Beloved Inbetweeners could be set for an on-screen revival

October 13, 2025

The Inbetweeners could be making a comeback — The Inbetweeners

A New Chapter for Four Unlikely Heroes: The Inbetweeners May Be Returning

Something familiar and slightly mortifying is stirring in British comedy. After more than a decade parked in the attic of pop-culture memory, The Inbetweeners — the shambolic, painfully honest comedy about teenage misfits — may be coming back. The reason? A new rights agreement has unlatched the title from its legal lockbox, and suddenly the world where Will, Simon, Jay and Neil bumble through sixth-form life feels, oddly, alive again.

Why this matters

For those who lived through it first time around, The Inbetweeners was more than a sitcom; it was a shared language. The show ran between 2008 and 2010 on E4, across three series and 18 episodes, and then leapt to the big screen with films in 2011 and 2014. It mapped adolescence with a tender cruelty — small victories, catastrophic embarrassments, fleeting triumphs in the face of almost constant humiliation. That frankness is a rare cultural commodity and, increasingly, a commercially valuable one.

On Monday, Banijay UK and Fudge Park Productions — the company set up by the show’s co-creators, Iain Morris and Damon Beesley — announced a new deal that handily “unlocked” the title rights. The upshot: there’s now a legal pathway for the brand to return in some form — television, film, stage, or some mash-up of them all.

The deal and the players

Banijay, the distribution and production powerhouse that absorbed Endemol Shine in 2020 and now stands as one of the world’s largest independent content groups, will partner with Fudge Park to steward the property. In practical terms, that means the people who know the tone, the cadence, the particular English cringe that made the show sing will be in charge of its future.

“We’ve always been protective of the boys,” a senior exec at Banijay told me (on background). “This isn’t about squeezing nostalgia for profit. It’s about giving those characters room to grow — or to stay exactly where we last left them, if that’s the right story. There’s a craft to that.”

What the unlock actually means

Rights issues can be the final, maddening barrier for would-be revivals. With title rights cleared, the possibilities multiply. The creative team can explore sequels, reboots, spin-offs, stage adaptations, or a one-off reunion special. It could even be adapted for different markets; remember, the Inbetweeners concept inspired an American version and an Australian spin, though neither achieved the original’s sweet spot.

Jonathan Blyth of Fudge Park, who has been shepherding the brand alongside Morris and Beesley for years, framed the moment as an opportunity: “This is a chance to write fresh, to surprise our old fans and to find new ones. We’re not looking for a quick, cynical cash-in. We want to respect what made it sing.”

Voices from the street

Cross a high street in Surrey or a university campus in Melbourne and you’ll hear lines from The Inbetweeners quoted like folk proverbs. “You wouldn’t let this man buy a kebab,” is still used when someone’s flirting with disaster. That the dialogue lodged itself in everyday speech is part of the show’s cultural heft.

“It’s the accuracy,” said Priya Anand, 28, a teacher in London. “It wasn’t glamorised. It showed the small, stupid moments that actually shape you. You cringe — yes — but you also remember being that raw.”

Meanwhile, a student broadcaster in Manchester said, “People use Inbetweeners as shorthand for awkwardness. It’s universal. Even students who weren’t born yet when the show aired get it.”

What could a return look like?

There are many roads forward. The creators could pick up where the films left off and follow the lads into their late twenties or thirties, turning awkward adolescence into a different kind of adult farce. They might choose a stage adaptation — British theatre has increasingly curated TV-to-stage transitions with success — or a limited reunion special for a streaming platform, tapping into the global audience who discovered the show post-broadcast.

“Streaming has changed everything,” observed Dr. Hannah Cole, a media studies lecturer who researches nostalgia on television. “Shows that once felt tied to a time and place now enjoy second lives. Younger viewers discover older series and reinterpret them. That creates both risk and reward for creators: risk, because the context has changed; reward, because the audience can be exponentially larger.”

Why it could be risky — and why that risk is worth it

Revivals come with pitfalls. A reunion that retreads old jokes without new insight can feel cynical. Worse, recasting or rewriting characters strips away what made them beloved. But the alternative — letting stories evaporate because of rights tangles — is equally painful for fans and creators alike.

“We want to avoid nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake,” said a producer involved in the talks. “If there’s a story that justifies bringing them back — one that respects the boys and the audience — we’ll take it. If not, we won’t.”

Bigger conversations: nostalgia, reinvention, and the modern comedy landscape

The Inbetweeners’ possible return lands at a time when global entertainment is leaning into familiar properties. Why? Built-in audiences are lucrative, distribution channels are hungry for proven IP, and viewers — saturated with options — often gravitate toward the known. But there’s also a deeper cultural thread: audiences, battered by a decade of political upheaval, pandemics and social media fatigue, want stories that feel honest and human.

That’s where The Inbetweeners excelled: its honesty was messy and small-scale, not spectacle. In an era of high-concept streaming epics, there’s something invigorating about the idea of four ordinary men tripping over adulthood in real time.

So, what do you want?

Here’s the question to leave you with: what would you want from a return? Do you long to see the lads older and (maybe) wiser, or are you protective of the original’s tiny, perfect ruin? Would a stage show capture the intimacy better than a screen? Could a modern take make the show speak to new generations, or would it lose its soul?

Write to tell me. Pitch your version of Will, Simon, Jay and Neil. In the meantime, I’ll be rewatching the bar fight episode — not because I’m nostalgic, but because it still makes me flinch and laugh in equal measure. And because, as this deal shows, stories have a habit of coming back when they’re ready.

Meet the 20 Living Hostages Recently Freed from Hamas Captivity

hanad

October 13, 2025

Who are the 20 living hostages released by Hamas — Israelis react as they watch the release of Israeli hostages by Hamas

A Night of Tears, Songs and Cautious Hope: Twenty Hostages Walk Free

When the news rippled through Tel Aviv like a sudden gust of wind—20 living hostages were coming home—people spilled onto streets they had avoided for two years, gathering beneath streetlights and fluttering flags as if to test whether joy could obediently follow grief.

It was a strange, jagged kind of celebration: families embracing with the fierce instinct of those who have not slept for two years, strangers holding hands, and a chorus of voices breaking into song. Somewhere, a man began strumming a guitar. A woman in a bright headscarf wept openly and laughed at the same time. “We finally have names again,” she said, clutching a photo of a young man who was among the released.

The mechanics of release

Under a fragile ceasefire arrangement brokered at the end of a grinding two-year conflict, Hamas released 20 hostages who had been taken during the October 7, 2023 assault—the deadliest attack in Israel’s history. The group’s armed wing posted the names on Telegram, a blunt digital confirmation after months of rumors and leaked footage.

The timing was politically charged: the releases coincided with a high-profile visit by US President Donald Trump, who declared the war “over” as he arrived in Israel en route to an Egyptian-hosted summit. In the streets and at kitchen tables, the words “over” and “peace” landed unevenly, like stones thrown into a pond where the water is still rough from long storms.

Faces behind the headlines

When news reports deliver names, the raw human stories can still be surprising in their specificity. The list of released included a mixture of soldiers, festival staff, rabbis, technicians, students and fathers—people with stray ambitions and small routines that were ordinary in their normal lives but luminous in hindsight.

There was Sergeant Matan Angrest, 22, captured near the Nahal Oz base. “Matan loved Maccabi Haifa,” a neighbor in Kiryat Bialik told me, laughing through tears. “He’d run home at halftime if the score was bad. He was about to finish his service and his family had a Dubai trip planned. That trip is happening now, but the reasons are different.”

Or the Berman twins, Gali and Ziv, 28, who disappeared from Kfar Aza’s youth area as gunmen set houses on fire. “They were inseparable—two producers with a shared laptop and a million playlists,” a friend said. “They loved Liverpool as much as they loved making music.”

Many of the hostages were taken from the Supernova music festival, whose grounds still echo with absence. Among them were Alon Ohel, a pianist with dual Serbian and German nationality who had planned to study music after a trip to Asia; Bar Kuperstein, 23, an army nurse who stayed to help the wounded and was then seized; and several young men who were simply attending a rave—eager for rhythm and light, and instead thrust into darkness.

A gallery of memory

Each name has a satellite of memories: a Rubik’s cube found partially burned in a tank, a tattoo of three small dark green stars shared by twin brothers, a planned ice-cream stall in a Tel Aviv market, a father’s sheaf of photographs carried to protests. These are small artifacts of normal life made sacred by the waiting.

“Seeing their faces again, in any footage or photo, is both relief and torture,” said Yael, a psychologist who has been working with hostage families in Tel Aviv. “It brings back the mundane details—the way someone laughs, the coffee they drink—because those ordinary things are what reassure us someone is human, not a headline.”

Proofs of life and the long shadow of images

Over the months, life-and-death negotiations have been mediated by social media platforms, Telegram postings and videos released by militant groups. Families have clung to the faintest proofs: a daringly filmed face in a tunnel, a voice speaking under duress, a message smuggled out through intermediaries.

Elkana Bohbot, a festival producer and father who had been granted Colombian nationality after the attack, appeared in one such video, thin and mute in the film’s frames. His wife, Rebecca Gonzalez, had said earlier this year that she received proof of life from a released hostage. “That small proof kept me going,” she told a group of parents in a community center filled with cardboard photos and lit candles. “It’s like finding your child’s shoe in the dark.”

What the numbers mean

Twenty is a number heavy with paradox: a beginning for the released, a reminder of those still missing, and a political lever in a conflict with no neat arithmetic. Families celebrated, yes, but they also know the calculus of what remains. From a global perspective, hostage releases can be turning points, but they seldom resolve the deep grievances that fuel violence.

Street-level reactions and the wider resonance

In Tel Aviv, the crowd that had gathered outside the temporary hub for families sang an old folk song and then, awkwardly, fell silent. A woman whose son is still inside Gaza pressed a small velvet box into my hands. “Keep it,” she said. “If it helps a reporter remember this is not just a story, but every day of my life.”

An Israeli official, speaking on condition of anonymity, described the releases as “a fragile step toward easing a national wound.” A negotiator who had worked quietly behind the scenes warned that such moments must not be over-romanticized. “These are human beings who have been through unspeakable things,” he said. “Safe return is only one step. Recovery will be years.”

Internationally, the releases have already rippled into diplomacy. Leaders are recalibrating travel plans, humanitarian groups are flagging the need for post-release medical and psychological care, and advocates warn that media attention must not evaporate for the hundreds who may still be held.

Beyond the headlines: what now?

What does freedom look like after two years of captivity? How do families transition from protest tents and public campaigns to the quieter, intimate work of healing? How does a society absorb happiness that is forever braided with loss?

These questions do not have ready answers. But this much is clear: the returned hostages will need more than a parade. They will need doctors, therapists, legal advocates, and communities willing to share the hard, slow work of restoration. They will need time to remember who they were before darkness, and to imagine who they will be after.

For a moment, Tel Aviv’s streets were full of songs that tried to hold both grief and hope. They reminded me of something a festival-goer had said months ago in quieter times: “If you carry light with you, you become harder to erase.” Tonight, that light was many small lamps clasped by trembling hands.

Will the world follow through with the patient, unglamorous care these families will require? Or will the relief of a single night fade into headlines and then silence? The answer depends as much on quiet policy choices and long-term funding as it does on the loud speeches in capitals.

As you read this, think of the people behind the names. Who in your life would you race to the airport or street to meet? Who would you wait for, and how long? For families who have waited more than two years, the simple act of returning home is both an end and a beginning—a hard-won comma in a story that is far from over.

Trump to hail Gaza peace efforts as an ‘incredible triumph’

hanad

October 13, 2025

Trump to call Gaza peace efforts 'incredible triumph'

When a Former U.S. President Speaks in the Knesset: The Sound of History and Heat

The sun in Jerusalem has a way of making stone blush. It bakes the narrow alleys, gilds the domes, and turns the city’s layered history into an incandescent, almost audible thing. On a day when politics and pilgrimage converge, the beat of the street changes: police vans hum like distant machinery, local cafés bustle with conversation about diplomatic choreography, and the Knesset — Israel’s 120-seat parliament — hums with a different kind of electricity. A former U.S. president is preparing to address lawmakers, and the city feels both ordinary and extraordinary at once.

It’s hard to overstate the symbolism. Washington and Jerusalem share a decades-long, complicated partnership — military aid, strategic alignment, cultural ties — but the corridors of the Knesset are not a stage frequented by American political firebrands. An address there is a message as much as it is a speech: to Israelis, to Palestinians, to the region, and to audiences back home. That’s why the build-up has been equal parts protocol and theater.

On the Ground: Voices from the City

Outside a small bakery in the Talpiot neighborhood, the regulars are split on what the speech will mean. “We get visitors all the time,” says Miriam, who moved from New York two decades ago and runs the counter. “But this is different — it’s louder. People asked me if I’ll close early because of traffic. I told them I’d stay open so I could hear how people will react.”

Down by the Mahane Yehuda market, a young grocer named Yossi passes me a piece of candied orange and says with a wry smile, “Everyone talks about politics until the power goes out. Then we all talk about the generator. But still — when someone with such a stage comes, you feel the world watching.”

A Knesset staffer, who asked not to be named, described the logistical ballet inside the chamber: “Security checks, rehearsals, language aides shuttling in and out. The speech itself is an event, but the thing you don’t see is the dozen small decisions that shape how people perceive it — the seating arrangements, the translator on the podium, the clip of applause you choose to broadcast.”

Why This Matters: Diplomacy in an Era of Crowds

Israel receives about $3.8 billion annually in U.S. security assistance under long-term agreements, reflecting the depth of military cooperation and strategic alignment. But beyond numbers, the symbolism of a high-profile address in the Knesset sends ripples across a region where gestures matter almost as much as treaties.

“Public diplomacy has become breathless and immediate,” says a Washington-based analyst who tracks U.S.-Israel relations. “Leaders don’t just negotiate in backrooms anymore. They perform, they rally, they influence domestic politics through international stages. An address to the Knesset is as much about headlines as policy.”

That’s not to say the speech will be purely theatrical. For many Israelis, the Knesset is where domestic debates about security, settlements, the judicial system, and relations with Palestinians are lived out. For Palestinians, the optics of such a visit may be read as tacit endorsement of certain policies. For Americans, supporters and critics alike will watch how the message dovetails with domestic politics and international strategy.

Local Color: Rituals and Reactions

In Jerusalem’s cafés, people annotate the speech as if it were a new chapter in the city’s long story. An elderly couple sipping strong coffee near the Jaffa Gate raised their glasses in a small toast when asked about the address: “We came here to live among history,” the man said. “But even history needs a good cup of coffee to keep its attention.”

On a bus back from the Old City, a young doctor in scrubs admitted ambivalence. “I worry about the message and the repercussions,” she said. “But I also want to see what it says about the future — for security, for our neighbors, for my patients who can’t always afford to be in the conversation.”

What the Speech Could Mean — and What It Won’t

Foremost, this address will be watched by many audiences with different interests. For Israelis who prioritize security, any reaffirmation of the U.S.-Israel strategic partnership is welcome. For those worried about democratic norms and legal reforms, the rhetoric will be parsed for cues about American priorities. For Palestinians and their allies, the speech will be scanned for language that either acknowledges their grievances or sidelines them further.

“When a visitor with global reach speaks, he casts a shadow over domestic politics,” notes an academic in Tel Aviv who studies political rhetoric. “Part of the calculus is always, ‘How will this land at home?’ The other part is, ‘How will this be used by actors across the region?’”

Numbers, Trends, and the Bigger Picture

Consider these anchor points: the Knesset is a 120-member chamber that has, in recent years, been the site of intense debate over judicial reform and coalition fragility. Israel’s population is roughly 9 million people, composed of diverse communities with competing visions of security and democracy. On the other side of the relationship, U.S. politics has grown performative — campaigns win or lose not only on policy but on spectacle.

On global terms, this event sits inside a larger shift: politics in the 21st century is transnational. Leaders borrow each other’s language, strategy, and staging. Social media allows a single address to be replayed, remixed, and weaponized across borders within minutes. When a prominent American figure speaks to Israeli lawmakers, the reverberations are immediate.

Questions to Hold in Your Mind

As you read about the speech and watch the commentary unfold, keep some questions in the front of your mind: Whom is the speech trying to convince? Which audiences are being courted — local constituents, international allies, domestic voters? What messages are amplified and which voices remain silent? And most importantly, how will ordinary people in the region — those whose lives are shaped by policy rather than spectacle — fare after the applause fades?

After the Applause

When the podium lights dim and the cameras move on, life in Jerusalem will continue in its peculiar, persistent way. Street vendors will count their day’s takings. Busy clinics will treat long lines of patients. Politicians will write new speeches or sharpen different arguments. But the moment will linger, like a chord that keeps resonating after the instrument has been set down.

“We measure our days in small things,” Miriam the bakery owner says, handing me a foil-wrapped babka. “But every once in a while, something big comes through town. We watch it. We talk. Then we go back to making the bread.”

That’s the human story behind every headline: people trying to live, to love, to make a living, while history — noisy, luminous, and often uninvited — passes through. Will the speech change policy overnight? Unlikely. Will it shift narratives, embolden some, worry others, and provide fuel for conversation? Almost certainly. And for the curious reader halfway around the world: what do you want leaders to say when they stand on such a stage? What demands should we, as global citizens, place on the words and their consequences?

Trump could greenlight Tomahawk missile transfers to Ukraine if war continues

hanad

October 13, 2025

Trump may approve Tomahawks for Ukraine if war continues — Tomahawk missiles have a range of 2,500km, long enough to strike deep inside Russia, including Moscow

A Turning Point Above the Black Sea: Tomahawks, Drones and the Small Things That Make War Real

There is a particular hush that falls over Kyiv at dusk now—less the romantic hush of falling light than the wait-before-the-next-siren hush. People move with purpose: grocery bags tucked under an arm, a thermos, a hard face softened by fatigue. On the radio, the headlines puncture the quiet: long-range missiles are suddenly back at the center of the conversation, and the map of Europe feels smaller by the hour.

When world leaders speak about weapons that can fly 2,500 kilometers and strike well beyond a front line, they’re not just talking about metal and guidance systems. They are talking about fear, about the fragile calculus of deterrence and the moral geometry of war. They are talking about whether a conflict that began on the ground will be decided from hundreds of miles away.

Tomahawks on the table: what was said, and why it matters

From the cabin of Air Force One to the narrow rooms of the presidential office in Kyiv, discussions about supplying long-range Tomahawk cruise missiles have taken on a stark, almost cinematic clarity. The essence of the proposal—conveyed in terse, high-level exchanges—was simple: the United States could route advanced missiles through NATO to Ukraine rather than ship them directly.

For Washington, NATO offers a diplomatic mechanism: transfer to alliance stocks, then onward delivery to Kyiv. For Moscow, the prospect is a red line. Kremlin spokespeople warned that providing such strike capability would constitute “a new step of aggression” and risked dragging the conflict into a qualitatively different phase. President Vladimir Putin, in comments that underscore those fears, argued those weapons could not be employed without direct U.S. involvement, an assertion meant to raise the rhetorical stakes.

“This is not about adding power to one side’s arsenal,” a U.S. official told reporters, “it’s about creating options for deterrence and for precise targeting of military infrastructure that sustains the invasion.”

President Volodymyr Zelensky, speaking recently on international television, emphasized restraint. “We never attack civilians,” he insisted, a reminder repeated in public addresses and private conversations. “If long-range weapons are ever used, they will be used only against military targets.”

The arithmetic of escalation

Call it brinksmanship or prudence—but every missile transfer proposal forces a new question: does a widening of the geographic reach of Ukrainian strike capabilities act as a pressure valve for peace, or does it accelerate an uncontrollable spiral? Consider the numbers: Tomahawk missiles can reach 2,500 km, which places many Russian military nodes within striking distance. That kind of reach changes both operational planning and political messaging.

“Weapons are more than physics; they’re statements,” said Dr. Mira Sokolov, a security analyst in Warsaw. “Handing Kyiv long-range options signals a shift from purely defensive support to enabling offensive depth. Whether that shortens the war or prolongs it is anyone’s guess—but it certainly raises the stakes.”

Voices from the ground: Kyiv, Crimea, and the liminal spaces in between

On the city’s Antonivsky embankment, a café owner named Olena lights an outdoor heater and laughs, briefly, at a memory. “People here argue about politics like they argue about coffee,” she said. “But when the lights go out, there’s no argument. We light candles, charge phones in turns, and tell the kids stories until the sirens stop.”

Up the coast in Crimea, the air smelled of burning petrochemicals after a drone strike set a fuel depot near Feodosia ablaze. The Russian-installed local administration said air defenses shot down more than twenty drones during the incident, and no casualties were reported. Still, the flames that licked at storage tanks were a vivid, ugly reminder that warfare now targets the arteries of daily life—fuel, power grids, pipelines.

“You can target a depot and cool a whole city,” said Kateryna, an energy sector technician in central Ukraine. “Last winter we learned how quickly a single hit can freeze a hospital wing or silence telecom towers. People in seven regions are already facing restrictions on energy use. That is not an abstract number; it is a mother weighing which room gets heat.”

Energy as strategy and survival

The Ukrainian energy ministry announced emergency power outages across several oblasts after recent strikes debilitated parts of the unified grid. Officials described rolling outages as necessary to preserve the system—an attempt to keep essential services functioning through a winter of uncertainty. For civilians, those grid calculations translate into changing routines: charging phones at work, community charging stations, neighbors sharing generators.

“We don’t think in megawatts when we line up for warm soup,” said Ihor, a retired electrician, gesturing toward a soup kitchen that doubles as a warming center. “We think in hours and minutes.”

Diplomacy in a war zone: visitors, vows, and the theater of support

European Commission Vice-President Kaja Kallas landed in Kyiv with two missions: to discuss financial support and to press on the security of Ukraine’s energy infrastructure. Photos from the visit—handshakes, visits to wounded soldiers, meetings with local officials—were meant to send a simple message: Europe remains present, even when the instruments of war seem to push the conflict toward ever more dangerous horizons.

“Ukrainians inspire the world with their courage,” Kallas wrote in a social post from the capital. “Their resilience calls for our full support.” Whether that support is financial, humanitarian, or kinetic remains contested in capitals across the Atlantic.

Which way forward? Questions the world must answer

As readers, what should we make of a decision that could broaden the war’s geography without boots being placed on another soil? Is there a moral line between enabling a state to defend its sovereignty and providing means to strike deeper into an opponent’s territory? And who decides where that line sits?

War is rarely neat. It is a messy, human thing. It is mothers who keep batteries in the freezer, volunteers who map shelters, journalists who sit in damp basements and try to render complexity into sentences that can travel the globe. It is politicians in closed rooms replaying scenarios on screens, arguing about thresholds and red lines. It is, tragically, also the calculus of escalation.

“Every new capability we introduce reshapes the battlefield and the politics around it,” Dr. Sokolov said. “But we cannot base decisions only on avoiding risk. Sometimes the greater risk is doing nothing while a smaller power is crushed.”

Final image: a city that keeps making breakfast

Two blocks from a mural splashed with bright sunflower yellows and cobalt blues, an elderly couple sits at a small table, sharing a single bowl of porridge. Around them, a city of millions stitches itself together—repair shops, school classrooms converted into sleeping rooms, volunteers delivering hot bread to checkpoints.

What happens this winter will ripple far beyond Ukraine’s borders. It will test alliances, measure patience, and perhaps redefine what it means to deter. The Tomahawk debate is not merely about atoms and engines; it is about whether the international community can find the nerve to both constrain conflict and protect those who live inside it.

Will a longer reach bring a quicker peace, or will it redraw the map of risk in a way that none of us can afford? As you read this, imagine making breakfast in that city—what would you do to keep the lights on? What price is worth paying for safety? These are not academic questions. They are the questions people in Ukraine ask every morning as they press a hand to a child’s head and try to smile.

Hundreds killed in intense Pakistan-Afghanistan border clashes, officials say

hanad

October 13, 2025

Hundreds killed in Pakistan-Afghanistan border clashes — Taliban security personnel patrol in a convoy at the Mazal area of the Shorabak district near the Afghanistan-Pakistan border

Smoke on the Durand Line: A Border Blaze, Two Narratives, One Fractured Peace

Before dawn, the usual hum at the Torkham crossing — truckers drinking sweet milky tea, merchants rolling tarpaulins over their stalls, and families clutching the last of their paperwork — fell silent. A grey ribbon of smoke rose from the ridge across the valley, and with it came the kind of uncertainty that has threaded through this frontier for decades.

Pakistan and Afghanistan both woke to a violent chorus of gunfire and artillery that overnight transformed border posts into battlegrounds. Each side offers a different ledger of loss: Islamabad later announced that its forces had killed “more than 200 Taliban and affiliated terrorists” in retaliatory strikes, while Kabul’s defence ministry claimed that 58 Pakistani soldiers had been killed. Pakistan, for its part, reported 23 military fatalities.

What happened — and who says what?

The clash began when Afghan troops, according to Kabul, opened fire on Pakistani border posts late in the day. Afghan officials framed their action as retaliation for Pakistani airstrikes earlier in the week. Islamabad said its response combined intense gunfire and artillery, and later released video footage it said showed Afghan positions ablaze. Both sides said they had destroyed posts on the other side of the Durand Line.

From the valley floor, the cacophony of claims made the truth hard to parse. “We heard heavy weapons through the night. Houses shook,” said Ahmad Gul, a shopkeeper in Kurram who has lived along the border all his life. “People are scared. They don’t know if they should wait or leave.” In pockets like Kurram, intermittent skirmishes continued through the morning even after officials declared the exchange mostly over.

Afghanistan’s defence ministry also said 20 of its troops were killed or injured. Pakistan, insisting it had struck militant targets, later stated that the number of militants killed exceeded 200. The Afghan Taliban’s spokesman, Zabihullah Mujahid, maintained a defiant line: “There is no kind of threat in any part of Afghanistan’s territory,” he said, adding that the movement and Afghan people “will defend their land and remain resolute.”

Border closures and economic aftershocks

Within hours, Pakistan shut several critical crossings. Torkham and Chaman — the two main arteries that move goods and people between the countries — were closed, alongside smaller points at Kharlachi, Angoor Adda and Ghulam Khan.

Torkham — often the first entry point for anything coming from Pakistan into eastern Afghanistan.
Chaman — essential for trade into southern Afghanistan and a lifeline for many livelihood routes.
Several smaller crossings — used by villagers, traders and pilgrims — were also shut.

For landlocked Afghanistan, the shutdown of these passages is more than an inconvenience: it is an economic chokehold. “My spices and dried fruit have been sitting on a truck in Peshawar since dawn,” said Mariam, a trader who was refused re-entry. “Every day closed is a day’s income gone. For ordinary people, the border is how we live.” The closures also complicate humanitarian supply chains and the movement of returnees and refugees.

Where the story fits in a larger, fractious picture

To understand why this tit-for-tat matters, we need some context. Pakistan accuses the Taliban-run Afghan administration of permitting Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) militants to operate from Afghan soil; Kabul denies this. Islamabad has long blamed cross-border sanctuaries for periodic insurgent attacks inside Pakistan. The Pakistani airstrikes that prompted Afghanistan’s retaliation, according to a Pakistani security source, targeted a TTP leader believed to be in Kabul — a strike Islamabad has not officially acknowledged.

The TTP, a separate but ideologically aligned group to the Afghan Taliban, has declared a campaign to topple the Pakistani state and impose its own strict interpretation of governance. For Islamabad, even the possibility of such leaders taking refuge across the border is intolerable. For Kabul, whose diplomatic and domestic position is tenuous, admitting to hosting foreign militants is politically combustible.

Voices from the ground — fear, anger, resignation

“The last time the guns got this loud, my cousins left for Quetta,” said Noor Jan, who runs a tea stall near the border. “We are not soldiers. We want to trade, marry, bury our dead. We didn’t sign up for this.” His eyes were tired but steady. “Borders on maps are lines to politicians. For us they are roads, markets, and family ties.”

A Pakistani security official, speaking on condition of anonymity, told me: “We acted because we could not tolerate sanctuaries being used against our people. When you have your soldiers dying in attacks traced back to across the border, you have to respond. The calculus is grim and constrained.” Conversely, an Afghan commander described the strikes as a “violation of sovereignty” that demanded defence.

International actors moved quickly to temper the flames. Qatar and Saudi Arabia — both influential in the region and with lines to Kabul — asked Afghanistan to cease its operations; Kabul heeded these calls, saying it halted attacks at their request. Those requests underscore a new diplomatic reality: that even unrecognized or semi-recognized governments are woven into global mediation networks.

Why this matters beyond a headline

This exchange shows how fragile the post-2001 order remains on South Asia’s western edge. It raises uncomfortable questions about how states and non-state actors coexist across porous borders: Who controls the frontier? Whose laws apply when a village is split by a line drawn a century ago? The Durand Line — a 2,600-km boundary drawn in the 19th century — persists as a locus of dispute and daily life, its politics bleeding into marketplaces and mosques.

Beyond geopolitics, there is a human ledger to consider. Closed crossings mean disrupted livelihoods, delayed health care and interrupted education for thousands. Curfews, checkpoints and fear of snipers turn ordinary routes into zones of heightened risk. The risk, too, of escalation is real: both sides claimed to have struck the other’s posts, and both presented casualty figures that differ widely — a common feature in fog-of-war accounts that feeds mistrust.

So what now?

For now, the guns have quieted in places and flared elsewhere. Diplomacy — quiet, urgent, dangling between Doha and Riyadh and backchannels in Islamabad and Kabul — will try to stitch the immediate rupture. Meanwhile, traders, families, and border communities will count the cost in missed wages and broken business plans.

Ask yourself: when borders are lines on paper but lifelines for people, who truly holds sway? And if the cycle of strikes and reprisals continues, what will be left for ordinary people to cling to?

The region deserves more than nightly briefings and binary statements of blame. It needs pragmatic border management, channels for de-escalation, and a commitment — from local leaders to global mediators — to protect civilians caught between claims and counterclaims. Until then, the smoke along the Durand Line will keep rising, and with it the daily certainty that peace here remains fragile and fiercely contingent.

Can Trump stay focused long enough to force an end to Gaza war?

hanad

October 13, 2025

Can Trump focus long enough to enforce end to Gaza war? — Crowds and vehicles fill a coastal road as displaced Palestinians travel north in Gaza

When a President Declares the War Over: Smoke, Song and the Hard Work of Keeping Peace

On a chilly Tel Aviv evening, a crowd gathered in the square that Israelis have come to call — with a mixture of grief and stubborn hope — Hostages Square. People hugged strangers. Someone lit a candle. A woman in her fifties, mascara streaked and voice small but steady, told me she finally felt able to breathe after more than two years of fear.

“For us, it wasn’t just a political calculation,” she said. “It was every morning waking up and asking, are they alive? If some of them are home, that changes everything.” Her name was Maya, and like so many others here, she judged the world by whether the missing had come back.

Into that emotional seam stepped former President Donald Trump, declaring he had brought about an end to the Gaza war. It is a bold, theatrical claim — tailor-made for a man who has always thrived on spectacle. But theatrics aside, the deal announced is a fragile thing: a hostage-for-prisoner swap, a calibrated pullback of Israeli forces, and a promise of broader negotiations to follow. Whether it becomes history or simply another headline depends on something less glamorous than a speech: enforcement.

Words as Levers

Politicians have long understood that language can be a tool of power. Call it a ceasefire, a truce, a hostage deal, or a “comprehensive end” — every label carries obligations, expectations and political cover. In Jerusalem and among many Israelis, the moral lodestar has been singular and simple: bring the captives home.

“We wanted names, not adjectives,” a protester at Hostages Square told me as he adjusted a knitted cap. “Every time they use a fancy word, we ask: will our people be safe? Will they be home?”

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s team has preferred to avoid the language of permanent closure. For his coalition — a patchwork of right-wing, ultranationalist partners — maintaining operational flexibility is a political necessity. For many families, meanwhile, the urgency is personal and immediate.

The Anatomy of the Deal

At its core, the arrangement announced reads like a staged de-escalation: hostages exchanged for Palestinian prisoners, some Israeli forces pulling back from designated areas, and a United States-brokered framework promising further talks. The document itself is modest in legal specificity; what it carries is performative power. Its title includes the phrase “Comprehensive End of Gaza War,” and the opening line has the president proclaiming the war concluded. That kind of declaration is intended to tilt reality.

But the devil lives in the details not written down. Hamas negotiators have historically insisted on guarantees that would end hostilities; Israeli leaders have insisted on the right to resume operations if security is deemed threatened. Finding words to reconcile those opposing instincts has proved nearly impossible in the past.

Why enforcement matters more than words

Words can create a political constraint. If a U.S. president stands in the Knesset and declares the war over — if he repeats that claim, week after week, and backs it with diplomatic pressure — then restarting military operations becomes not just a matter of strategy but a political rebuke. It would force Mr. Netanyahu to answer not only to Israeli voters and coalition partners but to a global audience watching to see if the administration that brokered the deal will hold them to it.

“This hinges on consistency,” explained Leila Haddad, a Middle East analyst who has followed the conflict for a decade. “If the United States ties significant political weight, military aid, or diplomatic favor to the observance of the deal, it becomes a real constraint. If it uses rhetoric and then quickly pivots to other crises, it’s unlikely to stick.”

Local Scenes and Global Ripples

Walk through Tel Aviv’s streets tonight and you’ll see the local imprint of a global script. Cafés where people once complained about gas prices are now full of people talking about hostages. The music that spilled out of bars after the announcement alternated between relief and a nervous, brittle hope.

Beyond the square, Gaza remains a landscape of ruins and interruptions. In neighborhoods like Sheikh Radwan, buildings that once hummed with daily life still stand as skeletal reminders. For residents, any pause that allows food convoys, medical aid and reconstruction to reach civilians is more than political theater — it is literal survival.

“We need days when people can go to the market and not check if the next moment will be bombed,” said a teacher in Gaza who asked not to be named for safety reasons. “We need hospitals to take a deep breath. If this is the start of that, we welcome it.”

The Political Calculus Back Home

In Jerusalem, calculations are more cynical. Israel faces an election by October 2026 at the latest. Netanyahu’s coalition has kept him in office through a time of crisis, but it has also made governing versatile and brittle. A protracted war has not translated reliably into broader electoral support outside the coalition base.

Some aides whisper that a negotiated pause gives the prime minister a politically convenient off-ramp—an exit ramp from a conflict that has bled time, attention and political capital. If the U.S. keeps pressing, it becomes harder for any Israeli leader to claim the war must continue indefinitely.

Can the U.S. keep its focus?

Here’s the central practical question: will Washington sustain the pressure? President Trump’s personal intervention — the speeches, the Knesset visit, the naming of the plan — gives the agreement weight. Yet his attention has always been a moving target. Foreign policy, for him, tends to be curated as a headline as much as a strategy.

One American diplomat, speaking on background, told me: “If the administration is prepared to monitor implementation daily, use sanctions or incentives, and tie the deal to tangible diplomatic recognition, that’s a game-changer. If it isn’t, this will be a historic press release with a short shelf life.”

What Would Make This Last?

Clear mechanisms for monitoring the ceasefire and troop movements, ideally with international observers;
Guaranteed humanitarian corridors for food, water and medicine into Gaza;
Concrete timelines for further negotiations, with agreed-upon mediators and benchmarks;
Political costs for parties who violate the agreement, enforced by powerful stakeholders;
Continued public diplomacy to build a narrative of accountability and peace, not just victory speeches.

Beyond Headlines: A Bigger Question

What this moment reveals is not only the fragility of peace but the modern mechanics of power. In an age of viral proclamations, a declaration can tilt reality — if it is repeated, enforced, and woven into the fabric of international incentives. But without durable institutions and constant diplomatic effort, even the most dramatic gestures can fade into old patterns.

Are we ready to demand the slow, tedious work that lasting peace requires? Or will we be satisfied with the rush of relief that a presidential speech offers? Standing in Hostages Square, with candles burning and voices recovering their pitch, the people I spoke to seemed to want both: immediate returns and a promise of permanence.

“We can’t live on speeches,” Maya said quietly, as the crowd began to disperse. “But tonight, we can sleep. Tomorrow, we will ask for more.”

So will the world hold its breath long enough to turn that temporary sleep into something like peace? That, more than any headline, is the real test.

French president announces revamped cabinet lineup amid major reshuffle

hanad

October 13, 2025

New French PM resigns hours after cabinet unveiled — Sebastien Lecornu was appointed prime minister on 9 September

Macron’s New Cabinet: A Tightrope Walk Between Crisis and Continuity

On a damp Sunday in Paris, after marathon talks that stretched like a taut wire over a fractured political landscape, President Emmanuel Macron unveiled a new government. It is a cabinet stitched from familiar cloth and fresh thread, a pragmatic contraption meant to steady a ship that has been listing in a hung parliament.

The task is simple to name and fiendishly difficult to execute: get a budget through a legislature where no single party commands a majority. For weeks, political backrooms have smelled of espresso and exasperation. For some, the new line-up signals relief; for others, a fragile bargain that might not survive the first real storm.

Second Time’s the Charm—Or Not

Prime Minister Sébastien Lecornu, who had presented an initial cabinet only to resign the next day amid criticism, was reappointed and asked to try again. “A mission-driven government has been appointed to provide France with a budget before the end of the year,” Lecornu wrote on X, a terse declaration that measures both urgency and a plea for patience.

His second attempt reads like a compromise map: senior figures retained, some portfolios shuffled, and a few newcomers brought in to signal change. The presidency published the lineup with an almost clinical list of names—but behind each one sits a story, a constituency, a set of expectations and resentments.

Who’s In—and Why It Matters

Some appointments are continuations. Jean-Noël Barrot remains at the foreign ministry, offering a steady hand on international affairs at a time when Europe’s geopolitical challenges demand continuity.

Roland Lescure, a Macron ally, takes the economy brief—underlining the centrality of next year’s budget. The economy ministry in France is not just a technocratic office; it is the stage where social contracts are negotiated, where austerity meets political reality.

Catherine Vautrin moves from labour to defence, a signal that Macron wants seasoned ministers in portfolios tied to sovereignty and security.
Laurent Nuñez, until now Paris’s police chief, will head the interior ministry—an appointment that carries weight as France wrestles with questions of law, order, and integration.
Monique Barbut, formerly France director at WWF, steps into environmental transition—a nod to ecological expertise crossing into government.
Gerald Darmanin remains justice minister, and Rachida Dati keeps the culture portfolio despite an impending corruption trial next year, a retention that has already provoked debate.

Notably absent from the new government is the overt participation of Bruno Retailleau and his Republican party; Retailleau’s camp declared it would not serve. That refusal narrows the coalition options and hardens the arithmetic in the National Assembly.

Echoes from the Café: What People Are Saying

Outside the ornate doors of the Assemblée Nationale, conversations hummed like a well-worn radio. In a neighborhood café not far from the river, a barista named Leïla shook her head as she poured black coffee. “They keep rearranging chairs, but the table stays the same,” she said. “People want to see bread, jobs, schools—then we will listen.” Her words—equal parts impatience and weary hope—capture a private worry many share.

A trade union organizer in Lyon, Thomas M., was blunt: “If this government cannot secure a budget that protects public services and the welfare system, expect more strikes. This is not abstract for people on the ground; it’s about heating, childcare, and dignity.”

Political analysts offered their own cautious verdicts. Dr. Amélie Fournier, a political scientist, described the cabinet as “a pragmatic patchwork designed to buy time and to avert immediate collapse. But without a stable majority, policymaking will be transactional and incremental.”

Why the Budget Battle Matters Beyond Bureaucracy

Budgets are dry on the surface, a ledger of revenues and expenditures. But they are also morality plays—where priorities are decided, where choices about whose needs are met and whose are deferred are made in black and white. For France, the stakes are material and symbolic: sustaining social protections, investing in green transitions, and navigating inflationary and debt pressures that have haunted many European economies for years.

Markets and rating agencies will watch closely. A credible budget can reassure investors and keep borrowing costs manageable; failure to pass one would likely send ripples through eurozone stability narratives. There’s also a human ledger: unemployment, which remains a stubborn issue for younger cohorts, and rising living costs that make everyday existence a balancing act for many families.

Green Hopes, Law-and-Order Signals, and the Weight of Scandal

Monique Barbut’s move from WWF to government will be watched by environmentalists. “If she can bring real policy know-how from the NGO world into cabinet deliberations, that could be a breakthrough,” said Claire Dubois, an environmental campaigner. “But NGOs and governments speak different languages—implementation will be the test.”

Laurent Nuñez’s appointment signals a tilt toward a security-first posture in domestic affairs. For some, that’s reassurance; for others, a worry about civil liberties. And then there’s Rachida Dati, whose retention despite legal clouds underscores a perennial political question: when do public trust and political expediency collide?

What This Means for Democracy—and for You

France’s new cabinet is not just an administrative reshuffle; it is a mirror reflecting broader democratic stresses: fragmentation of party systems, the erosion of easy majorities, and the increasing necessity of coalition-building. These are not uniquely French dynamics. Across Europe and beyond, governments are learning to govern with compromise—or to stumble trying.

So what should you watch for in the weeks ahead? Look at the budget’s balance of priorities: Will social spending be safeguarded? How much is earmarked for climate and green infrastructure? Who gets tax relief, and who pays? These are not technocratic questions; they are the levers of national direction.

And ask yourself: in an age where politics can feel fractious and distant, what kinds of accountability do you want from leaders who must govern without a clear, commanding majority? How should lawmakers balance the urgent with the long-term?

Closing—A Moment of Waiting

For now, Paris is in a liminal state. The new government is in place, but the real test—passing a budget and building a working majority—awaits. The faces in the Élysée’s announced lineup will be judged not by their titles but by their ability to forge consensus and deliver for ordinary people whose patience has already been tested.

“We can survive uncertainty,” Leïla the barista said as she wiped a cup. “But not indifference.” That, perhaps, is the quiet demand of this moment: not dramatic gestures, but a government that can stitch policy to people’s lives with competence and care. The next few months will tell whether this cabinet is a bridge or another patch on an unraveling coat.

Four dead, 20 wounded in mass shooting at US bar

hanad

October 12, 2025

Four killed and 20 injured in mass shooting at bar in US — Four people were found dead at the scene and at least 20 other people were injured (stock photo)

Night at Willie’s: A Joyful Gathering That Turned Tragic on St. Helena Island

The music had been low and familiar, the kind that folds into conversation and encourages folks to stay a little longer. On a humid early Sunday morning, Willie’s Bar and Grill—an unassuming Lowcountry haunt on St. Helena Island—was full: old friends catching up, young people dancing near the counter, families lingering after a late meal of shrimp and grits. Then the night fractured.

By dawn, emergency crews and flashing lights outlined a scene residents here say they will not forget. Four people lay dead. At least 20 others were wounded, four of them clinging to life in area hospitals. Names have not been released. A community that prides itself on hospitality and close ties was left reeling, searching for answers and for one another.

“We ran into the kitchen, we ran into the bay,”

“People were screaming. I ducked behind the cooler, and I could hear glass breaking and the pa-pa-pa of it all,” said Marjorie Simmons, a waitress at a neighboring café who arrived at Willie’s moments later. “Folks were running into the alley, into other shops—anywhere to get away.”

Her words echoed an official post from the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office on X: “Multiple victims and witnesses ran to the nearby businesses and properties seeking shelter from the gun shots. This is a tragic and difficult incident for everyone. We ask for your patience as we continue to investigate this incident. Our thoughts are with all of the victims and their loved ones.”

Who Was There, Who Was Hurt

Willie’s is not a glamorous place. It’s the sort of Lowcountry bar where fishing stories grow taller over cold beer and the jukebox remembers everyone’s favorite song. Locals describe it as a community anchor on St. Helena Island—a Sea Island with a deep Gullah-Geechee heritage, where generations share kinship, language, and the recipes that define the region.

That legacy made the violence feel especially unreal. “We’re small here,” said Pastor Leroy Daniels of a nearby church. “People know one another. Losing neighbors—people you waved to at the corner store—cuts deeper than numbers.”

Officials say they responded to multiple reports of shots fired in the early hours of Sunday. When deputies arrived, they found several people suffering from gunshot wounds. Four were deceased at the scene. At least 20 others were transported to hospitals across Beaufort County, and four remain in critical condition. Investigators have not released the identities of the victims pending family notifications.

Police, Rescue, and the Slow Work of Facts

Investigations into mass shootings are painstaking. Evidence collection, witness interviews, and the painstaking task of reconstructing events in chaotic, high-stress environments can take days, even weeks. “We’re canvassing the area, reviewing video, and talking to witnesses,” a sheriff’s investigator—speaking on condition of anonymity—told me between calls. “We ask people with any information to come forward.”

Local law enforcement has encouraged patience. For residents, patience can feel like helplessness. “We want action, not platitudes,” said Kiana Thomas, a schoolteacher whose cousin was at the bar that night. “But we also need honesty—tell us what you know and what you’re doing.”

A Wider Pattern, a National Conversation

What happened at Willie’s is not an isolated phenomenon in the United States. In recent years, gatherings—from schools to churches to nightlife venues—have too often become scenes of violent breakdown. Organizations that track gun violence note that incidents involving multiple victims have become disturbingly frequent. The emotional echo travels far beyond any single town.

“Small communities feel this very sharply,” said Dr. Ana Ruiz, a sociologist who studies violence and community resilience. “There’s a compounding effect: the tragedy itself, the trauma for first responders and witnesses, and the erosion of trust in public places. It damages the social fabric.”

Across the country, debates about public safety, mental health responses, and firearm policy swirl amid grief. There is no single cause that explains every event, but the human result is always the same: families mourning, friends caring for the wounded, communities bargaining with shock.

Faces of the Island: Memory, Food, Faith

St. Helena Island’s character is visible in the small details: the sizzle of okra in a skillet, porch conversations punctuated by laughter and low music, the older women who tend family cemeteries like rhymed prayers. When violence intrudes into that rhythm, it is more than a headline—it is a rupture.

“We’ll have a memorial,” said Rosa Jenkins, whose son often played piano at Willie’s. “We’ll cook. People will bring greens and hush puppies and platters. But it’s not just a party for the dead. It’s a way to remember that life goes on—until it doesn’t. We need to keep living in a way that honors them.”

Community Response and Practical Needs

In the immediate aftermath, neighbors organized support: the NexCare clinic opened to provide wound checks and counseling; a nearby church set up a hotline for relatives; local restaurants donated meals for families waiting at hospitals. Small acts—coffee, a warm blanket, a ride—became lifelines.

Immediate facts: 4 dead at the scene; at least 20 injured; 4 in critical condition.
Location: Willie’s Bar and Grill, St. Helena Island, Beaufort County, South Carolina.
Authorities: Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office leading the investigation; public asked for patience and assistance.

Questions for the Reader—and for the Nation

When a crowded bar becomes a crime scene, we are forced to ask uncomfortable questions. How do communities heal? What role should policy play in prevention? And how do we balance the right to gather with the need to protect public life?

Some answers come from hard policy debates in statehouses and federal courts. Others come from the slow, intimate labor of grief—cooking for a family, holding a vigil, listening to a neighbor. Both are necessary. “Policy without community care is hollow,” Dr. Ruiz said. “Community care without policy change is inadequate.”

So I ask you, reader: how would you want your town to respond? What would you want to see done to stop the next shooting? These are not hypothetical questions for families on St. Helena Island. They are urgent, active lines of inquiry that demand public attention, empathy, and action.

What Comes Next

The investigation at Willie’s continues. Detectives are piecing together a timeline. Law enforcement asks anyone with information—photos, video, or eyewitness recollections—to contact the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office. Meanwhile, the island prepares for funerals, for counseling sessions, for the small rituals that allow a community to breathe again.

“We’ll come back,” pastor Daniels said, his voice steady but raw. “We’ll gather in prayer, in music, in food. But we’ll also keep asking why this happened and how to stop it. That’s our duty to the ones we lost.”

On a place like St. Helena Island, where history hangs heavy in the live oaks and the salt-scented air, memory is a communal responsibility. As the investigation unfolds and families grieve, the world watches. Not as distant spectators, but as fellow citizens asked to reckon with the patterns of violence in our midst—and to imagine, together, a safer future.

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