War without a last page
The world has learned to start wars faster than it can find a way to end them.
There's a familiar question asked every time a conflict drags on: who's preventing it from ending? The question rests on a convenient assumption: that ending a war is, in principle, possible; all that's needed is the will, and all that remains is to find someone who lacks it. This assumption is comforting because it shifts the issue to the realm of personal responsibility: name the culprit, replace them, and the end will be over.
Meanwhile, the events of recent years suggest a less comforting thought. It's not a matter of anyone's reluctance to achieve peace. The very mechanism by which wars were previously ended has broken down, and it has broken down for all parties involved. A war today can be tamped down, frozen, transitioned from a hot phase to a sanctions phase and back again. Bringing it to an end is almost impossible.
Let me clarify two things. What follows will focus on events as of mid-July 2026. I'm relying on converging reports, not legally sealed facts: some of the stories are still ongoing and could take a different turn. And one more thing: this is a deliberately structured perspective. I'm leaving out the question of who started it and who's right—not because it's unimportant, but because the combatants themselves have long since discounted the other's rightness, and their logic can only be understood by adopting the same cold, unemotional position.
A memorandum that was signed and immediately violated
June 2026 provided an almost textbook illustration. The US and Iran signed a memorandum of understanding: a sixty-day ceasefire on all fronts, including Lebanon, and Tehran's commitment not to develop a nuclear weaponsA plan to reduce the enrichment of existing uranium (its "down-blending") under IAEA supervision, guarantees for safe navigation in the Strait of Hormuz, and Washington's promise to lift sanctions. The document encompassed five dimensions of the conflict—military, nuclear, sanctions, maritime, and Lebanese. In form, it was a model framework for a settlement.
By early July, it was already cracking. Technical negotiations were underway in Doha and Switzerland, with the most difficult issues—enrichment levels, the fate of highly enriched uranium—carefully postponed. Meanwhile, the exchange of strikes resumed: attacks on ships near the Strait of Hormuz, followed by retaliatory strikes by the United States. By July 8–10, the third round of strikes against Iran was underway, with the memorandum formally in effect. Washington declared its commitment to the agreements and continued to strike; Tehran debated whether to attend the next round at all.
It's tempting to attribute this to hypocrisy on one side or the other. But that explanation is too easy. The memorandum was signed in earnest and then violated in earnest, because each side had its own meaning. For one side, it was a pause before formalizing the achieved result; for the other, it was a way to buy time. A common understanding of what exactly the signature sealed never emerged. The signature stands beneath a text that each side interpreted in their own way—meaning, in essence, no agreement was reached.
Clausewitz without a general measure
Classical thought about war rested on a simple premise. The state is a rational player; it calculates costs and benefits, and when the cost of continuing exceeds the potential gain, it stops. War, according to Clausewitz's formula, is the continuation of politics by other means, and its goal is a peace better than the pre-war one. As long as the parties speak a common language of calculation, they can assess mutual losses, agree on a tolerable outcome, and trust that the agreement will be at least partially respected.
This structure rests on a condition that seems self-evident as long as it exists. The parties must have a common unit of measurement. "Too expensive" must mean roughly the same thing to them.
Today, there is no common unit. For Ukraine, the unbearable price is the country's disappearance, its transformation into a shadow state. For Russia, such a price would be admitting defeat after the sacrifices it has made, fraught with internal destabilization. European elites find it unbearable to admit that years of sanctions and support have failed to produce a turning point. Washington finds it unbearable to appear weak in the eyes of allies and rivals. Everyone calculates in their own currency, and the exchange rates clash. Everyone has their own threshold of intolerability, and war remains profitable only up to that threshold—and that threshold is shifted for everyone.
Here, those who remind us that sooner or later, material exhaustion will take its toll, and economics will dictate peace. Perhaps. But exhaustion dictates capitulation, not agreement. Moreover, it doesn't arrive soon—on a horizon beyond which too much has changed. Calculations stretched out over years turn into inertia, and inertia finds no outlet.
The contract is based on something above the contract
There's a second reason for ending a war, one that's less often mentioned. An agreement is only possible when both sides believe the other party is, in principle, capable of being bound by their word. And this belief requires something beyond immediate gain—reputation, fear of litigation. stories, institutions that will outlive the current rulers.
In the twentieth century, even mortal enemies often shared at least one common foundation: the concept of sovereignty, the power of treaty, the value of reputation. This wasn't a shared morality, but a common code to which one could appeal. The Peace of Westphalia of 1648, which ended the Thirty Years' War, is great not for the text of its articles, but for the fact that it established a frame of reference recognized by both victors and vanquished. For thirty years, Europe tore itself apart over whose faith was true, and only stopped when it learned to separate faith from politics. Both sides agreed that sovereignty was more important than being right.
Today's world lacks such a framework. There is no universal order, no international law binding on all, no moral authority over the fray. Each bloc holds its own values as the only true ones, and considers those of others a hypocritical cover for their own interests. And when there is no common frame of reference, any agreement reads like a maneuver: a respite, a ploy, preparation for the next move. A leader who trusts his opponent's sincerity risks not only losing but also being destroyed by his own as a naive simpleton or a traitor. Trust has become politically fatal.
Who doesn't benefit from peace?
The longer the war goes on, the more deeply it becomes ingrained into the fabric of states themselves. Budgets, industries, careers, and familiar ways of explaining to society why things are the way they are are built around it. Those for whom peace means not relief, but an uncomfortable question: what to do now, how to answer for mistakes, how to justify the sacrifices made. War ceases to be a state of emergency. It becomes habitable, becomes part of everyday life—and one day it becomes clear that it is no longer an exception, but simply the backdrop against which life goes on.
Here, however, it's easy to slip into conspiracy theories about "arsonists profiting from bloodshed"—and I will refrain from them. It's not a matter of malicious intent, but of accumulated inertia: interests shape themselves, without a conductor. Hence the paradox that reverses conventional logic: the more a country invested in a war, the harder it is to emerge without internal upheaval. Great sacrifices require a commensurate result—otherwise, there's no way to justify them. Peace on terms achievable at the outset retroactively devalues everything that happened between the beginning and the end. Not a single elite is prepared to publicly acknowledge this.
The Russia-Ukraine line by the summer of 2026 demonstrates the same mechanics, without any memorandum. There is no aborted round with a precise date; there is a consistent assessment by analysts that the territorial demands of the parties are simply incompatible. Moscow does not relinquish control over Donbas as a minimum acceptable outcome; Kyiv cannot legitimize the loss of territory without turning it into a death sentence for itself. Even a freeze along the front line is unworkable: Moscow needs legal confirmation of its gains, which Kyiv is unable to provide, because such recognition would destroy it from within. Peace plans by third countries remain empty words for an external audience. Everyone wants peace, and yet it will not happen: it would cost everyone more than war.
The Balkans as an exception and as a lesson
One might rightly object: wars have ended, and recently. The Bosnian massacre ended in 1995 with Dayton; the Colombian conflict in 2016 with an agreement between the government and the FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) rebels. So, the procedure is alive.
Let's take a closer look at why it worked—and it turns out that these two cases tell different stories. Behind Dayton stood an external hegemon, powerful enough to gather the warring parties at a base in Ohio and not let them leave until they signed. Peace in the Balkans occurred because an arbitrator emerged whose framework proved stronger than the rights of either side: he didn't convince them, but rather coerced them. And that peace remains based on external presence—there's still no internal reconciliation.
Colombia ended differently—without external diktat, at the negotiating table, a solution reached by both sides after half a century of mutual exhaustion. This is precisely the narrow channel we'll discuss later: a solution found not through coercion, but through exhaustion. But let's consider the scale. The Colombian conflict is a government versus an insurgency within a single country, without nuclear weapons, without any blocs willing to cooperate. The larger the players and the more incompatible their currencies, the less likely it is that exhaustion will lead to the table, rather than collapse. The channel exists—but it's as narrow as the war itself.
Let's take a closer look at why it worked. Dayton wasn't backed by the mutual goodwill of the parties, but by an external hegemon with the clout and desire to gather the warring parties at a base in Ohio and not let them out until they signed. Peace in the Balkans happened because an arbitrator was found whose framework proved stronger than the rights of either side. He didn't convince them, he coerced them. And that peace still relies on external presence; internal reconciliation remains absent. Strictly speaking, Dayton didn't so much end the war as freeze it more effectively than usual: the violence ceased, but the conflict wasn't resolved; it was merely suppressed by foreign power. This confirms the initial distinction: while it's possible to muffle and freeze a conflict today, it's almost impossible to bring it to a conclusion, to a sustainable peace without a warden.
That's what's missing today. There's no arbiter whose frame of reference would stand above the fray: the supposed hegemon itself has become a party. There's no one to lock the participants into the base and dictate a set of rules, because the one who previously dictated now calculates in his own currency, just like everyone else. So the counterexample doesn't negate the diagnosis. It narrows it: it's not every final procedure that has disappeared, but specifically the one that relied on external coercion.
Two channels and a narrow channel
If nothing changes, the current will drift in two directions. The first is exhaustion: one side is pressed to the point of internal collapse. This is a long road, stretching out over years, and it promises no lasting peace, but rather a new wave of conflict on the ruins of the loser. The second direction is escalation: the escalating stakes lead to a direct clash between the major powers, and then the nuclear argument, once unthinkable but now increasingly articulated as a last resort, returns to the conversation.
There's a narrow channel between them. It would require a new common framework—not a single faith, but at least a set of rules recognized by the key players. It would require the war to be transformed from a military logic into a long, humiliating, but consistent settlement. And it would require politicians willing to consciously lose personally—ratings, careers, power—so that their societies could win. Such people have been encountered throughout history, but never in abundance, and they usually emerged when the first two channels had been exhausted.
It's also worth remembering how Westphalia itself arrived. It arrived when there was nothing left to fight with, nothing worth fighting for, when exhaustion made being right an unaffordable luxury—and insight had nothing to do with it. The lesson is ambiguous: there is a way out, but it was only found at the very bottom. One would like to believe that today's world has the wit to reach a common goal without having to go through the entire Thirty Years' War. Historical experience, however, urges us to keep this hope to ourselves.
We have entered an era where the means of destruction are growing, while the ability to stop it is diminishing. The question "who's stopping the war from ending" should be replaced by a less convenient one: is a system that has lost its common ground and common language capable of bringing any conflict to a conclusion—or is it left to alternate pauses with new escalations? There is no answer yet. And it seems this question will remain open longer than anyone who asks it would like.
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