Nov 24(Jowhar)-Maanta waxaa magaalada Muqdisho si rasmi ah uga furmaya Shirwaynaha Labaad ee Aqoonsiga Qaranka, kaas oo ay soo qaban-qaabisay Hay’adda Aqoonsiga Qaranka ee NIRA.
Madaxweyne Xasan oo magacaabay Ergeygiisa gaarka ee Ka-Hortagga & La-Dagaallanka Fikradda Xagjirka
Nov 24(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Mudane Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud ayaa magacaabay Xildhibaan Aweys Mohamed Omar oo noqday.
Global reactions to COP30 range from sharp criticism to cautious support
Heat, Hope and Hard Bargains: Inside COP30’s Quiet Storm in Belém
Belém is a city of green humidity and river-borne commerce. The air here hums with mosquitoes and the sweet, tart tang of açaí sold in wooden bowls at dawn. It is also, for a fortnight each year, a place where the future of the planet is negotiated—part cathedral of science, part marketplace of power.
At COP30, those two currents ran into one another with familiar friction: heartfelt alarm from countries on the frontline of climate breakdown; cautious celebration from those who saw a fragile lifeline preserved; and sharp anger from campaigners and delegates who had hoped the summit would mark a decisive turn away from fossil fuels.
The Missing Line: Fossil Fuel Phase-Out and a Fractured Consensus
If there was one moment of collective gasp in the plenary, it came when the final text emerged without a clear, time-bound commitment to phase out fossil fuels—the single largest driver of greenhouse gas emissions. For many delegates, that omission was less a compromise than a betrayal.
“Denying the best available science requires us not only to put the climate regime at risk, but also our own existence,” a Colombian delegate shouted when the watered-down language was read, echoing what many saw as a moral imperative. “Which message are we sending the world, Mr President?”
The reason is painfully simple: the atmosphere is already warmer by roughly 1.1–1.2°C compared with pre-industrial levels, and scientists warn that to keep warming below the Paris Agreement’s 1.5°C threshold requires rapid, deep cuts in fossil fuel use. Yet the summit process—reliant on unanimity—allowed oil-producing blocs, including a number of Arab states, Russia and India, to resist explicit phase-out language.
The result left some negotiators stunned. “We came here to map an exit ramp for coal, oil and gas,” said a small island-state negotiator, voice low but furious. “Instead we were given a maze.”
Why It Matters
Global CO2 emissions from fossil fuels are in the tens of billions of tonnes annually, and atmospheric concentrations remain stubbornly high. That is why activists and many governments demanded a clear roadmap: not just rhetoric, but dates, finance and justice mechanisms to ensure that the transition does not leave workers or communities behind.
Between Disappointment and Relief: Divergent Reactions
Not everyone left the conference centre disillusioned. Some framed the outcome as a pragmatic preservation of the Paris Agreement at a time of geopolitical turbulence.
“I would have preferred a more ambitious agreement,” said UK Secretary of State Ed Miliband in the press hall, “but in a moment when global politics is fractured, the recommitment of 190-plus countries to Paris and to the 1.5°C goal is significant.”
The European Union, for its part, welcomed language on boosting adaptation funding—pledging a step-change for the countries most exposed to climate impacts. “We should support it because it at least goes in the right direction,” an EU commissioner told journalists, adding that richer nations must stand “shoulder to shoulder” with the poorest.
Money Talks—but Not Enough
Money was the other battleground. Delegates in Belém celebrated a pledge to triple adaptation finance for vulnerable countries, but charities and policy experts were blunt: the numbers fall far short of need.
“This was supposed to be an adaptation COP,” said a climate justice adviser from a major aid organisation at the riverside café where negotiators nursed bitter coffee. “What we were left with were vague commitments—some hope, but not the figures that will keep communities alive through floods, droughts and shifting seasons.”
Estimates vary, but analysts have warned that adaptation costs for low- and middle-income countries could rise into the hundreds of billions of dollars annually by 2030. Even with the pledged increases, advocates say current flows are only scratching the surface.
- Adaptation needs: potentially $140–300 billion a year by 2030 (various UN-linked estimates)
- Climate finance shortfalls: developed countries have repeatedly missed the $100 billion annual goal pledged in 2009
- On the table in Belém: a pledge to significantly increase adaptation funding—welcome but numerically vague
The Human Side: Voices from the Ground
Outside the negotiation rooms, the city’s market was a reminder of what’s at stake. A fishmonger who has worked the waters of the Pará for four decades spoke of shifts he’s seen in the river’s rhythm. “The seasons change like a confused clock,” he said, shrugging as he gutted a pirarucu. “The rain comes late and the fish hide. We have to learn new rhythms.” His comment landed with the quiet weight of experience—local knowledge that rarely fits into diplomatic language.
An Indigenous leader from the Amazon—whose community has seen fires creep closer in recent years—pressed for stronger protections. “Our rivers are our lifeblood,” she said, fingers stained with the dye used in ritual crafts. “When the forest dies, so do our songs.”
A Win for People: The Just Transition Mechanism
One bright note in the document was a new commitment to a ‘Just Transition’ mechanism—an attempt to ensure that climate action protects jobs and communities during the shift away from fossil fuels.
NGOs hailed this as a people-powered victory. “This mechanism could be transformational,” said Karol Balfe, an NGO leader, describing it as “a blueprint for making climate action socially fair.” Human rights groups stressed that the framework must respect Indigenous rights and protect workers.
Ann Harrison, a climate justice advisor at a leading human rights NGO, framed the move as a rebuke to fossil fuel lobbyists. “This was people power winning in the negotiating halls,” she said. “Now the hard work begins: turning commitments into enforceable protections on the ground.”
Innovations Beyond the Plenary: The Bio Economy Challenge
Not all meaningful progress was contained in the final text. Brazil launched a ‘Bio Economy Challenge’—an effort to scale up industries based on renewable biomass, regenerative agriculture and waste reduction. Among local entrepreneurs, there was excitement.
“This is about value from what we already have,” said a smallholder who produces manioc and artisanal oils. “If we can market our crops as part of a sustainable, circular economy, it changes everything for families here.”
Experts say the bioeconomy can bolster resilience: regenerative farming, reduced reliance on pesticides, and diversification can help communities withstand floods and droughts. But scaling requires investment, technical support and markets—exactly the gaps that COP finance discussions tried, and largely struggled, to fill.
So What Now? Questions for a World at the Crossroads
As the tents come down in Belém and the river settles back into its old routes, a few questions linger: Can a fragile global consensus be turned into urgent, financed action? Will promises about justice and adaptation be matched by money and timelines? And how long will policymakers allow fossil fuel interests to shape agreements when the data on warming is already ominous?
These are not just negotiation tactics. They are choices about the lives of fishermen, Indigenous guardians of forests, factory workers facing the end of coal jobs—and the children who will inherit a climate made by today’s decisions.
What kind of world do you want to help build? Will you demand governments move beyond platitudes to hard timelines and real dollars? The answer will shape the next decade of climate politics.
Looking Ahead
Belém was a crucible: messy, emotional and ultimately inconclusive in some of its most urgent demands. It produced tools and commitments that matter—the just transition mechanism, pledges to scale adaptation, and new economic experiments like the Bio Economy Challenge. Yet for many, the absence of a clear fossil fuel phase-out remains an open wound.
The road from promises to planetary protection is long and uneven. COP30 did not supply a map; it offered footprints. The rest of the world must decide whether those footprints will become a trail toward a livable future—or a series of halting steps that leave the hardest-hit behind.
Belém’s rivers will keep flowing. The question is whether the decisions made there will help the world flow toward resilience—or deeper crisis.
Bolsonaro says paranoia drove him to tamper with medical monitor
A Late-Night Soldering, a Scorched Ankle Bracelet, and a Nation Watching
It was the kind of small domestic drama that somehow became a national thunderclap. In the quiet of his Brasília residence, a former president — once the country’s most polarizing political figure — said he picked up a soldering iron and, convinced by a drug-fueled hallucination, tried to remove what he believed was a hidden wire inside his court-ordered ankle monitor.
That explanation, delivered to a judge during a brisk custody hearing, has rippled through Brazilian politics, sparking fierce debate: Was this a genuine medical episode, an act of desperation, or another dramatic act in the long, ugly theatre of Brazil’s post-2022 polarization?
The sequence of events
Lawyers, federal police reports and court documents reconstruct the scene: an alert came to officials that the ankle monitor — the electronic bracelet tracking the former president under judicial restrictions — had been tampered with. Police found the device with obvious burn marks and other damage. In his legal response, the man said he had experienced “paranoia” brought on by a cocktail of medicines prescribed by different doctors and that he “came to his senses” before any escape attempt.
During a roughly 30-minute custody hearing, he denied any intent to flee. He insisted he was alone when the incident occurred — his daughter, his brother and an adviser were asleep — and told the judge he had been suffering a hallucination that made him think the monitor contained a wire that needed to be removed.
Justice Alexandre de Moraes, who ordered the arrest, was unmoved. The judge accepted the police account that the ankle monitor had been significantly damaged and ruled that custody should be maintained. The former president was taken into a small holding cell at a federal police station: a single bed, a television, air conditioning and a bathroom. He was visited by his wife, a doctor and one of his attorneys.
What’s at stake: the legal tapestry behind the arrest
The man at the center of this story is no ordinary defendant. He was sentenced last September to 27 years and three months in prison for his role in a coup plot following the 2022 election that handed power to Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva. He has already spent more than 100 days under house arrest in Brasília in a related matter. These are not minor charges; they go to the heart of how a democracy deals with a leader accused of trying to overturn electoral outcomes.
“This is not about political rivalry,” an independent legal analyst in Brasília told me. “It’s about whether the rule of law applies equally to everyone. The court has to weigh flight risk, risk of reoffending, and interference with the investigation.”
Outside the gates: faithful, furious, and a nation divided
Outside the federal police station, flags and banners formed a patchwork of yellow and green under the late-afternoon sky. Supporters made impassioned — sometimes florid — proclamations of political persecution. “They’re not arresting a criminal; they’re silencing a movement,” said Renato Costa, who drove from a nearby town with a cooler of beer and a Bolsonaro flag draped over his shoulders. “We’re here for him, because we believe in the future he promised.”
Others used the moment to rail at the judge they see as their nemesis. “Justice de Moraes is a political actor in a robe,” exclaimed Elaine Maria, a woman in her sixties who had tears in her eyes as she shouted toward the courthouse. “They will not break us with cages and bracelets.”
And yet, across town, small groups of Lula supporters and advocates for judicial independence gathered in quieter, more tentative conversations about constitutional stability. “It’s a painful chapter for Brazil,” said Ana Ribeiro, a human-rights lawyer. “But the court’s role is to protect the system, not to be swayed by mob scenes on either side.”
Small details, big symbols
There were intimate human touches that made the story feel close and real: a former first lady’s visit to the detained man, a doctor checking his vitals, a soldering iron cooling in an otherwise ordinary home. A son had organized a vigil, stating it would be roughly 700 meters away — a distance the former president argued posed no threat to his custody — yet still the authorities acted preemptively.
Numbers can feel abstract until they’re anchored in a single image. To borrow one: 700 meters — about 2,300 feet — isn’t far in the scale of a city; it’s the length of seven football fields. Close enough for supporters to sing and shout, but not close enough, officials say, to tamper with the legal restrictions that the court imposed.
Why this matters beyond Brasília
Brazil’s drama is not solely a domestic melodrama. It’s emblematic of a global pattern: charismatic populists confronting institutions, polarized publics who see courts as either saviors or persecutors, and the fragile choreography of democracy under strain. From Europe to Latin America to parts of Asia, countries wrestling with similar tensions are asking the same questions: When a leader’s rhetoric becomes incendiary or when alleged actions challenge electoral integrity, who holds the line?
“There’s a lesson here for any democracy,” said Dr. Miriam Tavarez, a political scientist focused on Latin American institutions. “Courts must be impartial, but impartiality is a lonely position in the face of mass mobilization. The judiciary’s legitimacy depends on transparency and consistent application of the law.”
What to watch next
- Ongoing legal procedures: Will additional charges or hearings follow? How will the appeals process play out?
- Public demonstrations: Will the vigils that now draw hundreds swell into thousands? And how will the security forces respond?
- Political recalibration: How will political parties and legislators position themselves in the months leading up to regional and national contests?
There are no easy answers. But we can keep watching — and asking hard questions. When political passions burn as hot as Brazil’s do, every gesture, every legal decision, every late-night action becomes magnified.
Endings and beginnings
For now, the image that lingers is small and domestic: a damaged bracelet with burn marks, a man explaining a medicine-induced hallucination, a soldering iron set aside. But those small images sit atop tectonic forces — a justice system testing its mettle, a divided electorate, and a modern democracy learning to balance accountability with legal rights.
Are we witnessing the end of a political era for one man, or the opening of a more fraught chapter in Brazil’s modern history? The answer will not come from a single court hearing or a single night. It will arrive in appeals and ballots, in vigils and statutes, and in the slow work of institutions proving whether they can withstand the heat.
As Brazilians gather in city squares, and as the world watches with a mix of curiosity and concern, one question keeps returning: how will a nation rebuild trust when its leaders are accused of trying to dismantle the very system that sustains it?
US welcomes pivotal breakthrough in Ukraine talks, calls it major progress
In Geneva’s Quiet Rooms, a Dangerous Hope
There were no banners, no marching crowds — just a small, stubborn cluster of negotiators and the soft hum of air conditioning in a Geneva hotel conference room where, for a few hours, diplomats tried to stitch together the ragged edges of a war.
On one side of the table sat a U.S. delegation led by Secretary of State Marco Rubio. Across from them were Ukrainian envoys, and sprinkled in the room were European officials whose capitals watch the outcome with a mix of dread and cautious expectation. The joint statement released after the session called the outcome “an updated and refined peace framework.” But as anyone who has watched wars drag on knows, “refined” can mean many things — truce, surrender, or the first step toward something that might actually hold.
Negotiations, Nuance, and a Deadline
President Donald Trump had set a public marker: Ukraine had until 27 November to accept his 28-point proposal to end nearly four years of fighting that began with Russia’s large-scale invasion in February 2022. The plan — as described by Western and Ukrainian critics — contained hardline demands from Moscow: territorial concessions, reductions in Ukraine’s armed forces, and a pledge that Kyiv would never join NATO.
“We need an agreement that stops the bullets and keeps a sovereign Ukraine intact,” said a Geneva diplomat who asked not to be named. “That’s the thin line everyone keeps circling.”
According to the joint U.S.-Ukraine readout, negotiators emerged with a fresh draft. “The talks were constructive, focused, and respectful,” the statement read, stressing that any eventual deal must “fully uphold Ukraine’s sovereignty and deliver a sustainable and just peace.” Both sides promised to continue work “in the coming days.”
What Was on the Table
The details of the draft remain closely held, but reporting and statements from Kyiv indicate the original 28-point plan included, broadly:
- Territorial compromises in areas currently contested after Russia’s advances.
- Restrictions or reductions on the size and posture of Ukraine’s armed forces.
- A formal guarantee that Ukraine would not move toward NATO membership.
For Kyiv, these points cut at the core of national identity and security: land, the ability to defend itself, and the right to choose alliances. For Moscow and some Western intermediaries, they are the price for an immediate cessation of hostilities. But can such prices be reconciled without the sort of trust that wars tend to erode?
Meanwhile, the War Didn’t Pause
While diplomats in Switzerland worked on a paper, the violence that the paper seeks to stop continued to claim lives. A drone strike on Kharkiv — Ukraine’s second city and a place that still bears the marks of repeated bombardment — killed four people and wounded 17, local officials said.
“Seventeen people are known to have been wounded. Four people have died,” Kharkiv mayor Igor Terekhov wrote on Telegram, the terse cadence of those numbers undercutting the room where the negotiations unfolded. Oleg Synegubov, head of the Kharkiv regional military administration, described the strike as “massive,” noting fires and the destruction of buildings across two city districts.
“Three residential buildings and an infrastructure facility were on fire,” emergency services added, their statement a cold litany familiar to many Ukrainians: the names of neighborhoods, the hours of response, the tally of the hurt.
Outside the immediate pain, there’s a broader picture. Millions of Ukrainians remain displaced, homes and hospitals have been damaged repeatedly, and the economic costs ripple across Europe and the globe. To many residents, the city’s café terraces, pre-war rhythms, and Saturday markets are memories patched over by sirens and the careful choreography of checkpoints and blackouts.
Voices from the Ground
In Kyiv, a schoolteacher named Olena — who asked journalists not to use her full name — said she had mixed feelings about the talks. “If a paper can stop my students from practicing fire drills, I will read it,” she said. “But I will not sign away the right for them to grow up in their own country.”
A humanitarian aid worker who has rotated through frontline shelters described the mood in stark human terms. “People want safety more than they want headlines. A deal that keeps children safe and hospitals open — that’s what will make lives better tomorrow,” she said. “But if that deal leaves their relatives in areas under foreign control, it will be a hollow peace.”
From Geneva, a European official argued that compromises are inevitable in diplomacy. “No side gets everything it wants,” he said. “The goal is to limit the pain and create mechanisms to resolve disputes. What we need to decide is whether those mechanisms will be enforceable.”
The Broader Stakes: Why This Matters to the World
This is not just a regional negotiation. The outcome — however small the ink on the paper — will send signals about norms, the viability of deterrence, and the limits of international institutions. If a deal is achieved that is seen as imposing terms favoring a stronger state’s demands over the territorial integrity of a sovereign one, what precedent does that set for contested borders elsewhere?
Consider the global trends at play: rising authoritarianism in parts of the world, the proliferation of drone warfare into urban centers, and the economic interdependence that turns local conflicts into global markets’ concerns. A settlement that stabilizes Ukraine could relieve energy anxieties and ease inflationary pressures in some countries. A settlement perceived as unjust could embolden other powers to test borders, with human costs echoing far beyond Eastern Europe.
Questions to Ask
What would a “sustainable and just peace” look like after almost four years of catastrophe? Can guarantees be enforced in a way that assures civilians they can return home? And who will hold the guarantor to their promise?
These are not rhetorical. They are the kind of practical questions negotiating teams in Geneva must answer before signatures are put to paper, and they are the questions that will be asked in living rooms in Kharkiv, in factories in Lviv, and in parliaments from Oslo to Canberra.
What Comes Next
Both Washington and Kyiv say they will keep working on joint proposals. The immediate task is narrow and procedural — finalize language, reconcile different red lines, and define verification. The larger task is social and moral: rebuild trust so that an agreement does not become a temporary ceasefire before the next round of violence.
“This is the moment to be brave enough to make a peace that holds and wise enough not to pretend there are shortcuts,” said a senior negotiator involved in the talks. “There are no perfect answers, only less damaging ones.”
As the papers shuffle in Geneva and ambulances still thread through Kharkiv streets, the rest of the world watches. Will diplomacy catch up with the devastation on the ground, or will promises evaporate while people pick through the rubble? The answers will shape lives for years to come — and they begin in the small conference rooms where diplomats speak quietly and hope loudly.
How Kim Kardashian Turned Fame Into a Billion-Dollar Beauty and Fashion Empire
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
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
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
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
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.
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