In the latest episode of the world’s longest-running snuff film, the Syrian government forces are reportedly advancing into territory previously held by the Kurds. It’s a maneuver as predictable as it is pathetic, like watching two bald men fighting over a comb in a burning building. Bashar al-Assad’s administrative necrotic tissue, which we charitably refer to as a ‘government,’ is once again expanding its reach across the charred remains of the northeast. This isn’t a strategic masterstroke; it’s a scavenger picking through a dumpster for discarded scraps of sovereignty. The Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), those perennial doormats of Western convenience, are finding out once again that being the ‘plucky ally’ of the month carries the shelf life of unpasteurized milk. They held the ground, they did the bloody work, and now they are being pushed aside by a regime that has spent the last decade perfecting the art of surviving on nothing but spite and Russian patronage.

But wait, the tragedy deepens into a farce. While these two factions were busy staring each other down like toddlers in a sandbox, the inevitable happened: a prison break. On January 19, amid the clashes between the government and the SDF, approximately 120 members of the Islamic State group decided they’d had enough of the local hospitality and walked out. It’s a staggering testament to the collective IQ of the region’s leadership that they managed to lose 120 of the world’s most dangerous fanatics because they were too busy shooting at each other’s flags. According to the interior ministry, they’ve managed to ‘recapture’ about 80 of them. One can only imagine the bureaucratic efficiency involved in losing a small army of terrorists and then patting oneself on the back for finding two-thirds of them behind a nearby dune. Where are the other 40? Likely updating their resumes or planning their next attempt to drag the world back to the seventh century, while the ‘civilized’ forces of Syria argue over who gets to rule the rubble.

This entire blood-soaked charade is happening under the umbrella of a ‘ceasefire’ signed on January 18. A ceasefire in Syria is a rhetorical device used by diplomats to ensure they can get to lunch on time; it has as much relevance to the reality on the ground as a ‘No Smoking’ sign in a forest fire. The ink was barely dry—perhaps it hadn’t even soaked into the parchment—before the government forces decided that ‘cease’ was merely a suggestion and ‘fire’ was a mandate. The irony is thicker than the smoke over Hasakah. We have a government that can’t provide electricity or bread, yet possesses an inexhaustible supply of ammunition to reclaim land it cannot possibly govern. On the other side, we have the Kurds, who seem perpetually surprised that the international community treats them like a disposable paper plate after a picnic.

The historical parallels are so obvious they border on the monotonous. Humanity has spent millennia drawing lines in the dirt, killing each other for the right to stand on one side of those lines, and then realizing the dirt doesn't care who owns it. This specific iteration of the conflict is particularly nauseating because it highlights the total bankruptcy of modern statehood. The Assad regime doesn't want to ‘liberate’ this territory; it wants to hoard it, to add another dusty color to a map that serves only to stroke the ego of a man who would rule over a graveyard if it meant he could call himself King. The SDF, meanwhile, clings to the delusion that territorial autonomy is possible in a region where every neighbor views their existence as an existential inconvenience.

And let us not ignore the IS escapees—the ultimate wild card in this game of incompetent poker. The fact that 120 monsters could simply slip through the cracks during a ‘military advance’ tells you everything you need to know about the priorities of these actors. Security is a secondary concern to ego. Stability is a distant third to revenge. We are watching a civilization dismantle itself in real-time, led by men who have all the foresight of a goldfish and the moral compass of a parasitic worm. The West will look on with performative concern, issuing statements of ‘grave alarm’ from the comfort of air-conditioned rooms in Brussels and D.C., while the actual human beings on the ground are crushed between the gears of two equally useless machines. It is a cycle of stupidity that shows no sign of slowing down, a perpetual motion machine fueled by blood and hubris. Syria isn't a country anymore; it’s a laboratory for human failure, and the results of the latest experiment are, as always, catastrophic.