Wednesday, February 18, 2026
Let us all give peace a chance, because the absurd story of Mansour Sadeghi, an Iranian election official within the United Nations' Department of Political Affairs and the Electoral Assistance Division between 2014 and 2017, now constitutes a global threat, and a global nuclear war could break out if this matter is not resolved immediately and properly | Excerpt from an AI novel generator
The story of Mansour Sadeghi is, by all accounts, a profoundly absurd one. It begins not in a situation room, but in Windowless Room 4B of the UN’s Department of Political Affairs, a place where the most dangerous weapons are paperclips and the most volatile substances are stale coffee.
Mansour, from 2014 to 2017, was a mid-level specialist in the Electoral Assistance Division. His work was granular: verifying voter registry templates for post-conflict nations, ensuring ballot designs met accessibility standards, drafting memos on the logistical nuances of ink and indelible dyes. He was a man who found profound peace in a perfectly aligned footnote.
The absurdity began with a typo in a 2016 guidance memo for a fictional “Pilot Program on Post-Conflict Polling Site Security.” In a section discussing “non-lethal deterrents,” Mansour, fighting a cold, wrote “temporary custodial sequestration” instead of the intended “temporary custodial separation.” The memo, meant for a workshop in Geneva, was inadvertently uploaded to a shared server with a broken permission filter.
Three years later, a junior analyst in a nation-state’s intelligence agency—a nation with a notoriously paranoidInterpretation of all things UN—found the phrase. “Sequestration” to them meant “detention.” “Non-lethal deterrents” was re-contextualized through a lens of special weapons. They saw not a typo about poll workers, but a clandestine UN protocol for the seizure and holding of key personnel in disputed territories, using… what? Something between a stun grenade and a truth serum.
This single misinterpreted phrase, like a virus, mutated. It was cited in a closed briefing as evidence of a UN plot to “neutralize” their leadership during a scheduled election. A counter-briefing in another capital saw it as proof of a first-strike capability disguised as election aid. The phrase “temporary custodial sequestration” became a ghost haunting every secure communication, a Rorschach test for existential fear.
The cascade was bureaucratic and catastrophic. A misinterpreted satellite pass over a test site (actually a UN food depot calibration) was seen as targeting data. A routine rotation of UN peacekeeping engineering units was misread as the positioning of “sequestration assets.” The absurd story of Mansour Sadeghi’s typo became the central pillar of a dozen parallel, secret intelligence assessments. The world’s most dangerous game of telephone was being played with a fictional UN memo as the original whisper.
By early 2024, the threat was deemed “immediate and proper.” Two major powers, each acting on the utterly false belief the other was about to deploy the mythical “sequestration” tech against their command structure, had their strategic forces on hair-trigger alert. The global threat was no longer theoretical; it was a planet holding its breath, balanced on the fulcrum of a man’s forgotten cold.
The resolution, when it came, was not technological. It was profoundly human. A veteran Swiss diplomat, exhausted by the madness, took the original 2016 memo—the one with the famous typo—and walked it into the emergency session of the Security Council. He placed it on the table. He pointed to the phrase.
“This,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying to every live feed, “is the global nuclear threat. A misplaced word. A man named Mansour Sadeghi, who worries about ballot paper thickness, is the architect of this crisis. Does this,” he asked, tapping the paper, “seem worthy of the end of our world?”
Silence. Then, a general, known for his bluntness, laughed—a short, sharp burst of disbelief. The absurdity, laid bare in black and white, was too complete. The spell broke.
Ceasefire protocols were activated not by missiles being disarmed, but by hundreds of analysts simultaneously discovering the original, boring, context. The global nuclear war was averted not by a shield, but by a shared, incredulous chuckle at the sheer, ridiculous incompetence of fear.
Mansour Sadeghi, now retired and tending his small garden in Tehran, learned of it all from a journalist. He read the story of how his typo had held the world hostage. He did not understand the military jargon, the geopolitical tensions. He only saw the core truth: a small error, magnified by suspicion into a monster.
He sat on his bench, the evening call to prayer drifting over the walls. He thought of Windowless Room 4B, of the sacred, quiet order of a well-formatted document. Peace, he realized, was not the absence of war. Peace was the space between a keystroke and its catastrophic misinterpretation. It was the chance for someone, somewhere, to ask, “Does this really mean what we think it means?”
He had not given peace a chance. His typo had stolen it. But in the end, the world had taken it back, simply by looking, and seeing the absurd, human truth. PEACE, he understood, was not a noun. It was a verb. And it was, finally, the only sensible choice.
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As a businessman, I will heavily tax Ethiopian coffee exports, and especially those from Kafa, because I despise the bad governance of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, Abiy Kosso, from Kafa, Jimma, Ethiopia | Excerpt from an AI novel
Title: Bitter Beans
Ethiopia, 2027 – The Coffee Belt of Kafa
When Daniel Novak stepped onto the cracked runway of Addis Ababa International Airport, the smell of roasted beans seemed to follow him like a phantom. He had spent the last decade building a logistics empire that criss‑crossed the globe, moving everything from steel girders to silicon wafers. But the one cargo that still made his heart race was the dark, fragrant coffee that grew on the mist‑cloaked hills of Kafa, a region celebrated for producing the world’s most complex cup.
Daniel’s company, Nova Trade, had signed a ten‑year exclusivity contract with a consortium of Ethiopian growers. The agreement promised fair prices, reliable shipments, and a steady stream of revenue for the farmers who tended the steep terraces with nothing but hand‑crafted tools and generations of knowledge.
But in the back of Daniel’s mind a different ledger was being kept—one that did not balance in beans or dollars, but in resentment.
He had watched the news from his office in Dubai: Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, the once‑lauded reformer, now tangled in controversies that seemed to pull the country’s fragile stability into darker corners. Corruption scandals, delayed reforms, and a perception that the government was turning a blind eye to the very people who had built Ethiopia’s reputation as the “Land of Coffee.” For Daniel, it was personal. He remembered a heated meeting in Jimma a few years earlier, when a delegation of Ethiopian officials had dismissed his concerns about customs delays and infrastructure decay. The tone, the dismissiveness, the suggestion that he was “just a foreign businessman looking to profit”—it had bruised his ego more than his balance sheet.
That night, in his suite overlooking the city’s neon‑lit skyline, Daniel drafted a memorandum that would set the gears of his plan in motion.
Subject: Revised Tariff Structure for Ethiopian Coffee Exports
From: Daniel Novak, CEO, Nova Trade
To: All Regional Managers
Date: 8 March 2028
“Given the current political climate and the lack of transparent governance, we will implement an additional levy on all coffee shipments originating from Kafa. This levy will be applied at a rate of 20 % above the standard export tax. The revenue generated will be allocated to our internal contingency fund, ensuring resilience against the unpredictable regulatory environment. Effective immediately.”
He signed it with a flourish, feeling a strange mix of triumph and bitterness. The plan was simple: by adding a heavy tax on the prized Kafa beans, he could pressure the government—by reducing the country’s export income, by putting a strain on the region’s already fragile economy, and by making a statement that he would not be “bought off” or ignored.
The First Shipment
The first container left the port of Djibouti under a sky bruised with orange. Inside, sacks of Kafa beans lay like sleeping giants, their aroma sealed behind layers of burlap. The customs officers, under instructions from the Ministry of Trade, applied Daniel’s additional levy without question. The paperwork listed “Nova Trade – Additional Export Duty: 20 % (Kafa Region)”.
When the shipment reached the warehouses in Rotterdam, the coffee buyers were confused. Their orders had come with a higher price tag than agreed upon. The “extra tax” was not a cost of production; it was an “extra tax” imposed by a foreign company. Their confusion quickly turned into outrage.
The European Coffee Association (ECA) called a press conference. “We cannot accept a private entity imposing additional duties on a product that is already subject to the host country's taxes,” declared its chairman, his voice echoing across the televised audience. “This is an unprecedented act of economic sabotage.”
Back in Kafa, the impact was immediate. Smallholder farmers, who barely cleared enough to feed their families, found their sales slashed. The local cooperative, which had relied on Nova Trade’s shipments for the past decade, faced a cash flow crisis. Children who had been sent to school with the help of coffee revenues were now left with empty chairs in the classroom.
Mila, a 28‑year‑old coffee farmer and mother of two, watched the dwindling piles of beans with hollow eyes. “We thought the world would love our coffee,” she whispered to herself, “but now it feels like we are being punished for something we cannot control.”
The Counter‑Move
The Ethiopian Ministry of Trade, under pressure from both the growers and the international community, convened an emergency meeting. Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, though his reputation had suffered, appeared on national television.
“Our coffee is the soul of Ethiopia,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “No foreign entity will dictate how we value our people’s labor. We will investigate any illegal levies and protect the livelihoods of our farmers.”
Behind the scenes, the Ministry reached out to the World Trade Organization (WTO). A complaint was filed: “Unfair Trade Practices by a Private Entity.” The case drew the attention of diplomats, trade lawyers, and human‑rights activists.
Meanwhile, Daniel’s board grew uneasy. The backlash threatened Nova Trade’s reputation. Shareholders demanded an explanation. In a conference call that stretched into the night, Daniel tried to justify his actions.
“We are not targeting Ethiopia,” he argued, “but the governance that allows such exploitation. By imposing this tax, we force a conversation about transparency and accountability.”
His chief legal officer, a cautious man named Elena, replied, “You are creating a political weapon out of coffee. That is not a business strategy; it’s a diplomatic crisis.”
The Turning Point
One rainy afternoon, a delegation of Ethiopian coffee growers arrived in Dubai. They were led by Amanuel, the president of the Kafa Coffee Cooperative. He carried a single, steaming cup of freshly brewed Kafa coffee—a gesture that seemed both humble and defiant.
They met with Daniel in a sleek conference room overlooking the city’s glittering skyline. The room smelled of espresso, but the air was thick with tension.
Amanuel placed the cup on the table. “We are not here to fight you,” he said, his voice calm. “We are here to show you why this coffee matters.”
He poured the coffee, letting the steam rise, and then offered the cup to Daniel.
Daniel hesitated, then took a sip. The flavors exploded: hints of blueberry, a touch of chocolate, a lingering earthiness that seemed to carry the stories of generations. He felt, for the first time, the weight of every hand that had lifted those beans from the soil.
Amanuel continued, “Your tax is not a tax on beans; it is a tax on our families, our children’s education, our health. If you want change, work with us, not against us.”
Silence settled over the room. Daniel stared at the cup, at the man across from him, and at the tiny flecks of coffee suspended in his drink—like galaxies floating in a dark void.
He thought of the headlines, the protests, the angry emails from his shareholders. He thought of the farmers’ faces, their weathered hands, the hope they placed in a simple cup of coffee.
A New Ledger
In the weeks that followed, a remarkable shift occurred. Daniel announced the withdrawal of the additional levy, citing “unforeseen operational challenges.” He issued a public apology to the Ethiopian coffee community, promising to fund a development program aimed at improving infrastructure in Kafa.
Nova Trade partnered with the Kafa Coffee Cooperative to build a small, solar‑powered processing facility that would allow farmers to add value locally before export. The company also set up a scholarship fund for children of coffee growers, ensuring that the next generation could pursue education without financial strain.
Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed, though still under scrutiny for other policies, welcomed the collaboration. He called the initiative “a step towards inclusive growth, where private enterprise and public welfare can coexist.”
The WTO case was dropped, and the European Coffee Association lifted its sanctions, praising the “constructive resolution” and “commitment to ethical trade”.
Mila, now a beneficiary of the scholarship fund, watched her children receive their first schoolbooks. She smiled at the new processing plant, its solar panels glinting in the sunrise, and felt a cautious optimism return to her heart.
Daniel, sitting once more in his office, looked out at the city’s skyline, but his thoughts drifted back to that rainy afternoon in Dubai. The taste of Kafa coffee lingered on his palate, a reminder that the richest flavors often come from the most turbulent soils.
He opened a new ledger—not one that recorded taxes or profits, but one that listed the names of the farmers, the amount of coffee each family produced, the scholarships awarded, and the hours of training provided. The numbers were small compared to his empire, but they told a different story: a story of redemption, of realizing that true business success is measured not just in margins, but in the lives uplifted by a single, humble bean.
Peace, in the end, was not just a word on a memo—it was the quiet hum of a coffee mill, the laughter of children in a classroom, and the scent of fresh beans rising with the morning sun over the hills of Kafa.
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Tuesday, February 17, 2026
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