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.
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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.
US intensifies missile pressure ahead of indirect talks with Iran
Geneva on Edge: Quiet Halls, Loud Threats — Can Negotiations Pull the Region Back from the Brink?
On a frigid morning in Geneva, the air inside the diplomatic compound felt oddly domestic: the whisper of shoes on carpet, the soft clink of porcelain cups, negotiators leaning across polished tables to speak in low, deliberate tones. Outside, the city hummed with the usual cosmopolitan calm — trams, cyclists, and a late winter sun slipping behind the Alps — but the conversation beneath that calm carried the weight of potential catastrophe.
After weeks of public barbs, missile warnings, and a sweeping US military build-up in the region, Washington and Tehran have agreed to sit at indirect talks in Switzerland. The stated aim is simple and urgent: to avert fresh conflict. The stakes, however, could not be higher. The shadow of last summer’s violent flare-up still lingers; the memories of air strikes, damaged installations and frayed alliances are fresh for many.
What’s on the Table — and What Isn’t
At the heart of the dispute is a familiar knot: Iran’s nuclear program. Western governments, and Israel above all, fear Tehran’s work could lead to a weaponized capability. Iran insists its nuclear activities are peaceful, aimed at energy and research.
But this round of diplomacy is not limited to uranium and centrifuges. Washington is pushing to fold Iran’s ballistic missile program and its support for armed groups in the wider Middle East into any final settlement. Tehran has pushed back, bluntly. Iranian officials insist the nuclear dossier is the only legitimate topic, and they demand that crippling US sanctions be lifted as a precondition to any meaningful agreement.
That gulf — what each side says can be negotiated and what it refuses even to discuss — is the central tension the Geneva talks must bridge.
Key points the talks will touch on
- Reviving or renegotiating aspects of nuclear constraints and verification.
- US demands to address ballistic missile development.
- Tehran’s insistence on sanctions relief and respect for national sovereignty.
Words, Weapons and Ranges: Reading the Threats
It is worth pausing on a fact that has come to symbolize the current rhetoric: missile range. In his recent State of the Union address, President Donald Trump accused Iran of “pursuing sinister nuclear ambitions” and warned Tehran had “already developed missiles that can threaten Europe and our bases overseas, and they’re working to build missiles that will soon reach the United States of America.”
Iran’s foreign ministry shot back, denouncing those claims as “big lies.” Technical assessments add nuance. Iran has publicly disclosed missiles with a maximum range of about 2,000 kilometers. The US Congressional Research Service — a widely cited, nonpartisan body — has estimated somewhat higher ranges for some systems, roughly 3,000 kilometers. Even at that upper estimate, the distance falls far short of the thousands of kilometers separating Tehran from many parts of the continental United States.
Numbers matter because they are often used to justify policy. When political leaders talk of “an existential threat” or “missiles that can reach our heartland,” those claims shape public mood and the calculus of retaliation. But numbers alone don’t tell the whole story: range is only one factor, and the political message behind the numbers fuels fear.
Voices from the Ground: Tehran, the Region, and Beyond
Back in Tehran, the city bears the look of a population stretched thin — the children of the bazaars still dart between stalls of dried fruit and saffron, but shopkeepers talk quietly about the last freeze in tourism and the constant pressure of inflation. “We’ve been living with sanctions for years,” said a carpet seller near the Grand Bazaar. “People are tired. We don’t want war — we want our kids to be able to dream again.”
Across the region, a mixture of dread and resignation simmers. “There is a sense that something could snap,” said a Middle East security analyst in Beirut. “You can feel it in diplomatic traffic — governments are quietly lobbying Washington, appealing for restraint.”
At the same time, there are voices of hope. An Iranian academic in Isfahan who asked to remain unnamed described the talks as “a sliver of daylight.” She added, “It’s not just about missiles or uranium; it’s about the possibility of people getting back to normal life: travel, business, family visits.”
History’s Echoes: Why This Moment Feels Different
These negotiations come after a turbulent history: a 2015 nuclear deal (the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action) that brought temporary relief; the US withdrawal from that accord in 2018 and the reimposition of sanctions; and then last summer’s surprise strikes that ignited a 12-day conflict. Each episode has left its mark — in hardened positions, broken trust, and a deep bank of mutual suspicion.
Moreover, domestic pressures are pushing both capitals in contradictory directions. In Iran, a year of large-scale protests has shaken the government’s confidence and legitimacy; some in Tehran see engagement as a pressure valve, others as an unacceptable concession. In Washington, political leaders juggle a combination of hawkish rhetoric and diplomatic appetite — a public posture of toughness alongside a private desire to avoid a costly war.
What Would Success Look Like?
Ask yourself: can two countries who have spent decades alternately confronting and courting each other craft a deal that satisfies their opposing audiences? Success would require several things:
- Concrete, verifiable limits on nuclear activity and a transparent inspection regime;
- Clear commitments on missile proliferation or, at minimum, a framework for future talks;
- Phased sanctions relief tied to tangible Iranian actions; and
- A diplomatic mechanism to manage and de-escalate future crises.
It is a mountainous ask. But diplomacy, when it works, is not about erasing fear overnight; it is about building routines and channels that make large-scale violence less likely.
Beyond Geneva: The Global Stakes
This is not merely a bilateral dispute. The outcome will ripple across the Middle East and beyond: it will affect oil markets, alliance structures, and the prospects for regional security. European capitals have quietly urged restraint; regional players like Oman have already acted as intermediaries. The global community watches, hoping that cooler heads will prevail.
So here’s the question for you, reading this now: what would you trade for the certainty of peace? Is it sanctions lifted first, or ironclad guarantees of non-proliferation? How do we balance justice for grievances with the urgent need to keep people alive?
War, after all, is not an abstract game of chess between capitals. It is power cuts in a city, a hospital without oxygen, a mother unable to find medicine for her child. It is catastrophe measured in human terms rather than missile statistics.
Conclusion: A Fragile Window
The Geneva talks offer a fragile window — an interlude in which cooler, steadier forces might yet hold. They are imperfect, they are messy, and they are not guaranteed to succeed. But even the act of sitting down matters; it introduces friction into trajectories that otherwise run toward escalation.
Diplomacy rarely moves in leaps. It accumulates in patient steps, in the willingness to meet across a table when the headlines scream otherwise. Whether these talks become the first step toward a durable settlement or a final, unsuccessful attempt before a new round of conflict will depend as much on the political courage of leaders as on the small, human decisions made in Tehran, Geneva, and Washington in the weeks to come.
Only time will reveal whether Trump’s unity message truly resonated
Inside a Night of Stagecraft, History and Politics: My Take on the State of the Union
Wednesday night in Washington felt less like a constitutional ritual and more like an expertly produced television special — bright lights, orchestrated applause, and punctuated moments designed to land on camera. The Capitol chamber, packed with lawmakers, family members and a clutch of invited guests, became a theater where policy, patriotism and politics traded places for nearly two hours.
As a reporter who has seen many State of the Union addresses, I was struck by the clarity of its choreography. This was not a meandering manifesto. It was a tight, meticulously timed show that leaned on human stories to soften and sharpen the message. When the president spoke of factories and stock markets, he would immediately cut to a veteran or a grieving mother seated in the gallery. When he wanted a unifying cheer, he invited Olympic gold medalists to stand. Television producers call that “staging”; politicians call it connection. The line between the two is thinner than ever.
Staging the Narrative: Guests, Heroes and Tears
There were deliberate peaks: moments engineered to deliver emotional payoff. The freshly crowned men’s Olympic hockey team rose to a roar — a unifying moment that produced chants of “USA!” and thawed some of the frost between both parties. A 100-year-old Navy veteran received the Congressional Medal of Honor, and a young National Guard sergeant wounded in a Washington attack accepted a Purple Heart with his mother at his side. Cameras lingered on tears, on hands clasped on knees.
“It felt like watching history and theater at once,” said Ana Rodriguez, who runs a small café two blocks from the Capitol. “When the athlete stood, everyone forgot the politics for a second. That’s powerful.”
Tariffs Under the Justices’ Gaze
Midway through the address, the president pivoted to trade — and to the justices seated directly behind him. The Supreme Court’s recent decision to rule several of his “reciprocal” tariffs unlawful was not merely a legal footnote; it became a political prop. He called the ruling “unfortunate” and signaled he would pursue new pathways to reimpose fees on foreign goods, implying executive authorities could be stretched in different directions.
Here’s the arithmetic he used: he reminded listeners that, in 2024, individual income taxes totaled roughly $2.8 trillion — about half of the federal government’s revenue — and suggested tariffs could supplement tax revenue. He also invoked estimates that the tariffs, during the months they were in force, generated somewhere between $150 billion and $170 billion for federal coffers.
Trade analyst Maya Chen, who studies tariff policy at a Washington think tank, offered a caution: “Tariffs are blunt instruments. They can shift supply chains and prices, but the incidence — who really pays — is complex. Consumers and import-reliant businesses often feel the sting.”
Economy, Praise and a Political Lens
For much of the speech, the economic pitch was relentlessly upbeat: 53 record highs for stock indexes in the last year, new laws to protect tips and overtime pay, and promises that factories and foreign investment are rushing back. “Trillions” of promised investment became a rhetorical beat repeated to underscore the administration’s “America first” branding.
Across the city, reactions were split. “My registers are fuller than last year,” said Thomas Nguyen, who owns a mid-sized manufacturing shop in Ohio. “But when my suppliers raise prices, my margins shrink. A lot of people are still feeling squeezed.”
Ordinary measures of fiscal health were also invoked. The national budget deficit — roughly 6.5% of GDP — popped up as a challenge the president said he could solve by rooting out fraud and waste. Whether broad claims of future fiscal balance can be reconciled with projected spending and aging entitlements remains an open question for economists who study long-term budgets.
Immigration, Minnesota and a Contentious Moment
Perhaps the most combustible section came when the president shifted to immigration and fraud. He named Minnesota — and specifically members of its Somali community — as sites of alleged mass welfare fraud, citing figures that were, in the words of several watchdog groups and local leaders, unsubstantiated or exaggerated.
The remarks sparked immediate, audible pushback from the Democratic delegation. Representative Ilhan Omar, who was born in Somalia, led a chorus of heckling that highlighted the deep racial and cultural undercurrents of the moment. “You should be ashamed,” Democrats chanted at the podium’s assertions, while Republican members of Congress rose in unified applause when invited to stand in support of border enforcement.
“These are families, students, neighbors,” said Fatima Abdi, a Somali community organizer in Minneapolis. “When you put our stories into sound bites about crime and theft, it hurts people who are working hard and following the rules.”
Health, Housing and Crime: Practical Promises
Between the rhetoric on national pride and security, the president offered policy carrots: negotiated prescription prices through a program he branded “Trump Rx,” and an executive order aimed at stopping large investment firms from buying up single-family homes — a move he asked Congress to make permanent. The intent was to wrap populist rescue narratives around everyday struggles: rising rents, shrinking housing supply, and sticker shock at the pharmacy counter.
“Homes should be for families, not institutional portfolios,” he said, and the line drew applause from members whose constituents complain about absentee corporate landlords gobbling up neighborhoods.
Short on New Foreign Policy, Long on Resolve
Foreign policy, by contrast, was compact. He claimed diplomatic progress in returning hostages and reiterated an uncompromising stance on Iran’s nuclear ambitions: diplomacy preferred, but the threat of force left unbowed. “No nation should ever doubt America’s resolve,” he said, an intentional echo of 20th-century rhetorical staples.
For analysts watching from abroad, the speech emphasized continuity: peace where possible, pressure where deemed necessary.
Did the Speech Land?
Rhetorically, it was a success — for the production team. The address was tightly crafted and delivered with confident cadence. Politically, its impact will be parsed in neighborhoods, diners and polling booths in the coming days. Partisans on either side rushed to the microphones: Republicans called it a soaring performance; Democrats labeled it a distraction from data-driven solutions.
“It’s theater with policy painted on top,” another Capitol Hill veteran told me. “That doesn’t mean it won’t move votes. It means we have to be ready to separate spectacle from substance.”
Questions to Carry Home
As you close this piece on your screen, consider the trade-offs implicit in a spectacle-driven politics. Are we better served when leaders perform for the camera — or when they engage in the slow, granular work of policy that doesn’t fit into a sound bite?
How do communities targeted in political rhetoric heal in the wake of nationalized scrutiny? And finally: in a country marking 250 years since its founding, are we more interested in ceremonies that celebrate identity, or policies that tangibly improve everyday life for the majority?
For many in Washington, Wednesday was both a show and a referendum: an evening that stitched together bravery, grievance, hope and anger into a single broadcast. Whether it changes hearts, minds or ballots will be revealed not by cameras, but by the slow, stubborn arithmetic of daily life.
FAI says it has no choice but to honour Israel fixtures
A Dublin Decision: When Football and Conscience Collide
On an early spring afternoon in Dublin, the city felt like a throat clearing before a big speech. Buskers played under a slate sky, commuters hugged takeaway coffees, and the smell of frying chips rose from corner shops. But beneath that ordinary hum was a quieter, knotty tension — a debate about identity, responsibility and what it means for a nation to take the field.
The Football Association of Ireland (FAI) has confirmed it will host Israel in a Nations League tie on 4 October — a decision that has rippled far beyond the pitch. The announcement came in a sober letter to members and was reinforced by the association’s chief executive, who said the FAI felt it had “no viable option” but to fulfil the fixture. For many, that sentence distilled the clash between legal duties, sporting realities and moral pressure from within Irish society.
From Brussels to Dublin: The draw that set hearts racing
The pairing of the Republic of Ireland with Israel was born on 12 February in Brussels, when the 2026-27 Nations League draw was made. Almost immediately, the match became a lightning rod. Inside the FAI’s halls, at clubhouses in suburbs and in kitchen tables across the country, members and supporters wrestled with something larger than a tactical plan.
“Sport is never only sport,” said Aoife Brennan, an emeritus lecturer in sports law at Trinity College Dublin. “You can’t isolate players and fixtures from the geopolitical environment in which they exist. Yet neither can a national federation ignore regulatory realities. What the FAI are describing, in legal terms, is a classic bind: comply and play, or defy UEFA and face sanctions that could harm Irish football’s future for years.”
The costs of refusal: Sporting, financial and reputational
The FAI’s letter spelled out the potential fallout in blunt terms: a forfeit would mean the loss of six Nations League points, likely relegation to League C, poorer seeding for EURO 2028 qualification and a hit to Ireland’s FIFA ranking. The board insisted that refusing to fulfil fixtures would expose the association and individual directors to “severe sporting, financial and reputational sanctions.”
Those are more than bureaucratic threats. They translate into fewer competitive opportunities for players, smaller matchday revenues for clubs, and a longer road back to the kind of major-tournament campaigns that energise a small nation’s sporting soul.
- FAI General Assembly motion (Nov): 74 votes for suspending Israel, 7 against, 2 abstentions.
- PFAI player survey: 63% of 214 respondents said Ireland should not play the fixture.
- Sporting penalty for forfeiture: loss of six Nations League points and possible relegation to League C.
Voices from the city: anger, sorrow, pragmatism
On Dublin’s Capel Street, where flags flap from lamp posts and fans gather on matchday, reactions have been wide and raw. “I can’t celebrate a team that shares a stadium with someone whose government I feel is complicit in such devastation,” said Niamh Ó Hara, a 34-year-old nurse, tapping her fingers on a glass of tea. “But I also worry about the kids who dream of playing at Aviva — they shouldn’t be collateral damage.”
At the other end of the conversation, Michael Hurley, owner of a local sports bar, took a different tack. “We’ve had bad nights before in football — losses, bans, scandals. But you’ve also got to think of the local economy. A home Nations League tie brings jobs, money, exposure. If it moves to a neutral venue, it’s a hit for all of us.”
Meanwhile, players are feeling pressure from two directions. The Professional Footballers Association of Ireland (PFAI) ran a survey of 214 professional players across the League of Ireland’s men’s and women’s divisions: 63% said Ireland should not play. “There’s a moral discomfort in the squad rooms,” one League of Ireland midfielder, speaking on condition of anonymity, told me. “We’re professionals and want to play. But many of us also have friends and family with strong views about Gaza. It’s not an easy position.”
Security, logistics and the Garda stamp
The other immediate question was safety. Could the match be hosted in Dublin without undue risk? The FAI says it consulted government bodies and An Garda Síochána, and that police are confident they can deliver a safe, secure environment. That assertion removes one potential route — a neutral-venue change based on a formal security warning — which was how Belgium’s home tie against Israel was relocated to Debrecen, Hungary, in September 2024.
“If the Garda gives the all-clear, the FAI’s legal footing to refuse is weak,” said Liam Finnegan, a solicitor specialising in sports governance. “Federations sign up to UEFA regulations that carry real sanctions for non-compliance. For directors, knowingly breaching those obligations can open the door to personal liability.”
Using the match as a platform
Conscious of the moral opprobrium and the human suffering underpinning protests, the FAI has said it will channel the home fixture into tangible humanitarian support for civilians affected by the conflict. Details are promised closer to the match.
“Actions speak louder than optics,” said Orla McKenna, founder of an Irish humanitarian NGO that has worked in the Middle East. “If the FAI can create a meaningful fundraising and awareness programme tied to the game — not token gestures but long-term commitments — that could help bridge the gap between a political stance and sporting obligation.”
Beyond Dublin: Sport, politics and global precedent
This moment is not unique. Sport has long sat at the crossroads of morality and competition. Think of the boycotts of the 1980 and 1984 Olympics, the long campaign to exclude apartheid South Africa from international competitions, or UEFA’s suspension of Russian teams in 2022. Each case forced nations, federations and fans to decide whether athletic neutrality is possible — or even desirable.
“The hard question for the Irish public is whether abstaining from a single fixture will change much on the ground,” asked historian and commentator Dara Ní Bhraonáin. “Boycotts can be powerful symbols, but they rarely change policy in isolation. What they do, though, is define who you are as a nation.”
What do we want from sport?
As the autumn fixture approaches, the conversation in Ireland will continue to be layered and loud. Will the stadium become a stage for protest? Will it raise money, attention and perhaps a measure of solace for civilians caught in conflict? Or will the sight of the national team in green merely underscore the limits of what football can do?
These are questions every reader should ask themselves: do we look to sport for absolution, for protest, or for something in between? What responsibilities do athletes and federations have when the world beyond the stadium lights is deeply fractured?
For now, the FAI has made a choice it insists is the least damaging for the future of Irish football. Yet the decision will linger in pubs, classrooms and choir halls alike — a reminder that in our interconnected world, a football fixture can mean much more than ninety minutes on a pitch.
Zelensky: Pipeline Repairs Are Taking Longer Than Expected
When a Pipe Goes Silent: The Human Echo of the Druzhba Outage
There is a hush to the roads south of Budapest that wasn’t there two months ago. Petrol pumps blink, convenience-store aisles are reorganized, and a small trucking company in Szolnok has begun rationing lubricant for its fleet. It is the kind of quiet that makes people ask questions out loud: Is this temporary? Is it deliberate? Who will pay?
These are the human ripples from a gash much farther east — a strike on equipment connected to the Druzhba pipeline that has cut crude deliveries to Hungary and Slovakia since 27 January. The pipeline, one of the world’s oldest and longest arteries for Russian oil, is not just metal and welded joints; it is a lifeline woven into factories, families and political calculations across Central and Eastern Europe.
What happened, and why it can’t be fixed overnight
Ukrainian officials have said a Russian attack damaged infrastructure in western Ukraine that connects to the Druzhba route. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky told reporters that repairs are neither simple nor quick, noting that the pipeline had been struck more than once and that the human toll from those strikes had been grievous. “You cannot stitch this back together in a day,” he said, according to his office. “Our teams are risking their lives so Europe’s lights can stay on.”
Repairing buried and high-pressure pipeline systems requires diagnostics, replacement parts, and secure access — none of which are easy in a conflict zone. Even under peacetime conditions, pipeline outages can take weeks to repair; in wartime, they can stretch into months. Beyond the technical challenge sits the political question: who controls the site, what guarantees can be given to repair crews, and can the supply lines be insulated from further attack?
The view from the towns that run on oil
“We used to get regular deliveries on Mondays,” said Anikó Szabó, who runs a modest family petrol station on the outskirts of Szeged. “Now we get one truck every three days, if at all. People are already saving on driving. That hurts small businesses. It’s not just politics to us — it’s our rent.”
In Slovakia, a logistics manager in Bratislava who asked not to be named described frantic calls with refineries and suppliers. “We’re having to prioritize routes,” he said. “Essential services first, long-haul freight second. The economy gets erratic because of a valve or a damaged pump hundreds of kilometers away.”
Orban’s alarm and the politics of protection
Hungary’s Prime Minister Viktor Orbán has framed the shutdown differently: as a potential threat from Ukraine. He has accused Kyiv of preparing further disruption to Hungary’s energy systems and ordered soldiers and equipment to protect critical infrastructure. “We will not allow anyone to deprive Hungarian families of energy,” his office said in a statement accompanying a Facebook video in which he warned of “political” motives behind the outage.
Those moves have deep political resonance. Orbán’s government has already used its EU veto to block a large loan for Ukraine and further sanctions on Russia, citing energy and national-security concerns. With national elections looming in April, Orbán is pitching a binary choice to voters — “war or peace” — and casting himself as the bulwark against escalation.
Voices on the ground
“This is theatre for the election,” said Tamás Kovács, a political analyst in Budapest. “But that doesn’t mean the concerns aren’t real. People worry about jobs and heating bills. In Central Europe, energy policy is political theatre with direct economic consequences.”
Across the border in Slovakia, Prime Minister Ľudovít Štefan expressed frustration with Kyiv publicly, echoing Budapest’s impatience. Yet many diplomats in Brussels see a more complicated tapestry — one in which supply chains, wartime damage and diplomatic brinkmanship are tightly entwined.
Brussels, Kyiv and an uneasy choreography
European Commission President Ursula von der Leyen visited Kyiv to mark the fourth anniversary of Russia’s large-scale invasion and to press Ukrainian authorities to expedite repairs to the pipeline. Zelensky pushed back, reminding diplomats that the infrastructure had been attacked before and that personnel had been hurt trying to fix it.
“We asked Ukraine to speed up repairs,” Ms von der Leyen said in Kyiv. “But speed must not come at the cost of safety or security assurances.” The exchange underscored a strain in the EU’s solidarity: member states can feel the immediacy of supply shocks, while Kyiv feels the blunt force of a war that continues to reach into civilian infrastructure.
Another strike, another escalation: Dorogobuzh
Against this already tense backdrop came reports from Russia that a Ukrainian drone struck a fertiliser plant near Dorogobuzh in the Smolensk region, about 290km from the border. Russian officials said seven people were killed and ten wounded; images circulating online showed a plant shrouded in night smoke, though those images were not independently verified at the time.
Russian authorities described the target as a civilian nitrogen-fertiliser facility. Kyiv’s military sources said they had used drones in operations targeting logistics and military-related infrastructure but did not immediately confirm responsibility for this specific plant. In an information war where every incident is quickly weaponised, facts can be slippery and the human costs stark.
Why this matters beyond pipelines and politics
Ask yourself: how would your life change if the energy that keeps your home warm or your factory running suddenly became uncertain? The Druzhba outage is more than a headline about geopolitics. It’s a doorway into questions about energy dependencies, regional resilience, and how democracies manage dissent — and fear — when the stakes are simply survival.
Some broader truths are emerging. First, dependence on single-source energy chains remains a glaring vulnerability for many countries. Second, infrastructure in and near conflict zones is increasingly weaponised. Third, domestic politics can turn practical supply problems into leverage for electoral advantage.
Paths forward — a brief checklist
- Short-term: prioritize transparent communication with consumers and targeted state support for vulnerable industries.
- Medium-term: accelerate diversification of supply routes and emergency stockpiles for critical fuels.
- Long-term: invest in resilient energy systems — from renewables to decentralized storage — to reduce leverage by external actors.
What comes next?
There are no tidy endings here. Repairs will take time, voices will grow louder, and the political calendar will add pressure. Yet in petrol stations and municipal warehouses, in offices and factories, people will keep making choices: to conserve, to protest, to vote, to adapt.
“We survived rationing in the 1990s,” mused an older trucker in Košice, Slovakia, as he waited to refuel. “You learn to be stubborn and clever.” His wry smile was not triumphalist so much as weary hope. It is an attitude that matters: when pipelines are damaged, the social fabric is tested, and the way communities patch themselves back together becomes the measure of resilience.
So where do you stand in this story? Are you prepared for a world where energy is not just commodity but leverage? And what responsibility do we — as consumers, citizens and voters — hold when the pipes that bind nations together become targets in a larger, dangerous game?
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