America’s elites trusted global trade. Japan trusted reality.

“Moshitora,” Japanese shorthand for “what if Trump?,” first emerged in the run-up to the 2016 U.S. election, as policymakers and business leaders in Tokyo tried to make sense of an unpredictable candidate.
The phrase resurfaced in early 2024 as Donald Trump’s campaign regained momentum. This time, it carried more than curiosity. It reflected strategic caution and genuine unease. What would a second Trump presidency mean for Japan’s security, its economic ties, and its role in the Indo-Pacific?
The US-Japan alliance has entered a new phase that looks beyond defense alone.
The question mattered bigly. Since former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe’s assassination in 2022, Japan has had to manage its alliance with Washington without the personal rapport Abe cultivated over decades. Trump’s first term had already shown how quickly supply chains could become instruments of strategic power and how fast economic policy could merge with national security.
For decades after the Cold War, Western policymakers assumed deep trade ties would soften geopolitical tensions. If nations became economically intertwined, conflict would grow too costly to sustain. That assumption collapsed. Supply chains did not reduce rivalry. They became tools of leverage instead.
Technology, once treated mainly as an engine of economic growth, became a strategic asset. Materials long confined to commodity markets — lithium, cobalt, nickel, and rare earths — moved to the center of national security planning.
The consequences reached far beyond trade policy. Industries once taken for granted became strategic pressure points. Governments began to see commercial flows not as neutral exchanges, but as levers of power. Control over production, processing, and access could shape the balance of global influence.
Trump’s first administration accelerated that reckoning. Washington had to confront dependencies it had ignored for too long. Over the next several years, policymakers turned instinct into structure. Alliances no longer looked like military arrangements alone. They began to function as economic security networks built around trusted supply chains, resilient manufacturing, and reliable access to critical materials.
The results are now visible. In October 2025, the U.S. and Japan signed a framework to secure supply chains for rare earths and critical minerals, with the stated goal of reducing dependence on China’s dominant processing capacity.
Africa shows the stakes even more clearly. In early 2026, Glencore entered a nonbinding agreement with the U.S.-backed Orion Critical Mineral Consortium to sell 40% of its Mutanda and Kamoto copper and cobalt mines in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
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These mines rank among the world’s largest producers of metals essential to next-generation technologies. The deal aims to diversify supply beyond China’s orbit.
Across Africa, Washington has deepened partnerships to strengthen supply chains for essential commodities, while Japan has pursued its own ties with resource-rich nations.
These efforts go beyond securing raw materials. They concern industrial resilience, strategic autonomy, and influence over the technologies that will define the next era of power. Countries now face a hard question: Who offers long-term commitment, and who merely shows up to extract what it needs?
Japan’s approach reflects foresight. Its economic security policies — diversifying supply chains, investing in semiconductors, and deepening ties with African and Southeast Asian resource producers — show a clear understanding that industrial capacity underwrites national power. In some respects, Tokyo saw this shift coming before Washington did.
The U.S.-Japan alliance has entered a new phase that looks beyond defense alone. Who will build together, mine together, and secure the industrial base behind technological competition? The choices nations make now will help determine which economies and militaries remain resilient enough to compete in the years ahead.
“Moshitora” began as a phrase about a single American election. Its return in 2024 looks, in hindsight, like a warning Japan had already begun to heed. The question now is whether Washington will answer with the same clarity, persistence, and long-term vision.
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‘Things will return to normal’ is not a serious policy

At the Munich Security Conference in February, California Gov. Gavin Newsom (D) suggested that once Donald Trump leaves office, things can return to normal — back to whatever existed before Trump.
While other Democrats eyeing the White House struggled to distinguish themselves, Newsom revealed a different problem. They looked unready to lead. He looked unwilling to lead at all.
The question isn’t whether Donald Trump disrupted a prior equilibrium. It’s whether those who seek to lead are prepared to lead amid friction, scarcity, and opposition.
Munich isn’t a campaign stop. It’s a security summit. Leaders gather there to talk about cyber warfare, artificial intelligence in military systems, energy instability, supply chain fragility, and the security posture of the West.
Threats don’t wait for electoral cycles.
Newsom’s implication was simple: Wait this out. Wait for a different administration. Wait for political alignment. Wait for conditions to improve.
But what, exactly, are we waiting for?
Are adversaries pausing their ambitions until our politics settle? Are supply chains stabilizing on their own? Does instability take a sabbatical while we sort out elections?
California sits on enormous capacity that intersects directly with these challenges — from artificial intelligence to aerospace to energy systems. If it were its own nation, its economy would rank among the largest in the world.
In that room, Newsom had a chance to say something simple: We can help today.
He could have said: We have political frictions, yes — but here’s what California can put on the table right now. Here’s what’s on the showroom floor and what’s in the stockroom.
Leadership doesn’t wait for better conditions. It works with the conditions at hand. That isn’t political. It’s true.
Trump has faced headwinds since re-entering politics in 2015: media opposition, legal battles, congressional resistance, impeachments, cultural hostility — even a bullet. Whatever one thinks of his tone or policies, he didn’t suspend action until the pressure eased.
Resistance didn’t become an excuse.
George Washington didn’t wait for favorable conditions before leading a fragile Continental Army. He faced shortages, division, and superior opposition. Conditions were rarely ideal. Resources were rarely sufficient. He acted anyway.
Entrepreneurs launch in recessions. Athletes train in bad weather. Reformers work when opposition is loudest.
Adversity doesn’t excuse stagnation so much as it reveals character.
Years ago, I knew a pastor who believed his preaching would rise once he moved into a larger sanctuary. His pitch to the building committee was brazen and simple: “Frame me better, and my sermons will improve.”
They didn’t. His messages were weak before the new building, and they stayed weak afterward. The platform changed. The man did not.
Conditions don’t create conviction. They reveal it.
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I see the same instinct in family caregivers walking through chronic impairment: “We just have to hold on.” “Once this season passes.”
The assumption stays the same: When hardship lifts, life begins.
But for many, this is the life.
Waiting for better conditions is surrender, not strategy.
The apostle Paul wrote large portions of the New Testament from prison. Confinement didn’t suspend his calling. Chains weren’t an excuse. He didn’t wait for a “new Caesar.” He wrote anyway.
That’s the dividing line.
One posture says: Once the obstacle is removed, I’ll begin.
The other says: I’ll begin here. Now.
Newsom’s remarks reveal more than a political calculation. They expose a familiar instinct: the belief that productivity begins once hardship fades. But adversity rarely fades on schedule.
History doesn’t pause. Adversaries don’t pause. Life doesn’t pause.
The question isn’t whether Trump disrupted a prior equilibrium. It’s whether those who seek to lead are prepared to lead amid friction, scarcity, and opposition — or whether they are waiting for a version of normal that isn’t coming back.
Leadership shows up in the arena — or on the battlefield — but rarely in the green room.
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