Arora Akanksha, a thirty-four-year-old United Nations financial auditor who is running for Secretary-General of the U.N., forgot her Zoom password the other day. “It’s not the best timing,” she said, frantically trying to log in to a diplomatic meeting. “I absolutely don’t want to be late for this!” By 11:01 A.M., she had logged in, then accidentally ended the meeting for everyone. “Ah, fuck! Fu-u-u-uck!” At 11:03, a well-known ambassador to the United States appeared on Akanksha’s screen.
“Salaam alaikum,” Akanksha, a native of India, said, composing herself. The ambassador smiled: “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. It’s always energizing for me to meet women who dare to stand up. I know it takes a lot of courage.” She went on, “But I would like to say that I do not want this call to be publicized.” She added, “In terms of support for your nomination”—for Secretary-General—“the best route to go is through our Ambassador to the United Nations.” Akanksha sighed.
For the U.N.’s first seventy years, the contest for Secretary-General was held behind closed doors—the Security Council recommended a candidate, and the General Assembly elected him. (No woman has ever held the role.) In 2015, the G.A. passed a resolution opening up the process; the following year, thirteen candidates competed in an election that officials celebrated as transparent, inclusive, and fair. This year, the incumbent Secretary-General, António Guterres, is the only candidate on the ballot, despite ten others having declared their intention to run.
“The Western world didn’t even take a meeting,” Akanksha said. Custom dictates that official candidates for Secretary-General be endorsed by a member state; according to a U.N. official who did not wish to be named, anyone else is just a “self-nominated candidate.” In February, Guterres, who is a seventy-two-year-old Portuguese statesman and the former U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees, received Portugal’s nomination, securing his spot on the ballot. Akanksha (employee I.D.: 10059308) hasn’t yet found a sponsor: “These so-called developed countries, the ones who promote democracy, none of them took a meeting! Canada only took one because I’m a citizen.” Canada declined to nominate Akanksha. (So did Myanmar, Kenya, Seychelles, Equatorial Guinea, North Macedonia, Kuwait, Namibia, Uganda, and Pakistan.)
“A Pakistani diplomat asked me, ‘Why should you be on the ballot?’ ” she said. “I mentioned representation—‘My gender has not been represented at the U.N., and, in a man’s world, it’s important for women to be given a position at the top.’ ” His response: “ ‘This is not a man’s world. Women are given equal power. Actually, women play a very important role in the household. We should not underestimate the important role women play there,’ ” she recalled. “At this point, I’ve learned to laugh at it.”
Around noon, Akanksha locked her laptop in a filing cabinet—“I don’t trust anyone at the U.N. anymore! They’re totally out for me”—and headed out to campaign. As she left, a security guard offered a reassuring smile. There were only a few days left before the Security Council was expected to recommend Guterres for another five-year term.
Akanksha’s first stop was a glass office building near the U.N.’s main campus, where she met an ambassador who represents an island nation in the Pacific. He wore a boxy suit, a KN95 mask, and a tie woven from pandanus-palm fibres; a model of a wooden canoe sat on his desk. He motioned for Akanksha to have a seat.
“You aspire to take leadership of the biggest organization on the planet,” he said. “You’ve never been a leader of a country. That’s a little shocking to me.” Akanksha laughed. He went on, “But I always render support for any idea which is good for the world. I’m always scanning the forest and the jungle, and I’m always keen to see something nice and beautiful that can be valuable for humanity.” Akanksha’s eyes lit up. “To use my island language, magic is magic! You seem to have magic!” He sighed. “Of course, there is always a challenge—when you’re a small country, there’s a self-consciousness. You don’t want to talk too big, or too loud.” He could not nominate Akanksha, he said, although he wished otherwise. “I’m in a job,” he said. “I’m here to take orders.”
Akanksha said a polite goodbye and walked down a long hallway, past the diplomatic offices of several other island nations. The doors were all locked. “It’s a working day!” she shouted. Finally, she found an open office: “Would it be possible to get a meeting with the ambassador to discuss my candidacy?”
“Yes, but you have to follow the procedures in terms of requesting a meeting,” a receptionist replied. That would take weeks. Akanksha left some campaign materials and headed outside.
An approaching thunderstorm had darkened the sky. At 1:57, Akanksha rang the bell at the office of a landlocked African nation. A crackly voice came through the intercom: “Hello?”
“Hello! Hi! Yes, so my name is Arora Akanksha. I’m here to—”
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz.
Inside, a glass case displayed handwoven baskets. A young diplomat wearing jeans and a Calvin Klein hoodie asked if she had an appointment.
“I e-mailed—”
“Was there a confirmation?”
“No, I was just in the neighborhood.”
Back outside, Akanksha bought a ninety-nine-cent slice. “I’m on leave without pay,” she said. “I can go back, but will I go back? Absolutely not. What’s there to go back to now?” ♦
