On March 10, 2026, Pakistan’s Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif addressed the nation in an emergency broadcast. The Strait of Hormuz had been closed for less than a week. Liquefied natural gas (LNG) shipments from Qatar collapsed from 12 a month to two. Petrol prices had jumped 20 percent in seven days. His announcement: a four-day work week for government employees, schools closed for two weeks, and all in-person meetings banned. In India, households were burning kerosene and wood because liquid petroleum gas (LPG), the cooking fuel for hundreds of millions, transits the Strait. In South Korea, four airlines entered emergency management, and strategic reserves fell to 26 days of supply. The Philippines declared a national energy emergency. At least 60 countries introduced emergency measures within the first month. The International Energy Agency (IEA) called it the “greatest threat to global energy security in history.”
Oil is a global commodity. Its price is set on world markets according to aggregate supply and demand across all nations. Iran’s closure of the Strait of Hormuz removed roughly 20 percent of global oil trade from the market. At one point, Brent crude oil surged past $120 a barrel. By the end of March, American gas prices had hit $4 a gallon. The United States exports oil and has achieved, by most measures, energy independence. Yet American drivers absorbed the same price shock as those in import-dependent economies because U.S. economic activity depends on global oil prices rather than domestic oil supplies. The mechanism is the same in South Korea as in Ohio. This is not a problem of imports. It is a problem with the commodity itself.
The wider consequences have followed directly. Fertilizer costs are spiking because approximately 30 percent of internationally traded urea and ammonia transits the Strait, a shock that reaches farms in South Asia and sub-Saharan Africa before it reaches supermarket shelves. In Vietnam, farmers are reducing rice plantings because diesel and fertilizer have both become unaffordable. The disruption that began when Iranian forces declared the Strait closed ended up in a fuel bill in Ohio, a cooking gas queue in Mumbai, two weeks of school cancelled in Lahore, and an empty field in the Mekong Delta.
The United States launched Operation Epic Fury on 28 February 2026. The stated objectives were military: Iran’s nuclear program, its missile infrastructure, its command architecture. Oil was not the primary target. Within days, the global economy was absorbing a supply shock of historic proportions. A war fought for reasons unrelated to oil becomes an oil crisis the moment it touches a strategic chokepoint.
The U.S. approach to energy security long predated the war, built on sanctions and domestic supply expansion. Operation Epic Fury extended that logic militarily; when Iran closed the Strait of Hormuz, Washington reached for the same tools—pressure, production, and a partial easing of Venezuelan supply—exposing the limits of the strategy itself.
These measures share a premise: that energy security is a competition for scarce resources, and that the United States can prevail by managing supply within a global commodity market. The premise is false. You cannot win a competition for a global commodity by producing more of it. Every barrel enters the same world market. Every disruption anywhere moves the price everywhere. The crisis does not expose a failure of execution. It exposes the limits of the premise itself.
Renewable energy operates on different principles. Solar panels generate electricity from sunlight; wind turbines harness wind. None of these resources is traded on global markets. Their price is not set in Dubai or determined by geopolitical incidents in the Persian Gulf. A fully renewable grid (solar, wind, geothermal, with battery storage and smart distribution) produces energy where it is consumed. It is not disrupted by wars thousands of miles away. In practice, however, it is only partially available. Not because the technology is lacking. But because the system is designed to prevent it.
The energy market does not reward energy independence. It rewards dependence. Utility companies profit from consumption, not from self-sufficiency. Net metering policies, which once compensated distributed generators at market rate for surplus electricity fed back to the grid, have been progressively repriced downward across multiple states. The economic logic is simple: a customer who generates and stores their own energy stops paying the utility company. The regulatory frameworks that govern grid access, storage incentives, and compensation structures are, in significant part, shaped by the interests of the established utility companies they are supposed to regulate. The barrier to genuine energy independence is not technological. It is structural.
This is not abstract. In early 2021, I installed a 37-panel, 12-kilowatt solar system on the southwest-facing roof of my previous home in Louisville, Kentucky. The system was certified to produce nearly 13,000 kilowatt-hours annually, equivalent to a full year of household consumption. From April through September, most days generated more power than I could use. But the installation was grid-tied with no battery storage. Any surplus was fed back to Louisville Gas and Electric, and the grid came back every night. The compensation I received for that surplus was not the retail rate that earlier adopters had received. Kentucky had already changed the rules. State legislation in 2019 changed the rules for new customers. Instead of being credited at the rate they charged everyone else for electricity, utilities were now allowed to pay only a fraction of that rate. Customers who had installed earlier were grandfathered into more favorable terms. I was not. The permit documentation for my system explicitly excluded battery storage: not an oversight, but the standard configuration under a regulatory regime that had closed the door on full self-sufficiency. With storage and retail-rate compensation, I would have been largely independent of the grid. The policy that prevented that was not incidental. It reflected a consistent incentive operating throughout the energy market: a customer who generates and stores their own energy stops paying. The barrier was not the technology; it was the system.
What I experienced at household scale happens at every level. Utilities resist decentralization because decentralization destroys their business model. Regulatory frameworks are shaped by the interests they govern. Fossil fuel incumbency is not simply a market reality. It is a political one, sustained by the same forces that drove the sanctions, the military posture, and the doctrine the current war was meant to enforce.
The war in Iran has made the paradox inescapable. The pursuit of energy security through fossil fuels produced the very disruption it was meant to prevent. Instead, the transition to renewables offers the genuine insulation that oil never can: from global price shocks, from the geopolitical risks embedded in that dependence, and from the carbon emissions driving the climate crisis. But that transition will not happen through market logic alone. The political and economic power of the established energy industry must be confronted directly—in net metering regulations, storage incentives, grid governance, and regulatory frameworks that protect centralized supply at the expense of local generation. The countries that are best positioned to weather this latest crisis are not those that drilled more, but those that reduced their exposure to the global oil market.
Not “drill, baby, drill,” but generate, store, and keep it local.
