Anita Beckett 29/05/2025 Anita Beckett 29/05/2025

Leaving Senegal: A Hard Goodbye to a Hard Lesson

I've sold the farm in Senegal. Not because it failed. It thrived. We built a successful operation with regenerative methods, local employment, and infrastructure that improved lives. We did everything we said we would. And still, we left. Not out of fatigue or mismanagement, but fear. A quiet, growing fear that success was no longer welcome.

We began ten years ago with a bold but sincere goal: to grow food, opportunity, and dignity. We cleared barren land and turned it fertile. We introduced soil regeneration, crop rotation, and solar irrigation. We built a school for workers' children, a small hospital for their families, and a housing development so they could live near their livelihoods. We paid fair wages. We offered healthcare. We didn't just build a farm. We built a future.

And then we watched that future erode.

I've seen this story before. My parents were among those expelled from Uganda by Idi Amin in 1972. They were white British citizens, and their businesses — factories, shopping malls, and homes — were seized overnight. Everything was confiscated, and they left with almost nothing. Uganda's economy collapsed. The same happened in Zimbabwe in the early 2000s. Over 4,000 white-owned farms were seized during the so-called land reform [1]. What followed was not justice but famine. Food production collapsed, inflation soared, and within a few years, the same government that had encouraged the seizures was begging white farmers to return [2].

South Africa has flirted with the same dangerous game. Politicians still campaign on promises of land expropriation without compensation [3]. The underlying message is clear: it doesn't matter how much you've built, if you're white, your land can be taken. It's populist theatre masquerading as justice, and it costs lives.

Senegal seemed different. At first.

We followed every regulation. We partnered with local cooperatives. We paid bribes when we had to, reported what we could, and endured the bureaucratic chaos. It was never easy, but it felt worth it. The community thrived. Workers told us they'd never imagined living somewhere with running water and a medical clinic. Children who had never attended school were reading and writing. Crops were healthy. Our soil quality metrics improved year on year. We used composting, drip irrigation, and agroforestry. It worked.

Until it didn't.

The change began subtly. Surprise inspections. Complaints that didn't make sense. A rejected licence renewal. Then came the rumours — that we were hoarding profit, that we were taking land from locals, that we were foreign parasites. None of it was true. But it didn't need to be. The narrative took root, and the state let it grow.

Soon we faced arbitrary fines. Then threats. One of our storage facilities was raided. Some of our staff were harassed. A trusted local partner warned us: “You're a target now.” By then, several other mid-sized agricultural operations had already folded under similar pressure. All foreign-run. All too successful for their own good [4].

We weren’t naïve. We'd seen how development can breed jealousy when it isn’t properly protected. But the speed with which the climate turned hostile was chilling. According to the World Bank’s 2020 report, Senegal ranks 123rd globally for ease of doing business. Property rights are poorly enforced, and foreign investors are often treated with suspicion, especially once they show results [5]. Transparency International ranks Senegal 72nd on the Corruption Perceptions Index [6]. That figure hides more than it reveals.

The irony is that countries like China and Russia operate without these issues. Their investors come with diplomatic protection, armed security, and state backing. If someone touches their assets, there are consequences. We came with a Catholic work ethic and good intentions. We offered equity. We employed hundreds. We built not for extraction but for permanence. But goodwill isn't bulletproof. And in Senegal, it isn't enough.

Over $1.2 trillion in aid has flowed into Africa since the 1960s [7]. But as economist Dambisa Moyo has argued, aid often enables corruption rather than reduces poverty [8]. The African Union estimates that $150 billion is lost every year to corruption, fraud, and tax evasion [9]. The problem isn't lack of money. It's where the money goes — and who it threatens when it stays in the right hands.

The school we built educated over 300 children. The hospital treated thousands, often for free. The houses we constructed offered running water, electricity, and proper roofs to people who'd lived in tin shacks. We did all of this with our own capital. Not NGO grants. Not publicity stunts. Just quiet, steady investment. And now, it's gone.

Other countries want what Senegal rejected. We still have farms in Trinidad, Florida, the UK, and Colombia. We're beginning a new project in Saudi Arabia focused on water-efficient vertical farming. We're reinvesting the Senegal profits into El Salvador, where the government has actively welcomed sustainable agriculture and investor partnership. They want jobs, training, and infrastructure. They’re not looking to take a slice once the work is done.

Africa, by contrast, often wants a handout. Not help. Not partnership. A handout. And when help arrives in a form that demands shared responsibility, it’s resented. There’s a deep cultural wound here, one that confuses empowerment with exploitation. It's politically easier to blame the white farmer than to question the corrupt official. It’s easier to rewrite the past than to invest in the present.

Criticising African governance doesn’t make you a racist. It makes you honest. There's nothing progressive about letting incompetence or corruption slide because of historical guilt. That’s not compassion. That’s cowardice. It infantilises entire nations and cripples genuine progress.

I believe in dignity. I believe in hard work, shared ownership, and leaving a place better than you found it. That’s what we tried to do. But when the land you cultivate turns against you — not in drought, but in spite — the decision makes itself.

It breaks my heart to think of the children who will no longer attend that school. Or the woman I met in our clinic who said it was the first time a doctor had ever spoken to her like she mattered. But I’ve learnt the hard way that it’s not always your job to stay where you’re not wanted.

I have six nephews and two nieces. I worry about the world they’re entering. Not because I think they’re fragile, but because I know they’ll be told to apologise for things they haven’t done. They’ll be treated with suspicion because they’re white, and ambitious. And if they try to build something — a business, a dream, a family — someone might come along and say, “That’s not yours anymore.” I want better for them.

It’s not racist to say that Africa has problems. Every continent does. But the refusal to name them, to hold leaders accountable, or to demand basic governance — that’s what keeps poverty alive. It’s not capitalism that keeps Africa down. It’s kleptocracy. It’s cowardice. It’s this misguided belief that good intentions must always yield to bitter memory.

Senegal could have been a long-term home. It had the land, the labour, and the climate. But it lacked one essential thing: the will to protect what works.

So we left.

We’ll build somewhere else. And we’ll keep building, because it’s who we are. But we’ll also remember. Not out of resentment. Out of realism.

You can’t teach people to fish when they only care about stealing your boat.

We Wouldn’t Laugh If It Were a Girl

We’ve all learnt to say the right things. That grooming is abuse. That power dynamics matter. That age doesn’t equal consent. That boys deserve the same protection girls do. And that if a girl told us her teacher seduced her, we’d believe her.

We say these things because we think we mean them. Until someone like Emmanuel Macron walks into the room.

Suddenly, the same people who protest patriarchal abuse fall suspiciously silent. Or worse, they laugh. They make jokes. They call it romance. They say it’s all terribly French. No one seems especially bothered that he was fifteen when it started, and she was thirty-nine. That she was married. That she was his teacher. That he was still a child.

Had the genders been reversed, we wouldn’t be calling this a love story. We’d be calling it what it is. A safeguarding failure. An abuse of trust. Grooming.

And yet, here we are.

For years, Macron’s relationship with his wife, Brigitte, has been treated with a strange mix of amusement and reverence. She’s been praised for her poise, her fashion, her loyalty. He’s been praised for staying with her. As though staying is the noble part. As though he had a choice. As though that kind of bond, formed when your brain is still developing and you’re still under someone’s authority, could ever be untangled cleanly.

Recently, though, the tone has shifted. A video surfaced showing Brigitte Macron slapping her husband’s face in public during what appeared to be a heated moment. The video circulated fast. Too fast. Not because people were horrified, but because they found it hilarious. Memes appeared within hours. Sound effects were added. Captions like “when mummy says no more screen time” and “Macron getting disciplined” racked up millions of views.

No one batted an eyelid.

No concern. No call for accountability. No questioning whether a man in public office, struck by his spouse on camera, might deserve the same basic respect we’d demand if it were the other way around.

Because if a male president had slapped his wife across the face, even gently, even in jest, there would be outcry. There would be investigations, televised commentary about intimate partner violence, and the message it sends to young boys. And rightly so.

But when Brigitte Macron does it, we’re told to lighten up. We’re told it’s not serious. We’re told it’s funny.

That’s the message. If a man’s being mistreated by a woman, even one with a history of grooming him, it doesn’t matter. It’s not real. It’s not abuse. It’s content.

But it is real. It’s deeply real. And it’s devastating.

When you watch that video, what stands out isn’t the slap. It’s the way he barely reacts. The way he looks away, closes in. There’s no shock. No indignation. It’s the look of someone who’s learnt not to push back. Not to make it worse. The look of someone who’s learnt, probably a long time ago, that compliance keeps the peace.

And we laughed.

People shared it like it was a sitcom clip. They mocked him. They infantilised him. They turned his pain into entertainment. And they called it progressive.

But it’s not progressive. It’s not funny. It’s vile.

And it’s not just happening to Macron.

We’ve seen this story before. Rewritten. Sanitised. Played out in plain sight. One of the most disturbing examples is the case of Sam and Aaron Taylor-Johnson. He was sixteen when they met. She was in her forties. He was cast in a film she directed. She had children. He was barely out of childhood. Within a few years, they were married.

And again, the public story is one of admiration. Of love. Of creative synergy. People gush over their red-carpet appearances, their Instagram photos, the fact that they “beat the odds.”

No one wants to talk about the fact that she met him as a teenager. That she had power over his career. That he’s never really addressed the glaring age gap, or how it began. That there’s something chilling about the way he’s praised for maturity and stability, as if grooming turns out fine if you stay married.

It doesn’t.

What it does is normalise silence. It teaches boys that being chosen by an older woman is a compliment, not a warning sign. That their trauma is invalid if it looks pretty. That success erases abuse. That if you grow up and become famous and wealthy and stay quiet, it must not have been that bad.

And Aaron Taylor-Johnson has stayed very, very quiet.

He gives the occasional quote. Says vague things about being an old soul. That he always knew what he wanted. That no one understands their relationship from the outside. And maybe that’s true. Maybe he believes it. Maybe, like Macron, he doesn’t see what happened to him as grooming. That’s the tragedy. Most victims don’t.

Because grooming isn’t always violent. It’s not always obvious. It’s about attachment. Influence. Feeling special. And when the world reinforces the lie, tells you that you were lucky, that it was love, that you should be grateful, it becomes almost impossible to say otherwise.

But it still matters. Silence is not consent. Polished appearances are not proof of wellbeing. Public devotion is not a get-out-of-jail-free card.

We don’t need Macron or Taylor-Johnson to collapse on camera or publish a memoir to believe they were harmed. We need to stop waiting for men to bleed out before we call it pain.

Because that’s the root of this. Not just misandry, but misogyny too. Misandry tells men they can’t be victims. Misogyny tells us women can’t be perpetrators. Together, they build a narrative where abuse is only ever something men do to women. And anyone who doesn’t fit that script gets laughed at. Or ignored. Or called lucky.

And then there’s the media.

The same media that rightfully campaigns for women’s safety, that covers grooming scandals when the victim is female, has barely touched these stories. There’s no Guardian op-ed about Macron’s slap. No think pieces about power imbalance in the Taylor-Johnson marriage. No long-form interviews with male survivors who lived through something similar.

It’s not because those voices don’t exist. It’s because they don’t fit.

Because if you admit that men can be groomed, that high-profile, powerful, accomplished men can be victims of female predators, you shatter something. You shatter the idea that harm follows a simple script. That patriarchy always flows one way. That certain things only happen to girls. And that makes people uncomfortable.

But discomfort isn’t an excuse. It’s an invitation.

To tell the truth. To let go of narratives that protect no one. To call abuse what it is, even when it comes dressed in high heels and Chanel. To stop mocking people who were never allowed to say no. And to create a world where boys, all boys, grow up knowing their boundaries are sacred too.

President Macron should not be pitied. He should be supported. And maybe, quietly, bravely, slowly, encouraged to leave.

He should be told that what happened to him wasn’t noble or romantic. That it wasn’t proof of maturity or genius. That it didn’t make him special. That it harmed him. And that it’s okay to admit it.

Aaron Taylor-Johnson should be told the same.

They are not weak. They are not broken. They are not unmanly. They are men who were failed. And they deserve better than to have their pain turned into punchlines.

And I worry. Not just for them, but for the boys coming after them.

I have six nephews. They are clever, curious, kind-hearted boys. Some are sporty. Some are bookish. One is tall and serious. Another still wears odd socks and forgets where he put his glasses. They are different in every way, except that all of them are growing up in a world that often doesn’t know what to do with boys.

A world where their pain will be questioned, or mocked. Where their emotional safety will be seen as secondary, or worse, a joke. Where a girl who cries gets a teacher’s attention, and a boy who withdraws gets detention.

A world that claims to champion equality, but still shames boys for showing weakness. Still tells them to be strong in the most limited, outdated sense of the word.

A world that will not protect them from grooming if the predator is a woman. That will not listen if they say something felt wrong. That will tell them they were lucky. That they should have enjoyed it. That will mock them if they flinch when hit, or hesitate when loved.

I don’t want that for them. I don’t want that for any boy.

I want my nephews to be safe. Not just physically, but emotionally. I want them to grow into men who can say, “This doesn’t feel right,” and be taken seriously. I want them to have friendships rooted in trust, not performance. I want them to love and be loved with dignity. I want them to know that their worth isn’t tied to their usefulness or strength, but to their humanity.

And I want them to live in a world that sees abuse as abuse — no matter who did it.

Because what happened to Emmanuel Macron should never happen to another boy. What happened to Aaron Taylor-Johnson should never be normalised. And what happens every day to boys and young men across the world — unseen, unheard, unspoken — should no longer be ignored.

We can do better. We must.

Not just for them. For all of us.

Anita Beckett 29/05/2025 Anita Beckett 29/05/2025

The Quiet Appeal of Being Apolitical Right Now

There’s a moment, usually around the third headline of the morning, when I feel it. Not the usual outrage or despair, but something quieter. A sigh. A sense of distance. Not because I don’t care, but because I do. Because I care too much, and it’s become too much. Too loud, too fast, too aggressive. So lately, I’ve started stepping back. Not completely, not dramatically, not with a post declaring I’m taking a break from the news. Just… gently. Quietly. Politely excusing myself from the conversation.

I still vote. I still read. But I no longer feel the need to perform political engagement like it’s a competitive sport. I no longer believe that commenting on every controversy makes me more informed. If anything, it made me frantic. Thin-skinned. Prone to parroting the same recycled phrases as everyone else just to keep up.

And I’m not alone.

A lot of people I know feel politically homeless right now. Not apathetic, not lazy, not uninformed. Just bone tired. Not because they’ve stopped believing in the importance of policy or principle, but because they’ve stopped believing in the performance of it. The theatre. The faux sincerity. The endless scrolling from crisis to crisis, outrage to outrage, each one framed as the most urgent issue of our time until we forget it completely the following week.

At some point, it starts to feel like noise. Not in the dismissive sense, but in the literal one. A cacophony. Loud. Overwhelming. Meaningless unless you shout back, and louder. You don’t have time to reflect or reason. You’re asked to react. Immediately. Publicly. Preferably with the same tone and keywords as everyone else in your algorithmic circle.

But politics used to be something you engaged with because it shaped your life. Now it feels like something you must perform because it shapes your image. You’re not allowed to say “I don’t know.” You’re not allowed to sit with uncertainty. You must take a side. Immediately. Completely. Without nuance.

And if you don’t, someone else will assign you a side anyway.

So people pull back. Not because they’re indifferent, but because they’re exhausted. Because they’ve watched friends become enemies over issues neither of them properly understood. Because they’ve seen entire reputations unravel over one poorly worded post. Because they’ve learnt, slowly and bitterly, that the loudest voice isn’t always the wisest one, but it’s the one that wins in a world that rewards provocation over substance.

Stepping back, then, isn’t apathy. It’s self-preservation. It’s a quiet act of rebellion. Not against values or causes or truth, but against the idea that if you’re not visibly upset, you must be complicit. It’s a refusal to be emotionally manipulated by people who make a living from keeping you in a state of permanent moral panic.

And it feels, frankly, like sanity.

There’s a freedom in not rushing to tweet about every political scandal within minutes of hearing it. There’s a clarity that comes from reading a story, putting the phone down, and simply thinking about it. There’s a dignity in speaking only when you’ve got something worth saying, rather than out of fear that silence will be misinterpreted as agreement.

I still care deeply. I care about free speech and the rule of law. I care about justice that’s rooted in truth rather than mob sentiment. I care about the safety of women, the strength of families, and the right to think without fear of being dragged for it. But I no longer believe that being the first to comment makes you more principled. Often, it just makes you reactive.

When you stop feeding the machine, you start to notice how contrived it is. The headlines designed to provoke, the language engineered to inflame, the repetition of narratives until they become dogma. You start to see how little space there is for grace or doubt. You notice how often the people calling for tolerance are utterly intolerant of anyone who disagrees. You see how the word “dialogue” now means “you listen to me until you agree.”

So you learn to move more quietly. You choose your battles. You notice that much of what calls itself political is, in fact, emotional theatre. And that real change often happens in places without cameras or hashtags — in school halls, in quiet conversations, in hard decisions made when no one’s watching.

Being apolitical, in the way I mean it, isn’t about disengagement. It’s about discernment. It’s about refusing to treat every opinion as a moral test, every disagreement as betrayal, every piece of news as a crisis. It’s about reclaiming your emotional energy and investing it in things that are close to you. Your friends. Your work. Your health. Your street.

It’s about asking, again and again, what matters and what merely looks like it does.

And when you begin to ask that, you see how much of modern political engagement is performative. How much of it’s driven by fear. Fear of being on the wrong side. Fear of losing social capital. Fear of being misunderstood or misrepresented. And behind that fear is a deep and growing loneliness. The kind that comes when we feel we must curate ourselves at all times. When even our politics become part of the brand.

So yes, I’ve pulled back. But not because I don’t care. Because I care enough to want to be useful. And I’ve found that I’m far more useful when I’m thoughtful than when I’m reactive. I’m a better friend when I’m not constantly enraged. I’m a better citizen when I’m not paralysed by despair. I’m a better thinker when I can sit with discomfort and not immediately need to post about it.

I still vote. I still hope. But I’ve stopped treating politics like a lifestyle. I don’t wear it like a badge or wield it like a weapon. I don’t need everyone to know what I think. And I don’t believe that silence is complicity. Sometimes, it’s wisdom. Sometimes, it’s the sound of someone thinking before they speak.

And in a world where we’re encouraged to shout first and reflect later, that might just be the most political act of all.

Anita Beckett 29/05/2025 Anita Beckett 29/05/2025

The Hard Truth About the Palestinian Movement and Rising Anti-Semitism

The brutal murder of two Jewish individuals in New York last week is a painful reminder that hatred and violence against Jewish communities remain a pressing reality. These attacks do not happen in isolation. They are part of a wider context of conflict, misinformation, and deep-seated animosities that have been allowed to persist for far too long. To truly understand the hatred behind such violence, we must take an honest and critical look at the Palestinian cause and movement—not as a single grievance but as a political force that has repeatedly rejected peace, embraced violence, and fostered a culture of hostility.

For many decades, Palestinian leaders have turned down peace offers that could have created a viable state and ended the cycle of suffering. From the Camp David Summit in 2000 to the Trump administration’s peace plan in 2020, Palestinian authorities have refused realistic proposals that offered sovereignty and security. These refusals are not accidents or borne from desperation. They are deliberate choices designed to maintain maximalist demands, effectively ensuring that conflict continues rather than ends. Douglas Murray, a well-known commentator on Middle Eastern affairs, has made clear how these repeated rejections have blocked peace and prolonged hardship for millions.

Corruption runs deep within the Palestinian leadership. Reports from Hillel Neuer and UN Watch show how aid meant to relieve suffering is often diverted to enrich a small elite, while ordinary Palestinians face poverty and repression. This misuse of funds and the authoritarian style of governance mean the leadership cannot claim moral high ground or true representation. The Palestinian Authority and Hamas focus on holding power instead of improving the lives of their people, keeping a system alive that feeds on grievance and violence rather than peace and progress.

Beyond political failures, Palestinian society often teaches hatred from an early age. Children grow up exposed to education and media that glorify violence against Jews and spread anti-Semitic ideas. Recruiting child soldiers and celebrating terror attacks have become disturbingly common. This indoctrination steals childhoods and keeps the cycle of violence alive, directly contributing to the hatred behind recent attacks.

The horrific Hamas assault on 7 October 2023 is a clear example of this violent culture’s deadly consequences. Civilians were deliberately targeted in a brutal attack that shocked the world. It exposed how deeply incitement and militarisation have taken root in Palestinian society. These acts demand honest acknowledgement rather than being dismissed as mere side effects of political struggle.

One often overlooked fact is that no other Muslim-majority country wants to take in Palestinian refugees. Historical experiences in Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria have shown attempts to destabilise host countries through violence and terror by some Palestinians. This unwillingness to offer refuge reveals problems within Palestinian leadership and society that prefer conflict over peace and integration.

The rise in anti-Semitism and the spread of divisive ideas are not caused only by extremist groups or fringe activists. Political leaders in the United States and United Kingdom also bear responsibility. Their reactions to pro-Palestinian activism and campus unrest show a worrying contrast.

In the US, the Trump administration recognised that some foreign students were involved in violent protests and spreading hate on campuses. Policies were introduced to tighten visa rules and prevent people who might cause unrest from entering the country. These measures were meant to keep campuses safe and stop political violence disrupting learning (U.S. Department of State, 2019). While some criticised these moves as harsh, they reflected a serious effort to protect vulnerable communities from harassment.

Foreign influence in campus activism has been linked to rising tensions. Universities such as Harvard, Berkeley, and UCLA have faced violent protests and organised campaigns that target Jewish students disproportionately (Anti-Defamation League, 2020). The crackdown sought to restore peace and protect those at risk.

By contrast, the UK government and police have repeatedly failed to respond adequately. Universities like Cambridge and Oxford have been criticised for systemic anti-Semitism that university authorities have largely ignored. Jewish students report feeling unsafe and targeted, with incidents of harassment growing more frequent (Campaign Against Antisemitism, 2022). Despite evidence, these universities have been slow to act, often saying they must remain neutral rather than protect students.

This failure is worsened by politics. The Labour Party has faced serious allegations of anti-Semitism among its members and leaders, damaging trust in its commitment to fighting hate (The Guardian, 2020). Police forces have been criticised for not taking anti-Semitic crimes seriously, leaving victims feeling abandoned (Jewish Chronicle, 2021).

In the US, despite efforts from the Trump administration, political leaders in the Democratic Party have often hesitated to condemn anti-Semitic voices within the pro-Palestinian movement. This reluctance has allowed hateful rhetoric to grow, normalising attacks on Jewish communities.

American universities, even the most prestigious, are not free from these issues. Harvard and others have been called out for tolerating environments where Jewish students face discrimination and pressure to hide their identity or views. Social media campaigns from pro-Palestinian activists often include hateful and intimidating messages against Jewish students, with universities struggling to respond effectively (The Forward, 2021).

These failures show a widespread unwillingness to face difficult truths on campus. Free speech matters deeply, but it cannot be used to justify hate or incitement. Jewish students deserve safe, supportive spaces backed by strong policies and education against prejudice.

The difference between the US and UK responses shows how important leadership is. Where leaders act decisively, communities feel safer and supported. Where they hesitate, hatred thrives.

Ending systemic anti-Semitism requires more than short-term fixes. It needs education, accountability, and bravery. Universities must do more than tolerate Jewish students—they must welcome and protect them. Governments must ensure police forces treat anti-Semitism with urgency.

The safety of Jewish communities depends on honest leadership from governments, schools, and law enforcement. Without it, divisions will deepen and violence will continue.

A real path to peace means facing failures and responsibilities on all sides honestly. We must reject hate firmly and hold those who cause violence to account. This does not deny the real struggles many Palestinians face. It means insisting that justice cannot come from movements that tolerate racism and terror.

Jewish suffering is very real and urgent. It deserves recognition and protection. The pro-Palestinian movement, in many of its forms today, undermines peace and fuels division. It is time to face these hard truths and stand firmly for justice, security, and coexistence.

Balancing Idealism and Reality: My UN Experience

I used to believe in the United Nations. Not in a naive, starry-eyed way, but in the way a doctor believes in the value of treating the wounded, even when the tools are blunt. I believed it was better to be inside the machine than criticising it from afar. I told myself that if people of integrity left, only the worst would remain. And so I stayed. For over a decade. Ten and a half years of my life.

I joined the UN not out of ambition but inheritance. My brother, Seb is a Naval Surgeon and volunteered with the UN for fifteen years. His courage and quiet sense of duty left a mark on me. He never made a fuss, but he went where it mattered. When he stepped back, I stepped forward. It felt right. A continuation of something honourable. A mantle passed between siblings.

In those early years, I believed in internationalism. I believed that global cooperation mattered. That it was possible to bring order and dignity to chaos. That even the most compromised institution could still be a force for good if the people inside it tried hard enough. And so I tried.

I worked in war zones. I sat in freezing temporary offices. I drafted health strategy whilst hiding behind sandbags. I bore witness to malnutrition, trauma, and death. I argued for more food, more vaccines, more truth. I did my job well. And I did it with the conviction that the system I was serving, while flawed, was still on the side of the vulnerable.

But disillusionment is rarely dramatic. It arrives quietly. A memo that asks us not to name names. A silence in the room when evidence is inconvenient. A colleague sidelined for telling the truth. The official story that bears no resemblance to the reality we live.

By the end of 2018, something shifted in me. There were specific moments. A decision whitewashed. A report doctored. A meeting where silence was the only safe thing to say. I will explore these later. But what I knew, by early 2019, was that I could no longer stay.

I left before the pandemic. I watched what followed from a distance, no longer wearing the badge, no longer reciting the mission. And yet, part of me had hoped the UN might still rise to the occasion. But what the pandemic revealed, and confirmed, is that the institution I gave my best years to is not neutral. It is not scientific. It is not, in any consistent way, good.

This essay is not written in anger, though there is anger beneath it. It is written in sorrow. Because to believe in something and then see it for what it is, to work inside something broken and realise that your effort will not fix it, is a kind of grief.

And grief, like truth, demands acknowledgement.

I no longer believe in the United Nations. And I am no longer ashamed to say it.

By the time COVID-19 swept across the globe, I had already left. I was no longer sitting in emergency briefings or drafting field response strategies. I no longer wore the blue badge or answered to the acronyms. But I watched. Closely. Not with bitterness, but with the eyes of someone who had once believed. And what I saw confirmed what I had already begun to suspect. The institution I had given more than a decade to was not simply flawed. It was failing.

In those early days, the world needed clarity. It needed steady leadership and a firm commitment to scientific truth. What it received instead was hesitation, contradiction, and deferral to political pressure. The World Health Organisation, the UN’s flagship health body, initially praised China’s “transparency” in a statement dated 30 January 2020, whilst downplaying early warnings from Taiwan and independent researchers about human-to-human transmission. By the time the global alarm was sounded, it was too late. Millions were already exposed.

What made it harder to accept was the irony. For decades, the WHO had warned the world that a pandemic was inevitable. From SARS to H1N1 to Ebola, reports had repeatedly stressed that global preparedness was dangerously inadequate. Conferences were held. Funding frameworks were drafted. Contingency plans were rehearsed. The rhetoric was resolute. When—not if—a pandemic arrived, the UN would be ready.

But when the pandemic came, they sat on their hands. The WHO hesitated, afraid of offending member states. Afraid of causing panic. Afraid of being wrong. In that paralysis, the virus spread.

Of course, the WHO was not acting alone. It was operating within a system that prized diplomacy over disclosure, consensus over speed. And that is precisely the problem. At a time when bold decisions were needed, the UN’s instinct was to hedge. To wait. To smooth over tension rather than confront it. The cost was counted in lives.

Even as the months wore on, the messaging remained muddled. Public statements were made that contradicted earlier guidance. Face masks were first discouraged, then encouraged. Asymptomatic transmission was first considered rare, then common. Travel bans were first condemned, then quietly adopted. The problem wasn’t just the science evolving, as defenders often claimed. It was the failure to be honest about uncertainty, and the refusal to admit when mistakes had been made.

Perhaps most concerning of all was the silencing of dissent. Scientists and doctors who questioned prevailing guidance, even when their critiques were well-founded, were labelled problematic. Within the UN system, this is not new. I had seen it many times before. Professionals with expertise were overruled by political appointees. Evidence-based decisions were massaged to fit a predetermined narrative. Reports were softened. Numbers were rounded. The image always mattered more than the outcome.

COVID simply laid it bare.

Behind the scenes, many staff I once worked with were demoralised. I received messages from former colleagues who admitted they no longer trusted the guidance they were disseminating. They described endless Zoom meetings filled with jargon and contradiction. They spoke of mounting pressure to “keep the messaging clean,” even when the reality was anything but. Some left. Most stayed silent.

To be clear, I don’t believe that the UN deliberately sought to cause harm. But harm occurred anyway. The delay in declaring a pandemic. The lack of coordination with national health systems. The vague and often contradictory public communications. The preference for diplomacy over data. The result was confusion, polarisation, and eroded public trust — not just in the UN, but in science itself.

In the years since, some have tried to rehabilitate the UN’s pandemic response. Reports have been written. Strategic frameworks have been proposed. Lessons have been “learnt.” But the underlying problem remains. An institution that cannot name the political pressures it is beholden to cannot be trusted to act impartially. A system that punishes truth-telling in private will always struggle to lead in public.

I think of the young idealists who joined in 2020, believing they were stepping into an organisation guided by science and solidarity. I think of the disillusionment they must now feel, much sooner than I did. And I wonder how many of them will keep quiet, hoping to change the system from within, the way I once did. How many will grow older, more cautious, more afraid. How many will leave, quietly, without ever saying what they saw.

COVID did not break the UN. It revealed it. The gaps that opened in 2020 had been forming for years. The pandemic simply showed the world what some of us had already come to know — that the mask of competence had long since slipped.

Long before the pandemic, I had seen science pushed to the side. Not overtly, not in ways that would ever show up on paper. But in the meetings behind the meetings, in the redrafting of reports, in the subtle ways facts were softened to protect reputations. The UN has always presented itself as an institution rooted in evidence. But inside, evidence was only as useful as it was convenient.

In theory, our work was data-driven. We collected field reports, commissioned studies, and ran needs assessments. We were told to follow the science. But when the numbers reflected something politically difficult, they were quietly revised. Not falsified outright, just blurred. I remember one situation where malnutrition rates in a conflict zone were above the emergency threshold. The report used different indicators to keep it below. Another time, vaccine hesitancy data in a fragile state was stripped of context so it would not upset national authorities. The priority was always to maintain access, not accuracy.

That culture ran deep. Scientific integrity was not protected; it was negotiated. I remember a colleague, a brilliant epidemiologist, being reprimanded for publishing data in a peer-reviewed journal without first clearing it through regional headquarters. The data was accurate. The methodology sound. But the conclusions did not align with the prevailing narrative. He was labelled uncooperative. His contract was not renewed.

The UN system rewards obedience, not rigour. When faced with political pressure, truth becomes malleable. I saw this during Ebola. A senior health advisor flagged discrepancies in case reporting. The numbers being shared with donors were inflated. Rather than investigate, he was told to “let it go” because the funding environment was delicate. He left not long after. It was understood, without anyone saying it outright, that raising the alarm would make you a liability.

Science cannot survive in an environment like that. At best, it becomes selective. At worst, it becomes performative. The façade of evidence remains, but the integrity behind it erodes.

COVID only made this visible to the wider world. The early reluctance to investigate the virus’s origins, the deference to official state narratives, the refusal to entertain uncomfortable hypotheses — all of it was familiar. I had seen that pattern before. The instinct to avoid blame. To protect relationships. To maintain the illusion of control. The WHO’s refusal to press harder on the origins of the virus was not surprising. It was entirely in keeping with the culture I had known.

There is a difference between diplomacy and deceit. Diplomacy recognises complexity and seeks cooperation. Deceit pretends complexity does not exist so as not to offend. The UN too often chooses the latter. It is easier to speak in platitudes than to admit the limits of knowledge. Easier to present consensus than to expose disagreement. Easier to deliver a carefully worded press release than to face the messy, uncomfortable truth.

What is lost in all this is trust. Trust from the public. Trust from the people doing the work. Trust from those of us who once believed. Science relies on transparency. When it is hidden behind politics, its authority collapses. Not because the science itself is wrong, but because the institutions that claim to defend it no longer inspire belief.

Some would argue that politics is unavoidable in any global system. That compromise is necessary to operate at scale. But there is a difference between compromise and corruption. Between working within constraints and abandoning your own principles. The UN has crossed that line too many times.

When I left, I did not leave because I stopped caring. I left because I cared too much. Watching good people silenced, data distorted, and truth diluted for the sake of diplomatic ease was no longer something I could participate in. The betrayal of science is not abstract. It has consequences. Delayed responses. Misdirected aid. Lives lost.

In the end, I did not want to be part of an institution that claimed to uphold evidence while routinely undermining it. The truth deserved better. And so did the people who trusted us to speak it.

I remember the moment it began to feel personal. Not just frustrating or hypocritical, but something closer to betrayal. It was during a policy briefing in late 2018, one of those routine sessions where senior staff report on violations of international law. The speaker, a lawyer from another agency, spoke with real passion about the abuses occurring in one conflict zone, rightly condemning the targeting of civilians. Then, without even pausing, he skipped over another region entirely. Not one mention. Not a single slide. When I asked why, he gave me a look. Not irritated. Not confused. Just tired. “It’s too complicated,” he said. “We’ve agreed not to focus on that right now.”

That conflict was Israel and Gaza.

Inside the UN, there is an unspoken rule. Some suffering counts more than others. Some victims are worthy of advocacy. Others are best left unnamed. This is not about failing to criticise Israel. Criticism of Israel is routine, sometimes warranted, often not. What is missing is balance. Context. Consistency. The same standards that are rightly applied elsewhere seem to dissolve when it comes to the Jewish state.

Over time, the rhetoric became harder to ignore. Resolutions passed in the General Assembly singled out Israel again and again, often with language that bordered on inflammatory. Meanwhile, regimes with appalling human rights records were treated with deference. Nations where women were jailed for removing a headscarf. Nations where journalists vanished. Nations that openly persecuted minorities. These were met with caution. With “ongoing dialogue.” With silence.

This double standard is not subtle. In 2023, the UN General Assembly passed fifteen resolutions condemning Israel, but only seven condemning all other countries combined. North Korea received one. Iran, one. Russia, two. Syria, one. China, none. The disproportion is staggering. And it is not new.

I have worked in regions where war crimes were ongoing and ignored. Where rape was used as a weapon and dismissed. Where starvation was a tool of control and went unmentioned. Yet the outrage always returned to Israel. It became clear that Israel’s existence itself was treated by some within the system as a provocation.

Anti-Semitism in the UN is rarely explicit. But it does not have to be. It lives in what is left unsaid. In the casual comparisons. In the unchallenged slurs. In the consistent failure to apply the same human rights framework to all peoples. It lives in the way Jewish staff are sometimes treated with suspicion, as though their nationality or faith renders them compromised. I watched colleagues, deeply professional and fair-minded, pushed out of decision-making roles simply because they were Israeli, or were perceived as “too sympathetic.”

The real heartbreak is not just the hypocrisy. It is the betrayal of the values we were taught to uphold. Human dignity. Equality. Integrity. These words are printed in every report, quoted in every speech. But they lose meaning when selectively applied.

I could no longer reconcile the gap between the UN’s stated mission and its behaviour. When Yazidi women were enslaved, we were told to proceed carefully. When Palestinians were harmed, we were told to speak loudly. When Uighurs were imprisoned, we were told to wait for consensus. When Israelis were stabbed, we were told it was a complicated situation.

There is nothing complicated about stabbing a teenager on a bus.

The selective moral outrage was not just frustrating. It became untenable. In the eyes of many within the system, the Jewish state was not a nation among others. It was a problem to be managed. And in failing to hold itself to its own standards, the UN revealed something much darker than incompetence. It revealed that it had abandoned moral clarity for moral theatre.

I don’t claim that Israel is beyond criticism. No country is. But when one state is held to an impossible standard, and others are excused entirely, the issue is no longer policy. It is prejudice.

Some will say that speaking this way makes me politically biased. Others will accuse me of being disloyal. But I believe the opposite is true. Loyalty to principle requires the courage to call out hypocrisy, even within the institutions we once trusted. I stayed silent for too long. I nodded in rooms where I should have spoken. I thought I could work around it. That quiet integrity was enough. But it was not.

By the end of 2018, I knew I could no longer serve an institution that performed righteousness whilst abandoning truth. The UN was not simply flawed. It had lost its moral anchor.

And once you see that, you cannot unsee it.

People often ask why I stayed as long as I did. If I saw what I now describe, if the signs were there, if the system was broken, why give it more than a decade of my life?

The answer is complicated, because I am.

I stayed because I believed in the mission. Not the slogans, but the substance. The idea that international cooperation could prevent war, feed the hungry, protect the innocent. I believed that imperfect institutions could still serve noble aims, that people like me, serious, capable, idealistic, could steer things quietly in the right direction. I was wrong, but not foolish. Hope and hubris are difficult to disentangle.

I also stayed because of my brother. Seb served with integrity and dignity in some of the worst places on earth. He never spoke of what he saw, but I knew. When he left, I stepped forward, feeling the pull of something larger than either of us. He had done his time. Now it was my turn. It felt like continuity. It felt like family.

There was also something more selfish. I was good at the work. I was calm in crisis, persuasive in policy rooms, tireless in the field. The work gave shape to my days. It gave meaning to my sacrifices. I could justify the long hours, the missed birthdays, the constant travel, because I told myself it mattered. It meant something to be needed. To be effective. To be part of something with scope and scale.

One of the areas I worked on towards the end of my time there was nuclear disarmament policy. It was, ironically, one of the few policy spaces where I felt the tension between idealism and pragmatism was actually acknowledged. There were strong voices pushing for a total ban. The kind of disarmament that sounded noble on paper but made no sense in the real world. I disagreed, not because I didn't want peace, but because I had lived through the evidence of what happens when power is left unbalanced.

Deterrence is not romantic. It is not meant to be. It is a doctrine born out of horror. But it has held, in large part, because it reminds powerful nations that they are not invincible. The logic of mutually assured destruction is brutal, but it has arguably kept more peace than any humanitarian initiative. The memory of two world wars taught us something. The risk now is that we forget.

I found myself in policy meetings where the conversation leaned towards disarmament without any real plan for enforcement or symmetry. I argued that unless every nuclear power disarmed at once, which was never going to happen, unilateral disarmament by even one nation was not a show of courage but a display of vulnerability. And vulnerability, on the international stage, invites risk.

I remember the discomfort in the room when I said it. That is when I realised many in the UN did not want uncomfortable truths. They wanted consensus. I was not there to cause trouble. But I was also not there to rubber stamp something I did not believe in.

Similarly, I became vocal about nuclear energy, another subject that divided the room. As someone deeply committed to environmental protection, I understood the impulse to reject anything with the word nuclear in it. But the numbers don’t lie. If we are serious about phasing out coal and oil, if we want to provide clean, reliable energy at scale, then nuclear is one of the few realistic options we have. It isn’t perfect, but it is far better than pretending solar alone will save us.

The science was there. The case was strong. But again, ideology won. Policy briefs were altered to downplay support. Some member states insisted on language that left nuclear energy out altogether. Not because it was unsafe, but because it was politically inconvenient.

By this point, I was tired. Not just from the work, but from the mental contortions it took to keep justifying an institution that was so clearly afraid of its own integrity. I had started to lie to myself. To say it was not so bad. That all institutions are compromised. That the work still mattered. But that is how rot spreads. Not with wickedness, but with weariness. With the quiet erosion of standards.

What finally broke me was not a grand moment. It was small. A decision not to intervene. A report edited without my consent. A sense that even the colleagues I respected had stopped fighting. We were all tired. And tired people make peace with the unacceptable.

When I left, I did not rage. I packed my things and went home. I called Seb. I made tea. I cried. And then I began the slow work of rebuilding myself.

I don’t regret the years I gave. I do regret not leaving sooner. But I understand why I stayed. I stayed because I believed that good people on the inside could still make a difference. I stayed because I thought integrity could survive diplomacy. I stayed because I hoped. And hope is hard to let go of.

Disillusionment is not the end of belief. It is a bruising evolution. You stop expecting the world to match your ideals. You stop waiting for the cavalry. But you don’t stop caring. You simply become more careful about where you place your faith.

After I left the UN, there was a strange silence. Not just in my schedule, but in my mind. I had lived in motion for so long, with back-to-back assignments, high-stakes meetings, and the constant low hum of urgency. Stepping away was like landing in still water. No current. No noise. Just the unsettling quiet of real clarity.

People assumed I was angry. And I was, in parts. But more than that, I was deeply, heartbreakingly sad. Sad for what it could have been. Sad for the way we dressed up cowardice as consensus. Sad for the lives affected by our failure to act when we should have, or our insistence on acting where we shouldn't. The UN was never perfect. But it could have been better. That is what makes the grief stick.

I had to ask myself what I still believed in. Whether the idea of international cooperation was salvageable. Whether diplomacy, at its best, could still be a tool for peace rather than a cover for delay and self-interest.

And the truth is, I do still believe. Not in institutions as they are, but in what they were supposed to be. I believe in the quiet work of honest governance. In evidence-based policy. In cooperation that does not flatter itself, but actually functions. I believe in the value of national sovereignty too, and in holding international bodies to account when they exceed their remit or confuse virtue signalling with action.

I believe in the West. That is not fashionable to say, but I do. I believe in the rule of law, in open debate, in the awkward but essential idea of democracy. I believe in secular governments that protect freedom of religion. I believe in the dignity of the individual and the right to criticise power, even when that power claims to speak on behalf of the good.

I have also come to believe more fiercely in the need for energy realism. My time in policy taught me how easily science is drowned out by fear. Nuclear energy remains one of the most efficient and clean sources we have, and yet we treat it with suspicion while continuing to burn coal. That is not a strategy. It is a sentiment.

Likewise, deterrence is not barbarism. It is protection. I am more convinced than ever that the horror of nuclear weapons lies not just in their existence, but in the delusion that pretending they don’t matter will make us safer. It won’t. The world is not made more peaceful by declarations. It is made safer by preparedness, restraint, and realism.

What comes after disillusionment, then, is not cynicism. It is responsibility. You stop expecting others to get it right. You stop expecting large systems to save us. You look for the people inside those systems who are trying. You back them. You become one of them, if you can.

I began speaking more openly about what I had seen. Not to shame, but to warn. Not to burn bridges, but to light better paths. I found others who had also walked away, quietly, with their integrity intact and their optimism battered but not broken. Some of them went into public service. Others founded companies. A few simply went home and raised better children. All of it mattered.

We talk too much about saving the world and too little about making it less cruel, less careless, less slow to act when the signs are clear. What I want now is not heroism. I want competence. I want courage that does not need a camera. I want the kind of leadership that does not outsource hard decisions to endless consultations and carefully worded statements that say nothing at all.

There are still good people inside the UN. Some of them I admire deeply. They are trying. But the system they serve has become, in too many places, a performance. A stage for posturing, for bad faith arguments, for letting genocide pass while debating language that offends. That is not diplomacy. It is moral failure.

I no longer believe the UN can be fixed from within. I think it needs to be reimagined entirely or replaced by something that can deliver on the promises we keep making. The world is too fragile for polite delay.

Leaving was painful. But staying would have broken something in me. And I am still a woman of faith. Still someone who believes in service, in decency, in the quiet insistence that things must be better than this.

What comes next? I don’t know. But I know what I bring to it. Experience. Memory. Conviction without the need for applause. And a stubborn refusal to give up on the idea that good is still worth working for.

There was no explosion. No dramatic walkout. No raised voice or declaration of principle. That is not how these things happen. At least not for people like me, who were raised to be composed, who learned early that anger is best metabolised quietly. The final straw was not a straw at all. It was a quiet realisation, weeks in the making, that I could no longer be part of something I no longer respected.

It began with a report. A routine one. The kind that crosses your desk when you are on a policy team expected to balance evidence with diplomacy. I had written it carefully, drawing on weeks of research, firsthand accounts, and epidemiological data. It was not perfect, but it was honest. And it was edited. Not for clarity, but for tone. Phrases were softened, omissions made. The recommendations remained, technically, but their urgency had been stripped away. The document still bore my name.

That week I sat in three meetings where people debated whether it was "strategically sensitive" to refer to specific countries by name in reports on human rights abuses. There was concern about optics, about funding, about alliances. Not one person asked whether it was true. Only whether it was useful.

At first, I told myself this was how things worked. That sometimes you had to play the long game. That reform required patience. But I could feel something shift inside me. A kind of ethical nausea. It stayed with me through meetings, through diplomatic functions, through dinner at my desk. I could not shake it. The sense that I was complicit.

Then came a briefing. We were preparing talking points for a high-level event on the rights of women and girls. I suggested we include a reference to the treatment of Yazidi women in Iraq, who had suffered unimaginably at the hands of extremists. I was told it would make the messaging "too pointed." That it could be perceived as politically inconvenient. I said nothing. I nodded. I went back to my laptop and deleted the line.

That night I went home and cried in the shower. Not from outrage, but from shame. From the sickening awareness that I had begun to accept the unacceptable. That I had allowed my integrity to become negotiable.

It would be easy to blame others. To say I was only following instructions. But I know better. We always have a choice. And the truth is, I had been choosing the path of least resistance. Telling myself I was doing more good by staying than I could on the outside. That the machine needed people like me to stay sane. But sanity is not the same as morality. And I could no longer pretend I was doing the right thing just because I was not doing the worst.

I spoke to Seb. We hadn’t talked about the UN in years. He had gone on to other things, but I knew the disillusionment had marked him too. I told him what I was feeling. He listened. Then he said, simply, "You have always known when to walk away. You just need to trust yourself."

A week later, I handed in my resignation.

No one begged me to stay. Some looked surprised. Others seemed relieved. A few colleagues came by my office in private, telling me they understood. That they had thought about leaving too. But they had children. Mortgages. Tenure tracks. I nodded. I understood. I still do.

In my final month, I cleared out two offices. Geneva first, then New York. The quiet in both places felt different. Geneva was colder, more clinical. New York, more chaotic, less ceremonious. My last working day was in the New York office. I left in the early evening, unnoticed by most, carrying a small box of personal things that had no place in someone else’s institution.

I flew home to London that night, the city lights beneath me flickering like thoughts I had not yet faced. I didn’t sleep.

They gave me a watch as a thank you for my service. Stainless steel, with a tiny UN insignia. It was the kind of gift someone might have chosen in a bygone era, when people still thought a timepiece meant something. Retirement gifts for the faithful. It felt less like appreciation and more like ritual. A gesture that had outlived its meaning.

I donated it the next week.

What I wanted was not a watch. I wanted honesty. Accountability. A moment where someone said, “You were right to care this much.” But that never came. And perhaps that is the point. The most important recognitions are often the ones we never receive. You just have to leave anyway.

There is something strange about stepping away from a global institution. You expect to feel small. You expect to feel cut off, as though the weight and meaning of what you did will disappear without the scaffolding that made it official. But I didn’t feel small. I felt steady. For the first time in a long while, I felt like my values and my actions were back in alignment.

The work of service didn’t end when I left the UN. It changed shape. I was no longer writing policy or attending summits. I wasn’t wearing a lanyard that opened every door. But I was still me. I still cared about outcomes, not optics. About truth, not posturing. And I found that kind of work in smaller, often quieter places.

It took time to remember that service doesn’t always need an audience. Sometimes it looks like running a company that treats its staff with dignity. Sometimes it means mentoring a younger colleague, or refusing to bend the truth in a boardroom full of people who expect you to play the game. Sometimes it’s showing up for your nieces and nephews. Sometimes it’s growing food well.

In my case, I returned to something older and more honest than the institutions I had left. The land. The language of soil and seed, not slogans. I began to build again, but this time on ground I could trust. I founded an AgTech company and became its CEO. Not because I thought it would save the world, but because I wanted to be part of something that made it easier for people to feed each other. There is integrity in food. You can’t fake it. You either nourish or you don’t.

That shift from the global stage to a farm, from policy papers to climate-resilient crops, was not a retreat. It was a reorientation. It was me choosing to pour everything I had learned into something I could build with my own hands. Something measurable. Something meaningful. I no longer wanted to debate language while people starved. I wanted to grow the food.

I also started to write. Not for position papers or diplomatic briefings, but for people. Honest words. Stories that told the truth about what I had seen. Reflections on how it felt to be young and full of hope, then older and full of questions. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget. And because I wanted others to know they were not alone if they too had walked away from something they once believed in.

What I’ve learned is that service, in its truest form, is not about where you work. It’s about how you live. It’s about telling the truth, even when it’s inconvenient. It’s about carrying on quietly when no one is watching. It’s about choosing substance over performance, care over careerism, and courage over comfort.

For a long time, I thought my life would follow a certain arc. I thought I’d rise through the ranks, shape global policy, be called upon for my expertise. That version of me existed once. But she’s gone. And I’m not mourning her anymore. I’ve become someone else. Someone freer.

I still read international reports. I still track global conflicts. I still care deeply. But I no longer feel the need to be in the room where the statements are made. I want to be in the field where the solutions are planted. I want to put my hands in the earth and build something that feeds people, not just their sense of hope, but their actual bodies.

There’s a quiet pride in that. A steadiness that comes from no longer chasing approval. I don't need to be congratulated. I just want to be useful. I want to be honest. I want to sleep at night knowing I told the truth and did the work.

I believe in a new kind of service now. One rooted in realism, rigour, and humility. I believe we need people who are willing to speak plainly, to take responsibility, to rebuild broken systems from the ground up. We need people who are not seduced by prestige or paralysed by fear. We need grown-ups.

I still pray for the UN. I pray it finds its spine again. I pray it remembers what it is for. But I’m no longer waiting. I’ve found a different path. One that lets me live in accordance with my faith, my conscience, and the quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, a better kind of leadership begins not in the halls of Geneva, but in the heart of someone who refuses to pretend.

There’s a strange kind of silence that follows disillusionment. Not the silence of despair, but the kind that comes when something finally settles. When the noise dies down and you’re left alone with the truth. It’s not always comfortable, but it is clarifying. And in that stillness, I found my footing again.

For a long time, I thought my work was only valid if it came with the right stamp. I thought I had to be part of something enormous to be useful. That belief kept me going, even as the cracks deepened. It made me swallow things I should have spoken up about. It made me stay far longer than I should have. But eventually, the weight of what I knew was too great to ignore.

The UN failed in ways that were not just bureaucratic, but moral. It hid behind process while lives were lost. It ignored warnings it had published itself. It spoke of peace while tolerating bigotry. It turned away from science when the science became politically inconvenient. And it wrapped all of this in the language of humanitarianism, as though vocabulary could absolve responsibility.

That’s what finally broke me. The performance. The refusal to reckon with its own contradictions. The way it treated faith as a liability, truth as optional, and dissent as disloyalty. Institutions cannot serve the world if they will not first examine themselves. And for all the talk of transparency and inclusion, the doors were often closed to those who asked the wrong questions.

So I no longer believe the UN can be reformed. I believe it must be dismantled and rebuilt entirely. Not because I’m angry, but because I’m realistic. You cannot retrofit integrity into a foundation that was never structurally sound. You cannot ask for accountability from a system designed to avoid it. You cannot speak of global cooperation while enabling the worst actors to dictate the terms.

The Security Council alone makes a mockery of the values the UN claims to uphold. When power is weighted toward veto-wielding states with histories of abuse, the result is paralysis. Crimes go unpunished. Conflicts are prolonged. Resolutions are watered down to the point of meaninglessness. And still, the institution persists, propped up by nostalgia and political convenience.

We are living in a different world now. The geopolitical dynamics of 1945 no longer apply. The challenges we face today — from pandemics to climate breakdown to technological disruption — require agility, trust, and courage. The UN has none of these. It has prestige, but not power. It has reach, but not relevance. It convenes, but it does not act.

I’m not calling for an end to global cooperation. I’m calling for honesty about what is broken. I’m calling for something new to take its place — something more representative, more rigorous, and more willing to change when the world does. Something that does not reward inaction, or mask political cowardice with bureaucratic language.

We need to start again. Not with legacy structures and ceremonial titles, but with clear-eyed vision and a commitment to principle over politics. We need to build something that does not collapse under its own contradictions. Something that values truth more than image. Something that belongs to all nations, not just the loudest ones.

I’m aware this sounds idealistic. But it isn’t naive. It is necessary. The alternative is to keep pretending. To keep pouring money, time, and talent into an institution that cannot deliver what it promises. That is not diplomacy. That is denial.

I’m not bitter. Bitterness is corrosive. But I am clear. I gave ten and a half years of my life to an organisation that lost its way. And I do not regret that time, because it taught me how the world works. It taught me what matters. It taught me that you can care deeply and still walk away.

I don’t think the answer lies in abolishing all institutions. I think the answer lies in rebuilding trust, one honest conversation at a time. I think it starts with people who refuse to pretend. People who are willing to say, “This is not working,” even if they have something to lose.

In the end, leaving the UN gave me back my voice. It reminded me that I don’t need permission to speak the truth. That integrity is not something conferred by title or position. It is something you hold, quietly and consistently, in the choices you make every day.

I still believe in service. But I believe in a kind of service that starts from within. One that is not performative or self-congratulatory, but grounded, unglamorous, and real. I believe in showing up. I believe in feeding people.

I don’t know if the UN will find its way back. But I no longer believe it should. It was born of a noble idea. But good ideas are not enough. They must be matched by courage and clarity. Without those, even the best intentions become theatre.

Britain Is No Longer a High Trust Society — And We’re All Paying the Price

Britain was once the gold standard of a high trust society. People believed in the police, relied on institutions, and saw aspiration as something to be admired, not resented. The idea that you could better your circumstances through hard work was woven into the national identity. That ethos is now unravelling. Across the UK, public trust in institutions has collapsed, crime is often met with indifference, and aspiration is increasingly viewed through the lens of suspicion rather than admiration.

From unchecked lawlessness to ideological governance and punitive taxation, Britain is rapidly drifting away from its traditions of common sense, fairness, and individual responsibility. In its place is a creeping culture of envy, decline, and managed mediocrity.

The first and most obvious sign of a collapsing high trust society is visible crime that goes unpunished. Shoplifting, theft, and antisocial behaviour are now rampant, particularly in urban areas. According to the Office for National Statistics (ONS), shoplifting incidents in England and Wales hit a record 402,482 offences in the year ending September 2023, a staggering 32% increase on the previous year. Yet only a small fraction of these incidents result in charges or convictions. ONS, 2024

Retailers such as John Lewis, Tesco, and the Co-op have publicly decried the situation, with many resorting to private security firms because police often refuse to attend or investigate. In one case reported by the BBC, Co-op executives claimed police failed to respond to over 70% of serious retail crimes in their stores, even when staff were threatened. BBC News, 2023

This kind of lawlessness breeds more crime. The principle is simple: when rules are not enforced, more people break them. There is no deterrent. What we are witnessing is the “Broken Windows” theory in action: a criminological concept which argues that visible signs of disorder invite further disorder and more serious crime. Once crime becomes normalised, it is very difficult to reverse.

Despite the growing epidemic of real-world crime, police forces across the country have dedicated disproportionate resources to what many see as the policing of “wrongthink”. Over the past decade, tens of thousands of “non-crime hate incidents” (NCHIs) have been recorded — incidents in which no law was broken, but someone felt “offended”, “insulted” or “alarmed”.

Between 2014 and 2019, nearly 120,000 NCHIs were logged by police in England and Wales. These records can be included on DBS (Disclosure and Barring Service) checks, affecting employment and public life. In the most infamous case, Harry Miller, a former police officer, was investigated by Humberside Police for sharing a tweet critical of gender ideology. While no crime was committed, officers told him they were checking his “thinking”. A High Court ruling later found the force had acted unlawfully. BBC News, 2021

This kind of ideological policing is deeply corrosive to a free and open society. When law enforcement prioritises emotional offence over property crime, the balance of justice is lost. A civil society cannot function when the definition of harm becomes entirely subjective.

In response to growing public outrage, the College of Policing issued new guidance in 2023 limiting the use of NCHIs, stating that police must consider free speech rights before recording such incidents. However, the cultural damage has already been done. The police are no longer seen as impartial enforcers of the law, but increasingly as ideological actors. College of Policing, 2023

Parallel to the decline in enforcement is a growing resentment of success, particularly from political actors who frame prosperity as inherently unfair. This is most evident in the politics of envy, now a mainstay of British left-wing discourse.

Rather than celebrating achievement, this worldview sees affluence as something to be redistributed or taxed, not replicated. This attitude is not just morally corrosive — it is economically destructive. Wealth is not static; it is created. Yet under current political discourse, those who build businesses, generate employment or succeed through innovation are often treated as if they owe a moral debt to society.

Shadow Chancellor Rachel Reeves has done little to dispel this impression. While Labour publicly supports growth and business, their proposals have centred on increased taxation, a rollback of non-domicile tax status, and vague commitments to “fairness” that lack any compelling pro-enterprise vision. Labour’s 2023 party conference offered no concrete roadmap for increasing UK competitiveness, and no clear incentives for entrepreneurship.

Aspiration used to be a central pillar of British politics. Today, that pillar is crumbling. In its place is a political class that increasingly promises to manage decline rather than reverse it.

Britain was once a place where people believed that their children would do better than they had. That belief has withered. Today’s younger generations are told they may never afford a home, never retire, and never out-earn their parents. The sense of national optimism that fuelled the post-war era and entrepreneurial surges of the 1980s has vanished.

Government after government, both Conservative and Labour have failed to foster an economy built on innovation, investment and upward mobility. Instead, the public is offered rent caps, windfall taxes, and economic slogans. Political leaders rarely speak about excellence, growth or merit. There is little encouragement to build, to innovate, or to aspire.

Countries like Singapore, Monaco, and Dubai provide useful contrasts. These nations are thriving because they understand the fundamental connection between law enforcement, economic freedom, and national confidence.

Singapore has a crime index of just 22.6, compared with the UK’s 48.28. Its GDP per capita exceeds $90,000. The country enforces laws strictly and maintains low income tax rates to encourage enterprise. Citizens and businesses operate in a culture of high expectations and personal responsibility. Numbeo, 2025, World Bank, 2023, IRAS, 2025

Monaco has a GDP per capita over $250,000, one of the highest in the world. It levies no personal income tax, which has attracted a highly skilled and affluent population. The result is a safe, orderly and economically vibrant microstate. World Bank, 2023, Euronews, 2024

Dubai boasts one of the lowest crime rates globally. The UAE levies no personal income tax and recently introduced a modest 9% corporate tax. Public order is rigorously enforced, and the city has become a hub for international business, innovation, and investment. Numbeo, 2025, DLA Piper, 2023

To reverse its decline, Britain must adopt a clearer, firmer model of governance and aspiration:

Restore the Rule of Law: Prioritise visible policing, reintroduce consequences for crimes like theft and antisocial behaviour, and abandon policing based on subjective offence.
Reform Taxation: Simplify and reduce tax burdens on individuals and businesses to foster growth and attract talent.
Celebrate Aspiration: Change the narrative from redistribution to opportunity. Reinstate policies that reward initiative, innovation, and success.
Learn from Success Stories: Study governance models in Singapore, Dubai and Monaco and adapt their principles of order, incentive and investment to suit British society.

Further Reading and Sources:

Anita Beckett 15/05/2025 Anita Beckett 15/05/2025

Why Zionism Matters

Zionism is not simply a political movement; it is a lifeline for millions of Jewish people around the world. Half of my family are Jewish and we carry the profound weight of history: relatives lost in the Holocaust, an event that remains the darkest stain on humanity’s conscience. The six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust represent not just a number but a devastating loss of families, cultures, and futures. Despite the passage of nearly eighty years, the Jewish population worldwide has still not rebounded to pre-Holocaust levels. According to the Pew Research Center, the global Jewish population before the Second World War was roughly 16.6 million. Today, estimates place it at approximately 15.3 million (Pew Research Center, 2021). This glaring demographic gap reminds us that the trauma of genocide is not simply historical but has contemporary resonance and implications.

Zionism emerged in the late 19th century as a response to centuries of antisemitism and systemic exclusion. The movement’s founder, Theodor Herzl, recognised the urgent necessity of a Jewish homeland where Jews could exercise political sovereignty and live free from persecution. The establishment of the State of Israel in 1948 was a moment of profound significance and relief for many Jews worldwide. It was the fulfilment of a dream born out of millennia of displacement, pogroms, and discrimination.

For me and for many others whose families endured the Holocaust, Zionism is not just a political ideology but a symbol of survival, resilience, and hope. It embodies the principle that Jews should never again be left vulnerable to the kind of statelessness and powerlessness that allowed the horrors of the Holocaust to occur.

Despite these lessons, antisemitism has not disappeared. On the contrary, recent years have witnessed a worrying rise in antisemitic incidents across Europe, the UK, and beyond. These range from hate speech and vandalism to violent assaults. The Community Security Trust (CST), the UK’s primary body tracking antisemitic incidents, has documented a steady increase in attacks, particularly following the Israel-Hamas conflict in October 2023 (CST, 2024).

The terror attacks of 7 October 2023 when Hamas militants brutally murdered and kidnapped Israeli civilians were a horrifying reminder of the ongoing threats facing Jewish communities. However, media coverage, including from some British outlets, was widely criticised for failing to adequately convey the scale of this violence. Some coverage appeared to equate the victims with the aggressors, blurring the reality and, at times, feeding into antisemitic tropes.

Douglas Murray has been a leading voice warning about the shape-shifting nature of antisemitism in contemporary society. In his 2017 book The Strange Death of Europe and subsequent talks, Murray describes antisemitism as “the oldest hatred” that “wears many masks,” adapting to modern political landscapes while maintaining its destructive core.

In a 2023 interview with GB News, Murray emphasised:

“Antisemitism no longer lives exclusively on one side of the political divide. It thrives in the extremes of both the far left and the far right, each using Jews as a convenient scapegoat for complex social anxieties and political grievances.”

This dual presence has complicated efforts to combat antisemitism. On the far left, it often disguises itself as anti-Zionism, with Israel singled out as the embodiment of evil. While criticism of any state’s policies should be permissible, Murray warns:

“When Israel is demonised in ways that deny its right to exist or when Jewish identity itself is questioned, it crosses into antisemitism. This is something that became alarmingly common in the Labour Party.”

My own family’s experience painfully illustrates this reality. Under Corbyn’s leadership, antisemitic attacks and hostile rhetoric increased dramatically. My aunt’s front door was defaced with a swastika, a terrifying and personal reminder of how deep and close to home this hatred still resides.

On the far right, antisemitism remains explicit and unabashed, steeped in conspiracies about Jewish control over global finance and media. Despite their ideological differences, Murray notes how the far left and far right often echo the same antisemitic themes. This brings us to the horseshoe theory.

The horseshoe theory, discussed in political science by Jean-Pierre Faye and cited by Murray, argues that the far left and far right, though on opposite ends of the political spectrum, bend toward each other in terms of tactics and ideology, especially regarding antisemitism. Both extremes employ similar tropes and conspiracies that demonise Jews, especially those connected with Israel or Zionism.

This convergence makes antisemitism more complex and insidious. It is no longer the preserve of fringe extremists but has seeped into broader political and cultural discourse.

One of Murray’s most urgent warnings is about the “institutionalisation” of antisemitism where antisemitic attitudes are tolerated or ignored by the very institutions that should be defending equality and justice.

The Labour Party’s failure to tackle antisemitism decisively under Corbyn was well documented. The Equality and Human Rights Commission’s 2020 report concluded that the party was responsible for “unlawful acts of harassment and discrimination” (EHRC, 2020). Many Jewish members felt alienated and vulnerable.

Beyond politics, Murray has been critical of media institutions. The BBC’s handling of the Gary Lineker controversy where Lineker shared a social media post featuring a rat emoji, widely recognised as an antisemitic symbol, was seen by many as an example of the broadcaster’s inadequate response to antisemitism (Evening Standard, 2024). This episode raised uncomfortable questions about whether some institutions are failing to confront antisemitism within their own ranks.

Institutional failure not only emboldens extremists but also signals to society that antisemitism is tolerable, which puts Jewish lives at risk.

For me and my family, Zionism represents survival and hope. It ensures Jewish self-determination and safeguards against statelessness, a condition that enabled the horrors of the Holocaust. In a world where antisemitism remains a deadly threat, where institutional responses falter, and where media coverage sometimes fails to portray the truth, as starkly evident in the reporting on the events of 7 October 2023, Zionism remains essential.

It is a symbol of resilience and a promise that Jews will not again be left vulnerable to hatred and violence.

References

• Pew Research Center. (2021). Jewish population in the world. Link

• Community Security Trust (CST). (2024). Antisemitic incidents report. Link

• Murray, D. (2017). The Strange Death of Europe: Immigration, Identity, Islam. Bloomsbury Publishing.

• Murray, D. (2019). The Madness of Crowds: Gender, Identity, and Other Modern Myths. Bloomsbury Publishing.

• Equality and Human Rights Commission (EHRC). (2020). Investigation into antisemitism in the Labour Party. Link

• Evening Standard. (2024). BBC and Gary Lineker antisemitism controversy. Link

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Further Reading and Resources

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Further Reading and Resources

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Why Zionism Matters