In my last essay, I argued that the Israel–Iran war crossed a threshold when Israeli jets hit Iran’s South Pars gas field and Iranian missiles answered by crippling liquefaction trains at Qatar’s Ras Laffan hub. It was the moment the conflict shifted from rattling chokepoints to cutting into the load‑bearing cables of the global energy system. Since then, three things have changed. The attacks have spread laterally from one set of facilities to an entire layer of regional redundancy. The outlines of a multi‑year price and rationing regime are emerging from under the noise. And the political coalition that launched “Epic Fury” is starting to saw through its own lifelines in public.

After the First Cable Snaps

South Pars and Ras Laffan were never just symbols. Together they tap the world’s largest known gas reservoir and power much of the modern economy’s invisible scaffolding: electricity generation in Europe, winter heating from Tokyo to Turin, fertilizer plants that keep harvests high in Asia and Latin America, petrochemical complexes that turn gas into plastics and fuels. When jets and missiles punched holes in that apparatus, it was not just Iran and Qatar that took the hit. It was the idea that the deepest parts of the energy system were off‑limits—a shared, apolitical foundation beneath the usual games at straits and canals.

In those first days, officials still talked as if this were an aberration that could be patched: repairs in months, maybe a tough winter or two, then back to “normal.” The developments since have stripped away that pretense. What looked like a one‑off strike has turned into a campaign against redundancy. What was sold as a contained operation has started to look like a live‑fire demonstration of how you turn a high‑energy civilization into something leaner, meaner, and more unequal, by design or by drift.

From One Strike to a Campaign Against Redundancy

South Pars and Ras Laffan were the turning point—the moment the war stopped rattling chokepoints and started cutting into the main cables. Since then, the strikes have spread sideways across the map and downward into the backup systems that were supposed to keep the bridge standing when something went wrong.

The Ras Laffan numbers are now out in the open. Qatar’s own executives admit that two liquefaction trains and a major gas‑to‑liquids plant are damaged badly enough that they will be offline for three to five years, taking roughly 12–13 million tonnes of LNG exports with them—about 17 percent of Qatar’s capacity and close to a fifth of seaborne LNG in a normal year. You can argue about the precise percentages, but not about the direction of travel: this is not capacity that comes back with a patch and a restart; it requires a full industrial rebuild on a ticking clock.

What makes the second phase different is that Iran and its adversaries have not stopped at the obvious crown jewels. Iranian drones have now set fire to Kuwait’s Mina al‑Ahmadi refinery in successive attacks, forcing partial shutdowns at one of the giant downstream hubs that turn crude into usable fuels and feed regional exports. Saudi infrastructure at Yanbu—the Red Sea outlet that lets the kingdom bypass a closed Strait of Hormuz—has been hit as well, and shipping insurance for any route that touches the northern Gulf has become a moving target. Instead of a clean duel between one gas field and another, the damage is spreading across refineries, export terminals, and bypass pipelines: the very redundancy that planners built after earlier crises is being pulled into the target set.

The picture around Hormuz itself captures this shift from “event” to systemic injury. Officially, everyone still talks about “reopening” the strait once enough missile sites have been bombed and enough patrols assembled. Unofficially, there are as many as 2,500 ships backed up in and around the chokepoint, with over 20,000 people stranded aboard them because there is nowhere safe to dock and, in many cases, no fuel left to move even if the all‑clear is given. Clearing that kind of backlog is not like lifting a toll gate. Each hull needs to be refueled, re‑provisioned with water and food, inspected, and slotted into a global port network that is itself jammed and risk‑averse.

That is why the reflexive little dips in oil prices every time an official hints that “we’re about to get the strait open” feel so detached from reality. Markets still want to treat Hormuz as a binary switch: closed, then open, and the world goes back to normal. In the physical world, reopening after weeks or months of blockade is its own kind of shock. Tankers and LNG carriers do not teleport from anchorage to destination. They burn bunker fuel to crawl out of a war zone into ports that may not want them, with crews who have been living on the edge of exhaustion and shortage. The war’s second phase is not just about new targets; it is about discovering how deeply the damage runs when you stop harassing the flow and start wrecking the alternatives.

A New Price Regime, Not a Spike

The comforting story from the first days of the war was that this was a price spike—a nasty one, but still the kind of thing that strategic reserves, a bit of demand restraint, and some diplomatic choreography could smooth out. That story is dying by the minute.

Saudi Arabia’s own modeling now assumes that if the war and the effective closure of Hormuz persist through late April, oil prices could climb through 130 and 150 dollars a barrel and head toward 165 or even 180 in the weeks that follow. Analysts at big consultancies say 200 is not out of the question this year if enough capacity stays offline and enough tankers remain stranded or uninsured. These are not activist fantasies; they are the internal scenarios of the world’s swing producer and the firms paid to advise its customers.​

Riyadh’s fear is not just volatility. It is demand destruction—the point at which airlines ground planes, trucking companies park rigs, households cancel trips and cut consumption, and the habits that made high demand possible erode for good. A kingdom that built its long‑term plan on selling large volumes of oil at medium‑high prices does not want to be remembered as the profiteer of an energy war it did not start, or as the regime that helped push its best customers into recession and long‑term substitution.​

On the gas side, the horizon is even starker. Losing roughly 20 percent of the global LNG seaborne trade for three to five years is not a “tight market.” It is a structural break. Officials who spent the last few winters assuring Europe and parts of Asia that diversification away from Russian pipelines and the build‑out of flexible LNG had solved the worst of their vulnerability are now talking, mostly off camera, about electricity rationing, three‑ to four‑fold jumps in power bills, and rolling shutdowns of energy‑intensive industry as a normal condition rather than a freak season.

In response, governments are doing what they always do when the headlines get too close to the pump price. They are borrowing from the future. Strategic reserves are being drawn down to keep front‑page benchmarks under the politically toxic line of 100 dollars a barrel. Subsidies and tax holidays prop up retail fuel prices. Regulators lean on refiners and utilities to absorb more of the pain. Each of those moves buys a little time and a few approval points now by pushing the adjustment further out—and making it harsher when it comes.

That is why even the U.S. Energy Information Administration, not known for alarmism, is now projecting elevated oil prices through at least the end of next year. If you hold prices down artificially in the middle of a physical shortage, you do not make the shortage go away. You stretch it. You encourage people to keep behaving as if the old energy world still exists, until the gap between expectation and reality is wide enough that only rationing, recession, or both can close it.

Even establishment analysts now describe the situation as putting global energy markets “on the brink of a worst‑case scenario,” an unprecedented crisis in oil and gas supply that will eventually wash through every corner of the world.

Seen from this angle, the Iran war is not a shock in the sense markets like to use the word, a temporary displacement around a stable trend line. It is the opening stage of a new price regime: one where high and volatile energy costs are the background condition of economic life, and where “normal” means a permanent scramble to decide who gets how much of a shrinking, weaponized flow.

A Coalition at War With Its Own Lifelines

The strangest part of this moment is not that infrastructure is burning. It is how casually the governments that ordered the strikes talk about what comes next.

When the United States and Israel launched “Operation Epic Fury,” their rhetoric was all about resolve and clarity. Trump promised to destroy Iran’s missile program, sink its navy, neutralize its allies, and guarantee it could never acquire nuclear weapons. Netanyahu framed the campaign as the long‑deferred chance to break an enemy he had spent his entire career fighting. Both men hinted at regime change without quite saying the words, confident that the war could be kept short and the economic pain manageable.​

South Pars broke that script. When Israeli jets hit the Iranian half of the world’s largest gas field, Trump rushed to insist that Washington “knew nothing” about the operation and that Qatar—a close U.S. partner and co‑owner of the reservoir—was “in no way, shape, or form” involved. U.S. officials quickly told reporters that this was not quite true: Israel had informed the United States in advance, even if it had not asked for direct help. The attempt to distance Washington from the most economically consequential strike of the war was a tell. Trump wanted the image of decisive force without the blame for blowing holes in the global gas system.​

As Iranian missiles tore into Ras Laffan and Gulf facilities in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, those tensions surfaced more openly. Joe Kent, Trump’s counterterrorism chief, resigned in protest, writing that the United States had been dragged into another Middle East war under pressure from Israel and its domestic lobby. In Congress, Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard acknowledged that the objectives laid out by Trump and the goals of the Israeli government were not the same. The alliance that presented a united front in week one now looked more like two overlapping wars: one U.S. campaign to degrade Iran’s hard power and signal resolve, and one Israeli campaign to grind down an adversary’s state, security forces, and economy as far as possible.​

Netanyahu has little incentive to stop. Polls show overwhelming support among Jewish Israelis for continuing the war until the regime in Tehran falls. Israeli jets have struck Revolutionary Guard headquarters, police and Basij checkpoints, and emergency shelters for paramilitaries, killing thousands of security personnel and unknown numbers of civilians. The same air force has also helped unleash clouds of toxic smoke and acid rain over Iranian cities by hitting refineries and storage depots, with long‑term health costs that will never show up on any ledger.

Yet for all that, the assumption that sustained bombing will quickly crack Iran’s system looks increasingly detached from the country’s actual character. Decades of sanctions that restricted access to critical materials, electronics, and even medicines forced Iran to build a broad domestic industrial base: steel, engines, diesel, pharmaceuticals. It is not autarkic, but it is far more self‑reliant than most of its neighbors, with a large pool of engineers, scientists, and lawyers and a university population that is majority female. This is not a fragile petro‑monarchy held together by imported expertise; it is a sanctions‑hardened society that has learned to make do and make things.

On top of that, the old asymmetries of power are eroding at the tactical level. Iranian air defenses that Trump boasted of having “destroyed” have now managed to detect, lock on to, and hit at least one F‑35—the “unkillable” stealth jet that had never been struck in combat before—with Tehran claiming a crash and U.S. officials conceding an emergency landing, and reports of a second hit over Bandar Abbas. From Iran’s point of view, bringing a hundred‑million‑dollar symbol of U.S. dominance down with a far cheaper missile is not just a propaganda coup; it is proof that the old return‑on‑investment logic of American air supremacy is tilting against Washington.

Strip away the personalities and this is what remains: a coalition that depends, like every modern state, on vast, cheap, reliable flows of oil and gas is deliberately degrading those flows in the name of security. Iran, facing a leadership even more hard‑line after assassinations and bombardment, is doing the same to its neighbors’ assets. Every new strike on a gas plant, refinery, or bypass pipeline is another cut to the cables that hold up the world‑system both sides claim they want to lead.

Overshoot With Missiles: Collapse Theory Meets Epic Fury

None of this will surprise anyone who has been paying attention to the old literature on overshoot and collapse. The point of the original Limits to Growth work was not that the world would “run out” of oil or copper on a specific date. It was that exponential growth on a finite planet pushes societies into a state where their demands on ecosystems and resources exceed what those systems can sustain. If they do not deliberately slow down and redesign, correction arrives in uglier ways: through a combination of resource stress, ecological damage, and institutional failure.

Subsequent work by people like Dennis Meadows, Joseph Tainter, and Peter Turchin added more texture. Tainter emphasized how complex societies become brittle when the returns on added complexity—new bureaucracies, new infrastructures, new layers of control—diminish, but their maintenance costs keep rising. Turchin mapped how elite overproduction and factional conflict erode state capacity just as external pressures mount. Together, they sketched a picture of civilizations that fail not only because they hit external limits, but because their elites, faced with constraint, double down on self‑defeating strategies.​

The Iran war is what that looks like in our century. Overshoot is no longer hypothetical; by any reasonable measure, we have already blown past safe levels of material throughput and ecological impact. The question was always how the descent would be managed. This war offers one answer: not with planned contraction and protection of the vulnerable, but with energy wars that accelerate decline while masking it as strength.

Instead of letting depletion and climate damage slowly tighten the screws, states are blowing up each other’s ability to keep high‑energy life going. Instead of using what remains of the fossil era to build a softer landing, they are using it to power missile factories, bomber fleets, and propaganda machines. Even in the air war, the old assumptions are fraying: Iranian air defenses that were supposed to have been “decimated” have now managed to hit the F‑35, the crowning jewel of U.S. air power, with relatively low‑cost missiles, turning a hundred‑million‑dollar stealth platform into just another vulnerable asset over Bandar Abbas. The German military’s old peak‑oil scenarios warned that once energy costs consumed more than a certain share of GDP, recessions and instability would become chronic, not cyclical. We are heading into that zone with our foot on the accelerator.​

The Uneven Geography of the First Global Rationing War

From a distance, it is easy to get lost in shipping maps and price charts. Up close, the war’s logic is being written into electricity bills, grocery prices, and rationing plans.

In Europe and parts of East Asia, the same officials who boasted of “energy security” after diversifying away from Russian gas are now gaming out winters of rolling blackouts, mandated demand cuts, and three‑ or four‑fold increases in household power costs. Decisions about which industries get priority access to gas and electricity—chemicals, steel, autos, data centers—are becoming matters of national strategy rather than routine regulation. The social bargain that underpinned the European Union’s technocratic politics was premised on abundant, reasonably cheap energy. That premise is dissolving.

In poorer, energy‑importing states, the choices are crueler. Governments in South Asia, North Africa, and parts of sub‑Saharan Africa are being forced to decide whether to pay for LNG and oil at crisis prices, pay for fertilizer to keep harvests up, or pay foreign creditors to avoid default. They cannot do all three. The international financial institutions that present themselves as shock absorbers will, in practice, turn up as collection agencies for bondholders and gas suppliers, offering loans and rollovers in exchange for austerity measures that cut deepest into already‑thin safety nets.​​

The Gulf monarchies are not exempt from the blowback, even if most of them did not ask for this escalation. Saudi Arabia, which pushed hardest for a tougher line on Iran, now finds itself modeling oil at 150–180 dollars with all the recession and demand‑destruction risks that implies. Qatar, Kuwait, and the UAE are discovering what it means to have refineries, gas fields, and export terminals turned into declared targets, with reconstruction and defense costs eating into the hydrocarbon rents that financed subsidies and public jobs. However they positioned themselves at the outset, they are now being forced to decide whether to pass the pain on to their own populations or quietly accept a thinner cushion and a more brittle social bargain.

In the United States, which likes to imagine itself insulated by domestic production, the shock is already present in more mundane ways. Diesel and gasoline prices have jumped fastest in the interior states tied to Gulf Coast refining and long‑haul trucking routes. For many households, that means longer drives that cost more, higher food prices, and local governments told there is no money for anything but police, prisons, and patchwork road repair. As in previous energy crises, the temptation will be to displace the anger: blame environmentalists, immigrants, foreign enemies, anyone but the leaders who chose to fire missiles into the heart of the energy system.​

This is why it is not quite right to call what is unfolding an “oil shock” or a “gas crisis.” Those phrases suggest temporary disruptions in a system that will eventually re‑equilibrate. What we are watching instead is the earliest stage of a global rationing war: a period in which access to energy is allocated through a mix of price, force, and geopolitics, and in which whole swaths of humanity are quietly written out of the future that cheap hydrocarbons briefly made possible.

Managed Descent or Permanent Emergency

There is still a choice, but it is narrowing.

One path, mostly theoretical so far, would treat this war as a last, brutal warning. Rich countries could decide that trying to preserve their current level of energy use is a losing game, and begin a managed descent: deliberate reductions in consumption at the top, protection of basic needs for the bottom and the middle, and aggressive restructuring of food, transport, and housing systems around lower throughput. It would mean rationing, but rationing as policy rather than as a side‑effect of missile strikes and credit limits.

The path we are on looks very different. It treats each escalation as an aberration even as the aberrations become the norm. It uses strategic reserves and subsidies to postpone price recognition, then deploys central banks and riot police when the bill comes due. It defines “law and order” as the ability of states to manage permanent crisis on behalf of those still connected to the remaining lifelines, while everyone else is left to navigate blackouts, food inflation, and debt collectors.

In my previous essay, I said we had crossed from threatening chokepoints to cutting cables, and we are now being shown what that means in practice. The cables can be cut faster than they can be repaired. The people in charge of the shears are more afraid of losing face than of losing the bridge. And the rest of us are learning what it feels like to live in a world‑system whose rulers have decided that if they cannot steer it forever, they are at least entitled to decide how—and over whom—it falls.