What is being called the UN 'gender architecture' is more like a

Host: The evening hung heavy over New York, the skyline lit with the glow of commerce and compromise. The United Nations building loomed by the East River, its glass walls reflecting both the hope and hypocrisy of the world. Inside, the corridors were nearly silent, the conference halls empty except for the echo of forgotten speeches.

In a dim corner of the lobby café, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, the city lights washing their faces in alternating blue and gold. Between them lay a folder stamped with the UN emblem, its papers marked with the words: “Gender Equality Framework — Draft Review.”

Jeeny: “Charlotte Bunch once said, ‘What is being called the UN gender architecture is more like a shack. Women need a bigger global house if equality is ever to become a reality.’ She said that more than a decade ago, Jack. And look around — it’s still the same shack, just painted every few years to look like a palace.”

Jack: “You’re exaggerating. The world’s different now. There are more programs, more committees, more representation. Progress takes time.”

Jeeny: “Time is a luxury men have always had. Women don’t. You can’t call it progress when the roof still leaks and half the house doesn’t even have doors.”

Jack: “But it’s still a structure, Jeeny. It’s something to build on. Isn’t that better than nothing?”

Jeeny: “Not when the foundation itself was built to keep women in the basement.”

Host: A storm was brewing outside. Thunder rolled across the river, rattling the glass. The reflections of the UN’s blue flags shivered in the wind. Inside, the air between them tightened — the clash of idealism and realism drawn like a line across the table.

Jack: “You think tearing it all down is the answer?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think rebuilding it is. From the ground up. Not another committee of men in tailored suits drafting policies about women’s freedom over lunch at the Plaza Hotel.”

Jack: “You’re cynical.”

Jeeny: “I’m realistic. I’ve sat in those rooms. I’ve seen ambassadors nod through reports they never read, applaud speeches they don’t believe, and then walk out into a world where a woman is still killed for speaking her mind.”

Jack: “That’s not the UN’s fault.”

Jeeny: “Then whose is it? The UN is supposed to be the moral compass, isn’t it? But how can it point north when the needle only moves when it’s politically convenient?”

Host: The rain began to fall, slow, deliberate, like a wound being washed. The lights in the café flickered, casting the room in a soft amber haze. Jeeny’s voice was calm now, but beneath it lay a tremor, like a violin string stretched to its final tension.

Jack: “You know, you talk about the UN like it’s one entity, but it’s not. It’s hundreds of nations, all pulling in different directions. It’s a forum, not a savior.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly the problem. When everything is everyone’s responsibility, it becomes no one’s. Women’s lives shouldn’t be a side project. They should be the blueprint.”

Jack: “You make it sound like men have no role in it.”

Jeeny: “They do — just not as the architects anymore.”

Jack: “So what, you want a world run entirely by women?”

Jeeny: “No. I want a world where power doesn’t have a gender.”

Host: The lightning flashed outside, white against the glass, for a split second revealing their reflections — two faces lit by conviction, divided by belief, but bound by the same ache: the search for fairness in an unfair world.

Jack: “It’s not that simple, Jeeny. You can’t just rebuild global institutions from scratch.”

Jeeny: “We already did that once — after the war. We can do it again. The only difference now is that we’d be rebuilding it with women at the table, not serving the coffee.”

Jack: “You think representation solves everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But absence solves nothing.”

Jack: “There are women in leadership. Look at Amina Mohammed, Kristalina Georgieva, Christine Lagarde—”

Jeeny: “Symbols, Jack. They’re symbols. You can’t fix a systemic imbalance with individual success stories. That’s like putting gold paint on a shack and calling it a cathedral.”

Host: The rain hammered harder now, the windows trembling with every drop. A group of delegates passed by outside, umbrellas bobbing, their faces hidden in suits and briefcases. The real world went on — always talking, rarely listening.

Jack: “You know what your problem is, Jeeny? You think the system is malicious, but it’s just inefficient.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s indifferent. And indifference is more dangerous than malice, because it smiles while it destroys.”

Jack: “So what do you want? A revolution?”

Jeeny: “Not a revolution — a renovation. A house with space enough for everyone. Right now, the gender architecture looks like something built from spare parts — a few policies, a few quotas, and a roof that only covers half the population.”

Jack: “And who’s supposed to build this new house?”

Jeeny: “All of us. But it starts with listening to the women who’ve been standing in the rain while the men debate whether it’s even raining.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and electricity. The lights of the city outside reflected in the river, shimmering like shards of something broken but beautiful.

Jack looked at Jeeny, the fight in his eyes softening into something quieter — not agreement, but respect.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about tearing the house down. Maybe it’s about rebuilding it — brick by brick, with a new kind of hands.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe next time, the foundation will hold, because it won’t just be built by the powerful, but by the forgotten.”

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving the city washed and silver. Across the river, the UN building stood, its glass walls gleaming in the faint dawn light — still there, still flawed, but somehow different in the way light makes even the shattered look whole.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching it, both knowing the truth that Charlotte Bunch had once put into words — that the house of equality is not yet built, only imagined.

And until every woman can walk through its doors without asking, the world will remain just that — a shack pretending to be a home.