One must almost admire the terrifying consistency of the Australian political psyche. It is a nation forever in search of a master, a sun-drenched outpost of insecurities perpetually looking for a larger, louder hegemon to tell it that its existence matters. The latest dalliance involves the so-called ‘board of peace’—a title so transparently Orwellian it suggests that the ghost of 1984 has taken up a residency as a branding consultant in Mar-a-Lago. To suggest, as recent warnings have, that Australia joining this troupe of tragicomic actors would be a ‘serious mistake’ is akin to suggesting that jumping into a woodchipper might be ‘suboptimal’ for one’s complexion. It is not merely a mistake; it is a structural failure of the imagination, a desperate leap into a void where diplomacy goes to die and be replaced by the aesthetics of the strongman.

The cast of this impending pantomime is, of course, the usual collection of the world’s most exhausting egos. Vladimir Putin, Viktor Orbán, and Donald Trump—a trinity of narcissism that views the concept of ‘peace’ not as the absence of conflict, but as the total silence of opposition. To see Australia even hovering near the orbit of this ‘board’ is to witness a middle power having a mid-life crisis of global proportions. There is no benefit here, only the grim, inevitable gravity of association. One does not sit down at a table with men who view international law as a series of ‘suggestions’ and expect to walk away with one’s sovereignty intact. You do not negotiate with a hurricane; you simply hope your roof stays on. Australia, however, seems intent on opening all the windows just to see what the wind tastes like.

The warning that tying the nation to the worst excesses of a potential second Trump regime would be an act of ‘national sabotage’ is arguably the most honest sentence written in Canberra in a decade. Yet, honesty in politics is like a fine wine at a fraternity party—unappreciated and quickly spilled. The tragedy of the Australian position is the belief that by joining this ‘board of peace,’ they might somehow mitigate the chaos. It is a classic delusion of the intellectual class: the idea that the ‘adults in the room’ can restrain the impulses of men who have spent their entire lives burning rooms down for the insurance money. There are no adults left in this room; there are only sycophants, grifters, and the deeply confused, all jostling for a glimpse of the camera.

From a European perspective, the spectacle is particularly grim. We have seen this brand of populism before; we have the scars and the crumbling monuments to prove it. The ‘board of peace’ is nothing more than a mutual admiration society for the illiberal. It is a mechanism for normalizing the abnormal, a way to dress up the dismantling of the post-war order in the tawdry costume of ‘stability.’ For Australia to volunteer for a role in this theatre of the absurd is to ignore every lesson of the twentieth century. It is an admission that the ‘lucky country’ has finally run out of luck and is now resorting to gambling its future on the whims of a man who views an alliance as something to be liquidated if the quarterly numbers don't look right.

There is, of course, the exquisite irony of the term ‘peace’ itself. In the lexicon of this new global right, ‘peace’ is simply the word used to describe a surrender that hasn't been finalized yet. It is the peace of the graveyard, the stability of the suppressive. To join this board is to endorse a world where might is not just right, but the only thing left on the menu. Australia’s flirtation with this idea reveals a profound exhaustion with the complexities of actual diplomacy. It is much easier, after all, to simply follow the loudest voice in the room than it is to navigate the treacherous waters of principled foreign policy. But when that loud voice belongs to someone who views the globe as a series of real estate deals and personal slights, the destination is rarely a safe harbor.

We are witnessing the final, gasping breaths of the liberal international order, and Australia is frantically trying to figure out which funeral guest list it belongs on. The ‘serious mistake’ has already been made; it was made the moment we began to treat these absurdities as legitimate policy options. The ‘board of peace’ is not a solution; it is a symptom of a world that has lost its sense of irony and replaced it with a desperate, flailing need for certainty, no matter how toxic that certainty may be. As the theatre lights dim and the tragicomic actors take their places, one can only watch with a weary sigh. Australia may get its seat at the table, but it will quickly find that the only thing being served is its own relevance, sliced thin and served cold to a room full of people who don't even know its name.