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Whole Milk

While the world was holding its breath—airspace closing, airlines suspending landings and takeoffs at specific Middle Eastern airports, countries urging their citizens to leave in haste, aircraft carriers moving toward the region, air-defense systems being redeployed from one place to another—everyone awaited a word that could either ignite the Middle East or extinguish it.

Trump sat behind the podium as if he were hosting a television talk show, not acting as a head of state, surrounded by a chorus of faces the world was used to seeing—and others it was not. Eyes were fixed, political analysts on full alert, maps being prepared in the studios of major networks for a strike against Iran that seemed imminent.

And at the very moment when he was expected to utter the heavy word—the word that condemns or saves—he calmly, with theatrical composure, reached for a bottle of whole milk.

It was not a spontaneous gesture, nor a protocol slip. It was a deliberate display, part of a performance Trump knows well how to pace. The milk bottle was not a drink; it was a symbol of a man more skilled at distraction than diplomacy, adept at playing on the world’s nerves as if they were a keyboard.

An image destined to travel the globe faster than any official statement. Why milk, amid all this anticipation? Was it for its whiteness, as a banner for opening a new page? For its suitability to be drunk hot or cold at the same time? For its easy digestion by some and difficulty for others? For its benefits and harms depending on the condition of the one who consumes it? For its ability to retain its properties if properly preserved, and its rapid spoilage if mishandled? Or was it a symbol of all these contradictions at once?

No war was declared, nor was one stopped. A floating sentence in the middle of a theatrical performance about Iran halting executions—a sentence with no confirmed sources, no mechanisms of verification, no public commitments, much like Trump’s electoral promises. The world expected an explosion and instead found itself debating trivial details, as if the crisis had been defused the moment Trump decided to drink milk in front of the cameras.

This is Trump’s highest art: the modern genius of misdirection. Not telling a blatant lie, but drowning the truth in a sea of trivialities; not denying, but distracting; not deciding, but confusing. He does not address the world as a leader, but as a singular commander, making them wait for what he says at the time he chooses—capable of offering a spectacle instead of a stance, images instead of policies, a premium bottle of milk instead of a decision of war. Thus, he turns the most dangerous global issues into a viral clip—mockable, laughable, forgettable.

Iran was not the only target of this performance. Truth itself was. Truth, which must be spoken in moments of extreme tension, was diluted, anesthetized, administered in small doses—like milk given to an anxious child before sleep. Yet behind the absurd scene, thousands of bodies were piling up in morgues, with Trump bearing a large share of responsibility after pouring oil on the fire of deteriorating living conditions and turning them into a purely political matter. He promised imminent support for protesters, only for it to be empty of substance—an extension of the sanctions grinder that has yet to yield results, and preparation for a theater of operations not yet complete.

Israel’s internal front may have been one of the key factors delaying it, following intelligence reports of widespread destruction should a decision taken in Iran to concentrate military effort in a single location be implemented. Or perhaps it was a convenient deal, sealed by the appearance of Araghchi on Fox News to confirm that there were no executions in Iran.

Within hours, Iran fades from the scene—just as Venezuela and Ukraine did before—only for Greenland to return to center stage with a visual depiction of weakness, highlighted by Danish preparedness involving dog-sleds. But even that quickly disappears. Then comes the announcement of a National Committee to Manage Gaza, sparking wide Palestinian and Arab debate, followed by the launch of a Global Peace Council under his leadership, then a High Commissioner to administer Gaza, then an American general to lead an international stabilization force—one whose record includes a share of Iraq’s atrocities.

All of it exists only on paper and in Trump’s imagination—and all of it will soon disappear as well, for days or weeks to come.

Trump understands that politics today is not managed solely behind closed doors, but on screens. Whoever owns the image owns the narrative, and whoever owns the narrative can postpone accountability. Thus, milk becomes a political tool—an instrument to whiten the moment, soften its edge, and present it as a consumable event rather than a moral shock.

In the past, leaders hid their intentions behind complex diplomatic language. Trump hides his behind crude mockery—vulgar words and obscene gestures, like raising his middle finger at protesters in a Ford factory in Michigan. He does not want you to understand; he wants to drag you into analyzing form so you forget substance.

“Whole milk” is not merely a sarcastic title, but an accurate description of a policy presented as rich and filling, yet devoid of real nourishment—a policy that makes you feel full while leaving you without answers, that gives the impression of control while leaving the world on the brink of explosion.

In an age where positions are measured by view counts, milk becomes more important than blood, the image more important than the decision, mockery more important than truth. And so, while the world awaited a word that could change the fate of the region, Donald Trump settled for changing the subject—drinking a bottle of whole milk—leaving the world thirsty for truth, waiting for the next dose of whole milk.