Feb 26(Jowhar)-Ra’iisul Wasaaraha Xukuumadda Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Mudane Xamsa Cabdi Barre, ayaa kulan muhiim ah la yeeshay hoggaanka ururrada siyaasadda ee ka qeybgalay doorashadii goleyaasha deegaanka ee Gobolka Banaadir.
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Kharkiv ballet dancers defy invasion with courageous, ongoing performances
When Ballet Became an Underground Beacon: Kharkiv’s Dancers Defy War with Grace
The lights went out over Kharkiv the night the world tilted. On 23 February 2022, a full house leaned forward for the final bow of a beloved ballet. Hours later, explosions wrote a new timetable across the skyline as Russia’s full-scale invasion began in the early hours of 24 February.
What followed was not only a military assault but a reckoning for a city whose identity has long been shaped by steel, universities and an old-world cultural life. Kharkiv’s grand opera and ballet theatre—its marble and glass façade, its creaky velvet seats—took a hit. More than 2,000 square metres of glass were shattered. The great stage went quiet, and many of the company’s dancers scattered to safety or to work with touring troupes across Europe.
From Orchestra Pit to Metro Platform
But silence proved impossible. Within weeks, as missiles carved arcs through the winter sky, a small, stubborn group of artists refused to surrender the language they had spent a lifetime learning: movement. They rehearsed below ground—within the theatre’s lower levels and in the city’s metro stations—places where tile and concrete offered shelter from the air raids above.
“We could have folded the program and left the keys on the desk,” says Olena Moroz, a former principal now helping coordinate underground shows. “Instead we decided to translate hope into steps. When you watch people clap in a station, while a train rushes by, you understand art can be both fragile and fierce.”
Imagine a winter platform in Kharkiv: the rumble of trains, the cold seeping into bones, and a cluster of dancers in rehearsal tights and coats, warming up with electric heaters humming nearby. Children press their faces to mosaic pillars. Soldiers—camouflage still dusted with soot—stand in the back, eyes momentarily far away from the front lines. For those forty minutes, the city keeps its breath.
Numbers that Tell a Story
The scale of the upheaval is hard to overstate. Millions of Ukrainians have been displaced since 2022; entire neighborhoods were shelled repeatedly, and Kharkiv’s population plunged as people fled the uncertainty. Before the invasion the company boasted more than 90 dancers. Today, the regular ensemble numbers around 35, supported by a chamber orchestra of local musicians who remained.
“We are fewer, yes,” says Artem Kovalenko, the theatre’s rehearsal master. “But fewer does not mean less powerful. It means every arabesque, every lift, carries more intention. We move heavier in spirit and lighter in hope.”
Why Ballet, in the Middle of War?
Ask a passerby why they stood in a cold station to watch Tchaikovsky on a Tuesday morning and they will shrug with a wet smile. “It’s not about beauty alone,” says Halyna, a schoolteacher who now volunteers to help distribute blankets after performances. “It is a reminder that there is something worth protecting. Culture is a compass.”
Psychologists and trauma specialists nod at that instinct. “Shared rituals — music, dance, theatre — are anchors during crises,” explains Dr. Marta Lysenkova, a psychologist who has worked with displaced families. “They restore a sense of normalcy, provide collective breathing space, and sometimes help reduce symptoms of anxiety and hypervigilance. Cultural continuity is a public health intervention as much as an artistic one.”
There is another, more tactical reason for the performances: morale. Veterans, reservists and active-duty soldiers have been known to attend shows whenever possible. “When a man who has seen combat sits in a crowd and cries at a pas de deux, it tells us something about human resilience,” says Sergii, a 28-year-old conscript who has been to several metro shows. “For ninety minutes you are not in a foxhole.”
Practice Under Pressure
Rehearsals are grueling. The troupe works six days a week, their regimen unchanged even if the circumstances are not. Pointe shoes are repaired by hand, costumes stitched in dim corners, choreography adapted for low ceilings and uneven floors. Electric heaters struggle against winter. Power cuts are routine, and air-raid sirens interrupt runs—sometimes mid-adagio, sometimes as dancers are exiting stage left.
“You learn to keep your balance no matter what the sky does,” says Anya Kovach, a lead soloist. “We train like athletes and act like caregivers. When someone in the audience is crying, we say quietly afterwards: you are allowed to feel. It’s part of the healing.”
Local Color: Tea, Tape, and a Shared Samovar
There is a small, domestic poetry to how life carries on. Backstage, volunteer grandmothers ferry cups of black tea wrapped in newspaper. A seamstress uses military tape to temporarily reinforce a torn bodice. A volunteer brings a thermos of borscht for the orchestra. After shows, people linger to exchange news, to swap battery packs and to trade information about where the next aid convoy will pass.
“Our theatre has always been a social crossroads,” says Mykola Petrenko, an elderly patron who returned under a gas mask. “Now more than ever, it is a community clinic for the soul.”
What This Means for the World
Kharkiv’s story is not an isolated anecdote. Across the globe, in conflicts old and new, communities have turned to art to survive. During World War II, musicians played on bombed stages; in refugee camps today, poets and storytellers maintain languages that belligerents try to erase. The Kharkiv ballet is a reminder that cultural life is not merely ornamental—it is a lifeline.
International cultural organizations have taken note. Grants, tours, and collaborative projects are helping some artists continue their work abroad, but many choose to remain. “Leaving was necessary for safety,” says dancer Marina Lisova, who toured with a partner company last year. “Coming back, even underground, felt like returning to a duty.”
What Will the Future Look Like?
There is no neat ending yet. The performers speak of returning to a restored main stage, of powdering noses under crystal chandeliers. They dream, aloud, of reopening the theatre to children who have never sat in the stalls. But they are equally clear-eyed about the long haul: reconstruction of buildings takes years; reconstruction of trust takes longer.
“When the guns stop, the work will deepen,” says Olena. “We must teach new students, fix the roof, and repair the glass. We must also listen to those who have suffered and find ways to rebuild community. That is the real choreography.”
So I ask you, reading this from wherever you are: what do we owe the keepers of beauty in a broken place? Is art a luxury or a necessity when the world is burning? In Kharkiv they answer by taking the stage—not because the bombs have stopped, but because some things are worth carrying into the dark.
Convicted double killer Ian Huntley allegedly assaulted behind bars
Blood on Cold Concrete: The Night a Notorious Inmate Was Beaten at HMP Frankland
Early on a grey County Durham morning, sirens cut through the damp air and an ambulance threaded its way toward HMP Frankland, one of England’s most fortified prisons. Inside, the prison’s austere corridors — concrete, steel, the soft echo of footsteps — were punctured by a violence that has reignited old wounds across the country.
Durham Constabulary confirmed that police were called after a serious assault at the high-security facility. “Police were alerted to an assault which had taken place within HMP Frankland in Durham this morning,” a force spokesperson said. “A male prisoner suffered serious injuries during the incident and was transported to hospital. A police investigation is now under way into the circumstances of the incident and detectives are liaising with staff at the prison.”
The assaulted prisoner has been widely reported to be Ian Huntley, the man convicted over the 2002 murders of 10-year-olds Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman in Soham, Cambridgeshire. Huntley is serving a life sentence. A source quoted by national tabloids said he had been attacked with a metal pole and that his condition was “touch and go.” These details remain unconfirmed by police.
The place and the prisoner
HMP Frankland sits in a low-lying bowl of land near Durham, its high walls and watchtowers looking as if they were carved from the sky. It was designed to hold some of the most dangerous and longest-serving offenders in the system — men who present ongoing risks to others and who are considered too volatile for conventional prisons.
“Frankland isn’t a country club,” observed a former prison officer who asked not to be named. “It’s where the state keeps those it cannot protect the public from, and, increasingly, those it struggles to protect itself from.”
In recent years, inspectors, politicians and campaigners have repeatedly raised alarms about the erosion of safety in England’s prisons. Staff shortages, aging infrastructure and rising levels of violence have stretched the system thin and created environments where fights can flare with alarming ferocity.
A country still carrying its grief
The murders of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman in August 2002 shocked a nation. Two schoolgirls, friends who had gone to buy sweets after a barbecue, did not come home. Their deaths led to mass searches, a media frenzy, and, eventually, the arrest and conviction of Huntley. For many people, the case remains emblematic of a terrible vulnerability — the sudden, irrevocable loss of childhood.
“You never forget,” said a Soham resident, speaking quietly in the village where memorials still stand. “It’s on the mantelpiece, on the school bench, in our conversations. To hear what’s happened now, you feel something stirring all over again.”
That simmering public feeling — a potent mix of grief, anger and appetite for retribution — is one reason the story has drawn such attention. But beyond headlines, the attack at Frankland raises difficult questions about the role of prisons in modern society.
Vigilantism or systemic failure?
When a notorious prisoner is harmed, some are quick to cheer; others demand a sober accounting. “No one should be assaulted, even those who have committed the worst crimes,” said Dr. Aisha Rahman, a criminologist who has studied prison violence and rehabilitation. “Violence inside prisons is a symptom. It’s a symptom of overcrowding, understaffing, a lack of purposeful activity, and the wider neglect of mental health. If we only react with retribution, we ignore the systemic failures that allow this to happen.”
Prisoner-on-prisoner violence has become a recurring theme across the UK’s custodial estate. Official reports over recent years have pointed to increased assaults, with staff numbers down and the inmate population harboring higher levels of complex needs, including mental illness and substance misuse.
“You can’t isolate acts like this,” said a prison rights advocate. “Either the regime can keep people separated, protected, and engaged — or it can’t. If it can’t, then the consequences are predictable.”
What happens next?
Police detectives are treating the incident as an assault and the prison service has said a prisoner is receiving treatment in hospital. “It would be inappropriate to comment further while police investigate,” a Prison Service spokesperson said, adding that safety and security remain top priorities.
For families of victims and communities who have lived through high-profile crimes, such statements are not always satisfying. Emotions are raw, and the internet — where speculation multiplies and details are recycled — can turn a single event into a storm.
“We have to be careful with the way we talk about this,” a victim support worker told me. “There is a line between understanding what happened and using violence as a form of collective punishment. Healing doesn’t come from headlines.”
Beyond the prison walls: what this reveals
As readers, we are invited to confront uncomfortable choices: Do we demand ever-harsher punishment without asking if the institutions administering it are fit for purpose? Do we accept that some men should be held apart from society forever, even if that means accepting ever more violent internal ecosystems? Where does justice end and revenge begin?
Prisons are mirrors — they reflect not just the incarcerated, but the values and failures of the societies that build them. The assault at Frankland is not merely an incident in a fortified perimeter; it is a flashpoint in a larger conversation about public safety, rehabilitation, and the human cost of neglect.
As investigators follow leads and the injured man receives care, the people most affected will continue to live with the aftermath. For the families of Holly and Jessica, the scene may have scraped open wounds thought long closed. For prison staff and residents, it is another reminder that their work takes place on a knife-edge.
What do we want our prisons to be: warehouses of retribution, laboratories of rehabilitation, or something in between? How we answer that question will shape what the next headlines look like — and whether a system in strain can finally be remade.
Police inquiries continue. The raw facts are few and, for now, guarded. But the larger questions — about safety, accountability and the fragile boundary between justice and vengeance — remain very much alive. How should society manage the monsters it creates? And who will say what is right?
Russia launches missile barrage against Ukraine’s critical energy infrastructure
Night of iron and glass: Ukraine wakes to smoke, silence, and the math of loss
When dawn came over cities from Kharkiv to Zaporizhzhia, it revealed a strange, brutal geometry: holes punched through apartment blocks, charred shopfronts, power cables like shredded hair across pavements, and families wrapped in the same wool blankets they had used last winter. The sky was a pale, indifferent blue. The air smelled of burned insulation and the metallic tang of spent missiles.
“It sounded like the world was being rewritten outside our windows,” said Olena, a kindergarten teacher in Kryvyi Rih who spent the night sheltering children in a classroom after two missiles and scores of drones struck nearby. “We kept humming songs to keep the little ones from listening to the explosions. Singing is how you pretend the day will still be kind.”
Ukrainian authorities said the raid was enormous. President Volodymyr Zelensky posted figures that read like an oil painting in numbers: some 420 drones and 39 missiles, including 11 ballistic warheads, aimed at energy facilities, rail networks and other pieces of a country’s daily scaffolding. The air force said defence crews shot down 374 drones and 32 missiles, but that at least five ballistic missiles and roughly 46 drones nevertheless struck targets, damaging substations, gas installations and homes across multiple regions.
The deliberate targeting of lifelines
This wasn’t a random bombardment of military sites. The pattern was clinical: power plants and distribution nodes, gas facilities in the Poltava region, substations supplying Kyiv and Dnipro, and rail arteries in frontline territories such as Donetsk, Kharkiv and Zaporizhzhia. The goal was to turn infrastructure into the front line—to make cold, darkness and immobility an instrument of war.
“When you hit electricity and transport, you don’t just blow up a transformer—you close hospitals, you strand workers, you stop trains carrying medicine,” said Ihor Melnyk, a retired electrical engineer who now advises utility crews. “This is strategic sabotage. It’s meant to multiply suffering.”
Across eight regions, officials reported dozens injured—among them children. Kharkiv’s governor counted at least 14 wounded, including a seven-year-old. In Zaporizhzhia, local authorities said ten people were hurt and 19 apartment blocks bore the scars of shrapnel and fire. In Kryvyi Rih, a kindergarten and several homes were damaged; across Kyiv, debris from intercepted missiles peppered roofs and streets.
What the numbers mean on the ground
- 420 drones and 39 missiles: the scale of the attack, as reported by Kyiv.
- 374 drones and 32 missiles shot down: Ukrainian air-defence tallies.
- Dozens injured across eight regions, including children: the human toll.
- Multiple substations and gas facilities hit: infrastructure damage with cascading effects.
Those are not abstract statistics. They are generators left idle, trains delayed or canceled, hospital wards that flicker into darkness, and people forced to boil water over camping stoves as temperatures dip back toward winter. “You lose power and suddenly you lose time,” said a nurse in Dnipro. “You have to decide which patient needs a heater, which medicine needs refrigeration. You make choices you never thought you’d have to make.”
Voices from the rubble
On the streets of Zaporizhzhia, a man named Serhiy stood staring at the gutted ground floor of a shop where he used to buy sunflower oil. He spoke slowly, the way people speak when they inventory the new, smaller world in their heads.
“We used to joke about blackouts in the summer,” he said. “This is different. It makes you think about the future of small things—my wife’s baking, the school band, a neighbor’s cat. War wants to erase kitchen tables.”
A paramedic in Kharkiv who asked not to be named described carrying children into makeshift shelters beneath metro stations, wrapping them in space blankets and handing out juice boxes. “You try to be ordinary—to hand them crackers and pretend everything is safe,” she said. “But your hands shake. And you know you’re working against machines made to frighten.”
Experts watching the conflict warn that attacks concentrated on energy and transport multiply the war’s humanitarian footprint. “This is an old tactic dressed in new technology,” said Dr. Marta Kühn, a European security analyst. “Drones and missiles are used to attack the systems that sustain civilian life. The result is prolonged displacement, disrupted healthcare and heightened winter vulnerability.”
Railways—more than steel tracks
Railway infrastructure bore a strategic brunt of the attack in frontline regions. For millions of Ukrainians, trains are a lifeline—moving goods, evacuating civilians, delivering fuel and materials for hospitals and shelters. Knock out the rail, and supply chains groan.
“My station is my community,” said Petro, a stationmaster on the outskirts of Donetsk. “You flood a line with damage and you don’t just stop a train; you stop the baker, the carpenters, the people who bring sugar to the market.”
Diplomacy under the shadow of the power cut
Even as Sirens wailed and repair crews raced to dormant substations, diplomatic efforts continued. Kyiv has been participating in trilateral discussions—meetings that include Ukrainian and U.S. officials and, indirectly, Russian representatives—held recently in Geneva. Officials say the talks have been preliminary, without a clear breakthrough on the most explosive topics: territory and security guarantees.
President Zelensky has indicated he seeks a sequenced approach to high-level negotiations—preparatory talks leading to a leaders’ meeting—but the elephant in the room remains the same territorial dispute that has simmered since 2014 and flared into full-scale war more recently. Russia’s demands and Ukraine’s red lines remain distant from any tidy compromise.
“You cannot negotiate away a homeland,” said a Ukrainian diplomat in Geneva. “But we must seek ways to stop the suffering, to protect civilians and to get repair crews working without fear.”
What this tells us about modern war—and the world beyond
There is something unsettling about technology being used to attack basic services. Drones—small, relatively cheap and increasingly autonomous—allow belligerents to press continuous pressure without exposing pilots or large numbers of troops. That tactical evolution forces new thinking in civil defense, urban planning and humanitarian law.
Internationally, the strikes raise questions about resilience: how do modern states protect power grids, keep railways running, and ensure that the fabric of daily life is not the first casualty? How should aid be structured to respond not just to immediate wounds but to the slow erosion of infrastructure that turns a country fragile?
For people living through these nights of fire and glass, the answers are immediate and human-sized: make sure there is food on the table, make room for children in the cellar, keep someone awake to monitor patients on battery-powered oxygen.
Looking ahead—repair, resistance, resilience
In the short term, crews will work to patch transformers, reroute trains, and clear streets. NGOs and neighbors will pull together blankets, hot meals and generators. Longer-term, reconstruction talks in places like Geneva will need to factor in hard lessons from attacks that aim at infrastructure: decentralize power, harden substations, diversify supply chains and, crucially, protect civilians as a matter of law and policy.
“Rebuilding is not just bricks and cables,” said an urban planner helping draft resilient-recovery plans. “It’s about restoring people’s ability to live a predictable life. It’s about trust.”
So we ask: what is a city without its lights, a hospital without a fridge, a season without warmth? And how much of our modern existence—our hospitals, schools, markets—do we accept as vulnerable until it is too late? These are not merely Ukrainian questions; they are global ones, posed in the quiet aftermath of another long night.
For now, in kitchens and shelters and behind patched windows, people are making decisions again: who needs the heater? Which batteries to save? Who will teach the children to hum through the explosions? In the end, resilience will be built on small acts of care as much as on grand diplomatic plans. The rest of the world should listen—not only to the numbers, but to the people who clean up the glass and stitch their lives back together.
Wakiilo ka socda Marykanka iyo Iiraan oo wadahadalo uga bilowday Geneva
Feb 26(Jowhar)-Saraakiil ka socotay dowlada Maraykanka iyo Iran ayaa ku kulmaya magaalada Geneva wareeggii saddexaad ee wadahadalo dadban oo loo arkay inay muhiim u yihiin baajinta colaadda, iyadoo madaxweyne Donald Trump uu ku hanjabay inuu weerari doono Iran haddii aan la gaarin heshiis nukliyeer ah.
Israel Responsible for Two-Thirds of Journalist Killings in 2025
A Year the World Lost Its Witnesses: 129 Journalists Killed in 2025
On a sunlit morning in Gaza, a battered camera bag sits where a man once stood. A photo—edges curled, face frozen in work-worn concentration—tells the rest. That photograph, one of too many, is a quiet accusation: someone was listening, someone bore witness, and someone paid with their life.
According to the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), 2025 closed as the deadliest year on record for members of the press: 129 journalists and media workers killed worldwide. It is a staggering figure, not only because it marks the second straight year of record-high fatalities, but because the loss came at a historical moment when independent information has never mattered more.
Numbers that insist we take notice
“Journalists are being killed in record numbers at a time when access to information is more important than ever,” CPJ CEO Jodie Ginsberg said in response to the report, adding, “We are all at risk when journalists are killed for reporting the news.”
Those words summarize a single, urgent truth: attacks on reporters are attacks on the public’s right to know. CPJ’s tally places two-thirds of the deaths in 2025 in one geography—attributed to Israeli fire—with 86 media workers recorded as killed by such fire. More than 60% of those were Palestinians reporting from Gaza, according to the organization.
- Total journalists and media workers killed in 2025: 129 (CPJ)
- Killed by Israeli fire: 86 (CPJ)
- Documented drone-related cases: 39 worldwide, including 28 attributed to Israeli strikes in Gaza (CPJ)
And the technology of death is changing. Drones, once an emblem of distant precision, are increasingly the weapon behind these deaths. CPJ documented 39 drone-related cases last year—28 in Gaza attributed to Israeli strikes, five killings by Sudan’s Rapid Support Forces, and four Ukrainian journalists killed by Russian military drones.
Voices from the ground
“We used to think the danger came from checkpoints or gunfire,” said Lina Mahmoud, a Palestinian photojournalist who managed to evacuate her family last fall. “Now you can be on your rooftop, at a makeshift hospital, or in an ambulance. The sky itself has become a threat.”
In Kyiv, an editor who wished to remain anonymous described a new, chilling normal. “We lost three colleagues to drone strikes this year,” she said quietly. “You never feel safe reporting the front lines. The lines move, and so do the weapons.”
In Mexico City, the mother of a slain investigative reporter wrapped her son’s notebooks in plastic and said, “He chased corrupt people who thought themselves untouchable. They made sure he was.” Mexico recorded six journalist killings in 2025, all unsolved—a grim echo of a long-running crisis of impunity in regions where organized crime, corruption, and local power blocs intertwine.
Not just warzones: threats from organized crime and states
Beyond battlefields, reporters continued to face mortal peril from criminals and, in some cases, from the state. In the Philippines, three journalists were shot dead. In Bangladesh, CPJ documented the brutal killing of a reporter—attacked with a machete by suspects allegedly linked to a fraud ring. Similar organized-crime-related murders were recorded in India and Peru.
Then there were cases that chillingly resembled state retribution. Saudi columnist Turki al-Jasser was executed after a conviction on charges CPJ described as “spurious national security and financial crime allegations.” It was Riyadh’s first documented killing of a journalist since the 2018 murder of Jamal Khashoggi—an event that transformed global understanding of the risks facing exiled and domestic critics alike.
Impunity: the fertile ground for more killings
One of CPJ’s most damning findings is not only the number of deaths but the lack of transparent, accountable investigations that follow them. “When killers are never held to account, the message is clear: you can silence reporters without consequence,” said Dr. Mariana Cortez, a human-rights scholar who studies crimes against the press.
Across continents—from Gaza and Kyiv to Mexico’s provinces—families await answers. Local journalists tell stories of police files that go cold, of evidence that vanishes, of prosecutors who demur or politicians who deflect. “We bury someone and the world moves on,” a veteran Iraqi correspondent said. “But we are the ones left to tell our children what their parent did—and why they died.”
The broader currents: what these deaths say about our age
What does a spike in journalist killings signal about the world? First, it reveals the weaponization of information and the lengths to which actors—state and non-state—will go to control narratives. Second, it marks a technological shift: drones and remote munitions make it easier to strike observers while eroding the distinctions between combatants and those whose only weapon is a camera or a notebook.
Third, these deaths feed a larger erosion of civic space and truth. When local reporters are silenced, communities lose their ability to hold power to account, whether that power is governmental, corporate, or criminal. When a newsroom dissolves under threats, the public’s ability to make informed choices falters.
What can be done—and what we, as readers and citizens, must demand
There are concrete steps governments and institutions can take: independent investigations into journalist killings, stronger international pressure to enforce accountability, better protective resources for reporters in conflict zones, and stricter controls and transparency around drone strikes. Media organizations, too, must invest in safety training and support for journalists and their families.
But there is also a responsibility that rests with us—the global audience. How much do we value the work of those who risk everything to report? How loudly will citizens and civil-society groups demand justice, even when answers are inconvenient?
“If the world chooses silence,” Dr. Cortez warned, “then the cost of speaking will only rise.”
Remembering those who spoke for the rest of us
Photos like the one of Al Jazeera’s Anas al-Sharif—eyes open in a moment of concentration, a camera strap around his neck—are more than mementos. They are reminders of a fragile bargain: in exchange for information, journalists put themselves between danger and the public. When that bargain breaks, everyone loses.
So I ask you, reader: when the story is someone else’s danger, will you look away, or will you insist on answers? Will you join the chorus calling for protection, for accountability, for a world where being a journalist does not carry an almost certain risk of death?
Because in the end, protecting journalists is not charity. It is preservation—of truth, of civic life, and of the right to know. The numbers in CPJ’s report are cold. The lives they represent are not. We must, urgently, remember both.
Madaxweyne Xasan oo kulan gaar ah la leh Sheekh Shariif iyo xubno la socda
Feb 26(Jowhar)-Madaxtooyada Soomaaliya ayaa waxaa hadda ka bilowday kulan gaar ah oo u dhexeeya Madaxweynaha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya, Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud, iyo musharrixiin ay ka mid yihiin Madaxweyne hore Shariif Sheekh Axmed, Cabdiqaadir Cosoble, iyo Khaliif Cabduqaadir Macalin Nuur.
Iran Dismisses U.S. Allegations Over Missile Program as ‘Big Lies’
When Words Become Missiles: A Night of Accusation, Denial and a City That Keeps Its Tea Warm
There was a peculiar light the night the State of the Union landed like a stone in a long-simmering pool. On televisions in Tehran tea-houses, on a cracked smartphone screen in a tiny bazaar stall, and on the desk of a diplomat in Geneva, the same lines flickered: accusations that Iran was building missiles that could reach the United States, that it once again nursed “sinister nuclear ambitions.”
These are the kinds of claims that don’t just travel across headlines; they ricochet off histories, fears and unfinished agreements. They force people to ask questions about capability and intent, about what counts as deterrence and what counts as provocation. They also remind us how quickly rhetoric can reshape a room—be it the Chamber of the U.S. Congress or a cafe under the plane trees of northern Tehran.
One Speech, Many Reactions
In Washington, the State of the Union became more than an annual review. For many watching it elsewhere, it read like a ledger of grievances. “They’ve already developed missiles that can threaten Europe and our bases overseas,” went the line, “and they’re working to build missiles that will soon reach the United States of America.” The words landed like thunder in a sky already crowded with ships, sanctions, and years of mutual suspicion.
Back in Tehran, the response was as swift as it was blunt. On social media and state channels, Iran’s foreign ministry dismissed the claims as “big lies.” Esmaeil Baqaei, a ministry spokesman, wrote on X that allegations about Iran’s nuclear program, its ballistic missiles, and casualty numbers from recent unrest were essentially recycled fabrications.
“It’s the same script,” a Tehran journalist told me over carpet-patterned cushions, stirring tea with the back of his spoon. “They speak a script written before. We watch, we reply. The streets—people—have different conversations.”
Voices from the Ground
At a small fruit stall near Tajrish Square, Hassan, 47, who sells persimmons, shrugged when asked what the talk of missiles meant to him. “We’re thinking about making rent, not long-range rockets,” he said. “But when governments shout, businesses quiet down. Traders stop importing. That will hit all of us months from now.”
A young university student I met on a book-lined bus echoed the sentiment with sharper edges. “We’re tired,” she said. “Tired of being a headline. We want work, travel, a future without constant alarms.”
Numbers and Narratives: Whose Count Matters?
Rhetoric over weapons is inseparable from rhetoric over lives. In the same address, the U.S. president referenced a staggering toll—claims that tens of thousands died during recent unrest in Iran. Tehran pushed back, acknowledging thousands of deaths but insisting many were the result of “terrorist acts” they said were supported by foreign forces. Human rights groups and independent monitors have offered other counts; one U.S.-based group suggested a death toll in the thousands and warned the true number might be higher.
Why do these numbers diverge so dramatically? Because in modern conflict—and in states under pressure—every statistic becomes part of a larger argument. Numbers are not merely neutral. They travel with narratives about legitimacy, culpability and the right to crack down or to defend. And when official tallies clash, ordinary people are left with the residual uncertainty: who to believe and how to grieve.
Negotiations on a Knife’s Edge
Amid the words and the counterwords, diplomats have been quietly at work. Two rounds of Oman-mediated talks had already taken place; a third was scheduled in Geneva the day after the speech. Those rooms wear silence as armor. There the conversation is procedural: enrichment ceilings, inspections, missile programs, regional proxy networks. But the theater outside—grand speeches and naval posturing—changes the rhythm of negotiation.
“Diplomacy is always vulnerable to the ambient politics of the moment,” said Dr. Leyla Haddad, a non-resident fellow at a think tank in Beirut who has advised several diplomatic delegations. “When leaders use language designed for domestic audiences—applause lines or votes—it can make compromise politically costly, even if it is strategically sensible.”
What is on the table? Washington has repeatedly pushed for zero enrichment, tighter restrictions on ballistic missiles, and reduced support for armed groups in the region. Tehran’s position has been firmer on its right to pursue peaceful nuclear technology and to retain a deterrent posture in a volatile neighborhood. Each side’s red lines are, in part, a product of decades of mistrust.
Press Freedom and the Human Cost
Complicating the diplomatic picture are smaller, urgent stories: a detained journalist, a frustrated family, the foreign ministries trading barbs. Japan’s government publicly demanded the swift release of a detained national reportedly held in Tehran; NHK, Japan’s public broadcaster, declined to comment fully but emphasized staff safety. For reporters—foreign and domestic alike—covering these flashpoints is increasingly perilous.
“A journalist is not a pawn,” sighed Mina, who edits a small online magazine. “When one of us is arrested, it chills a hundred stories. People stop speaking, sources dry up. That’s how a society stops hearing itself.”
What Are We Afraid Of—and What Could We Do?
It’s worth asking: where does the fear come from? Is it technical capability—missile ranges, enrichment percentages? Is it intent—the willingness to cross symbolic lines? Or is it the broader ecosystem of alliances, proxy forces, economic strangulation, and public narratives that turn fact into fatalism?
Answers matter because they shape policy. If the fear is about capability, inspectors, and technical verification will matter. If the fear is about intent, then diplomacy must open spaces for confidence-building, cultural exchange, and de-escalatory steps. If the fear is about narrative, then both sides (and the global media) must reckon with how stories are told and repurposed.
- Fact: The 2015 JCPOA sought to limit Iran’s uranium enrichment and institute inspections. Its unraveling after 2018 deepened mistrust and led to stepped-up nuclear activity by Tehran and renewed sanctions by Washington.
- Fact: Casualty counts during unrest have been contested, with official and independent tallies varying significantly.
- Fact: Diplomatic rounds—mediated by third parties—continue to oscillate between progress and pause, often influenced by domestic political rhythms on all sides.
Closing: A Reminder of the Human Scale
Outside the gilded halls of parliaments and the sterile corridors of embassies, life goes on. Tea is still brewed. Shops still open. Families still plan weddings. Yet these everyday acts exist in tension with geopolitical thunderbolts.
So ask yourself, reader: when leaders speak of missiles and ambitions, whose life is rearranged the most? Who pays for the sound and fury of public accusations? The answer is as simple as it is uncomfortable—civilians, journalists, displaced families and children whose futures are clasped between the ledger’s pages.
If diplomacy is to prevail over saber-rattling, then the work will be done in small rooms and quieter voices—where reality is negotiated, where inspectors look at centrifuges, and where diplomats stitch together what rhetoric has torn apart. That is the kind of labor that doesn’t make speeches, but it saves lives.
Xubnaha Golaha Mustaqbalka Oo Qabanaya Kulan-Weyne Guud oo aad isha loogu hayo
Feb 26(Jowhar)-Xubnaha Golaha Mustaqbalka (GMS) ayaa lagu wadaa inay maalinta Jimcaha ee berri qabtaan kulan-weyne guud oo ay isugu imaanayaan dhammaan xubnaha golaha.
French government survives two no-confidence motions over energy bill
A Parliament on a Knife-Edge: How a Decree and Two Defeated No-Confidence Votes Shook France
There are nights in Paris when the Boulevard Saint-Germain hums with business as usual—bakers pulling croissants from ovens, students hunched over laptops in cafes, and the distant rattle of the metro. But this week the hum has a different pitch: the murmur of a democracy that has been nudged, twice, toward uncertainty.
France’s government, led by Prime Minister Sebastien Lecornu, survived two no-confidence motions after it chose to push through a new energy law by executive decree rather than letting the National Assembly deliver a final vote. The motions were tabled by opposing corners of the political spectrum: the far-right National Rally (RN) and the hard-left France Unbowed (LFI). Both failed.
For a country that prizes debate, that felt like a seismic moment. “We acted to protect the nation’s energy security,” Lecornu told reporters in a clipped, determined tone after the votes, his collar still dusted with the late-winter chill. “Circumstances required speed; our duty is to act.”
Critics answered with equal force. “You can’t keep governing by side door,” said an LFI spokesperson from the steps outside the Assembly. “When parliament is bypassed, the people are silenced.”
How a Decree Changed the Game
Using a decree to enact policy is not an everyday occurrence, but nor is it unprecedented. Still, the optics matter: a fragile government without a parliamentary majority, two angry oppositions sensing an opening, and the sense among many voters that ordinary channels of accountability have been short-circuited.
“This is not just about an energy law,” said Camille Durand, a pollster at Elabe. “It’s about trust. When governments switch from rhetoric to decree, citizens start to wonder who’s steering the ship.”
Parliamentary veterans say maneuvers like this are symptoms, not causes: a function of a fragmented political landscape that has made stable governance difficult. “You have more parties, more passions, and less consensus,” said Professor Amina Koulibaly, a political scientist who’s spent two decades watching French coalitions rise and fall. “When the center frays, the executive sometimes grasps tools it hopes will hold the country together. But those tools also stoke suspicion.”
The Killing That Tilted Public Feeling
Complicating the calculus is a tragedy that has left the national mood raw. The killing of 23-year-old far-right activist Quentin Deranque—allegedly by far-left militants—shocked France. The case has already led to seven people being formally investigated, including an aide to one of LFI’s politicians; the suspects deny involvement.
Across the country, small vigils have sprung up—flowers on lampposts, candles at the foot of municipal buildings, hand-written placards in storefront windows. “No one should die for an idea,” said Lucie, a baker in the 11th arrondissement, as she wrapped a baguette in brown paper. “We are tired of this violence that eats at our cities.”
The killing has hammered the LFI’s public standing and handed the RN a political argument it had been sharpening for years: an appeal to order, safety, and mainstream respectability. “We told you what happens when chaos is normalised,” a National Rally spokeswoman said at a press conference. “We are the only ones who can bring stability.”
Polling: Who Voters Fear More?
A fresh Elabe poll captures the change in public sentiment. Nearly two-thirds of respondents—about 64 to 66 percent—said they would prefer to block the hard-left LFI from power by voting for a rival in a theoretical two-round contest. By contrast, only 45 percent said they would take the same steps to stop the RN.
That difference is striking. For decades the RN (and its predecessor movements) has been the political bogeyman for center and left voters; the “cordon sanitaire” of a united second-round opposition kept it at bay in many contests. But the survey suggests that, at least for the moment, French voters are more anxious about the far-left’s potential for violent disruption than they are about the RN’s hard-edge rhetoric.
“Perceptions shifted very quickly after the murder,” Durand said. “Events can recalibrate fear more rapidly than any campaign.”
The Arithmetic of Power and the Looming Election
The RN is now the country’s largest parliamentary party—an accomplishment that has transformed it from an electoral force to a plausible governing contender. Political operatives and pollsters alike say the RN is widely seen as a credible victor in next year’s national election; that possibility has reopened old debates about the so-called “republican front,” the practice of rival parties rallying to block the far right in run-off rounds.
That spirit of cross-party unity is fraying. After the killing, RN leaders called on other parties to form what they called a “sanitary cordon” against LFI—an ironic repurposing of the phrase traditionally used to ostracize the RN itself. Former centre-left President François Hollande has urged his Socialist Party to break with LFI, signaling that alliances may be reconfigured ahead of the ballot box.
“We’re watching old lines redraw themselves in front of our eyes,” said one veteran Socialist councillor in Lyon. “It’s both unnerving and urgent.”
Local Color: How Citizens Experience the Crisis
Walk the markets of Marseille and you’ll hear similar anxieties, and different ones. “We talk about heating bills and whether the lights will go out this winter,” said Nassim, who runs a small lighting shop near the Old Port. “But then there’s the feeling that politics is a stage for people who don’t care if society frays. That scares customers and shopkeepers alike.”
A teacher in Lille, Elise, described conversations in her classroom: “Teenagers are more engaged, but angrier. They read the news in fragments—tweets, headlines—then stitch them into theories. They distrust the institutions, but they also fear what comes next.”
What This Moment Says About Democracy Beyond France
France’s recent tumble through political maneuvering, lethal violence, and seismic polling shifts is not merely a domestic drama. It is a case study in a wider, global question: how do liberal democracies preserve deliberation and pluralism while facing extremes on both ends of the spectrum?
Across Europe and beyond, the playbook of insurgent parties—whether far-left or far-right—includes both street-level activism and parliamentary strategy. Governments tempted to move by decree risk short-term fixes at the cost of long-term legitimacy. Citizens who demand security must also ask: what freedoms are we willing to trade for it?
These are questions without neat answers. They are messy, stubborn, and intensely human. And they call on every voter to decide where they stand.
Evening in Paris: A City Decides
On a mild evening, as lamplight softens the Seine and posters flapping from municipal wire sigh in the wind, Paris feels undecided—frustrated, perhaps, but alive. “Democracy is not a machine that you can oil and expect never to creak,” Professor Koulibaly told me. “It’s people talking, and sometimes shouting, and sometimes voting—but always trying to find a way to live together.”
What will the next act look like? Will coalitions be rebuilt, will voters band together again to repel extremes, or will the decree become a new norm? I’ll ask you: when governance bends, who should hold the balance? The answer you give is not just an opinion; it is a small act of civic weather—one that will help decide whether, in seasons to come, the hum of Paris remains a comforting sound or a warning note.
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