Family of Novichok Victim Rejects Conclusions of Public Inquiry Report

December 5, 2025

Novichok victim's family criticise public inquiry report — Dawn Sturgess died after being exposed to the nerve agent in Amesbury, Wiltshire, in 2018 (file image)

A Quiet Town, a Loud Reckoning: The Fallout from the Novichok Inquiry

On a cool Wiltshire morning, the air over Amesbury felt ordinary in a way that made the headlines sting all the more. Pigeons shuffled on the high street; a woman swept leaves outside a charity shop. But the hush contained a rawness — the kind of collective intake of breath a town gives when it remembers that something terrible once happened here and no one was ever truly satisfied with the explanation.

That dissatisfaction has returned like an old ache after the publication of the final inquiry into the nerve-agent poisoning that claimed the life of 44-year-old Dawn Sturgess. The report pointed an unflinching finger at the Russian military intelligence agency, the GRU, and at President Vladimir Putin’s leadership; but it left the families wanting more than blame. They wanted change.

The family’s call: reflection, responsibility, and reform

“We can have Dawn back now,” her father, Stan Sturgess, told reporters with the flat, exhausted relief of someone who has spent years living with a public tragedy. “She’s been public for seven years. We can finally put her to peace.”

His words landed in the national consciousness like a bell at the end of a memorial service — equal parts grief and the desire for closure. Yet closure, the family say, must not be just a private act of mourning. “There should, there must, be reflection and real change,” the family’s statement read, calling it “a matter for real concern” that the inquiry chair made no formal recommendations to prevent a similar tragedy.

To the Sturgesses and many in Amesbury, the report stitched a narrative: a Georgian door handle smeared with a lethal chemical, a planned public demonstration of power, and a failures-in-the-gap when it came to assessing and protecting risk. But facts and sentences in a public document do not always translate into policy shifts that stop the next preventable harm.

What the inquiry concluded — and what it did not do

Lord Hughes, the inquiry chair, wrote in stark terms: the operation that led to the poisonings was “astonishingly reckless,” and he placed “moral responsibility” for Dawn’s death at the highest levels of the Russian state. He described how a GRU unit had used the attempt on former spy Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia as a demonstration — a message sent in a way that shattered ordinary assumptions about safety in public spaces.

But the report also stopped short of prescribing reforms. It walked through a sequence of events, named the actors, and scolded the recklessness. It did not set out a menu of actionable recommendations for protecting vulnerable people, for improving interagency risk assessments, or for compensating those whose lives had been upended. To the family, that omission feels like an unfinished sentence.

Sanctions, diplomacy, and a message from Westminster

In the hours after the report’s release, the UK government acted — not with the legislative prescription the Sturgesses had asked for, but with punitive measures aimed at the perpetrators. The Foreign Office sanctioned the GRU in its entirety, and designated 11 individuals linked to state-sponsored hostile activities. Eight of those were identified as GRU cyber officers, implicated in operations ranging from malware campaigns to disruptive incidents across Europe; another three were accused of planning plots, including an alleged terror plot targeting supermarkets in Ukraine.

GRU sanctioned as an organization
11 individuals designated for state-sponsored hostile activity
Eight identified cyber-officers targeted for disruptive cyber operations
Three additional officers designated for alleged plots in Europe

Prime Minister Keir Starmer characterized Dawn’s death as “a tragedy” and framed the government’s response as part of a broader stance against what he described as Kremlin aggression. “The UK will always stand up to Putin’s brutal regime,” he said, calling the report “a grave reminder of the Kremlin’s disregard for innocent lives.” The UK also summoned Moscow’s ambassador, a diplomatic gesture that is both a rebuke and a spotlight.

Amesbury remembers — and asks questions

Walk the quiet lanes of Amesbury and you will hear the ordinary sounds of an English market town. Yet beneath them there are memorials: flowers long since dried, a candle still clinging to memory, conversations paused out of respect. “We’re a small place,” said a cafe owner who asked not to be named. “When something like this happens, it’s everyone’s story. It’s our friends, our NHS, the police who ran down to help. The report tells us who did it, but not always how to sleep at night.”

Nick Bailey, the police officer who was poisoned while doing his duty that day, survived — like the Skripals — but the costs to his health and to the community were indelible. For neighbors, the episode was not an abstract geopolitical moment but a day of sirens, of cordons, and of the smell of antiseptic that lingered in the air like a ghost.

Experts and the law

Specialists in chemical weapons law and public safety have been watching closely. “The use of a nerve agent on civil streets is a violation of international norms and domestic safety expectations,” said a chemical weapons analyst. “The Chemical Weapons Convention bans these agents and their use represents a fundamental breach of the post-war order we rely on to make public life safe.”

But how nations translate international outrage into better protection for citizens is a thorny policy question. Should every public inquiry set out mandatory reforms? If so, who ensures their implementation? These are complicated governance questions that hover over the Sturgess family’s demand for “real change.”

From a single tragedy to global implications

Why should readers half a world away care about a singular incident in a small English town? Because the story is a prism through which modern challenges focus: statecraft that disregards civilian lives, the expansion of cyber and chemical tools of influence, and fragile systems of accountability in an interconnected world.

When a spy’s residence becomes the stage for a message sent in the most obvious but most dangerous way — contamination on a doorknob — it shatters the line between war and peace. It raises the question: in an era of plausible deniability and hybrid tactics, how do societies rally to protect ordinary people who stumble into crimes of state?

And there is something else: a human truth. Public inquiries can name perpetrators, and governments can issue sanctions; neither guarantees healing. “We wanted lessons,” the family said, returning, insistently, to that point. “Not just answers.”

What now? A call to reflection, not closure

As readers, what do we do with stories like this? We test our tolerance for state violence when it’s far away; we question whether our own institutions are nimble enough to protect us; we ask if naming is enough without changing. We also remember the human faces: a daughter lost, a father who wants to rest his child from the public record, a community still sorting the ordinary from the extraordinary.

In the end, the report offered accountability in the form of attribution and sanction. It did not offer a framework for prevention. The Sturgess family’s plea — “there must be reflection and real change” — is an invitation to action. It asks governments to look not just at international culpability, but at domestic gaps and the simple things that make life safe: risk assessments, timely warning systems, coordinated public health responses.

On the high street in Amesbury, a shopkeeper paused from arranging a window display. “We live with headlines,” she said quietly. “But we live our lives between them. If this town can’t be made safer after what happened, then what good are inquiries at all?”

That question stretches beyond Wiltshire. It asks readers everywhere to consider what justice looks like when state aggression reaches into daily life — and to insist, as the Sturgess family does, that naming the wrongdoer is not the end of the story but the beginning of reform. Will we take it up?

Vatican Commission Votes Against Ordaining Women as Deacons

hanad

December 5, 2025

Vatican commission votes against women deacons — The vote maintains the Church's practice of an all-male clergy

At the heart of the Vatican, a quiet but consequential no

There are moments in Rome when the corridors of the Vatican feel less like stone and more like a slow-moving current — deep, patient, and forever reshaping the life of the Church. This week one such current shifted direction. A high-level commission assembled by the Holy See has concluded, in a 7–1 vote, that it cannot at present open the door to ordained women serving as deacons.

The verdict, delivered in a report presented to the pope, is stingingly precise in tone. It says historical and theological inquiry “excludes the possibility” of instituting women as deacons right now, while also urging that the subject remain under further study. For advocates and skeptics alike, the language feels both definitive and deliberately cautious.

What the commission said — and what it didn’t

The report’s framing is important: it is a judgment born of scholarship and theology rather than a blunt policy decree. “Our task was to sift the evidence — ancient texts, liturgical practice, the living tradition — and pronounce what that evidence permits,” said a Vatican official who reviewed the document and asked not to be named. “The conclusion was not a blanket condemnation but a prudential assessment based on what was shared with us.”

Yet the commission’s vote — seven in favor of excluding such ordination, one against — will reverberate. Its membership included historians, canonists, and theologians chosen to balance scholarly rigor with pastoral sensitivity. The group’s admission that its findings “do not as of today allow a definitive judgement to be formulated” leaves an opening, but an ambivalent one: the door is closed now, but the conversation will continue.

Why this matters — in the pews and around the world

To many Catholics, this seems at once abstract and intimate. Globally there are roughly 1.3 billion baptized Catholics; more than half of them are women. They are teachers, pastoral ministers, choir directors, catechists — the lifeblood of parish life in cities from Nairobi to Naples, Manila to Mexico City. Yet the body of ordained clergy remains overwhelmingly male.

“I grew up seeing the sisters do the work no one else would: visiting the sick, running literacy programs, baptizing infants in rivers when no priest could get there,” said Rosa Morales, a 62-year-old catechist in Lima. “Having women formally recognized as deacons would mean dignity, acknowledgment, and new ways to serve.”

Across continents, the role of the deacon matters in very practical terms. Deacons are ordained ministers who can baptize, witness marriages, preach, and perform many pastoral functions; unlike priests, they do not consecrate the Eucharist. For communities in remote regions — where priests can be scarce and distances vast — deacons are often the essential bridge to sacramental life.

Different voices, different hopes

The reaction to the commission’s ruling was immediate and varied. “This is a pastoral issue as much as a doctrinal one,” said Father James O’Rourke, a parish priest in Dublin. “We can respect the commission’s scholarly integrity while lamenting that many of the faithful, especially women, feel sidelined.”

On the other side of the argument, Cardinal Pietro Mancini, a conservative voice long skeptical of ordaining women, told a small Italian radio station that the vote “protects the unity of the Church and the continuity of its sacramental theology.”

And then there are the quiet, personal responses. “My granddaughter asked me if only men could be deacons because God likes men better,” said Sister Bernadette, a nun who has worked in a Nairobi clinic for 30 years. “How do you explain centuries of nuance to a child who just wants to see fairness?”

History on the table: Phoebe and the debate over ancient practice

One of the most compelling points of evidence for proponents of women deacons is historical: the New Testament mentions a woman named Phoebe as a deacon in Paul’s letter to the Romans (Romans 16:1). Early Christian communities also appear to have used the term “deaconess” in various ways, sometimes linked to ministries among women — for instance, assisting with female baptisms at a time when gender segregation was normative.

But historical evidence is rarely tidy. “We see echoes of women serving in liturgical and ministerial capacities, but whether those roles are identical to the ordained diaconate of today is disputed,” explained Dr. Anya Kovács, a church historian based in Budapest. “The semantics and ecclesial structures have shifted a lot in two millennia. That complicates any simple ‘proof text’ argument.”

Where doctrine meets lived reality

Canon law and doctrinal statements also shape the debate. In 1994, Pope John Paul II issued Ordinatio Sacerdotalis, which declared that the Church does not have the authority to ordain women to the priesthood. That document did not explicitly bar women from the diaconate — and that omission has become the locus of both hope and controversy.

Pope Francis, recognizing the sensitive balance between tradition and reform, established two commissions to investigate the question — one to look at history, the other to assess theological implications and pastoral needs. The groups met largely in private, and their findings are now just beginning to surface.

Beyond Rome: what this says about women and religion in the 21st century

This is not merely a Catholic story. Around the world, religious institutions are wrestling with questions about gender, leadership, and the pace of change. Some communities have moved toward inclusive ordination; others are tightening traditional boundaries. The Vatican’s decision will be read as a signal by ecumenical partners and by women of faith weighing their place in their communities.

“People want meaning as much as they want justice,” said sociologist Dr. Maya Singh, who studies religion and gender. “Religions are repositories of both transcendent claims and social identity. When official structures seem slow to reflect lived realities, tension is inevitable.”

What comes next?

The commission’s recommendation for further study ensures that the issue will not vanish. For activists, the path forward may involve patient scholarship, grassroots pastoral experiments, and persistent plea for recognition. For the Vatican, the challenge is to weigh doctrinal continuity against pastoral urgency.

Can a Church that calls itself universal reconcile ancient tradition with a changing world where women lead schools, hospitals, and entire communities? What does it do when millions of faithful feel their gifts are honored in practice but not in altar-side symbol?

These are the questions that will echo through parish halls and theological faculties in the months to come. They are not questions with easy answers; they are questions about identity, authority, and the meaning of service.

Invitation to reflection

Whether you are a lifelong Catholic, someone who once passed through a parish doorway, or a curious observer of global faith trends, consider this: how do institutions balance the weight of history with the moral urgency of today? How do communities keep their stories alive while listening to new voices within?

“I am not asking for revolution,” said Lucia Martins, a youth worker in São Paulo. “I am asking that the Church listen to us as it once listened to the apostles — not to erase the past, but to hear how the Gospel calls us now.”

The commission’s verdict is, in one sense, a temporary resting point. But the questions it raises are perennial. They will follow the faithful into confessional boxes, dinner tables, university lecture halls, and, inevitably, back into the halls of the Vatican itself.

Hegseth’s use of Signal may have put U.S. troops at risk

hanad

December 5, 2025

Hegseth's use of Signal could have endangered US troops — Report into Pete Hegseth's actions has not yet been made public

The Ping That Could Have Changed a Mission

It began, astonishingly, with a small blue dot on a phone screen: a Signal message, seconds ticking away, a chorus of taps and replies among some of the most powerful people in Washington. For a brief, dizzying moment, the mechanics of modern war and the intimacy of private messaging collided — and the Pentagon’s internal watchdog has now suggested that collision might have been dangerously misjudged.

According to an Inspector General review obtained by reporters, U.S. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth used the encrypted messaging app Signal on his personal device to send information about an imminent strike in Yemen. The IG faulted the practice as risky, saying that, if intercepted, the messages might have endangered service members and compromised the operation.

But the report stops short of a clean-cut verdict on classification. It acknowledges a thorny, constitutional-administrative fact: a cabinet secretary has substantial latitude to decide what information is formally classified. That gray area — at once procedural and profound — sits at the heart of the controversy and has everything to do with trust, norms, and how democracies manage the secrecy of violence.

When Signals Cross Wires

The instant messages in question were not part of a routine Pentagon cable. They were part of a small, private chat within a circle of President Donald Trump’s top national security aides — a group that accidentally, and consequentially, included Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic. Goldberg later published screenshots of the messages in an article that set the whole inquiry in motion.

In the screenshots, Hegseth appears to have messaged about the timing of a strike and even discussed targeting an individual aligned with Yemen’s Houthi movement, two hours before the operation unfolded. The IG report says the material had been deemed classified by the military at the time it was transmitted.

“If this kind of targeting information leaks before an operation, the practical effects are immediate,” said a retired intelligence officer who reviewed the IG findings. “Bad actors — or even the targets themselves — could change their movements, disperse to civilian areas, or otherwise make safe execution more difficult. That puts people at risk, and it imperils mission success.”

Signals, Screenshots and the Limits of Privacy

Signal, for many, has come to embody privacy: it uses the Signal Protocol, an open-source method of end-to-end encryption also used by other popular apps. Encryption makes surveillance and third-party eavesdropping difficult. But encryption is not an invulnerability cloak for sensitive government data. Beyond technical protection, there is process: where messages are stored, how access is controlled, and whether messages are part of an official record.

“Encryption protects the message in transit, but it doesn’t remove the responsibility of leaders to follow established information security protocols,” said a national security analyst in Washington. “Operational discipline isn’t optional when lives are at stake.”

Politics, Procedure and Public Perception

The political fallout has been swift. Representative Adam Smith, the top Democrat on the House Armed Services Committee, described the report in blunt terms. “This report is a damning review of an incompetent secretary of defense who is profoundly incapable of the job and clearly has no respect for or comprehension of what is required to safeguard our service members,” Smith said.

Senator Mark Warner, the top Democrat on the Senate Intelligence Committee, framed the revelation as part of a broader pattern. “The report underscores that this was not an isolated lapse,” Warner told reporters, adding that multiple Signal chats appear to have been used for official business.

Hegseth, for his part, has pushed back. On X he posted: “No classified information. Total exoneration. Case closed.” He also declined to be interviewed for the IG investigation, telling the investigators in a written submission that, as secretary, he reserved the right to declassify information where he saw fit and that he only shared what he judged posed no operational risk. He called the probe politically motivated — even as both Republican and Democratic lawmakers had asked the IG to look into the matter.

Beyond One Message: What This Means

To anyone outside the bubble of Washington, it might seem like a quarrel about etiquette. But the stakes are higher. The U.S. has a long history of carefully protecting details of targeting, timing, and tactics precisely because such details can determine whether an operation succeeds cleanly, and whether civilians are spared.

“Imagine you’re a mother in Sanaa or a small coastal community watching military aircraft overhead,” said Amal al-Hadidi, a Yemeni scholar who studies the conflict, speaking over a grainy phone connection. “The difference between a safe corridor and a wrong turn is half an hour. Information has consequences for people who are already living under unimaginable pressure.”

There’s also a global argument here about how public servants use private communications. Since the rise of private, encrypted apps, more officials have adopted them for convenience and perceived security. The IG’s findings suggest that convenience can metastasize into institutional risk.

Operational secrecy matters because it protects both military personnel and civilians.
Encryption does not absolve leaders of the duty to classify or handle information according to established rules.
Private chats can become public artifacts — as this case shows — and then shape public trust.

Voices from the Ground and the Halls of Power

Not everyone sees the episode the same way. “We rely on judgment at the highest levels,” said a former defense official who asked not to be named. “Sometimes that judgment is right; sometimes it’s not. The office of the secretary isn’t an ordinary job. But it’s not an unchecked license either.”

In port cafés along the Caribbean, where the Pentagon has been criticized for its recent operations against suspected drug-smuggling vessels, local fishermen and activists are watching closely. “We saw the navy planes, then a patrol boat, then rumors — but nothing official,” said Carlos Mendoza, a fisherman in Puerto Plata. “People here want clarity. When governments act in secret, people suffer the consequences of uncertainty.”

And among former intelligence officers, there’s a mix of exasperation and worry. “This is a symptom of a larger erosion of norms,” said one ex-analyst. “When institutional controls slacken, you get improvisation. And improvisation with lethal force is terrifying.”

Questions to Ask — and to Answer

As readers, what should we make of this? Do we trust elected leaders to self-determine classification when stakes are life and death? Can privacy tools be reconciled with institutional safeguards? How do we balance transparency, oversight and the need to act swiftly in dangerous moments?

These questions are not academic. They ripple outward — into the lives of troops, into the justice of military campaigns, into the credibility of democratic institutions tasked with conducting war on behalf of citizens.

Where This Goes Next

The IG report has not been fully released to the public at the time of writing. What it contains beyond the findings already reported will matter: whether the IG recommends disciplinary action, changes in policy, or new training and safeguards. Lawmakers, activists and military families will all weigh in. The debate will test the ability of institutions to adapt to a digital age where the difference between public and private is often just one tap.

One final thought: technology changes fast; human judgment does not always keep pace. If a ping can unsettle a mission, it can also unsettle a nation’s faith in how its wars are waged. Maybe the most urgent task is not to demonize a device or a person, but to rebuild the norms and systems that make the use of force accountable — and to ask, again and again, what the rules should be when war and WhatsApp collide.

Committee hears US forces allegedly attacked shipwrecked sailors at sea

hanad

December 4, 2025

US attacking 'shipwrecked sailors', committee hears — US Navy Admiral Frank Bradley gave behind-closed-door briefings to US lawmakers in Washington today

When the Sea Returns a Story: Shipwrecks, Strikes, and the Question of Humanity

On a late summer night this year, a wooden smuggling boat ruptured under a hail of gunfire somewhere in the Caribbean. Men and women who had survived that first savage encounter clung to splinters and floating debris, their faces pale under a knife of moonlight. Minutes later, according to lawmakers who watched a classified video in a secure hearing room, American forces returned and finished the job.

That single scene — the image of people in the water, motionless and vulnerable, followed by another blow from the world’s most powerful military — has become a symbol and a scandal. It has also forced a simple, terrible question into public debate: when a state declares a maritime front against narcotics, what rules bind it? And what do those rules mean for the people who wash up on the wrong shore?

What happened — and why it reverberates

The incident at the center of the storm took place on 2 September. It was the opening salvo in a campaign of strikes the US military says targeted narcotics-smuggling vessels in the Caribbean and offshore. Officials now link the operation to more than 80 deaths over a series of actions — a toll that has prompted a wave of criticism at home and a diplomatic backlash across the region.

Inside the secure room where members of Congress watched the footage, several Democratic and Republican lawmakers described what they saw as deeply unsettling. “I saw men and women who had already been cut loose from their boat — wounded, unable to move — and then we watched forces engage them again,” one senior Democrat told reporters after the session. “In my view, this is one of those moments where policy and ethics collide.”

“The law is clear,” a retired naval officer who reviewed the video for lawmakers said. “Survivors at sea are to be treated as non-combatants unless they pose an imminent threat. These individuals had no means of locomotion. They were not a threat to a ship or to the United States in that moment.”

From counter-narcotics to counterinsurgency: a rhetoric that changes rules

From Washington, the operation has been presented as a tough but necessary line of defense. The administration has framed the campaign as part of a battle against “narco-terrorists” — a phrase that compresses complex drug networks into a single enemy the military can target. Aircraft carriers, surveillance planes and special operations units have been sent into the Caribbean, officials say, to choke off the flow of illegal narcotics toward the United States.

Yet this militarized approach has opened diplomatic wounds. Venezuela’s president seized the moment to denounce the buildup as cover for regime change, accusing Washington of using drug trafficking as a pretext to interfere in Caracas. “They are looking to overthrow us,” a Venezuelan government spokesman told reporters, echoing a sentiment that has hardened the region’s political contours.

Local voices, local pain

On a quiet fishing pier not far from where one of the strikes occurred, a middle-aged fisher with oil-stained hands and a voice that had known storms for decades shook his head. “We fish these waters every day,” he said. “Some nights you hear the planes, sometimes the shots. When a boat goes down, it’s not the first time we have seen people struggle in the water. But to attack them after — that’s not what we expect from those who say they protect lives.”

Across the region, families of those killed say they have not been informed, or worse, that their loved ones were labeled criminals rather than human beings. “My brother was a father,” one woman told a local radio host. “He left home to make money. He did wrong things, maybe — but when the sea takes you, you don’t shoot the person who’s trying to breathe.”

Lawmakers and legal lines: possible violations and accountability

At the Capitol, the footage prompted lawmakers to ask hard, legal questions. Several described the video in stark terms; some raised the prospect of war crimes. Others argued for a methodical probe, insisting that rules of engagement are complex and that commanders must sometimes make split-second decisions.

“If true, this is a breach of the fundamental protections afforded to shipwrecked people under international law,” a human rights attorney specializing in maritime law said. “The law of armed conflict expects states to take precautions to avoid harm to civilians and to treat survivors humanely.”

The White House and Pentagon officials have sought to shift some of the blame onto operational commanders, telling reporters that the Defense Secretary did not micromanage the engagement. Yet critics counter that political rhetoric that casts traffickers as terrorists narrows the moral and legal lenses through which decisions are made — and ultimately rests accountability at the top.

Who is responsible?

Operational commanders who authorized or carried out the strike bear responsibility in the immediate chain of command.
Senior civilian leaders are questioned for the policies that set the tone — declaring a quasi-war on narco-trafficking that invites military solutions.
Lawmakers argue that, in a democracy, political accountability runs from the field back to those who design strategy.

Bigger themes: militarization, drug policy, and the cost of force

This episode is not merely about one tragic engagement. It sits at the intersection of several global debates: the militarization of law enforcement, the limits of transnational use of force, and the human consequences of drug prohibition policies that funnel vast sums toward violent, volatile markets.

How do we balance the imperative to stop illegal flows of narcotics that can devastate communities with the obligation to preserve life and obey international norms? And how should democracies scrutinize decisions made in secrecy — in classified rooms — that have such irreversible outcomes?

“We must ask whether deploying carriers and strikes is the right tool for a problem that is ultimately social and economic,” a policy researcher at a Caribbean university told me. “Seizures here are a band-aid. They make headlines. But the drivers of this trade—inequality, demand, limited legal opportunity—remain.”

What comes next — and what readers should watch for

Investigations have been promised. Congressional hearings will likely expand. Families will seek answers. For readers, the challenge is not simply to follow the procedural arc — who is blamed, who resigns, who is exonerated — but to hold in view the human ledger: how many lives were taken, how many questions left unanswered, and how policy choices map onto those outcomes.

Will this moment change strategy — less guns, more diplomacy and aid — or will it harden into precedent for more aggressive maritime targeting? Will the region push back with stronger sovereignty claims, or will countries reconcile to foreign forces in their waters because they feel pressured by the scale of the drug trade?

There are no easy answers. But when you imagine those faces in the water, you are asked to decide what kind of state and what kind of world you want: one that preserves the strict rule of law even against those accused of the worst crimes, or one where the perceived immediacy of a threat corrodes long-standing protections.

As these questions ripple outward from classified footage to public outrage, remember that policy isn’t only made in briefing rooms — it is made in small coastal towns, in family kitchens, and on the quiet docks where fishermen watch the horizon and mark the cost of distant choices. What would you have done? And who, at the end of the chain, should be made to answer?

Trump grants clemency to Democratic congressman amid bribery allegations

hanad

December 4, 2025

Trump pardons Democratic congressman in bribery case — Henry Cuellar and his wife had been facing several charges of conspiracy and bribery (file pic)

A pardon that ripples from Laredo to Baku: what one act of clemency reveals

On a humid afternoon in South Texas, a woman arranging tamales behind the counter of a corner tienda looked up from her work and squinted at her phone. “A lot of folks around here follow Congressman Cuellar,” she said, folding masa with the practiced hands of someone who has fed a neighborhood for decades. “Some will say it’s justice, some will say it’s politics. Either way, it changes the conversation at our dinner tables.”

The conversation changed sharply after the former president announced, in the clipped cadence of social media dispatches, a full and unconditional pardon for Representative Henry Cuellar — the Democratic congressman from South Texas who had been charged in a federal bribery and conspiracy case tied to payments allegedly from an oil and gas company with links to the Azerbaijani government.

“I am hereby announcing my full and unconditional PARDON of beloved Texas Congressman Henry Cuellar … I don’t know you, but you can sleep well tonight – Your nightmare is finally over!” the message read on Truth Social, a platform that has become a modern podium for sweeping gestures and political theater.

The immediate fallout: relief, fury, and weary resignation

Cuellar himself, who had pleaded not guilty, responded on his own social feed with gratitude: “I want to thank President Trump for his tremendous leadership and for taking the time to look at the facts,” he wrote on X. His supporters in the district — ranchers, teachers, and small-business owners — expressed relief that the man who has long been a fixture in South Texas politics will no longer face what one neighbor called “a disaster for the family.”

Yet for critics and anti-corruption advocates, the pardon felt like a blow to institutional norms. “When high-profile pardons touch on foreign influence or alleged bribery, it raises real questions about accountability,” said a former federal prosecutor speaking on condition of anonymity. “The concern isn’t only about one case; it’s about precedent.”

Those concerns aren’t abstract. Across the world, prosecutors and watchdog groups have spent decades building cross-border corruption cases, and a single executive decision in Washington can erase years of work. To some observers in Central America and the Caucasus, the message is unmistakable: geopolitics can, sometimes, override legal process.

Voices from the border

“He’s been in our community for a long time,” said Marisela Garza, a school librarian in Laredo. “People respect he knows how our border life works. But trust in institutions is fragile. Some of us will be happy he doesn’t have to go through a trial. Others worry what it means for rule of law.”

On the other side of the spectrum, an immigrant rights organizer in the Rio Grande Valley was blunt: “Pardons like this look like picks in a game where ordinary people rarely get lucky. We’ve seen how enforcement acts against the vulnerable — why is there a different game for powerful players?”

Presidential pardon power: broad, swift, and controversial

The U.S. Constitution vests the president with the power to grant reprieves and pardons for federal offenses. It’s an authority that is intentionally sweeping, meant to be a check against unjust prosecutions and a merciful lever in extraordinary cases. But it is also inherently political.

“A pardon can be an instrument of mercy,” said a constitutional law scholar I spoke with. “It can also be a blunt political tool. The law gives the president latitude; how that latitude is used determines whether the act restores faith or erodes it.”

In recent months the act of clemency has been far from sedate. The president, now serving a second term, has used the pardon power in several headline-grabbing instances: a former Honduran president was released from a West Virginia detention facility after a surprise pardon, and earlier in the year an Illinois governor’s conviction was transformed into forgiveness. Each move reverberates across policy areas — immigration, international justice, local governance — and across borders.

Why this case feels different

This pardon isn’t just about a Member of Congress. It’s about the entanglement of local politics, energy money, and geopolitics. The accusations against Cuellar and his wife, which they denied, involved hundreds of thousands of dollars allegedly funneled from a company with partial state ownership by a foreign government. For residents in Cuellar’s district — where Spanish and English coexist on storefronts and where cross-border family ties are the fabric of daily life — the case hit close to home. It was not an abstract Washington scandal; it was a storyline playing out on Main Street.

For the international community, the optics are troubling. When U.S. actions reverse accountability in transnational corruption cases, partner nations and anti-corruption bodies take notice. “There’s a message sent whenever a high-profile pardon intervenes in cross-border cases,” said an international governance expert. “It complicates cooperation and undercuts efforts to build consistent norms.”

Broader themes: partisan blame, weaponised justice, and the erosion of trust

In announcing the pardon, the former president claimed without evidence that the prior administration had “weaponised” the justice system against political opponents. That refrain — that legal institutions become political tools — has become a familiar political salve. It resonates with a base that believes the system is stacked against them; it alarms those who worry about the politicisation of independent institutions.

Ask yourself: when trust in the justice system wanes, what fills the vacuum? Populist narratives. Conspiracy theories. Cynicism. Those are the silent companions of many Western democracies today.

Statistics and context to consider

The presidential pardon power is among the most absolute in U.S. governance: it applies only to federal offenses and can be granted at any time, even before formal charges.
Border states like Texas — with more than a thousand miles of shared boundary with Mexico — have central roles in national debates about immigration and trade, making local politicians from these regions particularly visible on the national stage.
Transnational corruption cases often rely on complex financial tracing across jurisdictions; they can take years to build and involve cooperation among multiple countries’ investigators.

Final thoughts: what this moment asks of us

Pardons are, by design, exceptions. They are meant to be rare, to correct injustices or to temper mercy with prudence. When they are used frequently or in ways that align closely with partisan lines, they force us to reassess: what do we value more — political loyalty, institutional integrity, or the messy, slow play of due process?

Here in Laredo, a man sipping café de olla on a shaded bench summed it up quietly. “We all want fairness,” he said. “Whether he did wrong or not, this will be talked about at barbecues, at church, at schools. How we talk about it matters. We can’t let it make us forget the things that really bind us—family, work, the little daily kindnesses.”

So where do we go from here? Do we insist on clearer rules, more transparent processes, or a rethinking of the pardon power itself? Or do we accept that mercy — messy and subjective — has always been part of politics and always will be?

Tell me what you think. How should societies balance mercy, accountability, and the ever-present hum of politics? Your perspective matters, because stories like this one are not just Washington headlines — they are threads woven into the daily lives of communities from Laredo to the capitals of distant lands.

France confirms two MERS cases in international tour group

hanad

December 4, 2025

France detects two MERS virus cases among tour group — MERS is a more deadly but less contagious variation of the Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome

Two Tourists, One Virus: A Quiet MERS Scare and What It Reveals About a Connected World

There is a peculiar hush that falls over a city hospital at night: fluorescent lights hum, footsteps echo on linoleum, and conversations are measured as if sound itself might spread something unseen. That hush returned to a Paris ward this week when health authorities confirmed two people from a single tour group had been infected with the Middle East respiratory syndrome coronavirus — MERS, a pathogen with a reputation that makes even seasoned public health officials sit up and take notice.

“We’re not panicking, but we are very vigilant,” said a ministry spokesperson in Paris, leaning on the language of reassurance that officials use when the public’s anxiety threatens to outpace the facts. “Those two patients are stable. Contact tracing is underway. We are taking every measure to prevent onward transmission.”

A travel story that turned clinical

The two patients had recently returned from what they expected to be a postcard-perfect circuit through the Arabian Peninsula — a mixed group of retirees and mid-career travelers drawn by bazaars, mosques, and the hush of desert dunes at sunrise. Instead, part of their souvenir collection now includes hospital wristbands and weeks of monitoring for fellow travelers.

“We were supposed to be tasting dates and drinking tea in a small courtyard,” said Sophie, a 58-year-old who asked to be identified only by her first name. “The trip turned into masks, thermometers, and waiting. It’s surreal.”

MERS is not a household name for many, but it carries a history that demands respect. Discovered in 2012, the virus has caused around 2,600 reported human infections and nearly 1,000 deaths worldwide — a mortality rate that hovers around 35–40% in reported cases. For comparison, SARS in 2002–2003 caused around 800 deaths. MERS is deadlier, even if it has proven less willing to race around the planet in the way SARS-CoV-2 did.

How does MERS spread — and why does that matter?

Researchers believe the virus originated in bats, but camels are the usual bridge to people. Most human infections have been linked to direct or indirect contact with camels or to close contact with infected patients, especially in healthcare settings. Human-to-human transmission is possible, but it typically requires prolonged, close exposure — the kind you get in a crowded ward or a family home, not from a hurried interaction at a market stall.

“MERS behaves differently from the new coronavirus that caused the pandemic,” said Dr. Marie Laurent, an infectious disease specialist at a major Paris hospital. “It doesn’t spread as easily in the community, but when it does take hold — especially in hospitals — the consequences can be severe.”

That pattern was painfully visible in 2015, when a single traveler returning to South Korea ignited an outbreak that led to 186 cases and dozens of deaths and sent the country into a brief but intense public health emergency. The Korea experience remains a cautionary tale: one infected traveler, a crowded emergency room, and the virus found fertile ground.

Response and reassurance

French authorities say the two patients are stable, isolated, and receiving appropriate care. Contact tracing — the painstaking detective work of identifying and monitoring anyone who may have been exposed — is in full swing. The measures include symptomatic screening, instructions for self-isolation, and stringent infection prevention steps for hospital staff and household contacts.

“We are implementing barrier gestures: masks, hand hygiene, and limited contact for anyone exposed,” the ministry official explained. “We are also advising health professionals to be alert for respiratory symptoms even if mild.”

For travelers, the advice is straightforward: if you are visiting regions where MERS is known to circulate, avoid close contact with camels, do not consume raw camel products, and seek medical attention promptly for fever or respiratory symptoms.

Between fear and facts: the social dimension

Fear is an old companion to any outbreak. In the café near the hospital, a nurse named Ahmed commented over a cup of coffee: “People are always frightened of what they cannot see. But when you talk to them, when you explain testing and exposure, it calms them. It’s education that wins here.”

That education has a global role. In an era where flights knit continents together and packaged tours promise curated experiences from Marrakech souks to Riyadh skylines, infectious diseases have fewer borders. A virus that prefers hospital transmission still arrives in far-off places on the backs of travelers who share souvenirs and stories — and sometimes, infection.

How we react matters as much as what the pathogen does. Heavy-handed travel bans tend to do more social and economic harm than good, while clear communication, prompt case finding, and supportive isolation can prevent a local scare from becoming an international crisis. The World Health Organization recommends ongoing vigilance without knee-jerk alarm: a balanced approach that protects public health and preserves the dignity of travelers, patients, and healthcare workers.

Local color: markets, camels, and a recipe for risk

Picture an early morning camel market on the Arabian Peninsula: men bargaining over livestock, children darting between stalls, the air scented with spices and the dust of a thousand footsteps. Camels are woven into local economies, cuisine, and culture. Yet they are also the reservoirs for a virus that spilled into humans. That cultural complexity makes public health messaging tricky. You cannot simply ask people to abandon heritage or livelihood; effective interventions must respect life as it is lived.

“We have to work with communities, not against them,” said Dr. Aisha Al-Salem, a public health specialist who has worked with camel herding communities. “Simple measures — safe handling, boiling milk, wearing gloves when dealing with sick animals — can reduce risk without erasing culture.”

What should you take away?

If you find yourself planning a trip, consider a few practical steps: stay informed about local advisories, avoid direct contact with camels and their raw products, and seek medical attention for fever or cough after travel. If you work in healthcare, use protective equipment diligently and report unusual respiratory illnesses promptly.

And there is an invitation here, too — an invitation to reflect on how our shrinking world alters the calculus of risk. MERS has not sparked a pandemic. Yet its very existence reminds us of the fragility and resilience braided together in public health: a fragile moment of infection, a resilient system of detection and response.

“Outbreaks tell us as much about people as they do about microbes,” Dr. Laurent reflected. “They show our vulnerabilities and the strengths of our institutions: how quickly we act, how openly we share, how carefully we care.”

In the quiet of the ward and the bustle of the market, those choices are being made every day. What would you do if you were on that tour? How would you weigh the warmth of a new experience against the caution of a public health alert? The answers are personal, but the responsibility is shared — across borders, duties, and generations.

‘Japa’ trend fuels mass exodus as millions emigrate from Nigeria

hanad

December 4, 2025

'Japa' - Cultural phenomenon sees millions leave Nigeria — Sylvia decided to try and leave Nigeria after her parents died in 2007

Japa: The Great Nigerian Exodus — Stories from the Road North

There is a word on the lips of Lagos motorcyclists, in university halls, in the back rooms of Lagos bars and in WhatsApp groups across the country: Japa. It comes from Yoruba, literally meaning “to split” or “to run away,” but it has grown into something larger — a movement, a mood, a cultural pulse that tells you more about Nigeria than any statistic alone.

Walk down Broad Street in the old commercial quarter and you’ll hear it in the music bumping out of a roadside speaker. Sit in a lecture hall at the University of Lagos and students will tell you, with a mixture of swagger and sorrow, about plans to “go Japa.” It is shorthand for the decision that keeps families awake at night, the quiet hinge on which futures turn: to stay and try to build here, or to leave and gamble everything on a perilous road that promises work, safety, or simply survival.

A young nation, restless

Nigeria is no small place in the imagination of the world. With well over 230 million people, its population is overwhelmingly young — the median age hovers around 18, and roughly two-thirds of Nigerians are under 30. That demographic energy can be an engine of innovation, or a pressure cooker.

For many, the pressure has become unbearable. Despite intermittent economic growth and bullish headlines about an emerging market, poverty remains stubbornly widespread. Conservative estimates place more than 100 million Nigerians in conditions of poverty; other measures that capture multidimensional deprivation put that number higher, often cited around 130 million. When opportunities at home feel scarce, the road away can look like the only way out.

Dr. Alabi: “You can’t measure what you can’t see”

“The official numbers are always lagging an ocean behind reality,” says Dr. Tunde Alabi, a sociologist at UniLag who has spent years studying migration. “A lot of this is irregular, moving through Sahara routes that no census counts. But what we can see — the doctors, the lecturers, the nurses leaving — tells you that emigration is increasing.”

He points to two linked phenomena: a youth bulge with limited formal employment, and the erosion of institutions — security, health, education — that push talented people to look for greener ground. “When a surgeon tells me he’s applied for licensure overseas, we should be asking why,” he says.

Lives on the Line: Two Journeys

Sylvia: “I thank God I’m still alive”

Sylvia’s story is not unique, but it is unforgettable. She lost her parents in 2007 and, suddenly adrift, decided to leave. “My friend said Norway was peaceful,” she told me, staring at her hands as if tracing the path of memory. “So I started walking toward that light.”

She flew under the radar with a borrowed passport to Madrid, then boarded buses north until the snow of Oslo and the promise of asylum. A relationship developed with a Norwegian man; they married in Lagos in the hope of regularizing her stay. When authorities suspected a marriage of convenience, progress stalled. Despair nudged her back toward the desert route.

From Lagos to Agadez to Sabha: the journey reads like a geography of fear. “We walked for days,” she said. “The heat took everything. I saw people fall and never get up.” Traffickers crammed migrants into Hilux pickups, then doors opened on a more ruthless reality: bands of kidnappers, known in the region as Asma Boys, who snatch people for ransom; long stretches without water; trucks leaving groups to test the road ahead.

“We drank our own urine,” she whispered. “If you close your eyes you can still taste the salt of the sun.” They reached Sabratah and the Mediterranean, but not into the arms of the dream. Weeks of gunfire. Chaos. United Nations workers eventually pulled her from a site of violence; the International Organization for Migration helped her get back to Lagos.

Now she is back in the city she tried to escape. “I am grateful,” she says simply. “But am I happy? No. I bury my friends in my head. I cannot go through that again.”

Chiutu: “Don’t let them deport me”

Then there’s Chiutu, who took a different route and for a while tasted a more ordinary immigrant life. He flew to Frankfurt on a tourist visa in 2014, applied for asylum and learned German. He qualified as a carer and found work in a nursing home during a brief period when Germany was opening doors to migrants under the banner of “Wir schaffen das.”

“I was one week from residency,” he said, the frustration in his voice still raw. A workplace dispute — a patient left in soiled sheets — led to his dismissal. He fell into casual, exhausting labor and, after five years away from his children, made the decision to return voluntarily.

“I told my wife, ‘If I die there, I die alone.’ I missed my children too much. But sometimes I look back and think, maybe I left too soon.” He is both relieved and regretful, a tidy portrait of the dilemmas that haunt returnees.

Voices from the Lecture Hall

At UniLag, students give a kaleidoscope of reasons for wanting to go. Florence said, “Lots of people Japa because they’re scared — insecurity is everywhere.” Jaqueline spoke of education and skills; Benjamin wants a stint in the UK so he can bring knowledge home afterward. Wuraola said plainly: “If you go and learn, come back. Build.”

These contradictory attitudes — leave versus return, escape versus investment — are important. Migration is not only a loss. Diasporas send remittances, open networks, and sometimes return with capital and ideas. But the flip side is clear: when doctors and professors leave en masse, the institutions that nurture a nation get hollowed out.

Why it matters beyond Nigeria

What’s happening in Nigeria is part of a larger global narrative: the movement of people shaped by inequality, climate stress, insecurity and changing labor markets. Europe, North America and parts of Asia are destinations; smugglers and perilous routes are the corridors. The policy challenges are enormous. How do destination countries balance humanitarian obligations and border control? How do origin countries create enough opportunity to keep their best people?

As you read this, ask yourself: if you were 22 and promising, with few chances to build a life where you were born, what would you do? Would you risk dunes and desert, or the uncertainty of asylum courts? Would you leave a child behind for five years in search of a future?

Paths forward

The answers will not be simple. Economists point to investments in education, healthcare and security. Experts urge better legal migration pathways and faster recognition of foreign qualifications. Diasporas can be bridges, not drains. “Policy that harnesses migration instead of just trying to stop it wins twice,” Dr. Alabi told me. “You keep the human potential connected to the homeland.”

And on the ground? Lagos keeps humming. In the markets, traders haggle over peppers and suya, young entrepreneurs hack on laptops beneath buzzing fans, and mothers whisper prayers against another empty seat in a family home. Japa is as much a symptom as a story of stubborn resilience — people trying, in whatever way they can, to carve dignity out of hardship.

So the next time you hear the word — on a bus, in a song, in a student grad speech — remember this: Japa is not just about leaving. It’s about longing, about the cost of staying, and about the kind of societies we are building. How we answer those questions will shape the next chapter of a nation that refuses to be defined only by the headlines.

Macron urges Xi that France and China must bridge their differences

hanad

December 4, 2025

Macron tells Xi China, France must overcome 'differences' — French President Emmanuel Macron and Chinese President Xi Jinping walk during a state visit at the Great Hall of the People in Beijing

Under the flags: a Parisian handshake in the heart of Beijing

It was cold enough in Beijing that the ceremony planned on Tian’anmen Square moved indoors, from sun-bright symbolism to the cavernous, gold-paneled intimacy of the Great Hall of the People. Still, nothing about diplomacy is ever entirely about temperature. It is about timing, theatre and the stubbornly human rituals that sit behind headline-grabbing policy.

Emmanuel Macron arrived with his trademark composure—scarf tucked against the wind, Brigitte at his side—walking a narrow diplomatic tightrope between concerted engagement and pointed pressure. Opposite him, President Xi Jinping and First Lady Peng Liyuan offered the reserves of a host who knows how capitals look when they want to be taken seriously. A military band played, bouquets were presented, and for a brief, almost incongruous instant on a day heavy with strategy, Mr Macron blew kisses to children who stood with flowers.

“We cannot pretend differences do not exist,” Mr Macron told Mr Xi later in the day, his words carrying the double weight of a leader trying to coax action from a partner and ally in international stability. “But the real promise of statecraft is to square them, for the sake of peace and global stability.”

What was on the table

The talks blended the ceremonial and the urgent. At the centre of Mr Macron’s agenda was Ukraine—now entering a fourth winter of conflict after Russia’s 2022 invasion—a crisis that has remade alliances and tested the limits of global diplomacy.

For months, Paris and other Western capitals have quietly hoped Beijing will do more than advocate “peace talks” in principle. The French president pushed for Beijing to use its influence with Moscow to dial down the violence, to move beyond rhetoric and nudge the warring parties toward a ceasefire.

“China can play a decisive role,” said Élise Laurent, a former French diplomat now advising on Eurasian security. “Even if Beijing won’t publicly chastise Moscow, Beijing can use channels—economic, diplomatic, backdoor—to encourage de-escalation. Macron’s job was to make that ask clearly and humbly.”

President Xi, in carefully measured language, returned the sentiment of stability without conceding lines he won’t cross. “We seek a more stable relationship with France,” he said, adding that China would work to “exclude interference” and fortify the “comprehensive strategic partnership” between the two countries. It was both a reassurance and a reminder of where Beijing draws its red lines.

Between words and deeds: the question of Russia

China’s blanket call for dialogue on Ukraine faces skepticism in Europe and the United States, particularly because Beijing has not condemned Russia’s 2022 invasion. Western governments, citing intelligence assessments and trade patterns, argue that China—through commerce and technology transfers—has eased some of the economic pressure on Moscow.

“We are not naïve about the gap between rhetoric and effect,” said Dr. Li Mei, an international relations scholar at a Beijing university. “The question France asked is whether China will move from words to practical steps that reduce the capacity for conflict.”

Trade, tech and the taste of panda diplomacy

High politics gave way, at times, to the everyday business of nations: trade. Europe runs a yawning trade deficit with China—recent figures put the imbalance at roughly $350 billion—and Macron used the visit to press for a rebalancing of that relationship.

“Europeans cannot be reduced to passive consumers of the world,” said one advisor travelling with the president. “We want China to consume more and export less; we must also make Europe produce more and save less.” It was blunt, economically framed advice: a call for Beijing to open domestic markets while allowing European industry room to breathe and innovate.

The tech sector sat in the margins of the talks but loomed large. Macron has been vocal about European tech sovereignty—arguing that the continent should not become a “vassal” to Silicon Valley or to major Chinese platforms. It is a debate about data, investment, standards and the future architecture of the digital economy.

And then, lighter and yet telling, there was Chengdu: the final stop on Mr Macron’s short visit. The city was the destination for a softer kind of diplomacy—two giant pandas that had been loaned to France were returned to their homeland, and Beijing, not wanting to lose the public-relations heartbeat of panda diplomacy, promised new animals would soon be sent in their stead.

“It may sound trivial, but cultural ties like these matter,” said Sophie Martin, a Paris-based China analyst. “They sustain public goodwill and remind people—on both sides—that the relationship is not just about geopolitics. It is about shared curiosity.”

Voices from the street

Near the entrance to the Great Hall, a tea vendor named Zhao, 62, who sells small porcelain cups to passing tourists and officials, had a simple take. “Politicians speak big, but for us it is about trade and jobs,” he said with a shrug. “If two countries get along, maybe I sell more cups.”

A university student who watched Macron’s earlier visit to Guangzhou years ago remembered the energy. “Students love Macron because he listens,” she said. “When leaders talk about big ideas—technology, climate, war—we feel the impact in internships and classrooms.”

What to watch next

Whether Beijing takes concrete steps—sanctions, trade curbs, or private pressure—to change Moscow’s calculus in Ukraine.
Any new trade or investment commitments that aim to shrink the EU-China deficit of roughly $350 billion.
Moves on technology governance that could tilt the balance toward European regulators and platform rules.
Soft-power exchanges—like the panda arrangement—that keep channels of goodwill open even amid strategic competition.

Looking beyond the handshake

If diplomacy were a film, this Beijing meeting would not be the climactic finale; it would be a tense midpoint—a scene that sets up the hard work ahead. Macron’s trip was less about immediate breakthroughs and more about laying groundwork: reminding Beijing of shared interests, pressing on red lines, and testing where China might be willing to bend.

So what does success look like? Not necessarily a sudden ceasefire, nor a vanishing of strategic rivalry. Success might be incremental: clearer channels through which Beijing nudges Moscow, more balanced trade flows, and a framework for cooperation on global challenges from climate to cyber governance.

And for the everyday people whose lives these high-flown words ripple through—vendors like Zhao, students, and office workers—the hope is simple. “We want stability,” a Chengdu teacher told me. “Stability means planning for the future; it means not having to decide if our children will leave to find work. That is what leaders should be working toward.”

In the end, the photograph of the two presidents—flags behind them, an ornate ceiling overhead—will travel the world. But the real story is quieter, slower, and harder to capture: the months of diplomacy, the back-channel conversations, the economic adjustments and the cultural exchanges that stitch one country’s fate to another’s.

How do you measure the success of a visit that mixes gala and gravity? Perhaps not by the headlines alone, but by whether, months from now, the ripples born in a Beijing hall have made Europe’s streets a little steadier and the negotiating table in Kyiv a little nearer to peace. Do you think that is possible? Or are some differences simply too stubborn to overcome?

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