The Conscience of the World, with Veto Power…

June 26, 1945 — the signing of the United Nations Charter, and that moving moment when humanity solemnly promised itself it would behave from now on

In 1945, the world built a room for peace and called it the United Nations.

It was a beautiful idea — almost indecently beautiful.

Then the great powers moved in, brought their vetoes, their interests, their allies, their very serious faces, and slowly turned the conscience of the world into a well-lit backdrop.

A short satirical indictment of civilisation’s favourite stage set.

There are moments when humanity almost looks beautiful. It is a rare condition, usually occurring after wars, when so much has already been reduced to rubble that the survivors suddenly discover a talent for moral architecture.

On June 26, 1945, in San Francisco, the world signed the United Nations Charter. Behind it stood bombed-out cities, freshly counted dead, the smoke of concentration camps, while Hiroshima was still waiting in the wings to become technology’s most obscene footnote. And humanity — like a repeat offender standing before the court — promised that this time, really, it would be good.

The idea was beautiful. Almost indecently beautiful.

There would be a building where the world could at least pretend not to shoot first and explain later. There would be a chamber where war was not supposed to appear as a strategic option, but as a disgrace. There would be an institution to remind the powerful that international law is not a menu from which one selects only the items currently compatible with one’s sphere of influence.

Then the building was completed.

And in moved the very people who had made it necessary.

That was the small structural flaw. A little like putting arsonists on the board of the fire department, on the perfectly reasonable grounds that they have the most experience with flames. The great powers did not destroy the United Nations. That would have been too honest. They did something more elegant: they made it weightless. They respected it ceremonially, while making quite sure that, whenever it truly mattered, it would not become dangerously effective.

And so the conscience of the world slowly became a piece of protocol furniture.

It stands there, nicely lit. One may speak in front of it. One may express “deep concern.” One may “strongly condemn.” One may urge all parties to do something none of them intends to do. Diplomacy, at such moments, resembles an elegant funeral parlour: everyone lowers their voice, but the same corpse is still lying in the middle of the room.

The name Security Council is, in itself, a fine piece of black comedy. As if the safety of sheep were being discussed by wolves under a rotating presidency. And veto power may be one of the most honest inventions of the civilised world: it admits that all nations are equal, except that a few nations may block humanity’s conscience more efficiently than the others.

So this indictment is not against the United Nations.

It is against those who promised a temple above the ruins and then used it as a storage room. Against those who dress international law in full ceremonial uniform when disciplining others, and slip it into pyjamas when an ally walks in with mud on his boots. Against those who speak of peace while, behind peace, business, military, and electoral calculations sit quietly in the back row, wearing very serious faces.

The United Nations is still there.

Only now one sometimes has the feeling that it is no longer the forum of the world, but the scenery of the world. A well-maintained backdrop before which civilisation occasionally adjusts its tie, offers its condolences, and then returns to the rooms where decisions are actually made.

The sign on the door still says: United Nations.

Underneath, in smaller letters, one could add:

Open when useful to the powerful.