In his recent book, entitled Trigger Warning, Mick Hume makes an impassioned case for protecting freedom of speech. However, writes Oliver Wiseman, the book is poorly executed and contains some muddled thinking of its own:

When it comes to the question of what to do about Holocaust denial . . . Hume forgets to turn his contrarian autopilot off. Defenders of free speech are right to oppose the bans on Holocaust denial that are in place in many EU countries. Censorship cannot kill a bad idea. Hume, however, must take things further: Holocaust denial should not only be legal, it should be free from taboo as well. . . .

[H]e asks the reader to be as outraged as he is that “those who question the history of the Holocaust are treated as the secular equivalent of heretics today, pariahs to be cast out of civilized society.” Is that such a bad thing? It is hardly a free-speech travesty that David Irving, Britain’s most notorious Holocaust denier, is persona non grata at respectable universities. . . .

To ask, as Hume does, for a fair hearing for all ideas, even after they have been exposed as lies motivated by hatred, is to stretch moral relativism past its elastic limit. Freedom of speech is such a vital liberty because it allows us to sort good ideas from bad ones, not because there is no such thing as good and bad.

If Iran succeeds in obtaining nuclear weapons, the war in Gaza, let alone the protests on college campuses, will seem like a minor complication. Jonathan Schachter fears that this danger could be much more imminent than decisionmakers in Jerusalem and Washington believe. In his view, Israel seems to be repeating the mistake that allowed it to be taken by surprise on Simchat Torah of 2023 and Yom Kippur of 1973: putting too much faith in an intelligence concept that could be wrong.

Israel and the United States apparently believe that despite Iran’s well-documented progress in developing capabilities necessary for producing and delivering nuclear weapons, as well as its extensive and ongoing record of violating its international nuclear obligations, there is no acute crisis because building a bomb would take time, would be observable, and could be stopped by force. Taken together, these assumptions and their moderating impact on Israeli and American policy form a new Iran concept reminiscent of its 1973 namesake and of the systemic failures that preceded the October 7 massacre.

Meanwhile, most of the restrictions put in place by the 2015 nuclear deal will expire by the end of next year, rendering the question of Iran’s adherence moot. And the forces that could be taking action aren’t:

The European Union regularly issues boilerplate press releases asserting its members’ “grave concern.” American decisionmakers and spokespeople have created the unmistakable impression that their reservations about the use of force are stronger than their commitment to use force to prevent an Iranian atomic bomb. At the same time, the U.S. refuses to enforce its own sanctions comprehensively: Iranian oil exports (especially to China) and foreign-currency reserves have ballooned since January 2021, when the Biden administration took office.

Israel’s response has also been sluggish and ambiguous. Despite its oft-stated policy of never allowing a nuclear Iran, Israel’s words and deeds have sent mixed messages to allies and adversaries—perhaps inadvertently reinforcing the prevailing sense in Washington and elsewhere that Iran’s nuclear efforts do not present an exigent crisis.