OPINION
President Trump Is Unafraid of, and Unbounded by, Past Failures in Foreign Policy, That Includes Those on Iran; But He Must Be Prepared to Tackle Iran's 'Cleric Decoupling'
President Trump is right to insist that Iran must never obtain a nuclear weapon.
At the same time, many people are equally right to be skeptical of new entanglements, after two decades of costly and misguided wars. In this case, both instincts — the president’s clarity on national security and the people's justified caution are wise.
But not all interventions are created equal. Opposing regime change doesn't need to ignore strategic threats.
History shows that success or failure often depends not on whether we act, but how.
When the United States ousted the Taliban, it backed Hamid Karzai for the presidency of Afghanistan, overlooking former King Mohammed Zahir Shah, whom many Afghans still respected.
The king, who ruled from 1933 to 1973, was seen by many Loya Jirga delegates as a unifying figure fit for a symbolic constitutional role. But U.S. officials, including envoy Zalmay Khalilzad, believed Afghanistan needed a modern republic, not a return to its past.
The result was the creation of a fragile government.
Karzai lacked a national army and relied entirely on U.S. and NATO forces, mostly confined to Kabul in the early years.
Beyond the capital, warlords retained control.
Karzai’s authority rested on figures like Mohammed Fahim and Abdullah Abdullah, whose militias and patronage networks limited his power to the presidency in name only.
A deeper flaw in U.S. strategy was then exposed. An assumption that elections, ministries, and a constitution would generate legitimacy.
American planners believed that building a centralized state from the top down would succeed, even though Afghanistan lacked the institutional foundations, political culture, and internal power balance to support such a system.
Indeed, the decision to exclude the monarchy ignored its historic role as a stabilizing force in Afghanistan. Under King Mohammed Zahir Shah, the monarchy assisted in holding the country together by managing its deeply divided tribal, ethnic, and religious landscape.
Even though royal authority had weakened by the 1970s, the king still commanded broad respect — especially among Pashtuns — because of his family’s lineage and his ability to balance tradition with gradual modernization.
Zahir Shah promoted infrastructure, education, and national identity, but always carefully — never pushing reforms so fast that they would provoke tribal resistance. Thus, when tribal revolts occurred during his reign, they were usually small, local, and rooted in internal rivalries.
Most major tribal leaders did not join them.
They saw the king as a neutral figure preserving balance rather than threatening it.
Additionally, the monarchy made a deliberate effort to include non-Pashtun groups in government. Tajiks, Hazaras, and Uzbeks were appointed to key roles.
This helped ease ethnic tensions and prevent Pashtun dominance. This inclusive approach gave the monarchy a national character and earned it trust from minorities.
Simultaneously, the king used a religious title — Amir al-Mu’minin or "commander of the faithful" — to strengthen his legitimacy in the eyes of conservative clerics and rural populations.
In a country where Sunni Islam was decentralized and religious authority was scattered, this title gave the monarchy space to govern without constant interference from the religious establishment.
His father had tried to organize the clerics into a more unified advisory body, and Zahir Shah continued that effort by promoting state-run religious schools and expanding secular education.
Their goal was to modernize religious authority in a way supporting the state without alienating traditional communities.
The U.S., however, dismissed the monarchy as outdated. It failed to see that Zahir Shah’s return — even in a ceremonial role — might have helped stabilize the new government.
The U.S. ignored the fact that the 1964 Constitution offered a workable model: a constitutional monarchy with a parliament and legal structure adapted to Afghan traditions.
Instead, Washington built a presidential system, one disconnected from Afghan society and dependent on outside military support.
We now face a strategic dilemma with Iran — after long deliberation, President Trump decided to strike three of Iran's nuclear sites: Fordow, Natanz and Isfahan.
While the strikes may constitute a tactical success, it is far from clear whether that will translate into a lasting strategic victory.
Iran’s nuclear infrastructure is decentralized and redundant — its components are not concentrated in a single location. Thus, if struck, the capacity to rebuild endures.
Uranium metal shaping, high-explosive testing, and neutron initiation are weaponized at many sites that were never declared to the IAEA.
Iran does not need to import materials. Even if the facilities were destroyed, the technical knowledge endures, and reconstitution remains viable.
Past nuclear rollbacks — in South Africa, Iraq, and Libya — required either regime collapse or verifiable inspections, neither of which the airstrikes will produce.
A Ground Intervention May Become Necessary
The strategic paralysis we face is not without precedent.
In 1945, General George S. Patton expressed deep concern about Soviet intentions in Eastern Europe and privately advocated for U.S. forces to push back while they still had numerical and logistical superiority.
Those warnings were dismissed by a Washington establishment focused on stabilizing Europe, demobilizing forces, and consolidating the Yalta Conference framework.
Just five years later, General Douglas MacArthur pushed for a radical escalation following China’s intervention in Korea.
MacArthur proposed blockading the Chinese coast, striking military targets across the Yalu River, and even hinted at nuclear use if necessary.
His rationale was not irrational.
He believed limited war would lead only to stalemate, and that communist expansion had to be checked decisively.
But his strategic vision collided with two immovable pillars of U.S. doctrine — the primacy of alliance cohesion (particularly with Britain and NATO) and the inviolability of civilian control.
MacArthur’s dismissal in 1951 was not solely a repudiation of his diagnosis — China would, decades later, become a nuclear-armed peer — but of his refusal to subordinate military aims to political limits.
In both instances, the American system proved institutionally incapable of internalizing what strategic resolution would actually entail. It preferred containment over culmination.
President Trump is unbound by the institutional dogmas that produced past failures.
He's neither a Cold War ideologue nor a product of the post-9/11 establishment launching endless war.
His instincts — skeptical of regime change, wary of entanglements, yet clear-eyed about strategic threats — mirror, in reverse, the dilemma sidelining Patton and MacArthur.
Their contemporaries saw danger but were shackled by fears of escalation.
Trump sees the dangers of escalation but may be the only leader willing to explore political solutions the system ignores.
That posture could target Iran's ideological core.
Since 1979, Iran’s Islamic Republic has combined religious authority with political power under the doctrine of velayat-e faqih, or "guardianship of the jurist."
It's a system giving a senior Shi’a cleric — currently the supreme leader — absolute control over the military, courts, state media, and key government institutions.
But this model isn’t a timeless requirement of Shi’a Islam.
It’s a modern political invention — created during the 1979 revolution and enforced through repression and centralized control.
If there is war with Iran — the U.S. should be ready to support a strategy of clerical decoupling. This approach doesn’t aim to force Western-style secularism.
Instead, it seeks to separate religious authority from political rule.
Under this model, a respected Shi’a scholar could serve as supreme leader but renounce all direct involvement in government.
The clergy would keep their cultural and religious roles — but step away from executive power. If done carefully, this shift could weaken authoritarian control while preserving Iran’s religious identity and restoring the damaged credibility of Shi’a leadership.
Such a transition wouldn’t require tearing up the current system.
Classical Usuli Shi’a jurisprudence holds that doctrines such as velayat-e faqih are subject to reinterpretation when public welfare or legitimacy demands it.
Historically, Iran’s 1906–1907 constitution had modeled a system in which clerics advised but did not govern.
Even under the current constitution, the framework for reform exists. Article 177 permits national referendums on constitutional changes. Articles 107-s111 give the Assembly of Experts — an elected council of clerics — the power to appoint, supervise, and even remove the supreme leader. While the current Assembly is dominated by regime loyalists, it has acted independently in the past.
In 1989, it selected Ayatollah Ali Khamenei as supreme leader, even though he lacked the highest level of religious status — (marjaʿ taqlid).
That decision was political, not theological, and was made possible by backing from the Revolutionary Guard.
Though state-affiliated theologians later attempted to justify the decision retroactively, many senior jurists in Qom and Najaf withheld recognition.
That foundational irregularity — the divergence between political power and scholarly legitimacy — remains unresolved. Should the regime’s enforcement apparatus weaken, that buried tension could resurface, threatening not only Khamenei’s legacy but the religious foundations of the system itself.
Historically, Shi’a Islam has not supported direct rule by clerics. From the ninth century until the 20th, senior jurists known as marajiʿ (sources of emulation) issued legal opinions and administered religious charities, but did not govern.
Even during moments of political crisis — such as Iran’s 1905–1911 Constitutional Revolution — most clerics supported limits on monarchical power without seeking to rule directly.
The dominant view was that clerics should advise believers and act as guardians of jurisprudential knowledge, but stay out of state power until the return of the Hidden Imam, the messianic figure at the heart of Shi’a theology.
That changed in the 1960s and 1970s, when Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, then in exile in Iraq, introduced the idea that senior clerics should assume direct political authority.
His theory, known as velayat-e motlaqeh-ye faqih — "absolute guardianship of the jurist" —became the legal foundation of the Islamic Republic.
It gave the Supreme Leader unchecked power.
Under this system, religious dissent was punished, and the once-diverse seminary in Qom was placed under state control.
But this system has always faced resistance from within the religious establishment.
Prominent Iranian clerics like Ayatollah Mohammad Kazem Shariatmadari and Ayatollah Yousef Saanei opposed absolute clerical rule. In Najaf, Iraq — home to Shiism’s most prestigious seminary — Grand Ayatollah Ali al-
Sistani and others have consistently supported "quietism": the idea that religious leaders should influence society through moral guidance, not political power.
This quietist view remains the dominant model across much of the Shi’a world, including Iraq, Bahrain, Pakistan, and Afghanistan.
Today, the gap between Qom and Najaf is central to Iran’s future. While Qom has been brought under government control, it still includes many scholars who value religious independence and are quietly critical of the regime.
Najaf by contrast, remains outside the Islamic Republic’s influence.
It continues to reject clerical rule and maintains a distance from political parties or armed groups. This theological divide—between quietist and absolutist interpretations—creates an internal religious basis for reform.
At the same time, Iran’s clerical class is deeply fragmented.
The older generation — the men who helped establish the Islamic Republic — hold posts in unelected institutions like the Guardian Council.
But they are aging and societally disconnected.
A younger generation, trained after 1990 and often holding university degrees, now fills roles in government agencies, religious charities, and think tanks. Many of these mid-level clerics are more pragmatic.
While few openly challenge the system, many express frustration with corruption, repression, and the failure to deliver economic stability.
While they may not openly challenge velayat-e faqih, they are more open to redefining its role.
There is also a third group of clerics serving in the provimces — as Friday prayer leaders, regional seminary heads, and local representatives of the Supreme Leader.
Their support for reform may depend on whether their institutional roles and livelihoods are protected. For them, decoupling political power from religious status may be acceptable— if it preserves their community role and economic base.
The central pillar of the system today is enforcement.
The Revolutionary Guard ensures that only pro-regime religious views are allowed to circulate. If that control weakens — due to war — the quietist clerics who’ve long been sidelined may begin to assert themselves. In Shi’a Islam, religious legitimacy flows upward — from the recognition of peers and the faithful — not downward from state power.
If senior clerics in Qom and Najaf refuse to endorse a successor — such as Mojtaba Khamenei, the Supreme Leader’s son — or even Khamenei himself due to a revival of legitimacy issues — it could trigger a doctrinal crisis.
That crisis would spill into the courts. Iran’s legal system is built on religious law and supervised by clerics.
In a divided system, courts aligned with IRGC loyalists might continue to enforce rulings based on the doctrine of velayat-e faqih, but in provinces like Yazd, Kerman, or even parts of Tehran, judges sympathetic to quietist clerics or aligned with the Artesh (the regular army) could begin applying alternative legal interpretations.
This could lead to competing court systems with conflicting religious rulings. At that point, the government would no longer have a unified legal foundation. The regime’s religious legitimacy would begin to fracture into rival networks.
A transition to a quietist supreme leader could stabilize Iran.
Bjut such a figure must be chosen legally through existing constitutional procedures.
This would maintain Iran’s religious symbolism while removing clerics from daily governance. Civilian institutions could regain full authority over budgeting, legislation, and policy. Religious foundations (bonyads) could be audited by public agencies. The Special Clerical Court, which currently punishes dissenting clerics, could be dismantled.
The judiciary would no longer answer to religious overlords.
It would answer to the rule of law.
Other countries have managed similar transitions. After Spain’s dictator Francisco Franco died, the Catholic Church stepped back from politics, helping clear the way for democracy. In postwar Japan, the emperor remained as a cultural figure, but elected officials took over governing.
In Central Asia after the fall of the Soviet Union, Islamic institutions were allowed to function publicly under state oversight.
Religious continuity can coexist with political change — as long as spiritual authority is separated from coercive power.
For Iran, clerical decoupling would not mean surrender.
It would be a strategic recalibration.
It would protect Iran’s cultural and religious traditions, while ending the clerical monopoly on power. It would strip the Revolutionary Guard of its theological cover and return Iran’s religious scholars to their proper role: not as rulers, but as guides.
Carlo J.V. Caro was Born in Bogotá, Colombia. He was nine years old when his family fled violence and instability, resettling in New York and Toronto. He holds graduate degrees from Northeastern and Columbia, and has lived in the United Kingdom, Israel, Jordan, and South Korea. He writes on war and strategy and has managed Latin American private equity investments.