Every October, the announcement of the Nobel Peace Prize draws worldwide attention, not only because it honours individuals or organisations committed to peace, but also because it reveals how the international community interprets peace itself. The 2025 prize, to be declared this Friday in Oslo, arrives at a moment when global politics is sharply polarised and peace remains contested both in meaning and practice.
The Norwegian Nobel Committee has confirmed that 338 candidates are in the running this year, including 244 individuals and 94 organisations. Yet by the rules of the award, names remain sealed for 50 years, leaving room for speculation.
Inevitably, certain figures emerge in public discourse whether through nominators’ announcements or media reports. Two names that are attracting attention are particularly instructive: Mahrang Baloch from Pakistan and US President Donald Trump. Both embody how the Peace Prize can turn into a site of symbolic struggle rather than a straightforward recognition of peacebuilding.
Mahrang Baloch, a young physician and activist, has risen to prominence as a voice for Baloch rights in Pakistan. Supporters portray her as a defender of marginalised communities, particularly families of the disappeared in Balochistan. Her activism has resonated with civil society networks abroad and drawn sympathy in international forums.
At the same time, she remains deeply controversial at home. She was detained in March this year and has been held since. Pakistani officials and commentators often accuse her of aligning with separatist narratives and point to overt Indian support for her cause. These concerns were sharpened recently when Imam Gulzar Shambay, former head of a banned terrorist group, alleged in an interview that Baloch’s father Ghaffar Langov was a member of the Baloch Liberation Army (BLA) and died in internal clashes. For many in Pakistan such revelations blur the line between rights advocacy and insurgent ties, making her possible nomination appear less a celebration of peace work and more a geopolitical manoeuvre.
The question arises: does activism that amplifies grievances but risks fuelling division fall within Alfred Nobel’s vision of fostering “fraternity between nations” and “peace congresses”?
Donald Trump raises a different set of questions. He was nominated in 2021 for facilitating agreements between Israel and Arab states during his presidency, most notably the so-called Abraham Accords. For his supporters, Trump has demonstrated a willingness to cut through diplomatic inertia. In his second presidency, Trump has cast himself as a peacemaker, regularly counting off conflicts he claims to have settled. Pakistan itself has reportedly put forward his name this year, arguing that Trump sought to reduce tensions and explore ceasefire channels with its fellow nuclear-armed rival India following the conflict in May. From Islamabad’s perspective such diplomacy, however limited, was worth recognition. Cambodia, following its border skirmish with Thailand, is another of several countries that have also put Trump forward for the prize.
Yet when this logic is weighed against Trump’s broader record the picture looks starkly different. To many observers, his candidacy appears absurd given his military strike on Iran in June, backing of Israel during the Gaza conflict, hardline immigration policies, encouragement of racial and political division, and rollback of climate commitments. How does one reconcile such domestic and international divisiveness with the prestige of a peace award? For critics, the very fact that his name is circulating underscores the dissonance between symbolic gestures and substantive peacebuilding.
The Nobel Peace Prize can sometimes age poorly when political hopes collapse into disillusion.
The Nobel Peace Prize has always been more than just a moral recognition and sought to make a political statement. In 2009, the Committee awarded Barack Obama only months into his presidency hoping to encourage a new international order after the Bush presidency and the invasion of Iraq – an award that drew sharp criticism for being premature. In 2014, Malala Yousafzai’s selection symbolised resilience against extremism in the border regions of Pakistan and was widely praised. Yet in 2019, Ethiopia’s Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed was honoured for peacemaking with Eritrea only to later face condemnation for his role in the Tigray conflict. Aung San Suu Kyi, praised as an opposition leader in Myanmar and made a Nobel laureate in 1991, then became a figure of international scorn when in government for refusing to condemn the human rights abuses that drove thousands of Rohingya Muslims from the country.
These examples underline that the Nobel Peace Prize can sometimes age poorly when political hopes collapse into disillusion.
The broader issue is definitional: what truly constitutes peace work in today’s world? The will left by Nobel specifies the abolition of standing armies and promotion of peace congresses. Over the decades, interpretation has expanded to include human rights, democracy, humanitarianism and climate action. This expansion has allowed for recognition of grassroots struggles, but it has also blurred boundaries. Does symbolic advocacy without measurable conflict resolution count as peacebuilding? Can leaders, whose policies fuel division, still claim credit for isolated diplomatic breakthroughs?
Ultimately, the Nobel Peace Prize reflects less the essence of peace itself and more the narratives the global community chooses to highlight. Each year’s selection says something about the priorities hopes and even contradictions of our time. Whether the 2025 award goes to a statesman, a grassroots activist, or a humanitarian organisation, the decision will spark debate. That debate, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes inspiring, is itself part of what keeps the prize relevant.
The announcement in October will not settle the meaning of peace, but it will once again invite the world to reflect on what peace should look like in an era of sharp divisions and contested ideals.
