Editorial

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s outright rejection of the United States-led 15-point Gaza peace plan marks a sharp and consequential rupture. The proposal, reportedly accepted by Hamas, envisioned a pathway toward de-escalation, partial Israeli withdrawal, and arrangements for governance and reconstruction. Netanyahu’s condition is unambiguous: Israel will not pull back its forces until Hamas is fully disarmed. In the unforgiving logic of the region, this stance is neither surprising nor easily dismissed.

Israel’s experience with Hamas is defined by broken ceasefires, tunnel networks, rocket barrages, and the trauma of 7 October 2023. For many Israelis, any plan that leaves Hamas with residual military capacity is not a peace agreement but a pause that allows the group to rearm and prepare the next assault. Full disarmament is therefore presented as the minimum threshold of security, not a maximalist demand. Netanyahu’s government, under pressure from hardline coalition partners and a public still grieving hostages and losses, calculates that incomplete demilitarization would simply reset the cycle of violence.

Yet the rejection carries costs. Hamas’s reported acceptance of the plan, however tactical, handed it a public-relations advantage and painted Israel as the obstacle to relief for Gaza’s devastated civilian population. International pressure for a sustainable end to the fighting is mounting, and a visible break with a Trump administration that has invested political capital in the proposal risks straining the most important alliance Israel possesses. Prolonged military occupation without a clear political horizon also deepens Israel’s diplomatic isolation and complicates reconstruction efforts that both Israelis and Palestinians ultimately need.

The deeper problem is structural. Hamas has repeatedly treated temporary truces as opportunities to rebuild rather than renounce its charter commitment to Israel’s destruction. At the same time, the absence of a credible alternative Palestinian authority capable of governing Gaza without becoming another version of Hamas leaves a vacuum that pure military solutions cannot fill indefinitely. Disarmament without a parallel political and economic framework risks becoming an open-ended occupation; a framework without genuine demilitarization risks becoming another temporary illusion.

Netanyahu’s insistence on complete disarmament reflects a legitimate security imperative forged by hard experience. Whether it advances a durable end to the conflict, or merely prolongs a war of attrition with mounting human and strategic costs, will depend on whether Israel, the United States, and regional actors can translate that demand into a verifiable, enforceable reality rather than a perpetual precondition. Peace in Gaza has never been impossible. It has only ever been exceedingly difficult — and, once again, the path forward remains blocked by the unresolved question of who holds the guns.

Iran’s Revolutionary Guards have drawn a hard line: the Strait of Hormuz will remain closed until the United States meets a list of demands that includes compensation for war damage. President Trump, for his part, has characterised Washington’s approach as “low-keying” negotiations — a deliberate emphasis on economic pressure and measured diplomacy rather than immediate military escalation. The result is a dangerous standoff at one of the world’s most critical maritime chokepoints.

Roughly one-fifth of global oil trade passes through the Strait of Hormuz. Any prolonged disruption sends shockwaves through energy markets, raises insurance and shipping costs, and threatens the economic stability of both oil-importing nations and Gulf producers. Iran understands this leverage intimately. By keeping the waterway restricted, Tehran seeks to convert military setbacks into diplomatic gains — extracting financial redress, sanctions relief, and political concessions that would otherwise be unattainable on the battlefield.

Yet this strategy is not cost-free for Iran. A sustained closure damages its own already strained economy, alienates residual trading partners, and risks uniting a broader international coalition against it. The demand for compensation, while framed as justice for wartime losses, will be read by many governments as an attempt to monetise aggression. History shows that such maximalist positions often prolong conflicts rather than resolve them.

Trump’s “low-key” posture reflects a different calculation. Open military confrontation carries the risk of wider regional war, further depletion of munitions stockpiles, and domestic political costs. Economic pressure — tighter enforcement of sanctions, secondary measures on remaining oil buyers, and quiet coordination with allies — aims to raise the price of Iranian intransigence without the drama of airstrikes. Whether this approach can force a climb-down before markets or regional actors force a crisis remains an open question.

The deeper problem is one of credibility and escalation control. Iran believes it can outlast American impatience. The United States believes time and economic isolation will eventually compel Tehran to reopen the strait on less favourable terms. Both sides may be underestimating the cumulative damage of prolonged uncertainty: higher global inflation, strained alliances, and the ever-present possibility that a single miscalculation turns a calculated standoff into an uncontrolled confrontation.

Hormuz is not merely a waterway; it is a pressure point where energy security, great-power signalling, and regional survival intersect. Iran’s refusal to reopen it without compensation is a high-risk bid for advantage. America’s restrained response is an attempt to avoid an even higher risk. Between the two approaches lies the shared danger that neither side fully controls the consequences.

• SAS Kirmani