Donald Trump began the war with Iran with the assumption that America's military, air, and technological superiority could decide the outcome of the war in Washington's favor within a short period. But now, nearly seven months after the start of this war, what is seen more than anything else in the political and media behavior of the US government is an effort to find a presentable narrative of "victory"; a narrative that the battlefield has apparently not been able to provide to the White House.
The latest product of this effort is a film and detailed report of the operation to rescue an American pilot on Iranian soil; a narrative full of dramatic images of special forces, military aircraft, a wounded pilot, mountains, and a complex operation that ultimately leads to his return to America. The framing of the story is entirely cinematic; in such a way that the audience must forget where this story began and see only its ending: the American pilot was rescued and returned home.
But the issue is precisely here; the story did not begin with the rescue of the pilot. The story began with the downing of an American fighter jet on Iranian soil.
This is not a small difference. America entered the war to force Iran, by relying on its military power and technology, to accept Washington's demands and to achieve a quick and decisive victory. But now, one of the most important media narratives presented to the American public is not about the realization of the war's political objectives, a change in Iran's behavior, or Washington's strategic achievements, but about the rescue of a pilot whose fighter jet was downed during this very war. In fact, the camera sets aside the starting point of the story and places the ending point in place of the entire story.
Even the rescue narrative itself is not free of ambiguity. In the published reports, serious injuries to the pilot in the back, hand, and shoulder are mentioned, and at the same time it is narrated that after the crash he was able to reach a ridgeline at an altitude of about 7,000 feet, that is, more than 2,000 meters above sea level. These two parts of the narrative, at least without detailed medical and operational explanations, do not easily sit alongside each other. This very issue can raise the question of whether what has been presented to the American public is a complete and accurate narrative of the reality on the ground or a heroized narrative reconstructed to produce a particular image.
Of course, the complexity of the rescue operation cannot be denied. But there is a very large gap between "the success of an operation" and "victory in the war." The problem with the American media narrative begins precisely where these two concepts are placed alongside each other and a rescue operation is presented as a symbol of America's overall superiority in the war. The important question is why, at this juncture, the rescue operation of a pilot has been highlighted to such an extent.
The answer must be sought to a large extent in the political atmosphere inside America. The Trump administration needs a narrative of victory; because the war that was supposed to be a display of American power has not met with widespread reception in American public opinion. In a Quinnipiac University poll, 60 percent of Americans said the military action against Iran was not worth the cost America paid, and only 34 percent held the opposite view. More importantly, 45 percent believed that America had become weaker in the world as a result of this war, while only 33 percent considered it stronger.
A CBS and YouGov poll also presented a similar picture; 69 percent of Americans had said the war was not worth its costs, and 57 percent believed the war had created more problems than it solved.
These numbers are highly significant for the Trump administration on the eve of the midterm congressional elections. The American president, to maintain his political support, needs to be able to present the war not as a costly and uncertain adventure, but as a successful and necessary action. Under such circumstances, the story of a wounded pilot who is rescued after crashing on Iranian soil is, from a media standpoint, far more attractive than presenting a real balance sheet of the objectives America has achieved in the war.
The importance of the matter increases when we pay attention to CNN's exclusive report about the behind-the-scenes of the F-15 crew's appearance on the "60 Minutes" program. According to this report, the office of Pete Hegseth, the US Secretary of Defense, seriously pursued the crew's appearance on the program, and within the military structure there were also concerns about the political use of this narrative and the possibility of revealing sensitive operational information. One of the two crew members ultimately refused to appear on the program, and the other agreed to be interviewed. The Pentagon, of course, has rejected this interpretation and emphasized that the forces' participation was voluntary.
If we place this report alongside the American political atmosphere, the matter takes on a different shape. We are no longer dealing with a simple television report about the story of a soldier; rather, we are facing a narrative that can also have a political and media function. The downed fighter jet is pushed to the margins, the wounded pilot becomes a hero, the rescue operation becomes a display of power, and ultimately the audience, instead of asking "why was the American fighter jet downed on Iranian soil?", is faced with the question of "how did America rescue its hero?" This shifting of the focus point is itself an important part of narrative-making. A victorious government usually speaks about the objectives it has achieved, the concessions it has obtained from the opposing side, and the change it has created in the balance of power. But when an important part of the victory narrative is reduced to this—that "we did not leave our soldier behind and we brought him out of enemy territory"—one must ask why the definition of victory has become so small. This is precisely the point at which "operational success" becomes a tool for "political achievement-making."
Washington can proudly speak of the ability of its special forces to rescue a pilot; this is the natural right of any army. But this operation cannot answer the larger question: what strategic achievement has the war with Iran brought for America? Has Iran been forced to accept Washington's main demands? Has the regional balance of power changed sustainably in America's favor? Have the costs of the war been justified for the American public?
If the answers to these questions are not clear, no matter how dramatic the images of the pilot's rescue are, they cannot fill the void of a strategic victory. The issue for the Trump administration is not only political opponents. The popularity of the president himself has also come under pressure. A Reuters and Ipsos poll in August showed satisfaction with Trump's performance at only 33 percent; the lowest level in his presidency up to that time. A large part of Americans had also expressed concern about the prolongation of the war with Iran. Under such circumstances, producing images of victory takes on double importance for the government. The camera can highlight something that the battlefield alone is incapable of producing: the feeling of victory.
But the problem is that American public opinion does not see only television images. The cost of the war shows itself in people's lives, prices, concern about the future, the killing and wounding of military personnel, and most importantly in the simple question that has been repeated many times in polls: was this war worth it? The answer of a large part of American society has so far been negative.
For this reason, the film of the American pilot's rescue operation can be seen as more than a television report; this film is part of an effort to redefine the meaning of success in the war. When strategic victory has not been achieved, or at least is not visible to the public, a rescue operation can become a symbol of victory. When the achievements of the battlefield are not enough to present, the image takes the place of reality, and the camera tries to do what the battlefield has not been able to do: push defeat out of the center of the picture and put the hero in its place.
But the problem is that by changing the frame of the picture, reality does not change. The fighter jet that was downed is still downed. The war that has a political and economic cost still has a cost, and the thoughts that have formed about the outcome of the war are not erased by a few-minute film.
Perhaps this is why Washington today, more than seeking a clear record of victory, is seeking to produce an image of victory. "Hollywood" can turn the downing of a fighter jet into a story of heroism, can turn the wounding of a pilot into an epic scene, and can place the rescue operation at the center of the frame; but it cannot change the outcome of a war.
If the greatest image of American victory in the war with Iran is to be the rescue of a pilot whose fighter jet was downed on Iranian soil, this very image alone places a big question before the American public: if this is the great conquest, then where are the real achievements of the war?
MNA