The worst thing known to humanity!

THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE IS A WAR CRIME

How a Gold Medal from Scandinavia Became the World’s Most Prestigious Bloodstain

Ahem!

Let us begin with the only truth that has ever mattered, the single immutable fact that stands before all the pageantry and propaganda like a rotting corpse at a wedding feast:

The Nobel Peace Prize is a lie.

It is a lie told in 18-karat gold. It is a lie whispered by diplomats over the screams of the dying. It is a lie woven into the very fabric of our broken world, a story we are forced to swallow so that the architects of our misery can sleep at night.

This is not an award for peace. Do not be fooled by the Latin inscriptions or the solemn Norwegian ceremonies. Peace has nothing to do with it.

This is not a celebration of human goodness. Goodness is too weak, too pure a thing to survive in the same room as this trophy.

This is not a beacon of hope. A beacon guides you to safety. This thing guides you off a cliff while singing a hymn.

It is a gold-plated apology note from empire. A carefully crafted receipt for services rendered in the business of managed suffering. It is a public relations makeover for monsters, a $1.1 million dollar bribe paid to the collective conscience of humanity to forget the screaming, to un-hear the bombs, to un-see the graves. It is the international community’s equivalent of giving a serial arsonist the "Firefighter of the Year" award because he promised, with a solemn handshake, to use slightly less gasoline next time.

I do not care if this article gets me banned from every platform. I do not care about the inevitable think-pieces that will call me an ungrateful, angry radical, a provocateur with no respect for institutions. I do not care about the death threats that will slither into my inbox from retarded liberals who believe civility is a higher virtue than justice, who think a polite conversation over tea is more important than a raw scream of truth. I am so far beyond caring. My reservoir of respect for this pantomime has run dry, fuck this award!

I am here to tell you, in the plainest, most rage-fueled, wrath-drenched language I can summon from the pit of my soul: The Nobel Peace Prize is a moral obscenity. It is a spiritual poison. It is a stain on the very concept of human achievement. It needs to be rescinded, melted down in a public furnace, its ashes gathered and pissed upon by the ghosts of every child incinerated by its winners. It needs to be cursed from memory, its name spoken only as a warning of how low our species can sink when we dress evil in a tuxedo and call it "progress."

This is not criticism. Criticism is for a flawed book or a bland meal. This is my rant for the very idea that powerful institutions have a conscience. This is a declaration of war on a lie that has festered for over a century. This is the final, furious scream before we stop listening to the fairy tales and start facing the blood-soaked reality. Honestly, FUCK THIS STUPID FUCKING PRIZE! AND IF YOU THINK IT’S GOOD, GO KILL YOURSELF!

I. THE FOUNDATION: A MONUMENT BUILT ON GUILT AND GUNPOWDER

The origin story is not noble. It is pathetic. It is the whimpering of a guilty man trying to cheat the afterlife.

Alfred Nobel amassed a fortune of unimaginable scale. How? He invented dynamite. He refined blasting gelatin. He turned the science of explosion into an industry. His factories churned out the tools of demolition—tools that ripped mountains apart, tools that ripped human bodies apart in wars from the Crimea to the colonies. He was not an inventor for peace; he was a merchant of death, a carnage capitalist whose ledger was written in severed limbs and shattered landscapes.

The legend says a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him "the merchant of death," and this shock sparked a crisis. So, in his will, he dedicated his fortune to prize those who "conferred the greatest benefit to humankind."

Stop. Please, just stop and feel the profound, cosmic sickness of this.

The world’s most hallowed award for peace, for literature, for sciences, is funded entirely by guilt money. Its endowment is capital accrued from violence. The principal investment is liquidated suffering. The whole temple is built on a foundation of bones and remorse. It is the ultimate act of hypocrisy: creating a shrine to life with the profits of death. It would be like a slave trader founding a university for human rights, or a poisoner endowing a hospital. The source corrupts the gift. The money is cursed.

The very first Peace Prize, in 1901, went to Henry Dunant, founder of the Red Cross. Think about the grotesque symmetry! Nobel’s dynamite creates the wounds, Dunant’s Red Cross bandages them, and the prize money—from the dynamite profits—pays for the bandages. The violence creates its own alleviation, and everyone gets to feel good about the cycle. The circle is not virtuous; it is vicious. It is a self-licking ice cream cone of moral bankruptcy.

The Nobel Peace Prize was born from a death-merchant’s panic attack. It has never shed that original sin. It is, and always will be, blood money looking for a clean shirt.

II. THE KISSINGER PRECEDENT: THE DAY THE MASK SLIPPED AND REVEALED THE SKULL

1973. Let that year be engraved on the tombstone of this award’s integrity. Let it be a historical marker for the moment the farce became undeniable, the moment the "Peace" Prize openly embraced its opposite.

      Henry Kissinger, the United States’ Secretary of State, a man whose very name is a synonym for cold, calculating realpolitik, wins the Nobel Peace Prize. The citation? For negotiating the Paris Peace Accords, a ceasefire in Vietnam.

      HENRY KISSINGER.

      Let the name hang in the air, heavy with the weight of a hundred thousand ghosts. The chief architect of the secret, illegal, and utterly savage bombing campaigns of Cambodia and Laos (Operations Menu and Freedom Deal). The strategist who championed the "madman theory" of nuclear brinkmanship. The intellectual author of coups that installed murderous dictatorships in Chile, Argentina, and East Timor. The man who viewed human lives as chess pieces, and entire nations as sacrificial pawns.

      They gave the Peace Prize to a man whose career was a masterclass in state-sanctioned murder. They gave it to him while the bombs he ordered were still falling on Cambodian villages.

      The Norwegian committee knew. They knew about the mountains of dead in Southeast Asia. They knew about the disappeared in Santiago. They knew. And they gave him the medal anyway.

      Why? Because the prize’s purpose was never to honor peace. It was to launder reputations. It was to take a man soaked in the blood of peasants and intellectuals, and, through the alchemy of Scandinavian approval, transform him into a "statesman," a "scholar," a "complex thinker." Kissinger’s Nobel was the ultimate whitewash. It was the global establishment giving its most ruthless operator a get-out-of-hell-free card, stamped with a golden seal.

      His win was not an anomaly. It was a revelation. It peeled back the velvet curtain and showed us the machinery: the Peace Prize is a tool of legitimacy for empire. It takes the jagged, horrifying violence of geopolitics and smooths it into a palatable narrative for history books. It turns war criminals into "controversial figures." It turns genocide into "tragic complexity."

      Kissinger’s medal is the award’s original stain, a stain no amount of later, safer choices can ever clean. It is proof positive that the prize is a sham. A sick, twisted joke played on the victims of history.

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III. THE OBAMA FARCE: WHEN HOPE BECAME A BRAND FOR ASSASSINATION

2009. Barack Obama wins the Nobel Peace Prize. He had been President of the United States for nine months. Two hundred and seventy-odd days.

      For what? Read the sickening citation and feel your stomach turn: "For his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples."

      What efforts? What tangible, earth-altering diplomacy? He had given a speech in Cairo. He had said "hope" and "change." He was not George W. Bush. That was it. The committee awarded a mood. A sentiment. A vague, warm feeling that the unipolar assassin might put on a friendlier face.

      It was an award for potential. For what he might do. For the story of him.

      Then, with that gold medallion presumably hanging in the Oval Office, President Obama proceeded to:

• Institutionalize the "Terror Tuesday" ritual, personally poring over "kill lists" and approving robotic death from the skies.
• Expand the drone war into a globe-spanning assassination program, making "targeted killing" a routine, unremarkable feature of American power.
• Bomb seven Muslim-majority nations, an ongoing symphony of destruction.
• Deport more human beings than any president in American history, tearing families apart with cold efficiency.
• Oversee the catastrophic destruction of Libya, reducing a functioning state to a hellscape of warlords and slave markets.
• Watch as the prison at Guantanamo Bay remained open, a permanent monument to lawlessness.

  Let me scream this until my lungs bleed: THE NOBEL COMMITTEE GAVE THE PEACE PRIZE TO THE MAN WHO PERFECTED REMOTE-CONTROL, EXTRAJUDICIAL MURDER.

  They gave it to the Drone President. The man who could order a missile strike on a convoy in Yemen during his morning briefing, then deliver a moving, eloquent eulogy for victims of a shooting that afternoon. The cognitive dissonance is not a bug; it is the core feature of liberal empire. You can be a kind, intelligent, charismatic manager of violence and still be a "man of peace."

  Let that truth sink into the marrow of your bones. Let it shatter any remaining illusion. The medal Obama accepted should have been forged from the shrapnel pulled from that boy’s body. His prize didn't just devalue the award; it exposed the award’s true, hideous nature. It proved that the prize is a prop, a costume for power to wear while it goes about its bloody business.

  Obama’s Nobel is the award’s second death. The death of its last shred of credibility. After this, it was just a hollow piece of metal, a punchline.

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IV. THE COMMITTEE: FIVE BLIND MICE IN A SNOWY PALACE

Who are the high priests of this toxic faith? Who gets to sit in judgment of the world’s suffering and decide whose pain is most "peaceful"?

Five individuals. Appointed by the parliament of Norway.

Let the staggering, laughable arrogance of that wash over you. The moral compass for humanity’s most sacred aspiration—peace—is entrusted to five people from one of the most homogenous, insulated, conflict-free nations on the planet.

Imagine it. Sitting in an elegant room in Oslo, a city where the greatest social crisis is the cost of a latte, surrounded by fjords and social safety nets, deciding whether a doctor in Gaza or a dissident in Hong Kong is more "worthy." These are people from a nation that built its wealth on North Sea oil, fueling the climate catastrophe that will drown the Global South. These are the descendants of a country that negotiated with Nazis to preserve its "neutrality."

And they get to lecture the world on peace? They get to anoint its champions?

This committee is a parody of moral authority. It is a kindergarten class handing out gold stars to firefighters while the school burns down around them. Their perspective is so narrow, so warped by privilege and geographic luck, that their decisions are not merely wrong—they are an active insult to every person actually living in the crucible of conflict. They are the ultimate white saviors, dispensing validation from their snow-capped throne of irrelevance, their good intentions paving a highway straight to hell.

V. THE PATTERN: THE MEDAL OR THE BULLET

The unspoken rubric is clear. To understand who wins, understand what the prize truly rewards.

YOU WIN THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE IF YOU:

1. Are a Western-aligned leader who signs a symbolic, structurally empty treaty (Menachem Begin, Shimon Peres—rewarded for a "peace" that entrenched the occupation of Palestine).
2. Lead a Western institution that professionally manages the horrific fallout of Western violence (The United Nations, the European Union, the World Food Programme).
3. Are a non-violent dissident from an official enemy state (Liu Xiaobo, Aung San Suu Kyi—before she became the genocidaire’s apologist).
4. Are a safely dead, canonized hero of resistance (Martin Luther King Jr.—much less troublesome as a marble statue than as a living, evolving critic).
5. Are Barack Obama.

   YOU GET A BULLET, A CELL, OR OBLIVION INSTEAD IF YOU:

6. Threaten Western capital and extractive interests (Thomas Sankara, Patrice Lumumba).
7. Advocate for revolutionary, systemic change that dismantles power (Malcolm X, Fred Hampton).
8. Lead an anti-colonial resistance while it is still dangerous and uncompromised (The leaders of the Algerian FLN, the Black Panthers, the Zapatistas).
9. Are a living, breathing, inconvenient critic of empire who refuses to be domesticated (Noam Chomsky, Angela Davis, Jeremy Corbyn).

   The Nobel Peace Prize is not for peacemakers. It is for peace-keepers. For those who keep the peace of the established order. It is a tool of co-optation. Give the radical a medal, a check, a speaking tour. Give them a seat at the table. Watch as the fire in their eyes is banked into the gentle glow of "dialogue." Watch as their demands for justice become "policy proposals." Watch as they are absorbed, neutered, and made safe.

   Real peace—the kind that demands reparations, land back, the dismantling of empires and prisons—is never rewarded. It is crushed under boots, silenced in black sites, or disappeared into unmarked graves. The Nobel is the reward you get for making your peace palatable to power. It is the silver leash for the once-wild wolf.

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VI. THE SCIENCE NOBELS: APARTHEID IN A LAB COAT

Do not imagine the rot is confined to Oslo. The science Nobels—Physics, Chemistry, Medicine—are the formal, gilded institutionalization of white supremacy in the academy.

The numbers are a damning indictment: Over 95% of winners are white men. Primarily from the United States and Western Europe.

Where is the Nobel for Dr. Charles Drew, the Black surgeon who pioneered the blood bank system, only to be turned away from "whites-only" hospitals? Where is the Nobel for Rosalind Franklin, whose crucial X-ray diffraction images of DNA were shown without her knowledge to Watson and Crick, who then won the prize? Where are the Nobels for the countless African, Asian, and Latin American scientists solving existential crises of drought, disease, and famine with shoestring budgets and boundless ingenuity?

They do not exist. Because these prizes are not truly about "the greatest benefit to mankind." They are about reinforcing the narrative of Western intellectual supremacy. They are an old boys’ club, a closed circuit of references and reputations, passing the golden baton to their own students and colleagues. A scientist of color must perform miracles of twice the magnitude with one-tenth the resources to even crack the outer orbit of consideration.

It is apartheid, dressed in a lab coat and peer-reviewed. It is a system where a white man can win for discovering a particle another man theorized, while a Black woman who cured a tropical disease dies in obscurity.

VII. 2026: THE CLOWN NOSE CANNOT BE REMOVED

And here we stand, in 2026. The corpse of the prize is still twitching, but the soul is long gone.

The discourse now openly ponders whether Donald Trump—a man whose vocabulary is devoid of peace, whose spirit is animated by division, whose very existence is a rebuttal to human dignity—should have won for the Abraham Accords. Those accords were a real estate deal between authoritarian regimes, a photo-op that formalized alliances while explicitly abandoning the Palestinian people to their fate.

The fact this is a serious conversation in some circles is the final proof. The pretense is obliterated. The Nobel Peace Prize is now openly acknowledged as a geopolitical trinket, a bauble to be offered to strongmen as a flattering token. It has no moral weight left. It is a shiny coin in the gutter of realpolitik, and we are all being asked to pretend it’s a holy relic.

Recent "winners" like María Corina Machado—the Venezuelan opposition figure who openly declared Donald Trump "deserved" the Peace Prize—are less than winners. They are symptoms of the terminal disease. Let's cut through the propaganda: she isn't a peacemaker. She is a geopolitical pawn, a Washington-approved face for regime change, a candidate whose entire platform is "not Maduro," and whose vision of "peace" aligns perfectly with the crushing of her nation's sovereignty under the boot of foreign intervention. The committee isn't rewarding peace; it's rewarding alignment. It's giving a gold star to the designated protagonist in America's sanctioned, resource-extraction melodrama. This is the final, pathetic stage: the award is now a blunt instrument of soft power, handed to whichever opposition figure the West anoints this season. They are still in the business of creating laureates, but now the qualification isn't even a hollow peace treaty—it's simply being on the correct side of a new Cold War. They are writing checks that will be cashed in the chaos of collapsed states and proxy conflicts.

If Abu Mohammed al-Jolani were to win it next, I’m just going to end myself. I swear.

VIII. WHAT MUST BE DONE: A CALL FOR HOLY DESTRUCTION

We are decades past the point of polite reform. We are past signing petitions. We are past hoping the guardians of this lie will experience a sudden awakening.

I hope the Nobel Peace Prize is annihilated.

Not reformed. Not ignored. Not tweaked. Annihilated. Erased from the ledger of respectable things.

1. The Great Rescinding: A global, cacophonous campaign to formally strip the medals from the war criminals. Kissinger. Obama. Abiy Ahmed. Turn the award ceremony on its head. Hold a public tribunal, broadcast for the world to see, where the victims and historians present the evidence, and the medals are physically taken back. Let shame be the only prize they keep.
2. Reparations, Not Rewards: Seize the prize fund. Every last million of that blood money. And each year, give it not to a laureate, but to reparations funds controlled by the victims of Nobel laureates’ policies. Kissinger’s money to Cambodian genocide survivors. Obama’s to the families of drone strike victims across the Middle East. Turn the guilt money against itself, a poisoned arrow shot back at the archer.
3. The Monument of the Un-awarded: Erect a permanent counter-monument. A stark, black wall, ever-growing, inscribed with the names of every true peacemaker who was murdered, imprisoned, disappeared, or ignored because their vision of peace was too dangerous, too pure, too real.
4. Dissolve the Temple: The committee of five Norwegians must resign. Not retire. Resign in disgrace. The selection authority must be dissolved. If a prize must exist (and it likely shouldn’t), its judges must be a rotating global panel of grassroots activists, community historians, and survivors of conflict—primarily from the Global South. Or, better yet, let the whole concept die.
5. The Nuclear Truth: Reject its authority completely. Make winning it a mark of profound shame. Let the final act be a true peacemaker accepting the medal only to melt it down on live television, forging the gold into medical instruments for a war zone. Let the last image of the Nobel Peace Prize be its transformation from a symbol of hypocrisy into a tool of actual healing.

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THE FINAL, SCORCHING, MENTAL-BREAKDOWN-INTO-MICROPHONE TRUTH

Let’s stop fucking around.

Let’s drop the measured tone, the academic critique, the clever metaphors. Let’s get down to the raw, ugly, screaming nerve.

The Nobel Peace Prize is a cancer. A malignant, glittering tumor growing on the brainstem of our global conscience. It is the ultimate proof that we have built a world where evil doesn’t just win—it gets a standing ovation, a gold medal, and a seven-figure check. It is the most sophisticated, most prestigious con job in human history.

I am so goddamn tired. I am tired of seeing killers in tuxedos. I am tired of hearing genocidal maniacs described as “complex statesmen.” I am tired of watching the machinery of empire take a shit on a velvet pillow and call it a “legacy.”

This prize is a spit in the face of every single person who has ever bled for justice. It is a middle finger raised to every grave, every empty chair at a family table, every scream that faded unheard into the dirt of a forgotten village.

It makes me want to burn things down.

The committee? Those five smug, cosseted Norwegians playing God from their snow-globe of privilege? They aren’t misguided. They are complicit. They are active participants in the whitewashing of atrocity. Every time they place that ribbon around the neck of a butcher, they dip their hands in the same blood. They are not judges; they are accessories after the fact. They provide the alibi. They hand the killer the “Citizen of the Year” award as the body cools at his feet.

They need to be gone. Not replaced. Erased. The entire institution needs to be dismantled, brick by fucking brick, and the ground it stood on salted so nothing this poisonous ever grows again. I don’t want a better committee. I want a mob with torches and pitchforks outside their Oslo office. I want their names to become synonyms for moral cowardice. I want their legacy to be the laughter of ghosts they tried to silence with a medal.

This isn’t about catharsis. Catharsis implies a release. A cleansing. There is no cleansing this. The more I write, the more I think about Kissinger’s smirk, Obama’s serene acceptance speech over a backdrop of drone feeds, the sheer, breathtaking gall of it all… the hotter the rage burns. It doesn’t purify. It scorches. It calcifies into a permanent, white-hot hatred for the entire architecture of lies.

We live in hell. A hell decorated with peace prizes. A hell where the soundtrack is Nobel acceptance speeches given by men who order deaths by the thousand. A hell where we are all forced to watch, year after year, as the worst of us are crowned the best of us.

I’m done watching.

Close the book? No. Burn the fucking library. Stop listening to the liars? No. Scream so loud it shatters their microphones. It’s not enough to ignore the temple. We need to tear it down, use the rubble to build gallows, and let the world watch what happens to priests who worship blood-money and call it holiness.

There is no truth left in that medal. There is only the reflection of our own collective shame for ever believing in it.

Fuck your medal. Fuck your committee. Fuck your lie. I hope the ghosts haunt you forever. I hope the gold melts in your hands.

Allen FriedReads.com | No peace with war criminals. 2026