Stephen P. Turner spent his career arguing against a comfortable assumption in the social sciences: that knowledge is a thing people possess, store, and transfer. His critique of practice theory cuts deeper than most readers realize. Knowledge is not a stable property sitting inside individuals or institutions waiting to be passed on. It is a fragile, context-bound performance, reproduced continuously through habit, routine, shared expectation, and local environment. Remove any of those conditions and the knowledge does not migrate cleanly. It degrades, distorts, or simply stops working.
The war in Iran is a live laboratory for that argument. But before getting to Turner, it is worth asking why expert commentary has been so slow to reckon with what is happening on the ground.
When analysts like Alex Vatanka at the Middle East Institute and Nate Swanson at the Atlantic Council describe Iran as “comfortable” in a long war, they make a claim that is defensible at one altitude and misleading at another. The doctrinal argument is real. Iran designed its forces for exactly this kind of grinding, attritional conflict. It has proxies, geographic leverage, oil market pressure, and a revolutionary ideology that frames endurance as victory. Vali Nasr at Johns Hopkins has made the same case: Tehran believes time is on its side, that the United States lacks the political stamina for a prolonged conflict, and that survival itself constitutes a form of winning. That is a coherent strategic logic. The trouble is that doctrine and execution are not the same thing, and the gap between them is precisely where Turner’s framework operates.
There is also a structural reason why experts resist updating. Status in the field rises when the actors you study look like sophisticated strategic players. If Iran is a cool chess player executing a long game, you are a brilliant decoder of regional strategy. If Iran is a wounded regime scrambling to hide its commanders under highway bridges, you are a witness to chaos, which requires far less interpretive skill. The same logic shaped sports journalism. Cover the 1980s San Francisco 49ers and your byline travels. Cover a team losing badly and explaining why proves less rewarding. Experts covering Iran have spent decades building reputations around the regime’s durability and strategic patience. Pivoting to “the machinery is cracking” carries a professional cost that “they are comfortable in a long war” does not. So the framework persists past its expiration date, and the analyst sounds increasingly like the Black Knight insisting it is just a flesh wound.
Turner would say the experts are measuring the wrong layer. Doctrine is explicit. It sits in manuals, strategic planning documents, and the public statements of leaders. What Turner tracks is the tacit layer underneath: the habits, routines, personal relationships, and shared expectations that make any doctrine executable. That layer does not show up in force structure assessments or historical precedent. It shows up in whether a Basij commander can actually coordinate a neighborhood security operation when his headquarters are rubble, his superior is dead, and a civilian on his street is feeding his location to an Israeli drone.
But Turner’s own recent reply to a reading of this framework pushes the analysis one level deeper still. When asked whether this account of expertise and tacit knowledge was fair, he confirmed it was, then added something that reframes the entire argument. He pointed to the tacit ways different cultures respond to authority, and offered two examples. In Japan, he noted, mothers physically force infants’ heads into bows before those children have any conscious understanding of hierarchy. The body learns its place before language forms. Then he turned to Islam. Confucian deference, he argued, has a hard road because it operates through cultural inheritance and social expectation. Islam puts even that to shame. The submission built into Islamic practice is not merely theological. It reproduces itself daily through prayer, posture, and the physical orientation of the body toward Mecca. Salat is not a reminder of obedience. It is a rehearsal of it, five times a day, from childhood, installed in the body long before any political command is issued.
This means the framework has three layers, not two.
Doctrine is what analysts see and debate. It survives almost anything. Kill commanders and the doctrine still exists in speeches, plans, and ideology. The second layer is organizational tacit knowledge: the routines, command relationships, and communities of practice inside the IRGC, the Basij, the Ministry of Intelligence, and the judiciary. This is the layer Israel has been systematically shredding. The third layer is embodied tacit knowledge, the population’s deep, somatic habit of vertical deference, drilled through ritual and hierarchy from childhood. It sits in posture and reflex. It predates conscious thought. It is what Turner means when he says these are not metaphors for obedience but training regimes that install readiness to submit.
Iran draws on all three layers simultaneously, which is what makes it both more durable and more distinctively vulnerable than most analyses account for.
The first lesson Turner offers is that killing individuals does not equal destroying knowledge. A nuclear scientist or IRGC planner is not a USB drive. What they know is embedded in habits, teams, physical environments, and repeated interaction. Remove the person and you do not get a clean deletion. You get distortion. The system improvises around the gap, sometimes successfully, sometimes not, always unevenly.
Where targeted killing bites hardest, in Turner’s framework, is at the moment of transmission. Tacit knowledge requires apprenticeship. It passes through imitation, shared experience, and prolonged proximity. It does not survive intact in manuals or org charts. So when Israel destroyed the headquarters, then the fallback muster points at sports complexes, then the checkpoints, then the individual commanders hiding in tents and under bridges, it was not simply removing capability. It was breaking the chain through which that capability would have reproduced itself. The strikes on Azadi Stadium, where hundreds of security personnel died in a single operation, were particularly significant for this reason. Those were not just personnel losses. They were the destruction of a community of practice, the setting in which tacit knowledge about crowd control, coordination, and internal security lived and got passed on.
Now bring the embodied layer into this. The people inside Azadi Stadium were not only trained in organizational routines. They were also the products of decades of somatic conditioning, bodies habituated to hierarchy through prayer, ritual, and a culture of submission that Turner argues runs deeper in Islamic societies than almost anywhere else. That depth is precisely what makes their absence so significant. They were not interchangeable parts. They were fully formed nodes in a system where doctrine, organizational habit, and embodied deference had fused into something that looked like institutional coherence. Destroy enough of those nodes and you destroy that coherence, even if the ideology and the population’s baseline deference survive intact.
The case of Esmail Khatib illustrates a second Turner point: expertise is never purely technical. It is socially and politically enacted. Khatib was not simply a spy chief. He was the figure who held the interpretive framework together, the person who translated across the fragmented worlds of the IRGC, the Ministry of Intelligence, and the Judiciary. He provided what Turner calls a common language, a shared way of seeing that allowed institutions with different cultures and competing interests to act as a single machine. Without that, the institutions retreat into their own logics. The MOIS reads a street protest one way. The IRGC reads it another. Neither has the practiced habit of reconciling the two. The result is inconsistency, over-reaction, under-reaction, and the slow accumulation of errors that look minor until they are not. The reported refusal of the IRGC to share blood supplies and ambulances with wounded regular army soldiers is not just an operational failure. It is what Turner’s framework predicts when the coordinating figures who maintained inter-institutional trust are gone.
Ali Larijani’s death compounds this at the diplomatic level. Larijani ran the Supreme National Security Council and served as Iran’s lead interpreter for the region. That role was not interchangeable. It rested on forty years of social capital, personal relationships with counterparts in Oman, India, and the Gulf, and a practiced feel for calibrating Iranian interests against external costs. India’s informal arrangements for LPG tanker passage through the Strait of Hormuz were not written down anywhere. They were a personal coordination, a tacit understanding that Larijani could maintain because the other side trusted him to understand the stakes. A successor can occupy the title. He cannot inherit the relationships or the feel. A junior IRGC commander in the Strait might seize a ship because he lacks the embodied understanding of the diplomatic cost that Larijani would have weighed automatically. The system becomes lossy in ways that are invisible from outside until something goes wrong.
This is where Turner’s observation about the body clarifies what would otherwise look like mere dysfunction. The junior commander is not undisciplined. He is, if anything, overdisciplined in the wrong direction. His body knows how to obey. His reflex is vertical. But without the coordinating figure who once translated that deference into calibrated external behavior, the obedience has nowhere precise to go. He acts on the logic closest to hand, which is not the logic of the diplomatic cost Larijani once carried in his bones. The result is not insubordination. It is the wrong kind of obedience, confident and wrong.
What reporting on the ground captures is exactly the pattern Turner’s theory predicts. The Islamic Republic is not collapsing in any clean sense. It still controls the streets through raw violence. But the fragile, half-invisible processes that make a coercive system function are visibly scrambling. Forces that once operated from fixed stations with established routines are hiding in stairwells, buses, and civilian buildings. Commanders who knew how to manage a neighborhood from a precinct house do not automatically know how to operate while being hunted across shifting locations with degraded communications. The tacit knowledge was tied to the stable environment. Remove the environment and the knowledge does not travel with the person.
And yet the population has not become horizontal. People do not suddenly shed the postural habits of a lifetime. The body still expects hierarchy. People still look upward. Turner’s point about Islamic deference cuts both ways here. The regime retains a reservoir of compliance that most coercive systems cannot access because it is pre-political, installed through ritual before any political loyalty was ever formed. That explains why the system does not collapse cleanly even when it is visibly damaged. It does not need the organizational layer to maintain basic street-level submission. The body does that work on its own.
But embodied deference does not generate coordination. It creates readiness to obey, not knowledge of what to do or who to obey when the chain of command is unclear. When the organizational layer is intact, the three layers align: doctrine gives direction, organizational routines give scripts, and embodied habits supply willing bodies. Strip the middle layer and the alignment breaks. People look upward and find no reliable signal. The result is not rebellion. It is a distinctive failure mode: overcompliance in some units, paralysis in others, arbitrary local authority filling gaps, contradictory actions across a system whose members all want to obey but cannot agree on what obedience looks like right now.
The WSJ reports (updated March 18):
The Journal reviewed the contents of one call between a senior Iranian police commander and an agent of the Mossad, Israel’s foreign-intelligence service.
“Can you hear me?” a Mossad agent can be heard, speaking in Farsi. “We know everything about you. You are on our blacklist, and we have all the information about you.”
“OK,” the commander said in the recording.
“I called to warn you in advance that you should stand with your people’s side,” the Mossad agent said. “And if you will not do that, your destiny will be as your leader. Do you hear me?”
“Brother, I swear on the Quran, I’m not your enemy,” the commander said. “I’m a dead man already. Just please come help us.”
The recording of the senior police commander pleading with a Mossad agent captures something Turner would recognize immediately. Expertise provides confidence. It allows people to act without constantly recalculating, because they trust the system around them to behave predictably. Once that trust collapses, once commanders cannot trust their comms, their locations, their colleagues, or their chain of command, coordination breaks down before capability does. The “I’m a dead man already” is not just despair. It is the sound of someone whose embodied know-how has been rendered useless by the destruction of the environment that made it work. The habits are intact. The world those habits were calibrated for is gone.
This is the distinction the “comfortable” analysts miss. Vatanka and Swanson describe doctrinal comfort: the regime is executing the strategy it planned for. Turner points to operational agony underneath: the regime is being hollowed out while it executes that strategy. A system can maintain its formal structure, its chain of command on paper, its official rhetoric of defiance, while the tacit substructure that makes any of it work degrades beyond recovery. The indicators that formal expertise tracks, doctrine, force structure, historical precedent, do not register that kind of damage in real time. The indicators that matter, hesitation, poor coordination, fear-driven improvisation, the collapse of local initiative, show up in stairwells and stolen cars that nobody can retrieve because there is no one left at the police station who knows the procedure.
The experts are not wrong because they are foolish. They are wrong because their tools do not register the layer where the real damage is happening. Experts are trained to read what can be formalized. They are weaker at tracking tacit coordination. They are nearly blind to what is embodied, because embodied knowledge does not appear in data at all. It lives in gesture, posture, the felt sense of what a situation demands. You cannot see it in a force structure chart. You see its absence only when something that should have worked does not.
Turner would resist two tempting conclusions. The first is that this campaign will produce clean collapse. Tacit systems degrade unevenly, and Iran retains coercive capacity and the deep reservoir of embodied compliance that no amount of targeted killing can reach directly. The second is that the expert consensus was simply wrong. It was not wrong. It was operating at the wrong altitude, tracking the explicit layer while the tacit layer crumbled underneath. That is not incompetence. It is a structural limitation of how expertise works, which is, as Turner would note, precisely the kind of thing that experts are worst equipped to see in themselves.
The Islamic Republic is therefore neither collapsing nor stable. It is something more unstable than either category captures: a system where the doctrine still says endure, the body still knows how to bow, but fewer and fewer people know how to turn that posture into coordinated action. The body remembers. The organization forgets. And the gap between those two facts is where the real story of this war is being written.
