IAEA reports meaningful progress in Iran-US nuclear talks

February 19, 2026

'Step forward' in Iran-US nuclear talk - nuclear watchdog — People attended a 40th-day memorial ceremony yesterday for those who lost their lives in protests held in January at Imam Khomeini Mosque in Tehran, Iran (file image)

In Geneva’s cold light, a narrow window opens — but time is not on anyone’s side

Geneva woke up this week to grey skies and a string of diplomatic footsteps that felt, at once, hopeful and hurried. In a quiet room inside a neutral hotel, envoys from Tehran and Washington — shepherded by Oman and watched closely by the International Atomic Energy Agency — sat down for talks that some in the corridor called the most consequential pause since last summer’s flare-up.

“We made progress, but there is still work to be done, and the problem is that we don’t have much time,” Rafael Grossi, director general of the IAEA, told French television. The tone of his voice carried the precise mix of relief and anxiety you hear from someone who knows how close a fragile accord can come to slipping away.

What the talks actually mean

At first glance, Geneva looks like just another diplomatic waypoint — glass towers, shuttle buses and translators shuttling between doorways. But these exchanges are threaded into a larger, far-reaching tapestry: a nuclear standoff, a contested spiral of strikes and counter-strikes, and an uneasy balance in a volatile region. The immediate subject was narrow and technical — verification, access for inspectors, and concrete steps to limit Iran’s nuclear activities — but the stakes are existential for many involved.

IAEA inspections have been strained. Tehran has, according to officials at the agency, suspended some cooperation and at times blocked inspectors from reaching sites damaged during a 12-day conflict last June. Those sites, struck in the wake of Israeli and US operations, are now part of a bitter tug-of-war over evidence, accountability and credibility.

Behind the diplomats’ clipped memorandum language are real, practical hurdles: how to restore inspector access to sensitive locations, how to write guarantees that are verifiable, and what limits — if any — Tehran would accept on its uranium enrichment. These are not questions you resolve with slogans; they require forensic detail, technical timelines and a willingness to accept mutual face-saving measures.

A fragile dialogue, not yet a deal

“We are starting to talk about concrete things, about what we have to do,” Grossi said. If that sounds like small progress, it is — but sometimes small steps are the only route out of a precipice.

One western diplomat who asked not to be named told me, “There is a real willingness on both sides to avoid catastrophe. But willingness doesn’t erase complexity. This is not a negotiation you can wrap up over coffee.” A Tehran-based analyst agreed: “Negotiations that touch on national pride and security are like tightrope walking above a crowd that wants you to fall for its own reasons,” she said.

On the ground: voices from Tehran, Geneva and beyond

In Tehran, attitudes are as varied as the city’s neighborhoods. In the bazaars where saffron and pistachios billow in sacks, traders I spoke with were cautious. “We want peace,” said Reza, a carpet merchant near the Grand Bazaar. “We do not want war. But we also want respect. Any deal must not feel like surrender.”

Outside the foreign ministry, a young activist who has been involved in recent anti-government protests offered a different vantage. “We are negotiating with diplomats while people are still being silenced at home,” she told me. “A deal that secures a government’s power without addressing human rights will be hollow for many of us.”

In Geneva, Omani mediators — who have quietly carved a reputation as deft brokers in regional disputes — moved between rooms with a singular aim: keep the conversation alive. “Oman wants to facilitate, not dictate,” said an Omani official. “Our role is to create space where trust can be rebuilt.”

At the agency headquarters, inspectors and scientists were less rhetorical and more pragmatic. “Verification is about paperwork, seals, remote sensors and inspector access — not grand speeches,” one IAEA technician told me. “If we can go back in and we can account for what’s there and what is not, the worst fears begin to recede.”

Numbers that matter — and why they matter

To understand what hangs in the balance, a few technical facts help. Over recent years, Iran’s stockpile of enriched uranium has grown beyond the limits set by the 2015 nuclear accord, and Tehran has enriched to higher levels — including up to roughly 60% purity at times — a threshold much closer to weapons-grade than the previous 3.67% cap. Those moves have been documented repeatedly by the IAEA and are at the heart of why the international community watches Tehran so closely.

Meanwhile, military posturing has not paused. Washington has warned Tehran that it’s “wise” to reach an agreement; other officials have publicly suggested that all options remain on the table. U.S. deployments to the region have been stepped up in recent months, a shadow that adds urgency to a diplomatic timetable said to be moving toward mid-March for increased force posture.

Why this moment matters globally

Ask yourself: why should a farmer in Kenya, a teacher in Madrid, or a shopkeeper in Jakarta care about a diplomatic back-and-forth in Geneva? Because the ripple effects of escalation are global. An open conflict in the Gulf could spike energy prices, disrupt shipping through the Strait of Hormuz — through which about 20% of the world’s seaborne oil passes — and send shockwaves through fragile political systems everywhere.

More than that, the talks are a test of whether multilateral institutions and quiet diplomacy can still function in an era dominated by threats, social media spectacle and domestic political pressure. If an agreement is possible, it could reaffirm the utility of patient, detail-oriented diplomacy. If it fails, it will expose how quickly dangerous confrontations can reassert themselves.

What to watch for next

The immediate horizon is procedural but consequential. Iran is expected to submit, or at least outline, a written proposal that would sketch out how it envisions avoiding a wider standoff. Washington’s internal meetings are on a tight schedule: national security advisers reportedly convened to prepare for possible scenarios, and officials have indicated that some force deployments would be in place by mid-March.

Watch also for the domestic politics that will shape any outcome. Leaders on both sides face constituencies that reward toughness. Diplomatic flexibility can be painted as weakness. Yet, paradoxically, it is often the recognition of mutual limits — what neither side can afford — that makes compromise feasible.

Closing thoughts: a choice between urgency and patience

There are moments in history where the decision to continue talking is itself the most consequential act. Geneva’s rooms are not empty of history; they are full of it. The arc of these negotiations will be written in footnotes and in the memory of those who felt the consequences on their streets.

So what do you want to hope for? A measured accord that restores inspectors and stalls an arms race, or a confrontation that redraws maps in blood? Diplomacy asks us — and the actors involved — to choose patience over panic, detail over drama, and verification over rhetoric.

For now, the chat has become a conversation. Whether it becomes a binding agreement remains unknown. But in a world that too often mistakes movement for progress, that first cautious opening is worth watching closely.

Glove Found Near Nancy Guthrie’s Home Yields No DNA Match

hanad

February 19, 2026

No DNA match on glove found near Nancy Guthrie's home — NBC morning news presenter Savannah Guthrie's mother Nancy was last seen on the night of 31 January

In the Desert Quiet: The Search for Nancy Guthrie and the Limits of Evidence

The Sonoran sky over Tucson was a clean, sharp blue the morning the glove was found — an ordinary Arizona day, stunned into significance by an extraordinary object. A well-worn glove, abandoned in a roadside field more than three kilometers from the suburban house where 84‑year‑old Nancy Guthrie was last seen, promised the kind of forensic breakthrough detectives dream about. Instead, it landed like a thud in a case that has already upended a family and riveted a world watching the slow-motion unraveling of an apparent abduction.

“We had hope,” Sheriff Chris Nanos told reporters as the investigation slid into its third week. “We thought this glove might give us a name. But for now, it’s a dead end.”

What was hoped for — and what came back

When the glove’s DNA was submitted to CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System that federal and local agencies use to compare genetic profiles, there were no matches. For detectives the silence of that database was deafening; for a family on the edge, it narrowed the seams of optimism.

CODIS is a powerful tool — a national repository that holds the DNA profiles collected from convicted offenders, arrestees in many states, and crime scene evidence. It’s considered a cornerstone of modern criminal forensics. But it is not, and never was, a magic wand. “CODIS contains millions of profiles,” says Dr. Leila Moretti, a forensic geneticist who has worked with law enforcement for two decades. “It helps in countless cases, but the system only works if the person who left DNA is already in the database or if their relatives are, and that simply isn’t always the situation.”

That caveat matters when thinking about the man seen on surveillance video near Nancy Guthrie’s door: masked, with a bulky backpack and what appeared to be a holstered handgun. He tried to tamper with a doorbell camera in the early hours of January 31 — a brazen, daylight‑adjacent move in a fast‑changing neighborhood of Tucson that blends quiet cul‑de‑sacs with desert scrub and the distant silhouette of saguaros.

Old-fashioned detective work fills the gaps

With DNA failing to yield a name, detectives returned to the labor of classical policing: interviews, footage, shoeboxes of receipts. They were helped, in part, by corporate America’s ubiquity. Investigators canvassed local Walmarts after spotting a distinctive backpack in the footage. They showed sales clerks and store managers a photo of the item, hoping to trace a purchase.

“We had a picture, and it’s amazing what people remember when you give them a face,” said Detective Maria Reyes, who worked the case through late nights. “It’s why we go back to the scene, back to the sellers, back to every clerk who might have rung that package across a register.”

At a small gun shop on the city’s north side, co‑owner Phillip Martin recalled an FBI agent arriving with a short list of names. “He came in with a list of fewer than 20 people who might’ve bought a similar holster or weapon,” Martin said. “I checked our records — none of those names popped up. You feel like you’re piecing together a puzzle but without the corner pieces.”

Law enforcement personnel have also used a technology that sounds like it belongs in a science fiction novel: a “signal sniffer” that generates heat maps. Parsons Corp., the company behind the system, provided units for aerial and ground searches, producing visual overlays of where devices and movements clustered. “It’s another way to see patterns our eyes wouldn’t catch from the ground,” a Parsons spokesperson told reporters. “But it’s a tool, not a definitive answer.”

The human cost: vulnerability, visibility, and a family in public sorrow

For the Guthrie family, the investigation isn’t an abstract puzzle. Nancy, who is frail and requires medication and a pacemaker, was dropped off at home after dinner with family on January 31 and was reported missing the next day. Sheriff Nanos has been explicit in his characterization of the case: Nancy could not have walked away on her own.

“She’s very limited in mobility,” Nanos said. “This was not a wandering case. This was a removal.”

That reality has focused both law enforcement and public attention on worst-case scenarios. Two ransom notes have surfaced in the weeks since her disappearance; both were initially routed through media outlets. There has been no verified contact between alleged perpetrators and the family, and no proof of life has been offered to ease the ache of waiting.

“It’s a nightmare you can’t wake up from,” said Jenna Alvarez, a neighbor who brought sandwiches to investigators the first day they searched the Guthrie house. “We make small talk over fences here — talk about the bad storms, the coyotes — and then this. It feels surreal.”

Nanos has publicly ruled out immediate family members as suspects, seeking to steady a family already pulled under the glare of relentless coverage. Savannah Guthrie, the NBC “Today” co‑anchor, and Nancy’s other children have repeatedly pleaded on television and social media for anyone with information to come forward. Their faces have become fixtures on screens worldwide, evoking both immense sympathy and a vexing intensity to the scrutiny of every lead.

What this case illuminates

Beyond the immediate anguish of a missing mother and the flurry of forensic testing, this case raises broader questions about safety, aging and technology. How do communities protect their elders? How do we balance privacy with the utility of ubiquitous cameras? When a high‑profile family is involved, what are the ethical lines for newsrooms and for members of the public?

“We’re living in an era where everything is recorded but not everything is searchable,” Dr. Moretti said. “The limits of databases, the patchwork of surveillance, and the vulnerabilities of an aging population converge in cases like this.”

Consider: the population of Americans aged 65 and older is growing rapidly, and with it the number of elders living independently. The realities of mobility limitations, medication needs and medical devices like pacemakers make certain individuals uniquely vulnerable. Communities must ask themselves how to make suburbs, rural stretches and small neighborhoods safer without turning every porch light into a surveillance post.

How you can help — and what to watch for

Investigators continue to sift evidence: DNA traces recovered from the porch have been confirmed as belonging to Nancy, officials have said, and other samples are still being analyzed. The sheriff’s office emphasizes that CODIS is only one of many databases and investigative leads being pursued. Ground searches, forensic follow‑ups and human witnesses remain essential.

If you live near Tucson or saw anything in late January that seemed out of place — a car parked oddly, a person moving with unusual purpose, a backpack abandoned by the roadside — authorities urge you to call. “Small details become big in investigations,” Detective Reyes warned. “A moment you dismiss as nothing might be the thread we need.”

And for the rest of us, watching from living rooms around the world, there are questions worth sitting with. How do we respond when someone’s private tragedy becomes public drama? How do communities balance vigilance with compassion? What do we owe elderly neighbors who are privately vulnerable?

For now, Nancy Guthrie’s front porch is a scene cordoned off and studied — a modest threshold that, for a family and a community, has become the center of an anxious universe. The glove in that field was a promise of clarity that did not come. Detectives keep working. Neighbors keep watching. A daughter keeps asking the world to help bring her mother home.

“We’re not giving up,” Savannah and her siblings have said in public appeals. “If you know anything — anything at all — please call.”

UN brands Israel’s West Bank action ‘de facto annexation’

hanad

February 18, 2026

Israel's West Bank move 'de facto annexation' - UN — Israeli soldiers guarding army bulldozers as they demolished a house in Nablus in the West Bank this week

Ramadan at a Checkpoint: How Quiet Changes on the Ground Are Redrawing the Map

On a mild morning in East Jerusalem, the sounds that usually fill the air before Ramadan—children’s laughter, the clatter of coffee cups, the hurried prayers of men on their way to Al‑Aqsa—have been muffled by checkpoints and paperwork.

“We used to walk from our neighborhood, five minutes and we were inside the Haram,” said Ahmad Mansour, a 48‑year‑old barber from the West Bank town of Al‑Ram. “Now my son has to queue at the crossing, show three IDs, wait for a permit that might not arrive. This is Ramadan, not a war of paperwork.”

His impatience is not just personal frustration; it is a symptom. In recent days, Israeli authorities announced limits on the number of West Bank Palestinians permitted to attend Friday prayers at Al‑Aqsa during Ramadan—capping attendance at 10,000 and imposing strict age cutoffs. Men under 55, women under 50, and teenagers in most cases will be denied access unless they happen to fall into narrow exceptions.

Voices from the Compound

The restrictions, issued by COGAT—the Israeli defense ministry body that administers civilian life in the Palestinian territories—also require advance digital permits and what the agency calls “digital documentation” upon return to the West Bank. The stated reason: security.

“They tell us it’s for security. But security for whom?” asked Fatima Nassar, an imam’s assistant in Jerusalem who helps organize community outreach during Ramadan. “For the people fasting in the mosque, or for the policies that make prayer feel like privilege instead of right?”

The announcement has practical effects. Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians traditionally make the pilgrimage to Al‑Aqsa during the holy month, especially for Friday prayers and the last ten nights. Attendance has already been depressed since last year’s war in Gaza, and travel restrictions have layered new barriers—both physical and psychological—between worshippers and the sanctified courtyard of the compound.

Maps, Accords, and the Slow Unraveling

Beyond the mosque, there is an argument being waged in dry, bureaucratic language that nevertheless rewrites the landscape. Under the Oslo Accords, the West Bank was divided into Areas A, B and C—designations that were supposed to be temporary steps toward Palestinian self‑rule. Area A sits under Palestinian civil and security control; B is shared; C remains under Israeli control. In practice, the map has become porous and contested.

“What we are seeing is not a dramatic, single headline act—it’s an accretion,” said Dr. Lina Haddad, a political geographer who studies land policy in Jerusalem and the West Bank. “Small regulatory changes—permit easing for settlers, streamlined transactions in ambiguous jurisdictions, new rule‑making about who can access religious sites—add up. Over time, they reshape reality. That’s why the UN called it ‘gradual de facto annexation.’ It’s the shape of a border changing, one administrative memo at a time.”

UN Under‑Secretary‑General Rosemary DiCarlo sounded alarm bells at a recent Security Council session, warning that a raft of measures now approved by the Israeli cabinet—many backed by far‑right ministers—risked extending civil authority into areas long administered by the Palestinian Authority. “If implemented, these measures could mean an expansion of Israeli civil authority into sensitive areas like Hebron,” she told diplomats, cautioning that the policies might clear bureaucratic pathways for settlement expansion.

Those concerns are not abstract. The West Bank is home to roughly 3 million Palestinians and—by most international tallies—some 475,000 Israeli settlers living in settlements outside East Jerusalem, with hundreds of thousands more Israeli residents in annexed East Jerusalem. For Palestinians, modest shifts in building permits, land registries, and the enforcement of zoning rules are existential: they determine whether a family can build a home, keep their olive trees, or be pushed into a maze of legal limbo.

On the Ground: People, Profit, Politics

In the market streets of Hebron, vendors spoke of permits and fear. “We have had orders to close stalls when inspectors come, or to move,” said Sahar Abu‑Khalil, who sells spices near the old city. “If they say the land is now under different control, where do we go? My mother’s house is on that street.”

On the other side of the argument, Israeli officials frame the moves as a reassertion of historic ties. “This is our ancient homeland,” said an official close to the foreign ministry, who asked not to be named, echoing a sentiment voiced publicly by ministers in Jerusalem. “People around the world should understand the historical and legal complexity here.”

Gideon Sa’ar, Israel’s foreign minister, has argued that Jewish presence in the land is rooted in history—an argument that resonates in some quarters in Israel and among diaspora communities. Britain’s foreign secretary, Yvette Cooper, who chaired the Security Council meeting, countered that the international community must act to preserve the possibility of a viable Palestinian state and prevent further destabilization.

Global Friction, Local Pain

The current debate is unfolding alongside a diplomatic maneuver that many saw as provocative: a US convening of a so‑called Board of Peace, chaired by President Donald Trump, which was first announced as part of Gaza reconstruction efforts but has since been framed as a broader forum to tackle multiple international conflicts. The United Nations was not invited to participate in the upcoming meeting, a move criticized by some diplomats.

“The board is not talking. It’s doing,” said the US ambassador to the UN, Mike Waltz, in a tone meant to dismiss critics. Others see the move as an attempt to create parallel institutions—bypassing established multilateral mechanisms at a moment when global cooperation matters most.

Meanwhile, everyday Palestinians feel the squeeze: tax transfers to the Palestinian Authority have been delayed at times; economic indicators show a fragile recovery in the West Bank after repeated shocks. Unemployment remains high—official Palestinian figures list unemployment in the West Bank and Gaza combined as well above pre‑2019 levels in many areas—and development funds are stretched thin.

Questions for Readers and the Future

Ask yourself: what does sovereignty look like when the borders of daily life are defined by permits, apps and checkpoints rather than by a treaty on a map? How do holy places stay holy when access is a matter of security clearances?

“People think of geopolitics as distant and abstract,” said Dr. Haddad. “But it is the shopkeeper who can’t get a license, the imam barred from his mosque, the farmer whose trees are flagged for confiscation. Those micro‑decisions add up to a macro‑change.”

As Ramadan settles over streets and courtyards, the rituals continue even under strain: the call to prayer, lit by lanterns and the hush of iftar gatherings. But the rituals exist now alongside a new administrative reality. It is intimate and political at once—holy moments shaped by the weight of international diplomacy and the grain of local life.

In the end, the question may not be who wins an argument in a council room, but whether the human ties that have held communities together—prayer, market, kinship—can survive the slow, quiet remapping of a landscape. Will the next generation remember how to cross without permits, or will they inherit a geography that requires permission to belong?

Man Missing After Floods Amid France’s 35-Day Rain Streak

hanad

February 18, 2026

Man missing in floods as France records 35 days of rain — National weather service Meteo-France said the country was experiencing its longest series of rainy days since measurements began in 1959

Rain That Refuses to End: France’s Longest Wet Spell and a River That Keeps Taking

The Loire is not supposed to roar like an ocean. It’s meant to meander, to cradle towns and vineyards along soft banks that hold stories as old as France itself. This week, that familiar rhythm has been broken: the river has swelled into a cold, relentless current, swallowing streets, gardens, and the steady certainties of daily life. A man who capsized in a canoe near Chalonnes-sur-Loire is now missing, and the search teams are fighting against a grey, unending sky and a river that has turned treacherous.

France has just lived through an unprecedented run of rain — 35 consecutive days of measurable precipitation, according to Meteo‑France — the longest stretch since weather records began in 1959. For comparison, last year’s long rainy spell set a record that many thought impenetrable; this year it has been eclipsed, leaving communities, farmers, and emergency services stretched thin.

On the Ground: Chalonnes-sur-Loire and the Human Ripple

In Chalonnes-sur-Loire, the town clung to the riverbank like a postcard mid-flood. Street markets that usually brim with baguettes and bright produce now sat quiet, stalls empty or hastily shuttered. Locals stood at the edges of rising water, coats drenched, watching rescue teams launch boats into currents that cut like knives.

“We are deploying resources, but there is objectively very little chance of finding this person,” said François Pesneau, a senior official coordinating local rescue efforts, his breath fogging in the cold air. “The currents are violent and the water is cold — it’s a very dangerous situation.” The words landed like stones. Volunteers and firefighters continued anyway, because that is what communities do when the river demands it.

A woman named Marie, who runs the town’s boulangerie and delivered free loaves to rescuers, stood on the quay and said, “We worry for everyone. The river has always been our neighbour, sometimes generous, sometimes stubborn. Now it seems to have forgotten mercy.” Her voice was small but steady.

Bordeaux Rings the Alarm — For the First Time Since 1999

Further south, Bordeaux’s mayor, Pierre Hurmic, activated the city’s emergency plan — a decision not taken lightly and one not seen since the devastating floods of 1999. Low-lying quays and the historic riverfront promenades, places where lovers and tourists stroll at dusk, were barricaded. Parked cars bobbed in the water like forgotten toys.

“This is a call for everyone to take the warnings seriously,” a city official told me. “We are mobilizing shelters, checking hospitals and care homes, and preparing for an escalation when Storm Pedro hits.” The official declined to be named for this piece but left no doubt about the sense of urgency in municipal halls now lit through the long rainy nights.

Historic Stones Submerged: Saintes and the Arch of Germanicus

In Saintes, the Arch of Germanicus — a Roman doorway that once marked the town’s formal entrance — is partly under water. Ancient stones, worn by centuries of weather and history, now glisten with a modern peril: floodwater lapping their base. Reporters noted several central streets awash, some homes beginning to take on water, and local officials tallying damage. So far, about 50 streets and 900 homes have been affected, numbers that officials warn could rise as rivers continue to swell.

“You grow up with these monuments. You never expect to see them humbled by water in your lifetime,” said Luc Moreau, a history teacher who lives near the arch. “Standing there, thinking of Romans who marched under that arch, you realise how fragile our present is in the face of climate events.”

Weather, Warnings, and What Comes Next

The French flood-alert system, Vigicrues, has placed four departments in western France on red alert for flooding, with nine further departments under orange warnings. Lucie Chadourne‑Facon, director of Vigicrues’ flood alert service, warned that fresh rain expected midweek could “feed the current floods” and that the crest of the river — the moment when floodwater reaches its highest — might not arrive until the coming weekend.

“The end of rain does not mean the end of flooding,” she told reporters. “Grounds are saturated. Rivers are full. Water, once in motion, takes time to move through our systems.” Chadourne‑Facon’s words remind us of a simple hydrological truth: floods are not just about rainfall in the moment; they are about how landscapes and rivers absorb and delay that water.

Storm Pedro Looms

The meteorological picture grows more complicated with Storm Pedro on the horizon — a system projected to batter western Europe in coming days. Where rain falls on saturated soil, the risk multiplies: landslides, fast-rising rivers, and overwhelmed drains. Authorities have urged people to avoid travel where possible and to heed evacuation orders promptly.

Local authorities and emergency teams are already stretched. Firefighters, volunteer rescue groups, and municipal workers are coordinating shelters, sandbagging vulnerable areas, and checking on elderly residents. In Bordeaux, municipal buses have been repurposed as temporary shelters. In smaller towns, sports halls and community centers fill with those displaced from ground floors.

Beyond the Flood: Tracing a Larger Pattern

What is happening in western France is a vivid local story, but it also fits into a global pattern. Across the world, climate scientists have been warning of more frequent and intense extremes of rainfall as a warmer atmosphere holds more moisture. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) has reported that heavy precipitation events have likely increased in frequency and intensity in many regions — a trend that places new strains on infrastructure designed for an older climate.

“Our infrastructure — from drainage systems to river dikes — was often built for a different hydrological reality,” explained Amélie Dubois, an urban resilience specialist. “Events like this test those limits. We must think about adaptive planning: more permeable surfaces in cities, managed floodplains, and early-warning systems that reach every doorstep.”

What Can You Do? Small Acts, Big Consequences

Reading this from afar, what can you do? First, be curious and compassionate. Check in on friends and relatives who live in affected areas. If you’re in a position to donate, reputable local charities and municipal disaster funds provide the most direct support. If you’re a policymaker or a voter, ask how your town is planning for the next inevitable storm.

Stay informed via official channels like Meteo‑France and local prefectures.
Check evacuation routes and register for local alert systems if you live in flood-prone areas.
Support resilient infrastructure projects and community-led preparedness initiatives.

Closing: The River Remembers

There is a humility baked into these moments of crisis. The Loire and towns like Chalonnes-sur-Loire and Saintes have seen floods before — but not this long a slow, damp squeeze. The immediate task is rescue, shelter, and care. The larger task is harder: reimagining how we live with water in a changing world.

As evening fell and the rain continued its measured patter on corrugated shelters, a volunteer named Karim paused with a thermos of coffee and said, “We always say we live by the river. Now the river reminds us who decides.” It’s a small line, but it carries something essential: a reminder that nature sets terms we must learn to read, respect, and prepare for — together.

Are we listening?

Iranian minister views US nuclear talks as new diplomatic opportunity

hanad

February 18, 2026

Iran minister sees 'new opportunity' in US nuclear talks — Police block the street near the Omani ambassador's residence during the talks in Geneva

Geneva’s fragile sunrise: a new window — and a long road ahead

There are moments in diplomacy that feel as if the world holds its breath. In a sterile conference center in Geneva this week, that held breath turned into cautious optimism. Iran’s deputy foreign minister, Abbas Araghchi, described what he called “a new window of opportunity” after a fresh round of talks with US envoys. The words themselves were modest, almost careful — as if to not jinx what many in the room know could still unravel.

“We were able to reach broad agreement on a set of guiding principles,” Araghchi told Iranian state television. “We will move forward and begin working on the text of a potential agreement.” Those principles, he added, are only the opening frame of a negotiation that could take months. “This does not mean we can reach a deal quickly,” he warned.

At the negotiating table: serious talk, slow work

The talks, which resumed on 6 February, are the latest in a stop-start choreography between Tehran and Washington that stretches back decades. Participants at the session included US envoy Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner, former US president Donald Trump’s son-in-law, with Mr Trump saying he would be involved “indirectly.” On the margins, the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency, Rafael Grossi, met Iranian officials to discuss technical cooperation — a reminder that the practicalities of monitoring matter as much as political will.

An unnamed senior Iranian official who briefed journalists in Geneva said Iran brought “genuine and constructive proposals” and that US seriousness on lifting sanctions — and avoiding “unrealistic demands” — would determine whether the talks could translate into a lasting accord. “We’re willing to devote the time necessary to get this right,” the official said. “But time is not the same as haste.”

What’s at stake on the table

At the heart of the negotiations is a familiar triad: nuclear constraints, verifiable inspections, and the relief of crippling international sanctions that have hammered Iran’s economy. Tehran insists it will not surrender enrichment entirely or include its missile arsenal in the current bargaining. Washington, for its part, seeks firm guarantees that Iran will not edge toward a weapon, while also leveraging a wider regional remit, including missile limitations — an expansion Tehran rejects.

“The gap is not only technical, it’s psychological,” said Dr. Laila Hamidi, a non-proliferation expert based in London. “For Iranians, enrichment is tied up with national pride and technological sovereignty. For the United States and its allies, containment and the prevention of a nuclear weapon are existential red lines.”

On the streets of Tehran: grief, defiance, and weary hope

Back in Tehran, the atmosphere is heavy with a mix of mourning and resentment. The government held a 40-day commemoration at the Imam Khomeini Grand Mosalla mosque for those killed in the upheaval that followed a surge in living costs and the deadly crackdown that ensued. State officials said more than 3,000 people died; independent monitors and activist groups place the toll much higher — HRANA and other organizations have estimated more than 7,000 fatalities.

“People are tired,” said an elderly shopkeeper in the Grand Bazaar who asked not to be named. “We want stability, not grand promises. If the talks bring some relief, if oil can flow and prices fall, that matters more than rhetoric.”

Another voice, a university student who participated in the protests, was less sanguine. “Sanctions are part of our suffering, yes,” she said, “but so is the violence in our streets. A deal won’t mend everything. For many of us, it’s about dignity as well as economic survival.”

Military shadowplay: carriers, B‑2s, and the Strait

Diplomatic progress has unfolded against a raw backdrop of military posturing. Washington has deployed a large naval presence to the Arabian Sea and even sent B-2 bombers to carry out strikes in the wake of last June’s hostilities — a conflict that flared after an attack attributed to Israel on Iranian nuclear facilities and escalated into a 12-day exchange. Iran, in turn, staged naval drills in the Strait of Hormuz, the narrow choke point through which an estimated one-fifth to one-third of globally traded seaborne oil transits daily.

“When ships gather and missiles are tested, markets notice,” said Ravi Menon, an energy analyst in Singapore. “Even a hint of disruption can nudge traders to bid up insurance and crude premiums; the world is still sensitive to Persian Gulf risk.” Benchmark Brent briefly drifted lower in Asian trade as investors weighed the chance of supply shocks against the possibility that the talks could soothe tensions.

Memory, law, and the long shadow of the NPT

Iran remains a signatory of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, which allows civilian nuclear programs in exchange for forgoing weapons and cooperating with the IAEA. Tehran insists its program is peaceful, even as it has enriched uranium to levels far beyond what’s needed for power generation — levels that, analysts warn, inch closer to weapons-grade thresholds if not checked.

Israel, never a signatory of the NPT, maintains a deliberate ambiguity over its own capabilities, complicating regional anxieties. “Ambiguity as deterrence has been part of Middle Eastern geopolitics for decades,” said Dr. Hamidi. “It makes negotiation with Iran inherently asymmetric: one side’s openness to scrutiny is used to critique the other’s secrecy.”

Beyond Geneva: what does success look like?

A successful accord would likely include verifiable limits on enrichment, robust IAEA access, staged sanctions relief, and an agreed timeline to implement and monitor compliance. It would not — at least in Tehran’s view — include concessions on missiles or the complete abandonment of uranium enrichment.

For the people living under the shadow of sanctions and repression, success is measured more tangibly. Can a deal restore oil revenues and jobs? Can it ease pressure on hospitals and schools? Can it create space for reconciliation at home?

“A safe, verifiable agreement could buy breathing room,” said an activist-turned-community-organizer in Shiraz. “But breathing room is not a cure. We need structural reform, transparency, and accountability — on both domestic and international fronts.”

Why this matters to you

These negotiations are not an Iranian or American story alone. Energy markets, refugee flows, arms dynamics, and the global non-proliferation regime all ripple from what happens in Geneva. When nations inch toward or away from arms control, the consequences are felt in kitchens and classrooms, in markets and mosques, from Tokyo to Tunis.

So ask yourself: what would you trade for a decade of calmer diplomacy? For many in Tehran, the calculus is immediate and human. For policymakers in Washington and capitals across Europe, it is strategic. For the broader public, it’s about whether international law and dialogue can still be the instruments that prevent catastrophe.

Closing thoughts: cautious optimism, hard realities

The “window” Araghchi spoke of is small and fragile, framed by a history of broken pacts and recent bloodshed. Yet in Geneva this week, negotiators at least sketched an outline of what could be a path forward. Diplomacy is rarely dramatic. It is often slow, messy, and punctuated by setbacks.

But as one veteran diplomat put it over tea in a Geneva side street, “All treaties are born from the willingness to sit down and admit shared risk. If both sides leave that table unwilling to lose, then there is a chance.”

For now, the world watches, waits, and wonders: will this fragile window open into a door — or will it be another mirage on the long desert road of international diplomacy?

Young Ukrainian Men Share Why They’re Moving Abroad During Wartime

hanad

February 18, 2026

Ukraine's young men on moving abroad during wartime — Twenty-one-year-old Maksym arrived in Poland in early January

When Leaving Becomes a Lifeline: Ukraine’s Young Men and the New Geography of a War

On a cold afternoon in Warsaw, a young man in a work vest steps out of a tram, carrying a paper cup of coffee and a battered sketchbook. He looks like any student eking out a living in a foreign city — until he says his name and where he came from. “Chernihiv,” he says, with a small, crooked smile. “I haven’t slept through a night without the sound of sirens in years. Here, I can breathe.”

This is not a story of mass desertion or easy escape. It is a story of a generation trying to reclaim the simple rites of youth — study, work, a first apartment — amid the strangest of times. Since Kyiv quietly relaxed its rules last August to allow men aged 18–22 to travel abroad for the first time during the war, a surge of young Ukrainians has flowed across borders seeking that breath of normalcy.

Numbers that ripple

Polish authorities recorded roughly 184,000 crossings by Ukrainian men aged 18–22 between September 2025 and the end of January, according to the Polish Border Guard — a figure the agency notes includes repeat trips and short stays. Even accounting for that, it is roughly six times higher than the same period a year earlier. For young men who had been effectively stuck for years, that change in policy has opened a new chapter.

“The policy was framed as a way to let young people study and gain useful skills abroad — things that Ukraine will need when it rebuilds,” said a Kyiv official involved in the decision, who asked not to be named. “But we also knew it would be controversial.”

Frontlines on two maps

Ukraine continues to conscript men from age 25. In practice, the country’s armed forces now count close to one million people in uniform, with about 300,000 deployed at the frontlines. Kyiv has publicly said that any sustainable peace settlement will require an armed force of roughly 800,000 — a target that many defense analysts say is achievable but will be stretched thin by demographics.

“Ukraine has been facing certain demographic problems for years now,” says Marcin Jedrysiak, a Ukraine specialist at the Centre for Eastern Studies in Warsaw. “There was a birth-rate trough between 1996 and 2006. That gap is now showing in manpower shortages.”

Population decline in the decades since the Soviet collapse — from around 51 million in the early 1990s to estimates today between 28 and 35 million — has only compounded the problem. The war has accelerated emigration and created a new generation whose formative years were lived in air raid alerts and displacement.

People in transit: stories from cafes and camps

I sat with several of these young men over coffee, in shared flats and at the entrances to Polish logistics warehouses. Each story was different. Each voice carried the same undertow: fatigue, hope and a complicated loyalty to home.

“If the government didn’t give me the chance to leave, I probably wouldn’t have considered it,” said Vadym, 22, who arrived in Warsaw in December and quickly found work with a Ukrainian logistics company operating in Poland. “I might have stayed because that’s what we do in war — we wait. But now I can only think about what lies beyond its borders.”

When I asked if he feared being drafted back home, he didn’t mince words. “Of course I don’t want to be there,” he said. “I know people who were killed. The war affected everyone in its own way.” Yet, he added with a wry shrug, “Maybe one day — when it ends — I’ll go back. I don’t know.”

In Poznan, 21-year-old Maksym, a graphic design student from Kyiv, described a similar calculus. “Poland is safe, it’s affordable, and there’s space to study. I want a life where the loudest thing at night is a party, not an explosion,” he told me. “Maybe I’ll return to Ukraine, but that feels like a promise I can’t make yet.”

Vania, a 22-year-old cybersecurity graduate originally from occupied Luhansk, had spent three months in a refugee camp in northern Sweden before moving to a small studio near Stockholm. “When you read the news all the time, when your friends are gone or your house is gone, it gets into you,” he said. “Here, I can sleep. I can search for a job. That’s enough for now.”

And yet not every young person abroad has abandoned the dream of returning. A different Vania, 20, who fled with his mother to Poland in 2022 and has built a life in Warsaw, says he can “definitely see my future life in Ukraine.” He studies, works and thinks daily about Dnipro, his hometown. “As soon as the war ends, I’ll go back,” he told me over black coffee in a busy café. “I even think about going back during the war because I miss it so much.”

Politics, anxieties and the European response

Not everyone in Europe welcomed the change. Politicians on the political right and far-right in Germany and Poland criticized Kyiv for allowing more young men to leave at a time when Ukraine needs manpower. Bavaria’s Markus Söder said pointedly, “It helps no one if more and more young Ukrainian men come to Germany instead of defending their homeland.”

Those concerns exist alongside a competing reality: these young people are not only potential soldiers; they are students, workers, engineers-in-the-making and, perhaps, future entrepreneurs who might help rebuild a country devastated by war. For many parents in Ukraine, allowing sons to study abroad felt like a lifeline rather than a betrayal.

“This is not simply a military question,” an NGO worker in Lviv told me. “It’s about whether a generation gets to grow up at all.”

What will reconstruction ask of a generation abroad?

There is a deeper, more unsettling question under all of this: when the guns finally fall silent, who will be there to raise the cities? Analysts warn of possible social fractures between those who remained through the war and those who left. Returnees may find homes changed; communities may have shifted. Yet diasporas historically have been central to post-conflict recovery — sending remittances, investing in housing and starting businesses.

“We see two possible futures,” Marcin Jedrysiak told me. “Either a divided society where resentments fester, or a dynamic, outward-looking Ukraine that harnesses returnees’ skills.”

That crossroads is not unique to Ukraine. Across the globe, wars, climate crises and economic shifts are forcing migration at younger ages. What makes this moment striking is how intimate it is: the debate is not about boardrooms or ballots alone but about who the country’s youngest adults will grow up to be.

Questions without easy answers

So what should we ask as readers and observers? Should a young man’s right to learn, love, and work be weighed against a nation’s need for defenders? Can a country hold fast to its borders and, at the same time, let its people gather skills abroad? And what responsibility do host countries have to nurture rather than merely accommodate these lives in transit?

There are no tidy answers. There are, however, people — each carrying their own map of hopes and debts. As one young man I met said, watching a tram thread the Warsaw skyline, “I’m not running away. I’m buying time.”

That sentence lingers. Because in the years after the war, Ukraine — and the world — will have to decide whether that time was squandered or invested. For now, these young men carry kettles, laptops, and dreams across borders. They carry also the weight of a nation that must reckon with both the losses of war and the choices of a generation on the move.

Search intensifies for nine skiers missing in California avalanche

hanad

February 18, 2026

Nine skiers missing after California avalanche — A rescue team heads towards the avalanche site

White-Out on Castle Peak: A Desperate Search in the Sierra

The mountains around Tahoe have a way of making you feel very small and very alive at once. This week, the Sierra Nevada showed both moods—wrapping slopes in blizzard white, then roaring down in a single, terrifying moment when snow broke loose and swallowed a party of skiers.

Rescue teams from Nevada County, Truckee Fire and nearby ski patrols spent a long night clawing through wind-driven drifts to find nine people unaccounted for after an avalanche on Castle Peak, officials say. Fifteen people had been on the trip when the slide struck; six were pulled out alive with “varying injuries,” and two were taken to hospital. The rest remain missing as the storm continues to dump heavy snow across the range.

The scene on the ridge

Imagine standing in a world where visibility drops to a handful of paces, where wind is not just noise but a force that can steer snow like an ocean wave. That is where rescuers were working—at the edge of daylight, in white-out conditions that make navigation as dangerous as the avalanche itself.

“It took several hours for rescue personnel to safely reach the skiers,” the Nevada County Sheriff’s Office said. Truckee Fire crews medically evaluated those brought down the mountain, while ski-rescue teams from Boreal Mountain and Tahoe Donner’s Alder Creek Adventure Center were some of the first on scene. In all, 46 emergency responders were involved in the operation, officials said.

“You hear the roar and then the world is muted,” said one volunteer ski patroller who requested anonymity because the search was ongoing. “We move by feel—probing, shouting names, listening for any sign of life. It’s brutal work, but there’s no place I’d rather be when people need help.”

Weather, warnings and a dangerous forecast

The storm that pummeled the Sierra was no ordinary winter bluster. The National Weather Service warned parts of the Sierra above 1,000 meters could receive as much as 2.4 meters of snow over a 48-hour stretch, with winds gusting to 90 km/h. Forecasters forecasted white-out conditions and near-constant avalanche danger.

The Sierra Avalanche Center put the backcountry avalanche risk at “HIGH,” bluntly warning: “Large avalanches are expected to occur… Tuesday, Tuesday night, and into at least early Wednesday morning across backcountry terrain.” In plain terms: the mountains were not forgiving.

“High danger means natural avalanches are likely and human-triggered slides are almost certain,” said Dr. Maya Ruiz, an avalanche scientist who studies snowpack dynamics. “Heavy, fast-loading storms like this create weak layers in the snow that can propagate fractures for miles.”

Voices from the valley

The people who live in and around Tahoe are no strangers to snow. Truckee’s downtown is lined with palatial pines and old-world lamp posts; wood smoke hangs low in the air and chains clack on plows. But even for locals, this storm felt different.

“We get big storms here, but this one came with a ferocity I haven’t seen in years,” said Nadine Morales, who runs a guiding service out of Truckee. “Guides are trained for risk, but there are limits. When the backcountry is flagged HIGH, you rethink your plans.”

Sheriff’s Captain Russell Green put it plainly on local television: “People go out and use the backcountry at all times. We advise against it, obviously, but I wouldn’t say that it’s uncommon. Not that it was a wise choice.”

A family member of one of the missing skiers described a surreal wait at a makeshift staging area where anxious friends and relatives huddled under emergency lights. “You try not to imagine the worst,” she said, voice breaking. “All we can do is hope the rescuers find them. They said the guides were experienced—maybe the storm just outmatched everyone.”

How rescuers work—and why it’s getting harder

Searches like this are a choreography of skill and stamina: probe lines, avalanche transceivers, shovels, and the kind of muscle memory that only comes from years in the mountains. Ski-rescue teams use specialized sleds and harnesses to move victims; every second matters when hypothermia and injuries are on the clock.

But rescues are becoming more complex. Popular backcountry terrain has seen a surge in users over the past decade—part tourism, part pandemic-era shift to outdoor recreation—pushing more people into hazardous places. At the same time, extreme weather events are becoming more pronounced.

“We have more people in the backcountry than we used to, and storms that deposit large loads of snow in short periods,” said Dr. Ruiz. “That’s a recipe for higher avalanche activity and more frequent, complicated rescues.”

46 emergency responders involved in the current search
15 people on the outing; 6 rescued, 2 hospitalized, 9 missing
National Weather Service: up to 2.4 meters of snow possible in 48 hours
Sierra Avalanche Center: HIGH avalanche danger across backcountry terrain

Context: a season of risk

Across the western United States, avalanches have been deadly in recent winters. The Colorado Avalanche Information Center reported six avalanche fatalities so far this season, including a January death on Castle Peak—an ominous reminder that these slopes can turn lethal in an instant.

Experts stress that winter recreation has a steep learning curve. A user with a transceiver who doesn’t practice under pressure can still be rendered helpless in a fast-moving slide. That’s why many local organizations emphasize guided outings, avalanche education courses, and checking forecasts religiously.

What does this mean for the future?

When the snow clears and the search concludes, communities will likely be left with a calculus familiar in mountain towns: how to balance access to wild places with the responsibility of safety. This isn’t just a local dilemma. From the Alps to the Andes, increasing weather extremes and booming outdoor recreation are forcing new conversations about infrastructure, rescue capacity, and public awareness.

“We have to be honest about risk,” said Morales, the guide. “Skiing in the backcountry isn’t the same as skiing at a resort. The margin for error shrinks dramatically in storms like this.”

Ask yourself: when you’re tempted by the pull of a pristine ridge or an untracked line, what price are you willing to pay for that solitude? How do we as a community—global or local—support those who answer the call when catastrophe strikes?

For readers and travelers

If you are planning winter travel to mountainous regions, heed the following common-sense measures shared by avalanche centers and rescue groups:

Check local avalanche forecasts before you go and throughout your trip.
Carry and know how to use essential rescue gear: beacon, shovel, probe.
Take an avalanche safety course and practice companion rescue drills.
Consider guided trips in severe conditions; experienced guides carry knowledge that can save lives.
When authorities warn of HIGH danger, the safest choice is to stay out of the backcountry.

The mountains will always call. They will also always demand respect. Tonight, in a valley lined with lamplight and worry, rescuers keep searching—because that, for many of them, is how you answer nature’s harshest moments. We watch, we wait, and we hope they bring everyone home.

Sweden’s military warns of Russia escalating hybrid threats

hanad

February 18, 2026

Russia increasing hybrid threats, says Sweden's military — A Swedish review said Russia is the main 'military threat to Sweden and NATO' (File image)

On the edge of the Baltic: a changing calm

There is a peculiar kind of quiet that settles over the Stockholm archipelago in late spring—small ferries leave wakes that silver the water, sea birds wheel above granite skerries, and the scent of pine and salt hangs in the air. Walk the coastal path near a fishing village and you might hear the distant hum of a freighter, and, lately, the clipped chime of military radio traffic. It is beauty and tension braided together.

“You feel it in the way people lock their doors a little sooner now,” says Ingrid Andersson, who grew up on Gotland and still goes out at dawn to check lobster pots. “We love this sea. But you also notice the patrols, the navy lights at night, and the conversations in the cafés—people are paying attention.”

That attention has been precisely the point of Sweden’s Military Intelligence and Security Service (MUST), which this week released a yearly threat review that reads more like a cautionary dispatch than a routine bulletin. Thomas Nilsson, the head of MUST, put it bluntly: Russia has stepped up hybrid threat activities and appears ready to take greater risks in the region around Sweden.

From tactics to temperament: what the intelligence says

“Russia has, in certain cases, stepped up actions and increased its presence, and perhaps with a greater risk appetite, in our vicinity,” Nilsson told reporters. His language—measured, but urgent—captures a growing unease among security officials in Stockholm and capitals across the Baltic rim.

MUST’s review reiterates a point that has become central to Swedish strategic thinking since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022: Russia is the principal military threat to Sweden and to NATO in the Baltic theatre. The agency notes not only an intensification of traditional military preparations but a widening palette of hybrid tools—cyber intrusions, disinformation campaigns, covert maritime activities, and the shadow play of proxy actors—that can unsettle societies without crossing the line into open war.

“If Moscow meets resistance and fails,” Nilsson warned, “we may well see increased attempts to apply pressure through other means—disruption, coercion, and asymmetrical operations designed to exhaust and intimidate.” He also cautioned that success could embolden still riskier behavior. “Either outcome raises the appetite for risk,” he said.

What is meant by “hybrid”?

Hybrid warfare isn’t a single weapon; it’s a toolbox. Think of it as the blending of cyberattacks with misinformation, naval probes with covert surveillance, economic pressure with legal pretexts. It is crafted to create ambiguity, erode trust, and shift perceptions before governments can respond decisively.

Cyber operations that target infrastructure or political institutions;
Information campaigns that sow confusion and distrust;
Unmarked or gray-zone naval activity near territorial waters;
Sabotage and covert action aimed at critical sites or supply chains.

“The genius of these tactics is their slipperiness,” explains Dr. Erik Larsson, a defense analyst at the Swedish Defence University. “They are often deniable, hard to attribute quickly, and they force an adversary to respond on multiple fronts—military, civilian, and psychological.”

Local color, real fears

People on the ground describe the intangible effects of that multi-front pressure. In a café on Visby’s cobbled main street, a retired schoolteacher named Fatima sips strong coffee and talks about a different kind of anxiety: “It’s not just ships and planes. It’s when your neighbor shares something online that looks real but isn’t. You start questioning who to trust.”

For small businesses that depend on tourism, the fear is economic as much as existential. “If people think the Baltic is unsafe, they’ll stay away,” says Johan, who runs a guesthouse near the harbour. “We’ve lived through tough winters, but uncertainty is a cold that lasts.”

On the northern edge of the country, where submarine cables and energy lines thread through the seabed, authorities are increasingly monitoring critical infrastructure. “Energy resilience is national security now,” notes Emma Karlsson, an infrastructure planner. “We’re updating contingency plans at a pace that would have seemed excessive five years ago.”

Numbers and geopolitics: the wider context

The must-read element of MUST’s review is not an alarm bell so much as a map of shifting priorities. Since 2022, many European nations have recalibrated defence budgets, alliance relationships, and emergency planning. Sweden, with roughly 10 million people and a long maritime frontier, has moved from a posture of cautious neutrality to one of active cooperation with Western allies.

Across the Baltic Sea, the island of Gotland has emerged as a focal point of concern. Its strategic location—midway between Sweden and the eastern Baltic—makes it a natural stage for naval and air activity, and locals know the geopolitical logic by heart. “You get used to being part of the chessboard,” Ingrid says wryly. “But you don’t have to like it.”

The MUST review also notes that the pace of any Russian build-up in the Baltic will be shaped by several variables: the course of the war in Ukraine, the resilience of the Russian economy, and Moscow’s relations with actors such as China. Put simply: geopolitics is a spinning dial, and small moves in one corner can produce large effects elsewhere.

What this means for citizens and policymakers

If hybrid tactics are designed to blur lines, then clarity becomes a defense. That means better cyber hygiene in municipal offices, more transparent media literacy campaigns to inoculate citizens against disinformation, and seamless civil-military cooperation in emergencies.

“Security is not just soldiers and ships,” says Dr. Larsson. “It’s teachers, IT managers, ferry captains, journalists. It’s ordinary people making informed choices.”

In concrete terms, Sweden is strengthening ties with NATO members and regional partners, investing in intelligence capabilities, and shoring up critical infrastructure. But preparation is as psychological as it is material. Communities must be resilient not because they fear war, but because they value the freedoms and normal rhythms that hybrid campaigns aim to distort.

Questions to sit with

As you read this, consider where you live and how resilient your local institutions feel. How would your town cope with prolonged disinformation, targeted power outages, or a cyber disruption to public services? These are not hypothetical thought experiments—they are the contours of contemporary security challenges.

“We don’t want to live in a world where every decision is made under duress,” Ingrid says. “But we also can’t pretend nothing has changed. We must be ready without becoming afraid.”

Looking ahead

The Baltic Sea has always been a place of weather and waves, commerce and culture—its significance has long outstripped its size. Today, that strategic importance makes it a mirror of broader shifts in international politics: the return of competition between great powers, the rise of hybrid tactics that target societies as much as militaries, and the enduring need for alliances and civic resilience.

Nilsson’s warning is a call to sober preparation rather than panic. The task for Sweden—and for all democracies touching the Baltic—is to hold fast to normal life while building the muscle to repel ambiguity, disruption, and coercion.

“We must be vigilant, not anxious,” says Dr. Larsson. “Because the best defense is a confident society that refuses to let fear dictate its future.”

And as the ferries keep cutting silver paths across the water and children still chase kites on the shoreline, one hopes that vigilance will translate into calm—a steady kind of courage that keeps communities safe without dimming the everyday light that makes the Baltic coast home.

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