Last night, America sent B-2 bombers into Iranian airspace, dropped massive ordnance, and reasserted a worldview that goes far deeper than current events. While analysts dissect escalation ladders and airbase footage, the real explanation isn’t on a map—it’s in our collective imagination.
America doesn’t just support Israel. We identify with it. In our books, films, and foreign policy dreams, Israel is the version of ourselves we secretly admire: smaller, leaner, deadlier. They don’t negotiate first. They act, then explain—if they explain at all.
This goes beyond strategy. It’s narrative. In almost every American spy thriller or TV drama, there’s a Mossad agent who arrives just in time: field-proven, morally unconflicted, capable of doing what American characters won’t. They don’t talk about “values” or “soft power”—they get the job done. They’ve become a recurring symbol of unapologetic competence, like a geopolitical Blue Fairy Godmother, guiding the protagonist out of moral paralysis and into action.
This is not new. In the 1982 film The Soldier, Ken Wahl plays a rogue CIA operative betrayed by his own government. His only reliable partner? A female Israeli Mossad agent who helps him drive a Porsche over the Berlin Wall. She’s more than a co-pilot—she’s the last true believer. That film wasn’t just Cold War fantasy. It was prophecy. It laid the groundwork for how Israel would be mythologized in American pop culture: not just as an ally, but as a moral upgrade.
Why do we cling to this myth? Because Israel operates in a way many Americans now find nostalgically comforting. While much of the West wrings its hands over justice and diplomacy, Israel maintains clarity: war is real, survival is non-negotiable, and peace without teeth is a trap. Even in the egalitarian context—where modern nations debate the role of gender in combat—Israel long ago put rifles in the hands of women and sent them to the front. Dr. Ruth, America’s beloved sex therapist, was once a sniper in the Haganah. That duality—civilian and soldier, soft and hard—isn’t just history. It’s symbolism.
This myth persists because America is increasingly uncomfortable with its own strength. Our heroes are now haunted, compromised, regretful. Our enemies are humanized and our intentions suspect. And yet, we still build aircraft like the B-2. We still drop bunker busters. And when we do, we laugh at ourselves—like we can’t quite believe we’re still capable of that kind of action.
This is where the comparison becomes irresistible: if America is the aging Dr. Evil—dramatic, outdated, mocked for asking for “one million dollars”—then Israel is Mini-Me. Silent, focused, and deadly. The one who doesn’t wait for applause.
But the joke ends when the bombs fall. Because however absurd our foreign policy theater may seem, the tools of violence remain as real—and effective—as ever. The B-2 bomber is like a dead pixel in the sky: invisible until it ruins your whole display. You don’t see it until it’s already too late.
The truth is simple and disturbing: America and Israel share not just military assets, but a belief—often unspoken—that no one is coming to save you. Not the UN. Not social media. Not diplomacy. The world is not ruled by justice. It’s ruled by the credible threat of force.
So when we stand with Israel, we’re not merely backing a democracy or a partner in the Middle East. We’re affirming a worldview: that peace is imposed, not granted. That security requires violence. That you don’t negotiate your way out of extinction.
What much of the world calls extremism, we see as clarity. What others call war crimes, we call realpolitik. What they call barbarism, we call Thursday.
And whether you agree or recoil, one thing remains true: we still believe in the gun behind the handshake. And so does Israel.
