Rescuers find no signs of life after Indonesian school collapse

October 3, 2025

'No more signs of life' after Indonesia school collapse — The rescue operation is complex as vibrations happening in one place can impact other areas

When a School Became a Rubble of Questions: Sidoarjo’s Silent Afternoon

The afternoon felt ordinary in Sidoarjo — a town of clogged motorways, steaming street food stalls, and the steady hum of Java life — until a sound that no one expects from a place of learning tore the afternoon apart.

Students had gathered for prayers when part of a multi-storey boarding school suddenly folded inward. Concrete groaned, pillars gave way, dust billowed like a gray wave. In the hours that followed, the schoolyard was transformed into a labyrinth of tarpaulins, orange-uniformed rescuers, and the low, persistent keening of people who had rushed here with nothing but hope and the names of their children on their lips.

“We used thermal drones and other high-tech equipment,” Suharyanto, head of the national disaster mitigation agency, told reporters. “Scientifically, there are no more signs of life.” The words landed like another strike: officials now say 59 people remain unaccounted for and at least five bodies have been recovered.

Faces at the Edge of the Site: Waiting, Worry, and Small Mercies

Right at the perimeter of the wreckage, makeshift corners were carved out for families — fold-out mats by neighbors’ houses, flasks of tea, and people offering spare rooms for those who could not go home. The scene felt both intimate and unbearably public.

“I’ve been here since day one,” said Maulana Bayu Rizky Pratama, eyes raw, clutching a crumpled photograph. “I keep thinking my brother will be called out. I cannot stop hoping.” His brother is 17, a shadow among the names, a voice that might be found beneath the concrete.

“They were crying for help when the rescue teams first arrived,” said Abdul Hanan, whose 14-year-old son is missing. “The rescuers must move faster.”

People passed bowls of rice and cups of water to the hands that needed them. Local charities set up hot meals and prayer areas; an elderly stall owner named Ani told me she had run from her grocery when she heard the “strange vibration.” “I thought it was an earthquake at first,” she said. “When I saw the dust, I ran.”

Survivors, the Golden Hour, and the Slow Work of Rescue

In the first frantic days rescuers pulled five people from the rubble — miracles amid chaos. But the clock that rescuers always know about — the 72-hour “golden period” — was slipping away, and with it, the physics of hope.

Search teams deployed thermal-sensing drones and snaked tiny cameras into crevices. “We have to be careful,” Mohammad Syafii, head of the National Search and Rescue Agency, told journalists. “Vibrations in one place can destabilize another. To reach those we believe to be trapped, we will have to dig tunnels under the debris.”

Those tunnels, he explained, will be narrow — maybe 60cm wide in places — and slow to make. Every centimetre of effort is fraught with the risk of collapse; every minute is heavy with the possibility of lives found, or lives not found.

Engineering Failure, or Something Worse?

Preliminary investigations point to a structural failure: foundation pillars buckled under the weight of added construction on the fourth floor, officials say. For many in Indonesia, this reads as an all-too-familiar script.

Lax enforcement of building standards and a cultural practice of “build-as-you-go” contribute to a patchwork of structures across the archipelago, where houses — and sometimes public buildings — are left partially finished so owners can add floors later when money permits. The result: buildings that look complete but are, under the skin, vulnerable.

“We have codes, but enforcement is uneven,” said Dr. Lina Putri, a structural engineer who studies construction safety across Java. “When foundations and load-bearing columns are under-engineered, any addition — another floor, heavier roofing — changes the whole balance. In a worst-case scenario, that’s what we saw here.”

Technology, Tradition, and the Human Cost

Thermal drones, fiber-optic cameras, sniffer dogs — these are now standard tools in big rescue efforts, and their presence here is testament to the high stakes. Yet technology can only do so much where buildings have become tombs of concrete and human error.

“There’s a difference between cutting-edge tools and cutting corners in construction,” Rizal Hamdi, a volunteer with a Jakarta-based safety NGO, told me. “Technology helps us locate people, but the underlying problem is older: systemic underinvestment in oversight, training, and materials.”

Other complications have driven the rescue timeline even longer. An offshore earthquake briefly paused operations; vibrations that might otherwise be routine can be lethal against unstable debris. Families have agreed to allow heavy machinery in, but officials say they will proceed with “extreme caution.”

What This Means Beyond Sidoarjo

Indonesia sits on the Pacific “Ring of Fire,” a volatile seam of tectonic plates that already makes it prone to earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Add to that rapid urban growth, uneven regulation, and financial incentives to expand vertically rather than laterally, and you get an environment where tragedy can unfold with breath-stopping speed.

How many more Sidoarjos must there be before policy shifts from reactive rescue to preventive care? How many more times will communities knit themselves back together with charity meals and neighborly beds while the systemic causes remain unaddressed?

59 people remain missing, officials say;
At least 5 confirmed dead and 5 survivors rescued so far;
Thermal drones and cameras are in use; searches may continue beyond seven days if people remain unaccounted for;
Authorities indicate initial signs point to substandard construction and overloading of the building’s structure.

Voices — and a Call to Action

At the edge of the site, between the tents and the twisting metal, a teacher in a faded batik shirt told me, “Every school should be a safe place. We teach children to dream but sometimes we forget to make the ground safe for those dreams.”

Where do responsibility and accountability lie? With contractors, with local permitting officers, with budgets stretched thin by growth and austerity? All of the above, it seems — and each has a role to play if we want fewer afternoons like this one.

For the families waiting in Sidoarjo, statistics are cold comfort. They want names. They want hands to pull out their children. For the nation, there is a quieter, longer-term grief: the knowledge that in a place so alive with human enterprise, structures meant to protect can sometimes do the opposite.

So I ask you, reader: when we hear of collapses like this, do we only feel shock for a day? Or do we let the feeling harden into policy, into inspections, into community funds for safer construction? Grief can be a catalyst — if we allow it to be.

The recovery here will take days, possibly weeks. It will take machines and delicacy, science and prayer. For now, families wait, neighbors give what they can, and rescuers move with the terrible patience of those who must balance hope against reality.

In the dust and murmurs of Sidoarjo, the city remembers that buildings are more than concrete and steel. They are promises — of shelter, education, and safety. And when those promises break, it reveals the work that remains undone.

Patterson seeks to overturn murder conviction in mushroom-linked case

hanad

October 3, 2025

Patterson to appeal murder conviction in mushroom case — Erin Patterson was sentenced to life in prison

A quiet Gippsland town, a sumptuous lunch and a lethal secret

On a late summer afternoon in Leongatha, a small town in Victoria’s lush Gippsland region, the scent of butter and pastry once filled a family home. A beef Wellington — glossy pastry, pink centre, a rich mushroom duxelles tucked beneath the crust — sat on a polished table as if it were any other Sunday roast. The meal should have been ordinary, familiar, safe.

Instead it became the centrepiece of an Australian courtroom drama that captured global attention: three people dead, a fourth grievously ill, and a 51-year-old woman, Erin Patterson, convicted of deliberately lacing that dish with poisonous fungi. Last month a judge handed Patterson a life sentence with parole eligibility after 33 years, and now her lawyer has told Victoria’s Supreme Court she will seek to appeal the guilty verdict.

From grief to legal manoeuvres

“We will be filing an appeal,” Richard Edney, Patterson’s barrister, told an administrative hearing, according to court reports. He did not expand on grounds for the challenge. Under court rules, Patterson’s legal team has 28 days to lodge formal papers asking a higher court to reconsider the conviction — a familiar legal pause that both reassures and prolongs pain for those left behind.

For the families and friends of the victims, there is no neat ending. Don and Gail Patterson and Heather Wilkinson — members of the same extended family — were the dead. Ian Wilkinson, Heather’s husband, survived but carried the aftermath like a physical wound. “I feel half alive,” he told the court during victim-impact statements. “The silence in our home is a daily reminder.”

A jury’s verdict, an accused woman’s claim

Across a trial that ran for more than two months, a 12-person jury returned guilty verdicts: three counts of murder and one count of attempted murder. Patterson maintained throughout that the death was an accident — that her beef Wellington had been contaminated unknowingly by death cap mushrooms (Amanita phalloides), toxic fungi long feared by foragers and health officials alike.

Death caps are not an obscure curiosity. They are notorious among mycologists and emergency physicians because their amatoxins target the liver and kidneys, inhibiting RNA polymerase II and causing progressive organ failure. A small bite can be catastrophic. The mushrooms are easily mistaken for edible species and can deceptively taste sweet, luring the unwary.

The science of a quiet killer

“Amatoxin poisoning is a slow-burning disaster,” says Dr. Miriam Santos, a forensic toxicologist who has advised hospital teams on severe mushroom poisonings. “Symptoms may begin with nausea and abdominal pain, then a deceptive period of apparent recovery, and finally fulminant liver failure. In severe cases, a liver transplant is the only lifesaving option.”

Worldwide, death caps are responsible for a majority of fatal mushroom poisonings. Historically, untreated amatoxin ingestion carried mortality rates measured in the tens of percent, though modern intensive care and transplant surgery have reduced those figures in many centres. Still, individual outcomes vary and a single meal can change lives forever.

Leongatha — dairy country, community shaken

Leongatha is a place defined by green fields, dairy trucks and the slow rhythms of country life. Neighbours say the case has been a ripple through the community, leaving people who once gathered in pubs and at footy clubs whispering in doorways.

“You never think something like this would happen here,” said Cathy Reeves, who runs a bakery two blocks from the courthouse. “People come here to get away from the city. We bake scones, we talk about the footy. Now when I slice beef Wellington it feels different.”

Local historians note that the Gippsland hinterland has long been a place where families forage, garden and put up preserves. Wild mushrooms are a seasonal curiosity and a culinary temptation — which is precisely what makes misidentification so dangerous. The death cap’s global spread — introduced into many temperate regions via nursery stock in the 19th and 20th centuries — means that even experienced foragers can be caught out.

Practical realities and broader implications

Death cap (Amanita phalloides): responsible for the majority of fatal mushroom poisonings worldwide; contains amatoxins that can cause liver and kidney failure.
Symptoms: initial gastroenteritis followed by a deceptive remission and late hepatic failure; may require transplant in severe cases.
Legal process: convicted defendants generally have a statutory window (28 days in this case) to file appeals after sentencing; an appeal can challenge trial directions, admissibility of evidence, or legal errors.

Voices from inside and outside the courtroom

The trial featured testimony from medical experts, family members and friends whose lives were shredded by the events of one lunch. “I keep seeing her smile at the table,” said a relative of one of the victims during victim-impact statements. “That plate, that fork — everything becomes a memory.”

Patterson’s defence attorneys argued the notorious nature of the case meant she would likely spend most of any future imprisonment in protective isolation, and asked the judge to consider a slightly shorter non-parole period. The judge ultimately settled on 33 years before parole, a sentence that sits at the intersection of retribution, deterrence and public protection.

“The court must balance the harm caused with principles of fairness,” a legal analyst commented after the hearing. “An appeal is a normal part of that balance, though it does little to speed healing for the bereaved.”

Trust, food and the fractures of domestic life

At a deeper level, the case stirs questions about trust inside our most intimate spaces. A family meal is supposed to be a ritual of belonging; when that ritual turns deadly, it ruptures not just individuals but communal faith in the ordinary. Are we safe in our kitchens? Can the familiar be weaponised?

“We invite others into our homes to share a piece of ourselves,” said social researcher Dr. Leila Hammond. “When something so intimate becomes a forum for alleged violence, the sense of betrayal is profound and long-lasting.”

What happens next — law, healing, community

With an appeal on the horizon, the legal story is not yet complete. But for many in Leongatha and beyond, the human story — of grieving families, a survivor’s daily struggle, and a community trying to find normalcy — will endure long after court transcripts gather dust.

As the town turns toward routine — dairy trucks rumbling at dawn, children weaving to school through gum trees — the question lingers: how do we rebuild trust in the spaces that feel most sacred? It’s a question for families, for the criminal justice system, and for all of us who sit down to share a meal.

What would you do if the food on your table suddenly became the centre of the worst possible suspicion? How does a small town survive the shock of a headline that changes faces and streets forever?

Israel Plans to Expel Flotilla Activists Following Naval Interception

hanad

October 2, 2025

Israel to deport flotilla activists after interception

On the Deck as the Navy Came Into View: A Mediterranean Story of Defiance, Law, and the Human Cost

The sun was a hard, white coin above the water. Salt spray braided the air, gulls cried like an indifferent chorus, and on the deck of a modest ship crammed with banners and people, a kettle boiled as activists argued about the route. Somewhere behind the banners—hand-painted, multilingual, stubborn—sat a cargo of canned food, school supplies, and cameras. Cameras to record what the participants called a test of a blockade they say has made life in Gaza a daily negotiation with scarcity.

That scene was interrupted by the low, authoritative hum of engines: an Israeli navy vessel had cut across the horizon and was closing fast. Within hours, officials announced that the flotilla had been intercepted and that those aboard would be deported. For the people on deck, for the families in Gaza who watch such actions on their phones, and for diplomats watching from capitals, the moment felt like a replay of an older, raw grievance—and like a fresh, urgent question about humanitarian access in the 21st century.

The Interception: What Happened at Sea

According to Israeli officials, naval forces boarded the vessels in international waters, inspected cargo and identities, and detained a number of activists before moving to deport them to their countries of origin. “We enforce a maritime blockade that is essential to our security,” an Israeli naval spokesperson said in a brief statement. “Individuals seeking to breach that blockade will be prevented from doing so and will be returned to their points of departure.”

On the flotilla, people described a different tone. “They came quietly, then the deck felt very small,” said one activist who asked to be identified only as Amir, a teacher from Athens. “The officers were professional, but their presence said clearly: you are not going through. We made noise, we sang, we lit candles—this is what witnesses do.” A Turkish organizer, Leyla, later added, “We carry medicine and children’s books. We came to remind people that there are lives at the other end of this blockade.”

Why This Matters: The Context You Need

The Israeli naval blockade of Gaza was implemented in 2007 and has been a flashpoint ever since. For critics, it has strangled Gaza’s economy and civilian life. For Israel, the blockade is a security measure meant to prevent the smuggling of weapons to militants. Each attempt to challenge that sea barrier—most notoriously the 2010 Mavi Marmara—has produced international uproar. In that incident, clashes on board led to nine deaths and a decades-long diplomatic crisis between Israel and Turkey.

Numbers help make the stakes real. Gaza is home to roughly 2.2–2.4 million people packed into a coastal strip about 40 kilometers long and 6–12 kilometers wide. For years, humanitarian agencies have warned that Gaza faces severe constraints: high unemployment—often reported above 40%—limited electricity, and an economy curtailed by restrictions on imports, exports, and movement. More than a million people in Gaza regularly rely on humanitarian assistance, according to UN agencies’ assessments over recent years.

Quick Facts

Gaza population: roughly 2.2–2.4 million.
Blockade in place since 2007, enforced by sea and regulated at land crossings.
Mavi Marmara (2010): nine activists were killed in an Israeli raid, a landmark and controversial episode.

Voices from the Water and the Shore

Voices on both sides carry the weight of story and grievance. “We are not seeking confrontation,” said Dr. Miriam Ben-Yosef, a policy analyst in Tel Aviv. “This is about balancing humanitarian norms with national security. We do not allow the uncontrolled flow of goods into a territory where weapons could be smuggled.” Her words reflect a widely held view in Israel that security concerns cannot be unmoored from maritime policy.

In Gaza, the reaction was quieter but no less potent. “When boats like this are stopped, it feels like another door closing,” said Khaled, a fisherman from Gaza City. He spoke seated on the edge of a rickety pier, his hands maps of old work. “Every time we hear about aid that could have come by sea, we think of our children and the schoolbooks they need.”

A UN humanitarian official, speaking on background, framed the moment in legal and ethical terms. “International law allows blockades in certain contexts, but it also obliges states to ensure that civilians have access to essential supplies,” the official said. “When activists attempt to deliver aid, they force a spotlight on whether those obligations are being met.”

Beyond the Headlines: What This Flotilla Tells Us

This is larger than a single ship. It is part protest, part humanitarian effort, part performance art—and entirely symbolic of ongoing global tensions between state security and transnational activism. The flotilla is both a literal attempt to deliver goods and a messaging device: a way to make the world look at Gaza’s people and say, in voice and image, we did not forget you.

But symbolism is slippery. Critics ask whether such missions actually help those they claim to assist. “The quantities sent by these boats are tiny compared with the need,” said Professor Elias Haddad, a scholar of humanitarian logistics. “What they do, however, is force conversation. They push questions about policy into public consciousness and make governments explain their choices.”

What Next? Deportation, Diplomacy, or Dialogue?

Israeli authorities say the activists will be deported. That is a routine outcome in many such interceptions—the activists are returned to their countries rather than prosecuted, the ships are released, and the diplomatic ripples—sometimes waves—spread outward. But each episode adds a notch to the ledger of mistrust between publics and states, between citizens and international institutions.

Will another flotilla come? Probably. These missions recur in part because the underlying conditions—restricted access, humanitarian needs, political stalemate—remain. Will they change policy? Sometimes, by forcing scrutiny, they do. Sometimes they harden positions.

Questions for the Reader

What would you do if you were on the deck, looking at a shore you can’t reach? Is it better to stage acts of civil disobedience on the world stage, or to work through diplomatic channels and aid organizations? Can symbolic acts and formal negotiations find a way to reinforce one another, rather than talk past each other?

There are no neat answers. But there is a constant reminder: behind every headline are human lives—families, teachers, fishermen, soldiers, aid workers—making decisions in constrained spaces. The Mediterranean, wide and blue, keeps swallowing headlines and whispering them back as salt-stained stories. This latest interception is another line in that long, uneasy conversation between security, law, morality, and the stubborn human impulse to reach out to people who are far away yet astonishingly near.

As the ships made their way back to port and the activists were processed for deportation, a woman on the flotilla put her hand on a stack of brightly colored schoolbooks and said, simply, “We sailed to remember them. That is everything.” The sea kept its steady rhythm. Somewhere in Gaza, a child turned a page.

Internet and Mobile Phone Services Restored Across Afghanistan After Nationwide Outage

hanad

October 2, 2025

Internet and mobile phone services resume in Afghanistan — Afghan men using their mobile phones in Kabul yesterday. Online learning by teenage girls and women was stopped during the outage

The Day the Network Died: Afghanistan’s Brief Digital Blackout and What It Felt Like

On a gray morning in Kabul, the city woke up in silence—not the silence of dawn, but the odd, modern silence of a world suddenly unplugged. Phones that usually buzz with messages, money transfers and classroom links lay inert. Cafés that streamed cricket highlights and lecture recordings to students were empty of sound. Two days later, the lights came back on. For about 48 hours, Afghanistan’s mobile and internet services vanished, and for a country already living on the edge of humanitarian and political fault lines, the outage felt like a small collapse.

“My cousin was teaching an online class for teenage girls,” said Roya, a mother in west Kabul, her voice raw with fatigue. “The lesson froze. We couldn’t reach her. We don’t know if the students thought she abandoned them.”

A sudden blackout, a slow-burning crisis

Late on the afternoon of the second day, users in Kabul and other cities reported that the networks of two major providers—Roshan and Etisalat—were back. Internet service companies also signaled restoration. But the interruption, which began on Monday, had already rippled through the fragile arteries of daily life.

A Taliban information department official, speaking on condition of anonymity, told local reporters that technical faults had caused the outage and that services would be “quickly restored.” The ruling movement did not offer a public explanation, and international agencies urged swift action to restore connectivity. A United Nations spokesperson said, “Access to information and communication is a lifeline—especially now. The UN calls for immediate restoration to prevent further humanitarian harm.”

What stopped when the network did

The list of immediate victims was long and quietly devastating.

Education: Girls and women, barred from secondary school and university campuses since 2021, rely heavily on online learning and informal networks to continue their education. Outages cut off classes, homework help, and a fragile promise of continuity.
Finance: Remittances, electronic payments and mobile banking—vital for households across Afghanistan—were disrupted. Small businesses could not transact, and border trade partners faced delays.
Transport and logistics: Flights were cancelled or delayed; travelers were stranded. Banks’ operations were hampered, and the flow of commerce stuttered.

“For many families, the phone is the bank,” said Dr. Samir Halimi, a Kabul-based economist. “When the network stops, liquidity dries up. People can’t receive money from relatives abroad, and small traders can’t pay suppliers. The economic shocks are immediate.”

Human stories behind the headlines

Walk through Kabul’s old bazaar and you’ll hear stories that statistics can’t capture. At a tea stall near the chicken market, men in pakol hats argued about the outage and shared gossip. A fruit seller, his cart piled with pomegranates, said the blackout cost him two days of orders to buyers in neighboring provinces.

“We sell on credit sometimes,” he told me, tapping his phone like a talisman that suddenly refused to work. “If they can’t call, we can’t agree on credit. We lose customers. It’s simple.”

For a generation of Afghan women and girls barred from classrooms, the internet has become a fragile classroom of its own. “An entire ecosystem has grown up online—tutors using WhatsApp groups, grammar lessons shared through voice notes, girls studying for entrance exams on borrowed devices,” said Laila, a volunteer who organizes remote learning circles in Herat. “When you cut that off, you cut hope.”

Why connectivity matters more than you might think

Afghanistan’s internet penetration has long lagged behind global averages. Estimates in recent years placed the share of people with regular internet access at roughly one in five to one in four Afghans, concentrated in urban centers. Mobile subscriptions number in the tens of millions, covering a substantial—though uneven—portion of the population.

That patchwork connectivity is often the only conduit to the outside world: humanitarian updates, job postings, encrypted chats that allow women to study anonymously, and mobile cash that keeps families fed. When the network falters, the fragile coping mechanisms Afghans have built are exposed.

“People think of internet shutdowns as abstract policy tools,” said Maya Singh, a digital rights researcher who has followed Afghanistan for years. “But in practice, these are economic shutdowns, educational shutdowns, rights shutdowns. They hit the most vulnerable first.”

Patterns and precedents

This outage was not an isolated event. Earlier this year, parts of northern Afghanistan experienced an internet ban, and last year the Taliban authorities banned chess in some provinces on the grounds that it could lead to gambling. Each measure chips away at the contours of public life and raises questions about governance, control and the future of civic space in Afghanistan.

International bodies have repeatedly warned that restrictions on communications can worsen humanitarian crises. In contexts where food insecurity and economic collapse are already present, cutting digital lifelines can magnify suffering. The UN’s call to reinstate services was one of several urgent pleas echoed by aid organizations and human rights groups.

The broader picture

Think beyond Afghanistan for a moment: we live in an era where authoritarians and fragile states alike use digital controls as levers of power. From the coordinated internet blackouts during elections in some countries to targeted throttling of social apps in others, access to the web is increasingly a question of political will, not infrastructure.

But global trends don’t mean the same thing everywhere. In Afghanistan, where decades of conflict have hollowed institutions and normalized abrupt policy shifts, the stakes feel intimate to every household.

After the lights came back on

When networks returned, relief was immediate but cautious. Messages flooded in—a mix of mundane updates and urgent pleas. “Thank God, my niece’s class resumed,” Roya told me, her voice lighter. But the return did not erase the damage of the past two days, nor did it answer the deeper question: what happens the next time?

“We can restore a network,” Dr. Halimi said, “but restoring trust is harder. People ask whether their lines of communication can be cut again at any time. Businesses hesitate to invest. Mothers worry about their daughters’ futures.”

Questions that linger

As the city hums back to its usual tempo, ask yourself: how do we balance sovereignty and security with the basic human need to connect? When governments—of whatever stripe—control the wires and the waves, who protects the right to learn, trade, and live with dignity?

For Afghans, the answer is not academic. It is daily, practical, urgent. The brief blackout was a reminder that in a world woven together by cables and data centers, freedom can still be cut with the flick of a switch. And until there are firmer guarantees—legal, technical, and political—every outage will be a small catastrophe for someone somewhere in the country.

“We live between two worlds,” Laila said, looking out over a city that has always known conflict and surprise. “One where the internet opens windows, and one where it can be closed again. I hope for more windows.”

Gala hails optimism and success of Morrison’s visa program

hanad

October 2, 2025

'Optimism and success' - Gala celebrates Morrison visas — Former congressman Bruce Morrison says Irish immigrants brought optimism and success to America

Under the Manhattan Sky: A Night Where Luck, Labor and Laughter Met

There was a hum to the room that felt almost sacred—part reunion, part victory lap. High above the traffic and neon of midtown, in a ballroom that looked out over the Hudson and a skyline that has become shorthand for possibility, roughly forty people who once clutched a small piece of paper that read “Morrison Visa” swapped stories until their voices rose and fell like the city beyond the windows.

It smelled faintly of lemon-scented polish and hot coffee; somebody had insisted on a tray of mini scones tucked next to the passed hors d’oeuvres. Accents braided—Dublin, Cork, Galway—over conversations about identity, careers, and small, persistent miracles. In a corner, two men argued good-naturedly over whether a proper Irish breakfast should include white pudding. Across the room, a woman wearing a green scarf that fluttered like a bit of County Mayo waved at an old friend and mouthed, “Would you believe it?”

The Lottery That Opened Doors

In the early 1990s, a handful of lawmakers and advocates pushed a provision into U.S. immigration law that would offer a narrow, life-changing chance to people born in Ireland. Between 1992 and 1995, roughly 45,000 people from all 32 counties of Ireland were granted the opportunity to come to the United States under what many now call the Morrison Visa program.

To call it a program is to understate the vertigo it introduced to people’s lives: a lottery, a queue, decades of waiting for doors to open. For many, that paper ticket was the difference between scraping by and taking a breath long enough to build something. For others, it was the first step toward citizenship, homeownership, a university degree, or a business. For the city of New York, it was another seam in an already densely woven immigrant fabric.

From Belfast tenements to Madison Avenue

“I arrived with two suitcases and a head full of dreams,” said one woman who now runs a boutique beauty brand. “Back then, this city felt like a place where a new idea could breathe.” Her voice trembled, not from nerves but from the memory of the small, stubborn faith she carried on an overnight ferry from Dublin.

A former nurse who rose to a leadership position in a major health system admitted she never quite saw herself as an immigrant in the political sense—“I was an explorer,” she told me with a laugh. That sense of mischief and momentum, the feeling that the world was a place to be tried and tested, threaded through every story that night.

Voices from the Room

“It wasn’t meritocratically selected brains,” said a software engineer from Dublin, smiling at the absurdity of explaining his route to success. “It was a lottery. Pure luck. And then you do what you can with that chance.”

Bruce Morrison—whose advocacy in Congress helped birth the policy—watched the room like a proud parent at a school play. He spoke softly about the years he spent trying to build consensus across a fractious legislature. “What struck me most,” he said, “was how many people were hanging on by a thread when this came along. Suddenly, they could work legally, they could lay down roots. Those are not small things.”

Geraldine Byrne Nason, Ireland’s ambassador to the United States, stood by a window as twilight pooled over skyscrapers. She acknowledged a harder truth: “The politics of immigration have grown more fractious. That’s a reality we live with. But I meet Americans on Capitol Hill who see what fresh talent does—jobs, innovation, community. That conviction hasn’t died.”

Everyday Economies, Lasting Returns

People in the room did not only speak of personal triumphs. They spoke of the ripple effects of immigration—restaurants opened (often with recipes handed down across generations), clinics and schools staffed, technology startups launched in Brooklyn co-working spaces. “They came with optimism and a willingness to work hard,” a local councilman remarked. “You don’t count those contributions just in tax returns; you count them in neighborhoods that thrive.”

45,000 Irish nationals were admitted under the Morrison program between 1992–1995.
Recipients represent all 32 counties of Ireland, from urban Dublin to rural Donegal.
Many recipients went on to careers in healthcare, entrepreneurship, education, and public service.

Small Moments, Big Lives

A woman in her sixties recounted how she used her visa to get a job as a secretary and, over 25 years, worked her way up to a human resources role. “I used to bring jam sandwiches to my lunch break because everything was new and expensive,” she said, laughing through a small tear. “And now, my granddaughter studies at Columbia. Would you ever think of that when you’re in a kitchen in Ballina?”

An engineer from County Clare talked about designing a series of bridges with a New York firm, and how instinctual Irish problem-solving—making do, reimagining tools—turned out to be valuable in an office full of bright minds. “We carry a certain speed of thought,” he said. “And a stubbornness that helps on rainy Tuesday afternoons.”

What This Night Says About Us

There is a particular kind of nostalgia at play in nights like this—sweet, a little theatrical. But beneath the gaiety there’s a sober current. The world has grown smaller; opportunities have shifted. Many of the attendees noted that pathways like those carved by the Morrison Visa seem harder to reproduce now amid tightening immigration politics and competing global pressures.

“We need a second coming of that type of compassion,” a retired teacher argued, “someone who thinks long-term about the social and economic benefits of welcoming newcomers.” Whether such political courage will emerge is an open question. But what the night at Rockefeller Center made clear was that immigration’s returns are not merely economic. They are cultural, emotional, civic.

Questions for the Reader

What would your community look like if the best talents from other countries were given a fair shot to stay? How much of a nation’s future should be shaped by narrow electoral cycles versus long-term investments in people?

These are thorny questions. They do not have easy answers. But as the lights of Manhattan blinked and the last guests hugged goodbye, the sentiment felt straightforward: if you want to build a thriving country, sometimes you must take a bet on people.

Closing: A City of Small Miracles

Outside, the city moved on—Yellow Cabs humming, a late subway train rattling away. Inside, the banquet had emptied but memories lingered; a photo album would be assembled, emails exchanged, new business deals likely whispered into the ears of those who had arrived with nothing but hope.

Whether you are Irish yourself or simply someone watching from afar, the lesson of that night is human and simple: the act of offering a chance can alter the arc of many lives, and the returns—measured in families settled, jobs created, and stubborn, ordinary resilience—are as real as any skyline.

Two people killed after attack outside synagogue in Manchester

hanad

October 2, 2025

Two dead after attack outside Manchester synagogue — A police bomb disposal van near Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation Synagogue

A Sacred Day Shattered: Morning at Heaton Park

On a crisp autumn morning in Crumpsall, north Manchester, the hush of Yom Kippur was broken by sirens and shock. Families had gathered inside the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation synagogue for one of the most solemn days of the Jewish calendar — a day of fasting, reflection and communal prayer — when violence spilled into a space meant for peace.

At 9:31am, Greater Manchester Police received a call: a witness reported a car being driven at members of the public and a man stabbed. Within minutes the scene transformed from ritual to response. By 9:37am the force had declared a major incident and shortly after activated the national “Plato” code — the gravity-laced term used when emergency services face a marauding terror attack.

What the Authorities Have Confirmed

Police say shots were fired by firearms officers at 9:38am and that one man, believed to be the offender, was shot. Two people have been confirmed dead and three others remain in a serious condition, authorities said. The suspected attacker is also believed to be dead, though officers cautioned that confirmation is delayed because of “safety issues surrounding suspicious items” found on his person.

Paramedics from the North West Ambulance Service arrived by 9:41am and began tending to the injured. A bomb disposal unit was later called in. “Our priority is to ensure people receive the medical help they need as quickly as possible,” the service said, while police urged the public to avoid the area as investigations continued.

Images That Stunned the City

A video, verified by international news agencies, captured a moment that will not be easily forgotten: officers discharging their weapons within the synagogue perimeter, a figure lying on the floor nearby wearing a traditional Jewish head covering. It is an image that juxtaposes prayer and protection, devotion and danger.

Voices from the Scene: Grief, Anger, Resolve

“We come here to speak to God, to atone,” said Miriam Kaplan, a synagogue member who arrived shortly after the incident, her voice steady but fragile. “To be attacked while we are at our most vulnerable — it’s a wound that will take a long time to heal.”

A local shopkeeper, who asked not to be named, described the chaos of the moments after: “We heard yelling, then the sirens. People ran in every direction. For north Manchester, this feels unreal — like something you read about, not something you live through.”

Dave Rich of the Community Security Trust reminded the public why synagogues often have heightened security, particularly on major holidays. “Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the Jewish year,” he said. “Synagogues across the country will be full, and there’s always a significant security operation in place between police and CST on major Jewish festivals.”

National Response: From Cobra to Condolences

Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer, returning early from a summit, said he was “appalled” and called the timing — during Yom Kippur — particularly shocking. A Cobra meeting, the high-level government forum for crisis coordination, was convened to steer the response and reassure the public.

Home Secretary Shabana Mahmood said she was “horrified” and pledged to stay updated as the situation unfolded. King Charles issued a statement saying he and the Queen were “deeply shocked and saddened” that such an attack happened on a day of particular significance to the Jewish community.

The Israeli embassy in London condemned the attack as “abhorrent and deeply distressing,” a sentiment echoed across embassies and communities. Locally, Mayor Andy Burnham said the “immediate danger appears to be over,” but cautioned that recovery — physical, emotional and communal — will take time.

Security, History and the Weight of Words

“Plato” is not a word most people know until it is used. For police and emergency services it triggers a coordinated, multi-agency response: firearms officers, paramedics, bomb squads and special units move in with urgency and precision. The speed of that response saved lives, officials say, but it does not erase the trauma of what unfolded.

Community Security Trust data and analysts have reported rising levels of antisemitism across the UK in recent years, and prominent religious holidays often coincide with increased anxiety. While exact figures can vary year to year, the trend has prompted synagogues and Jewish community organizations to invest more in protective measures and liaison efforts with police.

Local Color: Crumpsall and Its People

Crumpsall is an area of layered histories — Victorian terraces, local bakeries where yeasted challah meets sourdough, and community centers that hum with activity. On Yom Kippur the neighborhood usually breathes with a singular quiet: shops closed, streets calmer, the rhythms of prayer felt rather than heard. Today that quiet is fractured, yet the impulse to rebuild is visible in small acts — neighbors bringing water and blankets, volunteers helping to reroute traffic, and local clergy offering space for people to gather.

Questions That Linger

How do communities balance the solemnity of worship with the need for security? How will memories of this morning shape Jewish life in Manchester and beyond? And how should societies respond when a house of prayer becomes the scene of violence?

“We cannot let fear define our days,” Rabbi Daniel Weiss told me, standing just outside the cordon. “Faith is not about being naive; it’s about choosing to return to the act of prayer even when the world tells us to hide.”

What This Means for the Wider Conversation

This attack is not just a local tragedy. It sits at the intersection of global debates: the rise in targeted religious violence, the tension between civil liberties and security measures, and the role of government in protecting minority communities. Around the world, synagogues, churches, mosques and temples contend with similar dilemmas: how to uphold openness while also ensuring safety.

There is also a human story beyond headlines and policy. Two families are grieving. Three people are fighting for life. A neighborhood is stitched briefly into a barrister’s report or a parliamentary statement, then expected to heal. How communities remember — through vigils, through education, through mutual aid — will determine whether this becomes a moment of division or one of strengthened solidarity.

How You Can Help, and What to Watch For

Respect the cordon and follow police advice; emergency responders need space to work.
Check in on local community organizations if you’re nearby — volunteers and donations are often coordinated through local charities.
Look for official statements from Greater Manchester Police and the Community Security Trust to avoid spreading unverified information.

This is a story that invites reflection more than simple answers. It asks us to consider the fragility of sacred spaces, the resilience of communities, and the work that must follow when violence intrudes on prayer. Will we let fear narrow our lives, or will we, in the face of grief, choose connection?

In the coming days, there will be investigations, memorials, and debates about security and civil life. For now, there is only the immediate human need: to comfort the bereaved, to tend the injured, and to listen — really listen — to what a damaged community is telling the rest of us about what matters.

Israeli navy intercepts 39 humanitarian ships en route to Gaza

hanad

October 2, 2025

Israeli military intercepts 39 aid boats heading for Gaza

The Sea Between: When Boats Became a Global Mirror

It was midnight on the Mediterranean when the glow of helmet-mounted night-vision goggles turned the sea into a patchwork of green. Cameras streaming from the decks of civilian boats captured the surreal choreography: people in life jackets, hands raised, clusters of strangers huddled together where hours earlier they had been laughing or singing sea shanties. Then came the boarding—Israeli soldiers moving methodically from hull to hull, a noisy, urgent ballet that unfolded under the harsh geometry of floodlights.

“We were unarmed. We were carrying food and medicine,” an activist aboard one of the boats said later through a choked voice on a patched feed. “They told us we were in international waters and then put us on their ship. It felt like our right to even reach Gaza was criminalized.”

The flotilla — branded the Global Sumud Flotilla — had set out with more than 40 civilian vessels and roughly 500 people aboard: parliamentarians, lawyers, doctors, climate activists, and volunteers who described themselves as humanitarian couriers to Gaza. Organizers say Israeli forces intercepted 39 of those boats, leaving one vessel still on its course toward the Palestinian enclave. Live feeds verified by Reuters showed the moment Greta Thunberg, the Swedish climate campaigner who joined the mission, was surrounded on a ship’s deck by soldiers. The Israeli foreign ministry later posted: “Greta and her friends are safe and healthy.”

Bodies, Names, and the Human Ledger

Numbers on the water read like an inventory of global anger: 39 boats stopped, about 500 men and women aboard, and at least 22 Irish citizens among them. The Global Sumud Flotilla named 15 Irish people detained by the Israeli navy, including Sinn Féin Senator Chris Andrews, Catríona Graham, Louise Heaney, Sarah Clancy and others. A quick scroll through the organizers’ Telegram channels showed short clips of passengers with passports, pleading that they had been taken against their will and insisting their mission was non‑violent.

Catríona Graham
Louise Heaney
Sarah Clancy
Senator Chris Andrews
Diarmuid Mac Dubhghlais
Cormac O’Daly
Colm Byrne
Thomas McCune
Tara O’Grady
Tadhg Hickey
Mary Almai
Patrick Kelly
Tara Sheehy
Donna Marie Schwarz
Patrick O’Donovan

“They told us we were breaking the law, but we were only trying to bring insulin and baby formula,” said one woman who identified herself as a volunteer nurse. “Is there a law against helping a child survive?”

Diplomacy in Motion: Global Reactions

This interdiction rippled quickly through capitals. Turkey’s foreign ministry called the operation “an act of terror,” saying the interception endangered civilians. Malaysia’s prime minister condemned the raid and said his government believed eight Malaysians had been detained. Colombia’s president, Gustavo Petro, ordered Israel’s diplomatic delegation expelled and described the detentions as a possible “new international crime,” also suspending a free trade agreement with Israel. In Europe, unions in Italy called for a general strike in solidarity.

Back on the water, the Israeli narrative was succinct: the navy had warned the boats not to approach an active combat zone, citing a lawful blockade, and offered to transfer any aid through what it calls safe channels. “This systematic refusal (to hand over the aid) demonstrates that the objective is not humanitarian, but provocative,” Jonathan Peled, Israel’s ambassador to Italy, wrote on social media.

Responses were predictably bifurcated. For supporters of the flotilla, the boats were a moral instrument—an act of civil defiance meant to illuminate human suffering. For Israeli officials, the flotilla was a risky provocation that could worsen instability during an active conflict.

A Sea with Memory: Why These Flotillas Matter

Sea-borne attempts to breach the blockade of Gaza are not new. In 2010, a similar flotilla resulted in deadly confrontation when Israeli forces boarded six ships. Nine activists died in that incident, a wound that has not healed in many quarters. More recently, in June this year, Israeli naval forces detained Thunberg and 11 crew members from a smaller vessel as it neared Gaza.

The blockade itself has been in place since 2007, when Hamas seized control of Gaza’s coast. The enclave has since endured waves of conflict, most recently the offensive that followed the Hamas-led attack on Israel on October 7, 2023. Israeli tallies from that day cite around 1,200 people killed and 251 taken hostage. Gaza’s health authorities say the Israeli campaign has since killed over 65,000 people—a figure that presents a harrowing backdrop for any maritime protest that seeks to deliver medicine and food.

Instruments of Protest and the Law at Sea

International law draws complicated lines between a state’s right to enforce a blockade and the rights of civilians offering aid. The flotilla organizers called the raid a “war crime,” alleging aggressive methods, including water cannon and electronic interference that scrambled their communications. Israel says the flotilla refused offers to route aid through established channels.

“This is not just about a handful of boats,” said a maritime law expert I spoke to. “It’s about how states regulate humanitarian access during conflict and how civil society chooses to challenge those regulations. Both sides assert legal grounds—what’s at stake is whether norms will be shaped by law or by force.”

Human Faces, Local Colors

Onboard, the atmosphere shifted between resolve and quiet panic. There were songs — a mix of anthems and lullabies — and there were whispered phone calls to family. Someone roasted coffee on a small stove; the smell briefly cut through the diesel and salt. A Greek sailor passed around a thermos, and a young Palestinian-Dutch woman clutched a small, tattered Quran while repeating the names of the aid packages they carried: antibiotics, powdered milk, antiseptics.

“We are anchored in conscience,” said another activist, an older man with sun-creased skin who had been part of earlier flotillas. “If the sea is what separates us, then let it be the place where we remember our common humanity.”

Questions That Linger

What does it mean when a civilian ship becomes an instrument of international diplomacy? When does solidarity become endangerment? And for the people in Gaza who rely on consistent supplies of food and medicine, how meaningful is a one-day flotilla when broader mechanisms of aid are blocked or politicized?

These are not just legal questions. They are moral and practical ones, and they ripple outward, touching trade agreements, diplomatic relations, and the day-to-day lives of families in Gaza and in Israel. The interception has already altered ties—from expulsions in Bogotá to strikes in Rome—and it will force countries, organizations, and ordinary citizens to ask where they stand.

What Comes Next

There will be hearings, diplomatic notes, and possibly court challenges. There will also be deeper conversations about how aid reaches civilians in conflict zones and the forms that civil disobedience can take in an era of surveillance and naval enforcement. And somewhere between the lawbooks and the political statements, there are the people who were on those ships—still in custody, still counted in lists and statistics, each a small weathered testament to an idea: that the sea can be a route to relief, a stage for protest, or a contested arena where global power plays out in close quarters.

How would you act if you were offered a place on a boat bound for a blockaded shore? Would you step aboard? Or would you trust the negotiations made behind closed doors? The flotilla has forced the question into the open, and the Mediterranean, as ever, keeps its own counsel—reflective, restless, and impossibly alive.

Sinn Féin senator among Irish aboard intercepted aid flotilla vessels

hanad

October 2, 2025

SF senator among Irish on intercepted aid flotilla boats — A screenshot of a video posted by French MEP Rima Hassan shows an Israeli vessel approaching aid flotilla boats

Night on the Water: When a Humanitarian Flotilla Met a Navy

The sea has always been where courage and recklessness meet. On a cool night, less than 50 nautical miles from Gaza, that old collision played out once again: forty-some civilian boats bearing medicines, tins of food and human witnesses ran into the hard edge of geopolitics — and were intercepted by a well-armed navy.

On board the flotilla known as Global Sumud, volunteers from more than 40 countries had gathered to do what they said governments and aid agencies could not: break a maritime blockade and deliver relief to Gaza. The mission names itself after an Arabic word — “sumud” — meaning steadiness or steadfastness. It is a fitting word for people who traded the comfort of dry land for small decks, waves and the distant glow of a besieged coast.

Who was on board

The picture that emerged over the following hours was part soap opera, part human-rights drama. Organisers reported about 500 people across the fleet — parliamentarians, lawyers, activists, medical volunteers and even high-profile climate campaigners. Irish citizens featured prominently: 22 people, organisers said, were sailing under Ireland’s flag, and by morning at least eight of them had been detained. Among those taken were Catríona Graham, Louise Heaney, Tadgh Hickey, Sarah Clancy and Senator Chris Andrews.

“We went to sea to carry aid and witness suffering,” said one organiser, speaking on condition of anonymity. “Not to be turned into a bargaining chip.”

Moments of alarm

It wasn’t a surprise that the flotilla ran into resistance. Israel has enforced a naval blockade on Gaza since 2007. As the boats pushed into a zone the Israeli military described as an “active combat area,” naval vessels converged. Passengers on deck donned life jackets. Videos shot from the flotilla — bright, jittery, grainy — showed crews with hands raised while fast-moving dark ships loomed.

Organisers accused the Israeli navy of using “active aggression”: ramming one vessel, blasting others with water cannon and temporarily disabling navigation and communications on several boats — a move passengers described as a “cyber-attack.” At least one flotilla participant livestreamed the moment a small submarine surfaced near the Sirius. In other clips, water cannons slice through spray; in one, helpers threw kitchen knives overboard to make clear there were no weapons.

“We trained for interceptions,” an Irish activist on the Sirius later told reporters. “We sat on deck, life jackets on, calm. Our goal was to be peaceful. That’s what kept us together.”

Detentions, diplomacy and doubts

By the time day broke, news of detentions came in waves. Sinn Féin confirmed that Senator Chris Andrews was among those taken after his vessel, the Spectre, was boarded. Earlier, Diarmuid Mac Dubhghlais and Thomas McCune were named as detainees from the Sirius, and Tara O’Grady from the Alma. The Irish Department of Foreign Affairs said it was in direct contact with Irish representatives and reiterated that the safety of citizens was its priority.

“We have told Irish citizens that the area is not safe,” the Taoiseach said in a measured response, acknowledging both the humanitarian impulse behind the mission and the risks involved. “But we expect any interception to be handled under international law.”

Legal scholars gathered online to parse the situation. “If the flotilla was in international waters, states have limited jurisdiction,” said a maritime law specialist in a statement shared with journalists. “But states also assert rights to enforce blockades in wartime. The legal picture is messy, ripe for debate and unfortunately, not always resolved at sea.”

Voices from the decks

Not everything felt like a courtroom motion. There were human moments too: a medic stitching a volunteer’s blistered hands, a group of teenagers singing softly in Arabic as distant lights blinked on the horizon, a Greek cook offering everyone coffee below deck. “We weren’t here for headline-making,” a young nurse said, wringing her hands as the flotilla was taken. “We were here to carry insulin, to get food to families.”

Another volunteer, a retired teacher from Cork who asked to be named only as Eileen, said: “We’ve read the headlines for years. We wanted to show up and see the people. It’s one thing to watch on a screen, another to be within shouting distance of a community whose children you’ve been seeing on the news.”

History on the line

This was not the first time a civilian flotilla tried to pierce the blockade. The memory of 2010 — when nine activists were killed during an Israeli raid on a Gaza-bound convoy — still casts a long shadow. In June, a small ship carrying Greta Thunberg and activists was detained as it approached the Strip. Those episodes inform both the tactics of activists and the nervousness of governments watching from a distance.

Organisers of Global Sumud said they offered to transfer all aid through established “safe channels” — a point Israel’s foreign ministry reiterated, saying its navy had warned the boats to change course. Yet for many on deck, those channels felt too slow, too politicised and inadequate for the scale of suffering they’d witnessed in Gaza’s refugee-filled neighborhoods.

What the waters reveal

Look beyond the technicalities and the story becomes about trust, spectacle and the shrinking space between activism and state power. Why do people put themselves on small vessels facing military ships? Because distant tragedies can harden into statistics — and breaking that compression, bringing faces and stories to the sea, matters to those who take extraordinary risks.

“How do you weigh danger against duty?” asked a maritime psychologist who has worked with rescue crews. “Acts like these are both moral statements and moral experiments. They test not only the law, but empathy.”

Key facts at a glance

Organisers say the Global Sumud Flotilla comprised more than 40 civilian boats and roughly 500 participants.
About 22 Irish citizens were on board; at least eight were reported detained early on.
Israel has maintained a naval blockade on Gaza since 2007; previous attempts to break it have led to deadly confrontations.

After the boarding: what next?

There are immediate questions: Will detained activists be released? Will diplomats secure safe passage for remaining boats? Will this episode harden international opinion, or will it fizzle into another shadowed skirmish at sea?

Longer-term, the incident forces a tougher conversation about humanitarian access in modern conflict zones. As warfare increasingly blends naval patrols with cyber tactics and political messaging, civilians who show up with food and medicine may find themselves testing the limits of law, bravery and state control.

So I’ll leave you with this: when people put themselves on the line for strangers across the water, what are they asking of us? Is it a call to action, to shame, or to something harder — a sustained public demand that borders, navies and blocs not make human beings invisible? The answer will shape the seas we share for years to come.

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