Internet and Mobile Phone Services Restored Across Afghanistan After Nationwide Outage

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.

Israeli military strikes in Gaza leave at least 46 dead

hanad

October 2, 2025

Israeli forces kill at least 46 people in Gaza — Palestinians watch smoke billowing during Israeli strikes as they are displaced southward from Wadi Gaza

Gaza’s Encircled Heart: A City Told to Flee, a People Told to Stay

Late into the night, the sky above Gaza City glowed with a cold, mechanical light — the staccato flash of drone strikes and the longer, ominous bloom of artillery. Beneath that light, families moved like reluctant tides, clutching plastic bags and the few heirlooms they could carry. Somewhere between the crack of ordnance and the rumble of tanks, another order arrived: leave. Or be treated as something else entirely.

“This is the last opportunity for Gaza residents who wish to do so to move south,” Defence Minister Israel Katz announced, his words rebroadcast on Israeli channels. “Those who remain… will be considered terrorists and terrorist supporters.” The statement, blunt and uncompromising, has tightened a noose already pulled taut around the city.

Encirclement: Roads Closed, Hopes Narrowed

In recent days, the Israeli military has tightened its cordon around Gaza City, issuing fresh orders that cut off return routes and restrict movement along the coastal road — the very artery that previously allowed some families to move between north and south.

“They say go south. But where is south?” asked Mahmoud Suleiman, who has guarded his block of concrete shell and broken tile for weeks. “The south is full. The road they closed is the same road we used last time to fetch water.”

The practical effect is immediate and brutal: hundreds of thousands who fled to southern communities earlier in the conflict may now find themselves permanently displaced, barred from returning to homes they left in search of safety. Witnesses reported tanks moving toward the coastal road from the east, a sign that the military posture could soon convert a corridor into a barrier.

Nightfall and Numbers: Counting Loss in a Besieged City

Between the strikes, the drone mapping, and the shelling, tallies pile up like bodies on a census sheet. Local rescue authorities in Gaza reported that at least 46 people were killed in a fresh round of strikes — 36 of them in Gaza City. Other strikes were blamed for deaths in Al-Zawayda and Nuseirat, and two people were reportedly killed southwest of Khan Younis while seeking aid.

These figures come from the civil defence agency operating under Hamas authority, and independent verification in the besieged territory is all but impossible because journalists and outside monitors have limited access. Still, the scale is familiar and staggering: since the war began after the 7 October 2023 Hamas attack on Israel, an AFP tally based on Israeli figures recorded 1,219 Israeli deaths from that initial assault, while the Hamas-run health ministry in Gaza reports at least 66,148 Palestinian deaths in the subsequent fighting — a figure the UN considers reliable but notes does not distinguish between civilians and combatants.

The Collapse of Aid and the Slow Violence of Hunger

Bombs and bullets are not the only instruments of suffering. The International Committee of the Red Cross recently said it has temporarily suspended operations in Gaza City, citing the intensification of military operations. “Tens of thousands… face harrowing humanitarian conditions,” the ICRC warned, moving staff south to preserve safety and the possibility of aid continuity.

Famine is no longer a distant fear. An August report by the IPC global hunger monitor warned that famine-like conditions were spreading, likely to afflict more than half a million Palestinians if access to food and services did not improve. The territory’s health ministry reported two more deaths from malnutrition in the last 24 hours, bringing the pandemic of hunger-linked fatalities to at least 455 people — 151 of them children — since the conflict began.

“You can survive a week without water if you breathe carefully,” said Dr. Lina Haddad, a pediatrician who remained at al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital until the clinic ran out of fuel and medicine. “You cannot survive for long when children are fed only sugar water because there is no milk, no formula, no proper food. The war kills in the daylight and hunger steals at night.”

Voices in the Rubble

Walking past Deir el-Balah’s hospital entrance, families knelt and wept over the faces of relatives they had lost in what looked like a single, brutal sweep of strikes.

“My brother was a teacher. He taught the children in our neighborhood for twenty years,” said Aisha al-Masri, 37, her voice dry and precise even as tears spilled down her cheeks. “We left our home twice. We went south, we came back, and now they tell us we are terrorists if we stay. Terrorist? Who do they think is teaching our children the alphabet?”

Near Bureij Refugee Camp, two boys kicked a worn football between piles of concrete, their laughter brief and fragile. “The ball is older than the house,” one of them said with a grin that had no reflection in his eyes. Children still find play in the ruins, but play has been hollowed out by loss.

Diplomacy on a Knife Edge

Above the ground, politics churn. The US president has floated a plan to end nearly two years of war; Hamas reportedly took “three or four days” to consider the offer. For many Palestinians, the options available feel like existential binders: accept a plan they fear cedes too much, or reject it and risk another season of bombs.

“Accepting the plan is a disaster, rejecting it is another,” a Palestinian official familiar with the deliberations told Reuters. “There are only bitter choices here.” Whether those choices will save lives, restore dignity, or merely realign front lines remains uncertain.

What Comes Next?

We stand at an unsettling crossroads. Military strategy, humanitarian law, and the habits of ordinary survival collide in streets that were once marketplaces and playgrounds. Beyond the headlines and the numbers are human lives — teachers, doctors, children who memorize safety routes like bedtime prayers.

Will the international community find a way to protect civilians and reopen aid channels? Can corridors be secured and borders remain porous to relief without becoming routes for fresh violence? And most urgently: what does it mean to ask a besieged population to move south when the south is already crowded with the displaced?

As the world watches — some in outrage, some in fatigue — Gaza’s residents continue to make impossible choices under impossible conditions. Their endurance is not merely a statistic to be reported; it is a series of daily moral reckonings, of parents deciding which child gets the last bottle of milk, of neighbors sharing a single ration, of entire families choosing between staying with a shattered house or moving toward the unknown.

We should ask ourselves: what would we do if our streets were no longer safe, if our roads were sealed, and if the only instruction from a distant power was to go — or be labeled otherwise? In answering, maybe we can begin to understand the scale of the human question unfolding in Gaza, beyond the maps and the numbers, in the small, stubborn lives that keep trying to carry on.

Renowned primatologist and conservationist Jane Goodall dies at 91

hanad

October 2, 2025

Wildlife advocate Jane Goodall dies at age of 91 — Jane Goodall pictured with a chimpanzee in 2004 in Magdeburg, Germany

A Life That Listened: Remembering Jane Goodall

When the Jane Goodall Institute posted the short, solemn note that the primatologist had died “of natural causes” at 91, it felt like a falling branch in a very old forest — sudden, echoing, and full of memory. For many people around the world, Goodall was not only a scientist; she was the person who taught a generation to care about other creatures and to see ourselves reflected in them.

Her trajectory reads like an adventure novel. Born in London in 1934 and raised on the windswept shores of Bournemouth, she was a girl whose father gave her a stuffed gorilla and a stack of books — Tarzan, Dr. Dolittle — and those gifts set a compass needle that would never waver. Unable to afford university, she worked as a secretary and then for a film company, saving every penny until she could take a boat to East Africa in 1957. The rest, as the saying goes, was history — and a kind of revelation.

From Bournemouth to Gombe: An Encounter That Reordered Science

In Tanzania, near the magical blue rim of Lake Tanganyika, Goodall met Louis and Mary Leakey, whose encouragement steered her into a field largely closed to women and even more closed to amateurs. At Gombe Stream, she sat and watched. She named the chimpanzees — David Greybeard, Flo, Fifi — and recorded what she saw: tenderness between mothers and infants, rivalry, cleverness, grief, and something that made the scientific world reconsider a foundational idea.

“We have found that after all there isn’t a sharp line dividing humans from the rest of the animal kingdom,” she said in a 2002 TED Talk. The watershed moment came when she observed chimpanzees using twigs to fish for termites — a primitive tool. It was a simple action with seismic implications. “Now we must redefine tool, redefine man, or accept chimpanzees as humans,” Louis Leakey famously said after those discoveries.

Her notebooks — once simple pencil sketches and daily observations — became a mirror held up to the human condition. She showed the world that animals were not automatons but individuals with personalities. That choice to name animals, to speak of their grief and joy, was controversial to some colleagues at the time. To many outside the ivory tower, it was revolutionary and humane.

What Gombe Taught Us

Gombe was more than a research site; it was an intimate theatre where big truths were played out in the mud and canopy. Chimpanzees hunted and ate meat. Groups fought brutal, coordinated raids — behavior that forced scientists to rethink the origins of warfare and cooperation. Goodall’s ethnographic attention, combined with patient observation, produced data and metaphors that moved science and the public simultaneously.

“She taught us to look carefully and to listen,” said an old Gombe field assistant in a recent interview. “She listened to the forest and then taught everyone else how to listen.”

From Field Notes to the World Stage

When National Geographic began to follow her work, the chimps of Gombe became household characters. Her accounts — vivid, humane, unflinching — turned readers and viewers into witnesses. David Greybeard, with his silver streak, became as famous as any movie star, and Goodall’s films, books, and public appearances made science intimate and accessible.

But storytelling was never enough for her. By the late 1970s, Goodall had shifted from pure observation to action. She found that studying chimpanzees in isolation was a form of vanity if their forests were being cut down and their communities impoverished. In 1977 she founded the Jane Goodall Institute to protect the chimps and support local conservation and development.

Roots & Shoots, a youth-led action program she launched later, became one of her proudest legacies — a blueprint for how to turn compassion into organized civic action. “The children are the hope,” she would often say. “If you want to change the world, start with the young.”

A Life Spanning Bookshelves and Airplanes

Goodall wrote more than 30 books for adults and children, blending the intimacy of field impressions with ethical urgency. She traveled with astonishing regularity — sometimes 300 days a year — speaking in schools, addressing world leaders, and reminding audiences that the health of chimpanzees and of human communities were entangled.

“She had this uncanny ability to make you feel that you were part of something larger,” said a Roots & Shoots volunteer in Nairobi. “You weren’t just learning facts — you were being invited to belong.”

When Science Met Advocacy: A Turning Point

Goodall’s shift into global advocacy coincided with a worsening reality: forests were falling, and the future of many species — including our closest relatives — looked fragile. Today, wild chimpanzee populations are estimated to number well under 300,000 across Africa, with several subspecies classified as endangered or critically endangered. Forest loss continues at alarming rates — roughly 10 million hectares a year according to several global monitoring projects — and climate change now presses on every habitat she loved.

“She was never content to observe cruelty and look away,” said a conservation scientist based in Dar es Salaam. “Her message became: there’s a window to act — and it’s closing.”

Goodall’s framing moved conversations beyond species preservation to include human livelihoods, health, and justice. Her institute’s work blended reforestation and habitat protection with community education, sustainable agriculture, and advocacy — a holistic approach increasingly recognized as essential in conservation science.

Legacy, Honors, and the Human Stories

Throughout her life she was recognized with honors — named a Dame, lauded in scientific circles, and, more recently, awarded high civilian distinctions. Yet the thing that mattered most to many people was not the medals but the way she spoke to them: quietly insistently, with a hope that felt less like a naive optimism and more like a responsibility.

She married twice — first to wildlife cameraman Hugo van Lawick, with whom she had a son nicknamed “Grub,” and later to Derek Bryceson — and experienced private joys and sorrows beneath a life lived largely in public. “She didn’t live to be famous,” a longtime friend said. “She lived because she couldn’t not do the work she loved.”

Why Her Story Matters Now

Jane Goodall’s life presses on us a question: what do we owe to the living world and to each other? In an era of climate disruption, population pressures, and biodiversity loss, her answer — somewhere between science and sermon — was practical and moral: protect habitats, empower local people, and teach the next generation to act.

Her legacy is visible in reforested hills, in schoolchildren pulling plastic from rivers, in policies nudged toward conservation, and in the ordinary compassion of people who learned to look up from screens and notice the other lives around them.

So what will you do with the lesson she offered? Will you sign up to plant a tree, to support community conservation, to teach a child that animals have personalities? Or will you let her quiet, steady voice be another page in history?

Closing

Jane Goodall listened for a lifetime — to chimpanzees, to the forests, to the slow language of ecosystems. Her death marks the end of a chapter, but the book she opened is still being written. In the rustle of leaves at Gombe, in a classroom full of curious children, in seedlings pushed into dry soil, her work continues. The question is whether we will read it closely enough to answer the call.

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