A leaked video of a lavish wedding inside an exclusive Tehran hotel has thrown Iran’s ruling establishment into one of its most visible crises of legitimacy in years, igniting nationwide outrage and laying bare the vast gulf between the Islamic Republic’s moral edicts and the private behavior of its most powerful families.

The footage — a short clip showing the daughter of Ali Shamkhani, a top adviser to Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, walking into her ceremony in a strapless, low-cut Western-style gown — spread across Iranian social media with blistering speed.

Filmed in mid-2024 at the opulent Espinas Palace Hotel, the scene bore no resemblance to the austere, hijab-enforced Iran that ordinary citizens are forced to live in.

Here was the family of a man deeply involved in crushing the 2022 “Woman, Life, Freedom” protests, celebrating in a swirl of bare shoulders, uncovered hair, and Western fashion.

Many guests appeared without head coverings. Champagne flutes dotted the tables. It was precisely the sort of event that Iran’s morality police have spent decades punishing the public for attempting.

For millions of Iranians, the anger is not about a dress. It is about a system that demands sacrifice from the poor while affording indulgence to the elite.

Two Irans, One Regime

Shamkhani is no peripheral figure. A former Revolutionary Guard commander and longtime security chief, he remains one of the most influential voices in the Islamic Republic — and one of the architects of the bloody crackdowns meant to uphold the same moral codes his family casually violated.

His clan is also emblematic of the privileged stratum that has thrived under sanctions. Forbes reported that Iran’s “high net worth” population grew 21.6% in 2020, even as the country slid deeper into poverty.

Earlier this year, the U.S. Treasury sanctioned members of the Shamkhani family for running a sprawling illicit shipping network that trafficked Iranian and Russian oil.

To the roughly 36% of Iranians now living below the poverty line, the video was a wound: proof of an elite that lectures the public on Islamic modesty while dining, dressing, and celebrating as if the rules were meant for someone else.

A Direct Challenge to the Morality State

Since 1979, the Islamic Republic has justified its authority through the policing of public behavior — particularly the control of women’s bodies. The hijab mandate has become a pillar of the state’s ideological identity. That is why the viral footage has touched such a raw national nerve.

Millions of Iranian women have openly defied the hijab since the death of Mahsa Amini, sparking waves of protests the regime violently crushed.

Even today, morality police continue crackdowns. But the leaked video confirms something millions already suspected: Iran’s rulers enforce a morality they themselves do not believe in.

“Why are we being beaten for the same thing their daughters do freely?” one Iranian wrote on Telegram.

Power Struggle in the Shadows

The timing of the leak has fueled another theory: this scandal is no accident, but a political weapon.

Supreme Leader Khamenei has appeared rarely in public since June’s 12-day war with Israel and subsequent U.S. strikes on Iranian nuclear sites. Behind the scenes, factional infighting has intensified as rivals position themselves for succession.

Among the fiercest rivals are Shamkhani and former president Hassan Rouhani. Their long-standing feud — from the nuclear deal to economic mismanagement — has created speculation that Rouhani or his allies allowed the video to escape as part of a broader political assault.

Regardless of who leaked the footage, its impact is severe. It has exposed the regime’s most sensitive vulnerability: the crumbling social contract between Iran’s rulers and its people.

The Islamic Republic’s legitimacy has always rested on a claim to moral authority. But rules lose their power when those who make them are the first to break them.

The Shamkhani wedding is not just an embarrassment; it is a warning. A regime that preaches piety but practices privilege risks eroding the very foundations that sustain it.

As one Iranian commentator wrote:
“Once the veil slips, the entire masquerade begins to unravel.”

How Praise Triggered Rage: The Psychological Chess Behind Bihi’s Trap — A Friendship Shattered, A Party Divided.

Hargeisa — The dramatic rupture between former President Muse Bihi Abdi and Kulmiye Chairman Mohamed Kahin Ahmed—two men whose political partnership spans the Barre era, the SNM struggle, and the post-war state-building years—has become more than an internal party dispute.

It is a textbook demonstration of how a leader’s greatest strength can harden into his most dangerous vulnerability.

What has unfolded in recent days reveals a familiar political pattern in the Horn of Africa: power brokers who rise through force, endurance, and personal authority often assume their dominance is permanent. In reality, their power is most fragile at the very moment they believe it is absolute.

A Calculated Trigger

Inside Kulmiye circles, many now argue that the confrontation was not spontaneous but a deliberate provocation engineered by Muse Bihi himself. After decades of working side-by-side, Bihi understood Kahin’s psychological architecture better than anyone.

He knew that a direct confrontation would only embolden the Chairman. Instead, Bihi offered public praise—measured, calm, even deferential.

To the public, it sounded conciliatory. To Kahin, it sounded like a challenge.

Unable to leave even a subtle provocation unanswered, Kahin rushed to the cameras and unleashed a blistering, abrasive attack on the man he once called a brother. The outburst shocked the country—its tone, its speed, and the personal venom behind it.

And that, insiders say, was precisely the reaction Bihi anticipated.

Strength That Became Weakness

Mohamed Kahin’s political authority has always been rooted in force: a reputation for toughness, a voice that commands rooms, and the lingering aura of a wartime figure who can intimidate without trying. That image built his career. It also made him the easiest man in Somaliland to provoke.

His hunger for confrontation—once an asset—became a trap.

By taking the bait, he cast himself as the aggressor in a conflict the public did not want. He alienated allies, alarmed neutral figures, and appeared increasingly unhinged at a moment when the party needed calm stewardship. His defining strength—his willingness to fight—became the very trait that isolated him.

The Strategist’s Advantage

Muse Bihi, ever the tactician, emerged from the episode with his political instincts on display. By setting the trap without raising his voice, he shifted the country’s perception of Kahin from veteran statesman to destabilizing force. His strategy reinforced a long-standing truth: the battle is rarely won by the loudest man, but by the one who controls the tempo.

Yet Bihi’s success carries its own peril. His history of sidelining opponents—even long-standing allies—feeds a growing narrative that he trusts no one, values loyalty only when convenient, and views politics as a battlefield to be dominated rather than a system to be shared.

Such mastery can turn into isolation. And isolation, in the Horn of Africa’s political landscape, has destroyed leaders far stronger than him.

A Mirror for Both Men

Somaliland now watches two giants struggle with the consequences of their own identities:

Kahin, undone by the aggression that once made him powerful.

Bihi, strengthened by strategy but endangered by the cold precision of his own methods.

Their feud exposes a broader truth about leadership in Somaliland: the figure who appears unbreakable is often the most predictable, and the most predictable leader is the easiest to defeat.

In the end, the unlocked gate was built not by their enemies, but by the very strengths that carried them to the top.

Somaliland’s Parties Committee Forces Opposition Kulmiye to Hold Leadership Vote

Inside the High-Risk Battle Over Kulmiye’s Future

Kulmiye Civil War: Kahin Accuses Bihi of Leading a ‘Coup’ to Oust Him

Russian President Vladimir Putin’s latest remarks in Kyrgyzstan signal an unusually blunt negotiating posture: Moscow will halt its nearly four-year war only if Ukrainian forces withdraw from all territories Russia claims as its own—territory Kyiv insists remains sovereign and non-negotiable.

The statement underscores a widening gap between battlefield realities, domestic political constraints, and the frantic U.S. effort to secure a cease-fire before the conflict escalates further.

Putin framed the offer as a straightforward choice: a voluntary Ukrainian withdrawal or a forced one. His confidence reflects the momentum of Russian forces, which have tightened their grip across multiple fronts in Donetsk, Vovchansk and Siversk, and are advancing toward the strategic hub of Guliaipole.

Moscow claims to have encircled Ukrainian formations in Pokrovsk and Myrnograd, though Kyiv disputes any such encirclement. What is clear, however, is that Ukrainian troops—short on ammunition, manpower and air defense—are fighting under conditions that Western officials increasingly describe as unsustainable.

The timing of Putin’s remarks is not accidental. Washington has launched an accelerated diplomatic push built around a revised peace framework, now reduced to roughly 20 points after strong resistance from Kyiv and European allies.

Earlier U.S. drafts proposed Ukrainian withdrawal from parts of Donetsk and implicit recognition of Russia’s hold over Crimea, Luhansk and Donetsk—ideas that provoked immediate backlash.

Even the softened version faces political headwinds in Kyiv, where President Volodymyr Zelenskyy is under pressure to reject any territorial concessions while simultaneously confronting doubts about his own constitutional mandate.

Putin hinted that the latest U.S. proposal could serve as a “basis for future agreements,” but his caveat—that signing anything with Zelenskyy is “almost impossible” due to questions over his legitimacy—introduces a destabilizing complication.

By casting doubt on the Ukrainian leader’s authority, the Kremlin appears to be maneuvering for leverage, perhaps anticipating a fractured or weakened Ukrainian negotiating position.

Meanwhile, U.S. negotiator Steve Witkoff is expected in Moscow next week to continue discussions, and Army Secretary Dan Driscoll will arrive in Kyiv for consultations with Ukrainian officials.

This parallel diplomacy reflects Washington’s attempt to maintain pressure on both sides even as the situation on the ground deteriorates.

According to data compiled by the Institute for the Study of War, Russia has captured roughly 467 square kilometers per month in 2025—an acceleration from the previous year and a trend that strengthens Moscow’s bargaining power.

As Putin put it, “There is little that can be done about it,” a message clearly intended for both Ukrainian leaders and Western capitals debating how much more support to provide.

The war has already reshaped the European security order, displaced millions, and cost hundreds of thousands of lives. Putin’s latest remarks suggest he believes time—and momentum—is now firmly on his side.

What remains unclear is whether Washington’s evolving peace plan can bridge the distance between battlefield realities and political red lines, or whether the conflict is entering a new, more dangerous phase driven by exhaustion, necessity, and geopolitical expediency.

Congress Identifies the Horn of Africa as Battlefield in China’s Bid for Global Dominance.

The U.S. Congress’s latest annual report on the strategic rivalry with China leaves little ambiguity: the Horn of Africa and the Red Sea are no longer peripheral theaters.

They are central battlegrounds in a global competition over supply chains, maritime chokepoints, and diplomatic influence—and Somaliland has unexpectedly become one of the most valuable pieces on the board.

The report frames China’s activities in Africa not as commercial outreach but as a coordinated campaign to secure mineral dominance, expand ground infrastructure for space operations, and erode American influence across strategic coastlines.

This is not abstract speculation. It is a clear assessment that Beijing’s long-term goal is to reshape global leverage structures by controlling the inputs of modern technology and the routes that move them.

In that framework, Africa is indispensable. The continent holds the largest untapped reserves of minerals critical to electric vehicles, batteries, aerospace platforms, and advanced computing.

China has already built the most vertically integrated supply chain in the world, controlling extraction, processing, and export in ways that grant it near-monopolistic power. Congress now warns that this dominance will translate into political leverage—economic pressure deployed strategically, backed by military and technological reach.

For the United States, losing ground in Africa would mean ceding control of essential materials that underpin national security and industrial capacity.

Beijing’s push extends beyond the mines. China’s investments in space-tracking stations and satellite facilities across Africa are viewed as dual-use assets, potentially giving the People’s Liberation Army expanded coverage, intelligence collection, and command-and-control capability.

Locations near the equator, including parts of the Horn, offer critical advantages for satellite launches and tracking. Every new installation tightens China’s grip on the global information environment.

The report’s conclusion is blunt: African territory is becoming a platform from which Beijing can challenge U.S. military and technological superiority.

The Red Sea is the next strategic layer. China’s naval base in Djibouti already positions it alongside one of America’s most significant operations in Africa.

Congressional analysts warn that China’s “assertive Red Sea diplomacy”—from Sudan to Saudi Arabia and Yemen—aims to secure long-term rights over ports, energy routes, and maritime corridors that carry a significant share of global trade.

In a region already destabilized by Houthi attacks and shifting Gulf alliances, China is positioning itself as an alternative power broker, prepared to fill security vacuums or exploit them.

Within this expanding contest, Somaliland appears almost inadvertently positioned at the center. The U.S. report explicitly highlights China’s efforts to undermine the Somaliland-Taiwan relationship, recognizing it as a threat to Beijing’s preferred diplomatic architecture.

The partnership between Hargeisa and Taipei challenges China’s ideological claim to “One China” and offers the United States a rare opportunity: supporting two self-governing, democratic partners in a strategically located region without the formal constraints of traditional recognition politics.

Somaliland’s location on the Gulf of Aden, its potential access to rare earth and strategic minerals, and its political stability relative to its neighbors make it uniquely valuable.

For Washington, Somaliland represents diversification—not only of shipping routes and intelligence access, but of partnerships that can counter China’s growing footprint in the Horn. For Beijing, that same partnership represents an intolerable precedent—proof that China cannot fully dictate diplomatic behavior even in regions where it wields immense economic influence.

The congressional report makes clear that regional political disputes—from licensing fights in Sanaag to pressure exerted by the Federal Government of Somalia—are no longer internal matters. They play directly into the global rivalry.

China sees opportunity in fragmentation; the United States sees risk. The emerging question for Somaliland, Puntland, and Mogadishu is whether they can navigate the geopolitical current without being pulled into a proxy confrontation that reframes local governance in global terms.

For Somaliland in particular, the stakes are substantial. It must leverage this newfound visibility without compromising sovereignty, falling into extractive agreements, or relying on short-term political wins offered by either power.

The real test for the region’s leaders will be resisting the temptation of quick gains and focusing instead on long-term state resilience—transparent governance, independent institutions, and strategic clarity. In a contest defined by minerals, maritime power, and diplomatic alignment, stability becomes a geopolitical asset in itself.

Somaliland did not choose to become part of the U.S.-China rivalry. But the congressional report confirms a reality now impossible to ignore: the global balance of power is drifting toward the Red Sea, and Hargeisa is standing on one of the most strategically valuable pieces of ground on the map.

The Lasanod administration’s decision to give mining companies operating in Sanaag a 30-day deadline to obtain official licenses marks a significant escalation.

What has long been a political and territorial dispute is now shifting into a direct contest over natural resources and the power, legitimacy, and revenue that flow from them.

Sanaag’s ambiguous status lies at the center of this tension. The region is under Somaliland, but claimed by both Lasanod and Puntland and is shaped by overlapping political loyalties and shifting local administrations.

Lasanod, while geographically situated in Sool, has recently asserted a degree of autonomy that places it somewhere between Somaliland and the federal system in Mogadishu, and increasingly aligned with neither.

By invoking constitutional authority to justify its licensing mandate, Lasanod is attempting to operate not merely as a local administration but as a government capable of regulating economic activity, enforcing laws, and building its own fiscal base independent of Hargeisa or Garowe.

Its focus on the mining sector is strategic. Sanaag is home to significant gypsum, salt, and potential metal deposits that have long been exploited informally by companies operating with minimal oversight.

Bringing these operations under a licensing regime gives the administration control over who can extract resources and grants access to a potentially lucrative stream of revenue. This shift explains why Puntland reacted so sharply.

Garowe has long considered parts of Sanaag within its jurisdiction, and the Lasanod order challenges Puntland’s territorial claims, threatens companies operating under its authority, and risks setting a broader precedent in a federal system where local administrations can assert control over strategic assets.

Mining companies now find themselves caught between competing authorities. Their decision to comply with or reject the Lasanod directive carries practical and political weight.

Compliance would extend a measure of recognition to the Lasanod administration, while refusal could prompt attempts at enforcement—raising the risk of confrontation between local forces and Puntland-aligned actors. Either choice could reshape the balance of power on the ground.

The stated rationale for the ban includes concerns about unregulated extraction and environmental degradation, but the broader context suggests that control of licensing fees and regulatory power is a central motive.

In a landscape where institutions are fragile and political competition is intense, natural resources often become tools for leverage, patronage, and consolidation of authority.

The danger is that a system designed to regulate the sector could instead replicate old patterns under a new banner, with local communities and the environment seeing little benefit.

This episode underscores a larger shift in the dynamics of the Somali territories: the gradual movement away from identity-based politics toward economic contests over land, revenue, and resource sovereignty.

The Lasanod administration’s approach is calculated, forcing companies and neighboring governments to respond and positioning itself as an actor with both political ambition and economic priorities.

Whether this dispute evolves into a negotiated framework or a trigger for renewed conflict will shape the region’s stability in the months ahead.

For outside observers and policymakers, the mining ban illustrates how resource control is becoming the next major fault line in the Horn of Africa’s political landscape.

In a region where authority is contested and institutions remain fragile, the struggle over extraction rights may prove as consequential as the territorial disputes that preceded it.

From Backchannels to the White House: Saudi Arabia Steps Toward Recognition of Israel.

Saudi Arabia’s renewed engagement with Washington has opened a rare diplomatic window that could fundamentally reshape the Middle East’s political architecture, positioning Israel and Saudi Arabia on the brink of a formal relationship that once seemed implausible.

The White House meeting this week between U.S. President Donald Trump and Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman underscored the depth of the strategic alignment now forming between the two governments—and revealed how Saudi Arabia is increasingly willing to publicly signal its readiness to join the Abraham Accords.

The crown prince’s remarks in Washington, declaring that “we want to be part of the Abraham Accords,” mark the clearest indication to date that Riyadh sees normalization with Israel not as a symbolic gesture but as part of a broader effort to redefine its place in the region’s emerging order.

Saudi Arabia’s Vision 2030 reforms—aimed at diversifying the kingdom’s economy and expanding its global footprint—have already reframed its internal political and economic priorities. Normalization is increasingly viewed in Riyadh as a strategic asset that can unlock economic cooperation, advanced defense technology, and global investment partnerships.

While Israel was not officially represented at the White House meeting, the implications for Jerusalem were unmistakable. MBS’s visit follows years of discreet negotiations involving Washington, Riyadh and, indirectly, Israel.

Analysts widely viewed this week’s public signals as a culmination of those efforts. For the U.S., the moment suggests the emergence of a more integrated regional security framework—connecting Saudi Arabia, Israel, and Washington—anchored around shared concerns, especially Iran’s expanding influence and its use of proxy forces across the region.

The pragmatism driving Saudi policy has also been matched by Trump’s own approach to Middle East diplomacy. During his first term, his administration overturned long-held assumptions about Arab-Israeli engagement by brokering agreements between Israel and the UAE, Bahrain and Morocco.

That record—combined with the personal relationships Trump maintains with regional leaders—appears to have enabled renewed momentum on a Saudi track that had stalled under the Biden administration.

Strategic signals emerging from the Trump–MBS dialogue this week include discussions about advanced weapons sales, air defense integration, and greater cooperation across trade and technology sectors.

These moves indicate that normalization, if it proceeds, will be tied to a broader U.S.–Saudi security pact and long-term defense guarantees—elements Riyadh has sought for years.

For Israel, the implications are transformative. A Saudi-Israeli agreement would not simply expand the Abraham Accords; it would change their nature entirely.

Instead of a coalition of smaller Gulf states and early adopters, the framework would become the diplomatic and strategic foundation for a new Middle East order—linking the region’s dominant Arab economy to its most technologically advanced military power.

Yet the opening also carries responsibilities for Israel. Officials in Jerusalem will have to prepare for the domestic and regional implications of normalization with Saudi Arabia, including the likelihood of U.S. expectations for measured engagement on the Palestinian issue.

Strategic planners will also need to develop a long-term agenda for economic cooperation with Riyadh that moves beyond defense and security.

Ultimately, the path ahead will depend on political will on all sides. But the signals from Washington this week suggest that the prospect of Saudi Arabia joining the Abraham Accords is more credible than at any point in the past decade—and that doing so could redefine the region’s diplomatic landscape for a generation.

The Trump administration’s decision to approve the sale of F-35 fighter jets to Saudi Arabia has reignited a long-running debate over U.S. arms policy, Middle Eastern power balances and Israel’s long-protected military advantage in the region.

The announcement came Monday in an Oval Office appearance, where President Donald Trump said the United States would move forward with selling the fifth-generation jets to Riyadh—calling the kingdom “a great ally”—while offering no reference to Israel, which has historically shaped the limits of American weapons transfers in the Middle East.

The sale, still subject to U.S. government review and congressional oversight, would make Saudi Arabia the first Arab state to acquire the stealth aircraft.

The prospect marks a major strategic shift that could reshape regional airpower and introduce new friction into U.S.–Israel relations, where American policy has long centered on maintaining Israel’s “qualitative military edge.”

Saudi officials told CNN the kingdom succeeded in separating the aircraft sale from any expectation that it would normalize ties with Israel—an idea the Trump administration had promoted as part of a broader diplomatic realignment before the war in Gaza upended negotiations.

Trump, seeking to deliver a major defense agreement even as diplomatic breakthroughs stalled, “delinked the two issues,” said Nawaf Obaid, a senior fellow at King’s College London.

For Israel, the consequences are potentially significant. A senior Israeli security official described the development as “very concerning,” noting that successive Israeli governments worked quietly with Washington to ensure that no regional military possessed capabilities equivalent to the F-35.

“It is not good for Israel,” the official said, adding that the shift could alter a decades-old assumption about regional air superiority.

This is not the first time a U.S. administration has entertained such a sale. By the end of Trump’s first term, Washington had agreed to sell F-35s to the United Arab Emirates as part of the Abraham Accords, with Israel’s approval.

But the Biden administration froze the deal over concerns about the UAE’s growing defense cooperation with China and doubts about safeguarding sensitive U.S. technology.

Those concerns are likely to resurface with Saudi Arabia. Daniel Shapiro, former U.S. ambassador to Israel involved in the UAE negotiations, said that Riyadh would need to make clear commitments to limit its military ties with Beijing. “In my judgment, it needs to in order for an F-35 program to be fully consistent with U.S. security interests,” he said.

The sale also puts pressure on regional dynamics disrupted by the Gaza war. Saudi officials continue to insist that normalization with Israel remains possible but not under current conditions.

Analysts say Riyadh will not move toward normalization without a credible, irreversible path toward Palestinian statehood—an idea repeatedly dismissed by Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and rejected by his far-right coalition partners.

The potential sale has already stirred political fallout in Israel. Former military chief Gadi Eisenkot criticized Netanyahu for failing to prevent the deal, arguing that a prime minister who frequently touts his influence in Washington “has lost the ability to defend Israel’s national interests.”

As the administration pushes ahead, the United States is again navigating a familiar set of constraints: its commitment to Israel’s military advantage, its lucrative security partnerships with Gulf states, and the growing strategic implications of China’s expanding foothold in the region.

Trump’s willingness to advance the agreement signals a dramatic acceleration—and one likely to set off a contentious review that could redefine the next chapter of Middle Eastern security.

From Trade Rivals to Sky Combatants — Israel and Turkey’s Drone War Takes Shape.

The global drone market is fast becoming a new battleground between Turkey and Israel — two of the world’s most formidable UAV producers whose technologies are rewriting the rules of modern warfare.

What began as a commercial arms race is now veering toward a potential confrontation in Syria, where their geopolitical interests collide as sharply as their unmanned aircraft might soon do in the air.

Turkey’s drone revolution, led by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s son-in-law Selçuk Bayraktar, has transformed the country into an export powerhouse.

In less than a decade, Baykar’s Bayraktar TB2 and Akinci models have seen combat from Libya to Ukraine, propelling Turkey to eleventh place in global arms exports — with sales to more than 170 countries.

The drones are cheap, reliable, and mass-produced — a formula that has made Ankara the preferred supplier for dozens of mid-level militaries seeking autonomy from Western defense giants.

Israel, by contrast, was once the undisputed pioneer. For decades, its Heron and Harop drones defined the modern battlefield.

But the 2010 Mavi Marmara flotilla crisis severed its lucrative defense ties with Turkey, collapsing a partnership that once saw Israeli technicians working in Turkish airbases.

As maintenance stopped, drones began to fail. “Look at how Israeli drones crash,” Erdogan sneered at the time, turning a broken contract into a national humiliation — and an industrial mission.

Fifteen years later, that humiliation has become Ankara’s greatest triumph. Israeli experts now warn that a direct clash between the two drone superpowers could erupt in northern Syria, where Turkish forces back local factions and Israeli operations target Iranian supply lines.

“Turkey is a significant adversary,” says Dr. Eyal Pinko of Bar-Ilan University. “If a confrontation happens, it will likely be in the air — through drones, not manned jets.”

Both nations’ systems have proven deadly in proxy wars. Turkish drones helped Azerbaijan crush Armenia in 2020; Israeli models dominate India’s arsenal and recently conducted precision operations deep inside Iran.

The skies are now crowded with unmanned machines designed by two states that distrust one another — yet mirror each other in ambition and innovation.

Despite Israel’s deep ecosystem of over 300 drone firms, its export share is shrinking. Drones accounted for 25% of Israeli defense exports in 2022, falling to just 1% by 2024, according to SIBAT data.

Turkey, meanwhile, saw defense exports soar by 103% since 2019, driven by its “drone diplomacy” — offering free units to poorer nations to lock in long-term maintenance contracts. It’s aggressive, transactional, and effective.

Israel’s defense analysts now warn that Ankara’s expansion threatens Tel Aviv’s dominance in Asia and Africa, particularly as Turkish drones undercut Israeli models on price and visibility.

India’s renewed defense pact with Israel — signed days after testing Turkish systems against Pakistani versions — underscores how both states are now fighting for influence in the same markets.

Yet the rivalry is more than commercial. It’s ideological. Erdogan’s government touts drones as symbols of Islamic industrial power — tools of sovereignty free from Western control.

Israel, for its part, sees UAVs as extensions of its technological deterrence doctrine. That duality makes any future encounter over Syria not just a clash of machines, but a contest of national identities — secular high-tech versus Erdogan’s industrial pride.

As Dr. Hay Eytan Cohen Yanarocak of Tel Aviv University notes, “Erdogan turned Israel’s rejection into a rallying cry.

The tenant became the landlord.” In the skies above Syria, that metaphor may soon become literal.