Every headline, every panel discussion, every “expert” seems to circle the same tired narrative: Donald Trump is under pressure. The war is risky. The strategy is uncertain. The clock is ticking.
But what if they’ve got it completely backwards?
Because if you step outside the media echo chamber and actually look at the strategy outlined in the recent Gatestone Institute article “Trump’s Iran Doctrine: A Strategy for the History Books”, a very different picture emerges.
Trump’s approach to Iran is not just another variation of past policy — it’s a complete break from it.
For decades, the West has relied on drawn-out diplomacy, half-measures, and the hope that Iran might moderate if given enough time and concessions.
Trump flipped that.
Instead, the doctrine combines:
The goal is simple: force the regime into a position it cannot sustain.
And crucially, it appears to be working.
Iran is now more “cornered than at any point in recent history,” despite the public bravado coming out of Tehran.
Here’s where things get interesting.
Much of the anti-Trump media has been obsessing over pressure on Trump:
But that focus misses the central reality.
This isn’t Iraq.
This isn’t Afghanistan.
There are no mass troop deployments. No open-ended occupation. No nation building fantasy.
Instead, what we are seeing is pressure being applied precisely where it hurts most — on the Iranian regime itself.
Let’s be blunt.
Iran is facing:
Even external analysts acknowledge that the U.S. currently holds significant leverage in negotiations and military positioning. (New York Post)
That’s not the profile of a regime in control.
That’s the profile of a regime under strain.
Yet Tehran continues to claim victory.
Why?
Because perception is the last weapon it has left.
The Gatestone piece highlights something many commentators ignore:
This is as much a psychological and strategic war as it is a military one.
Iran’s leadership needs:
Meanwhile, Western media — often reflexively critical of Trump — amplifies the idea that the U.S. is faltering.
The result?
A distorted narrative where:
When the underlying reality is the exact opposite.
Trump’s doctrine is not about endless war.
It’s about forcing a decisive outcome — one way or another.
As other analyses of the so-called “Trump Doctrine” suggest, the approach is built on overwhelming pressure followed by a rapid resolution, not prolonged entanglement.
That’s a fundamentally different strategy.
The biggest mistake in analysing this conflict is assuming it follows the old playbook.
It doesn’t.
And if the Gatestone analysis is even half right, then the question isn’t whether Trump can withstand the pressure.
It’s whether Iran can.
Because in this confrontation, the pressure point is not Washington at all.
It is Tehran.
The study—by climatologist John R. Christy—does something refreshingly simple: it looks at actual observed temperature extremes across the United States from 1899 to 2025.
No modelling.
No sweeping global averages.
Just raw, station-based data.
And the results? They contradict what we’re constantly told.
The paper (titled “Declines in hot and cold daily temperature extremes in the conterminous US”) analysed:
Daily maximum temperatures in summer
Daily minimum temperatures in winter
Covering over a century of observations (1899–2025)
Using real station data, not heavily adjusted or homogenised datasets (newswise.com)
In other words, this is about temperature extremes—the events people actually feel—not abstract averages.
The headline result is striking:
The most extreme heat events in the US occurred in the early 20th century, particularly the 1930s
Both hot and cold extremes have generally declined over time
The overall pattern shows a moderation, not escalation, of temperature extremes
Yes, you read that correctly.
According to this dataset, the United States experienced more intense temperature swings decades ago than it does today.
If you want a period that truly tested the limits of heat in the United States, look no further than the Dust Bowl era.
That decade saw:
Record-breaking heatwaves
Widespread agricultural collapse
Extreme drought conditions
And—crucially—these events still dominate many all-time temperature records today.
Here’s where things get interesting—and controversial.
The paper deliberately avoids heavy data “adjustments” and instead relies on observed station data. That matters because:
Many global datasets use homogenisation techniques to adjust historical records
Urbanisation can introduce heat biases over time (more concrete, less vegetation)
Modern reporting focuses heavily on averages, not extremes
This study flips that focus and asks a simple question:
What do the raw extremes actually show?
And the answer is: less volatility, not more.
Before anyone jumps to conclusions, it’s important to keep perspective.
This paper:
Focuses on the United States only, not global temperatures
Examines extremes, not long-term average warming trends
Uses a specific methodological approach that differs from many mainstream datasets
So while it contradicts claims about extreme temperatures and rising volatility, it doesn't overturn the entire narrative relating to climate change. Yet given these observations one must hold all extreme climate claims up to scrutiny.
Why This Matters
What this paper really exposes is something deeper:
A growing disconnect between:
What people are told
And what specific datasets actually show
Climate science is complex. But public messaging often isn’t.
And when a peer-reviewed paper suggests that the worst heat extremes occurred nearly a century ago, it raises a legitimate question:
Are we getting the full picture—or just the most convenient version of it?
The new study doesn’t deny climate change.
But it does challenge a commonly repeated claim:
That recent years represent an unprecedented explosion in extreme heat—at least in the United States.
According to this research, the truth is more nuanced:
The past—especially the 1930s—was more extreme than many realise
And today’s climate is more stable in terms of extremes than the headlines suggest
Which leaves us with a simple takeaway:
Before accepting sweeping claims about “unprecedented” conditions, it might be worth asking—unprecedented compared to what?
There was a time—within living memory—when Australia knew exactly where it stood.
On matters of principle, we didn’t hedge. We didn’t mumble. We didn’t hide behind process.
We stood with the West.
We stood with the United States.
And we stood—consistently and unapologetically—with Israel, a fellow democracy in a region where democracy is in short supply.
At the United Nations, Australia had a reputation. While the chamber too often descended into ritualised condemnation of Israel—year after year, resolution after resolution—Australia was one of the few countries prepared to push back. Not blindly, but on principle. We recognised the difference between democracies defending themselves and regimes exporting terror.
That clarity is now gone.
Listen to the Albanese Government—particularly Foreign Minister Penny Wong—and one word dominates every conflict:
“De-escalate.”
It’s repeated like a reflex. A script. A shield.
After the October 7 atrocities carried out by Hamas—an act of mass murder that shocked the world—the first instinct from Australia’s leadership wasn’t moral clarity. It wasn’t a firm declaration of support for a democratic ally under attack.
It was… de-escalation.
Even before Israel had responded.
Fast forward to the confrontation involving Iran—where the stakes are global, not regional—and the script hasn’t changed. The United States acts. Israel acts. And Australia?
“De-escalate.”
No leadership. No conviction. No sense of who is right and who is wrong.
Just a diplomatic shrug.
Australia didn’t suddenly lose its values.
It elected a government that no longer prioritises them in the same way.
For decades, the alliance with the United States wasn’t just strategic—it was instinctive. Australia didn’t wait to be asked. It didn’t equivocate. When moral clarity was required, we provided it.
That era looks increasingly distant.
So what changed?
The answer sits uncomfortably within the modern Australian Labor Party.
Earlier Labor governments—whatever their faults—were anchored by the party’s right faction. Leaders like Hawke and Keating understood power, alliances, and the realities of a dangerous world. They didn’t indulge in moral fog. They made calls.
Today’s Labor Party is different.
It is dominated by its left faction—more ideologically driven, more sceptical of Western power, and far less comfortable backing allies like the United States and Israel. In that worldview, drawing hard moral lines is seen as risky. Better to soften the language. Better to hedge. Better to say nothing of consequence.
Enter Prime Minister Anthony Albanese and Foreign Minister Penny Wong.
Their now-familiar refrain—“de-escalate”—is not just a diplomatic talking point. It’s a reflection of their ambivalence. A government unsure of its footing internationally, constrained by its own ideological base, and increasingly unwilling to call out right from wrong when it matters most.
This isn’t balance.
It’s drift.
And in global politics, drift doesn’t read as neutrality—it reads as weakness.
There is an uncomfortable question sitting just beneath the surface:
Has domestic politics begun to dictate foreign policy?
Australia is a proudly multicultural country having accepted immigrants and refugees from around the world. That has long been one of its strengths.
However recent high levels of immigration from North Africa and the Middle East have imported large numbers with different political views. When voting blocs begin to shape international positioning—when leaders start calibrating moral language to avoid domestic backlash—something shifts.
Policy becomes cautious. Then diluted. Then unrecognisable.
We’ve seen versions of this play out in other Western democracies. In Canada. In the United Kingdom. Social tensions rise. Public discourse hardens. And foreign policy becomes a balancing act rather than a statement of principle.
Australia now appears to be heading down the same path.
Let’s be clear: calling for “de-escalation” is not wrong in itself.
Of course we want less conflict. Of course we want fewer casualties.
But when that is all you say—when it replaces judgement rather than complements it—it becomes a problem.
Because silence, dressed up as neutrality, is still a position.
And in conflicts where one side is a democratic state responding to terrorism or aggression, and the other is not, refusing to draw distinctions isn’t diplomacy.
It’s abdication.
Foreign policy doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
It shapes how allies see us.
It shapes how adversaries judge us.
And increasingly, it shapes how we see ourselves.
If Australia becomes a country that won’t speak clearly in moments that demand clarity—won’t back allies when it counts—won’t defend the principles it once championed—then something fundamental has changed.
Not just in Canberra.
But in the national character.
For decades, Australia punched above its weight not through size or power, but through clarity and conviction.
I suspect that reputation is is already lost.
And once lost, it won’t be easily regained.
Before anyone jumps to conclusions, let’s be clear: this is not settled science. But it is a signal. And it’s a signal that deserves attention.
The video walks through a prospective observational study involving nearly 200 cancer patients using a combination of ivermectin and mebendazole.
The headline number?
84% clinical benefit rate — meaning patients experienced tumour regression, stability, or no evidence of disease.
That’s not trivial. Not even close.
Even more interesting:
The treatment appeared to work across a wide range of cancers
Side effects were mild and generally well tolerated
Lower doses worked just as well as higher ones
The drugs are cheap—very cheap
We’re not talking about cutting-edge, billion-dollar biotech here. These are long-established, generic medications.
Here’s where things get uncomfortable.
Traditional cancer treatments can cost upwards of $100,000 per year.
By contrast, this protocol—if proven effective—could cost a fraction of that.
So the obvious question is:
Why aren’t we seeing large-scale, gold-standard clinical trials?
This isn’t new. It’s the dirty little secret of modern medicine.
Repurposing existing drugs—especially generics—faces a brutal reality:
No patent = no profit
No profit = no incentive
No incentive = no large trials
Pharmaceutical companies fund most large randomised controlled trials. That’s not a criticism—it’s just the system we’ve built.
But that system has a blind spot.
If a drug is:
cheap
widely available
off-patent
…then there is no financial upside in proving it works for a new indication.
So the studies don’t get done.
Not because the idea is wrong.
Not because the science is impossible.
But because the business model doesn’t support it.
To be fair—and this matters—the study discussed is:
observational
partly based on self-reported outcomes
not randomised or controlled
Even the authors say this is hypothesis-generating, not definitive.
In other words:
“This looks promising. Now we need proper trials.”
And that’s exactly the point.
If the private sector won’t fund it, the obvious candidates are:
Governments
Universities
Independent research bodies
Because if even a fraction of this holds up under rigorous testing, we are talking about:
cheaper treatments
wider global access
potentially better outcomes
Especially in parts of the world where $100,000 therapies are simply not an option.
This isn’t really about ivermectin or mebendazole.
It’s about a system that is incredibly good at developing profitable drugs…
…but not nearly as good at exploring unprofitable ones.
And that should concern all of us.
Because the question isn’t:
“Do these drugs work?”
The real question is:
“Are we even willing to find out?”
If you want to hear the full breakdown and judge for yourself, watch the video here:
