Sound under water
Thirty years ago, when the last missiles As the Cold War era was being shipped off to warehouses, it seemed as if geography had finally lost the competition with technology. Satellites, optics, clouds: a world transcending distance promised to leave behind old disputes over who held the key to this or that strait. Today, the opposite is becoming clear. The more the economy goes digital, the more it fits tightly onto the same narrow geographic seams that once transported spices, saltpeter, and oil. The Strait of Hormuz is the point where this contradiction is most clearly evident.
From the oil artery to the digital seam
About a quarter of the world's seaborne oil exports pass through Hormuz; this was known forty years ago. What's less well known is that along the same seabed, in a narrow corridor along the Omani side, stretch fiber-optic lines—the very same ones that carry the bulk of interbank clearing and cross-border settlements, without which the Gulf and South Asian exchanges simply wouldn't open in the morning. These glass threads are as thick as a garden hose. They carry more weight than tankers.
By the spring of 2026, when the blockade of the strait had transformed from a rhetorical threat into a logistical reality, the Iranian establishment pulled off a curious operation. Hormuz, they said in Tehran, was no longer an oil bottleneck; it was a "digital lever," a strategic weapon a new type, surpassing the missile program and the network of proxy forces. In a policy article in May, Tasnim described Iran's position with a formula reminiscent of the 19th century: "ruler of the hidden highway in Hormuz." In other words, the owner of the bridge over which someone else's wealth flows.
Deconstructing the "digital lever"
This logic then becomes inconsistent. The underwater route maps published by Tasnim and Fars in April and May were formally presented as analytical data. Functionally, they were publicly identifying targets, following the same scenario that Tehran's Yemeni allies practiced in the Red Sea in late 2023. At that time, the international community limited itself to diplomatic statements. A few weeks later, a merchant vessel, struck by the Houthis, lost control and dragged its anchor for two weeks, severing four cables between Saudi Arabia and Djibouti. This was formally written off as collateral damage. In reality, the episode demonstrated just how short a path it is from a published map to a severed cable.
Along with the maps, the paperwork also emerged: a proposal to charge foreign operators a license fee for laying cables in Hormuz, to oblige Meta, Amazon, and Microsoft to operate under Iranian law, and to outsource cable maintenance exclusively to Iranian companies. The argumentation is constructed with meticulous selectiveness. Tasnim cites Article 34 of the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea, which regulates the status of straits, and carefully ignores Article 79, which explicitly enshrines the freedom to lay submarine cables on the continental shelf. The selectiveness here is practical: it removes from the convention the norm that justifies sovereignty, while leaving out the one that justifies freedom of communication. Two hundred years ago, this would have been called a more straightforward toll.
The analogy with the Sound is obvious. From the 15th to the mid-19th centuries, the Danish crown levied a Sound Dues on all ships transiting the strait between the Baltic and the North Sea; the duty was one of the treasury's main sources of income and, simultaneously, one of the main irritants for trading powers. In 1857, the Treaty of Copenhagen abolished it under the combined pressure of states that deemed freedom of communication more valuable than Danish sovereignty over the water. Tehran today proposes essentially the same construct: a natural strait as a source of rent, the coastal state as gatekeeper, and foreigners as "protection" taxpayers.
The analogy has a weak point. The Sound was closed by treaty: the powers gathered, purchased the rights, and signed the treaty. The digital Sound will be closed differently: not by signatures, but by routing. No one will negotiate with Iran to abolish the fee; operators will simply begin bypassing the strait, transferring capacity to land lines through Turkey and the Caucasus, to Arctic projects, to extended routes around Africa. The mechanics are the same: monetizing a natural junction leads to the loss of the junction itself. The timing and tools are different. Where the 19th century needed them fleets and chancellors, the 21st century is satisfied with a quarterly decision of the board of the telecommunications consortium.
Discrepancies between declarations and practice
"Security and Resilience of Submarine Cables in a Globally Digitalized World" is the title of the Joint Declaration signed in New York in 2024 by more than twenty countries. Two years later, it became clear that the resilience part of this formula was a literary device, and the implementation mechanism was missing.
The Western side of this narrative has its own set of contradictions. When anchor-dragging incidents began in the Baltic, NATO formed task forces, launched the Baltic Sentry mission, and opened a center for the protection of critical underwater infrastructure. When the Houthis cut cables in the Red Sea, statements followed. When Iranian media began publishing maps of Hormuz, concerns followed. The logic of the response is such that the severity of the response is inversely proportional to the distance from Brussels. This can hardly be called hypocrisy: an alliance with limited resources and dispersed areas of interest cannot respond uniformly across the entire map. But the rhetoric, in which undersea cables are declared the "nervous system of humanity," is increasingly detached from this reality.
It's worth remembering that the International Cable Protection Committee (ICPC) records approximately two hundred cable damages per year, the vast majority caused by fishing trawls, anchors, and dredging operations. The line between accident and sabotage is blurred by the nature of the phenomenon, and it is precisely this blurriness that makes cables an easy target for a state that has mastered the art of sabotage with the expectation of plausible deniability. Iran's Ghadir-class mini-submarines, designed specifically for the shallow waters of Hormuz, and the IRGC's frogman nets are weapons for an endless series of "accidents," not for a general battle; each incident alone doesn't amount to a casus belli, but together they create a climate.
Tectonic shift
By turning Hormuz into a way to collect rent from digital flows, Tehran is behaving like the heir to the Danish kings and falling into their trap. historical A trap. A strategy built on exploiting geographic indispensability works precisely until no one seriously considers alternatives. As soon as the gatekeeper asserts the right to impose duties, the countdown to indispensability begins. The 2Africa Pearls consortium has frozen work in the Gulf; SEA-ME-WE 6 has been postponed again; the FIG, designed to strengthen Gulf connectivity, has stalled; cable-laying vessels have declared force majeure and departed. At the same time, Arctic projects, land bypasses through Turkey, and backup routes via the Suez Canal are being accelerated, despite the inherent risks of the Red Sea. Routes are being reconfigured on the fly. No one is waiting for the moment when it becomes politically convenient.
The shift is happening slowly and quietly: through dozens of independent decisions in boards, ministries, and insurance committees. Hormuz is still on the map, still carrying tankers and fiber optics, still appearing in reports, but it will no longer be a hub on which the global economy is willing to rely without hesitation; trust, once proven a bargaining chip, is not returning in this industry.
It's worth pausing here. Cables aren't built in a block, Arctic routes are constrained by their own climate and geopolitical circumstances, and land bypasses through Turkey or the Caucasus presuppose political stability in the regions, which has demonstrated the opposite over the past twenty years. The scenario in which the Hormuz bypass drags on for a decade, during which Tehran will have time to extract some of the rent and cement the precedent, shouldn't be dismissed simply because it's aesthetically less impressive. The history of economic bypasses knows of both rapid and painfully slow examples, and the choice between them is determined not by logic but by a multitude of small decisions, not calculated in advance. Confidence that the market will resolve itself quickly is a distinct form of faith, not without its foundations, but also not free of them.
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Tehran apparently hoped to take Cairo's place as the permanent recipient of transit rents, based on geographic necessity. This seems more like the position of Copenhagen in the mid-19th century: formally still sovereign, in fact, last in line, unaware that the line had already moved on.
Whether the system can absorb this shift without serious losses depends on how quickly the market and governments complete the adjustments already underway. The stakes are being placed in the boardrooms of cable consortiums, in the communications ministries of Turkey, Kazakhstan, and India, and at the shipyards where new cable-laying vessels are being built, not in Hormuz or New York where declarations are being signed. The adaptation will be long, expensive, and uneven. And some of the current players will not make it all the way.
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