How Kim Kardashian Turned Fame Into a Billion-Dollar Beauty and Fashion Empire

November 23, 2025

NASA rejects Kim Kardashian's claim over Moon landing — NASA's acting administrator has hit back at Kim Kardashian's claims that the Moon landing did not happen

A shapewear start-up that detonated into an empire

On a humid Los Angeles afternoon, a squadron of shoppers lined up outside a Skims pop-up, eyes bright, phones ready, coffee in one hand and a mesh drawstring bag in the other. Inside, soft nudes and sculpting panels shimmered under flattering light. It felt less like a retail opening and more like a minor religious revival for contour and comfort.

That scene tells you everything about how a brand born from one woman’s obsession with fit—Kim Kardashian’s answer to Spanx—has become a magnet for money, headlines, and fierce debate. Skims’ journey has been equal parts fashion disruption, celebrity spectacle, and sharp business maneuvering. It also carries the scars of missteps: the original name “Kimono” sparked an international outcry for cultural appropriation that reverberated from Tokyo to tiny boutique streets in Kyoto. “We felt that name erased the complexity of our culture,” says Dr. Aiko Tanaka, a cultural studies lecturer in Tokyo. “It wasn’t just a word—it was a living tradition.”

The numbers people talk about

Skims tells investors it’s on track for more than $1 billion in revenue in a year—a milestone that, if true, would put the company squarely in the big-league category. In a 2023–2024 capital raise the brand secured roughly $225 million, which, when extrapolated by the buyers’ math, pegged Skims at a $5 billion valuation.

That jump from a roughly $4 billion valuation two years prior has a clear accelerant: a partnership with Nike and the joint NikeSkims line, an entry into activewear and performance shaping that gave the brand instant credibility beyond the bedroom and the club.

Yet valuations are part art, part wager. “We’re not buying a set of factories or long-term contracts—often we’re buying narrative,” says Sarah Mendelson, a retail analyst based in New York. “When a brand has explosive social reach and a platform like Kim’s, investors pay for the story they hope will turn into durable cash flows.”

What’s certain, and what’s not

Claimed revenue: Skims projects >$1 billion (company-provided figure).
Recent capital raise: about $225 million.
Implied valuation after the raise: roughly $5 billion.
Partnerships: notable tie-up with Nike to launch NikeSkims.
Profitability: undisclosed—private-company accounting makes it hard to assess margins or EBITDA.

That last point is key. A billion in revenue sounds dazzling—as does a $5 billion price tag—until you learn how much of that top-line is eaten by returns, advertising, influencers, and the cost of making growth happen. If it costs $1.1 billion to sell $1 billion of goods, valuation glitters but shareholders get dust.

Celebrity as currency

Kim’s personal brand is the secret sauce most investors are betting on. Forbes valued her net worth around $1.9 billion in the mid‑2020s, and the Skims valuation is a big reason. But her wealth is a mosaic of ventures—TV, social media (she has roughly 350 million followers on Instagram, tens of millions across Twitter and TikTok), endorsements, and a track record of launching and reshaping businesses.

“There’s a halo effect with her name,” says Javier Morales, a Miami-based small-business owner whose artisanal hair clips sold out after Kardashian posted a picture wearing one. “We had three times our usual site traffic in 48 hours. It was insane. We couldn’t keep up.”

The economics of celebrity endorsements are blunt: a single Instagram post from a global star can command figures in the high hundreds of thousands—sometimes more—depending on reach and exclusivity. That fleeting spotlight, however, can produce real spikes in demand. For smaller makers, a Kardashian nod is a windfall; for investors, it’s a double-edged sword, because a brand entwined with a single person risks losing value if that person steps back.

A long history of launches, reinventions, and risky bets

Kim has not been a one-trick pony. Long before Skims, there was Dash, Khroma Beauty, KKW Beauty (which at one point drew a $200 million investment from Coty for a 20% stake), and SKKN by Kim. Some lines soared, others fizzled. Coty famously took a hit when ownership moved and product lines restructured—reminding the market that celebrity holdfasts are part glamour, part corporate chessboard.

Even among the siblings, fortunes vary. Kylie Jenner’s cosmetics empire was once used to crown her a billionaire in headlines, but later scrutiny by public filings revealed discrepancies that adjusted the story—and valuations—downward. The episode is a cautionary tale: media narratives can inflate a company’s worth, especially when privately held numbers are opaque.

Why this matters beyond celebrity gossip

Skims is a prism reflecting bigger trends. It shows how culture, commerce, and attention capitalism collide: social platforms compress influence into measurable scores, brands become platforms for identity, and investors chase growth narratives in a low-yield world. It also raises questions about taste, responsibility, and local culture—how global celebrity brands borrow, sometimes clumsily, from other traditions.

“We are living through a time when cultural objects are turned into commodities more rapidly than before,” notes Dr. Tanaka. “That’s not inherently bad, but it demands reflection and respect.”

So—hype or hard business?

Ask a venture capitalist and they’ll talk about multiples, TAM (total addressable market), and customer LTVs. Ask a shopper and they’ll show you a stacking pile of Skims boxes. Ask a critic and they’ll point to the original naming controversy and to the broader social costs of hypervisibility.

Perhaps the best answer sits between those poles: Skims is both a business with serious traction and a brand whose valuation includes a hefty slice of future hope. That hope is buying inventory, opening stores, striking collaborations, and leaning into a cultural moment where comfort, body confidence, and celebrity intersect.

Will the story age into a case study of brilliant brand building—or into a warning about valuations divorced from margin realities? Only time, and transparent ledgers, will tell.

Either way, as you scroll past another influencer unboxing a nude thong on your phone, consider this: how much of what we buy is about the product itself, and how much is about the person who made it famous? Who owns the stories we tell with the clothes we wear?

Cutting greenhouse gas emissions is now more urgent than ever

hanad

November 23, 2025

Reducing greenhouse gas emissions couldn't be more urgent — The Jänschwalde power station, a mainly coal fired thermal power plant in the southeast of Germany

Belém, Heat and Hope: Walking the Tightrope of an “Implementation COP”

The air in Belém was thick with river humidity and expectation. Vendors at the Ver‑o‑Peso market folded baskets of açaí and tucupi into neatly stacked pyramids, while colleagues from delegations huddled under the shade of mangrove trees, comparing notes and scanning the list of plenary sessions. For months this city in the Brazilian Amazon had been promised a rare thing: a COP that would move from speech to action.

“We called this the implementation COP,” a Brazilian minister told me on the steps of the conference centre, palms wiping the sweat from his brow. “The work was supposed to be not about signing more declarations, but doing what was already promised.”

That promise—the one stitched into the Paris Agreement in 2015 and amended, reiterated and amplified across subsequent COPs—has a simple, brutal logic: cut greenhouse gas emissions fast enough to keep global heating near 1.5°C. In diplomatic language it’s mitigation; in everyday language it’s the future of harvests, coasts, and lives. Yet delivering mitigation is a system-shaking task. It demands reworking power grids, overhauling transport, retraining workforces and reengineering economies. And anywhere people depend on oil money, the disruption is not theoretical—it’s existential.

From Dubai to Belém: Momentum Meets Resistance

At COP28, delegates celebrated a landmark commitment to start a managed transition away from fossil fuels. The headline felt like progress. But momentum is not destiny. In the months that followed, signals of backsliding appeared: a lukewarm follow‑up at the next COP, and then in Belém the blow-by-blow of negotiations revealed an old faultline—wealthier nations pressuring for a roadmap to phase out fossil fuels while oil-producing blocs and some large economies insisted their energy futures could not be boxed in.

“You can’t ask us to shut the tap when you haven’t minded the well,” a delegate from an oil-producing country told me bluntly. “We have citizens to feed, schools to run, hospitals to maintain.”

On the other side of the table, representatives of small island states and least-developed countries spoke with a different kind of urgency. “We are losing homes, not promises,” said a health worker from a coastal community in West Africa. “People tell our children climate change is future tense. We know it’s now.”

Money on the Table—or Not

For many of the delegates from the Global South the conversation in Belém never started with fossil fuels. It began with finance: the bruising politics of who pays for the damage and how quickly the money moves. The Loss and Damage Fund, long campaigned for and finally agreed, remains a promise until cheques exchange hands. Wealthier nations have historically failed to meet the €100 billion climate finance pledge they agreed to years ago; even where climate finance flows, it is often in loans, not grants, deepening indebtedness.

“We were not willing to agree to tighter fossil fuel commitments while our hospitals, mangroves, and farmers go under,” said an African climate negotiator. “If implementation means painful change, then the Global North has to make sure countries can adapt and recover.”

Numbers offer a clearer view. Delegates in Belém kept returning to a few stark figures: the long-promised €100 billion annual goal is often cited as a benchmark, yet independent analyses show that delivered amounts have been inconsistent and frequently fall short of needs; adaptation finance needs alone are projected to run into the tens to hundreds of billions per year, depending on the methodology. And a line in the sand—$300 million a year—became shorthand in many closed-door sessions for an initial, symbolic flow to the Loss and Damage Fund, insufficient in scale but politically significant if unlocked.

Local Voices, Global Stakes

Walk outside the negotiating halls and the story is tactile. A fisherwoman on the shores of Belém laughed nervously when I asked whether she trusted the diplomats. “They speak like priests,” she said. “They pronounce, but they don’t plant.” Behind her the Guamá River carried dead leaves and plastic bottles; a child waded ankle-deep, tossing a stick. The contrast was immediate—the ornate conference rooms where delegations argued about carbon accounting versus the riverbanks where people already live at climate’s blunt edge.

Indigenous leaders, too, were present in force—many of them skeptical but not silent. “Our forests are not a bargaining chip,” said an elder speaking through an interpreter. “You cannot speak of implementation while corporations plan to dig through our bones.” These words landed in a cavernous plenary hall and circulated in newsfeeds—an echo of climate justice claims that have driven activism for decades.

How the Negotiations Unraveled—and Why It Matters

Negotiations in Belém ended not with a triumphant roadmap but with an uneasy compromise that left many delegates frustrated. An attempt led by a coalition of countries—85 strong, including multiple EU members and Latin American states—to enshrine a “roadmap for transitioning away from fossil fuels” into the final text was blocked. The opposing camp, anchored by oil-producing states and backed by geopolitical heavyweights, insisted on language that allowed for energy sovereignty and gradual transitions.

“We are not anti-transition,” a spokesperson for one of the oil-producing delegations said. “We are pro-fairness. Tell me when the finance is here and I’ll agree to the timetable.”

So what did Belém deliver? For some it reiterated the perennial truth of climate diplomacy: that moral clarity collides with political power. For others it underscored a more practical reality—without guarantees of finance for adaptation and loss and damage, calls for rapid fossil fuel phaseouts are unlikely to be accepted by those who fear economic collapse.

What If the World Keeps Waiting?

Ask yourself this: if promises to the most vulnerable remain unpaid while the extraction of fossil fuels continues, who bears the burden? The question is not rhetorical. It goes to the heart of global inequality and the architecture of international cooperation.

Every COP becomes a mirror of broader geopolitics—trade shifts, energy security anxieties, electoral cycles and the rise of populism. Belém reflected those currents. It also showed that implementation cannot be a mantra uttered by ministers in air‑conditioned rooms; it must be built into budgets, industrial strategies and the livelihoods of the people living at the margins.

€100 billion: the long-promised annual climate finance target from wealthy nations (delivery to date remains contested and incomplete).
Loss and Damage Fund: established in recent years but starved of the consistent, scaled finance that would make it functional for many recipients.
Adaptation finance needs: estimated in the tens to hundreds of billions annually by various analyses—far exceeding current flows.

Belém’s Aftertaste: A Call for a New Politics of Trust

On my last night in Belém I walked the waterfront as markets closed and kids chased each other under sodium lamps. A youth activist I’d met at a march watched a barge drift by and said, “We will keep pushing—but we need partners, not lectures. Show us the money, show us the jobs, and then tell us how to change.”

Climate policy without finance is like a recipe without ingredients. Belém asked the world to choose: continue with polite, incremental steps that placate interests and paper over inequity, or create a new politics—one that pairs the hard talk on fossil fuels with an equally hard commitment to pay, to retrain, and to protect the people already losing everything.

Will the next COP square that circle? Will wealthy nations finally convert pledges into bank transfers that communities can use immediately? Or will the tug of geopolitics keep the world on the same slow, dangerous path?

Belém didn’t resolve these questions. But it made them unavoidably clear. The city’s humid air, ever-present river and voices from the street made the stakes impossible to ignore: implementation is not just a policy objective. It’s a test of whether the global community can match its words with the concrete support that will decide which futures are possible—and for whom.

G20 Summit Concludes with Pact to Ease Global Debt Burdens

hanad

November 23, 2025

G20 summit wraps up with agreement on debt burden — The declaration, which was drafted without input from the US, was adopted at the G20

Johannesburg’s Moment: A Summit, a Stage and the Quiet Roar of Change

When I first stepped out into the crisp Joburg air, the city felt like a chorus—ebullient, wary, hopeful. Delegates in tailored suits threaded through clusters of street vendors selling bobotie and sweet koeksisters, security gliding past murals that stitched together the city’s history in bright paint. This was the first G20 ever held on African soil, and for a few intense days Johannesburg found itself at the centre of the world’s conversation.

G20 leaders—representing roughly 80–85% of global GDP and about three-quarters of global trade—arrived to do what these summits traditionally do: stitch together policy, temper tensions, and sometimes, make symbolic gestures that echo far beyond the conference hall.

Agreements on Paper — and What They Might Mean

By the summit’s close, leaders had put their names to a package of commitments: easing the debt burden on developing countries, bolstering climate-related disaster response, and mobilising stepped-up finance for the energy transition to renewables.

Debt relief: An acknowledgment, long overdue, that many low- and middle-income nations are carrying debt levels that make climate resilience and development plans nearly impossible.
Climate disaster response: A push to improve early warning systems, emergency financing and reconstruction mechanisms—particularly for countries on the front lines of warming and more frequent storms.
Green energy finance: Pledges to increase funding to accelerate the shift from fossil fuels to renewables—though leaders offered few precise timelines or binding commitments.

“These are necessary steps,” said a South African development economist I spoke with outside the summit compound, hands wrapped around a warm coffee. “But the devil is in the delivery. Promises without predictable finance and anchored governance won’t change lives.”

Experts estimate the world will need trillions of dollars a year in the coming decade to finance a just energy transition and climate adaptation in vulnerable countries. How those trillions will be raised—and whether they will reach municipalities rebuilding after floods, not just central ministries—is the big question.

The Politics Not on the Podium

Not all of the drama played out inside the summit’s glass-and-marble halls. The absence of the United States president at the leaders’ meeting—after a public spat with the host—created a political vacuum that was impossible to ignore. Media outlets dubbed it “the elephant not in the room,” a blank space at a table that ordinarily shapes global finance and geopolitics.

Outside the venue, a diplomat shrugged: “It felt like an awkward handover that never happened. That’s the story—symbolic, but real.” The formal transfer of the G20 presidency to the United States was deferred after South Africa refused to hand over the baton to a low-ranked embassy official; instead, diplomats agreed the exchange will be arranged at a more private, professional level. It was protocol, but it was also a message about respect, symbolism, and who gets to represent nations on the world stage.

For many local residents, these bureaucratic scuffles felt both distant and personal. “We welcomed them here,” said Thabo, a taxi driver who ferried delegates between meetings. “If you come to someone’s house, there’s a way to behave. That’s what they wanted to show—respect.”

Voices from the Side Streets: Local Color and Global Stakes

Joburg was not just a backdrop for policy; it was a living, breathing city where discussions about minerals, jobs and climate have immediate resonance. Outside a meeting on critical minerals—lithium, cobalt, rare earths—the noise of the city pressed in: hawkers, children kicking a ball, a woman selling boiled peanuts. For many African hosts, these minerals represent an opportunity to create local value rather than simply export raw commodities.

“We want factories here,” said a young engineer who had attended a sideline forum, her voice a blend of impatience and hope. “If the world needs minerals for electric cars, why can’t we make the batteries here and employ our people?”

That question—about local industrialization versus raw extraction—was one of the summit’s recurring themes. Leaders spoke of “inclusive economic growth” and “value creation,” but turning rhetoric into policy will require trade deals, technology transfer and long-term investment, not just short-term contracts.

Who’s Bringing the Money? The Power and Limits of Promises

There were also tense exchanges about supply chains. China, a major supplier of rare earths and other critical minerals, had earlier introduced export controls that stoked fears of supply shortages—restrictions that were later eased after high-level talks. The recent fragility in supply lines has pushed countries to talk about diversification, stockpiles and regional cooperation.

“No one country can solve this alone,” said a European minister at a roundtable, echoing a sentiment that found resonance across multiple sessions. Yet the next G20 chair—set to be the United States—has already signalled an intent to pare the agenda back to core macroeconomic issues, which leaves open the question of how long South Africa’s broader themes will stay on the table.

“This year’s focus has been on solidarity, equality and sustainability,” said an academic who’s been tracking the summit. “Whether those ideas survive a handover depends on politics in Washington, D.C., and whether the G20 can be more than a talk shop.”

Small Invitations, Big Conversations

Not all participants were in suits. Ireland’s prime minister—an invited guest this year—called the meetings “useful” for networking and said small countries could punch above their weight when they arrived with credibility and clear objectives. Side events, from sessions on Ukraine to panels on digital taxation, made it plain that these forums still matter for convening conversations that are otherwise scattered across government departments and NGOs.

“You get different people in the room,” a mid-level EU diplomat told me. “That’s the value. Sometimes policy doesn’t happen at the headline meeting; it happens in the corridors.”

Looking Outward: What This Summit Means for the World

So what do we take away from Johannesburg? First, hosting a summit on African soil shifts the narrative: Africa isn’t just a subject of aid or extraction, it’s a stakeholder demanding a seat at the table. Second, the summit underlined the gulf between grand commitments and the gritty work of implementation—between pledges and pension funds, between loans and livelihoods.

And finally, it showcased a fragmented world where cooperation is essential but not guaranteed. When a major power abstains—or chooses to redefine the agenda—the ripples reach far beyond ceremony. For citizens watching from Bamako to Brisbane, the question is straightforward: will these leaders turn promises into pipelines of finance, into storm-resilient homes, into factories making batteries in African towns?

As you read this, imagine the people on the ground who will live or die by these decisions—the mother rebuilding her home after floods, the young mechanic who wants to make batteries, the mayor counting the cost of a storm. What do you think leaders owe citizens of the world? How should global wealth be marshalled to meet both climate thresholds and human dignity?

Johannesburg’s G20 was not a tidy victory lap. It was messy, necessary and—above all—an invitation. The world’s most powerful economies left with commitments inked and questions unresolved. The real work, as always, begins when the cameras leave and the bills come due.

Slovenia votes on controversial assisted-dying law amid public debate

hanad

November 23, 2025

Slovenia holds vote on contested assisted dying law — Polls opened at 6am Irish time and will close at 6pm, with first partial results expected tonight

Dawn at the Polls: Slovenia Decides on the Right to Die

The gym at Stožice echoed with the soft squeak of sneakers and the murmur of voices long before the sun climbed above Ljubljana’s red-tiled roofs. Today was not a football match or a concert. It was a country pausing — a brief but profound collective breath — to decide whether the state will recognise a person’s legal right to end their life with medical assistance.

Across Slovenia, ballot boxes sat ready. Polling stations opened early and will close in the evening, with partial results due that night. For many, the referendum was intimate, a moral and medical crossroads where private pain collides with public law. For others, it has become a focal point in a broader cultural tug-of-war: between autonomy and sanctity, medical modernity and religious tradition.

How We Got Here

Parliament approved a law earlier this year that would allow lucid, terminally ill patients to request assisted dying if their suffering is unbearable and all reasonable treatments have been exhausted. The legislation, which excludes cases where unbearable suffering is caused solely by mental illness, grew out of debates that gripped Slovenia following a 2024 referendum that initially endorsed the change.

But the issue did not rest. A civic group calling itself Voice for the Children and the Family, backed by conservative politicians and influential clergy, collected 46,000 signatures to demand a repeat vote — comfortably surpassing the 40,000-signature threshold required to trigger another referendum.

The rules are stark: the law will come into force unless a majority of voters — whose turnout represents at least 20% of the 1.7 million eligible voters — reject it. In concrete terms, this is not just a philosophical fight; it is an arithmetic one, where mobilisation matters as much as conviction.

On the Ground: Voices from Stožice

At one ballot table, I met 63-year-old Romana, a woman whose life had been reshaped by illness. “I don’t want to imagine a life stretched thin by pain,” she told me, her voice steady. “Watching someone you love wither away teaches you what mercy could mean.” She said she would vote to keep the law.

A few chairs down, 24-year-old student Vid said the vote mattered because it was about trust: “It’s about trusting adults to make decisions about their own bodies. I support dignity and choice.”

Not everyone felt the same. Marija, in her late 50s, wore a small silver cross and spoke of family rituals and the moral architecture that had framed her life. “I believe in caring for life from beginning to natural end,” she said. “Once we start to licence death, what signal does that send about the value of those who are old, sick, or lonely?”

The Stakes: Law, Life, and the Limits of Consent

The law’s proponents frame it as the final refuge of personal dignity — a legal mechanism to spare people from needless suffering. Prime Minister Robert Golob has urged citizens to support it, saying each person deserves to make their own decision “about how, and with what dignity, one leaves this life.”

Opponents, including the Catholic Church, argue something else entirely: that such a step is incompatible with foundational moral teachings and could erode social protections for the vulnerable. The Voice for the Children and the Family has accused authorities of using the bill to “poison the relationship between state and family,” a phrase that captures the emotive tenor of the debate.

At stake are delicate questions: How do we ensure consent is truly free when illness, debt, or social isolation can distort choices? Can legal safeguards be robust enough to prevent coercion, implicit or explicit? How should a modern welfare state balance individual autonomy against collective responsibility?

Context and Comparisons

Slovenia is not alone in wrestling with these questions. Several European countries — including Austria, Belgium, the Netherlands and Switzerland — have legal frameworks allowing medical assistance in dying, each with distinct safeguards and limits. Some nations require strict procedural checks, second medical opinions, and waiting periods; others are more permissive.

Public opinion polls add texture to the debate. A recent survey published by the daily Dnevnik found that 54% of respondents supported legalisation, while 31% opposed and 15% were undecided. Those numbers are similar to the support seen in June last year, underscoring that while the majority tilts toward change, a sizable minority remains deeply uncomfortable.

What the Numbers Don’t Show

Statistics tell part of the story but not the small, human contours: the woman who sits beside a dying spouse for months, the doctor who wrestles with whether to follow strict protocol or relieve suffering now, the parish priest who hears confession and prays for a miracle. Law is a tool; culture is the soil in which it takes root.

Bigger Themes: Ageing, Care, and Who We Value

This referendum is also a mirror reflecting demographic and social trends across Europe: ageing populations, strained healthcare systems, and uneven access to palliative care. In places where hospice services are patchy, the legalisation of assisted dying becomes entangled with shortages of care, rather than standing purely as an expression of individual liberty.

“If we legalise assisted dying without simultaneously investing in palliative care and social supports, we risk offering death as an option by default rather than as a last resort,” said Dr. Ana Kovač, a palliative care specialist in Ljubljana. “Choice must be real, and for that to be true the alternatives must exist.”

Questions for the Reader

What does dignity mean to you at the end of life? Should the state set the boundaries for such private decisions, or simply ensure that people have the information, care and support to choose freely? Is it possible to craft laws that protect the vulnerable without denying agency to the suffering?

These are not easy questions, and they do not admit to neat conclusions. They force societies to map their values onto the lives of real people — to decide, collectively, what mercy looks like and who gets to define it.

Tonight and Beyond

When the polls close and the partial results land, Slovenia will have spoken — for now. If a majority votes against the law, the matter cannot be brought back to parliament for a year. If they uphold it, the law will become a new chapter in how the country cares for the dying.

Regardless of the outcome, this vote is a reminder that democracy is not only about counting ballots; it is about conversation, about how communities listen to pain, and about whether a society can hold both compassion and caution in its hands. Wherever you stand, ask yourself: how would you want to be remembered? How would you want your neighbours to be treated?

Tonight, as Slovenia waits, the country offers the rest of the world a lesson in wrestling with mortality — publicly, painfully, and together.

Titanic couple’s gold watch fetches over €2 million at auction

hanad

November 23, 2025

Titanic couple's gold watch sells for over €2m at auction — Isidor and Ida Straus drowned when the Titanic sank in April 1912

The Watch That Held a Century: How a Tiny Timepiece Rewrote a Big Story

There are objects that speak in whispers and objects that shout. On a damp Saturday in Devizes, a small 18-carat gold watch—its face dulled by a century of salt and sorrow—answered with a roar. The lot closed for just over €2 million, sending a ripple through rooms of collectors, historians and casual onlookers who, for a few intense minutes, felt the past press up against the present.

A room full of breaths and baited hearts

The auction house, Henry Aldridge & Son, sits in the warren of streets that curl through Wiltshire, a county of chalk hills and old stone farms. People who had traveled from London, from Europe, and from further afield filled simple wooden chairs, clutching catalogues and coffee. An auctioneer’s hammer tapped, a hush fell, then rose again. The watch—an 18-carat Jules Jurgensen, its case engraved with initials and history—rested on a cushion under glass, a small, precious relic of a catastrophe that continues to draw us like the edge of a map.

“When you see it in person there’s an intimacy that photographs simply cannot capture,” said Andrew Aldridge, the house’s managing director. “It’s not the gold we’re paying for—it’s the human life it tethered.”

The Strauses: a love story etched in metal

The watch had belonged to Isidor Straus, a German-born immigrant who found a place at the top of New York commerce as a partner in the department store that eventually took his name: Macy’s. Born in Otterberg, Bavaria, in 1845, Straus emigrated to the United States with his family in 1854, a boy with new languages and ambitious fingers. By 1888, the year he turned 43 and was elevated in the company, he was given that very watch—a gift that would later become one of the most poignant artifacts connected to the RMS Titanic.

Isidor and Ida Straus boarded the Titanic as first-class passengers in April 1912. If you have ever seen James Cameron’s 1997 film, you’ll recall a silent, devastating moment: an elderly couple sitting in deck chairs as the ship tilts and the sea takes the rest. That scene, a cinematic condensation of millions of small choices and a single act of devotion, stems from testimony that Ida refused a lifeboat without her husband and that Isidor refused to go before other men.

“There’s a moral clarity to their story that fascinates people,” said Dr. Emily Hart, a maritime historian. “In times of disaster the details of courage and loyalty become magnified. People go hunting for objects that can make those choices feel real again.”

Recovered from the sea, returned to memory

After the Titanic lurched beneath the freezing Atlantic on 15 April 1912—an event that claimed roughly 1,500 lives out of the approximately 2,224 aboard—the Strauses’ bodies were found in the water. Among Isidor’s personal effects, rescuers discovered the watch. It was returned to the family and, until this weekend, remained an heirloom woven into private histories.

Objects like this can feel almost indecent when put under glass and sold. Yet they also operate as conduits: through leather and gears and an engraved case we meet a person whose life once touched many others. “You can trace a life through possessions,” said Miriam Cohen, who follows family histories for a collective of Jewish heritage projects. “The watch belongs to Isidor, yes, but it also belongs to history. It’s testimony.”

Record price, familiar questions

The sale set a new high-water mark for Titanic memorabilia. It eclipsed last year’s record, when another gold pocket watch—presented to the captain of the vessel that rescued survivors—sold for €1.77 million. That rescue ship, the RMS Carpathia, famously took aboard 705 survivors in the immediate aftermath of the sinking.

Other items from the auction fetched notable sums: a letter written by Ida Straus on Titanic stationery sold for €113,000, a passenger list brought €118,000, and a gold medal given to the crew of the Carpathia by survivors brought €97,000. When the day’s hammering ended, Titanic-related items had brought in about €3.41 million in total.

“People aren’t bidding on brass and enamel,” said auction attendee and collector Thomas Bell, who traveled from Manchester. “They’re bidding on connection—on the chance to hold a fragment of the human story. That’s why things like this command attention, even now, more than a century later.”

Why do we buy tragedy?

The question feels uncomfortable but it matters. Are we commemorating? Are we collecting? Is there a darker commerce in grief? This sale sits at the intersection of remembrance and market forces. Museums, private collectors and descendants each have different impulses: preservation, investment, or familial closure.

“Material culture is how we narrate the past,” said Dr. Jonah Reyes, a cultural anthropologist who studies memory economies. “But markets also determine what stories are elevated. When a watch sells for millions, it forces us to ask which lives get attention and why.”

Isidor Straus’ story resonates precisely because it intertwines prosperity, immigrant ascent, public service and an intimate final act. He and his wife had traveled to Jerusalem earlier that year aboard the RMS Caronia, returning through Southampton and into the fate that would seal their names into global memory. Their devotion is the kind of narrative that movies, books and auctions love because it simplifies complex lives into a single, arresting image.

Beyond the price tag: what we carry forward

When the last bidder’s paddle was lowered and the watch wrapped and signed away, there was a moment that felt less like a victory and more like a communal inhalation. For many, the sale isn’t the end; it’s another chapter in a much longer story about how societies remember trauma and ritualize love.

So what does it mean when an intimate relic traded in a market becomes a public artifact again—tucked into the pad of a private collection or pledged to a museum’s climate-controlled archives? Does its meaning change? Does it lose the salt of the sea?

“Objects accumulate layers: personal, cultural, monetary,” Dr. Hart said. “Ideally, such pieces find homes where they can be studied and shared. That keeps memory alive and avoids fetishizing suffering.”

There are no easy answers. But if one thing is clear, it’s this: people still hunger for connection to the past. We gather around small things that have outlived their owners and, for a fleeting moment, we feel the people who once handled them breathe again.

What would you pay to hold a piece of history? And what responsibility comes with owning it? The watch—its hands long stopped—asks us, in its quiet way, to consider that time keeps moving even when our stories do not. How we honor them is, perhaps, the only answer we can choose.

Vietnam floods kill 90 people; 12 still missing

hanad

November 23, 2025

Vietnam flood death toll rises to 90, 12 others missing — Some locations in Vietnam are still cut off following major flooding

When the Rivers Took the Roads: Vietnam’s Floods and the People Left to Rebuild

It started as a sound: rain like a drumline, then a sigh, then a roar. By dawn some towns sounded like they were being rewritten—concrete humming, trees bowing, lives being rearranged by water. In the space of a week, south-central Vietnam has been forced to reckon with a season that arrived out of time and with a fury many here say they have not seen.

Official figures tell part of the story: at least 90 people have died and 12 remain missing after days of torrential rain and cascading landslides, the environment ministry reported. More than 60 of those fatalities were recorded in Dak Lak province alone, a well-known stretch of the Central Highlands where coffee farms and mountain passes meet the sky. Across five provinces, authorities estimate economic losses at roughly $343 million. And the human cost—homes soaked, livelihoods erased—extends beyond any single dollar figure.

The morning after the deluge

Walk into Nha Trang now and you’ll feel the oddness of a seaside city that has lost its shoreline routine: bungalows with mud-caked thresholds, scooters half-buried in silt, tourists stumbling through knee-deep water to get to hotels that once sold sun and surf. In Da Lat, the hills are scarred by landslides cutting through gardens of flowers and rows of pine trees. In Dak Lak, the coffee region, fields that should have been green with beans are a muddy ruin.

“Everything happened so fast,” said Mach Van Si, 61, a farmer from Dak Lak whose roof became temporary refuge when water rushed through his village. “We climbed on our sheet-metal roof at night. The water was up to the eaves. For two nights we watched the stars and the river take our house.”

His is a voice common across the flooded valleys: astonishment, exhaustion, a thread of anger. “Our neighbourhood was completely destroyed,” he told rescuers. “Nothing was left. Everything was covered in mud.”

Infrastructure, isolation, and the long chain of impacts

Bridges that once connected villages now hang like broken stitches—two suspension bridges in Khanh Hoa province were swept away, leaving communities isolated. National highways remain partially blocked by landslides, and railway lines have been suspended in several places. More than 129,000 customers are still without electricity after power cuts left over a million households in the dark at the height of the storms.

Beyond the immediate picture of damaged roads and powerless homes are the slow, grinding damages: over 80,000 hectares of rice and other crops ruined across Dak Lak and neighbouring provinces, and an estimated 3.2 million livestock and poultry killed or washed away in the floodwaters. For farmers who live week-to-week on harvests and the seasonal rhythms of planting, that loss is not just financial—it is existential.

On the ground: rescue, relief and small acts of mercy

When rivers rose and passes closed, helicopters became lifelines. The government deployed tens of thousands of personnel—soldiers, police, local volunteers—dropping food and medicine into cut-off valleys. Aid parcels have become intimate objects: a pack of instant noodles handed to a grandmother, water-purification tablets explained by a young rescue worker, warm blankets passed from hand to hand.

Helicopter airdrops of food and blankets for isolated hamlets
Tens of thousands of government personnel mobilized for rescue and distribution
Basic supplies prioritized: clothing, purification tabs, instant noodle packs, clean water

“We are focused on life-saving right now,” said a provincial official in a voice caught between duty and fatigue. “But we must also plan for the days after—the water recedes, but the problems multiply: illness, hunger, pricing shocks.”

NGOs and neighbours are filling gaps where they can. A rescue volunteer in Khanh Hoa described carrying an elderly man through waist-deep water to a waiting boat. “He kept apologizing because he scared us, but it was the other way round,” she said. “We were scared we wouldn’t make it back to the next hamlet.”

Why is this happening now? A climate crossroad

Vietnam typically braces for heavy rains between June and September; this onslaught arriving in late October and continuing into November is a reminder that weather regimes are shifting. Scientists increasingly point to human-driven climate change as a key amplifier—warmer air holds more moisture, storms stall longer, and rainfall intensity climbs. For coastal and highland communities, the result is more frequent, more intense events that test both natural and human defenses.

“There’s a clear signal: what used to be extreme is getting normal,” said a climate researcher who has studied Vietnam’s hydrology. “We are seeing a greater clustering of heavy precipitation events, meaning the soil doesn’t get a chance to recover. Infrastructure designed for a different climate now often fails to withstand these surges.”

Broader trends and local realities

Vietnam’s national statistics office places the broader picture in stark terms: from January to October this year natural disasters left 279 people dead or missing and caused more than $2 billion in damage. Those numbers are not abstract. They represent children out of school, towns with missing fathers, market stalls that will not reopen.

And while central government resources move to restore power lines and rebuild bridges, communities are left asking deeper questions: How do we protect farmlands inland from flood scouring? How do coastal resorts balance tourism and resilience? How do we support the smallholder farmers whose crops and animals feed whole regions?

What comes next—and what can readers across the world learn?

Recovery will be a mosaic of quick fixes and long-term transformation. Short-term needs are immediate and obvious: clean water, shelter, medicine, and repair of critical infrastructure. Mid-term demands include restoring livelihoods—seed and tool programs for farmers, compensation for lost livestock, and microloans for small businesses. Longer-term, this will be a test of planning: rebuilding roads and bridges that can withstand heavier rains, rethinking land-use on slopes, and investing in early-warning systems that reach even the most remote hamlets.

As you read this, ask yourself: how do we, globally, reimagine development in a warming world? What kind of insurance, social safety net, or public investments are required so that a storm does not become a lifetime sentence for a family? Those are big policy questions—but they are also about human dignity.

In the streets of Nha Trang and the highlands above Da Lat, resilience looks like small miracles: neighbours sharing a hot meal, a school opening its doors as a shelter, children splashing in water one day and clearing its mess the next. The headlines will move on; the water will recede. But for those whose roofs were stolen by the flood, rebuilding will take seasons—and the world will be watching, and perhaps learning, how to better protect our shared future.

Israeli air raids kill 20 people in Gaza, medical teams say

hanad

November 23, 2025

Israeli airstrikes kill 20 people in Gaza, medics say — Israeli forces bombed a vehicle in the al-Abbas area in western Gaza

Smoke over Rimal: a fragile ceasefire frays at the edges

The smell of burning rubber and metal hung heavy over Rimal as dusk fell—a scent that, in Gaza, has become its own kind of punctuation mark. A car, once just another vehicle threading beside apartment blocks and bakeries, was now an ember-strewn husk. Dozens of people ran toward it, some to pull bodies free, others to beat out the flames with blankets. A child watched from a distance, clutching a stuffed toy as if that small softness could steady the world.

“There was a flash, then smoke. We ran,” said a medic who asked not to be named. “We pulled charred bodies. There were people everywhere—passersby, the car’s occupants. We don’t even know who they were in those first moments.”

By midnight, local health authorities counted at least 20 people dead and more than 80 wounded from a series of Israeli airstrikes across Gaza City, Deir al-Balah and Nuseirat camp. Hospitals—already stretched thin—filled fast. The dead and injured were brought to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, where doctors worked under the yellow light of generators and the constant hum of anxiety.

The strikes and the counterclaims

Witnesses say the first strike struck the car in Rimal. Minutes later, the Israeli air force struck two houses in Deir al-Balah and Nuseirat, and then another home in western Gaza City. Medics reported at least ten killed in the central strikes and five in the western city attack—numbers that quickly made their way to hospital morgues and mobile phone cameras.

The Israeli military characterized the operations differently. It said a gunman had crossed into what it called “Israeli-held territory in Gaza” and used “the humanitarian road”—an aid route—creating what it described as a “blatant violation of the ceasefire agreement.” “When there are clear violations, we will act to protect our citizens and forces,” an army spokesperson said.

Hamas, for its part, rejected that account. “This is an excuse to kill,” a Hamas official told a local reporter. “We have honored the agreement; we did not carry out such an operation. The people you see dying did not deserve this.” Both sides have traded these accusations repeatedly since the cessation of large-scale hostilities.

Between the lines of a ceasefire

The airstrikes are a reminder that the truce holding over Gaza is brittle. The ceasefire—reached more than six weeks ago—did much that mattered: it allowed hundreds of thousands of Palestinians to tentatively return to neighborhoods reduced to foundations; it pulled Israeli troops back from some urban positions; and it reopened aid corridors that were choked off at the height of the war.

Yet the statistics behind the headlines show a war that has not ended in any full sense. Gaza’s health ministry has reported that Israeli forces killed 316 people in strikes since the truce began. Israel, meanwhile, says three of its soldiers have been killed since the same moment and that it has struck numerous fighters. The broader, bloody arc of the conflict remains: Hamas-led militants killed roughly 1,200 people in southern Israel during the October 7 attack; Gaza health authorities report that more than 69,700 Palestinians have died in the subsequent Israeli offensive. These figures are contested and politically charged—so note the attributions: they come from local health authorities and public statements, not independent verification.

Hostages, bodies, and the barter of grief

The ceasefire was also transactional. Hamas handed over all 20 living hostages held in Gaza in exchange for nearly 2,000 Palestinian prisoners and detainees. Remains of hostages and militants were traded in other grim accords: Hamas agreed to return the remains of 28 dead hostages in return for the bodies of 360 Palestinian fighters. So far, 25 hostages’ remains have been handed over; Israel says it has returned 330 Palestinian bodies. The arithmetic of life and death has become a currency of its own.

On the ground: daily life amid uncertainty

Walking through neighborhoods like Rimal, Nuseirat, and Deir al-Balah, you see resilience braided into the fabric of ruin. Water is collected with ritual patience from storage tanks; women carry containers with the same careful balance used in marketplaces; children play in debris-filled alleys that look like improvised obstacle courses. A vegetable vendor in Deir al-Balah, fingers stained with soil, shrugged when asked about the strikes: “We just try to sell, to eat. There is no other plan,” he said.

A UN aid worker, who has been operating in Gaza for years, described a common scene: “Convoys come like tiny miracles. People line up for food and water as if following an old prayer. But the infrastructure is broken—sewers, electricity. The ceasefire gave breathing room, not a cure.”

Local health authorities report at least 20 dead and 80 wounded in the latest strikes.
Since the ceasefire began, Gaza health officials say 316 people have been killed in strikes; Israel reports three soldiers killed during the same period.
The broader conflict began on Oct. 7, 2023, with an attack that killed roughly 1,200 people in Israel; Gaza authorities report more than 69,700 Palestinian deaths in the following offensive.

Why this matters to the world

Look past the immediate violence and you see larger themes pressing in: the difficulty of enforcing truces when neither side trusts the other; the role of mediators—Egypt, Qatar, and the United States among them—in keeping days without bullets; and the moral quagmire of civilian suffering in modern asymmetric warfare. “A ceasefire is not a peace,” said a political analyst in Jerusalem. “It is a pause. If the underlying issues—security, governance, reconstruction, and mutual recognition—aren’t tackled, pauses become prefaces to more violence.”

What should the global community demand? More than statements condemning the latest deaths, aid workers argue, the world should insist on sustained access for humanitarian convoys, independent investigations into alleged violations, and a durable architecture for reconstruction that includes local voices. “Rebuilding can’t be parachuted from a distance,” an international relief coordinator said. “It must be led by the people who will live there.”

Where do we go from here?

In Gaza tonight, families will mourn families; hospitals will tally bodies and stitch shrapnel wounds; politicians will update talking points. But the human scenes—the stove lit in a half-ruined kitchen, the neighbor sharing bread with another neighbor, the child who insists on running through an alley despite the danger—are the ongoing story. They are what peace must protect.

So I ask you, reading this from wherever you are in the world: what does justice look like to you in a place where history, grief, and politics intersect so densely? How do we balance immediate safety with the long, patient work of reconciliation? These are not rhetorical questions. They are the scaffolding upon which any lasting solution must be built.

For Rimal, Nuseirat, and Deir al-Balah, tonight is another test of a fragile ceasefire. For the rest of us, it is an invitation to watch closely, to demand better, and to remember that behind every statistic is a person lighting a candle in an empty room.

Bolsonaro Confesses Attempt to Disable Court-Ordered Ankle Monitor

hanad

November 23, 2025

Jair Bolsonaro admits he tried to damage ankle monitor — Jair Bolsonaro was transferred to the Brazilian Federal Police Headquarters in Brasilia

A burned bracelet, a gilded apartment and a country holding its breath

On a humid Brasilia evening, in a gated condominium that looks out over the austere concrete sweep of the nation’s capital, a small object has become the epicenter of a country’s unease: a singed ankle monitor, charred at the edges, its casing melted where a soldering iron had met plastic.

The footage released by Brazil’s Supreme Court is grainy and intimate; it lingers on the bracelet still strapped to Jair Bolsonaro’s ankle as smoke curls and the metal glows. In the video the former president — once a military captain turned carnival of right-wing populism — explains in a matter-of-fact tone that curiosity drove him to tinker with the device. “I wanted to see if it would break,” a voice attributed to him says. “I didn’t want to run away.”

For millions of Brazilians, whether supporters or opponents, the image meant something larger than a damaged electronic tag. It crystallized a question that has kept the nation awake since the 2022 election: how thin is the line between protest and plot; between ritual and rupture?

From house arrest to handcuffs

Bolsonaro, who governed Brazil from 2019 to 2022 and remains a towering — and polarizing — figure for the country’s conservative base, had been serving house arrest after being convicted in September of leading a criminal organization aimed at subverting the transition of power that followed the 2022 elections.

The sentence against him, a lengthy 27 years behind bars, has been under appeal. But the Supreme Court, citing concerns that the ex-president was a “high flight risk,” moved to take him into police custody after concluding the damaged bracelet and a planned public vigil could be elements of an escape plan.

“This is a preventive measure,” Supreme Court Justice Alexandre de Moraes said in a late-night ruling. “We are not executing the sentence today — we are preventing the risk of escape and preserving democratic order.”

The role of a son’s rally

At the center of the court’s calculus was a demonstration called by Bolsonaro’s eldest son, Flavio Bolsonaro. A video posted by Flavio urged supporters to “fight for your country” and to gather outside the condominium. The court warned that the assembly might generate “confusion” that could be exploited to facilitate an escape.

Flavio’s call-to-arms, which critics described as incendiary, resonated with many who still see Bolsonaro as a bulwark against what they call the excesses of the left. “If they think we will stand by quietly, they are wrong,” said one supporter outside a small vigil in São Paulo. “We are not violent people, but we will defend our leader.”

In the shadow of embassies and international scrutiny

Brasilia’s skyline — the modernist sweep of Niemeyer’s federal buildings and the neat lanes of embassies — lends the episode a cinematic geography. The Supreme Court noted the proximity of the condominium to the U.S. embassy and pointed to previous reports that Bolsonaro’s associates had discussed fleeing to foreign diplomatic missions, including the Argentine embassy, to seek asylum.

“When the stakes are this high, physical proximity becomes political risk,” said Mariana Couto, a professor of Latin American politics at the University of São Paulo. “Embankments of sovereignty and hospitality are suddenly potential escape routes in tense moments.”

International reactions have been predictable and pointed. Former U.S. President Donald Trump called Bolsonaro’s prosecution a “witch hunt,” reinforcing a transnational bond between right-wing figures that has reshaped political discourse from Brasília to Washington. Domestic leaders, meanwhile, voiced sharply different views: São Paulo Governor Tarcisio de Freitas condemned the detention as an affront to “human dignity,” while other governors urged calm and respect for judicial independence.

Voices from the condominium, the street and the pulpit

Inside the glossy building where Bolsonaro lived under house arrest, neighbors spoke in whispers. A concierge, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the former president had kept to himself in recent weeks. “He would leave at odd hours for medical visits, but mostly he stayed with family,” she said. “You could tell he was restless. He’d look out at the trees behind the building a lot.”

Michelle Bolsonaro, the ex-president’s evangelical wife, posted an image of hands clasped over a Bible and wrote that she trusted “the Lord will provide the way out.” Her message — a mix of faith and defiance — is emblematic of a broader phenomenon: evangelical churches in Brazil have become a potent force in politics, marshaling votes and offering moral narratives for political actors.

“For many, this isn’t about one man,” explained Father Carlos Menezes, a community priest in Rio de Janeiro. “It’s about a story of identity and dignity. When institutions crack, people look for a hero to hold on to.”

Lawyers, health and legal maneuvers

Bolsonaro’s legal team called the detention “deeply perplexing,” arguing that it was premised on the threat of a prayer vigil and that their client — who still bears the scars of a 2018 stabbing that punctured his campaign and required multiple surgeries — was in frail health.

“We will exhaust every legal avenue,” said one of his attorneys. “If the judiciary now uses preventive detention as a political tool, we will see that in appeal.” The court, however, cited the altered circumstances — the damaged monitor, the public call to gather, and prior discussions of asylum — as reasons to deny house detention under current rules.

What this moment means for Brazil — and the world

Look beyond the singed plastic. What this episode reveals is a broader global pattern: the fragility of democratic norms when charismatic leaders weaponize public emotion and mistrust. It is a story that has played out in parts of Europe, the U.S., and Latin America over the last decade. And it resonates here in Brazil, where the Amazon, inequality and political polarization remain unresolved flashpoints.

Consider these facts to anchor the conversation: Bolsonaro’s administration presided over economic reforms that pleased portions of the market but also saw increased Amazon deforestation and a contentious public health response during the COVID-19 pandemic. The 2026 presidential election looms, and with Bolsonaro sidelined for now, Brazil’s large conservative electorate finds itself without its central, polarizing champion.

So what happens next? Will Bolsonaro’s appeal process proceed, and will it be resolved before 2026? Can Brazil balance judicial enforcement with political reconciliation? And perhaps most urgently: can institutions respond in ways that restore faith rather than fuel further division?

Questions that stay with you

As you read this from wherever you are — a cafe in Lisbon, an apartment in Tokyo, a suburb in Johannesburg — consider this: if a democracy allows its leaders to undermine its foundations without consequence, who will be left to protect the rules? If, conversely, courts wield their power without transparency or restraint, how will the public trust them again?

Brazil today walks a tightrope: between accountability and vengeance, between law and spectacle. The image of a burned ankle monitor will not, by itself, decide the nation’s fate. But it captures a moment when the machinery of justice, the fervor of followers, and the frailties of a man once at the center of power collided in a way that will reverberate far beyond a single condominium gate.

And you — how would you judge a democracy that must tether its former leader to a bracelet to keep order?

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