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Donald Trump wanted Greenland. Not in the quiet, diplomatic, “let’s explore strategic interests over aquavit and polite nods” manner that grown-up nations occasionally attempt. No. He wanted it the way a toddler wants the biggest toy in the shop window: loudly, immediately, and with zero regard for the fact that it already belongs to someone else.
Some political leaders leave office and quietly retreat into the background. Others spend their retirement writing memoirs that nobody reads and giving speeches that nobody remembers.
For years the International Criminal Court has operated like a colonial-era court with better stationery and a more solemn logo. The docket groaned under the weight of African cases while the architects of certain adventures in Libya, Iraq, and beyond somehow remained mysteriously unburdened by the same enthusiastic pursuit of accountability. The rule of law, we were solemnly told, was universal. The application, it turned out, was rather more exclusive.
But wars are not graded like Olympic gymnastics. There are no medals for technical execution if the end result leaves your opponent intact, emboldened, or—worse—adapted.
Let it be said plainly: Christians are dying in Nigeria's Middle Belt and northeast, in numbers that shame a government which has spent a quarter-century treating internal security as a procurement racket rather than a constitutional duty. That much is not in serious dispute, whatever Abuja's spokesmen protest on television. But sincerity and self-interest are not mutually exclusive states, and it takes a special sort of credulity to receive Donald Trump's sudden solicitude for Black Christians in the Sahel as anything other than what it plainly is a foreign policy improvised from a domestic culture war, deployed by an administration whose relationship with racial minorities at home has rarely troubled itself with tenderness. One does not have to admire
