Monday marked the 100th anniversary of the abolition of the Ottoman caliphate—the formal successor to the prophet Mohammad and the nominal leader of Islam—by the secular Turkish government. Martin Kramer reproduces some firsthand accounts of the event itself, and analyzes its consequences:

The last century has witnessed the occasional attempt to revive the caliphate. Indeed, it began as soon as Turkey abolished it. There was a pop-up caliphate in Arabia in 1924 (it didn’t last long), and a caliphate congress in Cairo in 1926 (it ended in an impasse). . . . So far, the fringe attempt to revive the caliphate has sputtered, and it seems doubtful that a caliphate could gain momentum in modern conditions. But its absence remains a cruel reminder to some Muslims of just how far they’ve fallen away from the unity and power they enjoyed in their golden age.

The late Bernard Lewis called the caliphate “a potent symbol of Muslim unity, even identity,” adding that since its abolition, “many Muslims are still painfully conscious of this void.” Just how many remains an open question.

Yet perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the end of the Ottomans, given their own history, was this: their passing didn’t exact even one drop of blood.

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.