Editorial

The United Nations World Food Programme’s stark warning on March 17, 2026—that a prolonged Middle East conflict could push an additional 45 million people into acute hunger by June—should jolt the international community into urgent action. With global acute food insecurity already at a historic high of 319 million people, this projected surge to over 360 million would mark an unprecedented humanitarian catastrophe, dwarfing even the spikes seen after Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.

The mechanics are brutally straightforward. The ongoing US-Israel war on Iran has severely disrupted the Strait of Hormuz, through which roughly a quarter of global seaborne oil, significant liquefied natural gas, and a substantial portion of fertilizers pass. Oil prices have surged past $100 per barrel amid threats of prolonged blockades or attacks, driving up energy costs worldwide. Fertilizer production—dependent on natural gas and Gulf exports—faces immediate shortages, with urea prices jumping sharply just as Northern Hemisphere planting seasons begin. Higher fuel and transport expenses compound the issue, inflating the cost of grains, oils, and staples from wheat to soybean oil. Farmers in vulnerable regions, from sub-Saharan Africa to South Asia, confront reduced yields or unaffordable inputs, while import-dependent nations in the Gulf and beyond grapple with stalled shipments.

This is not merely an economic ripple; it is a direct threat to human life. Acute hunger (IPC Phase 3+) means survival-level deprivation, malnutrition, stunted children, and heightened mortality risks. The WFP’s analysis ties the 45-million figure explicitly to sustained high oil prices and supply-chain chaos if the war drags into mid-year. Already, preexisting vulnerabilities—climate shocks, debt burdens, and conflict zones—are being exacerbated. In places like parts of Africa and Asia, where millions teeter on the edge, even modest price hikes can tip families into starvation.

The international response must transcend rhetoric. Diplomatic pressure to de-escalate and secure maritime routes is essential, alongside immediate humanitarian scaling. Wealthier nations should boost WFP funding, which faces cuts amid donor fatigue, and accelerate alternative supply chains for fertilizers and grains. Long-term, diversifying energy and fertilizer sources away from chokepoints like Hormuz is imperative to build resilience.

War’s hidden toll is often measured in hunger statistics long after the fighting fades. Ignoring this warning risks condemning tens of millions to preventable suffering. The clock is ticking toward June; the world cannot afford complacency. Ending the conflict swiftly is not just a geopolitical priority—it is a moral one to avert record-breaking global famine.

The White House has always been a stage for diplomatic theater, but the scene during the St. Patrick’s Day visit of Irish Taoiseach Micheál Martin was less a celebration and more a public flogging of America’s "special" ally. President Donald Trump’s decision to use a bilateral meeting with a third party to launch a blistering attack on UK Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer was not just a diplomatic faux pas; it was a revealing glimpse into a transactional White House that views allies as either assets or obstacles.

Trump’s critique was multifaceted, but its core was a comparison as lazy as it was loaded: Starmer is "no Winston Churchill" . It is a taunt designed to wound British sensibilities, implying that the current Prime Minister lacks the mettle of his wartime predecessor. Yet, the comparison is historically absurd. Churchill led a nation in existential isolation against Nazi tyranny. Starmer’s "crime" is hesitating to commit the Royal Navy to a conflict of choice in the Strait of Hormuz without a clear legal or strategic plan—a lesson learned from the disastrous foray into Iraq in 2003, a war strongly supported by the last "Churchillian" comparison, Tony Blair.

The substance of Trump’s ire stems from Starmer’s initial refusal to allow US warplanes to use UK bases for offensive strikes on Iran, and his reluctance to enthusiastically join a naval coalition to reopen the strait . To the White House, this is betrayal. To the rest of Europe, it is prudence. Germany, France, and the EU have similarly slammed the door on what they view as Washington’s unilateral escalation . Trump’s subsequent declaration that the US does not need NATO’s help—followed by his complaint that NATO is a "one-way street"—exposes the contradiction at the heart of his foreign policy: he demands loyalty from allies he simultaneously deems useless.

The most telling moment came not from Trump, but from his guest. When Trump pointed to a bust of Churchill to mock Starmer, Martin gently touched the President’s arm and reminded him that in Ireland, Churchill "created his own bit of difficulties" . It was a quiet, masterful deflection—a reminder that history looks different depending on where you stand. It was also a subtle indictment of Trump’s Manichaean worldview, where allies are either heroes or zeroes.

Ultimately, this episode is less about Iran policy and more about the degradation of the "special relationship." By berating Starmer in front of the Irish PM, Trump signaled that the UK is no longer a privileged partner, but just another European country failing to fall in line . For a nation that prides itself on being the "Rolls-Royce of allies," being told by the US President that you are not even in the garage is a humbling, and dangerous, place to be .

• SAS Kirmani