The annual migration of the global elite to the Swiss Alps has once again commenced, proving that if you have enough money, you can buy a climate-controlled bubble where reality is merely a suggestion. This year’s Davos circus—officially the World Economic Forum, but colloquially known to those with eyes as the Circle-Jerk in the Snow—features the usual suspects: billionaires who think they’re philosophers and politicians who think they’re relevant. But this year, the script includes a special, dark twist: a staged performance of "peace" and a Balkan forecast of a messy continental breakup. It is a spectacle of the highest order, designed to distract from the fact that the world is currently being steered by people who couldn't find their own moral compass with a GPS and a team of Sherpas.

First, let us observe the touching tableau of the Armenian and Azerbaijani leadership. After decades of territorial disputes, ethnic cleansing, drone-assisted carnage, and enough displacement to fill a dozen luxury hotels, Nikol Pashinyan and Ilham Aliyev decided the best place to showcase their newfound camaraderie was a Euronews panel. There is something uniquely revolting about watching the architects of regional misery swap smiles in a room that smells of expensive cologne and profound moral decay. This isn't diplomacy; it’s a high-altitude rebrand. They aren't seeking "peace" in any sense that involves the actual well-being of the humans living on their borders; they are seeking a seat at the table where the real global loot is divvied up. The "historic" peace deal, heralded by the Davos sycophants, is simply a logistical adjustment for the energy markets. The blood on the ground in the Caucasus hasn’t even dried, yet the ink on the trade agreements is already flowing with the help of crisp Swiss mountain air. It’s a masterclass in performative amnesia, where the winners write the script and the losers are simply edited out of the panel’s final cut.

Meanwhile, on another stage, Serbian President Aleksandar Vučić decided to play the role of the jilted lover, warning of a "US-Europe divorce." One has to admire the sheer, unmitigated gall of a Balkan leader lecturing the world on stability and long-term relationships. Vučić’s warning isn't an act of visionary insight; it’s a cynical tactical maneuver. He sees the Atlantic alliance fraying and, like any good opportunist who has spent a career navigating the wreckage of the Yugoslav wars, he’s pointing at the cracks to see what might fall through. The idea that the United States and Europe are heading for a split is hardly a revelation—anyone with a functioning brain and an internet connection has seen the mutual resentment simmering for years. But hearing it articulated in Davos adds a layer of delicious irony. The very people who built the neoliberal globalist order are now sitting in plush chairs, nodding solemnly as they discuss its impending funeral.

The "US-Europe divorce" is the inevitable conclusion of a marriage built on convenience and a shared fear of the Soviet ghost. Europe is the aging spouse who spent all the money on social safety nets, high-speed rail, and expensive wine while relying on the American partner to pay for the home security system and the military-industrial complex. Now, the American partner has become a paranoid, self-obsessed, and increasingly volatile mess, and the Europeans are terrified they’ll have to actually defend their own borders without a nuclear nanny. Vučić, ever the cynical observer, knows that in the chaos of a messy breakup, the neighbors can usually steal some of the garden furniture or settle some old scores. He isn't worried about the divorce; he’s calculating the alimony and the potential for new, more lucrative side-hustles with the East.

This is the essence of Davos: a series of panels where the world’s most pressing problems are discussed by the people who caused them, in a language designed to say absolutely nothing. They talk about "rebuilding trust," a phrase as vacuous as "synergy" or "mindfulness" in a corporate boardroom. Trust isn't rebuilt by men in suits sipping sparkling water while their respective nations prepare for the next inevitable skirmish. It’s a transaction. The Armenian-Azerbaijani peace is a transaction. The Serbian warning is a transaction. Everything is a trade, and the currency is the gullibility of the masses who still believe that these people are the adults in the room. The reality is that the room is full of toddlers with nuclear codes and investment portfolios, playing a game of pretend while the rest of us pay the admission price.

The "peace" being hailed is merely a pause in the cycle of violence, a brief intermission for the cameras so the investment portfolios can be rebalanced. We are expected to applaud because two men who hate each other managed not to strangle one another on stage. The bar for human decency is so low it’s subterranean. We are living in an era where the absence of immediate murder is considered a grand diplomatic achievement worth a standing ovation. And as the West fractures, as Vučić predicts, we will see more of these desperate performances. The Davos crowd will continue to host their panels, the champagne will continue to flow, and the world will continue its slow, predictable slide into a new kind of feudalism. It’s not that the end is near; it’s that the end is being monetized, packaged into a forty-five-minute discussion, and sold back to us as progress. Looking at the smiles in Switzerland, I’m rooting for the divorce. At least then the screaming will be honest.