Those who purchased and invested time in reading Donald Trump’s The Art of the Deal should exercise caution.
THOUGH reading—even nonsensical material—has value, allowing us to broaden our intellectual horizons and prepare ourselves to understand all arguments, one must not elevate such “reading material” beyond its deserved scope.
Donald Trump, born into a very wealthy family, was not shaped by the harsh realities that define genuine negotiation. His trajectory was cushioned by inherited capital, access, and a system designed to reward spectacle and excess. He did not emerge from struggle, but from insulation. This distinction is not incidental—it is foundational.
Even in his own mythology, Trump admits to the performative nature of his approach. In The Art of the Deal, he famously writes: “I play to people’s fantasies… I call it truthful hyperbole.”
This is not a strategy in any classical sense—it is manipulation elevated to doctrine.
Trump does not fully understand how real deals in the world of politics are made. Even his deals as a developer and tradesman are highly specific to his environment. His success—or failure—is largely dependent on his ability to manipulate markets, dominate competitors, inflate brand perception, and weaponize media attention.
This is a profoundly area-specific: New York, Florida, or anywhere else within the United States.
In these environments, rules are elastic, institutions are predictable, and the system ultimately protects capital. But in the realm of international politics, these assumptions collapse.
And yet, in American politics, the same tactics worked.
Americans, conditioned by spectacle, reward performance. Trump understood this instinctively. He is, fundamentally, a showman—a political impresario. He can sell brands—whether knives, steaks, ties, or lofty promises of “making America great again.” His success did not stem from wisdom or intellectual depth, but from his precise ability to exploit weakness: to lie convincingly, to mirror the anxieties of desperate voters, to recycle slogans like “drain the swamp,” and, above all, to entertain.
Unfortunately, in American politics—where political charlatans, backed by armies of lawyers, media figures, and professional entertainers, dominate the stage—such hollow performance often prevails. Ronald Reagan is often cited as a prototype of this phenomenon, but he was hardly alone.
Trump, however, made a critical miscalculation: he assumed that what worked in selling illusions to American consumers and voters would translate seamlessly into international politics.
For him, everything is about leverage.
And since the United States possesses, in his view, an overwhelming force, he believed that military superiority could function as the ultimate negotiating tool. This belief has been repeated throughout his rhetoric, often framing the US as possessing “the most powerful military” in the world.
In his logic, power is not managed—it is displayed, exaggerated, and weaponised.
Thus, he invested heavily in militarisation, rhetorically and politically, promoting a worldview where dominance replaces diplomacy. His political circle reflected this posture: figures selected not for strategic depth, but for performative aggression—individuals embodying a culture of intimidation rather than negotiation.
Even before escalating tariffs, Trump consistently invoked military strength as a bargaining chip—threatening invasions, casually proposing the acquisition of foreign territories, and even suggesting the renaming of geographical realities as though sovereignty itself were negotiable branding.
But intimidation failed.
The world did not respond as expected. States did not capitulate under theatrical displays of force. And so Trump turned—predictably—to tariffs.
He repeatedly framed tariffs not as economic instruments, but as ideological weapons, famously declaring that “tariffs are the most beautiful word… in the dictionary.”
This was not economic policy—it was branding masquerading as strategy. That tactic—using monopolistic leverage to pressure competitors—may function within Trump’s provincial business universe, where regulatory systems often favour corporations and their legal machinery over smaller actors.
Internationally, however, the system is far more complex.
Following World War II, the United States commanded roughly half of global economic output. Today, that dominance has significantly eroded, replaced by a multipolar system in which economic power is distributed, contested, and interdependent.
Even the remaining US share of the global economy does not operate independently. It is governed by interconnected realities: supply chains that span continents, energy dependencies that constrain policy, maritime routes that must remain secure, volatile markets, and access to raw materials controlled by other powers.
Trump either misunderstood—or ignored—this.
He began imposing tariffs aggressively, only to repeatedly reverse or delay them under pressure from markets, allies, and internal contradictions. His economic strategy mirrored his broader political method: escalation, spectacle, retreat—then repetition.
This pattern exposed the limits of his approach.
The attack on Venezuela was a continuation of this logic—a desperate attempt to manufacture leverage where none existed, to project strength amid mounting policy failures, and to revive the illusion of decisive leadership.
Trump needed a spectacle.
He needed Maduro captured, humiliated, and displayed. He needed a short, decisive operation with immediate economic and political returns. He needed, above all, a performance—one that would validate his worldview.
This was framed as the ultimate manifestation of his promises: overwhelming military force, immediate economic gain, controlled chaos followed by stability, and the inevitable media spectacle—the image of victory carefully staged.
But Trump was not as strategic as he believed. He exists within an echo chamber—surrounded by loyalists, advisors, and media figures who constantly reinforce the myth of his genius. This insulation deepens the very flaw that defines him: an inability to distinguish between performance and reality.
The Venezuelan episode was not enough. He needed more—to reverse the trajectory of failure that defined both his first administration and the early stages of his second.
It was at this moment that Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu entered the equation—armed not only with plans, but with a deep understanding of Trump’s psychology.
Netanyahu understood what many had already learned: Trump is not driven by ideology, strategy, or long-term geopolitical thinking. He is driven by praise, by spectacle, by the illusion of victory.
This is why Netanyahu consistently shielded Trump from criticism, reacting aggressively to even mild dissent within Israeli political circles. He understood that Trump’s loyalty is transactional—but his ego is absolute.
The objective was clear: draw Trump into a prolonged confrontation with Iran, particularly in strategically volatile arenas like the Strait of Hormuz. Not necessarily to win decisively, but to entangle.
For Netanyahu, all outcomes carried benefit: a weakened Iran, a destabilised region, and an opportunity for Israel to reassert dominance after the profound political and moral damage inflicted by the war on Gaza, the genocide, and the resilience of Palestinian and regional resistance movements.
The result, however, was catastrophic. What followed will likely be remembered as one of the most disastrous periods in modern US foreign policy—one that accelerated the erosion of American influence in the Middle East and exposed the limits of its global power.
Now, there can be no “art of the deal” for Trump—because there is no leverage left.
His choices are stark: withdraw from a confrontation with an Iran that has emerged more resilient and strategically entrenched, or sink deeper into a protracted conflict that will further weaken the United States and destabilise the region.
The choice should be obvious.
The real question is whether the United States possesses the political will—and institutional courage—to restrain Trump before he drags his country, and much of the world, further into the abyss.
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Dr Ramzy Baroud is a journalist, author and the Editor of The Palestine Chronicle. He is the author of eight books. His latest book, ‘Before the Flood,’ was published by Seven Stories Press. He is a Non-resident Senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Islam and Global Affairs (CIGA). His website is www.ramzybaroud.net
