Nov 03(Jowhar)-Ra’iisul Wasaaraha Xukuumadda Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Mudane Xamze Cabdi Barre ayaa Kormeer degdeg ah ku tagay mid ka mid ah Xarumaha laga bixiyo Kaarka aqoonsiga Qaranka {NIRA} oo ku taala degmada Hodan ee gobolka Banaadir, isagoo faray madaxda hay’adda in dadka loo fududeeyo bixinta adeegga.
Trump leaves door open to U.S. military operation in Nigeria
“Could be”: The Words That Could Change a Nation
It was a dry, clipped exchange above the Atlantic — not a speech from a podium but a casual answer to a shouted question aboard Air Force One. “Could be,” President Donald Trump said when asked whether the United States might put boots on the ground in Nigeria or carry out air strikes. The sentence landed like a detonator in a theater already full of combustible fuel: a nation wrestling with persistent violence, a president stoking outrage on social media, and a world watching how rhetoric becomes policy.
Moments later, Mr. Trump amplified his message on Truth Social, saying he had asked the Pentagon to draw up “a plan of attack” as he warned that Christianity in Nigeria was under “existential” threat. That rapid-fire mix of on-the-record remarks and social-media theater has set off a scramble of diplomacy, denials and fear from Abuja to Lagos to villages in the Nigerian Middle Belt where communities live with daily uncertainty.
On the Ground: Lives Between Headlines
Walk through any market in Jos, the capital of Plateau State, and you’ll hear the soft, ordinary conversations of survival — the bargaining for pepper, the rattle of motorcycles, children skipping rope under the shade of tamarind trees. Yet beneath that normalcy is a long, bruising history of clashes: Boko Haram in the northeast, an insurgency that has stalked communities for more than a decade; armed herders and farmers clashing across the Middle Belt over land and water; bandit gangs in the northwest; and local militias carving out zones of control.
“We bury our dead more often now than we have weddings,” said a pastor in a small village outside Jos, speaking on the condition that his real name not be used. “When a stranger comes, my wife locks the door and counts the children twice. We are tired.”
Across town, Fatima—a shopkeeper who wears a bright hijab and sells beads and fabric—shook her head. “It is not only people of one faith who die,” she said. “We have friends and family on both sides. Our sorrow is shared. When the militias come, they do not ask who prays where.”
Numbers and Nuance
Nigeria is Africa’s most populous country, home to roughly 220 million people, with a religious landscape that is often described in broad strokes: predominantly Muslim in the north and predominantly Christian in the south, with countless communities and beliefs woven in between. But to reduce the violence to a single fault line is to miss the complexities of land use, climate pressures, weak state institutions, and criminal economies that sustain violence.
Decades of conflict have taken a heavy toll. Tens of thousands have been killed in the insurgencies and communal fights since the Boko Haram uprising began, while millions have been displaced within the country. Schools remain closed in some parts of the northeast. Farmlands lie fallow. Economic opportunities vanish. The social fabric wears thin.
Diplomacy, Denial, and the Language of Threat
Abuja’s response to the US rhetoric was carefully measured. Daniel Bwala, a spokesman for President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, suggested that a meeting between the two leaders could “iron out a common front” to tackle insecurity, and he welcomed support that respects Nigeria’s territorial integrity. “We are partners in the global fight against terrorism,” he told reporters, adding: “We do not read every social media post in the literal sense. Leaders talk. Then leaders meet.”
For many in Nigeria, the threat of foreign military intervention brings a cocktail of emotions: relief at the prospect of stopping killings; anger at what some perceive as an internationalization of a domestic crisis; and anxiety about sovereignty and the lessons of past interventions.
“History shows that foreign boots do not always deliver peace,” said Amina Ibrahim, a political scientist at a university in Abuja. “External military action can create space for state-building — or it can deepen grievance if not carefully coordinated. The United States has capabilities; but it must pair any operational support with long-term investments in governance, justice, and reconciliation.”
Voices from Washington and Beyond
In Washington, commentators framed Mr. Trump’s remarks as a blend of humanitarian concern and campaign punctuation. “This is presidential rhetoric that doubles as political theater,” said Marcus Bell, a foreign policy analyst who has tracked US engagement in West Africa. “Whether the White House has the appetite for a kinetic operation — with its legal, logistical and political complications — is another matter entirely.”
Humanitarian organizations warn that talk of strikes or foreign troops can worsen tensions on the ground. “When communities already fear being targeted, the presence of foreign forces or the threat of indiscriminate strikes risks escalating civilian harm,” said Sofia Mendes, a field director for an international aid group working in Nigeria. “Aid access is fragile. People flee. The most vulnerable pay the price.”
What Would Military Action Mean — and For Whom?
Military intervention is not merely a question of tactics. It forces us to reckon with deeper dilemmas: the line between protecting civilians and violating sovereignty; the sufficiency of military fixes for fundamentally political problems; and the risk that narratives of persecution—true and false—are leveraged to justify aggressive policies.
Ask yourself: do we want a world where the most powerful countries can unilaterally act on the basis of inflammatory social-media posts? Or do we want the painful, slow work of strengthening institutions that deliver justice and security for all citizens, regardless of faith?
Beyond the Headline: A Fragile Future
There is no neat answer. What is clear is that rhetoric changes realities. For families digging graves in the long shadow of violence, words from a distant leader can either spark hope or stoke fear. For diplomats, the current moment is an urgent test of whether international cooperation can translate into sustained, respectful action.
In villages and cities across Nigeria, people will continue waking early to tend goats, to cook, to pray and to protect their children. They will also be watching global leaders more closely than ever—counting promises, weighing motives, hoping for durable relief rather than a headline-making strike.
So what now? Will diplomacy follow the chatter? Will non-military avenues—economic aid, training for security forces, community reconciliation programs—get the resources they need? Or will the world learn once more the hard lesson that violence cannot be solved through a single campaign but through patient, often humbling statecraft?
As the sun sets over Lagos and the airlift hums in far-off skies, these questions hang in the warm dusk. They are not just Nigeria’s to answer; they are ours to witness and to weigh. If we care about justice, stability, and the dignity of ordinary lives, how will we choose to act?
Afghanistan earthquake leaves 20 dead, more than 300 injured
When the Earth Remembers: Mazar-i-Sharif After the 6.3 Quake
Night in Mazar-i-Sharif is usually the kind of slow, fragrant darkness that invites long cups of tea and the low chatter of old men on benches. On the night the ground woke, that hush was broken by a sound people compared to a distant train, then glass, then the groan of walls unmade.
At 6.3 magnitude and roughly 28 kilometres below the surface, the earthquake’s epicentre was traced near Mazar-i-Sharif by the US Geological Survey. By dawn, provincial health officials were reporting at least 20 dead and some 320 injured across Balkh and Samangan provinces, a preliminary tally that worried medics said would rise as rescuers reached remote hamlets.
The night the earth moved
“We were asleep. Suddenly the house was shaking like a leaf,” said Ahmad, a shopkeeper who lives close to the old bazaar, cradling a blanket against the morning chill. “My children were screaming. We ran into the street. People were holding candles and shouting the names of their neighbours.”
In cities and villages across northern Afghanistan, people poured into the open under a sky nervy with stars. Even in Kabul — some 420 kilometres away — correspondents felt the tremor. For many, the instinctive move was to the streets and courtyards, away from mudbrick walls that have stood for generations but were built for customs and warmth, not seismic resilience.
Blue tiles, broken pieces
The city’s famed Blue Mosque — a 15th-century jewel of turquoise tiles and towering minarets — bears the visible memory of the quake. Photographs and on-the-ground reports showed fragments of tile and masonry from one of its minarets strewn across the courtyard. For locals, the mosque is more than architecture; it is the city’s heart and an anchor for pilgrims and rare visitors.
“Seeing those tiles on the ground felt like seeing a piece of our history fall,” said Farah Naz, a schoolteacher who lives nearby. “You can fix stones, but you can’t stitch feelings as easily.”
On the map of risk: why Afghanistan trembles
Afghanistan sits along a jagged seam in the earth where the Eurasian and Indian tectonic plates meet, a region of frequent tremors, particularly along the Hindu Kush range. Earthquakes are not a novelty here; they are a recurring hazard in a landscape already worn thin by decades of conflict, drought, and economic strain.
In the past three years alone, the country has been battered by several lethal quakes: a shallow magnitude-6.0 tremor in August that devastated eastern villages, killing more than 2,200 people; significant shocks in Herat in 2023; and in Nangarhar in 2022 that flattened homes and lives alike. Each time, the pattern repeats: fragile housing stock, steep and remote roads, and communities cut off from immediate help.
Pockets of vulnerability
Most Afghans live in rural areas where homes are built of sun-baked bricks, stone, and mud — materials that keep heat and cold at bay but do little against a violent jolt. “You build what you know with the means you have,” explained Dr. Leyla Shirzada, a civil engineer who has worked on rural reconstruction projects. “Without training, funds, or building codes enforced, resilience becomes a luxury, not a standard.”
Poor communications amplify the danger. Mountainous terrain and aging infrastructure turn an emergency into a long wait. In past disasters, it has taken hours — and sometimes days — for authorities and aid agencies to reach cut-off villages. The result: delayed medical care, slower searches for survivors, and prolonged exposure for those who have lost shelter.
An unraveling safety net
The quake lands on an Afghanistan already strained by a humanitarian crisis. The Taliban administration, in power since 2021, is confronting its third major deadly earthquake during its rule even as international aid — once a lifeline for much of the country’s services — has declined dramatically. The United Nations and humanitarian groups have warned of rising hunger, and millions have been displaced or pushed back from neighbouring countries, putting more people in precarious conditions.
“If you compound natural hazards with economic restrictions, banking paralysis, and drought, you have a catastrophe that keeps renewing itself,” said Martina Kline, a regional analyst with an international aid agency. “The physical shaking is only part of the story. The rest is institutional fragility.”
Beyond the numbers are everyday tragedies: families who lose a breadwinner, a child’s schoolroom turned to rubble, a market stall where a livelihood once hummed now down to splinters. Those losses ripple across communities where social networks are the safety net and are already stretched thin.
Fast facts: the quake at a glance
- Magnitude: 6.3
- Depth: ~28 km
- Epicentre: Near Mazar-i-Sharif, northern Afghanistan
- Preliminary casualties: 20 dead, ~320 injured (Balkh and Samangan provinces)
- Distance to Kabul: ~420 km
Voices from the rubble
“We are hungry and now homeless,” said a woman who gave her name as Habiba, picking through the remnants of her home with slow, precise movements. “We don’t know where to go. The government says help is coming, but we have been waiting before.”
An official health ministry spokesman urged calm and patience, reminding people that assessing the full scale of damage takes time because of the country’s geography. “Our teams are mobilising; we will prioritise the most affected areas,” he told journalists. Yet for many in remote valleys, the arrival of aid depends on weather, road access, and the thin capacity of local responders.
What must change — and what can be done
Long after the headlines fade, reconstruction will demand more than bricks. Experts point to several urgent priorities:
- Investing in seismic-resistant building techniques scaled to local materials and budgets.
- Strengthening early-warning and communications systems to reach rural communities faster.
- Supporting local first responders and training community-based search-and-rescue teams.
- Restoring and expanding humanitarian assistance with clear, accountable channels to reach the most vulnerable.
“You can’t buy resilience overnight,” Dr. Shirzada said. “But you can start with training masons, distributing simple guidelines for safer construction, and investing in community-level preparedness. Small steps save lives.”
Why this matters to the world
Afghanistan’s quake is a reminder that natural hazards do not respect borders; their impacts are magnified by poverty, conflict, and policy choices. The international community faces a familiar test: whether to respond with resources that rebuild not just walls but systems, or whether to provide temporary fixes that leave vulnerabilities intact.
As you read this, ask yourself: when a place is broken by policy as much as by disaster, who bears the responsibility to repair it? What role should distant governments, aid groups, and private donors play in helping communities reimagine safer futures?
In Mazar-i-Sharif, among the shards of tile and the candles in courtyards, people are already answering in the old ways — neighbours moving in to share food, a mosque opening its doors, a teenager ferrying water to an injured neighbour. Those small acts — human, immediate, stubbornly kind — will be the first scaffolding of recovery.
The earth will move again. The question is whether the next time, fewer families will pay with their homes and lives. If we mean to learn, the work starts now, not in the news cycle, but in the training, the rebuilding, and the policy choices that follow.
NIRA oo war kasoo saartay Hooyooyin wadooyinka saq u dhexe u taagan kaarkooda
Nov 03(Jowhar)-Maareeyaha Hay’adda NIRA Cabdiweli Timacadde ayaa ka hadlay Muuqaalo iyo Sawirro qabsaday Baraha Bulshada kuwaasi oo muujinayey Haween iyo dad kale oo xilli habeen ah dhax jiifa mid ka mid ah wadooyinka Muqdisho si ay xilliga aroortii ah u helaan Kaarka hay’adda.
Askari Gorgor ah oo laba Nabad Sugida ka tiraan ku dilay magaalada Muqdisho
Nov 03(Jowhar)-Laba askri oo ka tirsan Nabad Sugida magaalada Muqdisho ayaa xalay lagu dilay degmada Garasbaaley ee dhacda duleedka caasimadda.
Irish couple stranded in Jamaica say “nobody is helping us”
Stranded in Paradise: Storm, Shortages and the Long Road Home After Hurricane Melissa
The buzz of reggae and the smell of salt and sun have been replaced by a different kind of soundtrack in Montego Bay: the rhythmic drip of rainwater, the distant hum of generators, and the low, urgent chatter of guests gathered beneath hotel awnings. For Lisa and Brendan Mooney, what was meant to be a dream 50th birthday escape has been folded into a waiting game — one measured in cancelled flights, dwindling supplies and the tiny, persistent worry that comes when you rely on a medical device far from home.
“We came for beaches and jerk chicken,” Lisa said, speaking through a cracked hotel phone as she sat on the edge of a towel-covered bed, “and now we’re queuing for bottled water like it’s the only thing that matters.” Her voice, at once tired and wry, carries a familiar human timbre: resigned, but not defeated. “They’re rationing pool water for flushing — two hours a night. I’ve had to mop the rain out of the room myself. I’m on an insulin pump. I need proper food and my medications. I need to be home for my kids.”
A storm of a scale not seen in decades
Locals and visitors alike are processing what meteorologists and government officials described as a historic blow. Melissa — which forecasters said was the most powerful storm to directly strike Jamaica in decades — carved a path of topsy-turvy roofs, flooded streets and damaged infrastructure. News outlets compared it to Hurricane Gilbert, the last major system to land-force Jamaica in 1988, and officials warned the island is only at the beginning of the recovery.
“We have never seen something hit like this in our memory,” said Marcia Thompson, a hotelfront desk manager who stayed through the worst of the winds. “People were scared. A lot of my colleagues lost their homes. We’re trying to help guests, but the staff here are hurting too.”
Jamaica’s tourism industry — which, depending on how you count direct and indirect activity, accounts for roughly a third of the island’s economy — now faces a twin crisis: caring for the thousands hurt and displaced, while also dealing with an immediate collapse in visitor infrastructure that sustains livelihoods across the island.
The human side of a travel nightmare
For the Mooneys, the practical obstacles have been relentless. Their holiday has been punctuated by cancelled flights — two already — and a third connection that, as of our conversation, was booked to New York, a gateway that might or might not fly depending on the broader recovery. “We are now booked on one to New York on Tuesday afternoon,” Lisa told me. “We are hoping against hope that it leaves.”
Beyond the logistics lies the emotional toll. The couple are parents of three back in Loughlinstown, Dublin. “I want to get home. I keep thinking about the kids and the routine that keeps our lives together,” Brendan added from his phone, the cracks of intermittent signal making him pause between words. “But I also think about the people here — the taxi drivers, the tour guides who make their lives from this. They need the tourists to return, but they also need time to heal.”
Local shopkeeper Alvin Grant summed it up on a humid, grey morning outside his shuttered storefront. “When the cruise ships stop, everything slows — the market, the eateries, the whole village. We depend on people coming here,” he said. “We’ll rebuild. But it’s hard when the money stops suddenly.”
Consular care, advice — and unequal responses
Back home, the Department of Foreign Affairs was quick to say it was aware of a small number of Irish citizens seeking to leave Jamaica and that consular officers were providing help and advice. The Irish Travel Agents Association urged travellers to monitor local updates, to keep their phones charged and to contact their tour operators for support.
“We’re in contact with Irish nationals in the area and are providing advice on safe travel home,” said a spokesman for the Department. “Our teams are coordinating with airlines where possible, but flight schedules are dependent on local recovery and airport capabilities.”
Not everyone feels the response has matched the need. “England and Canada have put on flights to take their citizens home,” Lisa said. “We feel a bit left on our own.” Whether or not that perception is a reflection of diplomatic choices, it underscores a bitter truth about emergencies: repatriation capacity is unequal, and the politics of evacuation can leave people feeling exposed.
Why storms like Melissa are getting tougher to predict — and more destructive
Experts say Melissa’s ferocity is not an isolated curiosity but part of a broader pattern. “Warmer oceans and shifts in atmospheric patterns are making the strongest storms stronger and sometimes faster,” said Dr. Ana Clarke, a climate researcher at the University of the West Indies. “We’re seeing more intense rainfall and more rapid intensification of tropical cyclones in the tropics. That increases the risk to islands like Jamaica that have limited buffer zones.”
Global climate assessments have found that while the total number of tropical cyclones may not be increasing dramatically, the proportion of the most intense storms — Categories 4 and 5 — has risen in recent decades. For island nations, this means that rare events can become suddenly more perilous.
Small comforts, big questions
Across Jamaica, the response has become a mix of improvisation and resilience. Church halls have turned into shelters. A local bakery in Montego Bay opened early to hand out bread. Volunteer crews from neighbouring parishes drove through mud and detritus to help clear roads.
“We’re doing what we can,” said Reverend Dwight Palmer, who coordinated a local relief point. “We’re offering shelters, meals, and a listening ear. But this is a big storm. The reality is resources will be stretched for weeks.”
For tourists stranded in the aftermath, small acts matter. “A woman from a nearby guesthouse handed me a cup of stew when she heard I had children waiting at home,” Lisa remembered. “It was just kindness. That’s what keeps you going.”
Practical notes for travellers — and a moment to reflect
If you are traveling or planning to, consider these practical steps to reduce risk and stay informed:
- Keep travel insurance up to date and read the emergency evacuation clauses carefully.
- Register with your embassy or foreign office so consular services can reach you quickly.
- Keep essential medications and supplies in carry-on luggage; carry a doctor’s note for devices like insulin pumps.
- Follow local authorities’ instructions and stay tuned to local news and official channels.
But beyond the checklist lies a larger conversation. What does it mean to travel in a warming world? How should governments, airlines and the tourism industry balance the economic lifeline visitors provide with the duty to protect both travellers and the communities they visit?
“We’d all rather be in the sand with a rum punch,” Brendan said, searching for a brighter note. “But when things go wrong, you see what matters: family, safety, and the kindness of strangers. I just want to be home — but I also hope Jamaica gets the help it needs to heal.”
As recovery unfolds, the world will be watching. Not simply because of tourists like the Mooneys, but because islands like Jamaica are early warning systems — a glimpse of how climate shocks can ripple through economies, families and daily life. How we respond now says something about our priorities. It asks us to consider: when travel returns, what kind of resilience should we demand for the places we love to visit?
Man Charged with Killing Irish Pensioner Goes on Trial
A quiet corner of north London remembers an Irish gentleman and a trial begins
On a grey morning in London, the Old Bailey took on the air of a theatre for grief: a small, deliberate procession of people on the steps, umbrellas folded, breath visible in the cool air, their faces carrying the weight of something more than a legal proceeding.
They were there for John — or, as everyone who knew him called him, Jack — Mackey: 87 years old, originally from Callan in County Kilkenny, a familiar figure in a neighbourhood whose shops and pavements he knew better than most. Today the city’s pulse threaded through the courthouse as a trial opened into the man accused of killing him last May.
The life behind the headlines
Walk down the high street where Mr Mackey lived and the evidence of a life is in the small things: the Arsenal scarf folded neatly on a chair, the magnet on his fridge from some long-ago Irish festival, the ritual walk to “the shop” and, for a late treat, the kebab place that smelled of grilled meat and garlic every evening.
“He’d never miss a match. Even at his age,” said Maria O’Donnell, who runs the greengrocer’s where John bought his apples. “If Arsenal were on, you’d hear him cheering. He was a gentleman. He’d chat about Callan like it was right around the corner.”
John’s story is not unusual among the Irish diaspora: decades of migration, community halls, parish gatherings and pubs where news and solace are shared. To many locals he was the human timeline — the last living link for some between this little pocket of north London and the small town in Kilkenny that shaped him.
A neighbour’s memory
“He used to sit by the window on sunny days, a cup of tea and the radio on,” said Eileen Byrne, a neighbour of 15 years. “He’d wave at the kids. We’d talk about the garden. After he died, the whole street felt hollow. There’s a silence now where his laughter used to be.”
How a short walk home turned into tragedy
The sequence of what happened on that ordinary evening is, in its simplicity, precisely what makes it wrenching. Police say Mr Mackey had been to his local supermarket and then popped into a kebab shop, the sort of small, late-night ritual many pensioners keep. CCTV footage and witness statements form the spine of the case heard now in court: he was attacked while walking home, sustained head injuries, and died in hospital two days later.
“I remember seeing him leave the shop,” said Omar, who works the late shift at the kebab shop. “He bought his usual, paid with coins, and told me to put extra chili on it. He was always laughing. It’s hard to believe it ended like this.”
As the trial begins, the defendant — named in court papers as 58-year-old Peter Augustine — appears in the dock. He has pleaded not guilty to charges of murder and robbery. In a preliminary hearing he was linked to the events via video link. The court has also been told that a psychiatric defence will not be raised.
In the Old Bailey: procedure, people, and what to expect
The Old Bailey, one of the most famous criminal courts in the world, is where the stark business of criminal justice meets human stories. Trials there move at a measured pace: jury empanelment, opening speeches, witnesses, expert testimony, cross-examination, and closing submissions. This case is expected to run for about two weeks.
“The jury will be asked to weigh every piece of evidence against the standard we all know: proof beyond reasonable doubt,” said Simon Hargreaves, a criminal barrister who has practised at the Old Bailey for twenty years. “The prosecution must link the defendant to the act and the intent. Defences other than psychiatric ones — such as alibi or lack of intent — are still possible.”
Legal procedure is clinical; grief is anything but. For John’s family, an everyday life has been reduced to testimony and exhibits. “We’re living with a photograph of him on the mantelpiece and a hundred questions,” said a family friend who asked to remain anonymous. “We want answers. We want justice. But we also want him to be remembered for the man he was.”
Community reaction and the quiet work of mourning
The Irish Centre on the edge of the neighbourhood has hosted a steady stream of neighbours, parishioners and strangers seeking to leave a note, a candle, a sandwich bag of wildflowers. A makeshift shrine gathered at the junction where he walked home: a paper scarf, a matchbox car, a laminated match-day ticket — small tokens of a life and the communal hurt that follows a sudden death.
“We’re a close knit place. When something like this happens, everyone feels it,” said Father Declan O’Rourke of the local parish. “We remembered John at Mass. We pray for the truth to come out, for a sense of closure for his relatives in Ireland and here.”
- Timeline: Attack took place last May; Mr Mackey died two days later in hospital.
- Defendant: 58-year-old Peter Augustine; pleaded not guilty to murder and robbery.
- Court details: Trial opened at the Old Bailey and is expected to last roughly two weeks.
- Defence: No psychiatric defence will be raised, according to court filings.
Beyond one tragedy — broader questions about safety and the care of older people
When a community mourns this way, it naturally asks larger questions. Are older people safe on city streets? How do we protect the dignity of those who grew up in different eras and now find themselves vulnerable in ways their parents never imagined?
Charities that work with older adults have long pointed to social isolation, poverty and the simple hazards of mobility as factors that increase vulnerability. “The outrage is understandable,” said Dr. Amina Shah, a sociologist who studies ageing in urban environments. “But we should also ask how urban design, low levels of community support, and cuts to services intersect to make seniors more exposed to harm.”
Statistics vary by locality, but the narrative is clear: many older adults face increased risks on the street, whether through falls, scams, or assaults. Advocacy groups argue that safe streets policy, increased community policing, and better support networks can make a difference.
What justice might look like and what we owe one another
Trials like this one are not only about guilt or innocence. They are the legal mechanism by which a society tries to make sense of sudden violence. They also reveal the patchwork of human relationships that stand in the wake of a loss.
“We want to remember him laughing, not the last image on a CCTV screen,” Maria the greengrocer told me, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Justice is necessary, but so is kindness. We must look out for our older people; sometimes that’s the only difference between a life and a tragedy.”
So as the courts do their work, the neighbourhood will keep its vigil in smaller ways: the empty chair at the bingo night, the quiet at the market, a spare seat at the pub on match day. These are the small reckonings that keep memory alive.
What would you do if someone in your street was suddenly gone? How do we build places where elders can feel both independent and looked after? Perhaps the answer begins, simply, with noticing: seeing the people who wave from their windows and returning the gesture.
Irish expat in Jamaica details widespread devastation following storm
When the Sea Took the Shore: Stories from Jamaica after Hurricane Melissa
The beach that used to be a strip of gold and limestone is gone. Where children paddled and old men mended nets, there are now ragged cliffs of uprooted sand and the skeletons of wooden homes. I stood on a ridge above Lacovia, watching waves hollow out the coastline as if the island were made of sugar. The wind had long since died; the silence afterward felt like the pause between heartbeats.
Hurricane Melissa hit Jamaica with a ferocity that locals say they have never seen. Meteorological reports put peak gusts at roughly 298 km/h—about 185 mph—tearing across the island’s western side and flattening whole neighborhoods in parishes already vulnerable to storms. Officials estimate tens of thousands have been displaced; volunteers on the ground talk of roughly 30,000 people now without homes. For many, the world as they knew it has been braided into salt and timber and dust.
Faces, Names, and a Fractured Coastline
Orlagh Kilbride, 45, moved from Dublin nearly a decade ago and made Jamaica home. She describes the noise as something physical—“like a freight train with the sky painted on it”—and has set up fundraising channels to help friends and strangers in the hardest-hit parishes.
“I don’t want to be dramatic, but I’ve never seen anything like this,” she told me, voice still thick with the aftershock of what she witnessed. “Beaches have been eaten up to the buildings themselves. In some towns the only thing standing are a few concrete shells and a lot of rubbish—boats, corrugated iron, entire roofs gone.”
Kingston, the capital where Orlagh lives, felt the hurricane but was spared the worst. In St Elizabeth, Middle Quarters, and other western districts, the story is different. Wooden houses—built for the breeze, not for a storm that behaves like a freight train—were sheared off their foundations. Coconut palms that had shaded backyards for generations are snapped like matchsticks. The scent of seawater and diesel hangs in the air.
On the Ground: Voices from the South and West
“We woke to the sound of the roof being peeled,” said Marlene Stewart, a market vendor from a village outside Santa Cruz. “I grabbed my grandson and our passports. After that, everything else was gone. Boats I’ve known since I was a child are nowhere.”
A farmer in St Elizabeth, who did not want his name printed, walked me through fields of flattened yams and bananas. “This land fed us,” he said. “Now it’s a mud picture, you know? The bananas are all on the ground. The trees—gone. We were already struggling from dry spells last season. Now this.”
These are not isolated anecdotes. Jamaica’s agricultural backbone runs through the very parishes most damaged. Agriculture Minister Floyd Green warned that Melissa could have “a crippling effect” on production: the loss of crops, livestock, and infrastructure threatens both immediate food security and longer-term livelihoods. The full accounting of damage will take days of assessments, he said, but the early signs are grim.
Not Just Weather: A Snapshot of Compounded Vulnerability
Ask any scientist and they will tell you storms alone don’t create disasters—society’s choices do. Jamaica sits in the hurricane belt, yes, but decades of coastal development, economic inequality, and a changing climate have made storms more devastating.
Sea-level rise and warmer ocean temperatures fuel stronger hurricanes. The latest climate analyses show a worrying trend: while the total number of tropical storms may not spike dramatically, the proportion of high-intensity events—Category 4 and 5 storms—has risen. For low-lying Caribbean nations, that means each event is more likely to be shattering.
“What we’re seeing is a warning,” says Dr. Leila Ramachandran, an expert in Caribbean climate resilience. “There’s an interaction between coastal erosion, storm surge, and infrastructure that was never designed for these kinds of wind loads. Areas rebuilt after prior storms can be wiped out again—because nothing fundamentally changes in how, where, and for whom we build.”
Community Resilience: A Patchwork of Care
One thing you notice fast in Jamaica is how quickly people turn to one another. Where government resources are stretched, communities form human chains of help. Churches become shelters, rum shops become coordination points, and the reggae beat—somehow—continues between cleanups, a reminder of endurance.
“We’ve pooled what little we had,” said Pastor Samuel Clarke of a small church that became a relief hub. “We are giving out food parcels, mattresses, water. But someone needs to look at rebuilding houses properly. We cannot keep rebuilding like this.”
Orlagh has directed funds to local charities and the Red Cross, insisting that money goes where it will have an immediate effect—food, water, tarpaulins, and basic building materials. She set up a GoFundMe; within days strangers across oceans had donated. “People here don’t want pity,” she said, “they want a hand up. They want to be back in their homes.”
How you can help
- Donate to trusted local organizations like the Jamaican Red Cross or accredited community groups coordinating relief.
- Support farmers’ cooperatives buying seeds and tools so planting season isn’t lost.
- Follow verified updates from Jamaica’s Office of Disaster Preparedness and Emergency Management (ODPEM) for needs lists and shelter information.
Beyond Aid: Questions the Storm Raises for Us All
There is a larger conversation to be had. How do small island states prepare for more frequent, more destructive storms? What international mechanisms are in place to help them recover without sinking into debt? How do nations balance tourism, coast-hugging development, and the long-term need for resilient infrastructure?
Melissa is one hurricane in a long, unfolding story. But it is also a test—a measure of the choices we make collectively. Will recovery dollars lead to short-term fixes or to climate-smart rebuilding that respects coastlines, reinforces homes, and preserves livelihoods?
Back in a temporary shelter, a young teacher from Middle Quarters asked me quietly: “When will it be our turn to breathe again?” It’s a question that applies not only to her community, but to many regions worldwide facing a future where extreme weather is one of the defining features of the next decades.
What Comes Next
Assessments continue. International aid agencies are coordinating with the Jamaican government. Disaster-relief funds and insurance pools will play a role in reconstruction. But reconstruction must be more than cosmetic. It must be an invitation to rethink where and how people live and how to build resilience into economies that depend on the land and the sea.
For now the work is urgent: restoring shelters, replanting crops, clearing roads, and caring for the displaced. People like Orlagh and Pastor Clarke are already doing that work. Others will come. The Atlantic, always restless, will keep pushing at the island’s edges. The real question is whether the response will leave Jamaica better prepared for the next time the storm comes.
Will we choose to give only charity, or will we also give change?
Israeli army confirms it has received remains of three Gaza hostages
Nightfall and Coffins: A Fragile Exchange in a Fractured City
When the Red Cross truck rolled through Gaza City tonight, it carried not relief but closure — or the slender, terrible semblance of it. Three coffins, wrapped and labeled, moved through streets still pocked by shelling and memory. For families waiting on either side of the conflict, such moments are wrenching: relief that a loved one’s remains could finally be reclaimed, anger at the delay, and a hollowing sense that peace still feels a long way off.
“We have been living between hope and horror,” said Layla, a mother who lost a relative in the early days of the fighting and who has spent months shuttling between hospitals and DNA clinics. “Tonight we will light a candle for them. It is not justice, but it is an end to not knowing.”
Numbers That Tell a Story
The exchange this evening was part of a US-brokered ceasefire that has held, tenuously, since 10 October. According to military and humanitarian briefings, three coffins were transferred into the custody of the Red Cross and moved toward Israeli Defense Forces units along Gaza’s edge. Since the truce began, Hamas has released 20 surviving hostages and has begun returning the remains of those killed.
Of 28 bodies identified for return so far, 17 have been handed over — including 15 Israelis, one Thai national, and one Nepalese national — leaving 11 still to be accounted for. These are numbers that flatten grief into data, and yet each digit represents a family, a funeral, a hole in a home.
- Ceasefire start date: 10 October (US-brokered)
- Surviving hostages released: 20
- Bodies returned so far: 17 of 28 (15 Israelis, 1 Thai, 1 Nepalese)
- Palestinian deaths since ceasefire (reported): at least 236, according to the Palestinian health ministry
- Israeli soldiers killed in same period (reported): 3
- US troops in southern Israel to monitor the truce: about 200
Between a Truce and Its Violations
Truces are often less a line than a seam — the fabric stitched back together but still puckered. Despite the deal, daily violations have been reported, and both sides trade accusations. The Palestinian health ministry says at least 236 Palestinians, mostly civilians, have been killed since the ceasefire took effect. Israel reports that three of its soldiers have been killed by gunmen in the same period, and it stresses that its strikes are focused on militants.
One such strike, the Israeli military said, targeted a militant posing an immediate threat to its troops; Gaza’s Al-Ahli Hospital reported that a man was killed near a vegetable market in the Shejaia neighborhood. Nearby vendors, still trying to salvage their livelihoods, described the scene.
“He was buying tomatoes,” said Ahmed, a vendor who declined to give his full name. “We heard the plane, saw the dust, then chaos. You cannot live like this and run a family stall.”
The Return of Remains: Logistics, Politics, and Pain
Returning bodies, humanitarian workers warn, is more complicated than a single handover. Many remains are buried under the rubble of collapsed buildings, or damaged beyond easy identification. Forensic teams, DNA tests, and secure transfer corridors are all required. Hamas says the slow pace is because remains are often trapped under debris. Israel, meanwhile, has accused Hamas of delaying the process for political leverage.
“These are delicate, human matters,” said a Red Cross official who spoke on condition of anonymity to describe sensitive operations. “We facilitate with respect and neutrality, but we cannot perform magic. Time, resources and security determine what is possible.”
Voices from the Ground
The human tapestry in Gaza and Israel is complex and contradictory: rage and restraint, mourning and small acts of daily life. An Israeli family that lost a soldier after the truce described their grief as layered with frustration.
“We were promised a ceasefire to bring people home,” said Ronen, who lost his brother during clashes near Gaza’s perimeter. “We want the government to be firm — bring them back, secure our borders — but we also need honesty about the cost. We live with both.”
Across the line, an aid worker who has been coordinating food distributions in southern Gaza spoke of the psychological weight of the exchanges.
“Even when a body is returned, it doesn’t heal the trauma,” she said. “People in Gaza are trying to rebuild lives with one hand while digging with the other.”
Symbols on the Street
The visual shorthand of war is familiar: Red Cross ambulances threaded through ruins, bulldozers scraping rubble where homes once stood, militants shadowing convoys. Images of a Red Cross vehicle followed by a bulldozer through Gaza City have become a motif in these exchanges — part practical, part symbolic of who controls mobility and narrative in the city.
International Roles and the Road Ahead
Diplomacy remains central but fragile. U.S. officials are actively involved — the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff met with Israel’s military leadership recently as part of broader regional consultations. About 200 U.S. troops are deploying to southern Israel to monitor the ceasefire and to plan for an international stabilization force in Gaza, officials say.
Yet promises of future plans bump into hard realities: disarmament of armed groups, the presence of foreign forces, and a timetable for Israeli withdrawal from Gaza are all major obstacles. The user-provided briefing mentioned a 20-point plan by former President Donald Trump as a reference point for potential next steps, but major gaps remain.
“Stability will require more than troops and plans,” said Dr. Miriam Soltani, a Middle East analyst. “It requires accountability, reconstruction funds, political frameworks, and crucially — a vision that ordinary people can buy into. Otherwise, pauses will become merely pauses.”
What Are We Willing to Risk for Peace?
Ask yourself: what does closure look like in a world where coffins travel like diplomatic cargo, where bodies and hostages become bargaining chips, where daily lives are interrupted by ceasefires that can fray at any moment? When does the return of a single life translate into a broader chance for peace?
The small rituals — lighting a candle, laying out a meal, re-watching a video of a lost one — are how people stitch meaning back into life. Yet the macro forces — geopolitics, military strategy, international law — shape whether those rituals can be honored calmly or must be performed under the shadow of conflict.
Closing
Tonight’s exchange offered both sorrow and a slender, fragile hope. The coffins inch back toward families; the truce holds, imperfectly. In the weeks and months ahead, the questions will multiply: Can talking replace fighting? Who will oversee the clearing of rubble and the identification of the missing? And perhaps most wrenching, can a region exhausted by cycles of violence find a way to make these exchanges — and the human stories they contain — matter beyond the moment?
“We do not want trophies, we want our people home,” one relative said simply. “That is the only language everyone understands.”
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