The President, the King, and the Criminal

Writer: Rami Mahdawi

Three men stood before the same podium at the United Nations General Assembly, but they did not carry the same message, nor did they speak from the same moral and political position. A president was prevented from reaching New York, so he attended with his voice while his body was absent; a king arrived at the podium carrying the responsibility of his nation and the issues of his people, defending peace, justice, and humanity; and a prime minister of an occupying power attended the hall, but chose to speak from a position of strength and war. Thus, there were three speeches, but at their core, they represented three different images of politics: politics as a right, politics as a responsibility, and politics when it separates from law and humanity.

President Mahmoud Abbas was not given the opportunity to stand at the podium himself, after being denied the necessary visa to enter the United States, but his physical absence did not prevent his political presence. His message reached the General Assembly through a recorded video, as if the historical paradox suggests that prohibition can close a door, but it cannot close a cause. Here, the president was not only speaking on behalf of a political institution, but he was speaking on behalf of a people who insist that their existence, rights, and aspirations are not matters that can be erased by an administrative decision or a political procedure.

Here lies the value of the Palestinian president's speech: it returned the issue to its essence, to the human being and their right to self-determination, freedom, and independence, and to the state that the Palestinians want—a democratic, sovereign state that lives in security and peace alongside Israel. He spoke of Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem as a political and geographical unit that should not be dismantled, and about the necessity of moving from managing the conflict to ending it, and from dealing with its consequences to addressing its causes. In this image, the president is the rightful owner; and the right does not need a visa to be a right, nor does it lose its legitimacy because the world is tired of hearing it, nor does it become less just because other crises have taken its place in the news.

Then comes King Abdullah II, in a completely different image. In his speech, he was not merely a king speaking on behalf of Jordan, but a leader of a state who understands that geography compels Jordan to be present in everything related to Palestine, Jerusalem, and regional security, and that limited resources do not mean limited will or ability to influence. He spoke from the position of a defender; a defender of Jordan and its security, borders, and waters, a defender of Jerusalem and its Islamic and Christian sanctities, a defender of the two-state solution, and at the same time a defender of the idea of peace as a political project, not just a diplomatic slogan.

I believe that His Majesty King Abdullah II's speech deserves to be studied in universities, not just because it is the speech of an Arab king, but because it provided a deep reading of the nature of international politics in an era of rapid media and successive crises. His Majesty captured an idea that seems, at first glance, distant from politics, when he spoke about the decline in the average attention span of humans in front of screens, then elevated it to a geopolitically significant level: What does the world choose to pay attention to? And what does it choose to forget? And who decides that a particular crisis deserves attention, while another crisis becomes old news?

This idea alone is suitable to be an academic topic in international relations and political media; because the contemporary world suffers not only from many crises, but also from a short political memory. What does not receive attention falls down the priority ladder, and what falls down the priority ladder may lose the political, diplomatic, and humanitarian pressure it needs. But the tragedy does not end with the conclusion of media coverage, and the child who loses his home does not regain it because the cameras have left the scene, and the city that is destroyed does not come back to life because the world has moved on to another story.

From here, the king's speech was a true defense of humanity before it was a defense of politics. He defended Jordan, but at the same time, he defended Palestine, and Jerusalem, and the right of the peoples of the region to security and peace, and the necessity that crises do not turn into a permanent reality. His main message was that diplomacy is not weakness, and that dialogue is not concession, and that a state can be open to the world while simultaneously adhering to its constants and interests. This is a formula that small states cannot ignore; for power is not always in the size of the state, but in its ability to transform its political and diplomatic position into a protection for its interests and principles.

Then Benjamin Netanyahu came. Here, the whole scene changed. The Israeli Prime Minister entered the podium that is supposed to be a space for dialogue between states, at a time when Israel is facing widespread international criticism due to the war in Gaza and policies in the West Bank, while delegations from several countries left the hall before and during his speech in protest of his presence or the Israeli policies. Netanyahu spoke in a language of war, victory, fronts, and threats, asserting that Israel will prevail, and attacking its opponents and critics, in a scene that largely reflected the distance between the logic of power and the logic of political settlement.

Here comes the meaning of the word "criminal" in the title of this article. Not as a judicial verdict we issue, for crime in its legal sense has its courts, evidence, and procedures, but rather as a political and moral description of a personality associated with wars and decisions facing serious accusations on an international level. The International Criminal Court has issued an arrest warrant against Netanyahu on charges of committing war crimes and crimes against humanity, accusations that Israel and Netanyahu reject. But the matter here is broader than the court itself; it relates to the moral question that every authority wielding power must face: What do you do with power when the lives of others are at the mercy of your decisions?

The most dangerous thing that can happen in politics is not that the state possesses power, but that it loses the moral and legal boundaries of that power. When security becomes an open justification for everything, when war becomes a permanent means, and when civilians become numbers in a military equation, politics begins to lose its human meaning. The state that was created to protect humans can turn, if law and conscience are absent, into a tool for subjugating them, and the power that was supposed to be a means of protection can become an end that justifies itself.

Here, the comparison between the three men becomes deeper than just a comparison of speeches. The Palestinian president came to say: I have a right. The Jordanian king came to say: I have a responsibility. As for Netanyahu, as reflected in his speech, he came to say: I have the power. Between right, responsibility, and power, the region encapsulates a large part of its historical crisis. The president was prevented from attending, but he was not prevented from expressing his people's cause. The king had the platform, so he used it to defend his homeland, Jerusalem, Palestine, and peace. As for Netanyahu, he also had the platform, but he faced a telling scene when delegations left the General Assembly hall in protest against his policies and speech.

History does not measure leaders by the number of applause they receive in international halls, nor by the number of cameras that follow them, nor by the loudness of their voices. History poses a harsher question: What have you done to humanity when you held power? From here, President Abbas's speech deserves to be read as the speech of a people insisting on their right to existence, sovereignty, and self-determination, and King Abdullah II's speech deserves to be studied as a model of diplomacy that tries to balance protecting national interests and defending human values, while Netanyahu's speech deserves to be read as an example of how politics, when based solely on power, can turn into a discourse that justifies the continuation of conflict instead of seeking its end.

Three men, then, and three political and moral lessons. The president reminds the world that the right does not need a visa. The king reminds the world that true power is not in the ability to harm, but in the ability to protect both the homeland and humanity. Netanyahu presents to the world, in the harshest way, the question of power when it is freed from the boundaries of law and ethics. In the end, it is not about who had the louder voice, nor who could impose their presence more, but rather who was able to leave behind a meaning worth preserving.

Perhaps this is why King Abdullah II's idea of "attention" is the deepest among the messages carried by these speeches. The future is shaped not only by what we do, but also by what we choose to ignore. What the world ignores today may become more costly, bloodier, and more difficult to address tomorrow. Therefore, the responsibility of politics is not only to speak, but to see; not only to defend, but to protect; not only to win, but to understand what victory means when its price is another human being.

In the end, presidents, kings, and heads of governments will leave the platforms, the lights of the halls will go out, and the statements and press conferences will come to an end. But what remains is the impact of words in history. A president may be prevented from reaching the podium, a king may stand before the world defending his homeland and cause, and a prime minister may insist that power is the only path. But history, in its longest moment, does not preserve only those who held the platform, but also those who held the right, who bore the responsibility of protection, and who made humanity the standard of politics.

At this very moment, the title itself becomes a question that does not need an answer: the president, the holder of the right; the king, the protective defender; and the criminal, the one who makes power a substitute for right, war a substitute for peace, and humanity merely a detail in the calculations of authority. As for the final judgment, it is not ours. It belongs to history, to the law, and to the victims whose memories do not have the luxury of forgetting.