Local residents were told to flee to high ground but the tsunami threat later passed, US officials say.

First came the concrete markers engraved in multiple languages. Naval aviators from the Philippines would spot them during surveillance flights in the mid-1990s and dispatch forces to remove them. Then came the huts—small, wooden structures teetering on stilts on uninhabited islands, fit maybe for fishermen to take shelter during storms. They looked innocuous enough, one of the pilots, Alberto Carlos, recalls thinking.

Only later did Carlos understand that he was witnessing the initial phases of China's conquest of the South China Sea. On rocky, barren islands, Beijing installed intelligence-gathering equipment, long-range surface-to-air missile systems, and stealth fighter jets. Over the past decade, China has added more than 3,200 acres of land to its seven occupied outposts in the Spratly Islands, according to the U.S. Department of Defense.

The South China Sea is perhaps the most contested waterway in the world. China, Vietnam, Malaysia, Brunei, the Philippines, and Taiwan all have competing claims there. But no actor has pursued those claims as belligerently as China. The Philippines complains that Chinese forces menace its sailors and fishermen on an almost daily basis, and the government of President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos has taken to airing videos, photos, and eyewitness accounts of these encounters. In late October, officials released footage of Chinese vessels twice colliding with Philippines ships.

Such incidents don’t concern only Manila: The Philippines, a former U.S. colony, is America’s oldest ally in the Indo-Pacific, and the two countries have signed a mutual-defense treaty. In fact, of all the world’s conflicts, which today include wars in Ukraine and Gaza, Chinese-Philippine tensions in the South China Sea may be the least remarked on but among the most potentially explosive. Earlier this year, a former high-ranking Chinese military official said that a conflict between the United States and China was more likely to occur in the South China Sea than around Taiwan.

[Read: The choice the Philippines didn’t want to make]

“It is a simple math problem,” Greg Poling, the director of the Asia Maritime Transparency Initiative at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, told me. “There are so many locations where you have potential accidents … There is just a ton of potential surface area where something could go wrong.”

Where the Pacific curls into the coast of Southeast Asia and is bounded by the larger islands of the Philippines, Indonesia, and Taiwan, a deep basin studded with reefy shoals yields rich aquatic life and abundant energy resources. More than half of the fishing vessels in the world are believed to operate here, along with some of the world’s busiest shipping lanes and some $3 trillion in annual trade.

Of these waters, 200 nautical miles fall within the Philippines’ exclusive economic zone. Carlos, now a vice admiral, has led the Philippines’ Western Command since January 2022, overseeing that area. His fleet includes a ship called the Sierra Madre, which was originally built for the U.S. Navy in 1944 and had a storied career in Japan and Vietnam before Washington made a gift of it to Manila in 1976. Since May of 1999, the Sierra Madre has been a particular source of tension between the Philippines and China.

That month, the Sierra Madre ran aground at Second Thomas Shoal, a small reef in what was then disputed territory, about 120 miles off the coast of Palawan island. A second ship did the same at another shoal later that year. Beijing suspected that Manila was using the beached ships to create outposts.

Philippine officials initially played coy, saying that they meant to repair the Sierra Madre but were having trouble finding the materials, while the other ship was eventually towed away. Yet, more than two decades later, the Sierra Madre remains grounded, a rusted dieselpunk monolith interrupting an otherwise pristine swath of tropical waters. A small group of sailors crews it; they pick their way through its slightly listing steel skeleton as they monitor the area for incursions. Their rotations generally last two months but can stretch up to five. Carlos referred to these tours as a “test of sanity.”

The Sierra Madre’s location falls within China’s “nine-dash line”—a cartographic fantasy that Beijing has used to claim nearly the entirety of the South China Sea. Back in 2016, however, the Permanent Court of Arbitration at The Hague struck down the nine-dash line and ruled that Second Thomas Shoal is part of the Philippines’ exclusive economic zone and continental shelf.

Beijing blatantly ignores this ruling. When the Philippines delivers supplies for the sailors on board the Sierra Madre via small boats escorted by coast-guard ships, Chinese ships attempt to block them. In early August, the Chinese coast guard used water cannons to prevent Philippine boats from reaching the outpost. A second attempt later that month was successful, as was one in September, when a U.S. reconnaissance aircraft flew overhead.

The dispute has gone on for so long that it has become nearly routine. But the ship itself may soon demand a reckoning. Nearing its eighth decade of service, the Sierra Madre needs extensive restoration, lest it lose its war of attrition with saltwater and storms.

Carlos visited the vessel himself in June. When I inquired about its state, he laughed: “What is the politically correct word that they use, aside from deteriorating?” Nonetheless, the Philippine navy is under strict orders not to give it up.

To keep the Sierra Madre functioning, all of Manila’s options threaten a fragile status quo: The vessel could continue to decay until it is entirely lost; the Philippines could attempt to bring even more materials and workers through the already treacherous supply route in order to repair it; or, as some lawmakers in Manila have suggested, the navy could build a new facility altogether. Any of these pursuits could be an “action-forcing event,” Poling told me: “It feels like things are coming to a head.”

  In January 2023, President Marcos met with China’s leader, Xi Jinping. The following month, the Chinese coast guard shined what the Philippines described as a “military-grade laser” at one of its coast-guard ships near the Second Thomas Shoal, temporarily blinding crew members. According to a top-secret Pentagon document leaked on Discord, Marcos viewed the incident “as negating the goodwill generated during his trip to Beijing.” The document predicted that the Philippine leader would begin “strengthening the Philippines’ SCS posture.”

Marcos did exactly that. He invited the United States to expand its military presence in the Philippines and appeared at joint exercises earlier this year. In late November, the Philippines and United States launched three days of joint maritime and aerial patrols in the South China Sea.

China responded by accusing the Philippines of being an American pawn, a line Beijing regularly directs at small countries that act in a way it finds disagreeable. And it has kept up the pressure in the South China Sea. On a given day, Carlos told me, about 400 Chinese vessels and another 100 Vietnamese boats come within the Philippines’ economic zone or territorial waters.

[Read: A U.S. ally is turning to China to ‘build, build, build’]

“The numbers have remained the same, unfortunately, despite all our efforts, diplomatic protests, and increasing our presence,” Carlos told me. Some of the Chinese vessels are coast-guard or navy ships, but the majority belong to Beijing’s maritime militia—vessels that present themselves as fishing boats but that actually work alongside the military and law enforcement to enforce their positions.

Lately Carlos has noticed Chinese vessels creeping eastward, toward Palawan. On a large nautical map affixed to his wall, he showed me where ships were encroaching within 100 miles of the coast. Iroquois Reef, in the northeast reaches of the Spratly Islands, is believed to be rich in oil and gas, and dozens of Chinese boats have swarmed the area since August. Philippine naval forces drove away about 50 of them during a single operation that month. Carlos believes that Beijing is trying to “dominate the area.”

Long before Second Thomas Shoal became a flash point, in 2012, Chinese and Philippine vessels entered a tense standoff at Scarborough Shoal, a triangular atoll west of Luzon. U.S. officials met with China’s vice foreign minister that June to mediate a solution. Exactly what transpired, and what was promised, remains disputed among the participants, but the result was that the Philippine vessels left the area and the Chinese did not. Beijing effectively took control of the shoal and has held onto it ever since.

That same year, Filipino and French archaeologists were investigating a shipwreck near the shoal. The Chinese military confronted them. “My group was telling me that it was very dangerous, that the Chinese were sending low-flying airplanes to do some type of observations,” Eusebio Dizon, who was overseeing the project, told me. He ordered the startled scientists to fall back. What he didn’t yet know was that China was undertaking an archaeological mission of its own, plowing money into the exploration of shipwrecks that could help justify Beijing’s claims to the area.  

“They use these Chinese artifacts to say that they occupy the place, that it is theirs,” Dizon told me. He and other experts counter that the South China Sea has for thousands of years been a place of bustling trade and migration. Wrecks and lost goods are inevitable and don’t confer ownership.

Many in the Philippine defense establishment complain that the United States didn’t do enough to support Manila during the Scarborough Shoal incident or later, when China began militarizing its positions in the waterway despite its promises not to do so. Had Washington’s response been more forceful, the thinking goes, Beijing might have slowed its efforts. But the United States “had other priorities at that time,” Carlos told me of 2012.

The past few years have seen a shift. In 2019, the United States clarified that its defense treaty with Manila covers the South China Sea, and this year, Manila granted the United States access to more bases in the country.  

“Sometimes, like friends, we go our separate ways,” U.S. Navy Rear Admiral Chris Stone, who commands a task force operating in the Indo-Pacific, told me of the relationship with the Philippines, “and then we get back together again and we get to know one another and we realize how great that friendship is.”  

But America’s friendships in Asia are often tested and even sidelined by other priorities. In President Joe Biden’s proposed $106 billion foreign-aid package, the funds set aside for Israel, Ukraine, and the southern U.S. border all dwarf the proposed $2 billion for security assistance in the Indo-Pacific. The administration’s signature trade initiative for the region has failed to materialize.

On September 20, together with about a dozen Philippine soldiers and military reservists, I boarded a small bus bound for Puerto Princesa, on the west coast of Palawan. We barreled across the island, then wound through verdant hills, down to a cove surrounded by tangled mangrove forests at the water’s edge.

On a hot concrete pier, the reservists lined up donations for the sailors aboard the Sierra Madre: sacks of Double Happiness rice, tins of Spam Lite and Pure Foods corned beef. Bobbing on one side of the pier was the 60-foot wooden boat, painted dark blue with yellow trim, that would chug its way to the dilapidated outpost to make the delivery. The journey would take about 30 hours.

Carlos met the reservists at the pier and gave a short speech thanking them for their gifts. He mentioned that some sailors had recently had to pay for their own food. Docked behind him was a large naval ship that had been commissioned in 1943. When the ship’s commander entered the navy, the vessel had already been in service for 59 years.  

The Philippines’ navy is minuscule compared with China’s, which has been on a shipbuilding jag in recent years. In a report released in October, the U.S. Department of Defense estimated that the Chinese navy had 370 ships and submarines, making it numerically the world’s largest. In 2021, the head of Germany’s navy surmised that China was expanding its navy by the equivalent of the entire French navy every four years.

[Read: China could soon be the dominant military power in Asia]

Beijing has also amassed the world’s largest coast-guard fleet in the span of a decade. Its collection of large, heavily armed ships bears little resemblance to traditional coast-guard vessels. Carlos described them to me as navy ships with a coat of white paint.

Given the clear asymmetry in naval power, Carlos advocates a “whole-of-nation approach” to counter Beijing. “The military alone cannot solve the issue,” he told me. Puerto Princesa has become an experiment in this model.

At the local government offices, I met Khenjap Hupanda, who leads the tourism-development program, including for the Philippines-claimed sections of the Spratly Islands. No infrastructure currently supports visitors to the island chain, and the weather makes the waters suitable for leisure cruising only a few months out of the year. Would-be holidaymakers worry, justly, about seasickness, sunburns, and the not totally unrealistic possibility of sparking a geopolitical incident with global ramifications.

“Most of our tourists really expect to have a close encounter with a Chinese vessel,” Hupanda told me. “They would actually ask us to promise them that they would be able to have this.” So far, 80 people have gone on three tours. Most were from the Philippines, but 20 came from abroad. There have been no close encounters but plenty of vessel spottings from a distance.

Huapanda likes to stress the natural beauty of the islands rather than the simmering conflict surrounding them. Guests live aboard a ship and explore islands including Lawak, which is visited by great flocks of migratory birds. There are sea turtles to spot and a chance to try sport fishing. “We want Filipinos to understand,” he said, “that the West Philippines Sea is not only a place for political issues.”

The culmination of the tour is a two-day stay on Thitu Island, which lies about 310 miles west of Puerto Princesa, outside the country’s exclusive economic zone. Thitu is “probably the most secluded place in the Philippines,” Hupanda told me. The government took possession of it in the 1970s and began a program resettling people there in the early 2000s. About 500 people, according to Hupanda—a mix of civilians and soldiers—reside there, reachable from Palawan by a semi-regular ferry that depends on the weather.

From Puerto Princesa, I took a short motorbike ride to a mall, where the Western Command was holding a public forum on the South China Sea. A professor from Palawan State University explained to a mix of soldiers, environmental workers, students, and curious shoppers the basics of the 2016 UN ruling. The founder of a civil-society group urged students to be on guard for online propaganda that could lead them to get “stuck in a Chinese narrative” about the situation.

Just off the coast, the plot continued to roil. The blue-and-yellow boat I saw at the pier that morning successfully slalomed through Chinese ships to the Sierra Madre, carrying the donated goods along with a larger resupply shipment. A mission later in the month was more eventful, however: Just after six on the morning of October 22, a Chinese coast-guard vessel collided with the Philippine supply boat. Then, two hours after that, a vessel from China’s maritime militia struck a Philippine coast-guard ship.

The incident was jarring enough to draw a response from President Biden. The U.S. defense commitment to the Philippines is “ironclad,” he said.

Joanna Rose Aglibot contributed reporting.

The former US secretary of state left behind a legacy of bloody policies still embraced by US officials.

Ever since a terror attack by Hamas triggered a war in Israel and Gaza in October, many commentators have presumed that the United States can in some way manage the course of the crisis—either by supporting Israel emphatically or by demanding greater restraint from that country’s leaders. Successive American administrations, including Joe Biden’s, have encouraged this belief in American control of events in the Middle East and around the world. Just days before the Hamas attack, National Security Adviser Jake Sullivan boasted in an article in a Foreign Affairs article that the Biden administration had “de-escalated crises in Gaza.” The Middle East, he wrote, is “quieter than it has been for decades,” echoing comments he made at tThe Atlantic Festival in late September. (The online version of the article was subsequently edited to omit those statements.) In essence, the United States had mistaken a temporary lull in the Middle East for a more enduring period of relative peace—and ascribed the apparent boon to American influence.

The lesson the United States should be drawing is that it generally cannot enforce its will—however benevolent Americans believe it to be—in every area of the world. In region after region, the United States engages with movements and governments that are powerful actors themselves. Some will at least outwardly genuflect to the U.S., but all of them will pursue their own interests. In overestimating their own power, American presidents risk worse outcomes, both for the United States and for the causes it is trying to promote.

As I have previously argued, U.S. policy toward Ukraine has been bedeviled by indecision, poor calculation, and the presumption that the war will abide by American plans and expectations. Intimidated by Russian President Vladimir Putin’s threats of nuclear war, the U.S. has delivered mostly short-range battlefield aid to Ukraine, in the hope that such weaponry will be sufficient—while still denying the Ukrainians the ability to make supposedly rash moves, such as liberating Crimea from Russian rule. Although the United States has gradually agreed to provide more modern equipment with greater capabilities, the delays have given Russia time to rebuild its forces and strengthen its defenses against Ukrainian counterattack.

[Phillips Payson O’Brien: Stop micromanaging the war in Ukraine]

Supposedly great powers are usually anything but, as some of the world’s mightiest, most resource-rich nations have demonstrated in a series of stumbles, failures, and even outright humiliations over the past few years. The full-scale Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 is the most obvious example: Even with months to prepare for combat against a supposedly outgunned opponent, the Russians failed in a military operation of enormous interest to Putin. Nearly two years later, Ukraine remains independent. Although the invaders occupy significant territory, they lose personnel and equipment on a daily basis to a Ukrainian military armed with mostly older or limited-range weaponry from its NATO allies.

China—the state that has transformed the global order more than any other in recent decades—is stumbling badly too. Only a few years ago, it seemed fully ascendant as it staked claims around its borders, expanded its influence through its Belt and Road Initiative, built the world’s second-most-advanced military, and seemed poised to overtake the United States as the world’s largest economy. Today, the Chinese economy is in a significant slump, and the regime faces hostile and worried neighbors along a crescent that runs for thousands of miles—from India through the South China Sea, to Taiwan, South Korea, and Japan. Italy has signaled it will pull out of the Belt and Road Initiative; Sri Lanka, which is struggling to pay back Chinese loans that have yielded precious little economic benefit, is a cautionary tale for other nations about the potential dangers of Beijing’s largess. Recently, the Chinese government has been trying to patch up its relationship with the United States and persuade Americans to once again invest in China, to allow the latter some time to recover.

This rapprochement is not a sign that the U.S. has fared any better in great-power politics. The extraordinary debacle in Afghanistan in 2021 suggests otherwise. After conducting the longest overseas military operation in American history, spending more than $2 trillion to fund the war and military occupation of Afghanistan since 2001, and suffering the deaths of thousands of American service members, the United States pulled out with what looked like little preparation. The U.S.-backed Afghan government collapsed far faster than the regime that the Soviet Union left behind when it pulled out of Afghanistan in the late 1980s; in seemingly no time, the Taliban, the regime that the U.S. had invaded to overthrow in 2001, was back in charge.

After Russia invaded Ukraine last year, the U.S. seemed to regain its footing. Putin’s invasion was so ill-considered and bloodthirsty—and Ukrainian resistance so fierce, adept, and determined—that Western nations felt energized and steadfast in their support for the invaded country. Yet in retrospect, the short-term boost to NATO’s effectiveness seems like a lucky accident. American hesitation in the past year has helped make the war bloodier, longer, and potentially more escalatory than if Washington had simply picked a side and given it all the support necessary to win.

Events in the Middle East are demonstrating the limits of Washington’s power in other ways. The Biden administration is seeking to manage the Israeli response to the Hamas terror attacks of October 7. Israel has shown a willingness to conduct an extensive bombing campaign in Gaza because the country’s leaders perceive that to be in their country’s interest, even though the U.S. is publicly urging it to act with greater military restraint.  

To preserve, even maximize, its influence, a major power must understand what it can and cannot do—and, in moments of uncertainty, err on the side of thinking that achieving its goals will be hard, not easy. The more assertive and interventionist a power becomes, the more likely it is to reveal the limits of its influence. The collapse of European colonial empires after World War II, America’s defeat in Vietnam, and the fragmenting of the U.S.S.R. in 1990–91 all show how even powers that seem strong and permanent can wither or disappear in a remarkably short amount of time.

The U.S. should never be isolationist. Nor should it define its global role, as it has so frequently done since the beginning of the Cold War, in terms of simply countering its perceived enemies. Instead, it should proceed cautiously in regions, such as the Middle East, where its record of recent interventions offers ample reason for humility. It should work to strengthen states—such as democracies in the Pacific Rim and in Europe—that emphatically want the U.S. to assist in their defense and security. Ukraine clearly wants to be in this group. American involvement should be seen as a prize, not a threat, and Ukraine’s example helps clarify what kind of countries would most benefit from—and deserve—that help: Are they willing to fight for themselves? And are they governed based on the consent of their residents?

The U.S. can engage in dialogue and seek areas of common interest with a variety of parties around the world. But it should use its power more judiciously than it has. By perpetuating the fiction that Washington can shape other countries’ destiny on its own terms, the U.S. is undercutting its own global position.

Two takes on Gaza with ex-US National Security Advisor John Bolton and human rights activist Sarah Leah Whitson.

Apart from ground-penetrating munitions, the US has also given Israel several other types of bombs and artillery shells.

The Kremlin is worried about the political impact of war disaffection leading up to the 2024 presidential election, according to a US think tank.

To me, she was always Mrs. O’Connor, the mom next door. Yet she was always—even then, in the mid-1960s in the suburbs of Phoenix, Arizona—the person who would be Justice O’Connor. Long before her breakthrough appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court made her one of America’s most renowned jurists, Sandra Day O’Connor showed the qualities of pragmatism, wisdom, and patience with human frailty that marked her time on the Court—and make her legacy more precious than ever today.

When I was 6, my family moved into a brand-new house in Phoenix. Before the construction was finished, I encountered a boy my age playing amid the studs, wires, and boxes of nails. (Boys could do such things back then.) One of the three O’Connor boys, he turned out to be a neighbor. Because we went to school together down the street, I found myself often going in and out of the O’Connors’ house, a low-slung desert rambler, built distinctively with adobe bricks. I still recall the pitch and inflection of Mrs. O’Connor’s greeting: “Well, hello, Jon Rauch!”

Mrs. O’Connor did not put on airs. For me, the highlight of every year was Halloween at the O’Connors’ place, which they converted into a multiroom haunted house. Cackling wickedly and stirring a bubbling cauldron of dry ice, Mrs. O’Connor dressed up as a black-caped, pointy-hatted witch, while her husband, John, lumbered around with a monster mask on his face and a plastic knife through his neck.

Yet I soon became aware that the mom next door was a formidable personage. She seemed to be involved in every kind of community activity. My father, himself a lawyer, told me that Mrs. O’Connor was a hard-driving, brilliant, and omnisciently prepared attorney. He related how, when she was an assistant state attorney general and he was representing a welfare claimant, he’d experienced every litigator’s worst nightmare: In open court, she’d uncorked an authoritative statute he had never heard of. (He lost.) No one was surprised when she was appointed to the state Senate and rose to be its first—and the nation’s first—female majority leader. Following that, she was appointed a judge on Arizona’s Court of Appeals.

Phoenix in the ’60s and ’70s was a conservative, solidly Republican state—home to Barry Goldwater, the fiercely anti-communist, anti-union U.S. senator and 1964 Republican presidential candidate. (His hilltop house was within sight of my neighborhood.) For the most part, though, Arizona’s brand of Republican was buttoned-down and businesslike. William Rehnquist, the future U.S. chief justice and another Phoenix Republican fixture in those days, was considered far-right. Sandra Day O’Connor embodied the party’s center: conservative but pragmatic, oriented toward solving problems rather than creating or amplifying them.

The same no-nonsense, get-it-done attitude that made her a person who befitted any boardroom or community group made her the kind of legislator and judge around whom people gathered and for whom things happened. You knew you could rely on Mrs. O’Connor to be the grown-up in the room.

That persona traveled with her to the country’s highest court. In 1981, when Potter Stewart’s seat opened and President Ronald Reagan pledged to fill it with a woman, I told friends that I knew the perfect person—but that the president would never pick her, because she was too little known and insufficiently ideological for the party’s already fiercely conservative right. But Goldwater, of all people, went to bat for her. So began a Supreme Court career that, to this day, remains underappreciated.

Justice O’Connor’s jurisprudence flummoxed and annoyed legal scholars. She had no overarching judicial philosophy, unlike conservatives such as the combative originalist Antonin Scalia, the purist libertarian Clarence Thomas, or the committed textualist Neil Gorsuch. Her opinions could be murky and temporizing. She was conservative, no doubt about that, but she was also a justice who had previously been a working politician, and it showed in her holdings: She looked for solutions and, more important, for ways to ensure that regular people could look for solutions. She understood the Court’s role as political—not in the activist sense of legislating from the bench, but in the realist sense of seeing the Court as embedded in a political matrix where rigid doctrine could do more harm than good. Known for years as the Court’s swing vote—for a while, some called it the O’Connor Court—she was also, on many occasions, its anchor to reality.

It was like her to rule, in Grutter v. Bollinger, that affirmative action could continue in university admissions—but only for a while, not forever. It was like her, in Planned Parenthood v. Casey, to trim but not eliminate the constitutional right to an abortion. Her difference-splitting holdings infuriated constitutional purists on both sides, but she followed a higher kind of constitutionalism: a recognition that not every issue is ripe to be decided judicially.

Sometimes, like the mom she was, she needed to tell the kids to go back and try harder. Ambiguity and compromise, she saw, could be vital aspects of Supreme Court jurisprudence. If academics and ideologues disapproved, so much the worse for them.

That the lack of an O’Connor on today’s Supreme Court has become a costly deficit goes almost without saying. The Court is often criticized for being too political, but Justice O’Connor’s virtue was that, having been a politician, she had an innate feel for consensus and consent. Today, all nine justices were appointed from U.S. appellate courts or legal academia. None has run for or held elective office. The result has been the kind of sweeping, ideologically inflected jurisprudence that Justice O’Connor avoided. She is rightly remembered as the Court’s first woman; she should also be remembered, alas, as its last politician.

In adulthood, I mostly lost touch with Mrs. O’Connor. Still, with time, I only grew in my appreciation of her qualities. They have become lamentably scarce in American public life and especially in the Republican Party, which owed her so much and yet became so hostile to her legacy. After she retired from the Court, I was surprised when she took up the cause of civics education. Wasn’t this too marginal and small-bore a cause for a person of her stature? Now I understand that, as usual, she was practical and prescient.

Back in August 1981, when she was in Phoenix awaiting confirmation, I made the familiar backyard trek for a hello visit. Despite her sudden elevation to global fame, there she was, the same Mrs. O’Connor, breading fish filets in the kitchen.

Twenty-four years later, in 2005, she received my father and me in her Supreme Court chambers. At that point, she had submitted her resignation from the Court, but the recent death of Chief Justice William Rehnquist delayed her departure (which would not occur until the following year). She expressed frustration, because her husband’s increasing dementia needed her full attention. She was still the problem-solver, the responsibility-taker, the adult in the room—and she was needed elsewhere.

More than ever, her spirit is needed here, today.

If Israel kills as many in south Gaza as the north, Biden will have to decide whether he can keep giving Israel as much support.