The World Watches Ukraine-Russia: A Tragic Opera Sponsored by Everyone, Starring No One
Moscow and Kyiv, once the estranged siblings of a very dysfunctional Slavic family, have now spent more than two years demonstrating how quickly the polite fictions of international order can be strip-mined for scrap metal. The rest of the planet, meanwhile, has perfected the art of watching from a safe distance while pretending to be horrified—much like spectators at a particularly gory opera who keep one eye on the stage and the other on their phone to check the exchange rate.
Europe, in a masterclass of delayed adulthood, suddenly remembered it had a defense budget somewhere between the sofa cushions. Germany—historically allergic to large-scale military enthusiasm—discovered that re-arming can be delightfully profitable when you sell the hardware to everyone else first. France, never one to miss a rhetorical flourish, declared “red lines” in colors visible only to the sophisticated Gallic eye. Britain, having Brexited its way out of any continental entanglement, now dispatches Foreign Secretaries like discount Bond villains to deliver stern warnings nobody asked for.
Across the Atlantic, Washington has turned the conflict into the geopolitical equivalent of a streaming subscription: pay monthly, binge outrage, cancel anytime. Congress debates aid packages with the fervor of coupon-clippers arguing over a 2-for-1 detergent deal, while the White House insists each fresh tranche of weapons is definitely the last—until the next one. American arms manufacturers, ever the conscientious patriots, report record quarters and kindly remind shareholders that democracy is best measured in Lockheed-Martin points.
China, that perpetually neutral observer with a side hustle in global domination, tut-tuts about sovereignty while quietly vacuuming up discounted Russian energy and selling drones to both sides under different model numbers. Beijing’s official position paper reads like a fortune cookie assembled by a committee: “Peace is good; also, have you considered our 5G infrastructure?”
The Global South, weary of being lectured on morality by the very countries that spent centuries perfecting the colonial smash-and-grab, has adopted a policy of strategic indifference. India buys Russian oil with the enthusiasm of a teenager who just found Dad’s credit card, while Brazil’s president suggests—between sips of something cold—that perhaps everyone should just chill. African states remember when grain shortages were a local sport, not a European crisis, and politely decline invitations to solidarity Zoom calls scheduled in incompatible time zones.
Oil markets, those finely tuned anxiety machines, spike on rumors and yawn at actual battlefield gains. Dutch TTF gas futures have become the new Bitcoin—volatile, incomprehensible, and worshipped by people who use “contango” in casual conversation. Meanwhile, ordinary Europeans discover that virtue signaling is considerably less cozy at 17°C indoors, and begin quietly renegotiating their definitions of “acceptable” winterwear.
Food security—once the tedious domain of UN subcommittees—has become a fashionable cocktail-party anxiety. Wheat futures do the tango with sunflower oil, and countries as far apart as Egypt and Indonesia relearn that geography still trumps e-commerce. Grain ships navigate Black Sea corridors like anxious commuters eyeing an Uber surge, praying that insurance underwriters haven’t skipped their morning espresso.
And what of the rules-based order, that delicate soufflé of post-war diplomacy? It turns out the rules were written in pencil, and the eraser is shaped like a thermobaric warhead. Treaties are cited the way teenagers quote scripture—selectively, loudly, and only when parents are within earshot. The International Criminal Court issues arrest warrants with the solemnity of a library fine, while Russian officials plan vacations to any jurisdiction that still serves decent borscht.
All the while, Ukrainians continue to queue for coffee in Kyiv under skies that might deliver anything from drones to dawn, and Russians in St. Petersburg feign normalcy between mobilization notices. The rest of us refresh our feeds, toggle between pity and fatigue, and congratulate ourselves on moral clarity achieved at zero personal cost. History, it seems, is just another reality show—on season two with no finale in sight, sponsored by everyone and accountable to no one. The credits will roll eventually, but the popcorn’s already stale.
