United States announces sweeping strikes targeting Islamic State in Syria

January 11, 2026

UK, France conduct joint strike on IS site in Syria — The ancient city of Palmyra is home to UNESCO World Heritage listed ruins

Under the Pale Stones of Palmyra: After the Strike, the Desert Keeps Its Secrets

Palmyra is a place that does not forgive haste. Rubble here holds generations, and the wind carries the dust of empires. On a raw morning this week, with the sun scraping the horizon like a coin, the U.S. and its allies announced “large-scale” strikes across Syria aimed at the Islamic State. The operation—named Hawkeye Strike by U.S. Central Command—was framed as retribution for a brutal December 13 ambush near Palmyra that killed two U.S. soldiers and a U.S. civilian interpreter. But strike boxes on a map rarely capture how violence bleeds through lives, markets, and stone.

“We used to come and take tea beneath the colonnades,” said Fatima al-Hourani, a teacher who grew up in nearby villages and now lives in a displacement camp outside Homs. “Now we know the columns as a memory in a photo. We also know the sound of planes too well.”

What happened—and why it matters

The U.S. military said the strikes targeted Islamic State positions across Syria as part of Operation Hawkeye Strike, launched in direct response to the Palmyra attack. The incident on December 13—the first such targeting of U.S. personnel since the overthrow of President Bashar al-Assad in December 2024—reawakened fears that IS, though diminished from its peak, remains capable of lethal violence.

“This was a deliberate attack on service members doing a difficult job,” said Col. Marcus Ellison, a U.S. Central Command spokesperson, in a terse post on X. “Our response is calibrated but decisive—meant to degrade ISIS’ ability to conduct future attacks.”

The U.S. and Jordan had already carried out an earlier round of strikes in the same operation last month, officials said, hitting dozens of IS targets. The pattern is familiar: a fresh strike follows an attack, coalition spokespeople emphasize precision, allied capitals nod, and the region returns to a brittle calm.

Palmyra: ruins, resilience, and strategic symbolism

Palmyra’s ancient ruins are more than a tourist postcard. They are a living ledger of cultural memory—Roman colonnades, an amphitheater, funerary towers—inscribed with the names of civilizations that traded, worshiped, and fought across these same stretches of desert. UNESCO designated the site as a World Heritage site decades ago, and when jihadist fighters seized Palmyra during IS’s 2014-2017 run, the world watched in horror as priceless artifacts were smashed and looted.

“When you attack Palmyra, you are attacking the idea that some things last,” said Dr. Leila Haddad, a Brussels-based analyst who has followed Syria for 15 years. “That symbolism matters. Terrorist groups know this. They do not only seek tactical advantages; they seek to erode memory.”

But Palmyra’s value is not only symbolic. Situated deep in Syria’s central desert, it sits along routes that have long been used for trade—and, in modern conflict, for movement of fighters and weapons. After losing their territorial caliphate between 2017 and 2019, IS retreated into deserts, caves, and the margins of state control. From there, the group has staged guerrilla-style attacks, ambushes, and bombings that keep security forces—local and international—on edge.

Voices from the ground

In the dusty market near Tadmur—the modern town that hosts Palmyra’s ruins—shopkeepers shrug and call the strikes “another chapter.” You can sense exhaustion more than fear. “We are used to warnings and curfews,” said Hassan, who sells tea and plasticware. “We just want to keep our children fed.”

A humanitarian worker with a U.N. partner, who asked not to be named for safety reasons, explained how cycles of violence hamper recovery. “Every strike displaces families again,” she said. “Shelters fill, schools close, and livelihoods stop. The people who pay the price are not the commanders in the deserts.”

Jordan, which has itself suffered from spillover and is a partner in the strikes, signed on publicly to the operation. A Jordanian military official described the action as “necessary to protect our citizens and stabilize border regions,” speaking on condition of anonymity. Jordan has long balanced delicate security concerns with hosting hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees—an economic and social strain that the Hashemite kingdom continues to manage.

The American calculus

The strikes come against a shifting American posture in Syria. President Donald Trump, during his first term, ordered a partial withdrawal of U.S. troops from Syria but ultimately left some forces in place. In April, the Pentagon announced it would halve the number of U.S. personnel in Syria in the coming months—a move justified as reducing America’s footprint while maintaining counter-IS pressure. U.S. envoy Tom Barrack later said Washington intended to reduce its presence to a single base over time.

“There is a tug-of-war between retrenchment and residual responsibility,” said Michael Durant, a former diplomat and Middle East specialist. “Policymakers don’t like open-ended commitments, but they also understand what an abrupt exit can allow—space for IS resurgence and broader regional instability.”

Context: what numbers tell us

At its apex in 2014–2015, the Islamic State controlled large swathes of Syria and Iraq and declared a “caliphate” that drew thousands of foreign fighters. A U.S.-led coalition, alongside local partners—including Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) in the northeast—helped roll back that territorial control by 2019. But IS never disappeared as an ideology or a network; it simply morphed into an insurgency.

Recent years have seen periodic spikes in IS activity in Syria’s northeast and central desert. According to open-source monitoring groups, hundreds of attacks attributed to IS have occurred across Syria since 2020—ranging from roadside bombs to targeted assassinations—though numbers fluctuate with the intensity of local operations.

Each strike, each counterstrike, adds to a mosaic of instability that has displaced more than half of Syria’s pre-war population since 2011, according to the U.N. Millions remain internally displaced or living as refugees in neighboring countries.

Looking outward: the global ripple effects

Why should a reader in Tokyo, Lagos, or São Paulo care about strikes over a desert town’s ruins? Because the fight against groups like IS is not confined to local battlefields. Terrorist networks inspire copycats, radicalize online followers, and exploit ungoverned spaces. The stability—or instability—of Syria affects migration patterns, regional alliances, energy markets, and global counterterrorism strategies.

“This is not just a Middle Eastern problem,” Haddad warned. “It’s a global governance challenge—how to deter violent extremism, protect cultural heritage, and support people whose lives have been suspended by war months or decades at a time.”

After the dust settles

The desert will hide many stories. The strikes will be tallied in press releases and military briefings. Families will mourn, and some will try to go back to markets and schools. And Palmyra, for now, will keep being both a ruin and a battleground—an ancient city caught in modern politics.

As you read this, think beyond the headlines: what does it take to rebuild a place where stones remember more than people sometimes can? How do nations weigh the cost of presence against the cost of absence? And what obligations do we share—across borders and languages—to protect both human lives and the fragile memories carved into a world that has seen empires rise and fall?

“We are tired of being a line on somebody else’s map,” Fatima said, quiet and steady. “We do not want our children’s memories to be rubble.”

Nationwide Demonstrations Condemn ICE Agent’s Shooting of Woman

hanad

January 11, 2026

Rallies across US against shooting of woman by ICE agent — People walk through the streets of Minneapolis today to protest against ICE after the fatal shooting of Renee Nicole Good

They Came for Renee — and for Something Bigger

The air in Minneapolis felt like glass: brittle, clear, and cold enough to make conversations short and fierce. Even so, thousands of people pushed through snow-packed streets and clutched signs with mittened hands, chanting a name that had become, in the span of a few days, both a grief and a rallying cry — Renee.

It wasn’t just a city on edge. It was a nation watching as a single, raw moment splintered into a thousand protests. Organizers reported more than 1,000 events planned across the United States under the banner “ICE, Out for Good” — a slogan that fused anger at a federal agency with the human face of loss: Renee Good, a 37-year-old mother who was killed by an agent from Immigration and Customs Enforcement in Minneapolis.

“People came because they felt they had to,” said Marisol Hernández, a community organizer who helped coordinate a march from a neighborhood meeting hall to a snow-swept park near the scene. “This isn’t just about one death. It’s about what we let happen in our names. People are tired of silence.”

Contours of a Controversy

The story unfolded in a way that’s become painfully familiar: competing narratives, grainy footage, and accusations traded between local officials and the federal government. The White House pointed to video clips from the scene as support for the agent’s claim of self-defense. Local leaders countered that the footage, which does not clearly show the moment of the shooting, suggests Renee’s car was turning away and did not pose the immediate threat officials described.

Someone captured a distressing, intimate sequence on a phone. An officer can be heard calling Renee a profane slur, and audio captures the exchange before the shots. “I’m not mad at you,” Renee says in the clip as the agent circles her vehicle. Moments later, another agent orders her to exit the car. Then, people on the recording say they heard gunfire.

That clip — incomplete, disputed, and searing — has become the fulcrum of public outrage. It has stripped away layers of politeness and forced a blunt question: how do we weigh official accounts against the messy, often partial evidence that surfaces in these moments?

A City That Remembers Winters and Reckonings

Minneapolis knows cold. It also knows protest. The city has been a crucible for the national debate over force, accountability, and the reach of federal agencies into local communities. On this day, demonstrators moved past shuttered storefronts, halting traffic and forming human barriers with their bodies and placards. “ICE Out of Minnesota,” read one sign. “We won’t be silent,” read another.

“This is about our neighbors,” said Jamal Owens, who works at a nearby grocery and joined the march because “you never know who could be next in the crosshairs of a system that criminalizes people instead of protecting them.” Owens is Black; many attendees described the rally as a multiracial coalition of immigrants, activists, students, and ordinary residents linked by concern and grief.

From Minneapolis to Main Streets Across America

The ripples spread quickly. In Philadelphia, soggy but determined crowds marched from City Hall toward the local ICE field office. New York, Washington, Boston — cities big and small hosted gatherings, some numbering in the hundreds, others in the thousands. The “No Kings” network, a constellation of left-leaning groups that has organized previous national protests, amplified calls for action.

“When you see a pattern — a federal agency reaching into our communities with fear rather than care — you mobilize,” said Laila Khan, a lawyer who has represented immigrants in detention. “Protests are both an indictment and an invitation: an indictment of current practices, and an invitation to imagine something better.”

What Protesters Are Demanding

The crowd’s signs and chants coalesced around a few clear demands. These were not abstract slogans; they were practical, immediate requests the community wanted to see enacted.

Independent investigations into the shooting and into ICE practices generally.
Greater transparency around the use of force by federal agents.
Stronger local limits on ICE operations and more oversight at city and state levels.
Policy changes to curb mass deportations and prioritize humane alternatives.

The Human Ledger

Behind each demand was a human ledger: a mother mourning a child, a worker anxious about a knock on the door, a community grappling with the fear of routine raids. “It’s not only about Renee,” said Ana Delgado, whose cousin was detained two years ago. “It’s about the people we love. It’s about whether we can walk our streets without feeling hunted.”

Numbers, Power, and the Broader Context

ICE, established in 2003 in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, has grown into a powerful arm of federal interior enforcement. It manages detention facilities, conducts removal operations, and operates a broad investigative arm. Critics argue the agency’s mandate and resources have allowed it to operate with insufficient local oversight and too much discretion.

Under recent administrations, immigration enforcement has swung between different priorities — from focusing on serious criminality to broader interior enforcement — shaping thousands of deportations and detentions each year. That ebb and flow of policy has real consequences for families and communities across the country, feeding both fear and resistance.

Accountability in an Age of Video

Video and smartphone recordings have reshaped how the public witnesses confrontations, but they also complicate the search for truth. A clip that captures a slur and a tense exchange may not capture the critical second when a gun is fired. Yet images wield power — they can force official reviews, spur policy changes, and sustain public attention.

“Video is a tool, not an answer,” said Elliot Park, a criminal justice scholar. “It can open an investigation and shift public perception, but it doesn’t replace rigorous, independent inquiry.” Park urged both patience and urgency: “We need expedient investigations that follow evidence, not spin.”

What Does Justice Look Like?

Answers to that question will vary depending on whom you ask. For some, justice means criminal charges and firmer oversight of federal agents. For others, it demands wholesale policy change to an immigration system critics call punitive. For communities like the one that gathered in Minneapolis, justice looks at once both narrow and expansive: accountability for a death and a reimagining of how the state treats vulnerable people.

On a park bench cleared of snow, an elderly woman named Ruth — who declined to give her last name — folded her sign and said simply, “We can’t let this go. We can’t keep bargaining our humanity away.” Her voice, small but stubborn, echoed the mood of the day: sorrow braided to outrage, grief braided to resolve.

What Now?

Investigations will proceed. Officials will release more statements. Protests will ebb and flow. But the image of people standing together in the teeth of winter — chanting, warming their hands over mugs of coffee, refusing to let a single life be swallowed by a bureaucratic incident — is the kind of civic memory that can shape policy and politics alike.

So ask yourself: when a system that promises security causes harm instead, what do we do? Who do we trust to hold power to account? And what kind of community do we want to be in the face of fear?

The answers are neither easy nor immediate. But in the streets, beneath the low winter sun, people were trying to begin that conversation — loudly, visibly, and together. They came for Renee, and in doing so, they came for something larger: a claim on the kind of society they want to inherit and hand down.

Musk calls Grok deepfakes uproar a pretext for censorship

hanad

January 10, 2026

Outcry over Grok deepfakes 'excuse for censorship' - Musk — 'They want any excuse for censorship', Elon Musk told followers on the platform

A platform in the dock: when AI art goes dark

Across kitchen tables, City cafés and the quiet corridors of regulatory offices, a new kind of worry has been quietly taking root. The worry isn’t about a broken app or a privacy snafu. It is about pictures that never happened—images stitched together by algorithms that can strip clothes from a face in a photograph or invent scenes that violate the most basic human dignity.

This week the social media company X—formerly Twitter—found itself at the centre of that worry as users discovered an AI feature, Grok, capable of generating and editing images in ways that many called dangerous and unacceptable. The story combusted into public anger, political intervention and regulatory scrutiny, laying bare a knot of questions about technology, responsibility and the limits of free expression.

From playful filter to political lightning rod

What began as an innocuous-seeming update—new image-editing features rolled into Grok in late December—morphed into a crisis when people reported sexually explicit images being produced on request, including depictions involving children and the digital undressing of real women and girls.

“We built tools to make creativity easier,” a software engineer told me on background, “but the line between creativity and exploitation is razor-thin. You need guardrails before you let millions drive.”

Elon Musk, X’s owner, pushed back publicly, accusing critics of seeking an excuse to censor the platform. “They want any excuse for censorship,” he wrote—echoing a wider strain of argument that frames content moderation as a slippery slope to silencing. Yet the images at issue forced politicians, regulators and child protection groups to argue back.

The regulators circle

In Ireland, media regulator Coimisiún na Meán said it is liaising with the European Commission after receiving reports about Grok’s image outputs. The child’s ombudsman, Dr Niall Muldoon, called changes to the feature “window dressing” that “made no major difference” to the problem.

Across the Irish Sea, Britain’s Technology Secretary, Liz Kendall, made clear the UK would back Ofcom if it chose to effectively block X under the Online Safety Act. Ofcom has already launched an “expedited assessment,” a phrase that signals serious concern; under the Act it can levy fines of up to £18 million or 10% of global revenue and has the power—by court order—to force payment processors, advertisers or internet service providers to pull their business and choke off access.

“Sexually manipulating images of women and children is despicable and abhorrent,” Ms Kendall said, and she vowed quick action: “We expect an update in days, not weeks.”

What the company did next

Facing fury from campaign groups and the prospect of legal action, X moved to shift some of Grok’s image-editing functions behind a paywall for certain types of requests. The company also said it would meet with Ireland’s minister with responsibility for AI, Niamh Smyth, who had requested a meeting.

But the change appeared partial. Reports suggested the paywall only applied to users making requests in reply to other posts, while separate routes—such as a dedicated Grok website—could still be used to generate or edit images. For many activists, that is not reform; it is an attempt to create the appearance of reform while leaving the underlying capability intact.

Voices from the neighbourhood

In Dublin’s Temple Bar, where tourists and tradespeople share the same narrow pavements, parents say the issue feels personal. “My daughter shows me the apps her classmates use,” said Aoife, a mother of two. “You try to explain consent, and then an app can make it look like something happened that didn’t. Who protects the child then?”

A former content moderator, who asked not to be named, described a work life haunted by images. “You get used to seeing awful things in order to remove them,” they said. “But when the harm is manufactured by an algorithm, it’s another layer. The person in the photo is a victim again—even if the scene is fake.”

Digital-safety experts warn the consequences can ripple far beyond a single platform. “Deepfakes and AI-enabled manipulation erode trust,” said a policy researcher specialising in online harms. “They make it easier to intimidate and to shame. They also create an evidentiary problem for courts and law enforcement.”

How big is the problem?

Counting the scale of AI-enabled image abuse is tricky. The technology behind ‘deepfakes’ has matured rapidly over the last five years, and reports of non-consensual intimate imagery—commonly called ‘revenge porn’—and AI-manipulated content have surged in many jurisdictions. The Online Safety Act gives Ofcom powers designed to confront this rise: fines, criminal referrals and the ability to require service providers to block access.

But law and technology march at different speeds. Governments can pass statutes, but algorithms are built and updated by engineers often working in different time zones with different incentives.

Where law meets tech

The UK government is also moving to tackle another element: “nudification” apps, which purport to remove clothing from photos. Proposals in the Crime and Policing Bill aim to criminalise generating intimate images without consent—a step designed to close a legal gap where existing laws fall short.

Yet enforcement will be a challenge. Platforms may host millions of images, and sophisticated AI can create content that leaves few traces to show it is fake. That pushes the burden onto companies to stop abuse before it goes public.

Questions for a connected world

So where does that leave us? At its heart, this is a question of values. Do we accept platforms as neutral town squares, or do we expect them to be careful stewards of human dignity? Do we trust market incentives to police themselves, or do we demand robust regulation?

“Technology amplifies existing harms,” said a child protection advocate in Belfast. “If we want safe spaces online, we have to invest in prevention—education, better detection tools, transparent moderation—and not just punish after the fact.”

It’s also a question for users. What are we willing to give up for convenience? How much responsibility should rest with an app versus with the people who build and fund it?

What might meaningful fixes look like?

Transparency: clear, independent audits of AI systems and public reporting on misuse.
Human-in-the-loop safeguards: mandatory human review for sensitive content categories before images can be published.
Stronger verification and reporting mechanisms that empower victims to remove fabricated images quickly.
Cross-border cooperation between regulators, because content flows freely across jurisdictions.

Back to the human story

For now, the headlines are about regulatory reviews and paywalls. But the damage is personal and intimate. A teacher in Manchester told me she worries about “students seeing their faces in things that never happened”—a worry that is at once modern and timeless: the fear of being shamed, misrepresented, or harmed by a tool beyond one’s control.

As X navigates scrutiny from Dublin to London, the rest of us should ask not just whether this company acted responsibly, but what kind of digital commons we want. Do we demand platforms that prioritize safety and dignity, even if enforcement is messy? Or do we accept an internet that prizes novelty and scale above human consequence?

These are not questions for AI engineers alone. They are questions for lawmakers, parents, teachers, advertisers, and the people who click and share. What will we tolerate? And what will we protect?

When the story settles, the answer will tell us as much about our society as any algorithm ever could. Will we choose to make tools that uplift, or tools that exploit? The choice will shape more than policy papers—it will shape people’s lives.

Kyiv races to restore damaged power grid after strike

hanad

January 10, 2026

Kyiv scrambles to repair ruined power grid after attack — Temperatures in most of Russia and Ukraine have been well below freezing in recent days

When Power Flickers: Kyiv’s Winter Struggle and the Human Cost of Struck Infrastructure

In the low, grey light of a Kyiv morning, the city did something ordinary and extraordinary at once: it breathed again. Pipes that had gone quiet began to murmur. Streetcar lines that had been still hummed faintly as electricity trickled back. For hours, however, the reprieve was brittle—engineers wrestled with a grid pushed to the brink by a campaign of strikes that have turned energy systems into front-line targets.

“We felt the building sigh when the radiators returned,” said Olena, a retired schoolteacher who lives on the fifth floor of an apartment block in central Kyiv. “My neighbour boiled water on a gas ring overnight to wash. At dawn, someone banged pots from their balcony. It sounds small, but you could feel relief washing through the stairwell.”

The technical squeeze: a grid under pressure

The city administration reported that, just before noon local time, Ukrenergo—the state operator—ordered an emergency shutdown of Kyiv’s local power system. The move was blunt and necessary: damage from earlier strikes had left the network unstable, and the shutdown was intended to prevent a larger collapse.

Less than an hour later, Ukrenergo announced engineers had stabilized the immediate fault and that electricity was returning to parts of the capital. Prime Minister Yulia Svyrydenko confirmed that the centralised heating system—the Soviet-era style of pumping hot water through radiators across entire districts—was being restored and that officials expected heat to be fully back on by the end of the day.

“We are working around the clock,” Svyrydenko told reporters. “Restoring heat and water is our absolute priority.”

But priority does not erase fragility. The grid remains scarred, and the city is on edge. As temperatures hover below minus 10°C in many areas, the demand for electricity surges—people plug in portable heaters, hospitals run generators, and municipal crews race to patch ruptured lines. That additional load can tip an already fragile system back into failure.

Homes, hospitals, and the human ledger

Last night’s strikes left roughly 6,000 apartment blocks in Kyiv without heating, city officials said. By morning, Mayor Vitali Klitschko reported that half of those blocks had had heat restored—only for the supply to be interrupted once more when the grid operator enacted the shutdown.

“We wrapped ourselves in every blanket we own and took turns keeping the baby warm,” said Maksym, a father of two in the Dnipro district. “The younger one fell asleep on my chest; he didn’t even stir when the building went dark. You don’t feel safe with children in these conditions.”

Across hospitals, staff juggle generators and frayed patience. “The generator keeps essential equipment running, but you cannot run an entire hospital on diesel forever,” explained a nurse at Kyiv’s municipal clinic who asked not to be named. “Every outage is an ethical decision about who gets power and who goes without.”

Across the border: Belgorod goes dark

The disruption is not one-sided. On the Russian side of the border, Belgorod region’s governor Vyacheslav Gladkov reported on Telegram that some 600,000 residents were left without electricity, heating or water after what regional officials described as a Ukrainian missile strike. Local footage shared with international agencies showed streetlights extinguished and people navigating with torches and car headlights.

Belgorod, once home to about 1.5 million people before the war reshaped the region, has seen periodic attacks since 2022. The visual is stark: rows of apartment blocks with glowing windows abruptly darkened, families wrapped in coats indoors, and long lines at improvised warming centers.

Why hitting energy hurts so much

To understand the toll, picture the urban anatomy of a Kyiv apartment block: steam-heated radiators linked to a vast network of boilers and pumps, corridors threaded with insulated pipes. Unlike single-unit electric heaters, centralised district heating depends on a continuous inflow of hot water and electric pumps. Cut the power to the pumps, and the heat comes to a halt—even if the boilers are intact.

“These systems were built for efficiency, not for missile resilience,” said Dr. Marina Petrenko, an energy systems specialist based in Lviv. “When infrastructure is designed as a network, damage to a handful of nodes cascades across entire neighborhoods. In cold weather, that cascade becomes a life-or-death issue.”

That vulnerability is precisely what has given attacks on infrastructure a grim strategic logic. Ukraine has faced repeated bombardment of its energy grid and heating assets since the conflict escalated in 2022, and each strike carries disproportionate human costs—hospitals, schools, apartments, and the elderly bearing the brunt.

What the world is saying—and what it might do

The United Nations Security Council has been called to convene over the situation. Ukraine’s request for an emergency meeting drew backing from several UNSC members, including France, Latvia, Denmark, Greece, Liberia, and the United Kingdom. Diplomats argue that the repeated targeting of civilian infrastructure risks breaching international humanitarian norms.

“There is a moral and legal obligation to protect civilians and civilian infrastructure,” said a Western diplomat involved in the council briefing. “Powering people through winter is as essential as delivering food or medicine.”

Countries supporting the UNSC meeting (as reported): France, Latvia, Denmark, Greece, Liberia, United Kingdom

Neighbors helping neighbors: grassroots resilience

Amid the strain, communities in Kyiv have responded in the only way they can—by improvising warmth and company. Churches and community centers open as warming hubs; volunteers distribute hot tea, porridge and battery-operated lights; a neighbourhood handyman runs a hotline for elderly residents whose pipes risk freezing.

“A woman in my stairwell couldn’t heat her small flat,” said Taras, a volunteer coordinator. “We brought her to the warming center and patched a radiator for a neighbour. It’s not a long-term fix, but the small acts stitch the city together.”

Looking beyond today

So what are we to take from this winter’s litany of outages and repairs? Certainly, it’s a story of engineered systems under fire. But it is also a reminder of how intertwined modern life is with invisible networks—electricity, water, heat—that usually hum without notice. When those networks break, the rupture is not just technical; it is social and moral.

Will future urban planning factor in the lessons of this winter: decentralized heating options, microgrids, hardened infrastructure, and international norms that protect civilian systems? Can diplomacy and technology combine to reduce the human cost of strategic targeting?

For now, Kyiv waits—engineers continue to patch, citizens continue to bundle, and the city leans on a fragile warmth that must be protected not only by cables and crews, but by global attention and accountability. When you wrap your hands around a hot mug tonight, consider what it took to make that small comfort possible. Who will defend such ordinary, essential things when geopolitics turns cold?

Greenland Parties Tell Trump: ‘We Won’t Become Americans,’ Reject Sale

hanad

January 10, 2026

'We will not be Americans', Greenland parties tell Trump — The rare joint statement from the five party leaders, including Prime Minister Jens Frederik Nielsen, said they 'strongly oppose' any US takeover of Greenland

We are Greenlanders: A small nation pushes back against big talk

When the idea of buying Greenland drifted across international headlines like a sudden Arctic squall, something unexpected happened on the island: politics paused and a chorus rose up, not in Copenhagen or Washington, but in Nuuk and tiny settlements along the fjords.

For a place where winds sculpt the conversations as much as the landscape, the response was swift and unmistakable — five political parties put aside differences and issued a joint rebuke. “This is our land,” one leader said. “Our future is for us to decide.” The language was plain and fierce, a reminder that sovereignty is not a commodity to be auctioned off in another capital.

Unity in an unlikely hour

Coalition and opposition, urban and remote — leaders across Greenland’s political spectrum signed the declaration. It was a rarity: party rivalries shelved for a clear, common message. “We will not be bought, nor sold,” an opposition figure told a packed hall in Nuuk. “We will not be Danish for the sake of someone else’s convenience. We are Greenlanders.”

The unity matters because Greenland is no political backwater. Home rule began in 1979 and the 2009 Self-Government Act confirmed Greenlanders’ right to eventual independence if they so choose. While every party on the island says it supports independence in principle, they disagree sharply about timing, economics and how to get there. This joint statement was not a manifesto for secession — it was a defense of the most fundamental principle: the right of a people to choose.

Voices from the fjords

Walk through Nuuk’s harbor at dusk and you’ll hear stories that wind their way between the moored trawlers and the brightly painted houses. “We have weathered storms that politicians in faraway cities cannot imagine,” said a local fisherman, his hands still smelling of cod. “If anyone thinks they can just come and take what belongs to us, they have another thing coming.”

In Sisimiut, an elder hunter paused before answering. “Our grandmothers taught us these lands,” she said. “This is part of who we are. It’s not a chess piece.” A teenager in a university café shrugged and laughed, then said, “It sounds absurd, but it also shows how little people talk about the Arctic. For me, this is about respect.”

Why Greenland matters — Arctic geography, resources and strategy

It is easy to see why Greenland figures in global calculations. The island is the world’s largest, roughly 2.16 million square kilometers almost entirely cloaked in ice, yet inhabited by only about 56,000 people. Its coastline is a tapestry of fjords and glaciers, and its location puts it squarely on the northern flank of the Atlantic and the Arctic — a strategic position coveted since the 20th century.

Several practical factors make Greenland far more than a remote scenic backdrop:

Military and strategic value: The U.S. maintains an early-warning facility at Thule (Pituffik), a legacy of Cold War cooperation that underscores the island’s strategic importance.
Natural resources: Melting ice and new technologies have stirred interest in mineral deposits — from rare earths to uranium — and potential offshore hydrocarbons.
New shipping lanes: Climate change is shortening Arctic routes, promising time and fuel savings that could reshape global trade.
Scientific significance: Greenland’s ice cores are living archives of climate history, drawing researchers from around the globe.

“Greenland is not about landmass so much as leverage,” explained a defense analyst in Copenhagen. “Control over the high Arctic gives strategic depth, surveillance opportunities and access to resources. But that control comes with huge costs and responsibilities — not least, the lives and livelihoods of the people who live there.”

History and law: the context of self-determination

Greenland’s relationship with Denmark is layered and evolving. Until the late 20th century, the island was administered directly from Copenhagen. Home rule in 1979, and a stronger self-government framework in 2009, expanded local authority over many domestic areas and explicitly recognized Greenlanders’ right to take full control of their affairs in the future.

Any discussion of “buying” territory collides with modern concepts of sovereignty and indigenous rights. “You can’t treat people and culture like real estate,” said a legal scholar specializing in Arctic governance. “International law protects self-determination in ways that make old-fashioned territorial transactions irrelevant in democratic contexts.”

What this episode reveals about power, perception and the Arctic

Beyond the headlines and the heat of political soundbites, there are deeper themes at work. The episode exposed how the Arctic is increasingly a stage for geopolitical tension as major powers — not just the U.S., but China and Russia too — expand interests northward. It also raised questions about how former colonial relationships persist in the modern era.

“This is a lesson in humility for the international community,” said an Indigenous rights advocate. “The Arctic is home to peoples whose voices are often drowned out by strategic narratives. What we need is partnership and respect — not paternalism masked as ‘security’.”

Politics, economics and the path forward

For Greenlanders, the path to greater autonomy is as much economic as political. The economy is dominated by fisheries — accounting for roughly 90% of exports — and communities outside larger towns depend heavily on subsistence hunting and local trades. The question of whether resource development can fund an independent state is unresolved and contentious.

“Independence is a dream — but dreams need plans,” said a city council member in Ilulissat. “We are not asking for charity; we are asking for recognition that decisions about our future must come from us.”

Possible outcomes to watch

Greater diplomatic engagement: Greenland might seek more direct international ties while remaining within the Kingdom of Denmark.
Economic diversification: investment in infrastructure, tourism and sustainable resource development could shift the fiscal balance.
Continued geopolitical attention: as Arctic access opens, international players will likely increase their presence in the region — diplomatically, commercially and militarily.

What should the world learn from Greenland’s stance?

There is a moral and practical lesson here: small communities have agency, and global powers must reckon with that reality. Would the world be better if strategic discussions in distant capitals always began with a question: what do the people who live here want? That question feels obvious until you see it omitted.

Perhaps the most human image to take away is of a coastal village where someone hangs a line of fish to dry while listening to radio broadcasts about far-off debates. Their lives are shaped by weather and waves, by language and family, by a history that is lived every day — not by the rhetorical flourish of a transaction between nations.

As the Arctic warms and maps are redrawn in the imagination of policymakers, Greenland’s unified voice is a reminder: sovereignty is lived, not bought. How will global leaders respond to that simple, stubborn fact?

Minister Says X’s Limits on Grok Image Edits Are ‘Window Dressing’

hanad

January 10, 2026

X limit on Grok image edits 'window dressing' - minister — X has made contact with Minister of State with responsibility for AI Niamh Smyth to say representatives from the company will meet with her in the coming weeks

When a Button Becomes a Barrier: The Grok Paywall and a Nation’s Unease

It began like so many small digital earthquakes do: a tweak in a codebase, an announcement in a terse reply, and then a rumbling chorus of alarm across phones and kitchen tables. X — the platform formerly known as Twitter — quietly limited parts of its AI assistant Grok, locking image generation and editing behind a subscription wall. On the surface, a product update. In the lived experience of parents, regulators and politicians in Ireland and beyond, a de facto invitation to harm that money could not fix.

Niamh Smyth, the Irish Minister of State tasked with AI oversight, did not mince words when she learned of the change. “Window dressing,” she told an audience at the Young Scientist and Technology Exhibition, her voice carrying both frustration and the weary patience of someone who has watched technology outpace policy. “Putting abuse behind a paywall does not stop abuse. It simply reroutes the harm to a different type of access.”

Her assessment is blunt, and it echoes through homes where children’s photos still cycle through family chats, through schoolyards, and into the hands of strangers. The immediacy of artificial-intelligence tools that can edit, generate, or “nudify” images has upended basic privacy assumptions. The update from Grok — which informs users that image editing is “currently limited to paying subscribers” — was meant to address “recent misuse concerns.” Yet many say it addresses nothing substantive about dissemination, legality, or the basic safety of minors online.

What changed — and why people are afraid

Since late December, new Grok features reportedly allowed users to create sexually explicit imagery, including depictions of children. Once a possibility, the creation of such images threatens to normalize deepfake abuse: realistic-looking, fabricated content that can haunt victims for years, be circulated fast and widely, and is often indistinguishable in a casual scroll.

“You can lock the door to the playground, but if someone already has a copy of a harmful image, the damage is done,” said Dr. Fiona Keane, a digital-safety researcher at Dublin Tech Institute. “A payment barrier is not a filter against malevolence; it’s a toll booth for misconduct.”

Officials and advocates have pointed to a sobering context. Nonprofit and governmental reporting over recent years has shown an explosion in online child sexual abuse material (CSAM) reports: organizations such as the U.S.-based National Center for Missing & Exploited Children (NCMEC) processed tens of millions of reports annually in recent years, and Europol has highlighted the growing sophistication of image-manipulation tools. Those figures do not tell the whole story — underreporting is pervasive — but they do illustrate the scale of the challenge.

The policy response — national and European

Almost immediately, Irish regulators and politicians demanded answers. Coimisiún na Meán, Ireland’s media regulator, has engaged with the European Commission about the issue. The Tánaiste, Simon Harris, described the paywall as sidestepping the essential question: whether the technology should perform functions “that clearly…are not permissible.”

“This is not about who pays,” Harris told reporters. “It is about what is acceptable in the digital public square.”

The conversation quickly broadened: ministers argued that big tech can no longer be trusted to self-police. For many, this is exactly why the EU moved to create frameworks like the Digital Services Act (DSA) and updated safety directives. These laws were designed to force transparency, remove illegal content faster, and make platforms more accountable — but critics say enforcement still lags behind the speed of innovation.

Voices from the ground

A mother in Cork who wished to remain anonymous described the moment she heard the news as “a cold hour.” “You think you can trust a photo that shows your child’s first steps,” she said. “Now I find myself deleting pictures and backing away from platforms I used to use to share joy.”

Children’s Ombudsman Dr. Niall Muldoon was succinct: “This update makes no major difference,” he said. “Telling people they need to pay to abuse is not a solution.”

Meanwhile, Patrick O’Donovan, Ireland’s Minister for Communications, Culture and Sport, chose to deactivate his X account. “If a platform hosts tools that can be used to fabricate harm,” he said on local radio, “I don’t want to be part of that ecosystem.”

Sarah Benson, CEO of Women’s Aid, underscored the gendered dimensions of the technology. “Nudification and deepfake tools disproportionately target women and children,” she said. “They are not harmless novelties; they are instruments of humiliation and control.”

More than a national issue: a global test for regulation

What plays out in Ireland is a microcosm of a global struggle: do we let platforms innovate at breakneck speed while laws scramble to catch up, or do we demand design and deployment that embed safety from the start? The EU’s regulatory architecture — from the DSA to proposed AI Act standards — aims to set guardrails. But governments are still grappling with enforcement: who monitors compliance, how quickly can dangerous features be rolled back, and how do you prevent harm that happens once a malicious actor has already copied and shared a file?

“We’re in a reactive posture,” said Áine O’Sullivan, a policy analyst with a European digital rights NGO. “The tech is designed to scale exponentially. Regulation must be proactive and anticipatory; otherwise we’ll always be a step behind.”

What platforms say: X maintains it removes illegal content and works with law enforcement, but details on moderation for AI-generated imagery remain opaque.
What activists want: Hard bans on ‘nudification’ tools, clear takedown processes, and criminal enforcement for those who create or distribute synthetic CSAM.
What regulators seek: Coordinated EU action and faster responses to platform harm.

Where do we go from here?

There are no tidy answers. Parents will keep weighing how much of their children’s lives goes online. Legislators will draft new rules and fund regulators. Tech companies will be under increasing pressure to bake safety into product roadmaps rather than treat it as an afterthought.

But there is also agency. Individuals can demand transparency, press for meaningful audits of AI systems, and support civil-society groups pushing for tighter safeguards. And for policymakers, the lesson is clear: a subscription is no substitute for safety.

As you read this: what photos of you or your family are in someone else’s cloud? What protections do you expect from platforms you rely on? This is not just an Irish problem; it’s a question about the kind of digital world we want to inhabit. The answer will shape childhoods and public life for years to come.

Trump’s Greenland admission unveils his hidden political agenda

hanad

January 10, 2026

Trump's Greenland confession exposes his real motives — US President Donald Trump said owning Greenland is 'psychologically needed for success'

On Thin Ice: Greenland, Power, and the Strange Yearning to Own What You Fear

Imagine standing on a battered wooden quay outside Nuuk, the capital’s pastel houses perched like a child’s toy village against mountains that seem to breathe steam. A cold wind lifts the scent of cod and diesel, and far off, a berg calved from the Greenland Ice Sheet drifts like an unclaimed cathedral. Here, in a place where seasons are carved into the very bones of people and land, talk of being “owned” lands like a skiff on razor-thin ice.

That unsettling image is where a recent conversation in Washington crashes ashore. In a long, candid interview, a leader of a global superpower spoke not of strategy or treaties but of a need—personal, almost primal—to possess an overseas territory. It is a rare moment when geopolitics sheds its armor and shows a human face: needy, territorial, and oddly intimate.

From Nuuk to the New York Times: A Remark That Echoed

When the topic of Greenland came up, the response was not the measured calculus of military planners. Instead it was blunt: the word “ownership” was used to explain why the territory mattered. The remark landed like a stone in a calm fjord, sending concentric circles of anxiety outward — in Denmark, in Greenland, across NATO capitals, and along coasts of countries that now watch the Arctic as both a strategic theater and a melting battleground.

“We already have defense arrangements,” said a Danish diplomat quietly to a reporter in Copenhagen. “But words about ‘ownership’ cut at the heart of sovereignty.” The diplomat’s hands pulled at an imaginary thread in the air—an involuntary gesture of someone trying, politely, to stitch a gaping seam.

Why Greenland Matters Beyond Headlines

It helps to name what actually sits on—and under—Greenland. The island is the world’s largest, about 2.16 million square kilometers, yet home to fewer than 60,000 people. Roughly 80% of its landmass is dressed in ice. That ice is not only a national symbol and a climate alarm bell (the Arctic is warming roughly twice as fast as the global average), it’s also a stage for fresh geopolitical contests as melting seas reveal new routes and resources.

In practical terms, the United States has long-standing strategic ties to Greenland. The U.S.-Denmark defense agreement from 1951 paved the way for bases such as Thule in the far north—sites that house missile-warning systems crucial to early warning networks. But those legal arrangements are not the same as sovereignty. You can host a base on someone else’s land; you do not own their identity, their fisheries, or their right to chart their own future.

Voices from the Ice: Locals, Experts, and the Everyday Stakes

“We are not a chess piece,” said Aputi, a schoolteacher in Ilulissat, wrapped in a wool scarf patterned with seals and mountains. “Our children learn Kalaallisut at school. We hunt, we sing. People here have always lived with outsiders looking in. It’s different when they say they want to ‘buy’ a life.”

A local fisherman, who asked to be called Hans, spat tobacco into the street and added, “You can’t buy a culture. You might buy a company, a mine, a port. But you can’t buy the smell of Greenland in spring.” His laugh was brittle, the kind you hear when the joke is mostly grief.

Analysts in Copenhagen and Washington offered a sterner cadence. “This isn’t just a rhetorical flourish,” said Dr. Lise Møller, an Arctic security scholar at Aarhus University. “When political leaders frame geopolitical moves in terms of personal possession, they change the calculus for allies. The doctrine of deterrence depends on predictable responses. Ad hoc, personal reasons for action introduce unpredictability—and unpredictability is expensive in lives, credibility, and stability.”

What Experts Say: The Bigger Map

Strategic: Greenland controls access to the North Atlantic and the Arctic. Thule Air Base supports missile warning and space surveillance systems that are central to NATO defense architecture.
Economic: Melting ice has begun to reveal mineral riches—rare earths, uranium prospects like the controversial Kvanefjeld deposit—and new shipping lanes that shorten East-West maritime routes in summer months.
Environmental: Greenland’s ice melt contributes directly to global sea-level rise; each year of accelerated melting translates to coastal risks worldwide.

The European Dilemma: Alliance or Principle?

Here is where the human and the geopolitical collide. Europe, bound to the United States by NATO and shared history, now confronts the ugly geometry of a possible choice: defend the inviolability of a small people’s sovereignty, or protect the cohesion of a strategic alliance. Deploy troops to deter a powerful ally and you fracture the alliance; do nothing and you concede the idea that might makes right.

“If an ally violates another ally, NATO’s purpose is called into question,” warned an EU foreign policy adviser. “But so is the cohesion of the alliance if members refuse to sanction the behavior. It’s an impossible bind because it asks democracies to choose between principle and self-preservation.”

Italian Prime Minister comments—echoed in capitals—made the stakes clear: the rupture would be systemic, not merely bilateral. “Grave consequences for NATO,” one European leader was reported to have said bluntly; even political friends said restraint would be their only possible public posture.

Local Lives, Global Questions

In Greenlandic towns, life is measured in seasons and the rhythms of sea and ice. Dog sleds still cut the winter silence in many places; in summer, the towns ripple with fishing boats. The economic center is fishing—almost 90% of exports come from seafood. The idea that someone might upend these lives for symbolic gain has stirred anxiety that is practical, not theatrical.

“We are watching the world warm while the world debates our value as a piece of land,” said Inuk elder Mariane, eyes steady despite a voice that trembled at times. “What we need is investment in hospitals and schools, not news headlines that make us feel like a pawn.”

Questions to Sit With

What does sovereignty mean in an era where climate change, technology, and geopolitics redraw maps without asking those who live on them?
Can alliances built in a previous century absorb the idiosyncrasies of modern leaders who speak in personal, possessive terms?
Who gets to decide how a community’s future is shaped: their elected leaders, distant capitals, or the market logics of rare mineral extraction?

Why This Matters to You

Greenland is remote. But its fate is not. The Arctic is a global commons in practice if not always in law: its ice affects sea levels from Miami to Mumbai; its new routes rewire shipping and markets; its resources draw states and corporations. How we resolve a crisis of words and wills over a small island could set precedents about when force is tolerable and when law must still bind the powerful.

There are ways to walk back from brinkmanship. Diplomacy, respect for self-determination, and investment in shared security frameworks can protect both the island and the alliance. But they require a shift away from entitlement toward governance rooted in consent.

So ask yourself: in a warming world, when the map is always rewriting itself, who should be writing the next chapter? And how do we make sure it reads with the dignity of those who live on the land—not the appetite of those who merely want to own its story?

Australia declares national disaster as devastating bushfires rage nationwide

hanad

January 10, 2026

Australia declares state of disaster as bushfires rage — One of the most destructive bushfires ripped through almost 150,000 hectares near Longwood, a region cloaked in native forests (Credit: AFP/CFA Wandong Fire Brigade/Kylie Shingles)

When the Sky Turned Copper: Fires, Heat and the New Normal in Victoria

The horizon above Longwood looked like a painting scorched at the edges — a low, seething rim of smoke blotting out the late-afternoon sun and turning the whole world the color of old copper. Embers skittered across paddocks, tumbling like angry sparks from a blacksmith’s forge. For people here, life moved between the smell of eucalypt and the taste of dust: the two had always been companions. This week the dust carried something darker.

Victoria’s southeast has been living inside a heatwave that pushed thermometers beyond 40°C, whipping hot, dry winds across ridgelines and turning tinderbox patches of native forest into fast-moving infernos. One blaze alone ripped through nearly 150,000 hectares around Longwood — a swath of country where sheep, gums and small towns have long shared an uneasy treaty with fire.

Emergency powers, forced evacuations and a grim tally

On Thursday, state premier Jacinta Allan declared a state of disaster, handing firefighters broader powers to order evacuations and move resources with speed. “It comes down to one thing: protecting Victorian lives,” she said, her voice steady but edged with the strain of a leader trying to keep ahead of an element that has never been entirely tamed.

Emergency Management Commissioner Tim Wiebusch told reporters that at least 130 structures had been razed across the state — houses, sheds, farm buildings — and that agricultural assets, from vineyards to cropping land and livestock, had suffered heavy losses. “We’re looking at tens of thousands of hectares impacted, communities disrupted, and a long recovery ahead,” he said.

Ten major fires were still burning even after a brief easing in conditions. Hundreds of firefighters from interstate had arrived to bolster local crews; many on the ground were volunteers who know their fire trails and the quirks of the wind here better than anyone. “There’s no template for a night like this,” said one volunteer firefighter, wiping ash from his beard. “You just keep moving, you keep talking, and you keep the people safe.”

Lives interrupted—stories from the front line

Cattle farmer Scott Purcell, from a farming district near the worst-affected areas, described the moment flames first took the skyline. “There were embers falling everywhere. It was terrifying,” he told the ABC, voice tight with memory. His description is familiar in towns with few hundred residents, where the pub, the local school and the CFA brigade form the spine of community life.

Three people who had been reported missing within one of the state’s most dangerous firegrounds were located — a momentary relief amid ongoing anxiety. In Walwa, a town tucked into alpine foothills, lightning strikes helped ignite a fire that was so intense the heat itself created a localised thunderstorm, an eerie phenomenon firefighters call a “pyro-cumulonimbus.”

Across the border in South Australia, wildlife carers sounded the alarm after hundreds of baby bats perished when the heat reached levels animals simply could not withstand. “It’s not just homes and fences,” said a wildlife rescuer. “It’s the tiny, fragile things — the neonate bats, the ground-dwelling lizards — that pay the heaviest price and don’t make the headlines.”

What the numbers tell us — and what they don’t

Some figures are blunt instruments. Nearly 150,000 hectares scorched near Longwood. More than 130 structures destroyed across Victoria. Ten major fire grounds still active as crews fight to contain lines. Temperatures surging past 40°C. Hundreds of firefighters mobilised from around the country.

Other truths live in smaller, quieter numbers: the number of windows blackened by smoke in a primary school, the count of neighbourly offers of a spare room, the days a vineyard will take to recover or fail. These metrics will shape how communities rebuild, how insurers decide, and how farmers measure loss.

Longwood fire: ~150,000 hectares affected
Structures destroyed across Victoria: at least 130
Active major fires: 10 (as conditions eased)
Temperatures: above 40°C across parts of the state
Wildlife losses: hundreds of baby bats reported dead in South Australia

Memory, ecology and the long shadow of Black Summer

For many Australians, the phrase “Black Summer” does something raw to the throat. The 2019–2020 fires burned millions of hectares across the eastern seaboard, destroyed thousands of homes, and tainted city skylines with smoke for weeks. The memory of that season is not just historical; it is a sore, constant reminder that this landscape can flip from serene to catastrophic in a matter of hours.

Scientists say the pattern is no accident. Australia has warmed by an average of 1.51°C since 1910, a figure that does not live in isolation but as part of a global trend that fuels longer fire seasons, more extreme heat events, and the sort of “fire weather” that made this week so dangerous. “Climate change doesn’t cause every fire,” says Dr. Aisha Kumar, a wildfire ecologist at the University of Melbourne, “but it stacks the deck. We’re now playing a game with different rules.”

Questions the crisis forces us to ask

When communities gather at recovery centres to swap stories and tools, what will resilience look like in ten years? Should we be redesigning towns, changing building materials, and rethinking how we farm? And perhaps the hardest question of all: how do we balance the deep cultural place of fire in Australian ecology — some native species rely on fire to regenerate — with the fact that hotter, more intense blazes are pushing systems past breaking points?

“There’s no single answer,” Dr. Kumar says. “It has to be policy, land management, community planning, and a global effort to cut emissions. All of those pieces are necessary.”

Local color, small acts of kindness, big questions

In the small towns ringed by charred gums and battered fences, people are doing what they always do: making scones for displaced neighbours, opening church halls, hauling water, and loaning trailers. A butcher in one hamlet donated packs of sausages to volunteers; a local school teacher turned her classroom into a donation drop-off. These are the human stitches that hold communities together when the world frays.

Yet the mood is not simply stoic. It is tired. People speak about a future where summers are longer, where insurance premiums rise, where younger generations ask whether staying on country is worth the risk. “We love this place,” an elderly woman who declined to give her name said, standing near a row of burnt greenhouses. “But we’re not foolish. We know what can happen.”

Where to from here?

There are practical steps: better early warning systems, defensible space around properties, and strategic fuel-reduction burns timed with ecological sensitivity. There are policy steps: investment in resilient infrastructure, support for rural mental health, and national coordination on emergency response. And there are global steps: accelerating the transition away from fossil fuels, meeting emissions targets, and helping vulnerable regions adapt.

But beyond plans and budgets lies a more human demand: the need to listen. To the volunteer who slept in her car to keep a pump running. To the farmer who counted his losses in the hollow of his hands. To the young people who came back to clear a neighbour’s fence without asking for payment. Their stories are not just anecdotes — they are a ledger of what communities will accept as normal and what they refuse to lose.

So when you look at a map this evening and see the smudge of fire along Victoria’s border, think beyond the headline. Think of the man who can’t sleep because of the smell of smoke in his brush, the child who will wake with ash in their hair, the rescuer who works another shift with no end in sight. And ask yourself: what is the role I can play — locally, nationally, globally — in a world that is warming and learning, often painfully, how to live with fire?

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