Fiona Macken

[Peter Girnus 🦅 @gothburz]

I am a member of the Norwegian Nobel Committee.

There are five of us. Five people, appointed by a parliament most of the planet could not find on a map, who decide, once a year, which human being the world has agreed to call good.

I know. I know. I think about it on the tram.

We meet in a building on Henrik Ibsens gate, a street named after a man who wrote almost exclusively about people discovering they are frauds, which nobody on the committee finds funny except me. There is a room with a long table and the portraits of the dead laureates looking down, Mandela, the Dalai Lama, a great many earnest men in spectacles, and one portrait we do not discuss, which is Kissinger, 1973, awarded while the bombs were still falling, after which two of our predecessors resigned and the satirist Tom Lehrer said political satire was now obsolete. We keep him on the wall. A reminder. Every family has the uncle.

It is October in Oslo, which means the sun gives up around four in the afternoon like a civil servant, and it rains the particular Norwegian rain that isn’t quite falling, just hanging there, judging you. I arrive with wet shoes. I always arrive with wet shoes. There is coffee, because this is Norway and there is always coffee, we drink more of it per person than almost anyone alive, and someone’s wife has sent kanelboller, the cinnamon buns, and we sit, five Norwegians, damp, caffeinated, sugared, and we decide the moral standing of the entire species.

Let me tell you how it actually works, because the world imagines a cathedral and it is, I promise you, a book club with a mandate.

287 nominations this year. 208 people, 79 organizations. Anyone can nominate, that’s the secret nobody understands: a professor, a parliamentarian, a former laureate, so the “nominee” list is meaningless, it’s a suggestion box, and every autumn some congressman nominates his own golden retriever and the press writes “SHORTLISTED.” Nobody is shortlisted. There is no short list the public ever sees. There is us, and the coffee, and the rain, and the portraits, and a Norwegian stubbornness that is older than the prize itself.

We read reports. The institute’s advisers write them, thick dull documents, and we argue. Our chairman told the BBC once that in the final meeting “there is a high temperature.” High temperature, for a Norwegian, means someone slightly raised an eyebrow and then apologized for it. We don’t do high temperature. We do a long silence, and then Kristin says “well,” and everyone knows exactly what “well” meant, and it’s settled. That’s our shouting. “Well.” You’d have to be raised here to hear the violence in it.

Now. This year. I will not say the name, because we never say the name, but you know the name.

A certain head of state wanted this prize the way a child wants a thing in a shop window, which is to say loudly, and in public, and with the full belief that wanting it was itself the argument. He said he deserved it. He said he’d ended eight wars, a number that grew most times he said it, like a fish. He had other heads of state phone us. Israel’s prime minister posted it on the internet, “Give him the Nobel.” The leaders of Cambodia and Pakistan announced they’d nominated him, as though announcing it were part of it, as though we tally mentions. A man flew around the globe collecting endorsements for a Norwegian committee the way you’d collect signatures for a petition to the council about a noisy dog.

And here, uff da, is the detail I treasure, the one that makes me smile into my coffee. The nomination deadline is the 31st of January. He took office on the 20th. So for all the phone calls, all the posts, all the gilded lobbying, the only nominations that could possibly count for this year’s prize were filed in the first eleven days of his term, before he had, by his own arithmetic, ended a single one of the eight wars. He campaigned all year for a prize whose window had shut while he was still hanging up his coat. We didn’t have to reject him. The calendar did. We just watched. Norwegians are very good at watching. We have long winters.

People think we sit there weighing his deeds. We don’t. That’s the thing I can’t make the world understand. We’re not grading his homework. We don’t owe anyone the prize for a ceasefire, however real, however loud the announcement. “He made peace” is not a sentence that ends in a medal, the way he believes it does, the way he believes every good thing ends in his name on it. The will of a dead Swede says the prize goes to whoever did the most for fraternity between nations. A dead Swede, I should add, who made his entire fortune inventing dynamite and selling arms, and spent his last years horrified at his own obituary, which called him a merchant of death, and so bought his way to immortality as a man of peace. The whole prize is one guilty arms dealer’s attempt to launder his name. We are, all of us, administering a dead man’s public relations. I find this clarifying. It keeps me humble. It should keep everyone humble, and it keeps, by my count, no one humble at all.

So who did we give it to?

An eighty-five-year-old woman. A judge. Born in Durban, under apartheid, granddaughter of a Tamil man who came to South Africa as indentured labor, a bus driver’s daughter from the poor Indian quarter, who became the first non-white woman to run a law practice in her province, who defended Mandela’s people when defending them was dangerous, who sat on the Rwanda tribunal and the court at the Hague, and who, at eighty-five, is right now a judge weighing whether a genocide is a genocide. When we told the world, our chairman said the rule of law “underpins the system we have set up to ensure peace,” and that “peace requires justice.” She wasn’t even in Oslo. She was in Nuremberg. In courtroom 600. The actual room where they tried the Nazis. You cannot stage that. God staged that, and God, it turns out, is a better satirist than any of us.

She did not phone us. She did not post. No prime minister demanded it for her on the internet. She had, as far as our deliberations are concerned, the one qualification the loud man could never manufacture, which is that she wanted the work and not the medal. The medal finds those people. It flees the ones who chase it. This is not a rule we wrote. It’s just the only pattern the hundred-odd years of our mistakes has ever shown.

The reaction from across the ocean was immediate. His spokesman posted that we “place politics over peace.” Ja. Perhaps. We’re five damp pensioners in a rainy city; of course it’s political, it was always political, it was political when we gave it to a sitting American president nine months into his first term for the promise of things he had not yet done, and we have been quietly embarrassed about that one for fifteen years, so believe me, we had a particular reason this year to prefer a woman with fifty years of verdicts behind her over a man with eight wars in front of him and a deadline already behind him.

Here is what he will never understand, the thing I’d tell him on the tram if he ever took one. We are the one prize he cannot buy, cannot post his way to, cannot have a friendly dictator phone in for him. Not because we’re incorruptible, nei, we’re as vain and wrong and human as the portraits on our wall. But because the entire point of the thing, the only power a small cold country’s book club has ever held, is that it goes to the person not performing the wanting. The moment you demand it, you’ve proven you don’t understand what it’s for, and proving that is itself the disqualification. He ran the most expensive campaign in the history of the prize and the campaign was the reason. He was never losing to Navi Pillay. He was losing to the concept.

It’s dark now. Four o’clock dark. The buns are gone. Kristin said “well” an hour ago and we all went home. I’m on the tram with my wet shoes, and somewhere across the water a very powerful man is explaining to a camera that the prize is rigged, that we’re corrupt, that he’ll win it next year, and he genuinely might, we’re only five idiots and we’ve been wrong before, Kissinger is still on the wall.

But not this year. This year an old woman in Nuremberg, in the room where the law once stared down the exact kind of man who thinks wanting a thing loudly enough should make it his, got a phone call she didn’t ask for.

That’s the job. We don’t reward the man who ends the war and announces it.

We reward the woman who spent fifty years deciding what a war was.

He’ll never see the difference. That’s rather the whole point of him.

Takk for i dag. I have to change trams.

[TIMES OF GAZA @Timesofgaza]

Gaza 2026.

[Rabbi Jeff @RabbiJeffx]

An Israeli Foreign Ministry official just openly called for a terror attack on Ireland.

[Daniel Lambert @dlLambo]

Powerful and utterly upsetting.

Today in the Irish Examiner.

800 items NOT allowed into Gaza and it's only half the actual list.

4 standout for me:

- Toys
- Crutches
- Babies nappies
- Cancer medication

Israel PREVENTS the very basics of life

[Tadhg @TadhgHickey]

Jesus 😭 So fucking proud to be Irish. A young lad starting off his career. Integrity and solidarity are as beautiful as cowardice is ugly.

[WearThePeace @WearThePeaceCo]

Free Palestine. We stand with Macklemore.

[Daniel Lambert @dlLambo]

In 2019 as Robert Kraft faced prostitution charges......he was flown to Israel to receive an award from Netanyahu.

Totally normal
Stuff.

[Daniel Lambert @dlLambo]

Tens of thousands marching in Dublin right now.

#TrumpNotWelcome

[Daniel Lambert @dlLambo]

Israel is killing babies again. As they do every day.

Meanwhile Zionists are crying that a man on a stage said free Palestine.

[Fiona Macken @fiona_mck]

@TadhgHickey Be more Macklemore 💪💪

[sarah @sahouraxo]

This isn’t Lebanon.

This is Gaza right now.

Israel is dropping bombs on tents packed with families in the middle of the night in Khan Younis.

This is what they call a “ceasefire.”

[Louise McKenna @_louise__]

Ireland is being transformed before our eyes, and most people have no idea of the scale of what is happening.

There are now over 130 data centres operating across the island, and they consume approximately 22% of Ireland's electricity. That means more than one fifth of all the electricity generated in the country is being used to power servers, cloud computing, artificial intelligence, social media, financial systems, and the digital infrastructure of multinational corporations.

Think about what that means.

At the same time that ordinary families are being told to reduce their energy consumption, pay higher electricity bills, install smart meters, accept carbon taxes, drive less, and change their lifestyles, the demand from data centres continues to grow.

We are told there is an energy crisis.

We are told there is a climate crisis.

We are told there is not enough electricity.

Yet there always seems to be enough electricity available when another data centre is proposed.

Ireland was once an agricultural nation known for food production, farming, fisheries, and local industry. Increasingly, however, vast sections of the country are being reshaped to support a digital economy that serves global corporations.

The public is expected to accept wind farms across rural landscapes, industrial scale solar developments on agricultural land, new transmission infrastructure, and ever increasing electricity costs. The justification is often presented as environmental necessity.

But if data centres are consuming such enormous quantities of power, why are they not required to generate the electricity they need themselves?

Why should the burden be placed on rural communities?

Why should productive farmland be converted into energy infrastructure?

Why should local communities lose planning battles against projects they do not want?

If a factory requires energy to operate, it factors that cost into its business model. Why should data centres be any different?

This is not an argument against technology.

It is an argument for honesty.

Ireland deserves a serious national debate about who benefits from these developments, who pays for them, and what kind of country we are becoming.

Because once farmland is covered with solar panels, once landscapes are industrialised, once communities lose control over planning decisions, and once the electricity grid becomes dependent on servicing multinational digital infrastructure, there may be no going back.

The question is simple.

Are Irish people expected to adapt their lives to serve the data centres?

Or should the data centres be expected to adapt to the needs of Ireland?

[Daniel Lambert @dlLambo]

Most remarkable thing about #StopTheGame Campaign is how it's simply about right & wrong.

One side: Majority of Irish football community/public who see brutal apartheid & rules breaches.

The other: FIFA, UEFA, Irish Govt & Zionists who tell us to turn a blind eye & play a game

[Ramy Abdu| رامي عبده @RamAbdu]

The final embrace..
A Lebanese mother cradles her twins, taken by Israel’s bombs.

[sarah @sahouraxo]

Israel has now killed more than 130 medics in Lebanon in less than 3 months.

And the world watches in silence.

[Israel Exposed @xIsraelExposedx]

Australian Gaza Flottila aid worker's first message to her mother after being released from an israeli concentration camp.

[Thiago Ávila 1️⃣8️⃣8️⃣8️⃣ @thiagoavilabr]

We do not need any more examples to know that we are dealing with a terrorist state! ❌ There is a long, documented history of systemic violence perpetrated by the Israeli regime against the Palestinian people with absolute impunity.

[Daily News Iran @DailyNewsIran]

Because Bee Venom Can Kill Cancer And Their Trillion Dollars Medicine Industry Will Collapse.

[DOZA🧐 @lil_doza]

Two hours after this statement, Helen voted in favour of Israel.