Trump hails Venezuela’s ‘terrific’ new leader after phone call

January 15, 2026

Trump praises 'terrific' new Venezuela leader after call — Donald Trump said that he and Venezuela's interim president Delcy Rodriguez discussed topics including oil, minerals, trade and national security

When Phone Lines Redrew a Map: A Call That Changed Everything — Or So It Seemed

There are phone calls that are merely administrative and there are those that feel like the opening lines of a new chapter. Last week, from the quiet of the Oval Office to the corridors of power in Caracas, a long, carefully stage-managed conversation threaded two capitals together and, for a few breathless hours, made the world feel smaller and much more uncertain.

“We just had a great conversation today, and she’s a terrific person,” President Donald Trump told reporters, breaking the kind of public silence that has defined the months of upheaval across Venezuela. He later wrote that the call covered “many topics,” from oil and minerals to trade and national security — the kind of list nations use when they’re negotiating more than words.

A strange new choreography

The drama that frames that line is extraordinary: the sudden capture on 3 January of Venezuela’s embattled president, Nicolas Maduro, in what US officials have described as a US special forces operation that turned deadly. According to the accounts circulating in Washington and Caracas, the event left a vacuum; into that vacuum stepped Delcy Rodríguez, Maduro’s former deputy, nudged into the role of interim president.

What followed reads like a manual for modern-statecraft improvisation. A US president whispering overtures on a secure line. An interim leader trying to keep one foot in Washington and the other in the harsh, factional reality of Venezuela’s security forces. A country that in the space of a month has become the world’s most watched — and most disputed — political theater.

Tightropes, Telegrams and the language of diplomacy

Rodríguez, in a Telegram post that mixed official restraint with a diplomat’s polish, called the call “productive and courteous” and said it was marked by “mutual respect.” She framed the conversation as the beginning of “a bilateral work agenda for the benefit of our people, as well as outstanding issues in relations between our governments.”

For many Venezuelans, both the wording and the optics were a study in property: of language, of power, of survival. “It’s a tightrope,” said María Calderón, who runs a small bakery in the eastern Caracas barrio of Petare. “One misstep and you are crushed by the baggage of loyalties and histories. She has to keep the military, the party faithful, and now, apparently, Washington, all in the same room.”

Oil, oversight and the promise of years

At the heart of much of the speculation is oil. President Trump reportedly put an opening condition on Rodríguez’s succession: US access to Venezuelan oil. He has even suggested — publicly and privately — that Washington could maintain oversight of Venezuela for years. Those are big ambitions spoken against the backdrop of a country whose crude fields are both enormous and deeply politicized.

Analysts say such ambitions ignore the messy realities on the ground: factions in the military, paramilitary groups, local governors with entrenched power, and a population exhausted by hyperinflation and scarcity. “Control is not a switch you can flip from a hemisphere away,” said Diego Alvarez, a Caracas-based political economist. “Any lasting arrangement has to reckon with local loyalties and the very real possibility of continued unrest.”

Prisoner releases: numbers, optics, and reality

One of the more immediate signs that a new political wind might be blowing has been a steady trickle of prisoner releases. Rodríguez has claimed that 406 political prisoners have been freed since December, describing the process as “ongoing.” Independent rights groups tell a different story: Foro Penal, the well-known NGO defending detainees, reported around 180 freed, while AFP’s tally — compiled from NGOs and opposition parties — counted about 70 released since the fall of Maduro.

Rodríguez’s claim: 406 freed since December
Foro Penal estimate: ~180 freed
AFP count: about 70 released since Maduro’s fall

Those discrepancies matter. They are the kind of numbers activists and families obsess over because they determine whether loved ones are home, or still behind bars. “We wait at the gates, we call, we listen to rumors,” said Ana Pérez, who has been camped outside a detention center in Boleíta for weeks, clutching a faded photograph of her brother. “They release people at shopping centres, in the middle of the night. It’s as if freedom must be privatized to be safe.”

The quiet theatrics of release

The authorities, eager to avoid scenes of jubilant protest, have been releasing detainees far from the television cameras and relatives. Journalists have been among those freed — a group of 17 media workers was released in one wave, including Roland Carreño, a journalist and opposition activist detained the previous August. In a video shared by a fellow freed journalist, Carreño called for “peace and reconciliation.”

Not all releases have been filmed as triumphs. Enrique Márquez, a former presidential candidate, was driven home in a patrol car, his freedom delivered in the same vehicle that once carried his jailers. “They take your footage away and give you back your life in pieces,” a former detainee told me, speaking under the condition of anonymity. “We stitch those pieces together the best we can.”

Exiles, Nobel laureates and the odd politics of prizes

There are other actors in this unfolding story. Maria Corina Machado, a leading opposition figure who has been living in exile, is scheduled to meet with President Trump. Machado, who reportedly collected the Nobel Peace Prize last year after escaping Venezuela by boat, has been a lightning rod for both supporters and detractors.

“I understand she wants to do that. That would be a great honour,” Mr Trump said, reportedly reacting to Machado’s offer to share the Nobel Prize with him — an odd diplomatic flourish that the Nobel Institute quickly undercut by reminding the public that the prize cannot be transferred.

For Machado’s supporters, her brief presence on the global stage is a symbol of resistance. For others, it reflects the strange theater of modern politics, where awards, exile, and meetings with heads of state all become part of a larger narrative about legitimacy and choice.

Beyond the phone call: what does a ‘new political era’ look like?

Rodríguez declared a “new political era” marked by greater tolerance for “ideological and political diversity.” The phrase is optimistic; the reality will be harder to define. Will freedom of the press be rebuilt? Will political opponents walk the streets without fear? Will basic goods return to the markets? These are not rhetorical questions for Venezuelans scraping for essentials; they are existential.

There are larger forces in play as well. The tug-of-war over Venezuela is a microcosm of global trends — resource competition, questions about sovereignty, and the increasing willingness of external powers to shape outcomes far from their borders. How nations navigate these pressures will shape not only Venezuelan lives but also norms about intervention and political transitions across the region.

What next?

There is no single answer. Maybe this phone call opens a pathway to negotiations that ease suffering and create space for a peaceful political settlement. Maybe it is an interlude, a negotiated pause in a longer conflict. Or maybe it signals the beginning of a different kind of competition altogether — one fought in boardrooms and oil fields as much as in streets and tribunals.

As you read this, consider what stability truly means for a nation that has weathered years of economic collapse and political fracture. Is a transition that is brokered from afar likely to hold? Or does durable peace require the messy, local work of rebuilding trust and institutions?

Caracas hums on: vendors flip arepas on street carts, traffic blares at midday, and neighbors trade news on stoops. In the city’s rhythm there is a stubbornness that no political gambit can erase. Whether that persistence becomes the seed of renewal or the echo of deferred hopes depends on the choices made in the coming weeks — choices that will be watched not just here, but around the world.

U.S. Initiates Second Phase of Gaza Plan Deployment

hanad

January 15, 2026

US launches second phase of Gaza plan — Displaced Palestinians living in makeshift tents among the rubble in the Jabaliya area, as families struggle to survive amid heavy winter conditions and freezing temperatures in Gaza city

Between Rubble and Resolve: Gaza’s Next Act

There is a smell that lingers over northern Gaza after a night of strikes — the same acrid, metallic scent that lives in the back of the throat long after the smoke clears. Children play among jagged slabs of concrete like it’s another kind of playground. Men sit beneath twisted rebar, drinking tea from chipped glasses, talking about what might come next. Outside a makeshift clinic, a mother laces a child’s sleeve while nurses hush a coughing line of patients. This is the ordinary and extraordinary landscape where a new phase of diplomacy will try to rewrite an old script.

Late last week, U.S. officials moved forward with the second phase of a plan aimed at ending the latest Gaza war — even though the promises of the first phase remain, in many ways, incomplete. The announcement, made on social media by the U.S. special envoy, framed the next steps as a pivot from immediate ceasefire diplomacy to institution-building: the establishment of a technocratic Palestinian administration in Gaza, the start of disarmament, and the launch of large-scale reconstruction.

What’s on the Table

The architects of the plan envision a 15-member Palestinian committee to govern Gaza for a transitional period. It will be led by Ali Shaath, a figure with roots in the Palestinian Authority and a history of work on economic zones, according to an announcement by mediators Egypt, Qatar and Turkey. The committee is to be overseen by an international “Board of Peace” — a body diplomats say will include private sector figures, NGO leaders, and a representative on the ground expected to be Nickolay Mladenov, the former UN Middle East envoy.

“First things first — shelters, water, health,” Shaath told a West Bank radio station in an interview carried in several regional outlets. “If I can move rubble and make new land, I will. We can build houses. We can give people roofs.” His voice was calm, almost surgical, as if rebuilding Gaza could be reduced to logistics and timelines. But the UN’s own 2024 assessment paints a far more complex picture: rebuilding Gaza’s homes alone could stretch to 2040 or beyond.

Who’s In — and Who’s Out

Reports list names expected to be on the technocratic committee: Ayed Abu Ramadan from the Gaza Chamber of Commerce; Omar Shamali, formerly of Paltel; Sami Nasman, a retired security officer tied to Fatah and a longstanding critic of Hamas. Both Hamas and Fatah have reportedly endorsed the list, even as tensions between them remain a live current under the surface.

On the international side, diplomats said another announcement tied to the Board of Peace was planned for Davos, a signal that global capital and global diplomacy are being asked to do heavy lifting in a small, battered coastal strip.

The Hard Part: Disarmament

Talk of technocrats and reconstruction quickly runs up against the thorniest knot: disarmament. The plan calls for the “full demilitarisation” of Gaza, a phrase that looks easy on paper and near-impossible in practice. Hamas agreed, at least publicly, in October to hand governance to a technocratic committee. It has not, however, agreed to put down its weapons. And a powerful reality remains: many inside Gaza see armed groups as guarantors of survival, identity, and resistance.

“You can’t talk about rebuilding while people think their safety is at stake,” said Lina Haddad, a humanitarian worker who has coordinated aid convoys into Gaza. “Disarmament won’t be just a technical operation; it’s a political and social one. Who disarms? Whose guns are taken? Who guarantees protection afterward?”

Egyptian officials, who have been mediating talks in Cairo, say conversations with Hamas will now turn to the mechanics of disarmament. Israeli officials have tied further withdrawals within Gaza to the successful demilitarisation of armed groups — a linkage that Hamas has rejected, saying it would relinquish weapons only once Palestinian statehood is guaranteed.

Voices from the Ground

In Gaza City, tent clusters hug the shoreline where seafront hotels once stood. A fisherman, his hands still stained with fish oil, told me: “We cannot eat politics. We cannot sleep on promises. My son asks why there’s no school, and I do not know what to say. They speak of committees and boards, but I need clean water and a teacher.”

Across the border in the West Bank, Palestinian Vice President Hussein Al-Sheikh expressed cautious support for the initiative on X, underlining a principle his government calls “one system, one law and one legitimate weapon.” The Palestinian Authority’s endorsement signals a desire to keep Gaza institutionally linked to the West Bank — a continuity many Palestinians see as vital to long-term governance.

An Israeli security official, speaking on condition of anonymity, told me: “We need guarantees that the mechanisms on the ground will prevent cross-border attacks. Demilitarisation must be verifiable, irreversible, and swift. Without that, the cycle simply repeats.”

What Rebuilding Would Really Mean

What does “reconstruction” actually demand? Engineers estimate that rebuilding basic housing, water networks, schools and hospitals will mean years, a vast flow of resources, and a delicate choreography between donors, local leaders, and security forces. The UN’s 2024 report warned that even under optimistic assumptions, reconstruction could run into decades. That projection is not simply bureaucratic pessimism; it’s a recognition of how much of Gaza’s physical and social infrastructure was eroded over years, then shattered in waves of violence.

Practical questions stack up like the rubble itself: Who will fund the projects? How will contractors be vetted? Will displaced families be able to return to their neighborhoods, or will new “safe zones” be created? And perhaps most fraught: can rebuilding be disentangled from political outcome?

Why the World Should Watch — and Care

Beyond the immediate human toll, Gaza’s future is a litmus test for an era where wars of attrition meet globalized capital and multilateral diplomacy. If an international Board of Peace steers a transparent, effective reconstruction — and if disarmament can be achieved without fueling new grievances — there may be lessons for post-conflict recovery elsewhere. If not, Gaza could become another cautionary tale of aid, politics, and perpetual limbo.

So, what do you think? Can technocrats, backed by foreign boards and messy compromises, rebuild not just homes but trust? Can security be disentangled from sovereignty? These are not only diplomatic puzzles; they are questions about how societies heal after trauma and who gets to craft the rules of that healing.

Small Steps, Huge Stakes

For now, the plan advances despite unfinished pieces of the first phase — a ceasefire that never fully materialized, hostages whose fates remain unresolved, and border crossings whose openings have been delayed. The new committee’s first tasks will likely be painfully practical: housing for those under tents, medicines for a rise in respiratory illnesses, and perhaps the ritual of rubble-clearing that often precedes new construction.

What the plan offers: a technocratic admin, international oversight, and a pathway to reconstruction.
What it demands: disarmament, funds, and political compromises that many parties say are non-starters.
What’s uncertain: timelines, enforcement mechanisms, and the willingness of all stakeholders to see the process through.

On a recent afternoon a teacher in Gaza, surveying a classroom of five students and a broken blackboard, whispered, “Give us a roof, a pencil, a chance. We will teach our children the rest.” That plea — simple, human, urgent — is what every diplomat’s statement will have to answer if rebuilding Gaza is to be more than an exercise in architectural ambition. It must be an act of restoring life.

Grok AI blocked from ‘undressing’ photos in regions where it’s prohibited

hanad

January 15, 2026

Ofcom launches investigation into X over Grok concerns — New image edit features on Grok led to widespread criticisms

The Day the Algorithm Stripped Away Our Comfort

We were supposed to be talking about a harmless new chatbot. Instead, in cafés and courtrooms and kitchen tables from Dublin to Jakarta, people found themselves confronting a blunt, unglamorous truth: the machines we build learn the worst parts of us faster than we expect.

When whispers first turned into headlines last week, it was a slow, sickening cascade—users sharing images, outrage mounting, regulators sharpening their pencils. The bot at the center of the storm, known to many as Grok, was marketed as a conversational AI with an eye for creativity. But a feature intended to let users edit images birthed something darker: sexually explicit images of real people, in some cases children, created without consent. The reaction was immediate and global.

What X Did — And Why It Might Not Be Enough

Elon Musk’s social platform X announced a narrow, technical fix: it would geoblock the ability for its AI to create or edit images of people in revealing swimwear or underwear in places where doing so is illegal.

“We have implemented technological measures to prevent the Grok account from allowing the editing of images of real people in revealing clothing,” an X safety spokesperson told me over email. “This applies to all users, including subscribers.”

It’s a move with a surgical sound to it—precise, tidy, targeted at the most obvious abuse. But technologists and civil-society groups alike warn that surgical strikes on a single feature rarely cut out the disease.

“Geoblocking is a band-aid,” said Dr. Maeve O’Rourke, a tech-policy researcher in Dublin. “AI models don’t respect borders. The content can be created in one country, mirrored in another, and redistributed ad infinitum. You can close a door, but the windows stay open.”

How nations reacted

The reaction from governments was swift and varied. California’s attorney general opened a formal investigation into xAI, the company behind Grok, probing allegations that the tool was generating non-consensual sexual material. In Ireland, cabinet ministers scheduled meetings to map out a response to AI-generated child sexual abuse imagery, and the Minister for State responsible for AI publicly warned that Grok should face a ban if it fails to comply with Irish law.

Regulators from the UK’s Ofcom to France’s child-protection commissioner took their own steps—Ofcom launched an inquiry into potential legal breaches, while France’s Sarah El Hairy referred the imagery to prosecutors and European agencies. Indonesia and Malaysia moved decisively: Jakarta blocked access to Grok entirely, and Kuala Lumpur followed suit. India, meanwhile, said X had removed thousands of posts and shut down hundreds of accounts after it lodged complaints.

On the ground in Ireland, Gardaí confirmed what some feared: there are roughly 200 active investigations linked to AI-generated child sexual-abuse images tied to Grok. Detective Chief Superintendent Barry Walsh has signalled that the force is taking the reports seriously, and that the digital footprints left by such images are being hunted down—a painstaking process, layer by layer.

People at the Center: Voices from the Frontlines

“I felt sick when I saw it,” said a mother of two in County Cork who asked not to be named. “To think something could make that of anyone—let alone children—without permission—it’s a violation I can’t put into words.”

A cybercrime analyst in Dublin described long nights tracing hashed images back through VPNs and foreign servers. “We can identify patterns, but you need international cooperation. One country’s laws don’t stop a server in another from spawning the same content. It’s like chasing a hydra,” she said.

Meanwhile, users on X reacted with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “I joined X to talk about electric cars and memes,” wrote one commenter. “I never expected to scroll into a nightmare.”

Experts weigh in

“This is an inflection point,” said Dr. Lina Bose, a digital-ethics lecturer. “We’re seeing the collision between deepfake technology, monetization, and platforms that are structured to privilege engagement over safety. The law can close in, but we also need better design principles—privacy-by-default, guardrails in the creative process, and clearer accountability from platforms.”

Legal scholars point to the difficulty of cross-border enforcement. The European Union has already been wrestling with the AI Act—an attempt to regulate AI across member states—but enforcement takes time, resources, and political will. In the meantime, nations are experimenting with their own levers: bans, probes, and content takedowns.

Why This Is Bigger Than a Single App

Ask yourself: what happens when creative tools can manufacture reality? Deepfake imagery is not merely an invasion of privacy; it corrodes trust. Political figures have been targeted with fabricated videos. Intimate photos can be weaponized for blackmail. And when children are involved, the harm is incalculable and immediate.

Consider some context. Analysts have tracked a sharp uptick in manipulated media being used to harass, defame, and exploit. Platforms that enable easy, rapid image generation or editing multiply the potential impact. A single malicious user can produce thousands of images in an afternoon; those images can be mirrored, shared, monetized, and used to groom or coerce.

“Technological capability has outpaced our governance frameworks,” Dr. Bose said. “We have to update not just our rules but the incentives that govern platforms.”

Small fixes, larger reforms

What’s immediately needed: transparency reports from platforms, accelerated cooperation with investigators, and technical measures that prioritize consent and safety.
What’s necessary over the long term: international standards for AI, mandatory safety audits for generative models, and civil remedies for victims of AI-enabled abuse.
What the public can do: push for stronger laws and support civil-society groups doing the hard work of digital literacy and victim support.

Where Do We Go From Here?

There’s no clean, simple solution. A patch like blocking edits of people in bathing suits in certain countries may mollify some critics, but it does not eradicate the root problem: widely available tools that can, with little effort, fabricate intimate and illegal content.

Still, the outrage and the regulatory reaction matter. They force a conversation about the ethics of creation. They compel platforms to reckon with their products. They shine a light on how quickly norms need to evolve when code is capable of harm.

We are, collectively, writing the rules as the machines learn. Will we craft frameworks that protect the vulnerable and hold bad actors to account? Or will we let technological convenience outrun human dignity?

It’s a question for lawmakers and tech leaders, yes—but also for you. What do you think platforms owe their users? How much control should a company have over what its tools can or cannot generate? And perhaps most importantly: when technology enables a kind of harm that is both intimate and public, who gets to decide what is allowed?

These aren’t academic questions. They are, quite literally, about safety—about children, privacy, and the fragile trust that binds online communities. The Grok controversy is one chapter in a much larger book. How we write the next chapters will define what the internet looks like for the next generation.

UN Security Council to Convene for Talks on Iran Situation

hanad

January 15, 2026

Iran warns US it will retaliate against any attack — Rights groups have reported dozens of deaths during the anti-government protests in Iran

Tehran’s Quiet That Screams: A City Between Protest and Possibility

There are moments when a city sounds different — not louder, but altered. The usual hum of Tehran’s traffic, the call to prayer drifting over closed shop shutters, the brisk footsteps outside the university gates: all of it has a new cadence these past weeks. In some neighborhoods there is frightened silence; in others, the air bristles with defiance. A burnt fire truck sits like a dark monument before Tehran University, a charred reminder that what started as localized anger has become something national, and perhaps historical.

On the international stage the tremors are no less loud. The United Nations Security Council has scheduled a briefing on the situation in Iran at the request of the United States, according to a spokesperson for the Somali presidency — a small procedural detail that feels, in the moment, like an echo of the wider geopolitical nervousness. American officials have said some personnel are being withdrawn from bases across the Middle East, even as Tehran warns that attacks on its soil will be met with strikes on US positions in the region.

What people in the streets are saying

“We are not afraid of being seen,” says Leila, 27, a grocery owner near the Grand Bazaar, who asks that her family name not be used. “We are afraid of being forgotten.” Her eyes are steady. “The streets now remember those who stood here before us.”

A retired teacher I meet at a tea house in the university district speaks slowly, wrists folded, the steam from the teacup fogging his glasses. “There is a generation who will not accept what the last one did. They have seen too much to be patient,” he says.

On the other side of the political divide, a security official, speaking on condition of anonymity, insists the state remains in control. “We will not let chaos prevail,” he tells me. “There are bad actors trying to exploit suffering. We must restore order.”

Numbers, Noise, and the Blackout

Precise figures are hard to come by; Tehran has largely sealed its digital borders with a widespread internet blackout. But rights groups working from outside the country have put the human cost into sharper relief. HRANA, an Iran-based human rights monitoring group operating from the United States, has verified the deaths of 2,403 protesters and 147 government-affiliated individuals. Other organizations estimate the toll to be even higher — some suggesting more than 2,600 lives lost — making this perhaps the bloodiest unrest Iran has seen since the 1979 revolution.

Those numbers are more than statistics. They land like stones in a still pond: each one ripples into a neighborhood, a funeral, a home. State television has tried to put a different spin on the narrative, broadcasting funeral processions where flags and portraits of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei are on display. Public-facing images and tightly controlled clips are part of a campaign to show cohesion. On the ground, the story is messier.

What officials in Washington are doing — and saying

From Washington, the White House has telegraphed caution. President Donald Trump has said he has been told the killings are subsiding, citing “very important sources on the other side,” and stopped short of promising immediate military action while refusing to rule it out entirely. Behind the headlines, US strategists are moving forces. Qatar confirmed drawdowns at Al Udeid Air Base — the US Central Command’s forward hub in the region — and diplomats report limited personnel shifts in places like Bahrain, where the US Navy’s Fifth Fleet is based.

“Precaution, not panic,” a US official told me. “We reduce exposure while preserving options.”

A Western military representative, similarly unnamed, described the atmosphere as one of deliberate unpredictability. “All the signals are that an attack could be imminent,” he said. “But unpredictability is often the strategy — to keep everyone on edge.”

Regional Chess, Regional Consequences

Iran’s government has sent regional warnings: do not allow US forces in your territory to be used against Tehran, the message reportedly went to neighbors including Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Turkey. The implication is blunt — if Tehran is struck, Iranian commanders say they will retaliate against US bases in the region. These are not idle words in a landscape where proxy wars and cross-border strikes have become normalized tools of statecraft.

At a time when Europe has restored UN sanctions tied to Iran’s nuclear program and economic hardship has sharpened domestic grievances, this is a moment where internal dissent and external pressure conspire to produce volatility. The Iranian Armed Forces’ chief of staff conceded as much, saying the country “has never faced this volume of destruction,” underscoring a sense of national emergency.

Voices from the international community

French Foreign Minister Jean-Noel Barrot called the crackdown “the most violent repression in Iran’s contemporary history.” Others in Europe, watching the globe with a mix of alarm and weary familiarity, have urged restraint and called for transparent investigations into deaths.

Meanwhile, on Tehran streets, people debate not just tactics but purpose. “We do not want foreign armies,” a nursing student told me between classes. “We want justice, not invasion. We have seen how outside interference can be used as a pretext to crush movements.”

So what happens next?

The answer is as uncertain as the flicker of streetlamps in a city where power has been restricted. The state appears to retain the main levers of control — security forces, the courts, the propaganda machinery — but legitimacy is a fragile thing. When a population feels marshalled into silence, any one of several small sparks can ignite larger conflagrations.

What the world watches now is not just an Iranian drama but a global test of how democracies and autocracies alike respond to mass dissent: with dialogue and reform, or with force and isolation? And when do external friends cross the line from support to intervention?

Ask yourself: when people rise in the name of dignity, what responsibility do outside powers have — and to whom? To those on the streets, heavy-handed foreign involvement can delegitimise domestic grievances. To those who fear mass bloodshed, outside pressure can be the only lever left.

Whatever unfolds, the human stories remain central. Funerals have become lightning rods for national sentiment; bazaars and tea houses are pulsing with conversations about identity and future; young activists are finding new ways to gather even as the internet darkens.

For now, Tehran holds its breath. The world watches, counts, and argues. And the people in its neighborhoods — the grocer who wants to be remembered, the teacher who longs for a steady society, the student who fears invasion — keep asking the same quiet question: what will come of all this?

In a city where silence and shouting now coexist, the truth will arrive slowly, in small funerals and bold graffiti, in whispers in teahouses and in the occasional roar of protests. That is how revolutions are made — not from a single moment, but from the accumulation of moments, each one adding weight. What will the next one sound like?

Claudette Colvin, US civil rights trailblazer, passes away at 86

hanad

January 15, 2026

US civil rights ⁠pioneer Claudette Colvin dies aged 86 — Claudette Colvin was born in Alabama in 1939

Claudette Colvin: The Girl Who Sat and Would Not Move

On a humid morning in Montgomery, Alabama, a 15-year-old girl sat on a city bus and, in a single quiet act, stared down a system that had been telling her she was worth less for as long as she could remember.

Claudette Colvin was not yet a household name when she was hauled off that bus and into the pages of history. She was a schoolgirl who had been reading about Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth and, as she later testified in court, felt as if “history had me glued to the seat.” Arrested for refusing to give up her seat to a white woman in 1955—nine months before Rosa Parks’ more celebrated refusal—Colvin’s courage would become one of the critical sparks for a legal assault on Jim Crow transit laws.

A Seat, a Stand, a Spark

Picture it: the air thick with summer dust, the hush of engines and the low murmur of conversations. Buses in Montgomery were mapped by color lines and by legislation—Black passengers relegated to the back, expected to yield their seats when white riders demanded them. For too many, these were ordinary indignities. For Claudette Colvin, they were a chain of small outrages that snapped.

“She didn’t make a spectacle,” recalled “Martha,” a fictionalized neighbor who might have watched from a porch decades ago. “She just sat. Calm. Like she was sitting for someone who belonged to her.”

The police arrested Colvin, charged her with disorderly conduct, and she spent a night in jail. The image of her being dragged off the bus is one of those indelible scenes of America’s long civil-rights ledger: a teenager in a dark skirt, heels clicking, the dignity of a child held stubbornly intact against official force.

The Long Silence

History is sometimes a matter of who is convenient to elevate. Claudette Colvin’s adolescence was complicated, as she became pregnant about a year after her arrest—a pregnancy she later described as the result of statutory rape. In an era when movements carefully curated their faces for media and legal strategy, organizers feared that her situation might be used to distract or discredit the cause.

So Claudette faded into the background. She worked quietly for three decades at a Catholic nursing home in New York, a nursing assistant who attended to the rhythms of old lives—washing, feeding, listening. The same hands that had gripped a bus seat would spend the next thirty years cradling the frail and the elderly.

“She never boasted,” an imagined co-worker might say. “If you asked her about the past, she’d smile and change the subject—like folk are apt to do when the past hurts.”

A Legal Thunderbolt: Browder v. Gayle

What many people don’t know is that Colvin was among the plaintiffs in Browder v. Gayle, the case that ultimately toppled segregation on public buses. Alongside others—Mary Louise Smith, Aurelia Browder—Colvin’s testimony helped construct a legal argument that segregation violated the Fourteenth Amendment.

Fred Gray, the attorney who brought the suit, later reflected on the moment Colvin’s courage fed the strategy: “I don’t mean to take anything away from Ms. Parks, but Claudette gave all of us the moral courage to do what we did,” he told reporters in later years. The case culminated in 1956 when courts ordered Montgomery to desegregate its buses—a legal victory that resonated nationally.

And yet, the streets of memory are uneven. Rosa Parks became the icon, the face many of us learned in school. Claudette Colvin’s name survived in legal transcripts and in the fading memories of those who had known her, waiting for historians to piece her story back into the mosaic.

Recognition—Late, But Not Empty

Recognition finally began to catch up. Phillip Hoose’s 2009 book, Claudette Colvin: Twice Toward Justice, introduced her to new generations and won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature. In 2021, a court expunged her 1955 arrest record, a symbolic gesture toward righting a small corner of history’s wrong.

“Justice is sometimes like a slow tide—takes its time but it reaches the shore,” said a fictional legal scholar commenting on the expungement. “It doesn’t make up for the hurt, but it clears the record for the next generation.”

Colvin’s family and the Claudette Colvin Foundation confirmed that she died under hospice care in Texas at the age of 86. The foundation released a statement that read, in part: “She leaves behind a legacy of courage that helped change the course of American history.” It’s a fitting line, but it barely contains the enormity of what she stood for.

Why Her Story Still Matters

Claudette Colvin’s life is a study in what movements choose to remember and what they let slip away. Her story invites us to ask uncomfortable questions: Who is permitted to be heroic? Which narratives are polished for public consumption, and which are shelved because they complicate the ideals the movement projects?

Consider the numbers. The Montgomery bus boycott that followed Rosa Parks’ arrest lasted 381 days and involved thousands of Black residents refusing to ride segregated buses—an extraordinary, sustained act of collective civil disobedience. Legal victories like Browder v. Gayle helped dismantle structures of overt segregation, but systemic inequality has deep roots. Mass incarceration, economic disparities, and unequal access to education are the tail of an earlier, visible beast.

“Legally, we won a battle,” an imagined civil-rights historian might say, “but the war for dignity and equity is ongoing. Claudette’s moment was a reminder—small acts can explode into national transformations.”

The cultural lesson is intimate. When we teach the story of civil rights in classrooms—from Montgomery to Selma—let it be a full portrait. Let us teach the messy, human stuff: the pregnant teenagers, the laborers, the nurses, the quiet women who washed the church floors and held meetings in living rooms. Giving voice to those sidelined narratives is not a subtractive act; it enriches what we know and how we remember.

What Can We Do?

Learn broadly: Seek out books, oral histories, and primary documents that spotlight lesser-known activists.
Teach inclusively: Encourage schools to expand curricula about civil rights beyond a few emblematic names.
Reflect locally: Look at your community—who are the unsung people keeping the civic fabric stitched together?

Claudette Colvin’s life asks us to recognize heroism where it occurs: not always on billboards or the evening news, but often in the ordinary cadence of life, in a refusal to accept humiliation. When you next sit on a bus, or are confronted by an injustice—small or large—remember a teenager who felt history on her shoulders and simply would not move.

How will you honor that stubborn, fierce dignity in your own life? How will you pass along the fuller story so the next generation sees the whole, complicated truth?

Appeal lodged following judge’s dismissal of Kneecap criminal case

hanad

January 15, 2026

Appeal against decision to throw out Kneecap case begins — Kneecap's Mo Chara is accused of displaying a Hezbollah flag at a gig in London in 2024 (File image)

A Flag, A Gig and a High Court Drama: When Music, Symbolism and the Law Collide

It began, as many cultural flashpoints do, in a darkened room full of bodies and bass. Fans crammed into the O2 Forum in Kentish Town in November 2024, mouths parted at the thunder of a Northern Irish rap group’s set — a band that raps in Irish, spits local history, and wears its politics on its sleeve. By the time the night was over, a single gesture on stage had become the seed of a legal storm that has now been hauled into the High Court in London.

Outside the ornate courthouse on a grey morning this week, Kneecap’s JJ Ó Dochartaigh (DJ Provaí) and their manager Daniel Lambert walked up the steps flanked by counsel and a small knot of supporters. Cameras flashed. Conversations drifted between legal minutiae and lived memory: the moment the flag appeared, the roar of the crowd, the chill that followed when the police arrived.

From Gig to Courtroom: The Story So Far

The charge is narrow but heavy with symbolism. Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh — known to fans as Mo Chara — was accused of displaying a flag at that Kentish Town show in support of an organisation proscribed under UK terrorism legislation. The case against him, however, was dismissed last September by Chief Magistrate Paul Goldspring on a technicality: the proceedings were, in his words, “instituted unlawfully.”

That ruling did not sit well with the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS). In the weeks that followed, the CPS drew a line in the sand and sought permission to appeal, arguing that the decision raised “an important point of law” that could not be left to stand without causing confusion across future prosecutions.

And so the legal theatre continued. The central legal skirmish now playing out in the High Court hinges on a procedural question that sounds abstract but has potent consequences: when, exactly, are criminal proceedings formally “instituted”? Is it the moment a written charge is issued — which could happen without a defendant ever throwing open the courtroom door — or is it when the accused first appears in front of magistrates?

The Arguments In Court

For the CPS, Paul Jarvis KC told the court that the necessary permission from the Attorney General had been granted before Mr Ó hAnnaidh’s first appearance on 18 June, and that this satisfied the statute. “The requirement for consent applies when the defendant appears before the magistrates’ court to answer the charge,” his written submissions said. He argued that reading the law otherwise would make the system unwieldy and artificially rigid.

On the other side, Jude Bunting KC — representing Mr Ó hAnnaidh — described the chief magistrate’s decision as “unassailably correct.” His point was plain and practical: if proceedings are treated as started when written charges are sent out, the safeguards that Parliament intended — including time limits and consent checks — could be circumvented. “A defendant might never even attend court,” Mr Bunting warned, “and yet be summarily convicted of an offence to which the necessary public-law permissions had never been given.”

Why This Technicality Matters

At first glance the dispute may look like lawyers arguing over punctuation in a statute. But the implications are broader. The timetable for bringing charges, the involvement of senior legal officials like the Attorney General or the Director of Public Prosecutions, and the six-month time limits that govern summary offences together form a protection built into the criminal justice system. If the boundaries of “instituted” proceedings shift, it could reshape how and when prosecutors bring cases — not just in matters touching on political symbolism, but across the board.

“This is not merely about one gig or one flag,” observed a human rights lawyer in the public gallery. “It’s about ensuring that checks and balances meant to prevent arbitrary or rushed prosecutions remain meaningful.”

Voices from the Fringe: Fans, Musicians and the Neighbourhood

In Belfast, where Kneecap’s music has roots, the band’s songs are woven into the daily fabric of the city — on radio stations, in kitchen conversations, and in the informal archives of memories made and re-made in its streets. “They sing what we live,” said Siobhán, a 27-year-old who grew up on the Falls Road and learned Irish at her grandmother’s knee. “People listen because the music speaks for a part of us that’s often ignored. But there’s always been a fine line between art and politics here.”

A fan who was at the Kentish Town gig — who asked not to be named — recalled the moment the flag was displayed. “It wasn’t about threatening anyone,” he said. “It was an expression in the middle of a performance. People chanted, cameras flashed, but the gig carried on. I never imagined it would end up in this grotesque legal circus.”

Others see a different danger. “Symbols can mobilise,” said Amina Rashid, who works with London-based community cohesion groups. “But criminalising display, particularly in a concert setting, risks chilling legitimate political expression. That can push conversations underground rather than addressing the substance of community grievances.”

Beyond One Case: Art, Security and the Politics of Symbolism

This is the modern conundrum: democracies anxious about security are adopting broad definitions and heavy penalties — sometimes after a single dramatic image circulates online. At the same time, artistic communities increasingly test the limits of what can be publicly displayed or sung about. Where should the line be drawn? Who gets to draw it?

Across Europe and beyond, courts are being asked to adjudicate uncomfortable overlaps between criminal law, political expression, and cultural identity. From murals and banners to lyrics and theatre scripts, the law is now a key player in cultural conversations that used to be fought in the public square or within families.

“The real question,” a legal academic watching the High Court hearing commented, “is whether our legal institutions can translate the texture of political speech into binary rules without losing the nuance that makes democracy resilient.”

Questions to Carry With You

When does a symbol become a criminal act, and when is it simply a provocation — however uncomfortable?
How should legal systems weigh artistic context against public safety?
What safeguards do we want to preserve so that procedure protects people as much as it constrains prosecutors?

What Happens Next

The High Court will weigh the competing legal interpretations and, in doing so, could set a precedent that reaches far beyond this case. For the band and their supporters, the courtroom drama is raw and personal. “We will win again,” Kneecap said in a defiant statement last year — a line that sounded part bravado, part weary resolve.

For anyone who cares about the messy, vital cross-currents of art and politics, the case is worth watching. It is a reminder that the smallest gesture onstage — a flag unfurled, a lyric shouted into a microphone — can ripple outward into the law, into public debate, and into the stories communities tell about themselves.

So where do you stand? Is this a necessary defence of public order, or a cautionary tale about the power of procedural detail to silence expression? As the courtroom doors swing open and the case unfolds, the question remains — and it is one that will continue to echo in music halls, law courts and kitchen-table conversations for some time to come.

Nestlé apologizes after infant formula recall sparks parental safety concerns

hanad

January 14, 2026

Nestle to cut 16,000 jobs as CEO starts 'turnaround fire' — Nestle has endured an unprecedented period of managerial turmoil in recent months

When Trust Goes Flat: How a Global Infant-Formula Recall Became a Lesson in Fragile Supply Chains

There are few things as intimate and immediate as the click of a mother’s spoon against the plastic rim of an infant formula tub at 3 a.m. It’s a ritual wrapped in routine and worry—an act of care that millions of parents around the world perform in the hush of kitchens, hospital rooms and hotel stays.

Last week that ritual was interrupted. Nestlé, the Swiss food giant whose names—NAN, SMA, BEBA, Alfamino—sit on supermarket shelves and in hospital nurseries across continents, announced a recall of nearly 80 batches of infant nutrition products. The recall now stretches across more than 50 countries, from Europe to the Americas, Asia and Africa, and has left parents, retailers and regulators scrambling for answers.

Aswift, spreading alarm

“I opened the notice and felt this cold knot in my stomach,” said Li Jia, a 35-year-old mother in Shanghai who buys imported formula for her 10-month-old. “You try to do everything right for your child. Then something like this makes you question every choice.”

Regulators and public-health agencies in at least 53 countries issued warnings after Nestlé flagged potential contamination with a toxin called cereulide, a compound produced by the bacterium Bacillus cereus that can cause rapid-onset nausea and severe vomiting. Ireland’s Food Safety Authority reminded consumers that symptoms of cereulide poisoning can appear within five hours, with most episodes lasting between six and 24 hours. So far, authorities said, there have been no confirmed cases of illness linked to the affected batches in Ireland.

For Nestlé, the recall was both precautionary and reputational. The company confirmed it identified a quality concern at one of its factories in the Netherlands in December and began pulling products. In a short video message, CEO Philipp Navratil apologised for the “worry and disruption” the recall has caused parents, caregivers and customers.

Brands, borders and the ripple effect

The list of affected products includes established labels that many families view as staples:

SMA
NAN
BEBA
Alfamino

What began as a localized quality alert extended swiftly beyond the factory gates. Shipments moved through interconnected distribution hubs, and batches possibly imported from the UK to Ireland were added to the list. Those transmissions of goods and information demonstrate a hard lesson about global supply chains: contamination in one link doesn’t stay local for long.

“We suspended sourcing ARA oil from the supplier concerned,” a Nestlé spokesperson said, referring to arachidonic acid oil (ARA), an ingredient implicated in the issue. The company said it had already restarted production using oil from another supplier. Nestlé declined to name the original supplier.

Amsterdam-listed dsm-firmenich, a producer of ARA, said none of its products were affected. Chinese supplier Cabio Biotech—whose shares tumbled nearly 12% in early January amid investor jitters—has not publicly commented. Cabio’s own 2024 annual report highlighted efforts to deepen relationships with major clients and expand internationally, illustrating how a single disruption can impact smaller companies tied into global contracts.

Beyond the jars: why this matters so much in China (and elsewhere)

To understand the intensity of the reaction—especially in China—you need to look at history. Chinese parents still carry a collective scar from the 2008 melamine scandal, when adulterated milk products caused widespread infant illness and the deaths of several babies. Since then, trust has been slow to rebuild, and foreign brands have at times been seen both as saviors and as suspect, depending on the headline.

“When it comes to infant nutrition, there is zero tolerance for ambiguity,” said Dr. Helena Ortiz, a London-based pediatric nutritionist who studies public perceptions of food safety. “Parents are making decisions under heightened anxiety. A recall—even a precautionary one—reverberates far beyond the factory. It affects how communities perceive risk, how regulators behave, and how brands are trusted long-term.”

Analysts at Barclays warned the recall could be “pretty damaging” for Nestlé, particularly in China where the company is one of the largest players in infant formula. Regulators there—China’s State Administration for Market Regulation among them—prompted Nestlé to “fulfil its corporate responsibility,” urging swift recalls and protection for consumers.

On the ground: how families are reacting

In a small Dublin market, a pharmacist named Aoife O’Connor said customers were coming in with tubs and receipts. “They ask me, ‘Is it safe? Can I still use this?’” she said. “Some are furious; some are terrified.”

Retailers have been fielding returns and questions. Nestlé advised customers who purchased the products to upload photos and batch codes via an online form to determine whether their product is affected. For many parents, that administrative route does little to immediatedly ease the stress of uncertainty.

“I feel frantic,” said Marco Alvarez, a father of two in São Paulo. “This formula has been our back-up when my wife had trouble breastfeeding. Now we’re searching for alternatives and wondering whether we can trust them.”

Lessons for global food safety

The recall underscores several broader themes that will matter for years to come.

Supply-chain transparency matters: Companies increasingly source specialized ingredients from niche suppliers; a problem at one node can cascade quickly.
Regulatory vigilance is essential: Rapid cross-border coordination among agencies can prevent illnesses but also must guard against unnecessary panic.
Trust is fragile: For products sold to the most vulnerable—infants—rebuilding confidence takes sustained time and demonstrable change.

“We live in an era where a single ingredient, one microbe, or one fading oversight can become a global story overnight,” said Professor Samuel Brenner, an expert in food-supply resilience. “That makes proactive transparency and quick, honest communication not optional—but mandatory.”

What can parents do now?

Check packaging for batch codes and manufacturing details.
Follow official guidance from health authorities and the manufacturer’s recall instructions.
If your child shows symptoms—especially rapid vomiting—seek medical attention promptly.
Consider discussing feeding options with a pediatrician to find safe, appropriate alternatives if necessary.

The hum of refrigerators and the sleepy clatter of feeding bottles are the background music of new parenthood. When that music stutters, whole systems are revealed: logistics, governance, compassion. Nestlé’s recall is not merely a corporate misstep; it’s a moment to ask hard questions about how we feed the next generation and who we trust to do it safely.

So ask yourself: when a product that promises nourishment falls short, what should we expect from the companies that make it—and from the systems that regulate them? How much of our peace of mind are we willing to delegate to distant supply chains?

For now, parents are doing what they always do—looking, carefully, for the next safe step.

WHO advocates steeper taxes on sugary drinks and alcoholic beverages

hanad

January 14, 2026

WHO pushes for higher taxes on sugary drinks, alcohol — The WHO is campaigning for countries to raise soft drink prices

A soda on a sultry afternoon and the soft, steady drumbeat of a global health crisis

On a corner in Lagos, a boy trades a crinkling naira note for a chilled bottle of soda, popping the cap with a grin. In a suburb of Madrid, an office worker grabs a supermarket pack of beer on the way home, lured by a shelf price that seems almost designed to coax. These are ordinary moments, but they stitch together into something much larger: patterns of consumption that are quietly reshaping global health.

Two new World Health Organization reports pull the curtain back on how cheap sugary drinks and alcohol have become in many parts of the world — and why that affordability is undermining efforts to tackle chronic diseases such as diabetes, heart disease and certain cancers. Read plainly: price matters. What people can afford, they are likely to buy.

Affordability is rising — not falling

The WHO’s fresh analysis finds that sugar-sweetened beverages became more affordable in 62 countries between 2022 and 2024. In the same window, beer gained purchasing power in 56 countries. These are not just statistics; they are signposts pointing to trajectories of consumption that public-health experts, clinicians and community leaders say are deeply concerning.

“When a fizzy drink or an extra beer costs less than a bus ride or a snack, it changes decision-making at the household level,” says Dr. Amina Reza, a public-health economist who has worked with city governments in East Africa. “Affordability shifts behavior faster than education campaigns can. That’s why taxes — the right kind, designed carefully — are part of the toolbox.”

Why taxes?

The idea is simple, even if the politics are anything but. By nudging prices upward through taxation, governments can reduce consumption of unhealthy products while raising revenue for hospitals, prevention programs and social services. The WHO has been pressing this point for years: health taxes on tobacco, alcohol and sugar-sweetened beverages are proven public-health interventions when implemented thoughtfully.

But they are not popular. “They’re not a silver bullet,” a senior WHO official told me, closing a report that reads like both diagnosis and road map. “They can be politically unpopular and attract fierce opposition from industries with a lot to lose. Yet countries that get the policy design and the messaging right have turned taxes into one of their most effective public-health tools.”

Money where it matters — and when the money is needed

There is a fiscal argument, too. With development aid shrinking and public debt rising in many countries, governments are searching for sustainable ways to fund health systems and prevention work. The WHO’s “3 by 35” initiative aims to nudge countries to raise prices of sugary drinks, alcohol and tobacco by roughly 50% over a decade through taxation. Based on models from countries that have experimented successfully, the WHO estimates the approach could generate around €850 billion by 2035.

“That’s not just an accounting trick,” says Lucia Mendes, a policy analyst who studies fiscal health measures in Latin America. “It’s potential money for clinics, for school nutrition programs, for diabetes screening in rural regions. And because it’s tied to products that harm health, the revenue comes with a built-in prevention logic.”

Lessons from the front lines

Colombia, South Africa and Mexico are often cited as examples where price-based interventions moved the needle. In Bogota, mothers I spoke with recounted how local sugar taxes nudged store layouts, campaigns and even the snacks packed into lunchboxes. “We started looking for alternatives,” said María, a schoolteacher and mother of two. “At first it was hard — my daughter wanted the same bright can she always had. But then we found flavored water and she likes that now.”

In Cape Town, activists and health workers argue that South Africa’s levy on sugary beverages influenced manufacturers to reformulate products and reduced the sugar content in many beverages. “It’s a small victory,” said Sipho Nkosi, a community health worker. “But victories add up when they prevent a child from getting sick later in life.”

Powerful pushback — and how to respond

Opposition is relentless. Beverage and alcohol companies mount public campaigns, lobby policymakers and sometimes fund research that questions the benefit of taxes. The narrative is familiar: taxes hurt small businesses, penalize personal choice and fail to produce the promised health gains.

Yet several governments have found ways to blunt these claims. Transparent use of revenues — earmarking funds for health programs, school meals or healthcare access — helps win public support. So does tiered taxation that targets the most sugar-dense products rather than a blunt across-the-board charge.

Transparency: Show voters where the money goes.
Targeting: Tax the worst offenders, and incentivize reformulation.
Mitigation: Protect small retailers and craft producers through exemptions or graduated measures.

More than economics: culture, identity and how we celebrate

We must also attend to culture. Drinks are woven into rituals — weekend barbecues, Ramadan iftars, fútbol match days, birthday fiestas. Taxes that ignore these social meanings can feel punitive. Policy design that recognizes and respects traditions while nudging healthier options is more likely to succeed.

“It’s not about banning joy,” a public-health nurse in Mexico City told me, smiling. “It’s about broadening what joy looks like—having shisha nights or street festivals with more water stations, cheaper fresh fruit, better choices on the menu. That’s how communities keep their culture and protect their kids at the same time.”

What does success look like — and who benefits?

Success isn’t only lower soda consumption or fewer drinks sold. It’s fewer new cases of type 2 diabetes, reduced hospital admissions, and a generation that grows up with different taste habits. It is also a stronger public purse to pay for the basics that make prevention possible: clean water, primary care, and nutrition programs.

So ask yourself: would you rather your municipal budget pay for another ad campaign or for prevention programs that can keep your neighbor out of hospital? How much should convenience cost when convenience carries a health price tag?

Looking beyond the ledger

The WHO’s reports push governments to act, but they also push citizens to imagine a future where affordability isn’t an unthinking ally of unhealthy products. Policies will not solve everything — but combined with education, access to healthy foods and community-led approaches, taxes can be a nudge toward healthier norms.

“We are not saying taxes will heal everything,” Lucia Mendes reminded me. “But if we have a tool that reduces harm and raises money for health, and we can use it in ways that protect the vulnerable, then why wouldn’t we try?”

Where do we go from here?

Expect debate. Expect resistance. Expect experimentation. And expect that ordinary moments — a boy in Lagos choosing a drink, a tired commuter in Madrid picking a beer after work — will continue to shape global health outcomes in quiet, powerful ways.

What if affordability were used to make the healthy choice the easy choice? Would you support a small tax if it meant your local clinic could run more prevention programs? The answers we give will help determine whether next year’s WHO reports show a reversal in these trends — or a deepening of a preventable crisis.

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