The ink on a memorandum of understanding never really dries. It just waits for the next political season to evaporate.
Deep inside the Rayburn House Office Building, the fluorescent lights hum with a low, agonizing frequency that matches the headache of every junior legislative staffer tasked with reading the fine print. Let us call one of them Sarah. Sarah does not exist as a single person, but rather as a composite of the exhausted twenty-somethings who actually keep the gears of American foreign policy turning while the politicians posture for the cameras. She sits at a cluttered desk piled high with cold coffee cups, staring at a leaked draft of a document that could alter the trajectory of the Middle East.
The document is an executive memorandum of understanding regarding Iran. It is not called a treaty. It is deliberately not called a treaty.
If it were a treaty, it would require the advice and consent of the Senate, demanding a two-thirds majority that currently feels as mathematically impossible as squaring a circle. By labeling the document a memorandum, the White House signals something entirely different. It signals speed. It signals unilateral executive power. But a haunting question lingers over the mahogany desks of Capitol Hill: Can the President simply bypass Congress by changing the name on the folder?
The answer is locked in a bitter, decades-long turf war over who holds the ultimate power to commit the United States to international promises.
The Ghost in the Hearing Room
To understand the tension gripping Washington, you have to look back to 2015. The air back then was thick with the exact same arguments. When the Obama administration negotiated the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action—the Iran nuclear deal—they knew a formal treaty was dead on arrival in a hostile Senate. They opted for an executive agreement.
Congress, furious at being sidelined, fought back with a legislative lasso called the Iran Nuclear Agreement Review Act, or INARA.
INARA was supposed to be the ultimate tripwire. The law states, in no uncertain terms, that the President must transmit any agreement with Iran relating to its nuclear program to Congress within five days of reaching it. This transmission triggers a 30-day review period during which Congress can pass a joint resolution of disapproval. It was designed to ensure that no administration could ever cut a deal with Tehran in the dark.
Fast forward to the current landscape. The Trump administration operates under a philosophy that views congressional oversight not as a partner, but as a roadblock to decisive action. When whispers of a new memorandum of understanding concerning Iran’s regional behavior or enrichment capabilities began leaking, lawmakers immediately pointed to INARA. They argued the law is ironclad.
The White House legal team, however, views the world through a different lens.
Consider the anatomy of a memorandum of understanding. In the world of international diplomacy, an MoU is often treated as a non-binding statement of intent. It is a handshake captured in typeface. It says, "This is what we intend to do," rather than "This is what we are legally bound to do." Because it lacks the binding teeth of a formal international agreement, executive lawyers argue it falls outside the strict definitions laid down by INARA.
It is a game of semantic hide-and-seek played with the highest imaginable stakes.
The Friction of the Pen
On one side of Pennsylvania Avenue, the argument is about constitutional pragmatism. A President needs the flexibility to de-escalate crises without waiting for a polarized Congress to hold a committee hearing. Foreign policy in a volatile world cannot move at the speed of a senate filibuster. If the administration can secure a temporary freeze on dangerous activities through a non-binding memorandum, why should they risk the entire arrangement by tossing it into the congressional meat grinder?
But walk down to the other end of the avenue, and the view changes completely.
For lawmakers, this is not about bureaucratic convenience. It is about a structural erosion of balance. If a President can avoid statutory review simply by slapping the word "Memorandum" on top of a document that fundamentally alters national security, then INARA is a dead letter. The law becomes a paper shield, easily pierced by a clever change in vocabulary.
Sarah looks down at the draft text again. The words are deliberately vague. They use phrases like "the parties intend to cooperate" instead of "the parties shall execute." This is not accidental. Every syllable is weighed by lawyers who know exactly how to dance along the edge of statutory definitions.
The real danger of this legal maneuvering is not found in the text itself, but in the fragility it creates.
When an international arrangement bypasses the legislature, it is built on sand. It exists only as long as the current occupant of the Oval Office wills it. We saw this when the Trump administration walked away from the original JCPOA in 2018, noting that because it was an executive agreement, it could be dissolved with a single stroke of a pen. The same vulnerability applies now. A memorandum of understanding with Iran might avoid a political brawl in Congress today, but it guarantees that the arrangement remains temporary, unstable, and entirely reversible by whoever wins the next election.
The Verdict Without a Court
So, does the President legally have to submit it?
The strict letter of INARA says yes, if the agreement relates to the nuclear program. But the executive branch possesses the unique ability to create facts on the ground. If the administration refuses to submit the document, claiming it is a non-binding policy statement rather than an agreement, Congress has limited immediate options. They can hold hearings. They can threaten to hold up unrelated judicial nominations or cut funding for specific state department initiatives. They can drag the administration to court, though federal judges traditionally loathe intervening in foreign policy disputes between the political branches.
The fight is rarely settled by a definitive judicial ruling. It is settled by political stamina.
The clock is ticking in the Rayburn building. The lights stay on long after the tourists have left the National Mall. For all the grand speeches delivered on the house floor about constitutional authority and the rule of law, the reality is decided in these quiet rooms, where words are weaponized and commas are scrutinized like strategic outposts.
The paper sits on the desk, heavy with the weight of potential conflict, waiting for a signature that might never see the light of congressional day.
