New poll reveals majority of voters oppose US strike on Iran, say Trump has gone too far abroad
National polls show broad voter resistance to military action abroad and rising support for a less active role in global issues.
Two new polls released Wednesday show that most voters do not want the U.S. to take military action against Iran and think President Donald Trump is overstepping abroad.
A Quinnipiac University poll of registered voters found that 70 percent oppose U.S. military involvement in Iran, even if protesters there are killed while demonstrating against the Iranian government, compared to 18 percent who support military action.
Opposition was mostly along party lines, with 79 percent of Democrats and 80 percent of independents opposing military involvement. Republicans were more supportive, with a majority — 53 percent — saying the U.S. should not get involved.
The poll also found that 70 percent of voters think the president should receive congressional approval first before taking military action. Trump did not receive congressional approval prior to capturing Maduro, prompting criticism from both Democrat and Republican lawmakers.
Five GOP senators, Rand Paul of Kentucky, Lisa Murkowski of Alaska, Susan Collins of Maine, Todd Young of Indiana and Josh Hawley of Missouri, joined Democratic lawmakers to advance legislation forcing Trump to obtain Congress’ approval before taking any further military steps in Venezuela.
Trump scolded the senators in a post on Truth Social, saying Republicans should be “ashamed” of them and they should “never be elected to office again” as the vote “greatly hampers American Self Defense and National Security.”
Voters were less supportive of other aggressive foreign policy moves by the Trump administration to expand U.S. influence abroad. Trump argued that the push for U.S. control over Greenland was for national security purposes and to benefit NATO.
Regardless, 86 percent opposed using military force to take over Greenland, and 55 percent opposed buying it.
The results mirror growing resistance among voters against U.S. involvement in foreign conflicts amid a slew of executive efforts. A separate poll from the Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research found that a growing number of Americans want the U.S. to take a “less active role” in global affairs.
Following the capture of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, the poll revealed that 56 percent of Americans think Trump has “gone too far” in using military power abroad, and 45 percent say they want the country to be less involved in solving global problems — up from 33 percent in September 2025.
Despite broad skepticism of foreign military action, many Americans still seem optimistic about the effects of U.S. intervention in Venezuela. About half of adults think Maduro’s capture and military action in Venezuela will be “mostly a good thing” for halting the flow of illegal drugs into the U.S., and 44 percent believe it will benefit the people of Venezuela more than harm them.
The Quinnipiac University poll was conducted from Jan. 8 to Jan. 12, 2025, by phone and surveyed 1,133 self-identified registered voters. The AP-NORC poll was conducted from Jan. 8 to Jan. 11, 2025, and surveyed 1,097 by web and 106 by phone.
One Word in the Rain
One Word in the Rain
The cemetery closed at five.
Everyone who worked at Maplewood Memorial knew this, and the sign at the front gate made it plain, and Gerald Finch — security, eleven years, keys on his belt and rules in his blood — enforced it without apology. Five o’clock. Not five-oh-one. Not five-fifteen because someone needed just a little more time. Five.
The rain had started around four-thirty, and by five it was coming down hard enough to turn the gravel paths into shallow rivers and fill the stone-lined gutters with fast brown water. Most visitors had already left. Most visitors had umbrellas and cars and warm places to be.
The old man did not.
He had arrived sometime in the early afternoon — Gerald had clocked him coming through the gate around two, a small, bent figure in a coat that had been decent once, maybe fifteen years ago, carrying a bundle of wildflowers wrapped in wet newspaper. He had gone to the same grave he always went to, in the east quadrant under the oak that had lost two major branches in last winter’s ice storm. Gerald knew the grave. Marie Elspeth Holloway, 1952–2019. Beloved. The old man came every week. Sometimes twice.
Gerald had never learned his name.
At five-oh-two, Gerald made his round.
The old man was still there — kneeling in the wet grass, head bowed, the wildflowers laid against the base of the headstone. Beside him, pressed against his arm, was a small girl. Six, maybe seven, in a yellow raincoat that was the brightest thing in the entire cemetery. She had her grandfather’s white hair in miniature, and she was watching his face the way children watch the faces of people they love when those people are sad — with total concentration, helpless and devoted.
Gerald cleared his throat.
The old man looked up.
“Visiting hours are over,” Gerald said. He kept his voice flat. Flat was professional.
“Just another few minutes,” the old man said. “Please. We came a long way.”
“Sir, I’ve told you before—”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Gerald reached down — he didn’t think about it, didn’t decide to do it the way you decide things, it was just the motion his hand made, trained by a decade of enforcement — and he took the wildflowers from the base of the headstone and dropped them into the nearest puddle.
“Visiting hours,” he said again, “are over.”
The old man stared at the flowers floating away in the brown water. The newspaper wrapping came apart. The stems separated. Yellow and white petals spread across the surface of the puddle and drifted toward the drainage gutter.
He had carried those flowers a long way.
His face did something that old faces do when the last small thing is taken — it didn’t collapse dramatically, it just came undone, quietly, from the inside out. His chin dropped. His shoulders curved inward. And he began to cry in the way old men cry, which is worse than any other kind of crying, because there’s no performance left in it, no hope that tears will change anything. Just grief, released.
The little girl pressed herself against him. Her small arms went around as much of him as they could reach.
“Grandpa, don’t cry,” she said. “We can bring more flowers next time. We can bring the purple ones she liked.”
“She liked all of them,” the old man managed. “She always said — she said it wasn’t the flower that mattered.”
“I know. You told me.” The girl tightened her arms. “It’s that someone brought them.”
Gerald took a step back.
He didn’t know why.
Something about the girl’s voice — the matter-of-fact tenderness of it, the complete absence of self-consciousness — had gotten into a gap in his professionalism and lodged there. He took a step back and looked at his own hands and the puddle and the floating flowers, and he felt the specific, nauseating discomfort of someone who has just understood that they’ve done something wrong.
He was still standing there, recalibrating, when he heard the sound behind him.
Heels on gravel. The particular cadence of expensive shoes moving fast.
He turned.
The woman was in her mid-forties, dark coat, silk scarf, umbrella she’d forgotten to open gripped in one hand. She had come from the parking area — Gerald had seen her car, a silver sedan, sitting at the far end of the lot for the better part of an hour. He had assumed she was on a phone call. He had assumed she couldn’t decide whether to come in.
She had been watching.
She was walking toward them now with the focused, unsteady movement of someone whose legs are working on instinct because the rest of them is somewhere else entirely. Her eyes were fixed on the old man, who still had his face turned down toward the puddle, toward the scattered flowers.
She stopped six feet away.
She looked at the white hair. At the bent shoulders. At the threadbare coat. At the small girl in the yellow raincoat looking back at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Grandpa,” the girl said quietly, “that lady is staring at us.”
The old man raised his head.
For three full seconds, neither of them moved.
Twenty-two years. Gerald didn’t know that — couldn’t know it — but it was written in the space between them, in the way the woman’s umbrella slipped from her fingers and hit the gravel and neither of them reacted to the sound.
Twenty-two years since a door slammed in a house on Calloway Street. Twenty-two years since words were said that both of them had spent decades deciding could never be unsaid. Twenty-two years of a silence so long it had become its own kind of relationship — the relationship of two people who had chosen absence over the risk of trying again.
The girl looked between them.
“Do you know that lady?” she asked her grandfather.
The old man’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The woman took one step forward. Then another. The rain hit her face and darkened her coat and she did not seem to feel any of it.
Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a word at all.
It was the word you say before you’ve decided to say anything. The word that lives so deep it bypasses the part of you that protects itself.
“Dad?”
The old man closed his eyes.
The girl looked up at the woman.
The woman looked down at the girl — really looked, for the first time — and something new moved across her face now, something that existed alongside the shock and the grief and the twenty-two years. Something that looked, cautiously and terribly, like the first movement of a question she hadn’t known she needed to ask.
“Who is she?” the woman whispered. “Who is this little girl?”
The old man opened his eyes.
The rain fell between them.
He said her name — the woman’s name, his daughter’s name, the name he had not spoken aloud in longer than he could honestly remember — and the sound of it hit her like a hand against the chest, stopping her breath, stopping her feet, stopping everything.
“There’s so much,” he said, “that I have to tell you.”
