizes the lives of one's own people being defended.

That difference is not merely philosophical. It produces entirely different frameworks for evaluating when force is warranted, and it turns out that the framework built around responsibility handles adversarial reality considerably better than the one built around restraint.

With that foundation, here is what an honest theory of war actually looks like.

The Diagnostic Layer — ask these questions first

Before applying any ethical or legal framework, establish what kind of conflict you are in.

Is this conflict episodic or continuous in nature? Does the adversary have a defined political objective that, if achieved or abandoned, ends the conflict — or is the conflict itself a defining part of the adversary's self-view? Iran has been calling America "the Great Satan" and chanted "Death to Israel" and "Death to America" since the revolution. The messaging that America and Israel are universal enemies has been consistent in their leaders' speeches and media. Dismissing all of these as rhetoric is not sophisticated analysis but wishful thinking.

Is the adversary's victory condition survival rather than achievement? If the regime or movement wins simply by continuing to exist, then any outcome that preserves it is not resolution but deferral, at least in their minds.

The most important question in the entire diagnostic layer — and the one Western war theory almost never asks — is this: If this episodic war is won, does that actually neutralize the threat?

Asking this question before a single shot is fired changes everything. If the honest answer is "no, winning this round leaves the system that generates the conflict fully intact," then every objective short of dismantling that system is not victory. It is intermission management. Knowing that at the outset changes what you fight for, what costs you accept, and what you are willing to call success. Achieving five years of calm may be the right decision — but if the enemy then returns with twice the force, it could easily be the worst decision.

Vietnam illustrates what happens when these questions are never honestly asked. The United States fought a limited episodic war against an adversary operating under explicit continuous-war doctrine. The North Vietnamese had stated their position clearly — they would absorb casualties indefinitely because the struggle continued until total victory. That meant only two honest options existed: full commitment to destroying the North's capacity to continue, or not fighting at all. The middle path — limited war, graduated escalation, negotiated settlement — was guaranteed to fail against a continuous-war adversary. It produced 58,000 American dead, millions of Vietnamese casualties, and the outcome the other side wanted all along.

The quagmire wasn't a failure of execution. It was the inevitable result of applying episodic war logic to a continuous-war conflict without ever asking the foundational question: if we win this episodic war, does that actually neutralize the threat?

The diagnostic questions don't only determine whether to fight. They determine what fighting must look like if you do. Half-measures against a continuous-war adversary don't just fail strategically. They cost more lives than either full commitment or non-intervention would have. Knowing what kind of conflict you are in before committing is not merely a strategic obligation. It is a moral one.

These questions must come before proportionality calculations, before legal analysis, before strategic planning. Getting the diagnosis wrong makes everything that follows a category error.

The Threshold Layer — replaces imminence

Before going further it is worth clarifying what kind of legal problem this framework is actually addressing, because international law recognizes three distinct concepts that are frequently conflated.

Casus belli — the triggering cause of war — is the oldest concept. It asks whether a specific act justifies hostilities. Israel's 1967 argument that Egypt's closure of the Straits of Tiran constituted an act of war was a casus belli argument. The claim was that the war had effectively already begun.

Anticipatory self-defense — derived from the Caroline doctrine — asks whether a state may strike before an attack occurs when the threat is imminent, necessary, and overwhelming. This is the imminence doctrine at the heart of most modern debate.

Preventive war asks something more uncomfortable: may a state act against a threat that is not yet imminent but whose trajectory makes future catastrophe nearly inevitable? This is the category that international law has failed to address.

The imminence doctrine asks: is the attack about to happen? The right question for modern continuous-war conflicts is different: is the trajectory locked in?

Four conditions define the threshold:

Declared intent — explicit, sustained, and unbounded. Not a single statement but a consistent, documented pattern of expressed purpose.

Capability trajectory — is the adversary building toward a threshold that will make future defense untenable? The question is not current capability but direction and rate of change.

Time asymmetry — does delay materially increase future harm? If waiting converts a manageable threat into an unmanageable one, delay is not neutrality. It is a decision with consequences.

Absence of reliable constraint — is there any enforcement mechanism that can actually stop the trajectory? This is where sanctions and international pressure may help forestall combat. If the answer is no, the burden of action falls on the threatened party.

When all four conditions are met, the moral question is not whether an attack is imminent. It is whether the trajectory toward mass harm is so sufficiently clear and irreversible that intervention is obligatory.

The Victory Layer — replaces stability

The existing framework defines success as restoration of quiet. That definition, as the historical record shows, consistently produces the next war.

Victory, against a continuous-war adversary, means one of two things: termination of the system that generates the conflict, or fundamental transformation of that system such that it no longer has the capability or ideological commitment to continue.

This does not automatically mean occupation or conquest. It can mean destruction of key military infrastructure, elimination of leadership that makes the system function, loss of the regime's coercive capacity, or internal transformation that abandons the revolutionary project. But it must mean that the engine stops. An outcome that leaves the engine running is not peace. It is a strategic pause.

The Constraint Layer — survives everything above

None of the above eliminates moral constraints on how war is fought. The constraints change in how they are measured, not whether they apply.

Discrimination between civilian and military objectives still applies. Civilian and combatant must be distinguished to the greatest extent possible.

Proportionality still applies — but measured against the objective of threat termination, not against exchange symmetry in the current engagement. The question is not whether your response matches the triggering attack. It is whether your response is proportionate to the goal of ending the system that will otherwise produce indefinite future attacks.

Civilian harm must be minimized by every available means. This is not negotiable.

But — and this is the point that international law consistently obscures — moral responsibility for civilian harm flows to the party that deliberately generates it. A force that embeds itself in hospitals, fires from schools, uses its civilian population as strategic cover, and deliberately denies civilians an exit has made a choice. The deaths that result from that choice are primarily that force's moral responsibility, not the responsibility of the army responding to it. Acknowledging this is not callousness, it is the only honest accounting of where the culpability actually lies.

Accountability still applies. Actions must be documented, investigated, and answered for.

The burden of honest diagnosis falls entirely on the party claiming these exemptions. This framework cannot become a blank check. The evidentiary standard is high precisely because the stakes are high.

The Foundational Layer

Morality precedes law. Law is a necessary but imperfect approximation of moral reality, always lagging, always simplifying, always vulnerable to the gap between its categories and the world they attempt to describe. When the approximation systematically produces immoral outcomes, when legal compliance means abandoning your citizens to a threat the legal system cannot see, the approximation has failed its own justification.

Conflating law and morality is another category error we see constantly. Strip away context and treat international law as the only metric for whether something is right, and you have handed revolutionary movements their most powerful weapon. Building a weapon of mass destruction — or stopping one screw-turn short of the final product — is not an act of aggression that international law recognizes as something that can be answered with force. International law has no answer for it. Morality does.

States have concentric circles of responsibility. Survival and protecting the lives of its citizens is the first moral obligation of any state, not the last resort. This is not to say other lives matter less in the abstract, but because the entire moral and political legitimacy of a state derives from that foundational duty. No state can be asked to treat its enemies' civilians as a higher priority than its own.

The second circle is the enemy's civilians, who must be protected to the greatest extent possible, and whose deaths must be minimized even at cost. But minimized, not treated as an absolute veto on action. A framework that allows the enemy to use its own civilians as an absolute shield has not protected those civilians. It has made them into weapons.

The third circle is the international community, whose norms and guidelines carry real moral weight as accumulated wisdom about how wars should be fought, even when they lack enforcement mechanisms adequate to the situation.

The order of those circles matters. International law, as currently constructed, frequently inverts them, treating international institutional approval as the first obligation and national survival as a distant consideration requiring elaborate justification. It is a framework that systematically disadvantages states facing existential threats from adversaries who recognize no such framework at all.

Lesser evil reasoning is not moral weakness. It is moral seriousness. When all clean options are gone — and against a continuous-war adversary they usually are — the ethical question is not how to keep your hands clean. It is how to minimize total harm across time, including the harm of losing.

Losing has victims too.

The Nation That Has Been Living This

This framework is not purely theoretical. One nation has been forced to develop and apply it in practice, out of sheer necessity, for over forty years.

Israel could not afford to wait for international law to catch up. The consequences of being wrong were existential. So it developed, implicitly and by necessity, something very close to the framework described above.

The Begin Doctrine — never formally announced but clearly operative — holds that a regime that has declared intent to destroy Israel will not be permitted to acquire the means to do so, regardless of whether international law recognizes the threat as imminent. Capability plus declared intent plus trajectory equals justification for action.

Osirak, 1981. The world condemned it unanimously. History vindicated it quietly.

Deir ez-Zor, 2007. Israel destroyed Syria's nascent nuclear reactor without a word of public acknowledgment. No condemnation followed because no one wanted to admit what had been prevented.

Iran, 2026. The same doctrine, applied at larger scale, against a threat that had been "not ripe, not ripe, not ripe," until the calculation finally flipped.

Israel never fully articulated this as a theory — partly for diplomatic reasons, partly because naming it publicly would invite every bad actor to claim the same doctrine. But the doctrine exists. It has been applied consistently. And it has prevented conflicts that the international framework, left to operate alone, would have allowed to mature into catastrophes.

The West has watched Israel apply this framework for four decades, condemned it repeatedly, and learned nothing from it.

Because for the threats Israel faces, international law is inadequate — and too many people cannot tell the difference between the right thing to do and what the UN Charter says. The West kept evaluating each Israeli action as a discrete event requiring discrete justification, rather than as the application of a coherent strategic doctrine built for a continuous-war environment.

Why Existing Alternatives Fall Short

Interestingly, international law has adapted to asymmetric actors before. When piracy threatened international trade in the 16th and 17th centuries, Hugo Grotius developed the concept of hostis humani generis: the enemy of all mankind. Pirates had placed themselves outside the framework of civilization by rejecting its most basic norms. Therefore any state, anywhere, had both the right and obligation to act against them regardless of nationality or location. Universal jurisdiction was born from a categorical recognition that certain actors had forfeited the protections of the framework they were violating.

The parallel to modern revolutionary movements is obvious. And some have argued for applying something like hostis humani generis to terrorist organizations and rogue states that systematically violate the laws of war.

But the analogy breaks down at a critical point. Pirates were genuinely stateless. Modern revolutionary movements almost always have state sponsors — Iran funds Hamas, Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah, Qatar and Turkey host Hamas leadership, Pakistan sheltered the Taliban, the Houthis have seized most of Yemen. That state sponsorship is deliberately maintained to provide legal cover, keeping the movement inside the framework of state relations precisely to avoid the categorical outlawry that hostis humani generis would imply. The sponsorship is itself a form of lawfare.

More fundamentally, hostis humani generis still requires international consensus to decide who is an enemy of mankind. This immediately recreates the same problem. You would need Russia and China to agree that Hamas qualifies. That is never happening. The UN couldn't even agree on a definition of terrorism because so many countries wanted their favored terror groups to be excluded.

The framework itself needs to be rebuilt from different foundations entirely. In Part 4 we will ask what this means for international law as an institution — whether it can be reformed, whether it should be, and what an honest framework built around transparency and accountability rather than universal enforcement would actually look like.