Sí quieres que Algo no funcione, Crea una comisión

"If you want something not to work, create a commission"

"Sí quieres que Algo no funcione, Crea una comisión." I read an article with that idea — quite interesting — and I totally agree with the text. The phrase captures a frustrating reality: too often commissions are used not to solve urgent problems but to postpone action.

In most places in the world, whether you are in Asia, India, Europe, America or including Africa, and even within international organizations such as the UN, human rights commissions or many other international bodies, many commissions are formed with the effect of prolonging actions that need immediate implementation. These commissions are made to resolve problems but normally they prolong the problem rather than solve it.

Commissions often take unclear decisions because of variations in the arguments and positions of the participants. Members debate and try to reach a consensus that would actually solve the problem, but frequently they do not. Instead, commissions extend their period of work, and in doing so the members retain the power to keep deciding, or keep avoiding decisions.

Many commissions focus more on prolonging their work than on finding an approach that is truly effective and able to solve the problem. In many parliaments the matter is handed to a commission after long debates: the parliament debates for many days and then forms a commission. Why? Why not reach a solution after so many days of debate? Parliamentarians seem to believe that a formed commission, by debating, arguing, inviting subject experts and people directly related to or affected by the problem, will reach a solution.

But normally the commission always argues to extend its duration: one term, then a second term, then a third. Many turns later, perhaps after years, they come up with reports full of arguments and some decisions that are indeed unclear. Then again a new commission will be formed. The cycle repeats.

So it is very clear: if you want something not to work, make a commission. The creation of commissions becomes, in practice, a method to delay, to diffuse responsibility and to preserve privileges for those involved in the decision-making process.

This pattern has real consequences: urgent problems remain unresolved, citizens’ expectations are frustrated, and institutions lose credibility. If the goal is genuine problem solving, forming yet another commission should not be the automatic answer.

Instead, when a commission is genuinely necessary it must be designed with strict limits and clear accountability: a fixed, non-extendable deadline; a precise mandate; transparent proceedings; balanced membership without vested interests; and clear, enforceable follow-up mechanisms. Without those guardrails, commissions become an efficient way to ensure that nothing ever gets done.

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Pisos Turísticos en Valladolid

Hasta 500 euros

Xantolo

Xantolo nos celebramos en la Casa de México Castilla y León cerca de Plaza España de Valladolid. Es un restaurante también.
La dirección es
Casa de México Castilla y León, C. Sta. María, 19, 47001 Valladolid

https://youtu.be/QhGlQ8eeqkA

The Girl Who Spoke in Code

They thought she was just another voice on the radio. They never realized she was listening back.

In every signal, a story. In every silence, a warning.

In a dusty communication post on the outskirts of Amritsar, Noor sat before an old radio, its dials glowing faintly like dying stars.

She was 26. She spoke softly. And she never said her real name on air.

Every night at 23:07, Noor read coordinates wrapped inside poetry. A few listeners thought she was reciting verses. The others, those who knew, called her The Voice.

But she wasn’t a poet. Not anymore. Not since the border fire that took her brother and the silence that followed.

Noor’s messages weren’t meant for civilians. They were meant for someone she had never met a man who signed every response with the same two letters: A.J.

For six months, they spoke in riddles. He sent her static. She sent him storms. He said, “The wind crosses mountains tonight.” She replied, “Then the river should listen.”

Somewhere between the code and the silence, a kind of trust was born.

Then one night, his frequency went dead.

Noor waited. Ten minutes. Thirty. Three hours. Only static. Static and a faint voice whispering her own name.

The next day, an unfamiliar call sign appeared on her board: “Echo 7 Immediate extraction.”

She froze. No one used those words unless everything had gone wrong.

By dawn, Noor packed her transmitter, burned the station logs, and walked toward the river that divided everything—faith, land, memory.

On the bridge stood a man with a newspaper. Folded neatly, untouched. Inside was a single sentence written in blue ink: “They know your voice.”

She didn’t ask who “they” were. She had learned long ago that names were heavier than bullets.

“Where’s A.J.?” she asked.

The man smiled sadly. “Gone dark. You’re the last signal left.”

Noor nodded once. “Then we make it count.”

That night, she returned to the transmitter one last time. The air crackled. Her heartbeat matched the hum of the current.

“To anyone still listening,” she said quietly, “the sky is clear. The code is alive. And The Voice is not done yet.”

Minutes later, her station exploded in a clean burst of light. No body was found. Only a cracked frequency, repeating three words again and again:

“Still. Listening. Back.”

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