There is something magnificent about Iran's repeated declarations that it has 'closed' the Strait of Hormuz—a passage through which roughly one-fifth of the world's oil flows, and which Iran does not own, does not guard alone, and certainly does not possess the naval capacity to seal hermetically. One might compare it to my announcing, with great solemnity, that I have 'closed' the Champs-Élysées: the declaration carries a certain poetic weight, demands attention, and accomplishes precisely nothing. Yet the world listens, markets tremble, and serious men in serious offices adjust their calculations accordingly. This is not diplomacy; it is performance art masquerading as statecraft.

What strikes me most is the earnestness. No one in Tehran appears to wink at the camera. They announce these closures with the gravity one might expect from shuttering the gates of Rome. Meanwhile, shipping companies file their insurance claims and sail on through, undisturbed—much as one might imagine the Strait itself must be feeling, like a stage actor who shows up for his scene only to find the theatre has moved on to the next act.

The true closure here is not of waters, but of reason. In a world where actual problems—a plague spreading in Africa, Middle Eastern ceasefires collapsing, a continent broiling in heat—demand sober attention, we spend our breath on elaborate fictions. Iran closes what it cannot close; we pretend to believe it; and everyone emerges satisfied they have performed their assigned role. One begins to suspect that geopolitics is simply theatre for adults too old to admit they still enjoy make-believe.