I keep going back to that passenger manifest from Riyadh. Four Saudis. Two Bangladeshis. One American. One Egyptian. One Jordanian. One Syrian. One Palestinian. One Sudanese. Twelve people. Seven countries. One terminal at King Khalid International. Same minute. Same blast. 309 injured, some still critical, some probably will not make it through the week. I keep reading the list because I can't get past how ordinary it is. How unimportant these people were supposed to be. In the best sense of that word. Not soldiers. Not a base. Not a ministry building. Travelers. If you've ever been in that airport you know what that hall looks like. Low light, too cold from the AC, that smell of coffee and cleaning fluid. People dragging suitcases with busted wheels. Kids asleep on backpacks. Workers in line to go home to Dhaka after a two-year contract. An American contractor probably in a polo shirt, laptop bag. A Palestinian with a transit visa trying to get to somewhere that will let him ...
I was in my kitchen this morning. Coffee going cold on the counter, phone in my hand, scrolling. And I had that feeling again — the one I keep having lately. None of this adds up unless you stop believing the old story. The old story was that America led by building things that lasted. Alliances. Trust. Showing up for your friends even when it cost you something. At least pretending there was a difference between us and the strongmen we were always warning everyone about. But look at the headlines this week. It doesn't read like a superpower. It reads like a pawn shop. New visa bonds for people from dozens of countries. You want to come here to see your kid, to close a deal, to attend a wedding? Put money down first. Prove you’ll leave. More carrier groups to the Middle East. Always more ships. Trade deals that, if you read the fine print, still have Russian diesel floating around in them. And then the big one — a trade truce with China pushed all the way to early 2027. Convenientl...