In a turn of events so predictable it might as well be scripted by a Kremlin intern with a grudge against punctuation, Vladimir Putin has once again demonstrated his commitment to the fine art of urban redecoration by removing 13 souls from the Kyiv cityscape. The attack, a masterpiece of malevolent logistics, arrived just in time for the evening news cycle, ensuring maximum outrage with minimal follow-through.
The UK, ever the plucky underdog in the theatre of global politics, has issued a statement of such pristine condemnation that it could be framed and hung in the Tate Modern. David Cameron, a man whose political career resembles a particularly confusing game of Snakes and Ladders, emerged from his cocoon of irrelevance to declare that Putin’s actions are “barbaric” and “unacceptable”. One imagines the communiqué was drafted on a napkin during a particularly tense game of bridge at the Carlton Club.
But let us not dwell on the obvious. The death toll, after all, is merely a statistic to those who profit from the arms trade. The real tragedy is the sheer banality of it all. We have become connoisseurs of horror, able to distinguish between a “pinpoint strike” and a “carpet bombing” with the same nonchalance we apply to choosing a box of breakfast cereal. Kyiv bleeds, and we tut-tut over our morning coffee, our moral outrage tempered by the comforting thought that at least it’s not happening in Guildford.
Meanwhile, the international community engages in its traditional dance of inertia. Sanctions are discussed with the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to tidy their room. The UN Security Council will convene, resolutions will be drafted, and Russia will veto anything with the word “peace” in it. It is a routine as choreographed as a ballet, only with more casualties and less grace.
Perhaps the most galling aspect is the sheer audacity of the attack. To strike Kyiv, the very heart of Ukrainian resistance, is to spit in the face of diplomacy. It is a reminder that Putin’s playbook is written not in the language of negotiation but in the dialect of demolition. And yet, what do we do? We send a strongly worded letter. We express our deep concern. We ring our hands until they are raw.
I propose a new approach. Let us replace all diplomatic cables with glitter bombs. Let the ambassadors of the world be forced to attend cocktail parties hosted by a sullen President Putin wearing novelty hats that say “Wanted: War Criminal”. It would be no less effective than the current system and infinitely more entertaining.
But I digress. The dead will be buried. The survivors will curse. The politicians will posture. And the world will move on to the next crisis, the next outrage, the next pointless tragedy. Because that is what we do. We watch. We condemn. We forget. And somewhere in the Kremlin, a man who calls himself a leader pours himself a glass of something expensive and laughs, knowing that the only thing more predictable than his violence is our response.
