Satellite imagery appears to show mass killings in a Sudanese city

November 1, 2025

Satellite images suggest mass killings in Sudanese city — Satellite imagery reveals active smoke plumes rising near the perimeter of El Fasher airport

El-Fasher: A Broken City Seen from Space

From the edge of Tawila, where a dusty road turns into a series of muddy tracks, survivors point toward the horizon and say the skyline has changed. What once was a bustling regional capital—mosques punctuating the air with the call to prayer, markets spilling into the streets with spices and chatter—now looks to the world like a smudge on a satellite photo.

There is an eerie intimacy to satellite imagery. It flattens heat and shadow into shapes and, in recent days, those shapes have become evidence—silent testimony of something most of us recoil from: mass killing. Researchers at Yale’s Humanitarian Research Lab reported finding dozens of clusters in and around El-Fasher that are consistent with groups of human bodies. “We are seeing signs that cannot be explained away as normal activity,” one researcher told me. “The images are stark.”

What the Pictures Say

The lab identified at least 31 clusters across university grounds, residential neighbourhoods and military sites—concentrations that, the analysts say, point to summary executions or mass fatalities. Numbers like that strip away euphemism: 31 clusters. Each cluster may represent dozens of lives.

These findings came after the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), the powerful paramilitary force that has been fighting Sudan’s regular army since April 2023, took El-Fasher following an 18-month siege. The capture marks a grim milestone: the RSF now controls all five state capitals in Darfur, intertwining military strategy with geography and, potentially, a new map of suffering.

Voices from the Road

People arriving in Tawila arrive barefoot, some with plastic sacks, others with the blank, stunned faces of those who have seen too much. Hayat, a woman in her late 30s carrying a baby at her breast and three other children clinging to her skirts, described the journey with the kind of detail that makes horror real.

“We left at dawn,” she said, voice small. “There were men on the road. They stopped the young ones who walked with us. I saw them drag a boy into a compound. I don’t know if he will be alive. We ran and ran until the sun burned the backs of our necks.”

A doctor who escaped with a handful of colleagues says that the stories are worse than anything they feared: executions, sexual violence used as a weapon, aid workers threatened and killed. “You can close your eyes to images on a screen,” she told me, “but when a woman tells you she saw her child shot while trying to cross a street, that memory becomes permanent.”

Numbers that Matter

Humanitarian agencies put hard figures beside those stories. The United Nations estimates more than 65,000 people fled El-Fasher in the days following its fall. Before the final assault, roughly 260,000 people lived in the city. That leaves tens of thousands unaccounted for—some trapped in basements or buildings, others potentially detained, killed, or hiding in the desert.

“We are deeply concerned,” a UN official told me. “The flow of people out of El-Fasher is substantial, but the communications blackouts and ongoing insecurity mean we cannot verify the fate of thousands. That uncertainty is itself a humanitarian crisis.”

The Anatomy of a Collapse

Once a historic capital of Darfur, El-Fasher sat at the crossroads of trade and tradition. Its markets used to be full of daraba (local bread), roasted coffee, and the clipped laughter of everyday life. Now the market stalls are upended, mosques closed, and the city’s university has become a ruin watched from above.

The fall of El-Fasher did not happen in isolation. It was the final domino in an 18-month campaign that has split Sudan along a new axis—east and west divided, with the army holding the north, east and centre, and the RSF consolidating power in the west. For ordinary Sudanese, that line is not a strategic map; it is a line across families, farms and futures.

Accountability and Doubt

The RSF announced a handful of arrests shortly after taking the city, saying it had detained fighters accused of abuses. Skepticism greeted that claim. Tom Fletcher, the UN humanitarian chief, has publicly questioned whether the RSF will genuinely investigate violations or if such statements are merely for show. “We need more than words,” he warned.

For survivors, promises from either side ring hollow. An aid worker who requested anonymity described being turned away from checkpoints and threatened with arrest. “There is a culture of impunity built over decades here,” she said. “Unless international actors and regional bodies act, the immediate headlines will fade—and the suffering won’t.”

Beyond the Headlines: What This Means

Ask yourself: what does a single city’s collapse mean in an interconnected world? It means people whose lives were simple—vendors, teachers, parents—are now part of a displacement calculation that will affect humanitarian budgets, migration patterns, and regional stability. It means refugee flows that strain neighbouring towns and countries, and a new narrative for a region long associated with conflict.

This crisis also reconnects us with broader global themes: the militarization of paramilitary groups, the failure of national institutions to protect civilians, and the way climate stress and economic marginalization can inflame old divisions. These are not abstract concerns; they are the air people breathe when aid doesn’t arrive and when phones go dark.

Local Color and Human Cost

Even amid the rubble, the small textures of place remain. In Tawila, women trade recipes for porridge made with whatever grain they have left; a group of boys, who escaped with only sandals, swear in local dialects as they recount their narrow misses. An elder recounts memories of a Sultan’s palace that stood where now only dust collects. These are the human details that statistics alone cannot hold.

Experts warn that unless there is an immediate and impartial investigation, documented with both on-the-ground work and satellite verification, these images will be another set of silent witnesses. “Satellite imagery gives us a lifeline when cameras and people can’t reach a scene,” said a conflict analyst. “But imagery needs to be matched with testimony, medical reports and forensic evidence to build a case for justice.”

A Question for the Reader

What responsibility does the outside world have when cities vanish behind blackouts and pixels reveal clusters of bodies? When the instruments of international law are slow and politics are swift, how do we weigh intervention, accountability and the sovereignty of a nation in the throes of implosion?

There are no easy answers. But the faces in Tawila—children with crusted eyes, mothers who have lost husbands, aid workers who sleep with boots on—are part of a moral ledger that demands attention. The falling of El-Fasher is not simply another footnote in a long conflict: it is a call to look harder, act faster, and remember the people who can no longer tell their own stories.

In the weeks ahead, more satellite passes will come. Aid convoys will attempt routes. Diplomats will issue statements. And the question will remain: will the images translate into protection, justice, and the slow work of rebuilding lives? Or will they be archived—harrowing, unforgettable, and ultimately ineffectual?

Prince Andrew removed from UK peerage roll in move to strip titles

hanad

November 1, 2025

Andrew taken off UK peerage roll in step to remove titles — Andrew Mountbatten Windsor has also agreed to leave Royal Lodge in Windsor

A prince undone: the day a royal name was erased from the roll

There are moments when institutions reveal themselves not in grand proclamations, but in the small, quiet acts that follow them. This week, an official ledger tucked away in the Crown Office changed: the name of Andrew Mountbatten Windsor no longer appears on the roll of the peerage. It is a bureaucratic stroke with seismic effect — the final administrative act in a process that has slowly, inexorably, stripped a man of his rank, his style, and the public trappings of dynasty.

For decades the royal household has lived by ritual and paperwork as much as by coronation pomp. Dukedoms and styles are not merely honorifics; they are recorded, protected and, if need be, revoked through a chain of formal procedures. The person charged with keeping that record, in his capacity as Lord Chancellor, is the same official who will receive the King’s warrants to excise a name. The removal from the roll is the quiet end of a public life.

What changed — and what it means

In practical terms, this action removes Prince Andrew’s positions as “Prince” and “Duke of York”—and with them the right to be formally styled “His Royal Highness.” Those ancient forms of address, which once opened doors around the globe, are now closed. He will, officially, be Mr Andrew Mountbatten Windsor.

There are other immediate consequences. The residence most associated with him, the 30‑bedroom Royal Lodge in Windsor, will no longer be his to occupy under the lease protections he once enjoyed. Buckingham Palace has said a formal notice was served for him to surrender that lease and that he will move “to alternative private accommodation” on the Sandringham estate, funded privately by the King.

Titles removed: Prince, Duke of York, HRH style (and subsidiary titles affected)
Residency: formal notice to surrender Royal Lodge lease; relocation to a private Sandringham property
Financial arrangements: private provisions to be made by the King; potential Crown Estate involvement over surrender payments

These are not merely administrative shifts. They stitch a narrative: a family once accustomed to automatic deference has had to answer, in public, to moral and reputational consequences.

Voices in the wake

Outside Windsor, reaction has been blunt and personal. At the foot of the Long Walk, a shopkeeper who has watched generations of tourists click their cameras said, “This place has always been pageantry and paradox. Today feels like a closing chapter — people are talking, finally agreeing that no one should be above scrutiny.”

A neighbour near Sandringham, whose family has lived on the estate for generations, told me, “There’s no delight here in someone moving houses. It’s about steadiness. The estate has to carry on. But everyone knows this will change how people look at the whole setup.”

For survivors and their families, the move has been framed as more than symbolic. “She never stopped fighting for accountability,” one member of Virginia Giuffre’s family said in a voice heavy with both sorrow and something that resembled vindication. “Today, an ordinary girl from an ordinary American family made the world answer. That matters.”

Behind the headlines: property, privilege, and public pressure

It was not only the cloud of allegations that made this one of the most combustible chapters for the monarchy; it was the detail of everyday life that became a political problem. Reports about the peppercorn rent, the length of the lease that had more than 50 years to run, and the £7.5 million spent on renovations focussed attention on how public-facing institutions and private privilege intersect.

Members of Parliament expressed frustration that a member of the royal family could appear to benefit from favourable terms while the nation wrestles with questions about fairness, transparency, and public accountability. “People want to know where lines are drawn,” said a constitutional expert I spoke with. “Is the monarchy a private family or a public institution? Moments like this force an answer.”

How the move unfolded

According to palace briefings, the King—after consultations with senior family members including the Prince of Wales—initiated the formal process to remove the style, titles and honours. The decision, the Palace said, was deemed necessary “notwithstanding the fact that he continues to deny the allegations against him.”

Negotiations over the lease ended with the former prince agreeing to serve formal notice to surrender a contract that once shielded his right to stay. The Crown Estate’s role in any financial settlement has been flagged as a matter for further clarification. The optics were central: the Palace sought to show that the family was willing to act, to adjust privilege in response to public concern.

What this says about institutions and accountability

There are two stories intersecting here. One is intimate: a man’s friendships, decisions, and conduct; the other is institutional: how a centuries-old monarchy manages reputation in an age of relentless scrutiny. Both stories are bound by the same theme—who answers when wrongs are alleged, and what the mechanisms of redress look like.

Across democracies, institution after institution—churches, corporations, universities—is facing the same question. How do you reconcile historical structures with 21st‑century expectations around accountability and transparency? The UK’s royal family has long been a lens through which the country views itself. Their decisions ripple out beyond palaces and tabloids; they shape public trust in governance and fairness.

Questions for readers

What do we expect from symbolic institutions in moments of crisis? When a figure of privilege is accused, is administrative removal of title enough, or is it merely a first step? Take a moment to think about the symbolic value of titles: Do they matter because of the person who holds them, or because of the system that grants them?

After the ledger: small acts, sweeping consequences

There will be no fireworks to mark this erasure from the peerage. Instead, there will be movers and boxes, a shift from one house on a royal estate to another. But the smallness of the administrative act belies its weight: a ledger entry has closed a public chapter. Those who cheer will say it’s overdue. Those who caution will note that formal titles are the beginning, not the end, of accountability.

On the streets near Windsor and in quiet rooms where survivors and their families gather, the sentiment is complicated and raw. “We’re not interested in spectacle,” one advocate said. “We want systems that prevent abuse, and consequences that are meaningful. Titles falling away is visible; what comes next is what we will be watching.”

In the end, a name was struck from a book. But the act has opened up a larger conversation about power, responsibility and the ways a modern nation preserves dignity while demanding justice. How countries answer that conversation in the months and years ahead will tell us far more about who we are than any single headline ever could.

Systematic campaign of destruction sweeping Sudan, rights groups warn

hanad

November 1, 2025

'Campaign of destruction' under way in Sudan — Displaced Sudanese who fled El-Fasher after the city fell to the Rapid Support Forces arrive in the town of Tawila war-torn Sudan's western Darfur region

El-Fasher’s Shattered Dawn: A City Pushed to the Edge and the World That Looks Away

El-Fasher used to have a rhythm. Early mornings smelled of freshly baked kisra and tea, donkey carts rattled through sun-baked streets, and market sellers called out prices in a chorus that felt eternal. Now the city is a bruise on the map — captured, emptied, and for many, erased.

What happened

When the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) overran El-Fasher — the army’s last stronghold in Darfur — more than 36,000 civilians fled their homes in a single surge of panic and exhaustion. They spilled out onto the roads like a slow-moving river of people: old men with sunburned cheeks, mothers carrying children whose limbs hung listlessly, young people with backpacks and nothing else.

Some walked west toward Tawila, a town that has become a reluctant refuge. Tawila already hosts roughly 650,000 internally displaced people, and now faces another wave of arrivals into makeshift camps where assistance is thin and patience wears short.

Voices from the front lines

“There is not a word big enough to cover the suffering here,” said Mathilde Vu, an advocacy manager working with the Norwegian Refugee Council, when I spoke with her about the exodus. “People have been starved, bombed, and blocked from aid for months. They drank rainwater. They ate animal feed. They tell us stories of neighbours who simply disappeared on the road — detained, or worse.”

A man who gave his name as Musa, who left with his family in the pre-dawn hours, told me by phone: “My wife and I pushed our children in a cart. At night we slept under the stars because there were no tents. The sound of shells keeps replaying in our heads. How do we go back?”

The human cost

This is not a war of strategy on a distant chessboard. It is a campaign of attrition that eats at the smallest, most ordinary things that keep life going: food, water, shelter, and dignity. After more than 18 months of siege tactics and bombardment, El-Fasher’s hospitals ran out of medicines. Markets closed. Traders fled. Aid convoys were turned away. People resorted to drinking pooled rainwater and scavenging animal feed to survive.

“We’re barely saving lives at the moment,” Vu told me bluntly. “We are delaying death.”

Compounding the crisis, aid agencies report outbreaks of cholera in displacement camps. With sanitation strained to breaking, the disease spreads fast; aid workers say people are dying weekly. Malnutrition rates are rising, and clinics are overwhelmed.

What aid looks like — and where it falls short

Relief organisations are stretched to their limits. Teams positioned roughly 60 km from El-Fasher — the first places people can trickle into — have received only a fraction of those fleeing. Of tens of thousands trying to escape, only some 5,000 have reached that particular reception point so far. Those who arrive are often severely malnourished, dehydrated and carrying the invisible weight of trauma.

Funding is a cliff-edge. Vu and other aid workers describe an “international neglect” — a yawning gap between needs and money. Around 70% of the financing needed for Sudan’s humanitarian response is unmet, officials say. The consequence is painfully simple: aid agencies must make excruciating choices about who receives what, and many are left behind.

Short-term needs: emergency food, clean water, cholera treatment kits, shelter
Medium-term needs: trauma counselling, rebuilding basic health services, sanitation facilities
Long-term needs: safe returns, reconciliation mechanisms, accountability for crimes

Accounts of brutality and the uneasy promise of justice

The capture of El-Fasher has not been without footage and allegations. Videos circulated online showing fighters committing summary executions and standing amid the wreckage of burned vehicles and bodies. The RSF have said they detained several fighters accused of abuses during the operation, including a man widely seen in videos. A statement claimed “legal committees” were opening investigations and that the group would adhere to “law, rules of conduct and military discipline during wartime.”

For survivors, such statements offer little comfort. “Words on paper won’t feed my children or make my brother come back,” said Aisha, a teacher who fled El-Fasher. “We need safety, not promises.”

History echoes loudly

Darfur carries the weight of memory. Two decades ago, this region witnessed ethnically targeted atrocities that seared into global consciousness and left tens of thousands dead and millions displaced. The current events have ignited fears of a return to those darkest chapters. International monitors and humanitarian organisations have warned of potential mass killings and ethnic cleansing if violence and access restrictions continue.

Ask yourself: how many warnings must the world hear before action follows? How many photos of mud-smeared faces does it take to warrant a proper response?

Wider implications — why this matters beyond Sudan

This crisis is a nexus of larger global trends. It is a reminder that internal conflicts can rapidly become regional catastrophes when coupled with climate stress, weak institutions, and an international system that often reserves urgency for problems that fit into short media cycles. The funding shortfalls for Sudan reflect a broader pattern: as crises proliferate — from Gaza to Afghanistan, from the Sahel to Haiti — donor fatigue sets in, and the most vulnerable lose out.

There is also a geopolitical angle. The RSF and its supporters are part of a tangled web of relationships that complicate diplomatic pressure and create openings for unchecked violence. Without concerted high-level political pressure on the backers of warring parties, humanitarian law remains an aspiration rather than a rule enforced.

What can be done — and what you can ask for

It is easy to feel overwhelmed. But practical steps exist:

Insist that your government increase humanitarian funding and press for corridors that guarantee safe access to civilians.
Demand independent investigations into alleged war crimes and real accountability for perpetrators.
Support organisations working on the ground with cash donations — flexible funding allows rapid response.

“We need political momentum at the highest level,” Vu urged. “Humanitarian appeals are not just line items in a budget. They are lifelines. Without pressure to stop the violence and ensure access, aid will always be chasing a fleeing population.”

Closing — the moral choice

I left the conversation with a lingering image: a child clutching a makeshift doll, eyes too old for their face. That image is not unique to El-Fasher; it crops up wherever conflict displaces millions. Sometimes the world looks at such scenes and offers condolences. Sometimes it moves. Which will we choose this time?

As readers across continents, we face a decision about attention — where to direct it, whom to urge our leaders to help, and how to hold institutions accountable. The people of El-Fasher and the hundreds of thousands living in camps like Tawila are not statistics. They are neighbours of humanity. And their survival depends as much on our outrage as on the rations that may or may not arrive tomorrow.

Royal family severs ties with Prince Andrew, controversy likely to endure

hanad

November 1, 2025

Royal family banishes Andrew, but controversy will linger — Andrew Mountbatten Windsor, as he is now known, was often reported to have a sense of entitlement about him

The Windsor Morning When a Palace Changed the Map

The air outside Windsor Castle had the brittle clarity of late autumn—cold, bright, and sharp enough to make faces look honest. Tourists wrapped scarves around their necks, cameras clicked, and a woman in a wool coat held a placard that read, “No Privilege Above the Law.”

“I’m relieved someone finally drew a line,” said Maria Patel, who has run a small tea stall near the Long Walk for two decades. “It feels like the palace had to act not because of royal drama but because Britain can’t keep muddling celebrity and accountability.” Her voice betrayed weariness and relief in equal measure.

On a headline evening not long ago, Buckingham Palace quietly redrew the contours of the royal family. The man once introduced to the public as Prince Andrew will no longer live under the mantle of that style; he has surrendered his long-held lease on Royal Lodge, the sprawling house within Windsor Estate where he has lived for more than 20 years. For a nation still negotiating its relationship with monarchy, the move was seismic in its simplicity.

From First Son of a ‘Second Family’ to a Private Figure

Andrew Mountbatten Windsor was never an ordinary royal. Born a full twelve years after his elder brother, the now-King, and a decade after Princess Anne, he occupied a peculiar place in the family—part vice-regal, part younger son, and always a man watched with particular curiosity. Biographers have long written about his taste for the trappings of rank: grand houses, fast cars, and a sense of entitlement that made him more a headline than a footnote.

Royal Lodge, a thirty-room Georgian house set within deer-strewn parkland and a short walk from the private homes of other senior royals, came to feel like a symbol of that entitlement. Records show Andrew invested millions—reports once cited figure in the region of £8 million—into the property upon moving in. Yet in recent years his actual rent reportedly amounted to what is called a “peppercorn”—a nominal token rather than market-rate payment. The lease itself stretched on until 2078, a legal anchor that made any attempt to remove him far from straightforward.

Pressure, Process, and a Palace Decision

What changed was not a single event but a mounting tide. The publication of a memoir and the continuing fallout around his association with a convicted sexual offender fanned public fury. A brief, viral moment in which a protester shouted at the King while he greeted parishioners crystallised a growing national sentiment: the monarchy’s work and the controversy surrounding Andrew were now clashing in public spaces.

Careful, deliberate, and, according to insiders, slow—those are the words palace spokespeople used to describe the period of consideration leading up to the announcement. “The King insisted on due process,” said a former royal aide who asked not to be named. “He didn’t want a decision that could be reversed or litigated. He wanted something that would stand the test of law and scrutiny.” That caution meant weeks of legal review, family discussions, and political calculation.

When the statement came, it was stark: Andrew would give up his lease at Royal Lodge and cease to be styled as “Prince.” The palace framed the move as necessary to protect the institution and focus public attention back on the sovereign’s duties. For many, it was overdue. For others, it was the start of another chapter of unanswered questions.

Public Opinion, Political Ripples

The response in polls was emphatic. A recent YouGov survey reported that roughly 79% of respondents supported the removal of the prince’s titles, and 53% said the King had done all he could. Those numbers suggest a public that is not only judgmental but also divided about what justice looks like when it involves power, money, and inherited privilege.

“This isn’t about revenge,” said Dr. Eleanor Finch, a constitutional scholar at the University of Edinburgh. “It’s about reputational management for an institution that relies, more than most public bodies, on consent. When a member’s behaviour threatens that consent, decisive action becomes a survival strategy.”

Political voices have jumped in, too. Some lawmakers are now openly discussing legislation that would displace him from the line of succession—a seat that, as matters stand, keeps him within the formal list of heirs. Others say the monarchy’s internal measures will suffice. The debate touches deep questions: How should a modern democracy handle hereditary privilege? Who decides when a royal’s private life becomes a public liability?

Stories From the Ground: Anger, Sympathy, and the Human Cost

Beyond the headlines there are quieter stories. At a pub near Windsor town center, locals argued over pints. “He should face the same standards as any other citizen,” said Tom Reid, a social worker who has championed victims’ causes locally. “But I worry about the spectacle. Removing a title or evicting someone doesn’t answer all the questions about accountability.”

Not all views were harsh. “He’s a father,” whispered an elderly woman, clutching a shopping bag. “Whatever he has done, it is hard to see a family broken like this.” That tenderness coexists uneasily with anger, resentment, demands for legal consequences, and the steady churn of the media machine.

Virginia Giuffre’s memoir—its claims and the broader story—remains a touchstone. Her family publicly praised the King’s steps, yet some urged further action. “This is not the end,” one family spokesperson said. “We want the truth, and if that means criminal investigations, then let them follow the evidence wherever it leads.”

What Comes Next?

Andrew’s future is likely to be private in name but public in reality. Reports suggest he may retreat to Sandringham, the rural estate in Norfolk where other royals spend quieter months. Yet private life for a former senior royal is never truly private. Police inquiries and parliamentary discussions could keep the story alive for months, possibly years.

For the monarchy, the episode is a test of adaptation. The institution has weathered scandal before, but today’s media environment, with instant outrage and relentless scrutiny, is unforgiving. The palace’s choices reflect a new calculus: preserve the Crown by trimming its branches.

Questions for the Reader

What do you believe accountability looks like when it involves centuries-old institutions? Can tradition and transparency coexist, or are they perpetually at odds? As you close this piece, imagine the balance you would strike between mercy, justice, and the public interest.

Ultimately, the Windsor morning when a palace changed the map reminds us that symbols matter—and that the modern public demands more than ceremonial apologies. It wants integrity, and it wants systems that ensure no one, no matter how born, stands above the consequences of their actions.

Israeli forces say bodies received from Gaza are not hostages

hanad

November 1, 2025

Israel army says Gaza bodies received not hostages — The Israeli army received three unidentified bodies from Gaza via the ICRC (File image)

A Quiet Transfer, A Loud Hole in the Middle of Everything

Last night, under the low, clinical lights of a checkpoint that feels too small for the weight of what passed through it, three bodies were handed over to Israeli authorities. The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) says it “facilitated the transfer” at the request and agreement of the parties. But the Israeli military—after a preliminary forensic review—says these were not the bodies of any of the hostages still accounted as deceased under the US-brokered ceasefire agreement.

To the outside world, the exchange was a short, precise sentence in daily briefings. To those who wait sleepless in small apartments and kibbutzim, in the rubble of Gaza, it was another beat in a long, unbearable drum of hope and revision.

What happened, in plain terms

Under the truce mediated by the United States, Hamas had agreed to hand over the remains of 28 people identified as deceased hostages. So far, 17 of those 28 have been returned, and 20 living captives were freed in the initial stages of the ceasefire. Israeli military sources say the three bodies received last night do not match any of the 11 deceased names that remain to be handed over under the deal. Those three were taken to a forensic laboratory for further identification.

“From our intelligence and initial forensic checks, we do not believe these are the hostages’ remains,” said an Israeli military official. “They were, however, transferred to our forensic research laboratory for conclusive identification. We owe that to the families.”

The ICRC, acting as a neutral intermediary, confirmed its role in facilitating the transfer, emphasizing it was done with the consent of the involved parties. “Our teams were present to ensure the dignified and safe transfer of the deceased,” an ICRC spokesperson told me. “We do not verify the identities—that remains the role of the relevant authorities and forensic teams.”

The mechanics of identification—and of grief

Forensic identification is a slow, meticulous business of science and sorrow: DNA sampling, dental records, personal effects, cross-checking. In a conflict zone that has been pounded with bombs and bulldozers, remains may be fragmented, burned, or buried beneath the foundations of what used to be a home. That reality is one reason Hamas says it is taking time to locate and retrieve bodies—sometimes literally digging through the debris of buildings flattened over months of fighting.

“We have to be careful and methodical,” said Dr. Miriam Koren, a forensic pathologist who has worked with military and humanitarian teams in mass-casualty settings. “Hasty identifications can do more harm than good. Families deserve certainty, not speculation. In many cases, DNA is the only reliable answer, and that takes time.”

Across the region, the psychological ledger is as heavy as the physical one. There are families who have clung to hope for months, savoring each rumor and each border crossing as a possible way back to the person they loved. There are also those who have had to begin burial rituals, the small, intimate acts that communities use to mark the end of a life. Each transfer of a body—identified or not—reopens those rituals and the rawness of loss.

Voices on both sides

“When they told us bodies were coming, we ran to the hospital,” said Yael, 46, from a community near Sderot, her voice flat with exhaustion. “You live with hope and then shock and then you wait again. It’s like breathing through a straw. You always ask: might it be them? Will this end?”

On the Gaza side, the physical landscape has become a palimpsest of memory and ruin. “Homes are not homes anymore,” a resident who asked to be called Ahmed said. “Bones, personal items, letters—sometimes they are all mixed in with the concrete. We try to find them to give them back. But how do you compete with an army of bulldozers and bombs?”

Hamas officials have acknowledged the transfer process and defended the pace as inevitable given the destruction. “Locating remains in those conditions is neither easy nor quick,” said a spokesman. “We are cooperating to return the deceased to their families with dignity—this is a human task, beyond politics.”

Why this matters beyond the headlines

There are hard numbers embedded in these exchanges that tell a larger story about warfare, accountability, and humanitarian law. The ceasefire arrangement—brokered in the shadow of pressure from international capitals and humanitarian organizations—stipulated a narrow, specific set of exchanges: living captives released in the opening phase and the phased return of remains in subsequent stages. That structure recognizes, implicitly, the notion that even in war there are rules about how we treat the living and the dead.

When those rules fray—whether because of logistical difficulties, mistrust, or political theater—the consequences ripple outward. Families are kept waiting; narratives are weaponized; skepticism hardens into hardened distrust between parties and communities. “Every transfer becomes a bargaining chip,” said Dr. Lena Haddad, an international law expert. “But humanitarian gestures can also be a pathway to confidence-building. It depends on whether both sides maintain good faith in the process.”

What to watch next

For now, three more bodies sit in a laboratory, waiting for definitive answers. Eleven names remain on the list of the deceased expected to be returned under the truce. The ICRC will likely remain central as neutral facilitator. The pace of returns—both of living captives and remains—will feed narratives on both sides: narratives of responsibility or narratives of obstruction.

Key actors: ICRC (neutral facilitator), Israeli military (recipient and identifier), Hamas (custodian and transferor)
Numbers at play: 28 deceased intended to be handed over under the agreement; 17 returned so far; 11 still pending; 20 living captives released earlier in the ceasefire.
Processes involved: forensic identification (DNA, dental records), diplomatic facilitation, ground recovery in heavily damaged urban areas.

Questions that linger—where does responsibility lie?

What responsibility do combatants bear for ensuring dignified treatment of remains? How does a society reconcile the need for swift closure with the scientific need for certainty? And what is the moral currency of returning a body in the midst of a wider conflict—does it signal goodwill or buy time?

These are not rhetorical questions. They are the daily labor of diplomats, forensic teams, and families who navigate grief in the presence of politics. They are also questions we should ask as global citizens watching from afar: how do we insist that even in the worst of human conflicts, certain lines—like the dignity of the dead—be respected?

There are no tidy answers tonight. There are only bodies in a lab, families waiting at the edge of hope and memory, and an international community watching to see if the fragile scaffolding of a ceasefire can bear the weight of human grief. Will the next transfer bring clarity and calm? Or will it be followed by yet another round of explanations, accusations, and delay?

We will have to wait, and to measure the silence between the facts. In that silence live the stories of those who remain alive and those who cannot speak for themselves anymore. How will we answer them?

Under 60 global leaders slated to attend COP30 climate summit

hanad

November 1, 2025

Fewer than 60 world leaders confirmed for COP30 — Brazil's President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva visited the main venue for COP30 earlier this month

Belem Braces: An Amazonian COP Like No Other

There is a particular kind of heat in Belem that feels like an invitation and a warning at once—a heavy, humid breath off the river that coats your skin and seems to make the air itself conspiratorial. The city, a gateway to the Amazon, is pulsing with preparations. Banners are being strung across narrow streets, volunteers practice welcome lines in university halls, and, improbably, two cruise ships are anchoring off the harbor to answer a demand for beds that the city’s hotels simply cannot meet.

For the first time in COP history, the summit of heads of state will be held a few days before the main climate talks. From 6–7 November, presidents and prime ministers will gather; the full COP30 runs from 10–21 November. Brazil has said fewer than 60 world leaders have confirmed for the pre-COP summit—57, according to Mauricio Lyrio, Brazil’s chief negotiator—far fewer than the 75 leaders who attended COP29 in Azerbaijan last year.

The numbers behind the bustle

Belem, a city of roughly 1.4 million people, expects about 50,000 visitors for the two weeks of negotiations. More than half of its residents live in informal settlements, and the sudden influx has exposed brittle urban infrastructure. Traditional hotel rooms were gobbled up months ago; organizers have scrambled to repurpose university dormitories, school classrooms and private homes. Even floating hotels—those cruise ships—have become temporary solutions. Prices for accommodation and basic services have shot upward, prompting criticism that COP30 risks being “the most exclusionary in history,” a phrase environmental NGOs have used to describe a conference made inaccessible to many civil society participants.

President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva has been an outspoken champion for hosting the talks in the Amazon—an unmistakable symbol of what’s at stake. In February he brushed off accommodation worries with a memorable line: delegates could “sleep under the stars.” Whether that was rhetorical theatre or an unorthodox plan, it captured the mood: Brazil wanted the world to come to the Amazon, feel its weight and its urgency.

Local life: hospitality, hustle, and concern

Walk the Ver-o-Peso market at dawn and you can taste this place. Vendors hawk steaming bowls of tacacá, pouches of açaí, and ripe mangoes beside fish stalls where the catch glints pink and silver. A woman with a weathered face and a tattoo of a small river on her wrist—Maria Costa, 46, who runs a street-food stall—shrugs when asked whether the city is ready.

“We welcome people. We are proud,” she says, flipping a tapioca on a hot griddle. “But this will change prices for us. The bread will get heavier to buy, the bus will be full. For two weeks we get money, yes—but after, what?”

Her ambivalence is echoed across Belem. Students rent rooms to visiting delegates; a local pousada owner, Rafael Mendes, says he has raised nightly rates by 40% to cover increased costs and demand. “There are ways to show the world our forest,” Mendes says, “but it shouldn’t be at the expense of our neighbors.”

Creative solutions—and strain

Organisers have rolled out imaginative fixes: repurposing stadiums for press centers, turning university dormitories into provisional hotels, and deploying a fleet of buses to shuttle participants from ships anchored 20 km away. Yet the improvisation underscores an uncomfortable truth. Belem was not built for this scale of global diplomacy; it was built for river-laced daily life, for markets and family gatherings, not for international media throngs and armored convoys.

Who’s coming—and who’s quiet?

So far, a modest roster of heads of state has confirmed attendance. European leaders including those from Germany, the United Kingdom, the Netherlands and Norway have signaled they will come, alongside delegations from Colombia, Chile, Cape Verde and Liberia. Ireland’s Taoiseach Micheál Martin is also expected. China has said President Xi Jinping will be represented by Vice Premier Ding Xuexiang. Notably absent from confirmed lists are the United States and Argentina: neither country has said who, if anyone, will attend the leaders’ summit—an omission that fuels worry about whether geopolitical storms will drown out the climate conversation.

Confirmed leaders (high level): Germany, United Kingdom, Netherlands, Norway, Colombia, Chile, Cape Verde, Liberia, Ireland (Taoiseach Micheál Martin)
China: Vice Premier Ding Xuexiang to represent President Xi Jinping
United States and Argentina: no confirmation at time of publication
Main COP30 conference: 170 delegations accredited

Fewer leaders walking the red carpet has consequences. High-level summitry can catalyze finance pledges and political momentum. Without it, delegates fear negotiations will become technocratic, focused on minutiae while the global narrative moves elsewhere.

Voices from beyond Belem

“The symbolism of the Amazon is enormous. If leaders don’t show up, it sends a signal,” says Dr. Aisha Bello, a climate policy researcher at the University of Cape Town. “But symbolism without action is hollow. We need measurable commitments to finance conservation, slash emissions, and support Indigenous stewardship.”

Local activists are not waiting. João Silva, coordinator with a regional NGO, says grassroots groups will swarm the outskirts of official venues: “We will create our own stage. Indigenous voices, riverine communities, youth—they will make sure the Amazon’s people are seen.”

Access and equity—an international debate

There is growing disquiet that COP30 could be tilted toward elite access. Many civil society groups are priced out or lack logistics to travel. The cost of flights, accommodation, and registration can run into thousands of dollars—money that small NGOs and Indigenous associations often do not have. That raises a critical question: What does it mean for a global climate summit to convene in the Amazon if the people who live closest to the forest—the stewards, the communities—cannot take part?

“We’re not tokens,” says Ana Pereira, a young Indigenous rights advocate traveling from the interior. “We are the ones who have been protecting this forest for centuries. If leaders and big donors come here just to be seen, without listening, we’ll be holding them accountable.”

Bigger picture: The Amazon on the global stage

This more intimate, messy COP in the Amazon forces a broader reckoning. The world has long leaned on the image of the Amazon as a carbon sink and a font of biodiversity. Yet deforestation, fires and climate change are eating away at that role. Global politics are fractured—trade wars, conflicts, and shifting alliances make high-stakes cooperation harder. That is precisely why this COP matters: it is an opportunity to tether geopolitics to planetary limits.

Will the global north translate rhetoric into robust financing for conservation and transitions? Will commitments respect Indigenous sovereignty and prioritize community-led conservation? These are not just policy questions; they are moral ones.

What to watch for

Which leaders actually attend the heads-of-state summit, and what pledges they announce.
Whether funding for forest conservation and loss-and-damage measures is scaled up meaningfully.
How accessible the conference remains to Indigenous and grassroots voices—and how they are centered in negotiations.

Belem will soon be a crucible. The city’s narrow streets and riverfront markets will host a global argument about survival, responsibility and justice. As night falls and the chorus of insects rises from mangroves and back alleys, ask yourself: if the world can convene in the lungs of the planet, will it listen? Will leaders turn presence into policy? Or will the Amazon, once again, be a dramatic backdrop for politicking rather than a partner to be protected?

For those who will be there—delegates, journalists, activists, and the people of Belem—the coming weeks are a test of imagination and solidarity. The Amazon deserves nothing less than the kind of collective action that recognizes not only its global value, but the dignity and rights of the people who call it home.

UN warns Ukrainian civilians face desperate struggle to survive amid conflict

hanad

November 1, 2025

UN warns of civilian fight for survival in Ukraine — The aftermath of a Russian air strike on the city of Sloviansk, Ukraine

Winter on the Line: Life, Loss and the Looming Energy Crisis in Ukraine

The air in many Ukrainian cities already tastes faintly of coal smoke and the metallic tang of generators. In high-rise buildings that once hummed with everyday life—children riding elevators to school, neighbors exchanging bread and stories in the stairwell—there is now a quieter, more wary rhythm: the drip of tap water when it comes, the clack of improvised heaters, the distant whoosh of drones slicing the sky.

“You learn to listen for things you never thought you would,” says Oleksandra, a schoolteacher who has moved twice in two years to stay farther from front-line bombardment. “Sirens are not just a sound anymore. They are instructions.”

As Ukraine approaches its fourth winter since the full-scale invasion began in February 2022, the United Nations is warning that the fight has shifted from trenches and artillery to infrastructure—and civilians are paying the price.

The weaponization of power

“This is increasingly a technological war: a drone war,” Matthias Schmale, the UN’s humanitarian coordinator in Ukraine, told reporters in Geneva. The numbers he presented were stark: this year has been deadlier for civilians than 2024, with a roughly 30% increase in civilian casualties, and about a third of recorded deaths and injuries in 2025 attributed to drone attacks.

Those figures are not just statistics on a chart. They translate into blocked hospitals, closed markets and families huddled in cold apartment blocks when the lights go out. Schmale warned that continued, concentrated strikes on energy production and distribution—which deliver the warmth, hot water and light that make winter survivable—could spark “a major crisis.”

“Destroying energy production and distribution capacity as winter starts clearly impacts the civilian population and is a form of terror,” he said. Repairs are happening, but where destruction outpaces rebuilding, whole neighborhoods can be stranded for days or weeks.

Everyday survival — a list of necessities

In the face of these threats, humanitarian planners are mapping the bare essentials people will need to get through months of cold and darkness. The UN’s winter response plan aims to reach more than 1.7 million people with:

Heating support
Cash assistance for families
Emergency water and sanitation services
Life-saving medical supplies
Winter clothing and shelter for displaced people

But the plan is only half-funded. Schmale says the appeal is 50% covered—leaving an enormous gap at the very moment the line between relief and catastrophe narrows.

Front-line life: small gestures, large costs

Walk through a market on the edge of a contested town and you will see a civilization improvising. A woman sells homemade pickles in plastic jars she boiled to preserve; a pensioner warms his hands over a tiny gas stove, exchanging grim smiles with neighbors who remember a time when power outages were rare. These are acts of endurance, yes—but also practical measures against the cold and uncertainty.

“People are exhausted,” says Serhiy, an electrician who volunteers with a local repair crew. “We fix transformers at night by flashlight, then come back in the morning to do it again. You can only patch so much with so little.”

More than 57,000 evacuees have sought assistance at transit sites, Schmale said, a sign that mobility and supply chains are fraying where the front lines shift. Markets close to the front are becoming “increasingly dysfunctional,” he added—meaning that even those who stay behind can struggle to buy basics.

A generation of psychological wounds

Resilience is real. So is fatigue. “I am amazed by the resilience of people,” Schmale told reporters, but he was quick to caution: “Let’s not romanticise resilience.” The mental-health toll is mounting and will linger long after the guns quiet; the UN coordinator warned Ukraine may have to grapple with the psychosocial consequences “for at least a generation, if not several.”

Dr. Nina Kovalenko, a clinical psychologist working with displaced families, describes the patterns she sees: interrupted sleep, chronic anxiety, children who respond to loud noises by freezing. “Survival creates adaptations,” she says. “But those adaptations can calcify into trauma if there are no services, no time to grieve, no safe space to process what has happened.”

Repair crews and the arithmetic of destruction

Engineers and utility workers are the unsung front-line responders. They drive into areas still under threat to reconnect lines, patch ruptured pipes and restart boilers. But their tools are finite. “We can rebuild poles and transformers, but every strike sets us back,” Serhiy says. “If the pace of destruction outstrips the pace of repair, it’s not just inconvenience. It’s a humanitarian emergency.”

Schmale put it plainly: “There is no way that with the available resources we would be able to respond to a major crisis within a crisis.” Those words underscore a chilling arithmetic: fewer resources, more attacks, harsher weather—and more people pushed to the margins.

Politics, funding and a weary world

Diplomatic efforts to end the fighting have not delivered a ceasefire. High-level calls to pause hostilities have been rebuffed or have failed to gain traction, and the UN is planning for a future in which the war continues. “Our basic planning assumption for 2026 is the war is continuing,” Schmale said. “We’re sadly, dramatically, in this for the longer haul.”

That reality collides with another: the global humanitarian space is crowded. Humanitarian budgets are being stretched thin across multiple crises—from climate-driven disasters to conflicts elsewhere. Donor fatigue, competing priorities and domestic pressures in aid-supplying countries mean that appeals—for heating, for emergency repairs, for trauma counseling—often come up short.

“When winter comes, the consequences are immediate,” says Elena Petrov, director of a Kyiv-based NGO providing cash assistance. “People don’t ask for political outcomes when their pipes burst. They ask whether they can heat their home for their family.”

Why this matters to the world

This is not just a Ukrainian story. The attacks on power and water systems in Ukraine are a cautionary tale about modern warfare: conflict increasingly targets the critical infrastructure that makes urban life possible. The weaponization of energy raises questions about international norms, civilian protection and how the world responds when basic services become strategic targets.

What does it say about our global priorities when the combination of military technology and insufficient funding can tip a winter from hardship into catastrophe? How will policymakers, donors and citizens respond if the next cold season brings tens of thousands more into the cold?

Looking ahead

On a cold morning in a city near the line, Oleksandra pours tea into paper cups for the families gathered in the hallway. Children are coloring; an old radio plays a folk song as if to defy silence. “We keep going because we have to,” she says. “But there are days you can feel the weight.”

Humanity’s response in the coming months will tell us a great deal about our capacity for solidarity. Will governments and donors close the gap in the UN’s winter plan? Will international law adapt to new forms of technological warfare that strike at the heart of civilian life? And, as winter deepens, will the stories that emerge be about endurance or neglect?

These are hard questions. They deserve honest answers—and swift action. The season is coming. The lights, and lives, are on the line.

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