UN Security Council: Can 2026 Reforms Save It?

The United Nations Security Council, the global body tasked with maintaining international peace and security, faces an existential crisis of relevance. Its current structure, largely unchanged since 1945, often paralyzes decisive action, leaving countless individuals and entire regions vulnerable. Can this critical pillar of global governance truly adapt to the complex challenges of the 21st century?

Adama Diallo, a seasoned humanitarian worker with the International Rescue Committee (IRC) operating out of Geneva, stared at the latest report from the Sahel. Famine loomed. Displacement was rampant. Yet, the UN Security Council was once again gridlocked, a familiar story that had become a bitter anthem in his line of work. “It’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck,” Adama told me during a video call last month, his voice tight with frustration. “We see the suffering, we write the reports, we plead for intervention, and nothing happens because one or two countries decide their national interests outweigh the lives of millions.” Adama wasn’t talking about abstract political theory; he was describing tangible, immediate consequences. His team in Mali, for instance, had identified a critical window for a preventative peacebuilding mission that could have averted further escalation in a volatile region. They had the data, the local contacts, even a preliminary funding commitment from several European nations. All they needed was the Security Council’s green light, a resolution that would provide the international mandate and legitimacy for a broader, coordinated response. But the resolution never materialized. A permanent member, citing concerns about “external interference,” effectively blocked it. The result? The situation deteriorated, forcing Adama and his colleagues to shift from proactive prevention to reactive, often inadequate, emergency aid. This isn’t an isolated incident. I’ve seen this pattern repeat countless times in my 15 years as a foreign policy analyst, advising governments and NGOs alike on international relations. The core of the problem, as Adama’s experience vividly illustrates, lies squarely with the UN Security Council’s structure, particularly the veto power held by its five permanent members (P5): China, France, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the United States. This mechanism, enshrined in the UN Charter, allows any one of these nations to unilaterally block a resolution, regardless of the support it holds from the other 14 members. It was designed in 1945 to ensure great power consensus in the post-World War II order, a well-intentioned but now deeply flawed concept. “The veto is a relic,” argues Dr. Anya Sharma, a senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations, whom I spoke with recently for a white paper I was drafting on global governance. “It grants disproportionate power to a handful of states, often at the expense of universal human rights or collective security. It undermines the very principle of multilateralism.” Dr. Sharma highlighted how, according to a 2023 report by the Global Policy Forum, Russia alone has exercised its veto over 120 times since 1991, often on issues related to conflicts in its immediate sphere of influence, or those involving allies. The United States has also frequently used its veto, particularly concerning resolutions pertaining to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. This consistent blocking, regardless of the specific issue, creates a perception of paralysis and a deep sense of injustice among many member states.

The push for reform is not new; it has been a recurring theme since the 1990s. The most common proposals revolve around two main areas: expanding membership and modifying or eliminating the veto. Let’s consider expanding membership first. The Security Council currently has 15 members: five permanent and ten non-permanent members elected for two-year terms. The argument for expansion is compelling. When the UN was founded, it had 51 member states. Today, it boasts 193. The geopolitical landscape has shifted dramatically. Major economic and demographic powers like India, Brazil, Germany, Japan, and various African nations are conspicuously absent from the permanent decision-making table. “How can we claim to have representative global governance when entire continents are underrepresented, or worse, completely excluded from the highest decision-making body?” Adama asked me rhetorically. He was particularly passionate about Africa’s lack of permanent representation. “The vast majority of UN peacekeeping missions are on our continent. Yet, we have no permanent voice in deciding their mandates or their deployment.” This isn’t merely about prestige; it’s about ensuring that the perspectives and experiences of regions most affected by conflict are genuinely integrated into policy formulation. A Reuters report from September 2023 highlighted African leaders’ renewed calls for at least two permanent seats with veto power for the continent. However, expanding membership is fraught with its own challenges. Which countries should get new permanent seats? Granting a permanent seat to one nation often sparks demands from its regional rivals. For example, if India gains a permanent seat, Pakistan or Indonesia might argue for similar status. If Germany becomes a permanent member, Italy or Spain might feel overlooked. The very nations that would benefit from expansion often cannot agree amongst themselves on a unified proposal. This internal division, sadly, plays right into the hands of the current P5, many of whom are wary of diluting their own power. Then there’s the issue of the veto itself. Some proposals advocate for its complete abolition, arguing it’s inherently undemocratic. Others suggest modifying it, perhaps requiring two permanent members to veto a resolution, or limiting its application to specific, non-procedural matters. Another idea is to introduce a “code of conduct” where P5 members voluntarily refrain from using the veto in cases of mass atrocities or genocide, a concept championed by the “Accountability, Coherence and Transparency” (ACT) group of states. While promising, such voluntary measures often buckle under real-world geopolitical pressure. I’ve seen this firsthand; commitments that look great on paper often evaporate when national interests are perceived to be at stake. Adama shared a story that perfectly encapsulated this dilemma. His organization had been pushing for a resolution to establish a humanitarian corridor in a besieged city. The proposal had garnered overwhelming support from 13 of the 15 Council members. Even two of the P5 were on board. But one permanent member, whose ally was involved in the siege, exercised its veto. “It wasn’t even about their direct national security,” Adama lamented. “It was about protecting a client state. Innocent people paid the price for that political calculus.” That’s the brutal reality of the veto. My own experience working with delegations at the UN headquarters in New York City confirms this. I recall a particularly tense week in 2022 when a resolution on climate-related security risks was debated. Many non-permanent members, especially those from island nations facing existential threats, passionately argued for its passage. But two P5 members, heavily reliant on fossil fuel industries, threatened to veto, arguing climate change was not a “security issue.” The resolution, which could have spurred preventative action and resource allocation, was ultimately watered down to an ineffective statement, a diplomatic euphemism for failure. It was a stark reminder that the P5’s national economic interests often trump the collective good. So, what’s the path forward? It’s undeniably difficult. The P5, by definition, benefit from the current system. Why would they voluntarily surrender power? This is the core challenge. Meaningful reform would require a level of selfless internationalism that has rarely been seen in global politics. One less-talked-about mechanism, however, offers a glimmer of hope: the “Uniting for Peace” resolution. Adopted in 1950, it allows the UN General Assembly to take action when the Security Council, due to a lack of unanimity among its permanent members, fails to exercise its primary responsibility for the maintenance of international peace and security. While not a direct Security Council reform, it provides an alternative route for collective action, albeit with non-binding resolutions. It’s been used sparingly, most notably during the Korean War and the Suez Crisis. Its infrequent use highlights the General Assembly’s limitations compared to the Security Council’s enforcement powers, but it serves as a powerful reminder that the P5’s paralysis doesn’t necessarily mean absolute inaction from the broader UN system. Adama’s journey, from frustration to a cautious optimism, mirrors the broader sentiment among those pushing for reform. He’s seen the worst of the system’s failures, but also the potential for collaboration. He believes that sustained pressure from the majority of UN member states, coupled with a growing recognition that the Council’s legitimacy is eroding, might eventually force the issue. “It won’t be a single, grand bargain,” he concluded, “but rather a slow, incremental chipping away at the rigidities. We have to keep pushing, because the alternative, a truly irrelevant Security Council, is a world we cannot afford.” The resolution for Adama’s immediate crisis was, unfortunately, a compromise. The humanitarian corridor eventually opened, but weeks later than needed, after countless preventable deaths. It was a stark reminder of the human cost of geopolitical inertia. What we, as a global community, must learn is that the effectiveness of international organizations like the UN is directly tied to their adaptability. The Security Council, in its current form, is a bottleneck for global governance. Its reform is not merely an academic exercise; it is an urgent necessity for the millions of people like those Adama serves, whose lives hang in the balance of its decisions.