Nancy's Notes

Sometimes it feels as though the compass we once trusted to guide the world has cracked. The needle still moves, but fewer and fewer people seem certain where true north is anymore.

There are days when I sit down to write and I know exactly where the words are going. The argument is clear, the facts are lined up, and the path from beginning to end is fairly easy to see. Today is not one of those days.

This morning I watched part of a press conference from yesterday. A reporter asked what victory would look like in a war now unfolding on the other side of the world. The answer was that victory would be determined later, by the Commander in Chief, once certain goals were realized. There was a lot of room inside that answer.

And that is where something inside me began to feel very heavy.

I want to be careful here, because I know many people in this world are living through the unimaginable reality of war itself. Bombs falling and families displaced. Children growing up with the sound of sirens and explosions as the soundtrack of their lives. That is not my life, and I would never pretend otherwise.

But I also know that even those of us watching from a distance are feeling something we don’t always have language for.

Years ago, during my time serving as a school trustee, I was introduced more deeply to research around trauma. I had studied the basic elements of psychology like many people do, but this was something different. These conversations were about children, families, communities, and the lived realities people carry with them and how those realities shape the way people move through the world.

What struck me most was learning that trauma does not only live in memory. It can imprint itself into the way our bodies process stress and the way our brains respond to threat. Researchers studying survivors of war, famine, and genocide have even found evidence that severe trauma can leave biological traces in how future generations respond to stress.

The term often used is intergenerational trauma. It does not mean suffering is genetically prewritten for the next generation. But it does mean that the experiences of one generation can shape the emotional landscape of the next. I remember thinking about veterans in my own family when I first heard that research. About how people who had seen things no one should see carried those experiences quietly through the rest of their lives. Not always spoken, but always present.

And lately I have begun to wonder about something else. What happens when the entire world begins living under a cloud of constant crisis? Not the trauma of war itself, but the relentless exposure to it. The images and the arguments. The certainty in voices explaining why violence is necessary, inevitable, or even righteous.

For most of my life, the world many of us in North America lived in had a certain sense of stability. Conflicts existed, of course. Horrific ones. But there was still a broad belief that international systems, diplomacy, and cooperation were meant to prevent the worst outcomes. Lately that sense feels like it is slipping. And what replaces it is something much harder to absorb.

Certainty. Certainty from leaders about wars whose outcomes no one can truly predict. Certainty from commentators explaining who is right and who is wrong. Certainty from people interpreting modern conflict through the language of prophecy and end times.

I have even heard more people casually referencing concepts like Armageddon or the arrival of the Antichrist, as if global conflict is simply the unfolding of a predetermined script.

What many people may not realize is that much of that language is not actually biblical in the way it is often presented. The modern concept of a rapture, for example, comes largely from nineteenth century evangelical theology rather than from a clearly defined passage of scripture. Even the word antichrist in the Bible refers to many false teachers, not a single apocalyptic world leader. In other words, a great deal of what people speak about with absolute confidence is interpretation layered on top of ancient texts.

And when those interpretations are used to frame real human suffering, something inside me recoils. Because behind every geopolitical argument, every press conference, and every televised debate, there are human beings living the consequences.

Children and families. Entire generations who will grow up carrying memories that shape the rest of their lives.

That is the part that weighs on me. Not just the wars themselves, but the way our collective psyche absorbs them. If trauma can imprint itself within individuals and families, what does it mean when entire societies spend years absorbing a steady diet of fear, anger, and moral certainty about violence? What does that do to us?

What does it do to the generation growing up right now, watching the world fracture in real time through the screens in their hands?

I do not have the answers to those questions. But I do know this. Somewhere in the middle of all the noise, the rhetoric, and the declarations of victory yet to be defined, there has to remain space for something quieter. Reflection. Humility. And the recognition that human suffering should never become so normalized that we stop feeling the weight of it.

Because if the day ever comes when we can watch the suffering of others without that weight settling somewhere inside us, that will be the day we have lost something far more important than any war could ever claim. It will mean that somewhere along the way our compass quietly cracked, and we stopped noticing that the needle was no longer pointing toward our shared humanity. And I am not prepared to accept that as the price of living in this moment.

We are now many hours into this since the initial strikes, and instead of clarity, we have expansion. There are more questions than answers. There is more concern now than there was on day one. For the people inside the region, fear was immediate and visceral from the first blast. For those watching from outside, the fear is different but growing. It is the fear of consequences that do not stay contained. The fear of global ripples. The fear that what begins as a “limited action” rarely remains one.

I want to go back to the talks in Oman. Oman’s foreign minister, Badr Albusaidi, spoke publicly just last week on Face The Nation about progress he believed had been made. He described a framework where Iran would not accumulate enriched uranium at weapons-capable levels. Zero stockpiling. Downblending existing material. Full IAEA verification. Even the possibility of broader inspection access if a durable deal were reached.

If that framework was real, it should have mattered. A country that cannot accumulate weapons-grade material cannot build a bomb. And yet here we are.

Was diplomacy actually advancing, or was it serving as a holding pattern while military decisions were already in motion? If an off ramp existed, why was it not taken? If it did not, why were we told progress was being made? That question sits heavily with me.

And then there is the girls’ school. I am not suggesting it was intentionally targeted. I am not assigning motive. The fog of conflict is thick, and information remains incomplete. But in a country where we are repeatedly told that girls’ education is restricted, contested, suppressed, the irony is devastating. Girls were in classrooms. However imperfect the system. However constrained the curriculum. They were learning. And in the opening hours of escalation, it was a girls’ school that became part of the casualty count. Those girls were not the regime. They were not negotiators in Oman. They were not architects of uranium policy. They were children at desks.

We talk about enrichment levels and verification regimes. We debate stockpiles and inspections. And in the middle of that language were girls trying to be educated in a country where that education has already been fragile. If Western military action contributed to their deaths, we cannot simply glide past that because the target list was strategic. Civilian reality does not dissolve because the intent was something else.

That image has taken the humour out of me. I usually write with dark edges when I can see the pattern. I reach for aviation metaphors when there is a visible runway. Right now I cannot see the landing lights nor can I see the exit.

And I cannot ignore another layer. In the United States, a significant portion of enlisted service members come from working class communities. Rural counties. Small towns. Areas where college pathways are less accessible and military service offers structure, mobility, education benefits, and economic opportunity. That is not criticism. That is reality. For many families, enlistment is a pathway forward.

Demographically, many of those same communities lean conservative. Many supported Donald Trump in part because they believed promises of strength, restraint, and no new wars.

So I cannot help but ask, quietly but plainly: if this escalates beyond the air, if it moves from drones and aircraft to boots on the ground, how will those parents feel? The ones who believed this administration would avoid new entanglements. The ones whose sons and daughters signed enlistment papers hoping for advancement, not open-ended conflict.

This is not an attack on voters. It is a question about consequences. Because escalation has layers. The Gulf of Hormuz and oil and gas flows are not abstract. China’s energy imports are not a footnote. When global arteries constrict, the impacts spread. Markets reacts, prices rise and alliances are strained. Once the machinery of war begins moving, it does not always respond neatly to political messaging.

We are only a few days into this, and instead of firm objectives, we have shifting language. Instead of a clearly marked end state, we have ambiguity. That is what unsettles me most.

Leadership, especially in moments like this, requires clarity of purpose. It requires defined objectives, visible guardrails, and a credible end state. Right now, from the outside looking in, that clarity does not appear to exist for the U.S. The messaging keeps shifting, the tone keeps changing and the stated goals feel elastic.

When a nation moves toward escalation, steadiness is not optional. Direction is not a luxury. It is the foundation. If diplomacy was genuinely within reach, show us how close it was.

If it was not viable, explain why it collapsed. If deterrence is the goal, define what success looks like. If something larger is underway, say so plainly.

Because wars are easier to ignite than to extinguish. Verification systems take years to build and moments to shatter. And the first images many of us are holding include girls in a classroom with the word welcome still written on the board.

Are we moving forward with a plan, or simply forward without a compass?

I cannot get one line out of my head from today’s briefing. “We are not defenders anymore. We are warriors.” I have replayed it several times, trying to decide whether I am overreacting or whether my instincts are correct. Because words matter. Especially when bombs are falling.

For decades, the American military has described itself as a defensive force. Even when conducting offensive operations, the framing has been clear. It exists to defend the Constitution, to defend the homeland, to deter threats, to protect allies. That distinction has always mattered. It has mattered to Americans and it has mattered to those of us watching from allied countries like Canada. Defence implies restraint. Defence implies necessity. Defence implies force as a last resort.

Warrior implies something different. A warrior fights. A warrior embraces lethality as identity. A warrior is trained to kill and break the will of the enemy. None of that is morally shocking in a military context. Militaries exist to fight. But when civilian leadership stands at the Pentagon and declares that the force is no longer a defender but a warrior, that is not casual rhetoric. That is an identity shift. Three months ago, through executive messaging, the administration began referring to the Department of Defense once again as the Department of War. We all know Congress did not legally rename it. That would require legislation. But signage changed, messaging changed and more specifically the symbolism changed. And symbolism is not accidental. When leadership chooses to elevate “War” over “Defence,” it signals posture, direction and mindset.

Now we hear “We are not defenders anymore.” It is hard not to see the alignment.

The Secretary’s remarks today were not delivered in the clipped, cautious language of a standard Pentagon briefing. They were sermon-like in cadence. There was prayerful language, invocation of biblical wisdom, generational framing, moral certainty. It sounded less like a policy update and more like a proclamation. That may resonate deeply with some Americans. For others, it raises questions about how war is being framed.

In contrast, General Kane’s operational update was measured and factual. He acknowledged losses. He spoke of duration. He described complex integration across domains. He made no identity declarations. He spoke as a professional soldier describing major combat operations that will take time and will likely cost more lives. The contrast in tone was striking.

Which brings me back to the question I cannot shake. Why now?

If this is not regime change, and they have explicitly said it is not, then what is the defined end state? If this is not occupation, and no one is suggesting boots on the ground in the traditional sense, then what does “finishing it” actually mean? Air superiority can be measured. Missile degradation can be measured. Nuclear facilities can be struck. But political transformation is something else entirely.

Over the past day I have been speaking with people I know in the Middle East. One friend from southern Lebanon, who has family being evacuated told me that his parents, grandparents, great grandparents and generations before them have lived with cycles of unrest. For Americans, 1979 may feel like the beginning of this story. For many in the region, it is one chapter in a much longer one. When American leadership speaks of a generational turning point, people in the region hear something different. They hear another turn of the wheel.

That does not mean Iran’s actions are benign. It does not mean missile programs and nuclear ambitions are not serious threats. It does mean that rhetoric about warriors and finishing a decades long conflict raises expectations that air power alone rarely fulfills.

I am Canadian. These are not my armed forces. But as an ally, and as someone who believes deeply in democratic institutions and civilian oversight, I care about how force is framed. Democracies have historically been careful to describe their militaries as defenders, even when fighting offensively, because the legitimacy of force rests in protection, not in identity built around war itself.

So I will ask it plainly, and I direct this directly to the President of the United States. What is your end goal? What is the defined, measurable, durable outcome that justifies this moment?

And to my major question. Why now?

Perhaps there is intelligence we are not privy to. Perhaps a threshold was crossed. Perhaps deterrence had failed and waiting carried greater risk. If that is the case, say so clearly. Define the objective. Define success. Define the off ramp.

Because warrior is a powerful word. And once embraced as identity, it shapes how a nation sees itself and how it acts.

When we move from defender to warrior in how we describe ourselves, it is not unreasonable to ask why, and what comes next.

Twenty four hours later, much of what I am about to say will sound familiar. The constitutional questions remain. The strategic concerns remain. The escalation remains. What has changed for me in the last day is the perspective.

Yesterday I was reacting to breaking information. Today I stepped back from the noise. I stopped replaying panels and started speaking to people in my own circle who still have family inside Iran. I needed to understand how this feels from the inside out, not just from the studio desk down.

Ayatollah Ali Khamenei’s death has now been confirmed. It is historic. But it is not synonymous with collapse. Iran did not build a one man system. It built a layered one. Succession planning was designed precisely for this moment. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps retains operational control. Regional commanders do not require daily instructions from Tehran to act. The system absorbed the hit it was engineered to absorb.

There is still no official successor publicly named, but those believed to be next in line carry a similar ideological profile. That should temper celebration. History suggests that when leadership is removed by force, successors often harden rather than soften. A decapitation strike is an event. It is not automatically transformation.

Retaliation has expanded. The IRGC has launched additional waves of missiles and drones. Israel reports eliminating dozens of senior commanders. What we are watching looks less like resolution and more like the opening phase of sustained confrontation. Escalation met with escalation. The Strait of Hormuz remains an economic fault line through which roughly twenty percent of the world’s oil flows. T

There have been no public NATO Article 4 consultations and no Article 5 invocation. That distinction is important. As of now, no treaty threshold has been triggered. But if American forces are directly struck in a manner that meets that bar, the conversation changes quickly. We are not there yet.

Prime Minister Carney’s statement remains carefully calibrated but it has been seen negatively by some. It condemns Iran’s regime and supports preventing nuclear proliferation. It does not explicitly endorse the strike, nor does it explicitly reject it. He walks a narrow diplomatic line. He is in India focused on trade. It is reasonable to expect questions at his press conference that is scheduled for this afternoon. Precision matters in moments like this.

What weighed on me most over the last twenty four hours was listening to Iranian voices. One friend who grew up before the revolution and whose family still lives there told me they feel relief at the death of a man who presided over repression. But that relief is not celebration. It is layered with fear. Fear that hardliners consolidate power. Fear that foreign engineered regime change will not bring freedom. Fear that ordinary people will once again pay the price for geopolitical ambition.

That nuance rarely makes it onto television panels. But it is real.

There has also been commentary describing this as a war of choice. No publicly demonstrated imminent nuclear strike was underway. Intelligence assessments reportedly did not indicate an immediate attack on U.S. soil. That is important because there needs to be a justification. The administration has used the word war. If this is war, Congress has a constitutional role. War powers exist precisely for moments like this. Lawmakers now face a decision about whether they will assert that authority or allow executive precedent to expand.

History shows that external conflict can consolidate domestic power. It can narrow debate. It can shift headlines. That does not make every war cynical. It does mean timing deserves scrutiny. When major military action intersects with internal political strain, citizens are justified in asking hard questions. That is where accountability is reviewed.

Twenty four hours later, I am not calmer. I am more deliberate.

The move has been made but the board is not reset and the world is still on it.