Progressive Pieties, Islamist Terrorism and the Catholic Church: A Study in False Equivalence

I am often left feeling bemused when I read progressives’ attempts to make sense of Islamist terrorism. Previously, the trope that impoverishment and anomie caused people to perpetrate terroristic acts was in vogue. Whilst this explanation was never entirely bereft of merit – the lives of many young men who yielded themselves to such murderous rage have been marked by social or economic dislocation – it dramatically underplayed the formative role of ideas and ideology as legitimating forces of politico-religious violence. Moreover, the many examples of comfortable, seemingly well-connected and well-resourced individuals engaging in terrorism undercuts the thesis that poverty or marginalisation are the primary drivers: Osama Bin Laden was the son of a Saudi billionaire, whilst the present head of Al-Qaeda, Ayman Al-Zawahiri, is a trained surgeon from a prosperous Egyptian family. Such profiles extend to the so-called “foot soldiers” of radical Islam. The leader of the 9/11 hijackers, Mohammed Atta, had been studying for his PhD in Germany at the time of his heinous act, whilst the infamous “Jihadi John” – grisly poster boy for Islamic State – was a young British man who’d attended Westminster University. Poor and wretched souls (economically speaking) they were not.

Thankfully, one doesn’t hear this alleged explanation bandied about with quite the same confidence. Even many on the Left have begun to recognize that there may be a causal connection between certain conceptions of Islam and terroristic violence after all. They have subsequently retired the older view that putatively religious acts of terrorism were nothing more than a proxy for merely social, political or economic grievances. Labor’s Anne Aly, for example, has rubbished the idea that economic deprivation, say, can do the heavy lifting in this regard – an opinion that is all the more significant, given that she herself is a Muslim.

But the passage of time has not necessarily seen a vast improvement in progressive approaches to the phenomenon of Islamist terrorism: having quietly abandoned one means of obfuscation, some on the Left have enthusiastically adopted another. One might call it the idea of religious equivalence, or the notion that all religions may, with equal likelihood, fuel acts of violent extremism (whether political or not). Even if some forms of, say, terrorism have their roots in Islamic doctrine, so the progressive might concede, it is equally true that other religions – Catholicism, for example – can justify such acts with comparable ease. Thus, one witnesses otherwise intelligent and well-travelled individuals claiming that terrorism perpetrated by the IRA and Protestant Loyalists during the Northern Irish “Troubles” was religious violence – on par, say, with the macabre theatrics of ISIS or Al-Qaeda, who self-consciously drape their acts in theological language. I won’t delve into why such a claim is wildly mistaken; others have ably accomplished that task. I merely point to it as yet another progressive attempt to deflect criticisms of (radical) Islam as an ideological incubator for violence and wanton bloodshed.

Child Molestation as a Form of Catholic Extremism?

Not so long ago, the former Premier of NSW (and self-identified Catholic), Kristina Keneally, penned a piece for The Guardian Australia, which included a species of the foregoing argument. Hers, however, contained a novel twist.

In her article, Keneally does not cite alleged examples of Catholic-inspired terrorism to argue that her own religious tradition is just as prone to corruption. Instead, she suggests that child molestation, rampant within the church for so many years, was actually a form of “Catholic extremism” – a distortion of teaching that was nevertheless discernibly Catholic, like the supposedly debauched interpretations of the Koran that mark out Islamic radicals. Keneally’s main point seems to be that certain (read: conservative) expressions of Catholicism were in some sense responsible for permitting the horrors of child sexual abuse, fostering these abhorrent acts. For her, the phrase “institutional sexual abuse” is too “bland”, too anodyne, to describe what she believes is indelibly linked to various elements of Catholic dogma. The supremacy of the Church’s authority, a belief that God was providentially protecting it from scandal, or the efficacy of prayer in securing moral transformation: these things, Keneally avers, have led inexorably to the destruction of scores of young lives. Indeed, she writes:

The end result of this flawed theology and ecclesiology is the nauseating, terrifying, grotesque, ritualized and repeated violent assaults and rapes of children by Catholic clergy and religious.”    

In Keneally’s eyes, child sexual abuse is a manifestation of “radical Catholic ideology”, just as the burning of Christians or the mass rape of women from minority religions is a manifestation of radical Islamist ideology.

Keneally’s is certainly a creative approach to a knotty problem. However, her analysis suffers from several critical defects, which prove fatal to her argument. Most obviously, it is quite wrong to equate child molestation within the Catholic Church and, say, Islamist terrorism as twin exemplars of some wider phenomenon we might call religious extremism. Radical Islamic terrorists explicitly justify their actions by releasing written tracts replete with references to the Koran and the example of Mohammed. For example, after ISIS-affiliated terrorists massacred scores of revelers in Paris entertainment districts in November 2015, the organization released a celebratory post about the carnage, quoting from the Koran to explain the reason for the attack. The quote is drawn from Sura 59:2: “Allah came upon them from where they had not expected, and He cast terror into their hearts so they destroyed their houses by their own hands and the hands of the believers”.

Other statements, whether disseminated by ISIS or some other extremist outfit, are laced with similar theological legitimations. The purveyors of such violence are convinced that what they are doing is a form of religious fidelity, warranted – even demanded – by their sacred texts. Mark Durie, an expert in Islamic theology, comments that “ISIS fighters are taught that non-Muslims, referred to as mushrikin (‘pagans’) or kuffar (‘infidels’), deserve death simply by virtue of their disbelief in Islam.  For ISIS, killing disbelievers is a moral act, in accordance with Sura 9:5 of the Qur’an, ‘fight and kill the mushrikin wherever you find them’, and Sura 9:29, ‘fight (i.e. to kill) the People of the Book’”. And in a widely-cited article on ISIS for The Atlantic, Graeme Wood has written about that group’s consistent efforts to couch their actions in the language of apocalyptic jihad. Radical Islamists, far from being reticent about their motives, seem proud to stand on a theological system that is drawn directly from Islam’s foundational traditions.

By contrast, there are no biblical texts, church traditions, theological commentaries, sermons, homilies or papal encyclicals justifying child sexual abuse or enjoining the faithful to engage in it. No priests charged with sexual offences have, to my knowledge, cited any sacred writings to rationalise their crimes. This is not merely a case of there being no such attempts to sacralize child abuse; the very structure of the Christian religion renders the possibility that someone would do so illogical. The alleged parallel swiftly dissolves when one compares Mohammed and Jesus, both of whom act as moral paradigms for their respective followers. Unlike the life of Islam’s founder – which seems to offer ample warrant for war-like activity among the putative soldiers of Islam – Christ’s life offers no such grounds for the molestation of children. Where one set of macabre and notorious acts appears to be explicitly justified by adherence to a religious creed, the other represents a grievous betrayal of that religion’s overriding ethos and vision.

What of Keneally’s claim that certain elements of Catholic dogma have, in corrupted form, helped sustain the practice of child sexual abuse amongst the clergy over the years? To the extent that this is true, it still falls far short of anything remotely resembling a distinctively Catholic form of extremist violence. Take the alleged relationship between Catholic ecclesiology and the entrenchment of child molestation. Large, labyrinthine organizations may make the exposure and prosecution of such crimes difficult, but there is nothing uniquely Catholic about this. As the historian and commentator, Gerard Henderson, has helpfully pointed out, the current Royal Commission into these matters found that proportionally, child sexual abuse has been more common in the Uniting Church – the structure of which is far more diffuse – than in the Church of Rome. This is certainly revealing, for it suggests that a strongly hierarchical organization is not unusually susceptible to this kind of wickedness; if anything, the data points in the other direction. Here is what Henderson has written about the matter (bracketed annotations are mine):

“[There were] 2504 incidents or allegations [of child sexual abuse] between 1977, when the Uniting Church was formed, and 2017 [i.e., over a 40-year period]. This compares with 4445 claims with respect to the Catholic Church between 1950 and 2015 [over 65 years]. And the Catholic Church is five times larger than the Uniting Church.”

It’s also worth pointing out that other large institutions, both religious and secular, have sought to protect perpetrators in an effort to preserve the “greater good” (often window-dressing for naked self-interest and reputational advancement). The BBC is a good example – all the more so, as it is a non-religious, non-sectarian entity. In the wake of the Jimmy Savile scandal in 2012, it was alleged that the BBC had protected other stars accused of sexual abuse, whilst serious institutional failings allowed perpetrators to ply their evil trade with impunity. Dame Janet Smith, who chaired an inquiry into the whole sordid saga, said that a “macho culture” prevailed at the broadcaster, which fostered rampant sexism and sexual harassment. She went on to indict the BBC for the institutionalised fear that many experienced, such that they felt unable to speak out. Finally, she excoriated those who were more concerned about individual and corporate reputations than they were about sexual predation. The point is that a tawdry and desperate attempt to cling to the laurels of an institution’s moral authority – at times leading to the craven abandonment of the victims of abuse – isn’t unique to religious bodies. Acquiescing to the supposed demands of the “greater good” cannot be given a peculiarly religious or theological gloss, for the very reason that this phenomenon – grubby though it certainly may be – is something common to every sector of humanity.

The contention that warped conceptions of prayer saw church institutions fail to act against suspected child molesters is also flawed. It may well be true in an individualised or historical sense, but what does this tell us about the purported link between Catholic doctrine and child sexual abuse? Keneally is simply unsuccessful in substantiating the broader claim that such practices are instances of a species of so-called Catholic “extremism” – i.e., that there exists a necessary link between the one and the other. I’m sure there were some Catholic faithful who, as a result of their belief in the power of prayer, did not respond adequately to accounts of abuse. But praying for the transformation of sinners – even those guilty of the most heinous of sins – is logically consistent with labouring for justice on behalf of victims, and bringing perpetrators to account. Prayer itself is a morally neutral mechanism. Assuming its efficacy, it may be used to try and secure either just or iniquitous aims. In that sense, it is like a car: a tool, which can be used ethically or unethically. More than that, an authentically Christian view of prayer must include the conviction that one’s supplications are directed towards a righteous God, who cares for the poor and watches over the vulnerable. The Book of Psalms brims with images of a deity who welcomes and listens to those who practice righteousness (Ps 15), who rescues the poor (Ps 35:10) and vindicates them (Ps 113:7). For the follower of Jesus, such prayers are often accompanied by acts that seek to secure relief for the oppressed – again, as a consequence of authentic faith. To be saturated in the Christian scriptures, then, is to pray with a fervent desire for justice to be accomplished – the very antithesis of the (unnamed) individuals Keneally cites as evidence for “radical” Catholicism.

The ongoing comparison with Islamic extremism illuminates the point. Whereas prayer that implicitly permits inaction in the face of abuse is a violation of Christian petitionary principles, terroristic violence in the name of Islam would seem to bear the imprimatur of sacred Koranic texts. Again, it may be helpful to refer to the justifications Islamists themselves have offered for their barbarism, as cited above. There is nothing morally neutral about those statements, for they seem clearly to enjoin the killing of non-Muslims as a direct manifestation of religious devotion. Similarly, there appears to be little room for saying that radical Islamists are guilty of distortion, since the texts in question are bracing in their clarity. To that extent, at least, there is a clear – one might even say necessary – causal connection between acts perpetrated by the likes of ISIS or Al-Qaeda, and the theological ideas they regard as their touchstone.

Towards the end of her piece, Keneally expresses obvious pessimism about the future. Her fear is that such crimes may still find conducive environments within the Catholic Church, as seminaries become “more orthodox and traditional”. Keneally implies that the underlying and sustaining cause – that nefarious wizard behind the curtain – of all that we have witnessed is none other than moral and religious conservatism. Her concern that the problem of child abuse within Catholic institutions may not abate ultimately rests on the assumption that conservatism and/or religious traditionalism provide settings that enable, harbour or conceal such offending. Unfortunately for Keneally, this jars with the historical evidence. The relatively widespread prevalence of child sexual abuse within the Uniting Church is once again instructive. The UC has long adopted a “low” form of ecclesiology, where the autonomy of the local church and its members is highly prized. Moreover, it has embraced female ministers, knows nothing of compulsory clerical celibacy, and has long championed the rights of same-sex attracted people (up to and including support for same-sex marriage). Indeed, the values and outlook of the UC tend to resemble modern progressive culture, such that in many areas, the boundary marking out the Church’s distinct identity has all but vanished. These convictions witness to a relatively liberal institution – one which nevertheless proved to be even more vulnerable to high rates of child sexual abuse than the Catholic Church.

What’s more, the recent experiences of the Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne suggest that moral and religious conservatism has been no more a barrier to addressing the scourge of sexual abuse than its liberal counterpart, and may have gone further in trying to arrest it. Under the archbishopric of Frank Little, clergy guilty or suspected of sexual abuse were often moved from parish to parish, shielded from scrutiny. By contrast, Little’s comparatively conservative successor – a man by the name of George Pell – established the so-called “Melbourne Response” in 1996 (soon after he became archbishop) with the co-operation of Victoria Police. The aim of the programme was to provide assistance to abuse survivors, which included the co-ordination of compensation packages. It was by no means perfect, and a fair amount of legitimate criticism can be levelled at it. But the “Melbourne Response” was one of the first initiatives of its kind to try and systematically address a problem that had beset the Church for many decades. Thus, the unfolding direction of historical events (at least in Melbourne) was precisely the reverse of what Keneally seems to assume.


Trying to have an honest conversation about these matters is sometimes difficult. I certainly understand the impulse to avoid offence, or to deflect criticism of a particular religious group because of fears concerning abuse and societal ostracism (even if they are exaggerated). But when those impulses lead a person to blunder into a thicket of false analogies, muddled analysis and historical ignorance, broader discussions regarding the causes of terrorism are hardly well-served. Kristina Keneally has tried to persuade us with what she sees as piercing honesty, allegedly exposing child sexual abuse within the Catholic Church for the degenerate religiosity it is. Degenerate? Most certainly. Religious? Well, no. If what I have said is true, then it is an affront to true Christian piety. Despite Keneally’s pretensions to insightful – even subversive – analysis, her article exemplifies all the calumnies I have just mentioned. Ultimately, it serves as a testament to the overriding influence that a rigid progressive orthodoxy can exercise upon intellectual honesty and clarity of thought.


Trump and Syria: Some Brief Observations

I’ve been trying to keep pace with the ever-burgeoning mass of opinion surrounding Donald Trump’s decision to bomb a Syrian airfield in response to the Assad regime’s reported use of chemical weapons. Partly to help me organise my own thoughts, I thought I’d set down some rough observations regarding the decision, its (possible) implications, and its significance.

To begin, there is the question of aims. As far as I can see, there remains a great deal of confusion as to what this airstrike was meant to achieve — if by “achieve”, one is referring to intended results. Put another way, it’s difficult to determine the effectiveness of the strike, since there is no clear metric against which to judge success. Ostensibly, it was meant to degrade the Syrian government’s ability to launch further chemical attacks against its own people. But how? Sure, the bombing of one airfield might delay subsequent operations the regime may wish to conduct – but only for a time. It might deter Assad from using chemical weapons (again, for a time), but does little to arrest the wider carnage civilians are suffering. Unless the United States is willing to engage in a sustained campaign against the Syrian government, it isn’t possible, practically speaking, to permanently destroy that country’s ability to engage in chemical warfare.

Some commentators – even those who have praised the President’s decision – seem to be tacitly aware of this uncomfortable reality. In Melbourne’s Herald Sun, for example, Georgina Downer (daughter of former Australian foreign minister, Alexander Downer), wrote approvingly that:

Trump ordered a military strike against a Syrian government air base that was decisive and strategic. It took out Assad’s ability to launch further chemical weapons attacks, at least from that site. Further strikes on Syrian air bases will be necessary.

Downer, like others, seems to recognize that one US strike in isolation fails to achieve anything all that significant. This explains the addition of the words, “…at least from that site”. She knows that the destruction of one airfield will not substantively change events on the ground (which, but the way, totally undermines her contention that it was “strategic”). Hence, Downer’s rather insouciant assertion that “further strikes” will be required, lest the current attack amount to little more than a mere symbolic display of strength.

But herein lies the dilemma. Pushing for a more substantial response threatens to draw the US into very murky waters, both politically and morally. It would be an intervention of dubious legality (having been built upon what appears to be an unlawful strike – more about that anon). Moreover, it creates a precedent for Trump and the country that might see them wade into a quagmire – one from which extrication is likely to be exceedingly difficult. Long-range strikes on airbases today; ground operations tomorrow. Indeed, we have seen how previous interventions have turned out: just look at Iraq and Afghanistan, fragile non-states that the US saw fit to try and re-make. One doesn’t even need to cite those particular examples; the more “modest” effort to influence the unfolding situation in Libya from 2011 has also proved disastrous. These should serve as warnings against escalating involvement in a foreign conflict that even the subtlest of minds has trouble understanding. Such action would likely leave the US exhausted by more long years trying to win an interminable conflict where allies and enemies are in a constant state of flux.

This might appear to be a leap on my part, and there would surely be several steps in between; a steadily advancing mission is often (though not always) an incremental process. But recent history has shown that apparently minor military action does have a habit of morphing into something much more grandiose. Indeed, it seems clear to me that Trump is in danger of painting himself into a corner, thereby inviting the spectre of mission creep. I mean, in order to be consistent and comprehensive in his sudden determination to punish Syria for its use of chemical weapons, a much-expanded operation is logically required. Nikki Haley, the American ambassador to the UN, has publicly countenanced this very option – even going so far as to float the notion of regime change. In any case, it’s apparent that some kind of operational enlargement is simply the natural entailment of Trump’s position, and seems unavoidable if the administration is serious in wanting to rid Syria of whatever poisonous ordnance it may still possess. Otherwise, we’re back to meaningless, ineffectual symbolism.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not in favour of foreign intervention in the Syrian civil war. I’m not suggesting that the US go the whole hog and engage in direct action against Syria. In fact,  I wasn’t even in favour of this latest foray. I’m simply pointing out the policy predicament in which the American government finds itself. Even if I did support a strike (at least in the abstract), the fact remains that the Trump administration has failed to provide a coherent or persuasive explanation for the attack, not to mention the wider aims it purports to secure. If it was an isolated operation, what good does it achieve? On the other hand, if it’s the prelude to something more expansive, how can one possibly guarantee that deeper involvement won’t simply make things worse (and sacrifice an obscene amount of blood and treasure in the process)? Some in Trump’s camp, like Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, have tried to claim that this does not represent a change in policy, viz. Syria. But how can open intervention – an airstrike against a sovereign nation, no less – not constitute a change in policy? At the same time, we have Ambassador Haley’s already-noted remarks, which re-open the door to grand nation-building projects. These countervailing views – from within the same team – are certainly worrying, for they point to both a lack of planning and fundamental incongruities at the heart of the American government’s basic stance towards Syria.

* * *

The contradictions above are of a piece with the apparent ambiguity resident in the President’s own views on Syria. Not so long ago, during the presidential campaign, he publicly chided those who argued for greater American involvement in the conflict. When Obama failed to enforce his infamous 2013 “Red Line” in the wake of Syria’s earlier use of chemical weapons, Trump seemed to support such a decision. So, what’s changed? On any of the main explanations that have been proffered, one can only be disturbed.

Trump’s own remarks strongly implied that he was so moved by images of gassed children that he felt compelled to act. Compassion and sorrow as responses to human suffering are fine and noble sentiments, to be sure. But should such pictures – and the emotional state they evoke in a person – form the basis of so important a decision as the one Trump has recently made? Policy must be built upon a calm and rational assessment of the facts at hand. It must weigh up various consequences with sobriety and (as far as possible) a certain objectivity. Moreover, foreign policy cannot do without a hard-headed evaluation of a country’s national interest: what it is; where it lies; and how a particular action might impact it, for good or for ill. Forming such potentially far-reaching decisions as the result of deep emotional stirrings – legitimate as they may be in themselves – is the very antithesis of the above approach. In the last few years, we’ve seen how single images can stir government officials to embark on disastrous policies: think of that heart-rending photo, picturing the body of a young boy washed up on a Turkish beach. That image helped encourage European governments to relax their borders further, allowing the number of asylum seekers on the continent to swell at an alarming rate. The results of such policies have been mixed disastrous, to say the least.

Some have glowingly cited this as a classic “Trumpian” move: unpredictable and abrupt, bold and decisive. They’ve praised him for so quickly re-assessing his views on Syria in light of what’s happened, and adjusting his course accordingly. I prefer a less sanguine perspective. His volte-face is not, in my opinion, the sign of a strong and decisive leader. Nor does it reflect a man whose grasp of the situation before him is sure and strong – someone who is clear-eyed about the complexities of the conflict, and is able to subtly reason through the implications of certain acts. His affectations notwithstanding, Trump’s rather mercurial ability to shift position so radically in a matter of hours suggests that he is not, in the final analysis, anchored to a coherent, consistent view of the world. The President’s decision signals, I think, his basic ideological emptiness.

Now, I realize that “ideology” is a dirty word in some circles, but I am simply using it to denote a coherent body of substantive, enduring (though not static) philosophical principles, by which a person interprets the world and makes decisions. This is precisely what Trump doesn’t possess. He is the ultimate transactional politician, focused on more pragmatics than philosophy. It’s what has led to such policy incoherence recently – not just in the field of foreign policy, but elsewhere (Trump’s approach to economics, for instance, appears to be a melange of free-market principles and nativist protectionism).

Anyone observing events in the United States might have noticed that Trump seems to formulate policy based on what might be called an indefinable nous: some exemplary, preternatural capacity to immediately discern the nub of an event, and to do what is required. Trump’s new-found determination to strike Syria appears to be borne out of such an instinct, which eludes definition: an almost impulsive act, guided not by cool rationality, or considered axioms of thought, but by pent up outrage leavened with a belief in his own exceptional abilities.

Jonah Goldberg, writing in The National Review, compared the President to the ideal “charismatic” leader in Max Weber’s three-pronged typology of authority:

Donald Trump is a charismatic political figure. I mean it [i.e., charismatic] in the sociological and political-science sense. Max Weber delineated three kinds of authority – legal, traditional and charismatic. Charismatic authority “rests on devotion to the exceptional sanctity, heroism, or exemplary character of an individual person, and of the normative patterns of order revealed and ordained by him”.

I think this is exactly right. Trump presents himself as someone who does not need to engage in the long, arduous process of thinking through policy implications or balancing competing interests; nor does he need the safe harbour of an ideological programme to guide his thinking; he simply “knows” what needs to be done, and takes the necessary steps: clean, swift, decisive, and strong. Fixed principles are, for him, redundant, for he has in his possession an unmediated, instinctual grasp of the issues that confront him. But if this is so, how is it possible to predict what Trump might actually do in a given situation? If he cares nothing for consistency of thought – instead favouring the apparent randomness of instinct over the sobriety of prudential reflection – why should people trust his articulated views at any given moment? They appear to be chameleonic, shifting with the vagaries of Trump’s mood.

Note well: this isn’t merely hypothetical; the President’s well-publicised aversion to non-interventionism threatens to crumble as a consequence of his recent actions – actions which were based on his emotional response to a series of horrendous images. Of course, if the attack remains a “pinprick strike”, then this might be avoided. But again, Trump’s proven means of decision-making suggests that anything is possible – even actions which are diametrically opposed to earlier views – whilst the administration in general continues to sit between the two-horned dilemma of ineffective symbolism and potentially chaotic intervention.


Some commentators have contended that even if Trump’s decision to strike Syria was of dubious legality, it was done for noble purposes: to punish a barbaric regime for using banned weapons; for upholding an international, rules-based order; or for defending the weak and innocent. Nicholas Kristof, writing in The New York Times, has made precisely this argument (Georgina Downer, whom I mentioned earlier, doesn’t even bother to admit that it might have been legally ambiguous). But a strike that lacks legal sanction does not preserve international order; as the historian Daniel Larison has ably shown in The American Conservative, it completely undermines it. Trump sought neither congressional approval, nor Security Council permission. It was instead a unilateral act, founded on some very fuzzy aims.

This is really the negation of international order, suggesting that some rules can be ignored, so long as the offending party has the capacity to do it. In the case of the US, it is partly borne out of a long tradition of American exceptionalism: whereas other, more “ordinary” nations are bound by multilateral conventions and a rules-based system, the United States (so the argument goes) is not. One can’t even contend that the Assad regime’s savage attack on Syrian citizens represented a clear and present danger to the national security of the US; that at least could provide the grounds for justifying such a move. It is ironic that Donald Trump should embark on this course of action: the conceit that the US has been uniquely commissioned to act when and where it deems necessary buttresses the same projects of regime change and nation-building that he so consistently repudiated as a candidate. In any case, the recent strike simply perpetuates this belief – all the while making it easier for other states, who do not subscribe to the doctrine of American uniqueness, to act militarily without legal or international approval to secure goals they deem legitimate. As Larison has also pointed out, it is usually smaller states – those that are relatively weak and vulnerable – that are thrown to the wall first when such practices are tacitly accepted.

But maybe it’s all to the good, so long as US motives were right, and the strike results in an ultimate improvement in the course of the Syrian war. However, there is some reason to think that the operation could well have a deleterious effect on what is already a deeply fractious situation, especially if it presages an escalated campaign. This brings me back to what I was saying earlier. If the Trump administration does decide it needs to involve itself further in the conflict, it might succeed only in sowing greater chaos. No one is denying that Assad and his cronies are despicable, and strict justice would require they be dealt with mercilessly. This, of course, goes without saying. They have prosecuted the war with appalling savagery, indiscriminately levelling whole city blocks, and targeting innocent Syrian civilians with impunity. Time and again, the regime has wilfully failed to distinguish between rebel forces and non-combatants, whose only “crime” was to get caught in the crossfire.

Unfortunately, though, the morally decrepit character of the Syrian government is not the only consideration here (would that it was!). In so complex a situation, there are several others one must contend with. To take just one example: the delicate (though changing) balance between government forces and jihadist groups. It should be remembered that the Syrian war is not a Manichean conflict between the armies of darkness and the forces of light. Those fighting against Assad do not represent the summit of human virtue. In many instances, such groups are themselves possessed of a surfeit of wickedness (ISIS being only the most well-known amongst them). Members of the secular opposition may be left, but they appear to be greatly diminished; the most potent rebel forces are expressly jihadist, advertising their cruel antipathy towards anything even remotely resembling freedom or tolerance. Any action that has the potential to bolster their position – even inadvertently or indirectly – should be considered only with the greatest of reluctance.

As such, weakening the Assad regime’s military standing may be what justice demands – but it also threatens to degrade the only force in Syria capable of checking the growing dominance of violent Islamic supremacism. Sure, one strike may not tip the balance decisively (though given Trump’s famed unpredictability, not to mention the fillip the strike has given to American interventionists, this cannot be guaranteed). But is it wise to attack the primary bulwark against jihadism in Syria? Is it prudent to then openly discuss its removal in another act of regime change? Would the United States be prepared to try and manage the consequences of such an act – consequences that would doubtless see the creation of a power vacuum, to be filled with equally unsavoury actors? It should be noted that for all its nauseating barbarity, the Syrian government isn’t committed to exporting bloodshed and oppression elsewhere. The same cannot be said of groups like ISIS, whose international success depends partly on its ability to maintain territory in Syria (and Iraq). Not only is it guilty of gross abuses of human rights in the Greater Middle East; it also seeks to create beachheads for its own brand of Islamic jihadism in other countries around the world. Targeting Assad, then, provides space for a brutal ideology with global designs. Noble intentions notwithstanding, it is not what I would call a “strategic” decision.