Original title: The Ceasefire Neither Side Can Keep

Original author: Thomas Aldren

Compiled by: Peggy, BlockBeats

Editor's Note: A ceasefire is not the end of the conflict.

In this standoff between Iran and the United States, what has truly changed is not the battlefield situation, but the rewriting of the meaning of "the contract itself." This article takes the 1988 Iranian ceasefire as a starting point, tracing how Khomeini made a crucial shift between theology and reality, and applying this logic to the 2026 ceasefire decision, pointing out a deeper structural problem: when states are placed above the rules, any agreement will lose its binding force.

The article argues that the current ceasefire is fragile not only because of a lack of trust between the two sides, but also because this "untrustworthiness" has been solidified by their respective systems and historical paths. On the one hand, Iran retains the space in its political theology to "withdraw commitments if necessary"; on the other hand, the United States, after withdrawing from the Iran nuclear deal (JCPOA) and turning to maximum pressure and military strikes, has also weakened its credibility as a party to the agreement.

Under such circumstances, a ceasefire is no longer a "path to peace," but rather a form that has been preserved: it still exists, but it lacks the moral and institutional foundation to support it.

When both sides regard their own power as the ultimate basis, is an agreement still possible? This may be the most crucial starting point for understanding this ceasefire.

The following is the original text:

How is the logic of 1988 repeating itself today?

Before accepting the 1988 ceasefire with Iraq, Ruhollah Khomeini, the founder of the Islamic Republic of Iran, reportedly considered resigning as Supreme Leader.

Then-Speaker Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani proposed an alternative: he would unilaterally end the war, and then Khomeini would use that as a pretext to imprison him. Two men at the pinnacle of power in a theocratic state were forced to find a pretext for "retreat"—because the theological systems they had constructed made retreat logically almost impossible. But reality had forced them to back down.

Khomeini did not accept this "political performance," but instead "drank the poison" himself. On July 20, 1988, he announced his acceptance of the UN ceasefire. Subsequently, the government hastily sought religious legitimacy. Then-President Ali Khamenei invoked the Treaty of Hudbyiya—an agreement signed by the Prophet Muhammad with his enemies in the 7th century, which ultimately led to his victory.

As Mohammad Ayatollahi Tabaar documented in Religious Statecraft, Iranian commentators rejected the analogy in the days leading up to the ceasefire; but once it became “useful,” it was quickly used to “save the regime.”

Within months, Khomeini sent another delegation to the Kremlin and issued a religious decree against Salman Rushdie. This foreign action mirrored the practice of the prophets after Hudebia sending letters to monarchs. Tabaar argues that both were essentially political maneuvers—attempting to repair the previously damaged theological system by demonstrating the "continuity" of religious stance. The war ended, but the revolutionary narrative did not end; rather, it continued in a modified form.

On April 8, 2026, Iran's Supreme National Security Council accepted a two-week ceasefire agreement with the United States, after forty days of fighting. The official statement called it a "major victory," stating that Iran had "forced the criminal United States to accept its ten-point proposal." One sentence in particular will be familiar to those who remember 1988: "It must be emphasized that this does not mean the end of the war."

The newly appointed Supreme Leader, Mujtaba Khamenei, son of the one who invoked the Hudebia Treaty, personally ordered a ceasefire. At the same time, his committee expressed "complete distrust of the United States." A conditional acceptance, a preserved revolutionary narrative. Two Supreme Leaders, spanning thirty-eight years, exhibiting the same pattern.

This assessment is not difficult to understand for observers with a more conservative stance. Operation Midnight Hammer dropped 14 bunker-buster bombs and 75 precision-guided weapons on three nuclear facilities. In the military operation in February 2026, the strikes covered 26 of Iran's 31 provinces. Iran's eventual acceptance of a ceasefire seems to confirm the conclusion that force achieved what five rounds of diplomatic negotiations brokered by Oman had failed to achieve.

When the state supersedes contracts: all promises can be revoked.

Suspicions of a possible Iranian breach of contract are not entirely unfounded. Such evidence can even be traced back to the regime's founder himself. On January 8, 1988, six months before the ceasefire, Khomeini made a statement that, as Tabaar notes, "was perhaps his most revealing and far-reaching statement": "The State, as part of the Prophet Muhammad's 'absolute rule,' is one of the most fundamental laws of Islam, superior to all secondary Sharia laws, even above prayer, fasting, and Hajj… When an existing agreement conflicts with the interests of the State and Islam as a whole, the State has the right to unilaterally revoke any Sharia law agreement reached with the people."

Here it is: Islamic states are placed above prayer and fasting, and given the power to revoke all agreements. Khomeini's early writings viewed the state as an instrument for implementing divine law, but this ruling reverses that relationship—the state itself becomes an end in itself, entitled to supersede the laws it is supposed to serve.

This can be seen as the core theological logic of the regime, which has continued to this day under the system of "absolute guardianship" (Velayat-e Faqih, i.e., a system in which the supreme leader has complete authority). As Amin Saikal points out in "Iran Rising," this pattern repeats itself: whenever faced with a major decision, the supreme leader will support the decision while attaching a "reservation" so that it can be reversed at any time if necessary.

In the prophetic tradition, a finite institution that claims fidelity solely to God has a distinct name: idolatry. The consequences for treaties are equally concrete—the form of the promise remains, but the actual basis for fulfillment has vanished, because the party making the promise has already declared its right to retract it.

Supporters of "Operation Midnight Hammer" might see this pattern in Tehran. But the prophetic tradition never allows people to diagnose "idolatry" solely in the presence of external enemies.

Beneath the guise of a ceasefire, trust has vanished.

Before Operation Midnight Hammer, before this forty-day war, and before the ceasefire, the United States had already withdrawn from the Iran nuclear deal (JCPOA). Under the agreement, Iran significantly reduced its highly enriched uranium stockpile and accepted inspections by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) under the Additional Protocol. The IAEA confirmed Iran's compliance in numerous reports. The agreement did have flaws: some restrictions included sunset clauses, and the missile issue remained unresolved; from a prudent perspective, the withdrawal was not without reason. However, the verification system itself was effectively functioning.

However, Washington still chose to withdraw. Regardless of how this decision is evaluated, its structural consequences are clear: the countries now demanding Iran fulfill its obligations under the new agreement are precisely those that previously withdrew from the old one. When subsequent diplomatic efforts failed to yield results within the framework of the US's "highest demands," the answer became escalation of the conflict.

June 2025: Seven B-2 bombers, 14 bunker-buster bombs, and 75 precision-guided weapons struck three nuclear facilities. Officially described as a "spectacular military success," the Defense Intelligence Agency assessed that the strikes only "set back Iran's nuclear program by several months." At the primary target, Fordow, the IAEA found no damage. Iran's 60% enriched uranium stockpile (440.9 kg) remains unaccounted for: either still under the rubble or moved to Isfahan 13 days before the initial strikes. One of the most technologically advanced airstrikes in recent years leaves the question: what exactly did we hit?

February 2026: Full-scale war breaks out, affecting 26 provinces, and the supreme leader is killed. According to HRANA statistics, a total of 3,597 people died, including 1,665 civilians. Forty days later, a ceasefire was reached—but the issue of uranium enrichment remained unresolved, and there was no publicly acknowledged written agreement.

Following the airstrikes, Iran suspended cooperation with the IAEA. Director General Rafael Grossi told the Council that the agency had lost "knowledge continuity" regarding Iran's uranium stockpile, and that this loss was "irreversible." Currently, the IAEA "cannot provide any information regarding the size, composition, or location of Iran's highly enriched uranium stockpile." Iran has completely halted cooperation. But it was precisely the party now demanding a new agreement that initiated this chain reaction—from withdrawing from the agreement to imposing sanctions, and then to military strikes.

A careless leader may misjudge the situation; a structural approach, however, repeats the same logic at every decision-making juncture: withdraw from agreements, impose maximum pressure sanctions, bomb facilities, and then demand that a nation recently proven "untrustworthy" renegotiate the agreement. At each juncture, force is chosen over contracts, destruction over trust structures. This consistency reveals a belief that American military power can achieve the order that should be maintained by moral structures.

Khomeini's decrees placed Islamic states above prayer and fasting; while the United States' behavior prioritized military superiority over contracts. They are essentially the same: both are forms of "idolatry" that treat limited power as the ultimate foundation.

It is here that these two forms of "idol worship" converge: the United States can no longer demand a trust that it has destroyed; and Iran can no longer offer a promise that its own system retains the right of revocation.

The verification system that once bridged the gap between the two sides has been destroyed in a series of decisions by both countries. What remains now is an agreement shell that retains its form but lacks moral support.

Both sides are discussing a text of an agreement that has never been made public. Iran's Supreme National Security Council has called for it to be bound by a UN Security Council resolution; and just hours before the ceasefire was announced, Russia and China had vetoed a more moderate resolution on the Strait of Hormuz.

On the Iranian side, the chief negotiator in Islamabad is Parliament Speaker Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf, who is also a member of the interim leadership committee. He had stated in late March that he had never negotiated with the United States, but now he has become the negotiator's leader—the one implementing the agreement, and also the one who drafted it.

Iran's ten-point proposal included the phrase "acknowledging uranium enrichment" in the Persian version, but this sentence was omitted from the English version; Trump, on the other hand, claimed that "no enrichment will be allowed." Forced submission has never cured "idol worship." History since 1988 has repeatedly proven this.

In his work *Tranquillitas Ordinis*, George Weigel named this mechanism "alternative infinity"—that is, treating finite political arrangements as the ultimate goal, thereby destroying the foundation upon which an orderly political community depends.

Viewing this ceasefire as a victory for American power, or simply as an inevitable breach of contract by Iran, is the same mistake: treating a judgment on a limited arrangement as an ultimate judgment.

The "hawks," who firmly believe that force can compel the other side to submit, and the "doves," who firmly believe that diplomacy can change relations, are essentially mirror images—both refuse to acknowledge the fact that no human tool can achieve salvation on its own.

Tradition has never offered this certainty. It demands a more difficult path.

In the scriptures, the prophet always begins with Israel. This is because only the "covenant people" possess the concept of "idolatry," and their guilt is even greater when they refuse to apply this concept to themselves. Amos's proclamation begins in Damascus not because of his righteousness, but because the audience will nod in agreement with the condemnation of the "other"—then he turns to Judah, then to Israel, and the nodding ceases.

Identifying common patterns between the two countries means using these judgment tools in sequence: first identify one's own "idol worship," and then judge the other.

This tradition, known as "the discipline of repentance," has clear practical forms: whether in church, at the dinner table, or in a group chat flooded with news, discussions about this ceasefire should begin with "acknowledgment"—withdrawing from the JCPOA requires the party to the new agreement to first break it; Operation Midnight Hammer embodies the belief that order can be established if destruction is thorough enough; forty days of war, 1,665 civilian deaths, 170 children killed in a single school attack, and the starting point of the conflict—the uranium enrichment issue—remains unresolved. Before pointing out Tehran's problems, acknowledge these facts. Tehran's problems are no smaller, but judging always begins with the other side's mistakes is dishonest.

Iran's unreliability is already ingrained in its institutional theology, making a review of the ceasefire terms still necessary. However, an honest assessment of the United States must come first. Only by simultaneously identifying two forms of "idolatry" can we understand the true nature of this arrangement, rather than viewing it as a reaffirmation of existing positions.

This ceasefire is essentially a wasteland. It may also be the only negotiating table that remains. The tradition of just wars has a genuine preference for peace, which means that people must participate in this hollowed-out arrangement, rather than simply giving up.

Augustine defined peace as "the tranquility of order." The current reality, however, is a two-week suspension brokered by Pakistan: no common text, no effective verification, and both sides offering conflicting interpretations of the agreement. Ruins can be restored, but only if they are not mistaken for a cathedral.