Mother's Veto: No wars without our support.

It falls to us philosophers, more often than we might wish, to point towards a better political future for us all—a task of extraordinary difficulty when confronted with the appalling events unfolding on our planet and the profound capacity for evil that resides in our souls. Amid all the evils in our world that we could well do without, there is one that has long preoccupied me: the evil we call war.

It is difficult to estimate precisely how many there have been throughout human history, but estimates suggest between 10,000 and 11,000 battles—distinct from organized wars, though no less brutal. There has scarcely been a period in recorded human history without war; a frequently cited figure indicates that, over the past 3,500 years, there have been only about 268 years without war somewhere in the world. In other words, roughly 92% of that time has seen conflict, and a mere 8% has been free of it. Against this backdrop, does it not seem almost presumptuous—or even foolish—to imagine a human world without wars?

Wars are entirely our own creation. We compel one another to kill fellow human beings on this earth, and we have done so relentlessly and repeatedly since history began to be recorded—and for long before that. Nevertheless, I ask: How do we end wars? And can we end them once and for all?

I once proposed introducing referendums on declarations of war, at least in democratic societies, to bind politicians to the will of their people when deciding whether to initiate or join conflicts. One might also consider strengthening shared identities, on the theory that people are less likely to attack those they regard as their own—but we are all familiar with civil wars, which shows that this approach, too, falls short.

In the meantime, I have come to recognize a far simpler truth that has been overlooked for far too long: No one has more at stake in the question of war than the mothers who bring life into the world.

We all know that every war sends sons and daughters into the fire. We all know that every war orphans children, traumatises them, displaces them, while poisoning the air, water, and soil that the next generation will inherit. Yet the voices that decide whether this destruction is to be unleashed are overwhelmingly male, shaped by centuries of thought that treats young men as aggressive agents and expendable resources, and regards territorial expansion as prizes to be won.

Are women more peace-loving than men? Of course not. When we think of sharks, it matters little whether the shark is female or male—it kills to feed. We humans may not be sharks, but neither are we butterflies. In the sense of the aggression and evil within us, there is fundamentally no difference between men and women, although some men are notorious for projecting their own better qualities onto women, idealising them as flawless, and some women are notorious for exploiting that idealisation to gain power over men.

History shows us that this has not always led to poor outcomes. In parts of the world, for instance, women have secured their basic rights—suffrage, education, bodily autonomy, equality before the law—largely without bloodshed. They have organised, marched, written, withheld, and endured until the world had to change. And the world did change. Women have demonstrated that transformation on the grandest scale can be achieved through collective will rather than collective violence. That is what made me a supporter of feminism.

Have men learned from this? Well, some have, but by no means enough.

It seems to me that our world today needs that same spirit once more, but aimed higher: directed at the greatest organised violence, at the worst evil plaguing our world—war itself.

We all know, after all, that mothers are not a nationality, that mothers are not an ideology, that mothers are not divided by the lines on maps. A mother in Kyiv grieves in the same way as a mother in Moscow, in Gaza, in Khartoum, in Donetsk, in Tel Aviv… The pain of losing a child, or of watching a child march towards danger and death, transcends every border, natural or ideological. It strikes me that this shared experience is the most powerful transnational force on earth—if it can be awakened and united.

Once again: I am far from claiming that every mother is a saint. Nor do I assert that every man is a warmonger. But the experience of carrying life, of nurturing it through vulnerability, of knowing in one’s very core what is at stake—that creates a profound instinct for preservation. Study after study shows that women consistently express less support for military escalation than men. When women are included in peace negotiations, agreements prove more durable. When mothers speak with one voice, governments listen.

Thus I have concluded that there is another women’s right, a mothers’ right, that we must establish.

A right that is at the same time a clear and uncompromising message:

Mothers’ Veto: No war without our consent.

In our time, it seems to me entirely natural to grant all mothers this veto power. Mothers should be able to veto decisions that send their children to kill and to die. Mothers should also be able to ensure that their children are not treated as collateral damage in games of power. Ask yourself: should mothers not be admitted to the rooms where decisions are made that mark generations

Imagine for a moment millions of women—across continents, languages, faiths—sharing the same words:

Mothers’ Veto.

Can you picture mothers withdrawing legitimacy from any leader who chooses war over negotiation, destruction over diplomacy? Can you picture mothers today organising, voting, marching, withholding—just as their grandmothers did for the vote?

I can. I have imagined it. I have imagined a law stating that in every political discussion where wars are debated and decisions taken to start them or join them, a certain proportion of the decision-makers must be mothers (at least three, but more depending on the number of participants). One mother should have given birth no more than five years ago; one should have at least two children in their teenage years (between 13 and 19); and one at least two children between 18 and 25—that is, of military age. These mothers should possess, alongside the right to speak and to vote, a veto right attached to the decisions once they are made. This would ensure that in the most momentous discussions and decisions we ever take—those concerning wars on our planet—real power is placed in mothers’ hands. These mothers would be selected at random, like jurors in court. Further details can be refined; the essential point is that the Mothers’ Veto should apply both to wars proper and to every smaller or larger military action, since it is often such actions that lead to wars.

Having imagined this, I suddenly realised what a beautiful world it would be. And now it occurs to me that at least three young people between 18 and 25—those who would be sent to fight—might also be granted a voice and a veto, in the spirit of a “Young People’s Veto”.

Somehow, however, I place greater faith in the mothers at this juncture. And so I wonder: when mothers around the world hear of this idea, will they pass it on to other mothers and claim this veto right for themselves? Or will mothers decide that they do not mind who, today and in the future, makes these greatest and most momentous decisions over the life and death of their children?