Trump’s gunboat diplomacy is a long and partially successful tradition

One of the great ironies of Donald Trump’s second term is that, for a man who openly seeks the Nobel Peace Prize, he seems to have a deep and abiding affection for war. It is undeniable that Trump’s return to the White House helped bring about a pause — temporary, perhaps — in the Middle East conflict. Yet it is equally hard to ignore that the method he most often favors to end wars is not negotiation, mediation, or patient diplomacy, but airstrikes, threats, and military operations.

The most recent example of what his admirers call “peace through strength” is unfolding off the coast of Iran. Aircraft carriers, destroyers, and support vessels send strong messages, aimed not just at Tehran, but at the wider world.

Still, the presence of warships in hostile waters does not automatically signal the outbreak of war. Military history defines this as gunboat diplomacy — the use of naval force, or the credible threat of it, to secure political or commercial objectives, without necessarily crossing the threshold into formal warfare.

The record of gunboat diplomacy is mixed. Steel hulls and heavy guns do not always produce submission, and when they do, the results can be fragile, costly, or short-lived. History offers no shortage of cautionary tales. Below are five emblematic cases of gunboat diplomacy — and the specific lessons that the current occupant of the White House might want to consider before giving the order to fire.

The Opium War

China, 1839–1842

Overview:

For years, opium ravaged China’s Qing Empire, hollowing out society while enriching foreign traders. The profits were so immense that ending the trade seemed economically unthinkable — until the ruling Qing dynasty finally decided it had had enough. Determined to halt the free flow of the drug, Chinese authorities attempted to ban the opium trade outright. The decision dealt a serious blow to Great Britain, which, at the time, was exporting roughly 1,400 tons of opium to China annually.

China’s “special imperial commissioner” attempted a moral appeal, famously addressing a letter to Queen Victoria, urging her to recognize the human cost of the trade. The British response, shaped by imperial confidence and commercial interest, was less sentimental.

The Royal Navy dispatched a fleet of steam-powered gunboats and iron-hulled vessels — among them the infamous Nemesis — that sailed up China’s inland rivers, easily destroying wooden junks and cutting off critical trade routes, including the Grand Canal. Faced with overwhelming technological superiority, China was forced to capitulate. The Treaty of Nanking imposed harsh terms: the cession of Hong Kong, the opening of treaty ports, and a profound loss of sovereignty.

The consequences proved long-lasting. The humiliation inflicted by Western powers fed a deep and enduring resentment that would later be known as the “Century of Humiliation” — a grievance that continues to shape Chinese attitudes toward the West to this day.

Lesson for Trump:

Overwhelming technological force can produce swift surrender — but only if applied with restraint, intelligence, and humility. Humiliation breeds memory. If Iran is publicly crushed today, the seeds of the next hundred years of conflict may already be planted.

The Don Pacifico Affair

Greece, 1850

Overview:

Few cases illustrate how a minor dispute can spiral into an international crisis quite like the Don Pacifico incident. David Pacifico, a Gibraltar-born merchant and former diplomat, remained in Athens after completing his consular service. According to legend, Pacifico intervened to halt a local religious celebration during a visit by the Jewish banker James Mayer de Rothschild, fearing the festivities might offend his distinguished guest.

The move did not sit well with the local population — and, it seems, with certain Greek officials. Soon after, Pacifico’s home was vandalized. Outraged, he wrote directly to Sir Edmund Lyons, Britain’s minister plenipotentiary to Greece. The complaint made its way to London, landing on the desk of Foreign Secretary Lord Henry Palmerston.

When diplomatic demands for compensation failed, Palmerston chose escalation. The British navy blockaded the Greek port of Piraeus, effectively paralyzing the Greek economy. What Britain neglected to consider — or chose to ignore — was that Greece was under the joint protection of Britain, France, and Russia. Paris and St. Petersburg were furious at the unilateral action.

Lesson for Trump:

True: Iran is no minor dispute. But unilateral action carries consequences. A move taken alone can alienate allies and provoke rivals like China and Russia. Trump likely understands this — and may simply not care.

The US Intervention in Nicaragua

Nicaragua, 1909–1912

Overview:

The American intervention in Nicaragua stands as a textbook example of how the United States historically exercised power south of its borders: comply, or be compelled to comply. President William Howard Taft concluded that Nicaragua’s interests — and America’s — were best served by granting concessions to US business interests.

The initial strategy was indirect. Washington financed opposition candidates to weaken President José Santos Zelaya. When that failed, the second, more familiar phase began. US warships appeared off Nicaragua’s coast, and after sustained pressure and explicit military threats, Zelaya chose exile in Mexico.

The United States succeeded in installing a series of friendly governments — but at a cost. Naval intimidation alone proved insufficient. American troops were eventually deployed on Nicaraguan soil to suppress revolts and maintain order, entangling the US in prolonged instability.

Lesson for Trump:

Gunboat diplomacy can be effective at toppling governments — but is disastrous at maintaining stability. Direct intervention often requires prolonged occupation, or “boots on the ground,” a commitment Trump’s own MAGA base tends to reject.

The Agadir Crisis

Morocco, 1911

Overview:

Today’s moralizing powers once carved up continents from behind polished desks. Nowhere was this more evident than in Africa. France, deeply invested in North Africa, moved to stabilize Morocco after a rebellion threatened its influence.

Germany, wary of French expansion, responded with a provocation. The gunboat SMS Panther was dispatched to the Moroccan port of Agadir, a calculated challenge to French dominance. Germany itself was sliding toward the catastrophe of World War I, but could not afford to appear weak.

The crisis ended in a familiar fashion. Germany accepted French control over Morocco in exchange for territorial concessions in the Congo. It was, in essence, a grand bluff — an imperial bargaining chip traded without any input from Moroccans or Congolese, who, as was the minhag, were never invited to the discussion.

Lesson for Trump:

Be careful. A naval display aimed at Iran may prompt rivals to seek compensation elsewhere — on entirely different maps.

The Great White Fleet

Global, 1907–1909

Overview:

In 1907, President Theodore Roosevelt decided to send 16 American battleships on a global tour. There was no immediate enemy. The mission was symbolic: to demonstrate to Japan, and especially to European powers, that the United States could project naval power across every ocean on Earth.

Like a modern missile parade in Pyongyang, the voyage was a statement of reach and dominance. No shots were fired, yet the message was unmistakable. The United States had arrived as a global power — and intended to stay.

Lesson for Trump:

The most effective intimidation is the one that never fires a shot. If the current deployment against Iran remains a demonstration of capability rather than the opening move of a war of attrition, the message of power may be clearer — and more durable — than any bombing campaign.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1098)