Nov 02(Jowhar)-Golaha Wasiirrada Soomaaliya ayaa ansixiyey xil ka qaadista Xisaabiyihii Guud ee Qaranka, Cabdiraxmaan Maxamed Anas, waxaana booskiisa lagu beddelay Maxamed Maxamuud Cabdulle, kaddib soo jeedin ka timid Wasaaradda Maaliyadda.
Israeli navy intercepts 39 humanitarian ships en route to 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
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.
Madaxweynaha Colombia oo Diblomaasiyiinta Israel ku amray iney deg deg uga baxaan dalka
Nov 02(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Colombia Gustavo Petro ayaa amray in dalkiisa laga saaro dhammaan diblomaasiyiinta Israa’iil, kaddib markii la xiray laba muwaadin oo reer Colombia ah oo saarnaa doonyo (flotilla) isku dayayay inay gargaar bani’aadamnimo geeyaan magaalada Gaza oo go’doon ku jirta.
Israeli military strikes in Gaza leave at least 46 dead
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
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.
Taliban imposes internet blackout, leaving millions of Afghans cut off
When the Wires Went Silent: Life, Flight and Fracture in Kabul
On an autumn morning at Hamid Karzai International Airport, a young man stood clutching a paper ticket as if it were a passport back to normalcy. He stared at the departure board — a black rectangle, inscrutable and mute. Around him, faces hardened into the same puzzled expression: pilots, passengers, prayerful relatives, and a handful of exhausted airline workers. No one knew whether the flights would lift off; the internet had simply been turned off.
That blackout — ordered by Afghanistan’s de facto authorities — rippled across the city and the country with a force far beyond the loss of Wi‑Fi. By one count from Flightradar24, at least 14 flights scheduled for Kabul that day were cancelled outright, with dozens more listed as “unknown.” For people already living on a knife-edge, it was another layer of uncertainty stacked atop years of upheaval.
The immediate fallout: airports, banks, aid and conversation cut short
When connectivity evaporates, the modern world frays quickly. Banks could not authorise transactions. ATMs emptied faster and then stopped working. Aid agencies that track food distribution, beneficiary lists and the movements of staff were hamstrung. Local businesses — from the tea shops behind the airport to the small trading houses in downtown Kabul — were forced to close their shutters.
“It felt like someone pulled a plug on the city,” said Farida, a teacher who had been trying to book a ticket to visit her parents in Herat. “We use mobile banking for everything now. Today, even small kindnesses are trapped behind silence.”
The United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan warned that the shutdown risks “inflicting significant harm on the Afghan people, including by threatening economic stability and exacerbating one of the world’s worst humanitarian crises.” UN human rights bodies described the blackout as an “extremely serious human rights violation,” citing its outsized impact on women and girls who are already excluded from many aspects of public life.
How a few keystrokes affect whole communities
At a municipal post office, clerks thumbed through envelopes and stamped forms while muttering about bank verifications they could not complete. “We have mail, but no money to process it,” said one postmaster, tapping the top of a stack of parcels. “The systems we rely on — for fees, for identity checks — are all connected to networks that are gone.”
Kam Air, an Afghan carrier, reported running just a single flight since the blackout. Mohammad Bashir, a company representative, told local media that airlines must share flight plans and information with destination airports electronically — an impossible task with the national networks shut down. “We need to get people home,” he said. “But airplanes don’t fly on goodwill alone; they need data.”
Voices from the streets: small stories, large consequences
Walk through Kabul’s bazaars and you will hear economic data refracted into everyday worries: a fruit-seller fretting over transfers from wholesalers, a seamstress unable to receive payment for a wedding dress, a student unable to submit an essay. These are the small calamities that add up. “When there was internet, we never realized how important it was,” a bank teller told me, wiping his hands on his work shirt. “Now every balance is a worry.”
In the homes of many Kabul residents, family ties stretch across borders — cousins in Pakistan, in Europe, in the United States. Those ties are kept intact by messaging apps and social media. Without them, anxiety accumulates. “I couldn’t call my sister to tell her my mother was sick,” said Khalid, a trader. “Imagine carrying that alone.”
Where the blackout hits hardest
- Air travel: at least 14 Kabul flights cancelled; dozens listed as “unknown” according to Flightradar24.
- Banking: transactions, online authorisations and ATM services disrupted — hampering salaries, vendor payments and individual withdrawals.
- Humanitarian assistance: data-dependent aid delivery and coordination compromised at a moment when needs are surging.
- Freedom of expression: information flows curtailed, disproportionately affecting women, journalists and civil society networks.
Why would communications be cut?
The authorities have given scant explanation. In recent weeks, officials had spoken about moral concerns — publicly expressed alarm over online content — and had intermittently restricted fiber-optic links in certain provinces. But a nationwide phone-and-internet blackout is an escalation few expected. For many observers, information control is a tool as old as power itself: silence as governance.
“When you control the message, you control the response,” said Dr. Laila Rahimi, a political analyst based in the region. “Cutting communications isn’t only about preventing specific actions; it’s about shaping the landscape of risk, fear and mobility. For people who already have limited freedom, this is another way to curtail agency.”
Not just an Afghan problem: the global implications
Think for a moment about how fragile global networks can be. When one country is disconnected, international airlines shuffle schedules, aid agencies reroute supplies, and remittance flows — a lifeline for many families — wobble. Afghanistan is not an isolated case; authoritarian playbooks increasingly use digital blackouts to blunt dissent and control populations. From North Africa to South Asia, the world has seen how quick, targeted cutoffs can reshape politics and livelihoods.
And yet, the human cost is never merely theoretical. In Afghanistan, nine in ten people already depend on humanitarian assistance in some measure — a figure repeated in UN and aid agency reporting for years. In that context, disruptions to communication are not an inconvenience; they are life-threatening constraints on the delivery of food, medicine, and protection.
What might happen next?
There are a few pathways forward. The authorities could restore services, perhaps after implementing tighter controls or new regulations. The international community could pressure for reconnection, or aid agencies might turn to low-tech solutions — radio broadcasts, paper lists, in-person coordination — to bridge gaps. But each choice has costs, trade-offs, and ethical choices embedded within it.
“We need to balance security concerns with human rights,” said an aid coordinator who asked not to be named for safety reasons. “Cutting phones may quiet a city for a weekend, but it also cuts off the wounded, the elderly, the women who rely on hotlines, and the migrants trying to reach families. The poorest pay the price.”
Questions to sit with
As you read this from wherever you are — a café in Accra, a living room in London, a dorm in Delhi — consider how much of your day depends on invisible networks. How would your work, your family, your safety change if those lines were taken away? Who gets to decide when to silence a country? And perhaps most importantly: who speaks for those now muted?
Kabul’s airport may one day resume normal operations. Flights may be reinstated and phones may buzz again. But the blackout has already done more than cancel flights: it has reminded a weary world that control over information is control over life. In the waiting rooms and the marketplaces, people are recalibrating, grieving the conveniences lost and preparing for a future where connection is no longer a right but a conditional commodity.
“We are not just numbers in a system,” said an elderly woman watching planes taxi under a sun-dimmed sky. “We are families, names, stories. Turn it back on. Let us breathe.”
Soomaaliya oo ka qeybgashay Shirweynaha Maalgelinta Cimilada Maaliyadda Afrika ee Addis Ababa
Nov 01(Jowhar)-Magaalada Addis Ababa ee dalka Itoobiya ayaa lagu soo gabagabeeyay shirweynaha heer gobol ee Maalgelinta Cimilada, kaas oo ay ka qeybgaleen madax ka socotay Sanduuqa Cagaaran ee Maaliyadda Adduunka (GCF), hay’ado caalami ah, wasiirro maaliyadeed oo dalal Afrikaan ah iyo hey’ado dowladeed oo kala duwan.
64-year-old man executed in Florida for 1990 Miami killings
Nightfall in Florida: A Small Town, a Long Shadow, and the 34th Execution of the Year
The fluorescent glare of a prison perimeter light seemed harsh against the humid Florida air as the state carried out its latest execution near Jacksonville last night. At 6:13pm local time, officials said, a 64-year-old man, convicted of a pair of murders committed more than three decades ago, was put to death by lethal injection — the 34th such sentence carried out in the United States this year.
The name on the record is Victor Jones. The case reads like shorthand for the intersecting tragedies that haunt capital punishment debates: a young man who began work for a couple, a robbery that turned lethal, a desperate struggle in which both victim and attacker inflicted fatal wounds. Jacob and Matilda Nestor — ages 67 and 66, respectively — were killed in 1990, according to court files. The elder Nestor, by some accounts, managed to fire a shot that struck Jones before he succumbed to his own wounds.
A neighborhood remembers
In the days after the execution, neighbors and former colleagues exchanged memories and grievances the way communities do when something raw and old is reopened.
“They were the kind of people who left their door unlocked,” said one nearby resident, who asked to remain unnamed. “You don’t forget that. You don’t forget the sound of the sirens either.” His voice had the measured cadence of someone trying to hold grief at bay with fact: names, dates, sequence. “It’s been thirty years. But these things come back. You could feel it even now.”
Another neighbor, Rosa Nunez, recalled the Nestors with a humble warmth many used to describe the couple. “They were small-business people — proud, tired, early risers. He’d talk about the crew, she loved the plants out front,” she said. “When you hear about someone being put to death, it doesn’t erase what happened. It just brings everything to the surface.”
Contested minds, contested histories
Jones’s case reached the Florida Supreme Court last week after his legal team argued that he was intellectually disabled and had been abused in a reform school as a teenager — claims that, if accepted, might have precluded execution under U.S. Supreme Court precedent. The court declined to stay the sentence.
“Claims about intellectual disability and a history of institutional abuse are not mere procedural footnotes,” a defense lawyer familiar with death-penalty litigation told me. “They go to the heart of culpability and humane treatment.” He spoke on background to explain the complexities defense attorneys face when bringing scientific and historical evidence into courtrooms decades after a crime.
Experts in juvenile justice and developmental psychology say these issues are common in capital cases that stretch back many years. “We now understand cognitive impairment and the long-term harms of abusive reform schools in ways we didn’t in 1990,” said Dr. Lena King, a forensic psychologist. “But the legal system often moves slowly. That lag can mean the difference between life and death.”
Where this fits in the national picture
What happened in Florida is not isolated. This year’s tally of executions — 34 — is the highest the United States has seen since 2014, when 35 people were executed. Florida has been the most active state this year with 13 executions, followed by Texas (5), South Carolina (4) and Alabama (4), according to official tallies.
The methods used tell a story of both continuity and experimentation. Lethal injection remains the predominant method — 28 of this year’s executions were carried out that way — but states have also turned to older or newer alternatives: two executions by firing squad and four by nitrogen hypoxia, a method that forces a prisoner to inhale nearly pure nitrogen and suffocates them without the presence of oxygen. Nitrogen hypoxia has drawn condemnation from international human-rights experts.
“To subject someone to asphyxiation by nitrogen is to adopt a method the U.N. has called cruel and inhumane,” said Marcus Reed, director of a national anti-death-penalty coalition. “This trend shows that, when faced with litigation and shortages of drugs for lethal injection, states will seek other ways — but ethical constraints still apply.”
Maps of morality: laws and paroles of conscience
The legal landscape across the fifty states is a patchwork. Twenty-three states have abolished capital punishment outright. Three large states — California, Oregon and Pennsylvania — maintain moratoriums on executions, a pause often put in place by governors or by court rulings. Across state lines, public attitudes vary dramatically, shaped by politics, crime rates, and local histories of racial and economic inequality.
One striking piece of context: in Washington, D.C., and much of Western Europe, capital punishment is a historical relic. In parts of the U.S., it remains an active instrument of the criminal-justice system. That dissonance raises questions about what kinds of societies continue to sanction state killing, and why.
Voices on both sides
Supporters of capital punishment often point to a desire for justice and closure. “It’s not about revenge,” said a family member of one slain victim in a different case, who insisted on anonymity. “It’s about knowing the person who took our loved one pays the price. We want safety for others.”
Opponents counter with concerns about fairness, error and humanity. “We have executed innocent people before,” said a former public defender who now teaches criminal-law ethics. “We also disproportionately prosecute and sentence people of color and the poor to death. These are not abstract concerns — they are systemic problems.”
What do we make of all this?
As you read these words, consider the human contours behind the statistics: the couple who built a business and were killed in their sixties; the young man with a scarred past who was still fighting to have his mental capacity and history of abuse weighed in the balance; the neighbors who had to reconcile grief with the pageantry of an execution.
Are executions a measure of justice, or a ritual that lets society declare closure while leaving deeper wounds untouched? Do new methods of execution make the process more humane, or do they simply paper over an ethical rupture? And importantly, how should a democratic society account for decades of scientific progress about the brain, trauma and culpability when retroactively deciding matters of life and death?
These questions are not theoretical. They are the kind neighbors, lawyers and advocates continue to wrestle with at kitchen tables and in courtrooms across the country. They shape policy and they shape lives.
Where do we go from here?
In a nation that is increasingly divided over the death penalty, cases like Jones’s force a reckoning: with the machinery that decides who lives and who dies, with the uneven application of justice, and with the human stories that statistics too easily flatten.
As reforms, moratoriums and legal challenges continue to ripple across statehouses and Supreme Court chambers, one thing is clear: the debate is not going away. It moves with the slow, patient grind of the law — and with the abrupt, painful jolts of human grief. Will policy follow conscience, or will political currents keep the status quo in place? That, perhaps, is the question that will define this chapter of American justice.
Accused pleads not guilty to murder of Irish national in London
A quiet walk home that became a city’s sorrow
On an ordinary evening in north London, an 87-year-old man stepped out with a paper tucked under his arm and a bag of dinner from the kebab shop he’d always patronised. He was heading toward the small flat that had been his anchor for decades — a steady home in an ever-changing city — when that routine was shattered.
John Mackey, born in Callan in County Kilkenny, Ireland, had spent more than half his life in London after moving there at 19. He kept his ties to Ireland alive with visits and phone calls, but most mornings and evenings were lived out in the neighbourhood he loved: stopping by the Co-op for essentials and the same kebab counter for a warm meal.
On 6 May 2025 he never made it all the way home. Two days after sustaining head injuries in an attack as he walked from the shops, Mr Mackey died in hospital.
The accused, the court, and what lies ahead
This week, the case moved into the London courts. Fifty-eight-year-old Peter Augustine appeared by video link at the Old Bailey, formally charged with one count of murder and one count of robbery.
“He pleaded not guilty,” a court official confirmed after the brief hearing. The judge also heard that no psychiatric defence would be raised — a detail that shapes both how the defence will be framed and how the family, community, and public conversation will proceed.
A trial has been scheduled to begin on 3 November. Until then, the questions swirl: what happened in those few minutes on a north London street? Why target an elderly man on his way home? And what will justice look like for a family torn between grief and memory?
Key timeline
- 6 May 2025 — Mr Mackey attacked while walking from a Co-op and a nearby kebab shop.
- 8 May 2025 — He dies in hospital from head injuries.
- Month later — He is buried back in Callan, Co Kilkenny, amid family and friends.
- Recent hearing — Defendant appears at the Old Bailey; not guilty plea entered and no psychiatric defence to be used. Trial set for 3 November 2025.
Voices from the street and across the sea
In the days after the attack, strangers and neighbours tried to stitch together what had happened with memory and lament. “He always nodded to everyone,” said Mary O’Connor, who runs a small florist two doors down from the Co-op. “If he bought a paper he’d stand a while and chat. He was part of the fabric of our morning.”
At the kebab counter, the owner, Ahmed, still keeps a seat propped against the wall where Mr Mackey would rest his shopping. “We argued about football,” Ahmed laughed softly, then grew quiet. “He loved his Kerry team. He would say, ‘I’m not bothered about much, just give me my tea and the match.’ He was a gentleman.”
The family’s voice has been steadier and more private. A daughter, speaking on behalf of relatives, described him this way: “Dad was simple in the best sense — kind, tidy, a man of routine. He would never ask for trouble. We’re just left with how much we miss him.”
What the legal detail means
The decision not to pursue a psychiatric defence matters. “Legally, that removes one of the main avenues by which a defence might seek to explain or excuse behaviour on grounds of mental disorder,” explained Caroline Reed, a criminal barrister familiar with Old Bailey practice. “It means the defence is likely to contest the facts, or raise other legal defences, rather than arguing lack of criminal responsibility.”
That will put the spotlight squarely on evidence: witness accounts, CCTV, and forensic analysis. For a family that wants answers, the trial will be their reckoning.
Roots, ritual, and the long Irish thread in London
Mr Mackey’s funeral in Callan last June was a homeward ceremony — a sleepy Irish town folding one of its own back into the landscape. “We lost a man who kept two worlds: the hum of London and the green of Kilkenny,” said Father Declan, who presided at the service. “There was a crowd; the older ones remembered when he left for work as a young man. The young ones learned a little about migration and memory.”
The story of Mr Mackey is also a story about the Irish diaspora: the steady migration of young people to cities like London, and the quiet lives they build there — lives often unremarked until tragedy forces a spotlight. Across Britain, generations who once left Ireland for work now find themselves elderly and, in some cases, vulnerable.
Safety, ageing, and urban life
The attack on Mr Mackey brings into relief larger questions about the safety of older people in cities. Ageing populations are increasing across the UK and Europe, and with that come real concerns about loneliness, mobility, and exposure. Community groups and charities have been sounding the alarm for years: older adults are often targeted in opportunistic robberies, and their injuries can be catastrophic.
“Urban planning and policing need to think about the everyday places people rely on — shops, bus stops, well-lit routes home,” noted Dr. Lillian Perez, a sociologist who studies ageing and urban spaces. “It’s not just about arrests after the fact; it’s about designing cities that protect dignity and independence.”
How do we grieve and respond?
There’s a delicate choreography to public grief after a crime like this. On the one hand, there is the private pain of a family who buried their father in the gentle rains of an Irish summer. On the other, a neighbourhood and a city attempt to make sense of violence interrupting a simple human rhythm — the walk from shop to home.
Neighbours lit candles. A notice on the Co-op window thanked the community for its condolences. “We put flowers where he used to buy his paper,” Mary said, her voice tight. “It’s the little things that keep a life real.”
Questions for readers and the wider society
What does it mean to protect the most vulnerable among us in big cities? How should criminal justice balance accountability with understanding? And perhaps most quietly: how can communities keep the rituals of daily life — buying a newspaper, sharing a nod — safe and sacred?
As we wait for November’s trial, the answers will be argued in court. But the larger conversation — about care for elders, migration and memory, and how we make public spaces safe — belongs to all of us. Will we learn? Will we change the small things that make daily life livable? That is, in the end, part of what this loss demands.
Until a verdict is reached, John Mackey will be remembered in the patchwork of a neighbourhood: in a kebab shop chair, in the rustle of a newspaper, in the memory of a man who quietly stitched two countries into his life. “He was a real gentleman,” a relative said simply. “That’s how we’ll keep him.”
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