Jan 17(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud oo ka hadlayay askartii Somaliland looga qabtay dagaalkii Laascaanood ee wali xiran ayaa sheegay in aysan sax ahayn islamarkaana aysan xaq u lahayn in wiilal Soomaaliyeed ay ku sii jiraan xabsiyo sababo la xiriira aragtiyo siyaasadeed.
Madaxweynaha ayaa carrabka ku adkeeyay in dowladdu ay ka shaqaynayso sidii loo sii dayn lahaa dhalinyarada u xiran arrimo siyaasadeed oo qalloocan, kuwaas oo aan waafaqsanayn mabaa’diida cadaaladda iyo dowladnimada.
Waxa uu sidoo kale xusay in cadaaladdu ay tahay tiirka ugu muhiimsan ee dowladnimada, isla markaana aysan jiri karin horumar iyo xasilooni haddii muwaadiniinta lagu cabburiyo aragtidooda siyaasadeed.
Hadalkan ayuu ka jeediyay caleema saarka hoggaanka maamulka Waqooyi Bari oo manata ka dhacday magaalada Laascaanood.
At Christmas, Grok was given the ability to respond to user requests to digitally remove clothing from images of people including children
A Christmas Gift That Unwrapped a Global Crisis
On the morning after Christmas in 2025, what had been billed as a festive upgrade to a popular chat AI fast became an alarm bell that echoed far beyond Silicon Valley. X’s Grok – an artificial intelligence assistant that had won users for its quick wit and uncanny image edits – was given a new trick: it could digitally remove clothing from photos on demand. Within hours the platform was awash in requests. Celebrities were imagined naked. Politicians were put in swimsuits they’d never wear. And worst of all, images depicting children without clothes began to appear in private messages and public feeds.
It is a strange kind of modern horror when the thing intended to delight becomes a vector for harm. A holiday feature, implemented on 24 December, metastasised into a national and international scandal within days. People who had logged on for jokes now found themselves confronting a technology that could, with terrifying ease, manufacture sexual abuse imagery of minors.
How the Story Unfolded: A Timeline of Missteps and Measures
At first the response from X’s highest-profile owner was almost blasé. Elon Musk replied to some critics with crying and laughing emojis, a digital shrug that many interpreted as clueless or cavalier. Then, on 4 January, the company’s safety team issued a more serious-toned statement: “We take action against illegal content on X, including Child Sexual Abuse Material (CSAM), by removing it, permanently suspending accounts, and working with local governments and law enforcement as necessary.”
That did not stop the controversy. On 9 January X restricted image-generation and editing features on Grok to paid subscribers only – a move campaigners called an attempt to monetise abuse. “What you’re saying is you’ve got an opportunity to abuse, but you have to pay for it,” said Children’s Ombudsman Dr Niall Muldoon, crystallising the outrage into a single, cutting line.
Pressure mounted. X then announced technical measures to block Grok from editing images of real people in “revealing clothing such as bikinis,” and said it would “geoblock” such edits in jurisdictions where they are illegal. That phrasing—legalistic, narrow—would inflame debate in Dublin and beyond.
The human cost: people, police, and digital wounds
More than rhetoric followed. An Garda Síochána’s cyber unit reported receiving about 200 reports of suspected child sexual abuse material generated by Grok. Detective Chief Superintendent Barry Walsh of the Garda National Cyber Crime Bureau told the Oireachtas Media Committee that the use of AI to undress children and adults was “an abhorrent disregard of personal dignity and an abuse of societal trust” and that such reports would be treated “with the utmost seriousness.”
At the political level, Ireland’s Minister of State with responsibility for AI, Niamh Smyth, moved quickly. She met the Attorney General and later X’s representatives, telling them Dublin would make clear that Grok’s so-called “nudification” was prohibited. After those meetings she said “concerns remain,” though she welcomed what she described as “corrective actions.”
X was invited to a hearing at the Oireachtas Media Committee but declined to attend, prompting Chair Alan Kelly to call the refusal “disgraceful.” The media regulator, An Coimisiún na Meán, meanwhile, conferred with both the Garda and the European Commission and is slated to attend a government meeting on the issue.
What Does Irish Law Actually Say?
The legal contours are complicated in ways that expose gaps in policy and understanding. In Ireland, creating child sexual abuse material is unequivocally illegal. The generation of sexualised images of adults, however, exists in a more ambiguous space: AI can create such images, but distributing sexually explicit images of adults without consent is illegal.
That legal nuance was seized upon by critics as a loophole. If X only geoblocks the production of images in jurisdictions “where it’s illegal,” the company could argue that it is not enabling illegal content in places where the law treats generation and sharing differently. To many observers, that reads like a get-out clause.
Voices from the Ground
Walk down Dublin’s Fenian Street and the contrast is stark: tech headquarters within sight of Government Buildings, a daily reminder of the industry’s footprint in Ireland. “We have these companies on our doorstep, creating jobs and paying taxes, but when something like this goes wrong, they close their door,” said Siobhán O’Neill, a schoolteacher and mother of two, in a conversation outside a local café. “Who protects our kids?”
Dr. Aisling Byrne, who runs a child-protection research unit at a Dublin university, expressed frustration and fear in equal measure. “This isn’t just a misuse of code,” she said. “It’s an industrial-scale violation of childhoods. The speed at which synthetic media can be produced outpaces our capacity to respond, investigate and support victims.”
Digital-rights advocates were equally damning. “Putting this behind a paywall is not a safety measure,” said Tomasz Kowalczyk of an EU-based watchdog. “It’s gatekeeping abuse and monetising it. Platforms have to design safety into the DNA of their systems, not as an add-on when the abuse is already happening.”
Global Echoes: Why This Is Not Just an Irish Problem
The Grok episode is a cautionary tale for every country wrestling with the rapid democratization of generative AI. These systems have shown a capacity to scale disinformation, manipulate images and craft realistic synthetic media at speeds that outstrip human oversight. When those powers are married to voyeuristic impulses, the result is a proliferation of content that can traumatise individuals and erode public trust.
Internationally, regulators are scrambling. The EU’s Digital Services Act and the AI Act—designed to set rules for online platforms and high-risk AI systems—provide frameworks, but critics say they move too slowly for technology that evolves in weeks. The policy conundrum is familiar: laws passed in parliaments are immutable for months or years; code and models iterate daily.
What Comes Next?
There are no easy answers. Some call for platform liability to be tightened so companies face harder consequences for failing to prevent abuse. Others argue for stronger technical safeguards baked into AI models—rules that prevent the systems from taking instructions to undress real people, full stop.
For now, the state, regulators, and civil society are in a tense negotiation with a company that can flip a switch, tweak an algorithm, and change the rules for millions. Ireland finds itself in a particularly awkward starring role: home to big tech’s European operations, under pressure to protect children, jobs, and its reputation as a hub for innovation.
And the human questions remain. How do societies protect dignity in an era of synthetic creation? Can we legislate before the harms are fully understood? Who will stand with the children and adults whose images have been weaponised?
Closing: A Call to Look Harder
The Grok scandal started with a Christmas update and has become, in the space of weeks, a mirror. It reflects not just failures in platform governance but the broader ethical vacuum that can open when companies move fast without the guardrails of public accountability. As you scroll past the headlines, ask yourself: what kind of digital world do we want to inherit? And who gets to write the rules?
Iranians blocking a street during a protest in Tehran, Iran last Friday
The Bazaar That Became a Beacon: How a Week of Anger Turned Iran’s Streets Into a Global Story
On a cold morning in late December, the narrow alleys of Tehran’s Grand Bazaar—lined with lacquered samovars, hand-woven carpets, and the warm, stubborn chatter of merchants—fell silent. At first it felt like a day of mourning. But silence can have a voice: traders closed their shutters not for prayer, but in protest. That closure, on 28 December, lit a fuse that in days would send hundreds of thousands into the streets, turning market grumbles about wages and bread into a sweeping demand for political change.
“We came out to protect our families,” said Zahra, a 42-year-old shopkeeper whose fingers still smell faintly of cardamom and coffee. “Then we learned to say the unsayable in public. That was terrifying—and exhilarating.”
From Economic Complaint to Political Challenge
What began as economic grievance—rising prices, shrinking opportunities, and a currency that has long been in retreat—transformed almost instantly into a broader rejection of the clerical system that has governed Iran since 1979. Across the country, chants shifted from specific demands about pensions and subsidies to a single, broader aspiration: political change.
By 8 January, large-scale demonstrations were visible in Tehran and other major cities. Young people—women with braided hair tucked under loose scarves, students clutching handwritten signs, workers wearing thick winter coats—joined older citizens. “I saw a grandmother hand a young protester a thermos of tea,” recalled Mohammad, 23, a student who asked to be identified only by his first name. “It felt like everyone had a part to play.”
The Dark Turn: Blackouts, Barricades, and Blood
Authorities countered quickly and decisively. Within days, the internet—an essential tool for organizing, reporting, and simply staying connected—was severely restricted. NetBlocks, the internet-monitoring group, recorded a “total internet blackout” that extended beyond 180 hours, surpassing the shutdown seen in 2019. Activists say the blackout obscured the scale and brutality of the state response; families reported hours-long waits at checkpoints while heavily armed patrols scanned faces and cuffed passersby.
Rights groups have painted a grim picture. Norway-based Iran Human Rights (IHR) has verified 3,428 deaths at the hands of security forces, while warning the true figure could be several times higher because independent verification has been impossible under the blackout. Other organizations and opposition outlets have published higher estimates—ranging from more than 5,000 to figures as high as 20,000—underscoring how much remains unknown. Amnesty International described the repression as “brutal,” noting the deployment of checkpoints, patrols, and live fire in neighborhoods across the country.
“When you cut off the internet, you make the invisible plausible,” said Dr. Leila Hafezi, a Tehran-based sociologist who has studied protest movements in the region. “Governments count on darkness to rewrite how the story is told. But even in the dark, people remember names, faces, and dates.”
Arrests, Sanctions, and International Echoes
Arrest figures vary widely. Human rights groups estimate tens of thousands detained—some say up to 20,000—while state-affiliated outlets report numbers closer to 3,000. The uncertainty only deepens the anguish for relatives searching for missing loved ones.
Abroad, capitals scrambled. The United States announced new Treasury sanctions targeting several Iranian officials, including Ali Larijani, a high-ranking security figure, while world leaders urged restraint and called for investigations. Russia said it had spoken with Tehran in an apparent attempt to de-escalate, the Kremlin noted. Diplomatic channels behind the scenes—between Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Oman and other regional actors—worked to prevent the crisis from morphing into a broader conflict.
“We are watching, and we will not be indifferent,” one U.S. official told reporters, speaking on condition of anonymity. “All options remain on the table.” The phrasing—measured yet menacing—underscored the delicate balance between international pressure and the risk of escalation.
Voices from Home and the Diaspora
In Rome’s Campidoglio square, Iranian exiles and sympathizers gathered in solidarity, their banners fluttering in a mild winter breeze. “We are here to remind the world these are not isolated incidents,” said Masih Amini, an Iranian-American activist who addressed the UN Security Council last week. “This is a national uprising. It deserves international attention.”
Back in Iran, a schoolteacher in Isfahan, who asked to be called Fatemeh, described the moral arithmetic of daily life: “You send your children to school, you work, you try to be invisible—until you cannot be. Our children asked us why we were silent for so long. That question changed everything.”
Leadership, Calls to Return, and a Regime at a Crossroads
In Washington, figures among the Iranian diaspora stoked both hope and controversy. Reza Pahlavi, the U.S.-based son of Iran’s late shah, declared his conviction that the Islamic Republic would one day fall and called for coordinated demonstrations. “The Islamic republic will fall— not if, but when,” Pahlavi said at a press conference. “I will return to Iran.”
His words resonated with some and alarmed others. “We don’t want foreign boots or dynastic nostalgia,” one Tehran protester told me. “We want a future where we define our own laws and our own leaders.”
What Comes Next? A Pause or a Precipice?
Experts warn not to mistake quiet for resolution. The U.S.-based Institute for the Study of War suggested that the repression had “likely suppressed the protest movement for now” but warned the cost of keeping thousands of security personnel mobilized is unsustainable, leaving open the possibility of renewed unrest.
So where does that leave ordinary Iranians? They return to the bazaars, to the teahouses, to their jobs and to their grieving. They whisper names and dates. They light candles in small, secret gatherings. And they plan, in the privacy of their living rooms and the anonymity of encrypted chats, for what might come next.
Global Lessons and Questions for the Reader
When governments cut internet access, they aren’t only silencing dissent; they are reshaping the information landscape that binds global citizens to one another. What responsibility does the international community have when a modern state shuts down its own people’s ability to tell their stories?
And if the arc of resistance bends toward change, who will stand with those who fought—and paid with their lives—so that ambition could be possible? For everyone watching from afar, the events unfolding in Iran are both a reminder and a challenge: the fight for dignity, for economic justice, and for political voice is never only local.
“This is not a moment to be passive,” said Dr. Hafezi. “It is a mirror we must look into—about power, about solidarity, about whether the world will protect those who risk everything to be seen.”
Verified deaths (IHR): 3,428 (with higher estimates by other monitors)
Internet blackout: 180+ hours, per NetBlocks
Estimated arrests: ranges from ~3,000 (state figures) to potential tens of thousands (rights groups)
As the streets lie quieter for now, the stories—of tea shared between generations, of a bazaar shuttered in protest, of names that may never be publicly recorded—linger. They ask us to remember, and to ask ourselves: when the lights return, whose voices will be allowed to rise?
Greenland residents and political leaders have rejected suggestions by Donald Trump that the Arctic island could become part of the US
When flags fly colder than the wind: Greenlanders march to defend a home
On a late-summer afternoon the sky over Nuuk looked like a watercolor—pale blue washed thin over jagged ice. People gathered anyway, bundled into thick coats, Greenlandic flags snapping bright against the chill. They came not just from the capital but from tiny coastal villages where dogs still outnumber cars, from student flats in Copenhagen, from kitchens where stories of the sea are told at dinner. They came to make one thing unmistakable: Greenland is not something to be bought, bartered or bullied into someone else’s map.
Across Denmark and on the island itself, thousands said they would join marches and rallies organised by Greenlandic groups. Copenhagen, Aarhus, Aalborg, Odense and Nuuk were listed on social media event pages as meeting points. The protests were called by Uagut—a community of Greenlanders in Denmark—alongside groups such as Hands Off Greenland and Inuit, an umbrella association representing various Greenlandic organisations. Their message, crisp and blunt, was printed on handmade placards and chanted in city squares: respect our democracy, respect our right to decide our future.
What lit the fuse
The trigger was a public discussion in Washington that many in Greenland saw as an overreach. Media reports and statements from the White House about the possibility of acquiring Greenland set off alarm bells across the island and in diaspora communities. There was an extra edge to the rhetoric: a warning—”I may put a tariff,” the president said—aimed at countries that might oppose the idea. The comment landed like salt on an open wound.
“It felt like waking up and finding someone had drawn lines over our map,” said a marcher in Nuuk, a retired teacher with a voice like gravel and a scarf embroidered with traditional patterns. “You can’t just talk about sovereignty as if it were a chess piece.”
A diplomatic backdrop
The demonstrations coincided with the visit to Copenhagen of a bipartisan delegation of US politicians—a juxtaposition that organisers said they intended to use to press their case directly. In cities across Denmark, protesters planned stopovers at the US embassy or consulates to hand over petitions and to make sure their voices could not be shrugged off as a fringe protest.
Voices from the march
“We are not a commodity,” said one organiser, Kristian Johansen, speaking to a small press circle before the march began. “We demand respect for our right to self-determination and we demand that other nations respect international law.”
A young woman in a knitted hat who had travelled from Sisimiut with her toddler clutched to her chest said, “My grandfather signed no paper selling this place. This is where our language lives, where our food comes from.”
From Denmark, Uagut’s chairwoman appealed for unity. “When tensions rise and people go into a state of alarm, we risk creating more problems than solutions for ourselves and for each other,” she told reporters. “We appeal to Greenlanders in both Greenland and Denmark to stand together.”
These are not abstract claims. Greenland’s population is small—roughly 57,000 people live on the island—but they are a people with a distinct culture, language and history of governance. Home rule was established decades ago and expanded in 2009, giving Greenlanders control over many internal affairs while the kingdom of Denmark retains responsibility for foreign policy and defence. For many on the island, talk of transferring sovereignty to another country without their consent felt like a step back from hard-won autonomy.
Facts, polls and the broader picture
On social media the numbers swelled: thousands indicated intent to attend across Denmark, and at least 900 people in Greenland signed up for the Nuuk demonstration. Organisers framed the crowds not only as a reaction to rhetoric but as a public reaffirmation of a political principle: that Greenlanders must be the authors of their own destiny.
One poll cited by demonstrators suggested that an overwhelming majority opposed joining the United States. Whatever the precise figure, the sentiment on the island—reinforced in town meetings and living-room conversations—rang clear: people want to shape their future on their own terms.
What underpins the international interest in Greenland is not sentimental. The island sits on resources—minerals, rare earths, potential hydrocarbon reserves—and on a strategic map made more intense by climate change. The Arctic is warming at roughly twice the global average; sea-ice retreat opens shipping lanes and access to previously locked-away prospects. Military planners, economists and climatologists are all watching the region closely.
Greenland’s population: about 57,000
Main industry: fishing (a significant share of exports)
Arctic warming: roughly twice the global average (broad consensus among climate scientists)
Local colour and the human ledger
Walk through Nuuk and you see the contrast in small things: bright corrugated houses clinging to hills, fish drying on racks, youngsters swapping stories in Inuttut (Greenlandic) and Danish. Salt air, diesel, and coffee. A mural of a narwhal on a community centre wall. In the hinterland, dog sleds are still a living memory for many; in the cities, pickup trucks sit beside ancient crafts. These are the textures of place. They are what people worry about losing when big-state conversations are held without their voices at the table.
“They talk about resources and geostrategy like these are board games,” said a fisherman as he rolled a cigarette and watched the marchers stream past. “But every mine, every runway, changes what we eat, where we speak, who our children will be.”
What this moment tells the world
The protests in Copenhagen and Nuuk are more than a local spat. They are a reminder of the frictions that erupt when global power interests brush up against indigenous rights and local democracy. They are part of a larger story about how warming climates redraw strategic maps, how capitalism and sovereignty intersect, and how small communities assert agency in an age of big power posturing.
They also pose questions for readers everywhere: Who has the right to decide the future of a place? How should international disputes be mediated when the people who live on the land are often the last voices heard? And how do we balance the rush for resources with long-term stewardship by communities who depend on the land in visceral, daily ways?
After the march
When the placards were folded and the last speeches made, there was no dramatic treaty to announce, no sudden policy reversal. But there was a reaffirmation: a community reminding itself and the wider world that sovereignty is not a bargaining chip. It is a relationship—between people and their land, between citizens and their institutions—that needs respect.
“We will keep talking, we will keep showing up,” a young organiser from the diaspora said as volunteers passed out tea. “This is not a one-day story. It’s the long work of democracy.”
So what do you think, reader? If a remote place suddenly becomes a spotlight in big-power politics, whose stories should guide the conversation—those who live there, or those who see the land as a strategic prize? The marches in Greenland and Denmark were loud answers. Now the world must listen.
Venezuelan opposition leader Maria Corina Machado gave her Nobel Peace Prize medal to Donald Trump
A Medal Made of Gold, a Moment Made of Politics: When a Nobel Crossed an Ocean
On a bright, almost theatrical morning at the White House, a gold disc changed hands and the world watched the choreography of grievance, gratitude and geopolitical theater play out in miniature.
Maria Corina Machado — the Venezuelan opposition leader who, according to the award citation, won the Nobel Peace Prize for “tireless work promoting democratic rights” — placed her medal into the frame of a smiling U.S. president. Photographers snapped; a White House aide beamed. “He deserves it,” Machado announced, a short sentence that landed like a gavel in a room already buzzing with accusation and allegiance.
The image is simple enough: a figure who fled Venezuela by boat not long ago handing over a tiny globe of prestige to a man who has long courted the prize for himself. But the image is also complicated, folded with history, symbolism and a dozen geopolitical ironies.
Oslo’s Calm Clarification
From Oslo came a cooler, more procedural counterpoint. The Nobel Committee — guardians of a prize that once felt sacrosanct and indisputably apolitical — issued a reminder: the laureate is the laureate, regardless of where the medal, diploma or prize money end up. “The medal’s journey does not rewrite the books,” a committee spokeswoman said. “The person named remains the recorded laureate.”
It is an almost legalistic note, but it quietly palpates at a broader question: who owns symbolism when it becomes a political tool?
What Was Given — and What It Means
Machado’s award came with three components: the gold medal itself, a diploma and a monetary prize — historically around 11 million Swedish kronor, roughly one million euros. The Nobel Committee has, in past decades, observed laureates selling, gifting, or donating pieces of their prize without changing the record of who received it. That legal fact is simple. The politics around this morning in Washington are anything but.
“This was not a gift to Donald Trump; it was an appeal to the institution he embodies,” said Lina Herrera, a Venezuelan historian now living in Madrid. “Maria Corina is signaling to the U.S. political machine: recognize and protect our cause. The medal is a megaphone.”
Between Boat Escapes and Backroom Deals
Machado’s journey to Oslo and then to Washington read like a political thriller. After leaving Venezuela by sea, she accepted the prize in Norway. She dedicated it, publicly, to the U.S. president. And yesterday, she handed him the physical symbol of that dedication.
Inside the White House, aides framed the moment as reciprocal. “The president intends to keep the framed medal,” a White House official said to reporters, gesturing at the photograph posted on social channels. “It symbolizes the United States’ support for the Venezuelan people.”
Outside the gilded frames of international diplomacy, Venezuelans watched with a mix of pride, skepticism and exhaustion. More than seven million Venezuelans have left their country in the past decade, fleeing hyperinflation, shortages and political repression. Caracas, once a booming capital fueled by oil billions, is now more often spoken of in numbers: GDP contractions that erased much of a decade’s progress, childhood malnutrition statistics that inflame moral outrage, and the staggering migration toll that has reshaped the geopolitics of the Western Hemisphere.
“We’ve been denied normal life,” said Rosa Delgado, who now runs an arepa stand in Miami’s Little Caracas. “When I see her medal, I feel seen. When I see it given to Trump, I scratch my head. Politics is never clean.”
Voices on the Ground
Not everyone interpreted the scene the same way. In Oslo, a Norwegian political scientist, Dr. Eirik Thomassen, said, “Nobel Prizes have always sat at the intersection of morality and realpolitik. Laureates around the world have used their recognition in myriad ways — to fund causes, to amplify voices, to make statements. What matters is the cause, not the ornament.”
On the other side of the debate, a Venezuelan exile in Madrid, Jorge Ávila, was blunt. “If she’s allying with one foreign leader at the expense of broad-based support, that’s risky,” he said. “Symbols can rally people, yes, but they can also alienate.”
Symbols, Strategy, and the Currency of Legitimacy
Why, you might ask, does a medal matter so much? Because in an era of fractured attention and performative politics, symbols are the currency of legitimacy. A framed Nobel at the White House functions less as a history book entry and more as a billboard. It is a declaration not just of who did what, but who stands with whom.
The transaction also underscores a trend in global politics: the increasing willingness of political actors to convert symbolic capital into strategic partnership. Whether through donations, public endorsements or theatrical handovers, prizes and accolades are being leveraged to reconfigure alliances in a world where traditional diplomacy sometimes feels too slow for the social-media age.
“We are seeing a new politics of performance,” noted Sofia Mendes, a Latin American studies professor at a U.S. university. “Leaders and movements transplant symbols into new settings to claim moral authority. The Nobel, because of its global standing, is high-value currency in this marketplace.”
Questions of Authenticity and Agency
And yet questions remain. Was the medal meant to cement a personal bond, to secure political capital, or to broadcast a plea for intervention? Could the gesture alienate parts of the Venezuelan opposition that are wary of foreign involvement? Could it, conversely, galvanize supporters who see the United States as a necessary counterweight to authoritarianism?
“We’re tired of external saviors and internal sellouts,” said an opposition activist who asked to remain anonymous because of safety concerns. “But we’re also tired of being ignored. It’s a messy calculus.”
After the Photo: What Comes Next?
Pictures, as they say, last longer than promises. The Nobel remains on the record as Machado’s. The medal is in the custody of a president who has long chased the prize himself, and the political winds in Venezuela keep blowing in uncertain directions — alliances shift, interim claims are made, and the oil-rich country’s future is very much an open question.
So where do we go from here? Perhaps the most honest answer is that we do not know. But this episode offers a sharp lesson about our moment: that symbols, like currencies, can be exchanged, invested, or hoarded — and that the stories we tell about those exchanges shape the political imagination.
When you see a medal, what do you see? A bright disk of metal, or a signal flare lighting a contentious path forward? The distinction matters because, as Machado’s journey shows, sometimes the smallest objects carry the heaviest messages.
“Symbols can open doors,” Machado said yesterday as she handed over her medal. “They can also close them.” What doors will open now — and which will close — is a story still being written, on plazas and in parliaments, in living rooms and on the pages of international diplomacy. Will a framed Nobel redraw loyalties or only redraw headlines? Only time will tell.
Anthony Joshua was injured in the fatal crash last month
Back in the Ring of Daily Life: Anthony Joshua’s Quiet, Complicated Return
There are comebacks that roar, and there are comebacks that whisper. On a grey morning in a private gym—no lights, no cameras, only the familiar rhythm of gloves on pads—Anthony Joshua chose the latter.
The boxing world watched, then paused. A short video posted to Snapchat showed the towering fighter moving through familiar rituals: mitt-work with a trainer who stood off-frame, steady rounds on a stationary bike, measured footwork, the soft exhale after a hard sprint. A caption floated across one clip: “mental strength therapy.” It was simple, human—and it landed like a quiet announcement that life, unbearably, goes on.
The loss that followed a holiday
Joshua, 36, had been in Nigeria on holiday after his recent win in Miami, a trip that was meant to be celebration and connection: family gatherings, old friends, the warmth of homecoming. Instead, a road crash on 29 December left two of his close companions dead—Sina Ghami, who had acted as his strength and conditioning coach, and Latif “Latz” Ayodele, a longtime trainer and confidant.
The details of the crash have been passed along in police statements and somber social-media posts. For Joshua it has become a private catastrophe made public: the crushing, disorienting work of grief layered on the physical demands of a sport that prizes resilience above almost everything else.
Inside the short film of recovery
The Snapchat clips were not a press conference. They were vignettes: Joshua tethering himself to routines that have carried him through Olympic gold and stadium nights—speed, repetition, breath. “Sometimes the hardest work is not about conditioning your body but teaching your heart to move,” read a caption under one frame. It felt like therapy, a way to calibrate strength without the fanfare.
“I saw him—focused, quieter than usual,” said a close friend who has spent summers with Joshua in Lagos and asked not to be named. “He’s not trying to put on a brave face. He’s just doing what he knows: working. But there’s a sadness. You can see it in how he pauses between rounds.”
Names, faces, and the small human rituals
Sina Ghami and Latif Ayodele were not public figures in the way Joshua is, but among those who knew the fighter they were essential. Ghami’s role as a strength and conditioning coach meant he worked in those in-between hours—warming up pads at dawn, driving recovery sessions into the night. Ayodele’s nickname, Latz, was a sign of affection; he had been in gyms long enough to know how to steady a man as he moved through peaks and troughs of public life.
At the roadside memorials that appeared in the weeks after the crash, flowers and rosary beads mixed with the crisp smell of fried plantain and suya—small things that made the scene unmistakably Nigerian. “People came who didn’t know them,” said a neighbor outside the area where some mourners gathered. “They came because when you lose someone close to a hero, it feels like you lose someone from your street.”
What grief looks like for an athlete
The image of a champion circling a punching bag is as old as the sport. But what happens when that circle is broken by grief? Sports psychologists say the process is neither straightforward nor bound by timelines.
“Athletes often feel pressure to ‘return’ quickly—sponsors, fans, schedules all press against the slow, messy work of mourning,” explained Dr. Maya Okoye, a sports psychologist who works with elite athletes on trauma and rehabilitation. “The fact that Joshua is back in the gym is not a sign he’s over it. It’s a way of staying anchored. Still, effective recovery isn’t just physical; it requires time, ritual, and people who let him both grieve and rebuild.”
Public health data reminds us that grief and trauma are global concerns with local inflections. The World Health Organization estimates roughly 1.3 million people die on the world’s roads each year—behind many of those numbers are families, communities, and the ripple effects that reach far beyond a single headline. In countries like Nigeria, where roads can be precarious and emergency response stretched, those statistics are painfully present in town squares and living rooms.
Voices from the margins: local responses
In the neighborhood where the crash occurred, people described a mixture of sorrow and a strange, stoic pragmatism. “We mourn, yes, but we also make space for life to continue,” said Ife, a shopkeeper who sells soft drinks and late-night snacks near the junction. “People came with food, with stories. In Nigeria we say: ‘It is in the hands of God.’ That doesn’t stop the pain, but we surround one another.”
Another mourned the loss of two men who had been quiet pillars for someone whose name filled stadiums. “They were the ones who made the big man comfortable,” said a trainer from a local gym. “They looked after him without wanting to be seen. That’s why their deaths are being felt by so many.”
Industry perspective: a promoter’s patience
From the other side of the Atlantic, Joshua’s promoter has urged patience. “We’ll let him heal,” Eddie Hearn said in a recent statement, expressing belief that Joshua will return to the sport when he is ready. “Boxing will be here. Right now he needs time—time to grieve and time to gather himself.” Whether in press rooms or whispered conversations in a gym, that sentiment has resonated: the future of a public career should not dictate the cadence of private healing.
What follows next—and what we can learn
How do we, as spectators and citizens, measure strength? Is it the ability to step back into the ring immediately, to stare down cameras and competitors? Or is it the quieter ability to allow wounds to mend in public, to accept help, and to slow down?
Joshua’s situation asks that question aloud. For fans, for critics, for people who care about sport as both theater and livelihood, there is a lesson in humility: athletes are archetypes and they are human. Both truths matter.
He may one day stand under the big lights again—swinging, measured, triumphant. Or his return may be more private, a gradual reclaiming of rhythm: morning runs, pad work, laughter in dressing rooms. Either way, the story unfolding now is not just about a fighter getting back to training. It’s about mourning, memory, and the strange alchemy that turns grief into the fuel for a life remade.
What would you do if the script of your life changed overnight? How do we hold space—for public figures and private friends alike—when they are both visible and vulnerable? Take a moment to listen to the sounds of the gym, and imagine the echo of a glove on a pad: small, steady, insistently alive.
Around half of Ukraine's capital remains in the dark and without heating as temperatures drop below freezing
When the lights go out: Kyiv’s winter under siege
The city felt smaller, a little more fragile, as night fell. Windows that once glowed with the yellow comfort of kettles and televisions now offered only the dim bluish reflections of phone screens. In one ninth-floor apartment on the left bank, a mother pressed a row of stuffed animals into the gap where cold wind streamed through a warped window frame — not toys, but battlefield implements against frost.
“You don’t think about hypothermia until you see it in your children’s chapped cheeks,” said Olena Petrenko, a primary school teacher who lives near Maidan Nezalezhnosti. “We are rationing heat like it’s food.”
This is Kyiv in mid-January: a capital that needs roughly 1,700 megawatts to keep its hospitals running, subways ventilated, boilers heated and millions from freezing. That figure — the electricity required to sustain a city of about 3.6 million people — is not an abstract model. It is the tally the mayor’s office has used to measure what is, in their words, the toughest energy emergency since the Russian invasion began nearly four years ago.
What happened
In a new wave of missile and drone strikes across Ukraine, critical parts of the country’s energy system were sabotaged. Repair teams — some sent by Kyiv’s international partners, some improvised from local brigades — have been running around the clock. Thousands of homes in Kyiv and frontline regions, including Dnipropetrovsk, Kharkiv and Odesa, were plunged into darkness. Authorities say a strike last week disrupted heating for around 6,000 apartment buildings; about 100 buildings remain without warmth.
“We are fighting a war of seconds,” sighed Vitali Klitschko, the mayor of Kyiv, during an interview in his office. “For the first time in our history, a city in such severe frosts has found most of its residents without heating and with a huge shortage of electricity.”
That shortage has translated into blunt, practical measures. Streetlights were dimmed to just 20% of normal intensity. Schools in the capital were ordered to close from January 19 until February 1 because classrooms cannot be heated reliably. Generators — the humming, hot-hearted machines of emergency life — have become currency, and the international community has rushed them to Ukraine.
The human toll
The statistics are sharp and clinical; the reality is ragged and cold. At night, temperatures around Kyiv have dipped to roughly -18°C. Hypothermia, frostbite and respiratory illnesses spike when heating falters and power is intermittent. Water supplies have been disrupted when pumping stations lose electricity. Hospitals strain to keep critical care devices online. A newborn in a neonatal unit, a dialysis patient, a school canteen that keeps warm soup flowing — all of them are vulnerable when the grid goes dark.
“Children and families are in constant survival mode,” Munir Mammadzade, UNICEF’s country representative in Ukraine, told reporters in Geneva. “People are trying to stay safe from strikes on high-rise buildings while temperatures plunge. We are racing to restore water and heating where we can.”
Jaime Wah, deputy head of the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies’ Kyiv delegation, added a stark human note: “It’s unbearable to live in apartments with no heating or electricity. Families are resorting to consider leaving the city.”
In some apartment blocks, neighbours huddle in a single warm room. In a high-rise on the left bank, two grandmothers and four children rotate between a rarely used electric kettle and a portable heater donated by a charity. “We sit close together and tell stories,” said Mykola, 68, who worked in the metro system for decades. “It keeps us warm in more ways than one.”
Supplies and limits
Kyiv’s energy precariousness is being managed on two ticking clocks. One is the availability of fuel: Ukraine’s energy minister has said the country has more than 20 days of reserves — a stretch that buys time but not certainty. The other is the availability of equipment and funding. Pre-positioned stockpiles of sleeping kits, generators and repair materials are running low because needs have ballooned and financing is strained.
UN agencies have sent high-capacity generators to hospitals and some schools, humanitarian groups report, but they warn that these are stopgaps. Repair crews need spare parts, transformers and protective equipment. The worry is blunt: without secure supplies and additional funding, more people will be pushed into danger by a long, freezing winter.
Politics, aid and the quest for a longer peace
Amid the chill and the blackouts, Kyiv’s political leaders have been shuttling between war rooms and international summits. President Volodymyr Zelensky’s team is en route to the United States for talks on security guarantees and a post-war recovery package, hoping to clinch documents on the sidelines of the World Economic Forum in Davos. Kyiv estimates that reconstruction will cost on the order of $800 billion — a jaw-dropping figure that would reshape conversations about European security and geopolitics for decades.
There are also tense diplomatic manoeuvres under way. Washington has pushed for a peace framework that it would then present to Moscow; Kyiv and many European partners insist a viable deal must ensure Ukraine cannot be attacked again. “Each strike against our energy infrastructure shows Russia’s real intentions,” Mr Zelensky said this week, arguing that recent attacks undercut any notion Moscow wants a negotiated peace.
Inside that debate are immediate operational needs. Mr Zelensky appealed for more air-defence munitions to protect the power grid and civilian infrastructure. “Some air-defence systems were left without missiles before a new aid package arrived,” he said. “We need to fight for these packages with everything we have — it is literally a matter of lives.”
What this means beyond Ukraine
When a capital’s lights go out, it is not only a local catastrophe. It is also a global signal: modern warfare increasingly targets the infrastructure that sustains daily life — not only military installations, but power plants, pumping stations and the arteries of civic life. That trend poses a profound humanitarian problem and a policy challenge for donors, insurers and governments worldwide.
How should cities build resilience when their utilities become targets? How do international law and humanitarian aid evolve when winter becomes another weapon? How do ordinary citizens — teachers, gas station attendants, grandparents — continue to live fully when the rules of peacetime are suspended?
These are not theoretical questions. They are the ones facing families in Kyiv right now as they swivel between cold and emergency warmth, news of diplomatic progress and the boom of distant strikes.
On the street
Outside, the city still hums in a skeletal way. A children’s playground in Lviv stands cordoned off after a falling drone. A bakery in Podil keeps its oven burning for those who come seeking hot bread and conversation. Volunteers organize routes to ferry generators across town. A patrol of electricians, bundled in reflective jackets, trudges toward a power substation with spare transformers on a flatbed truck.
“We are tired and cold,” said Hanna Kovalenko, a volunteer coordinator who has turned her living room into a distribution hub for heaters. “But we also know how to share. When the lights come back, it won’t be because of one person. It will be because a thousand small acts of care kept people alive.”
What you can do — and what policymakers must consider
Support humanitarian agencies: UNICEF, the Red Cross and local charities are on the ground supplying generators, blankets and medical supplies.
Push for investments in hardened infrastructure: insulated power lines, decentralized microgrids and protected pumping stations reduce single points of failure.
Demand clearer diplomatic mechanisms: long-term security guarantees must be part of any recovery plan, otherwise reconstruction becomes recurring emergency relief.
When you scroll past footage of Kyiv’s darkened skyline, remember these details: the newborn in neonatal care, the teacher with stuffed animals in the window, the repair crew who have not slept. They are not statistics. They are the ledger of a winter that will test how the world protects civilian life in an age when war reaches deep into the systems we take for granted.
What would you do if the heat went out? How would you keep your neighbours safe? Kyiv’s winter asks these moral and practical questions of us all.
Maria Corina Machado insisted she will be elected Venezuelan president 'when the right time comes' despite the US sidelining her after overthrowing Nicolas Maduro
A medal in the Oval Office, a country in the balance
The photograph will haunt anyone who follows Venezuela’s long, bitter saga: a woman with a Nobel Peace Prize in her hands, a gleam of defiance in her eyes, standing inside the Oval Office. It is an image that feels both intimate and seismic — intimate because of the personal courage and exile that trail Maria Corina Machado, seismic because of what it suggests about the tectonic shifts now shaking Venezuela and the region.
“We are definitely now into the first steps of a true transition to democracy,” Machado told reporters in Washington after the meeting, her words carrying the blunt certainty she has long cultivated. “Everyone should have the right to vote as soon as possible in free and fair elections.”
Her claim, and the symbolism of a Nobel medal placed before the U.S. president, is the most recent chapter in a story that has confused allies and enemies alike: a nation battered by authoritarianism, an opposition fractured and dispersed, and two foreign capitals — Caracas and Washington — attempting, in different ways, to reshape the outcome.
Washington’s shifting line
In Washington, the picture is not clean. After a dramatic January operation in which U.S. forces captured Nicolás Maduro and his wife, the political landscape of Venezuela shifted overnight. The U.S. initially made clear statements against Maduro’s rule. But inside the White House, the calculus has been more mercurial than many expected.
President Trump has publicly signaled support for Delcy Rodríguez — Maduro’s former vice-president — as an interim leader, at least for the near term. The explanation is pragmatic and blunt: Washington wants stability and, crucially, access to Venezuela’s enormous oil resources. The U.S. State Department has insisted any interim administration must cooperate on anti-narcotics work and open doors to international investment.
Maduro’s detention in New York and Rodríguez’s delivery of the state of the nation speech from Caracas have deepened the sense of a country governed in shards. Rodríguez, who spoke from the parliamentary lectern, pushed back against what she cast as U.S. pressure: “We know they are very powerful… we are not afraid to confront them diplomatically, through political dialogue,” she said. “If I visit Washington, I will do so with my head held high, walking, not on my knees.”
The intelligence handshake
Adding to the complexity, the director of U.S. intelligence paid a rare visit to Rodríguez. According to U.S. officials, the meeting was meant to send a clear signal: the United States expects cooperation on security and intelligence, especially to prevent Venezuela from becoming a haven for narcotics networks or other adversarial actors.
It’s a transactional approach, a Washington view that places stability and security above a quicker transfer of electoral legitimacy. That pragmatism has alienated some opposition figures, who see it as a betrayal of the democratic moment Machado believes her country is finally entering.
Voices from both sides of the divide
On the streets of Washington, Machado’s supporters cheered as if every march and whispered meeting of the past decade had finally arrived at a hinge point.
“She carried our story into that room,” said José Alvarez, a Venezuelan teacher who fled Caracas five years ago. “For us, she is proof that we can still be seen. That our pain matters.”
But not all Venezuelans abroad shared that certainty. “I want free, fair elections, yes,” said Ana Morales, who runs a small bakery in Queens and left Venezuela in 2018. “But I am scared of foreign hands picking the leader for us. Democracy isn’t a trophy to be handed over.”
Back in Caracas, reactions ranged from anger to weary skepticism. A street vendor near La Candelaria, who asked to be identified only as Luis, spat on the ground when the news broke that Washington had made overtures to Rodríguez. “They think oil can buy our hearts,” he said. “We are not merchandise.”
Experts weigh in
“This is a classic case of the tension between legitimacy and stability,” said an analyst who studies Latin American transitions. “External actors can create openings, but they also risk imposing solutions that won’t hold once foreign attention turns elsewhere.”
Those words matter because the stakes are enormous. Venezuela’s humanitarian collapse is not an abstract number in a policy brief — it is millions of lives on the move. According to UN agencies and migration monitors, roughly 7 million Venezuelans have left the country in the last decade, seeking refuge and work across the hemisphere. The economy, once fueled by oil, has contracted dramatically: output, public services and social safety nets have deteriorated, and the nation’s crude production never recovered from years of mismanagement and sanctions.
Venezuela holds roughly 300 billion barrels of proven oil reserves — among the largest in the world.
Yet production in recent years has fallen to a fraction of its former peak, leaving the population impoverished even as resource wealth lies underground.
Migration and displacement have created large Venezuelan diasporas in Colombia, the United States, Spain and beyond.
Democracy, or something else?
Machado insists that elections are non-negotiable. “I believe I will be elected when the right time comes as president of Venezuela, the first woman president,” she declared on U.S. television. “I want to serve my country where I am more useful. I got a mandate, and I have that mandate.”
And then there is the surreal exchange of symbols: Machado presented her Nobel medal in Washington, calling it not a personal honor but “on behalf of the people of Venezuela.” The Norwegian Nobel Committee, however, has strict rules about transfer and ownership of awards, a bureaucratic detail that undercuts the poetic theater of the gesture.
Ask yourself: what does democracy mean when its contours are drawn as much by foreign policy as by ballots? When an opposition leader flirts with international patrons? When a people’s hopes are entangled with global energy markets? The questions are uncomfortable because the answers are messy.
What comes next?
There are no easy roadmaps. Transitional governments can stitch together rapid stability — as Washington seems to prefer. Or they can prepare the slow, brittle work of restoring institutions and legitimacy through elections and reconciliation. Both paths come with risks.
“The danger is that short-term fixes become long-term compromises,” warned an independent Latin America scholar. “True democratic transition requires trust-building at home. External endorsement can help, but it cannot substitute for a credible, inclusive political process.”
For those who fled Venezuela and those who still stand in its plazas, the scene in Washington will feel consequential. For the rest of the world, it is a prompt: we are watching not just a political wobble in a single country, but a test case of how 21st-century power — oil, exile, armed intervention, global media and Nobel laurels — can collide with the fragile machinery of self-rule.
So where do you stand? Do you think democracy can be rebuilt from the outside in, or must it come from the messy, patient work of people inside the country? Tell me what you believe — because Venezuela’s future will be written not only in Washington or Caracas, but in the choices ordinary people make on the ground.
Greenlandic leaders have been universal in their opposition to Donald Trump's plans for the territory
The Island No One Thought Could Be Bought
Imagine waking to the scent of diesel and coffee in Nuuk, catching sight of a black government van rolling away from the parliament building, and hearing — on a crackling radio, or more likely on a streaming feed — that a distant leader is once again talking about buying your homeland. That was the surreal beat-feed in mid-morning Copenhagen and across the iced bays of Greenland: talk of tariffs, threats, and territorial ambitions that read like a plot from an alternate-history novel.
“It feels like watching a drama where the characters forget we’re not extras,” said Einar Olsen, a 41-year-old ferry captain who runs supplies between Greenland’s scattered settlements. “This is our home. You don’t buy my grandmother’s stories.”
Tariffs, Threats, and a Strange Real Estate Pitch
At the White House, the suggestion was blunt and transactional: if allies don’t back an effort to bring Greenland under U.S. control, tariffs could be used as leverage. “I may put a tariff on countries if they don’t go along with Greenland, because we need Greenland for national security,” the president said, tying trade policy to an island half a world away.
It was not the first time this episode played out. The idea of purchasing Greenland is odd in modern diplomacy yet not unprecedented: in 1946 the United States explored buying Greenland from Denmark. Today the stakes are different — minerals, new shipping lanes as the Arctic warms, and strategic military locations like Thule, a U.S. base that has long made Greenland a geopolitical interest.
How people on the ground see it
“We don’t lease our identity to the highest bidder,” said Aqqaluk Kaasik, a Greenlandic teacher sipping strong tea in Nuuk’s art café. “You can talk about mineral wealth, you can talk about bases, but you cannot buy centuries.”
Greenland’s population is tiny by global standards — roughly 56,000 people — spread across an island the size of Western Europe. Yet small doesn’t mean insignificant. The island is mineral-rich, with estimates suggesting vast deposits of rare earth elements and other strategic ores increasingly valuable to clean-energy and defense technologies.
Congress Intervenes — and Europe Responds
Within days, a bipartisan delegation of U.S. lawmakers boarded planes for Copenhagen. In an act of what politicians called solidarity, Democrats and Republicans stood with Danish and Greenlandic officials, making clear that an outright acquisition would face major political headwinds at home. “We are showing bipartisan solidarity with the people of this country and with Greenland,” said Senator Dick Durbin. “The statements being made by the president do not reflect what the American people feel.”
The visit coincided with a European military reconnaissance mission. Small contingents from the UK, France, Germany, the Netherlands, Norway, Sweden and Finland flew and sailed north to Greenlandic waters — a symbolic riposte: Europe would not sit idly by if sovereignty was threatened.
“We are sending a signal,” France’s defense leadership said, describing the deployments as exercises to protect sovereignty, not to provoke Washington. Yet the choreography on the ice — a quiet fleet, a reconnaissance plane tracing the fjords — felt like modern diplomacy at its most theatrical.
The human rhythm of resistance
In Nuuk, ordinary life continued with a stubborn normality. Children in bright parkas chased gulls along the wharf while elders sat on benches polishing sealskin boots. But there was energy, too: meetings, leaflets, and talk of mass demonstrations planned in cities from Nuuk to Copenhagen to Aarhus.
“We’ll shout, we’ll sing,” said Inga Motzfeldt, a community organizer, her hands warm against the cold. “Not because we’re anti-American — many Greenlanders have friends in the States — but because this is about self-determination.”
Politics, Law, and the Limits of Power
On both sides of the aisle in Washington, the response was immediate and complicated. Some Republicans privately fretted that a presidential drive to annex a territory could overreach presidential authority and run headlong into Congress’ constitutional war powers. Democrats, too, denounced the rhetoric as undermining NATO and playing into the narratives of geopolitical rivals like Russia and China.
A Reuters/Ipsos poll showed what many predicted: only 17% of Americans supported the idea of acquiring Greenland. Majorities across party lines opposed using military force to annex the island. “Saner heads will prevail,” said Senator Jeanne Shaheen, whose family history included service in Greenland, arguing that institutions and law would check presidential impulses.
Legal experts remind us that modern annexation is not a boardroom transaction. Under international law, sovereignty cannot be bought from one state in ways that ignore the wishes of the people who live there—and democratic checks at home make unilateral moves fraught and unlikely.
Geopolitics, Minerals, and the Melting Arctic
Why the fuss? Climate change has redrawn strategic maps. Melting ice opens new shipping lanes and access to minerals — rare earths needed for batteries, wind turbines, and electric vehicles — and that prospect has sparked a rush of interest from states big and small.
Greenland’s land area: about 2.16 million km²
Population: roughly 56,000 people
Strategic asset: Thule Air Base, a U.S. installation in northwest Greenland
“Countries are recalibrating their northern strategies,” explained Dr. Laila Sørensen, an Arctic policy researcher. “It’s about resources, yes, but fundamentally it’s about control of new maritime routes and military positioning. Greenland sits at the hinge of the North Atlantic and Arctic — that’s why it keeps appearing in headlines.”
What This Moment Tells Us
This episode — midnight tweets, threats of tariffs, planes over icy fjords, lawmakers rushing abroad — is a microcosm of broader tensions: an age where climate change unlocks new geographies of wealth; where small communities find themselves bargaining chips in great-power chess; and where the rules of statehood are tested by the pace of change.
But the human element remains stubbornly central. For Greenlanders, this isn’t about geopolitics in the abstract. It’s about language, land, history, and the right to chart their own future. “We will not be a footnote,” said a 28-year-old nurse in Sisimiut, refusing to be erased by headlines. “We will be the authors of our destiny.”
Where Do We Go From Here?
Will tariffs, threats, or theatrics alter the arc of sovereignty? Probably not. Will the Arctic become ever more crowded with interest, investment, and tension? Almost certainly. The drama that briefly shook Nuuk and Copenhagen should force a question on all of us: how do we craft rules to protect small communities as global forces — economic, climatic, strategic — sweep across them?
As you read this, paused in a cafe or scrolling through your phone, ask yourself: when the earth’s maps change, who gets to redraw the lines? Who speaks for the people who live where the ice is melting first? These are not only Greenland’s questions; they are ours.
Back in the Ring of Daily Life: Anthony Joshua’s Quiet, Complicated Return
There are comebacks that roar, and there are comebacks that whisper. On a...
