Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney praised the strengths of the middle powers in his special address at Davos 2026. (World Economic Forum / Ciaran McCrickard)
Mark Carney’s address at Davos has been widely received as a moment of truth-telling. In a world where political leaders often rely on euphemism and denial, it was striking to hear a Canadian prime minister acknowledge, plainly, that the so-called “rules-based international order” has been applied selectively. He conceded that powerful states have exempted themselves when it suited them; that rules are enforced unevenly depending on who is accused or harmed; and that the language of universal values has often concealed coercion. This diagnosis is not wrong. It is long overdue.
But what matters is not only what Carney says. It is what his speech reveals about where the West is willing to locate the crisis,and what kind of “reset” it is prepared to pursue.
Carney invokes Václav Havel’s image of the greengrocer who displays the slogan “Workers of the world unite” in his shop window as a signal of compliance. The greengrocer does not necessarily believe the slogan; he displays it to survive. Havel describes this as “living within a lie”. Carney urges countries and companies to “take their signs down”, framing this as a moral turning point and an invitation to live “within the truth”.
The rhetoric is compelling but it is also revealing. The symbol Carney selects to represent falsehood is not the flag of empire, the branding of global finance or the diplomatic cover that shields powerful allies from consequence. It is a worker’s slogan. Even in a speech that gestures towards reform, the moral lesson is subtly directed downwards. The world is invited to embrace “truth” but the first sign to be removed is the language of labour and solidarity.
This is not a trivial choice. It tells us which anxieties are permitted at Davos and which remain unspeakable. It signals whose interests the proposed “reset” is ultimately designed to stabilise.
Carney speaks candidly about coercion: the weaponisation of trade, the use of tariffs as leverage, the role of financial infrastructure in enforcing compliance. He calls for “strategic autonomy” and new coalitions of so-called middle powers. Yet he presents these dynamics as recent distortions of an otherwise sound system, rather than as the predictable outcome of a global economic order built to concentrate power, extract value and enforce obedience when persuasion fails. Coercion is not a flaw in the system. It is how the system maintains itself.
This raises the central question his speech leaves unanswered: who is protected and who is ignored?
Carney’s language is clearest and most urgent when the threatened sovereignty lies within the white world. He speaks firmly about Greenland and Denmark, positioning Canada as a defender of territorial integrity in the Arctic. He names the danger directly, calls for security measures and leaves no ambiguity about who deserves solidarity when power encroaches.
Yet as a catastrophic assault unfolds in Gaza, in full view of the world, this clarity disappears. The urgency fades. The moral courage, we are told, becomes complicated.
As a South African, this pattern is familiar. Conscience often awakens not because oppression has become newly visible but because instability has begun to feel contagious. Violations of international law are tolerated when they occur in distant places, against people long treated as disposable. But when the precedent threatens the political geography of the West itself, the rules suddenly matter. Sovereignty becomes sacred. Coercion becomes a threat to “order”.
South Africa did not approach this crisis as an abstraction. We approached it as practice, and at risk. We took Israel to the International Court of Justice because we believe international law must apply to the powerful as well as the weak. That decision was not symbolic. It carried political and economic costs. It is precisely the kind of choice Carney claims the world must make if it is serious about living “within the truth”.
We were not alone. States across the Global South and beyond have stepped forward to defend a simple principle: that mass atrocity cannot be shielded by alliances; that victims do not become less human because their oppressor is powerful; and that international law cannot mean anything if it is selectively applied.
If Canada wishes to persuade the world that it is genuinely committed to repairing the international order, there is a straightforward test: join that legal stand. Not through speeches or abstract declarations, but where the rules are being tested, under conditions of real consequence.
The difficulty is that the “reset” now being offered appears designed to avoid precisely such costs. It allows critique within safe limits. It acknowledges hypocrisy without naming the case that exposes it most starkly. It recognises uneven enforcement of the law, while sidestepping the clearest example of that unevenness.
This is why many in the Global South receive Western renewal speeches with a familiar exhaustion. The pattern is well known: admit enough truth to restore legitimacy, then present the West as architect of the next order. The centre of power remains intact, even as it adopts the language of reform. The invitation is extended but the terms, framing and boundaries remain firmly controlled from above.
The deeper problem is not that Canada is speaking. It is the assumption that global repair must still be led by those who benefited most from the failures of the old order. It is the insistence that legitimacy and credibility continue to flow from North to South, rather than the other way around.
The world does need coalition-building. It does need middle powers willing to resist domination. It does need institutional reform. But none of this can be built on selective outrage or moral hierarchy. It cannot begin with Greenland while treating Gaza as optional. It cannot claim to defend a rules-based system while refusing to apply those rules to allies.
A serious global reset would begin with consistency. It would treat international law as law, not as theatre. It would support Security Council reform to dismantle veto power that has paralysed accountability for decades. It would strengthen international courts rather than undermining them when they threaten powerful interests. It would confront financial coercion not as an unfortunate by-product, but as a structural feature of an economic order designed to discipline dissent.
And it would acknowledge a truth the Global South has never had the luxury to forget: any order that protects the powerful first is not new. It is simply the old one, refurbished.
Canada now faces a choice. It can offer eloquent speeches and managed reforms that preserve existing foundations. Or it can stand where the rules are being tested, where the costs are real, and where the world will judge whether this talk of “truth” is anything more than another performance of virtue.
Because the real question is not whether Canada can diagnose hypocrisy. It is whether Canada is willing to stop participating in it.
Nigel Branken is a South African social worker, pastor and human rights activist based in Johannesburg. He works closely with refugee and migrant communities, supporting survivors of violence and advocating for dignity, equality and access to justice. He is the founder of Ordinary Activist, a platform focused on public education and accountability in the face of racism, xenophobia and state violence. He has been involved in grassroots organising and national advocacy on migration justice, healthcare access, and the protection of children and families, and regularly writes and speaks on power, international law and the moral responsibilities of states.