The United Nations has finally roused itself from its customary torpor to issue a stiffly worded condemnation of Myanmar's military junta, which has been merrily slaughtering its own citizens with the enthusiasm of a toddler stomping on ants. Over 700 civilians have been killed in the last six months, a figure so grotesque it would make Caligula blush. The UN, that grand pantomime of global governance, has expressed its 'grave concern' and demanded an immediate halt to the violence.
One can almost hear the junta's collective sniggering from Naypyidaw. The junta, a cabal of uniformed thugs who treat human rights as a suggestion rather than a rule, has been bombing villages, executing dissenters, and burning homes with the cheerful abandon of arsonists at a matchstick convention. The UN's response, a beautifully crafted piece of diplomatic prose, will no doubt be filed away in the same drawer as all previous condemnations of Myanmar, nestled next to the toothbrush and the half-eaten bag of crisps that constitutes the international community's collective conscience.
Meanwhile, the junta's leader, General Min Aung Hlaing, a man whose face bears the permanent expression of someone who has just discovered a slug in his salad, continues to insist that his regime is engaged in a 'counter-insurgency operation.' Which is, of course, the junta's preferred euphemism for 'deliberately targeting civilians who oppose our iron-fisted rule.' The UN's condemnation is a fine piece of theatre, a moral hand-wringing that costs nothing and achieves even less.
What the junta needs is a few cruise missiles up the chimney, but the West, ever cautious about offending anyone with actual weapons, will content itself with sanctions that are about as effective as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. The world watches, tut-tuts, and moves on to the next atrocity. But for the 700 dead, and the countless more living in terror, the condemnation is a cold comfort.
It is the sound of the international community shrugging its shoulders from a safe distance. Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off, pours himself a double gin and wonders if the UN has a bar.
