Dec 10(Jowhar)-Hay’adda Sirdoonka iyo Nabadsugidda Qaranka (NISA) ayaa sheegtay in howlgal goor dhow ka dhacay degmada Jilib ee gobolka Jubbada Dhexe lagu beegsaday horjoogeyaal ka tirsan Shabaab.
UN reports 200,000 flee rebel advance across Democratic Republic of Congo
On the Road to Uvira: When a Lakeside Town Becomes the Measure of Peace
The road into Uvira winds like a promise along the eastern rim of Lake Tanganyika — blue water one side, dense green hills the other. For years that road has been a conduit for fishermen returning with fresh sardines, for boda-boda drivers who know every pothole, and for mothers carrying cassava and tomatoes to the market at dawn. This week it has become an escape corridor.
Humanitarian workers and United Nations officials say roughly 200,000 people have fled homes in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo in a matter of days as fighting surges and the Rwanda-linked M23 rebel coalition pushes toward Uvira, the lakeside town near the Burundian border. Hospitals report bodies arriving; UN briefings list at least 74 people killed and 83 wounded in the latest wave of clashes. For families who left everything behind, those are not numbers but names and gnawing absences.
Chaos under the same sky
“We woke to the sound of trucks and the smell of diesel — then the children were wrapped in blankets and we left,” said a woman who gave her name as Amina, standing by a temporary shelter pitched on higher ground outside Uvira. Her voice was low, edged with fatigue. “I don’t know if my husband is safe. The market is gone. The school is closed.”
Scenes like hers repeated along the corridor north of town. Local officials and residents told reporters that M23 forces — which many international observers say are backed by elements of Rwanda’s military, a charge Kigali denies — have been fighting Congolese troops and local defence groups, including units known as the Wazalendo, in villages such as Luvungi, Sange and Kiliba.
Luvungi, a place that had stood as a fragile frontline for months, reportedly fell to the rebels, and clashes flared nearer to Sange and Kiliba, both of which lie on the approach to Uvira. In some towns, rumours of an imminent rebel arrival sparked panicked flight; in others, local leaders tried to restore order, pleading with residents to remain calm.
“Do not flee Uvira,” a rebel commander urged — and the ambiguity of war
Corneille Nangaa, a figure leading a broader rebel coalition called Alliance Fleuve Congo, issued an urgent message over radio: “You are Congolese… and Wazalendo soldiers. Do not flee Uvira. Wait for us to free you.” It was a strange, binary call — part reassurance, part mobilization — that exposed the moral contradictions at the heart of this conflict.
Bertrand Bisimwa, the M23 commander, publicly reiterated support for peace talks that were brokered in Doha last month and for which both sides signed a framework agreement. “There are no other solutions in the current crisis than the negotiating table,” he said, insisting that even tactical counterattacks were made with the aim of returning Kinshasa to negotiations. That rhetoric sits uneasily alongside reports of towns changing hands and families fleeing for safety.
Global alarm bells — and the limits of ceremonies
Last week’s images in Washington — President Donald Trump flanked by the presidents of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo as they signed a ceremonial pact intended to seal a new era of peace — now feel like a fragile veneer. “Today we’re succeeding where so many others have failed,” President Trump declared at the signing, claiming an end to a decades-long cycle of violence. The scenes were theatrical; the aftermath has been sobering.
In response to the renewed fighting, the United States and nine other members of the International Contact Group for the Great Lakes issued a joint statement expressing “profound concern.” The statement warned that this rebel offensive, and the marked uptick in the use of attack and suicide drones, have “destabilising potential for the whole region” and pose a grave risk to civilians.
The State Department issued a blunt admonition: “Rwanda, which continues to provide support to M23, must prevent further escalation,” a spokesperson said. Kigali continues to deny direct support, while UN and US officials say they have evidence of backing. Each denial and accusation becomes a shuttle in a larger diplomatic tug-of-war — while families on the ground simply measure how much they can carry.
Numbers that should disturb us
The recent spike in displacement adds to a grim tally. Before this latest wave, more than 1.2 million people had already been forced from their homes across eastern Congo by years of fighting. To that must be added the roughly 200,000 who fled in just days during this latest offensive. Hospitals are overwhelmed; aid agencies warn of growing humanitarian needs — food, clean water, shelter, protection — even as access to some front-line areas is limited by insecurity.
Beyond immediate human costs, the conflict threatens regional stability in the Great Lakes: cross-border flows of people, weapons, and economic disruption can create ripple effects into Rwanda, Burundi and beyond. Observers note that when violence escalates around strategic towns like Uvira — a gateway to trade and lake transport — the stakes are higher than the next firefight.
Voices from the lakeshore
At a makeshift aid distribution point, a schoolteacher named Pierre stuffed a packet of rice into a plastic bag and spoke with quiet fury. “They promised us peace on television,” he said, referring to the Washington ceremony. “But peace is not a signing. It is our children sitting in a classroom. It is fishermen going out to the lake. It is us sleeping without fear.”
A local fisherman, Jacques, pulled at a frayed cap and pointed toward the lake. “When the waves are calm, we can read the face of the water and it tells us tomorrow. Today the water is angry and so is the road.” His hands were stained with fish scales and diesel; the usual genial laugh was gone.
A humanitarian worker who asked not to be named described the logistical nightmare: “We are seeing rapid displacement across multiple axes — northward, westward — and each movement fragments communities and overwhelms local services. We need corridors for aid and commitments from all parties to protect civilians.”
What now? The fragile path from paper to practice
International statements call for ceasefires, withdrawals, and a return to positions agreed in a July declaration out of Doha. They urge all parties to recommit to accords signed in December. But paper commitments and public pronouncements cannot, on their own, unmake deep grievances, or erase local distrust built over decades.
So what should you, reading from Nairobi or New York or London, take away from these images of a town people once called home? First, that diplomacy on stages — while important — cannot substitute for sustained presence and accountability. Second, that real peace requires the rebuilding of towns, markets, schools and lives, not just the cessation of guns. And third, that the world’s attention, and resources, must stay focused on eastern Congo long after microphones are packed away.
A question to hold
As you close this and scroll on, think about this: how do we measure success in conflict resolution — by headlines, by handshakes, or by the quiet return of a child to a classroom on the lakeshore? The answer will determine whether places like Uvira become symbols of durable peace or simply pauses between storms.
For now, the children who once chased one another along the lakefront are watching from the edges of camps. The fishermen wait. The markets stand half-empty. Negotiators in Doha and diplomats in Washington speak of frameworks and implementation. Back in the hills, people count what they have left and try to keep a fragile hope alive.
- Reported displaced in recent days: ~200,000
- Deaths reported in recent clashes: at least 74
- Wounded admitted to hospitals: 83
- Previously displaced before this upsurge: at least 1.2 million
Ukraine and European partners to deliver peace-plan documents to Washington
On the Brink: How a Patchwork of Diplomacy Aims to Stitch a War-Torn Tomorrow
There is a particular hush that settles over a city when its leaders return from a long day of talks — the kind of silence that carries the weight of urgent possibility. In Kyiv, that hush was pierced this week by a single, concise message from President Volodymyr Zelensky: Ukraine and its European partners have refined a set of documents they are ready to hand to the United States — a fresh peace architecture, he suggested, born of tense conversations in London among British, French and German leaders.
It reads like the opening of a new chapter. It also feels like the middle of an old, stubborn one: a war that began with a full-scale Russian invasion in February 2022 and has since reshaped the lives of millions, fractured the map, and reconfigured geopolitics. The documents Zelensky referenced are not silver bullets. They are a mosaic — a 20-point framework, a set of security guarantees and a reconstruction plan, according to Finnish President Alexander Stubb — and they carry with them the hope of a negotiated end and the risk of costly compromise.
What diplomats traded in London
Imagine a conference room in London: coffee cups cooling beside diplomatic briefs, maps unfolded like the skin of a globe; voices low and urgent. That is where, officials say, European partners worked to tighten the contours of a Ukrainian proposal. The goal was not to draft a surrender, but to prepare a document the United States could scrutinize, refine and — perhaps — use to broker something wider.
“The Ukrainian and European components are now more developed, and we are ready to present them to our partners in the US,” Zelensky wrote on X, signaling a readiness to move the conversation across the Atlantic. “Together with the American side, we expect to swiftly make the potential steps as doable as possible.”
Finnish President Alexander Stubb framed the breakthrough bluntly at an event in Helsinki: delegates had labored on three complementary texts — a 20-point roadmap, a package of security guarantees, and a reconstruction plan. “I think we are closer to a peace agreement than we have been at any time since the war began,” he said, his voice carrying the weary optimism of someone who has watched conflict ebb and surge.
What’s in the packet?
From the fragments available publicly and through conversations with analysts, the documents aim to knit together several imperatives: preserve Ukrainian sovereignty, deter future aggression with enforceable guarantees, and lay the groundwork for rebuilding cities and lives. Put simply:
- A framework of mutual commitments and timelines — the so-called 20-point plan.
- Security guarantees backed by a coalition of states, possibly including collective defense mechanisms, rapid-reaction contingents, and long-term training and equipment pledges.
- A reconstruction strategy that links finance, governance reforms and international oversight to ensure transparency and sustainability.
These are not mere legal niceties. They are lifelines for towns like Kupiansk and Bakhmut, where the war has hollowed out neighborhoods, and for countless families who measure their futures in whether bridges are rebuilt and wells returned to service.
Pressure from Washington and a chorus of caution
But the pathway to agreement is jagged. Washington has been pressing for a deal that can be achieved quickly — a posture that has generated pushback in Kyiv, where the memory of territorial losses and the specter of vague guarantees breed skepticism. At the same time, President Donald Trump publicly signaled impatience: “They’re much bigger. They’re much stronger in that sense,” he told Politico, speaking of Russia’s battlefield momentum, and urged Zelensky to consider concessions. “He would have to get on the ball and start … accepting things,” the interview continued, a hard-edged nudge that landed like a stone in a still pond.
Inside the United Nations Security Council, the American deputy ambassador, Jennifer Locetta, said U.S. efforts were aimed at bridging the chasm between Kyiv and Moscow to achieve “a permanent ceasefire and a mutually agreed peace deal that leaves Ukraine sovereign and independent and with an opportunity for real prosperity.” Russia’s UN ambassador, Vassily Nebenzia, cast the proposals as reasonable and insisted that Russia would achieve its aims “in any event,” whether through diplomacy or force.
Voices from the ground
Diplomacy is not an abstract exercise to those whose lives have been rearranged by it. In a small teahouse in Lysychansk, a café tiled with floral curtains and decorated with hand-painted teapots, Olena, a teacher, sipped her tea and looked at a city map marked with pins where her students used to live.
“We want peace,” she said simply. “But peace without our children’s schools, without the names of our streets and without accountability — what kind of peace is that? We are tired, but we are not willing to sell our history.”
Across the frontline, a middle-aged mechanic in a factory town near the Donbas, who asked not to be named, was more pragmatic. “If our men don’t come home this winter, we will vote for anything that brings them back,” he said. “Reconstruction, guarantees — words are easy. I want bolts, boilers, bread.”
Experts watching the back-and-forth warn against equating speed with justice. “A rushed settlement without enforceable security architecture and clear verification creates the risk of frozen conflict,” said Dr. Mira Kovac, a conflict resolution specialist who has analyzed post-conflict transitions in Eastern Europe. “If guarantees are not backed by credible military and economic commitments, history shows they can be breached.”
The larger picture: Why this matters globally
What happens next in the talks is not just a matter for Ukraine and Russia; it is a bellwether for a global order facing multiple stresses. From energy markets to NATO’s cohesion, from refugee flows to norms about territorial integrity, the stakes are broad. A settlement that holds could reset regional security and spur reconstruction across a devastated industrial belt. A botched deal could leave the region in perpetual limbo — and embolden revisionist powers elsewhere.
Consider the migration map: millions have been displaced, with neighboring European nations absorbing refugees and the international community shouldering humanitarian and fiscal burdens. Consider the economic toll: infrastructure destroyed, harvests interrupted and a construction bill that will run into tens of billions if not more. And consider credibility: what message does a failed negotiation send to states watching from the margins?
Questions for the reader
How should international guarantees be structured to be both firm and politically acceptable? Can reconstruction be insulated from corruption and capture? Is a peace that preserves the core institutions and identity of Ukraine possible without further territorial concessions?
These are not theoretical queries. They are the hard questions that will determine whether the refined documents Zelensky plans to send to Washington become the scaffolding of real peace — or another shelf of unfulfilled promises.
What comes next
In the next days and weeks, the US will pore over the proposals from Kyiv and its European partners. Expect more shuttle diplomacy — officials crisscrossing capitals, late-night calls, legal teams tracing every clause. Expect counteroffers and new red lines to be drawn. And expect the lives of ordinary people — those who have spent years learning how to live with sirens and cellars and rationed hope — to hang in the balance.
“We cannot trade our future for temporary quiet,” a Ukrainian municipal official told me. “If the world wants peace, let it be peace that can be lived in.”
So we wait, not as idle spectators but as participants in a global drama. A patchwork of documents is headed to Washington; whether it becomes a blueprint for durable peace or the scaffolding of another stalemate will depend on resolve, imagination and the willingness of powers large and small to anchor promises with deeds.
Taoiseach tells Trump: European Union remains strong, not weak
A transatlantic barb and a European rebuttal: what Trump’s words stirred in Dublin and beyond
When the former US president described the European Union as “weak” and accused member states of letting Ukraine fight “until they drop,” the echo ricocheted from Washington halls to Dublin cafés, Brussels committee rooms and the frontline emails of aid coordinators in Kyiv.
That line — raw, blunt, and meant to provoke — arrived at a moment when Europe is already juggling the aftermath of a pandemic, a grinding war on its eastern border, and an uneasy internal debate about migration and identity. Standing outside Government Buildings in Dublin, Taoiseach Micheál Martin didn’t sugarcoat his response.
“Europe is strong, not weak,” he told reporters, voice steady with both national pride and what sounded like impatience. “We are the world’s largest single market, we are among the strongest trading blocs — and our collective response to challenges, from Covid to our support for Ukraine, shows that.”
Streetside reactions: what ordinary people hear
Down a narrow lane near the River Liffey, where the honk of buses competes with the clink of teaspoons in a busy bakery, people offered a chorus of voices that complicated the binary of strength or weakness.
“We trade with the world. My shop ships to Spain and Germany,” said Aoife Byrne, a 42-year-old owner of a small craft chocolate business. “If anyone thinks Europe is falling apart, they haven’t tried to run a business here.”
A Ukrainian student, Kateryna, who arrived in Dublin two years ago, sounded the weariness many feel. “We see money and hardware arriving, but the war continues. It’s frustrating. Every day here I wonder if that support will be long-term,” she said, staring at a steaming cup of tea as if it might answer the question.
From rhetoric to policy: what’s really at stake
What began as a political broadside is also a test of institutions. The United States and the EU are bound by shared history, defense partnerships and intertwined economies — the EU is home to roughly 447 million people and, together, its members form one of the world’s largest trading blocs, with a combined GDP in the ballpark of the world’s leading economies.
So when President Trump — in an interview that revived debates about migration and sovereignty — suggested parts of Europe were “decaying” and failing to control migration, EU leaders bristled. European Council President António Costa’s retort was pointed and public: “Allies must act as allies. Washington should not interfere with our internal matters.”
It’s not just about rhetoric. Earlier this month, a new US national security strategy raised eyebrows in European capitals by urging the cultivation of “resistance” within the EU against what Washington framed as overly liberal migration policies. The strategy’s language, and the suggestion that bilateral support could hinge on policy alignment, set off alarm bells from Lisbon to Riga.
Security, migration, and the shadow of populism
Migration remains one of the thorniest forces reshaping politics on both sides of the Atlantic. Speculation about the durability of alliances based on immigration stances is not theoretical: it feeds into a larger web of nationalist narratives, electoral strategies and, crucially, the real lives of migrants seeking safety and work.
“This isn’t about abstract theory,” said Dr. Anja Müller, a migration policy analyst in Berlin. “When leaders weaponize migration, they reshape the parameters of cooperation. It can diminish trust — and trust is the currency of alliances.”
In a small market stall in Brussels, an Algerian vendor named Karim mirrored that sentiment. “People here worry about borders and jobs, but they also remember when Europe worked together — when it mattered,” he said. “Words that break that memory are dangerous.”
Ukraine, frozen assets and the long arithmetic of war
At the center of the current row is support for Ukraine, an issue that forces Europeans to balance moral clarity with legal complexity. The European Commission, led by Ursula von der Leyen, has proposed a plan to try to plug a gap in Ukraine’s future budget needs — offering around €90 billion for 2026-27 against an IMF estimate of roughly €137 billion for the same period.
To help finance that package, negotiators have been discussing using “frozen” Russian assets. It’s a seismic move: converting seized or immobilized assets to support reconstruction and defence is legally and politically fraught, and some member states, notably Belgium, have publicly fretted about legal exposure and financial risk.
“This is not looting; it is a legal tightrope,” said María Lopes, a Brussels-based legal adviser on international sanctions. “We are attempting to convert punitive financial measures into predictable funding for a country under assault. But the rule of law can’t be sacrificed for expediency.”
European Council President Costa said negotiators were “working hard” to fine-tune a deal that could win a qualified majority in Brussels — a reminder that within the EU’s 27-member architecture, unanimity is often elusive and compromise, messy.
Why the argument matters beyond Europe
Ask yourself: why does a spat between an American political heavyweight and European leaders matter to someone on the other side of the world? Because the norms being contested — how allies talk to one another, what counts as acceptable pressure, how migration and security are governed — have ripple effects.
Trade partners watch. Governments planning defence budgets watch. Refugees and migrants watch. In an era of strategic competition with China and an assertive Russia, the cohesion of transatlantic ties is more than grandstanding; it’s a strategic asset.
And yet, cohesion cannot be conjured by decree. “Alliances are not just signed; they are sustained,” noted Fiona O’Connor, a retired Irish diplomat. “They need mutual respect and a recognition of each other’s democratic choices.”
What comes next: negotiations, decisions, and questions for the reader
This week, EU leaders will return to Brussels with a slate of decisions on the table: whether to finalise the mechanics of redirecting frozen assets, how to align support for Ukraine with long-term fiscal planning, and how — if at all — to respond to renewed pressure from Washington about migration policy.
These are not merely bureaucratic items. They will shape whether Europe emerges from this chapter more united or more fragmented, and whether the transatlantic relationship becomes one of conditional cooperation or renewed partnership.
So here are the questions I leave you with: Should allies tie security assistance to ideological alignment on domestic policy? Can Europe reconcile the immediate demands of a brutal war with the long-term disciplines of law and finance? And finally, what kind of global order do we want — one where disputes between allies play out in public barbs, or one where they are managed with discreet diplomacy and shared purpose?
Whatever the answers, today’s exchanges are a live reminder that power is not only about tanks and money. It’s also about narrative, credibility and the quiet work of politics — the kind that happens in cafes, parliaments and negotiation rooms across the continent. Watch closely: the next moves will tell us a lot about the future of Europe, the nature of the transatlantic bond, and whether strength is measured in words or in the will to act together.
NISA oo howlgal gaar ah ku dishay 12 Shabaab ah
Dec 10(Jowhar)-Ciidanka Hay’adda Sirdoonka iyo Nabadsugidda Qaranka (NISA) ayaa xalay fuliyay howlgal qorsheysan oo ka dhacay dhulka hawdka ah ee deegaanka Jambaluul, degmada Afgooye ee gobolka Shabeellaha Hoose.
Ra’iisul wasaare Xamse oo la kulmay safiirka Ruushka Makhail Golovanov
Dec 10(Jowhar)-Ra’iisul Wasaaraha Xukuumadda JFS Mudane Xamse Cabdi Barre oo sii wada kulamada uu la leeyahay ergada diblumaasiyadda fadhigoodu yahay dalka ayaa maanta qaabilay danjiraha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Ruushka Mudane Makhail Golovanov.
Machado to Forego In-Person Acceptance of Nobel Peace Prize
Empty Chair in Oslo, Shadows in Caracas: The Silence Where a Laureate Should Stand
On a crisp Oslo afternoon, flags fluttered, red carpets lay ready, and the echo of footsteps bounced off the ornate walls of City Hall — but one expected presence was missing.
“She is unfortunately not in Norway and will not stand onstage at Oslo City Hall at 1pm when the ceremony starts,” Kristian Berg Harpviken, director of the Norwegian Nobel Institute, told Norwegian broadcaster NRK, his voice carrying the flat certainty that comes with delivering difficult news. When asked where Maria Corina Machado was, he added simply: “I don’t know.”
The chair reserved for Venezuela’s most recognisable opposition figure remained empty. In its shadow, a daughter would step forward.
Between Ceremony and Concealment: Machado’s Odyssey
Maria Corina Machado, an engineer-turned-activist who has spent years in the crosshairs of Venezuela’s political struggle, won the Nobel Peace Prize last October — an accolade that turned her personal defiance into a global symbol. She had been expected to break a decade-long travel ban and appear in Oslo to accept the prize in person, a theatrical defiance that would itself have been an act of resistance.
Instead, the prize ceremony will proceed without her, with her daughter, Ana Corina Sosa Machado, standing in to receive the award and deliver the Nobel lecture. It is a quiet, intimate substitution that speaks loudly: when leaders are silenced, families inherit the public mourning and the public bravery.
Why Her Absence Matters
Machado’s absence is more than a logistical hiccup. It is emblematic of a wider pattern: authoritarian regimes that curtail movement, murk the information space, and leverage the law to keep opposition figures off the stage and out of sight.
President Nicolás Maduro, who has held power since 2013, casts outside criticism as plots against the nation. He has argued that foreign actors seek control of Venezuela’s vast oil wealth; the country indeed sits atop what is widely regarded as the world’s largest proven crude oil reserves, estimated at roughly 300 billion barrels. For Caracas, geopolitics and oil have always been two sides of the same coin.
Voices from the Borderlands: Exile, Memory, and Resilience
Walk the chaotic markets of La Candelaria in central Caracas or the quieter lanes of Petare, and you’ll find a vocabulary of loss and endurance. A former neighbour of Machado’s, now living in Bogotá, told me: “We packed our lives into suitcases twice over — first for work, then for dignity. Maria’s prize is ours too. We didn’t leave our homes because we wanted to; we left because the walls closed in.”
On the outskirts of Lima, a Venezuelan barber names Carlos, clipped and quick with a smile, said: “When they announced the Nobel, some of us cried in the shop. It’s not just about Maria. It’s about being seen. For eight years my family couldn’t sleep; now the world is listening, even if she isn’t here to hear it.”
These voices are part grief, part astonishment. They are also a reminder: political awards travel faster than people do. Migration statistics tell the shape of that journey — according to the UNHCR and IOM joint data, more than seven million Venezuelans have left the country since the crisis escalated, making it one of the largest displacement crises in the world.
The Daughter Who Will Speak
There is a certain theatre to a daughter taking the stage for a mother who stands in the shadows. In a statement released ahead of the ceremony, a close associate said Ana Corina Sosa Machado planned to “speak of hope, of those who stayed, and of those who left with empty pockets but full stories.” The substitution is poignant: families of exiles become the living archives of political struggle.
What the Nobel Means — and What It Risks
The Nobel Peace Prize has always been a magnifying glass; it can warm a cause or scorch its laureates. For Machado, who dedicated part of her prize to the polarising former US President Donald Trump — a remark that drew as much attention as it did criticism — the award is entangled with global geopolitics as much as with domestic resistance.
Analysts point out the paradox: international recognition can offer protection by keeping a spotlight trained on an individual, yet it can also harden the resolve of a regime determined to prevent that individual from exercising their newfound platform.
“Recognition can be a double-edged sword,” said Dr. Elena Márquez, a political scientist at a university in Madrid who studies Latin American democracies. “It elevates a leader, but it can also ossify narratives of foreign meddling used by those in power to delegitimise internal dissent. The critical question is: will this prize translate into tangible support for democratic institutions in Venezuela, or will it simply become another line in a foreign news feed?”
Local Color: Symbols, Salsa, and Graffiti
To understand the human texture of this crisis, look at the murals. In Old Caracas, walls still bloom with painted faces — of missing students, of loved ones, of political martyrs. Street stalls sell arepas and empanadas, vendors yelling prices with the same rhythm as protesters once chanted slogans. In airports, departure lounges are crowded with people who carry a photocopy of a childhood memory or the weight of an unread letter.
One mural near the Plaza Bolívar depicts a woman with a crown of stars and a cracked ribbon reading “Libertad.” A young artist, who asked to be called Maya, said: “I paint because the paint is cheaper than prison. Each face is a prayer. Each colour is a refusal to be erased.”
Questions for the Reader
What do we owe people who choose to resist from within and from exile? When international honours collide with local danger, do we protect the symbol, or the struggle? If the Nobel brings attention but not action, is attention enough?
As readers around the world watch the ceremony unfold without its intended protagonist, consider this: awards can spotlight injustice, but only collective, sustained pressure — legal, diplomatic, humanitarian — shifts the arc of history. The empty chair in Oslo is both a question and an invitation.
Beyond Oslo: The Long Arc
For now, a daughter will step up to an empty microphone, and speeches will be recorded and broadcast. Cameras will search for Machado’s face in crowded squares and dim safe houses. In Caracas, many will watch with quivering hope; elsewhere, the Venezuelan diaspora will log onto streams, gather in community centers, and listen.
Whatever happens next, this moment is a reminder of an uncomfortable truth: freedoms are fragile, and the protections of a global stage don’t always dissolve the local chains. As the day in Oslo closes, the real work — rebuilding institutions, nurturing civil society, reintegrating millions of migrants, and ensuring that courageous voices can be heard without fear — remains unfinished. Will the empty chair be a pause or a prelude?
Listen. Watch. Ask. And above all, hold the stories of those who are absent close — for the absent tell us as much about our world as the present ever could.
Australia moves to reclaim control from tech giants via new ban
Australia’s Digital Pause: A Sunburnt Country Reconsiders Childhood Online
It was an odd kind of quiet on the feeds that morning — not the usual stream of snackable videos and endless scrolls, but a soft, almost ceremonial silence as kids and parents across Australia uploaded “goodbye” posts, private messages and farewell playlists.
At a backyard barbecue in Brisbane, 14-year-old Mia sat under a gum tree, phone in hand, filming the last few seconds of an account she says shaped much of her teenage life. “It’s like closing a chapter I didn’t know I was writing,” she whispered to the camera before switching off.
By sunset, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese declared the change more than symbolic. “We are choosing to reclaim the childhood our children deserve,” he said, framing the new law as a decisive response to tech platforms whose reach, he suggested, had outrun the capacity of parents and regulators to protect young people.
What Changed — and Who It Affects
Under the new legislation, Australia is the first nation to bar children under 16 from using major social media platforms. TikTok, YouTube, Instagram and Facebook — among others falling under the law — must block underage users or face fines that can reach A$49.5 million (about €28.2 million) per breach.
Officials estimate roughly one million Australian children will be directly affected. Many posted last-minute goodbyes in the hours before enforcement began; some filmed celebratory dances for the margins of their feeds. Others merely logged out, puzzled about where friendships and creative outlets would migrate next.
Which platforms are named in the legislation
- TikTok
- YouTube
The rulebook is blunt: platforms either block accounts that belong to under-16s or risk hefty penalties. The government argues the move will help reduce exposure to harmful content, addictive design features, cyberbullying and commercial pressures targeted at children.
Inside the Debate: Protecting Kids or Closing Doors?
Not everyone greets the new era with relief. Tech companies have warned of practical and ethical pitfalls: age verification systems can invade privacy, motivated teens can lie about their ages, and the enforcement burden will fall unevenly across platforms. “Policies that look neat on paper tend to get messier when real people have to live with them,” a spokesperson from one large tech firm said. “This will push activity onto smaller apps and encrypted spaces where moderation is weaker.”
Free-speech advocates have been cautious, too. “The risk of overreach is real,” said Dr. Lena Moreno, a digital rights scholar. “We must guard against policies that curtail civic participation or disproportionately penalize marginalised youths who rely on online spaces to find community.”
Conversely, for many parents and child-welfare campaigners the law is overdue. “As a mum, I’ve watched my son scroll himself into late-night anxiety,” said Gabrielle Turner, a parent from Adelaide. “I’m tired of feeling like the digital giants are parenting him better than I can.”
The Science and the Stories
Research over the past decade has built a complicated picture: social media can foster creativity and connection, but it’s also been linked, in numerous studies, to sleep disruption, body-image concerns, and heightened levels of anxiety for some adolescents. The nuance matters: heavy use is not the same as moderate, and platforms that amplify sensational content often do the most harm.
“Platforms are optimized to keep attention, not to nurture developing brains,” explains Dr. Amir Patel, a child psychologist who advises several Australian schools. “For kids whose self-esteem is still forming, constant feedback loops can magnify insecurities.”
Patel points to nighttime scrolling as a particular problem: disrupted sleep correlates strongly with mood disorders. “Even short-term reductions in screen time can improve mood and academic focus,” he adds.
Practical Problems: Verification, Workarounds and Unintended Consequences
How will platforms enforce the ban? The law’s enforcement mechanism is straightforward — a requirement to block under-16s — but the practicalities are thorny. Critics predict a surge in fake accounts, VPNs, and older siblings taking over younger users’ logins. There are also privacy concerns: robust age verification can mean handing over identity documents or data to private companies.
“We could be trading one set of risks for another,” said privacy lawyer Aisha Rahman. “Companies may ask for more personal details to verify age, and that data itself becomes a target.”
Equally, there’s a socioeconomic angle. Young people in isolated communities or remote areas often rely on online spaces for cultural exchange and support; restricting access could deepen digital divides. “In our town, kids use YouTube to learn carpentry and watch AFL highlights,” said Tom Wheeler, a council worker in regional Victoria. “Banning that access without alternatives leaves a hole.”
What Comes Next — and What This Means Globally
For other governments watching, Australia’s move is a test case. Regulators in Europe and North America have wrestled with children’s protection online, but few have taken such a sweeping step. The European Union’s Digital Services Act and other frameworks aim to compel platforms to act on harmful content, while U.S. lawmakers continue to debate targeted reforms. Australia’s law may embolden some and caution others.
Economically, creators and advertisers will feel reverberations. Teen-focused creators may lose a chunk of their audience; brands will need to shift campaigns. “This forces a rethink of how we reach younger audiences — perhaps into more supervised, educational contexts,” suggests media strategist Elena Vos.
Human Moments: Loss, Relief and the Space In Between
In Melbourne, a small group of teenagers gathered in a skate park, their faces lit by late summer sun. Some were defiant. “We’ll just swap apps, or use accounts of friends,” said 15-year-old Jayden. Others were reflective. “I’m kind of glad,” admitted his friend Noor. “I spend so much time watching people live lives that aren’t mine.”
Parents are thinking in practical terms: more family dinners without the ping of notifications, more outdoor time, but also the logistics of supervising offline social lives and extracurriculars. “We want to create new rituals,” said Gabrielle Turner. “But we also need affordable after-school programs and spaces where kids can make friends without a screen between them.”
A Question for the Reader
What do you imagine childhood should look like in the age of ubiquitous connectivity? Is it safer — or more isolating — for children to be shielded from social media? Australia’s experiment forces us to grapple with the trade-offs between protection and autonomy, privacy and oversight.
History will judge whether this moment was a prudent course correction or an overreaching policy. For now, families, schools and tech companies will have to find new ways to help young people grow — online, offline, and in the messy, wonderful space in between.
Trump oo mar kale weerar culus ku qaaday Ilhan Cumar iyo Soomaalida
Dec 10(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Maraykanka Donald Trump ayaa mar kale weerar afka ah ku qaaday Soomaalida iyo xildhibaan Ilhaan Omar oo ka tirsan Aqalka Kongareeska lagana soo doorto gobolka Minnesota, xilli uu ka hadlayay isku soo bax ka dhacay Pennsylvania, shalay.
Nobel Committee Unsure Whether Machado Will Accept Peace Prize
Under Oslo Rain: A Nobel Prize Without Its Laureate
Outside the Grand Hotel in central Oslo, umbrellas bloom like a field of black flowers. Police lines crease the sidewalks. Reporters huddle under awnings, clutching notebooks and hot coffee as the Norwegian drizzle threads through their collars. Inside the gilded halls, a reserved seat remains empty. The press conference announced for Monday afternoon — a rare chance to see Maria Corina Machado on an international stage after months in hiding — never happened. It was postponed, then quietly cancelled. The question floating in the damp air felt almost metaphysical: where do you award a prize whose recipient cannot safely appear?
Machado, a 58-year-old opposition leader and thorn in Nicolás Maduro’s side, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in October for her years of campaigning for democratic change in Venezuela. The accolade has lit a global spotlight on a country that, over the past decade, has offered one of the most dramatic stories of political collapse and human displacement in the Hemisphere.
The arresting image of absence
The absence of Machado is itself a story. Her relatives — a mother, three sisters and three children, according to people who met them in Oslo — arrived days earlier, moving through the city with guarded smiles. “We came for dignity,” one sister told me, voice low, gloved hands folded around a cup of tea in a hotel lobby. “But dignity is complicated when your sister must decide between exile and a bullet.”
For many at the ceremony, the missing figure underlined a wrenching reality: modern awards and ancient dangers now intersect in new ways. A spokesperson for the Nobel Institute admitted that Machado had told officials she could not easily travel to Norway. Yet that admission left more questions than answers: Is she in a safe house in Caracas? Has she crossed a border? Is she in exile already, forced into mobility by threats and legal prosecutions?
Between fugitive and laureate
Venezuela’s government has declared Machado a criminal in absentia — accusing her of conspiracy, “incitement,” even “terrorism” — a label that can be used to bar travel or justify arrest. “If she leaves Venezuela, she will be considered a fugitive,” a government official told state media last month. For the regime in Caracas, branding opposition leaders as criminals is a method of delegitimizing dissent. For the dissidents and their supporters, it is a way to keep them off the streets, out of sight and out of reach of voters.
But the calculus of exile is not solely legal; it’s profoundly personal. “My mother keeps asking me if Maria is safe,” said a family friend who declined to be named. “She thinks if Maria comes, we will have proof that rebels can return without fear. But some of us believe that once you leave, you cannot truly lead the struggle at home.”
Leadership from afar
This is the headache for any resistance movement: can a leader in exile keep the flame alive? Political analysts say it’s possible but perilous. “Distance dilutes momentum,” said a Latin America specialist at a Washington think tank. “You can be loud abroad and visible, but you lose the daily contact, the street-level networks. Without tangible gains — free elections, splits in the security apparatus, international pressure — the inspiration of a figurehead can’t convert into change.”
Consider the broader context: since the political and economic collapse that accelerated in the mid-2010s, more than 7 million Venezuelans have left the country, according to UNHCR and IOM estimates. Hyperinflation wiped out savings, public services frayed, and oil production — once the engine of the economy — plummeted from millions of barrels per day to a fraction of that output. Those figures are not abstract; they are the reason entire neighborhoods emptied, why buses run with fewer passengers, why the elderly queue for hours for medicine.
Oslo’s tableau of allies, skeptics and unease
Oslo has become, for a few days, a Latin American stage. A handful of regional leaders arrived to lend moral weight to the award. Argentina’s president, among others, was expected. “We are here to salute bravery,” one visiting leader said outside City Hall, the historical vaulted ceiling humming above him. “Democracy is not an abstract concept. It is a people’s right. We hope Venezuela finds its way back.”
But the celebration is not unanimous. Machado’s ties and political alignments — she has publicly aligned with certain right-wing figures abroad — have drawn criticism. “A prize is not an endorsement of every political alliance,” a Norwegian political commentator told me. “The Nobel recognizes courage, not perfect consensus.”
Security and spectacle
Police have kept vigil where laureates normally stay; journalists and curious tourists trace the predictable choreography of a Nobel week. Yet there is an undercurrent of something less ceremonial: a militarized Caribbean in the background, operations by the United States targeting suspected drug-running vessels, and a regime in Caracas insisting such moves are pretexts for regime change and seizure of oil resources. The signals are of a region on edge.
“It’s easy to write this as a story about one woman,” said a Venezuelan activist in Europe, “but it’s really about millions who cannot return, about families split across borders, about a democracy in slow motion. The prize is a spotlight, but the crisis doesn’t end when the cameras turn off.”
What does a Nobel mean in the age of exile?
Let me ask you, reader: what is the meaning of recognition when safety remains the price of attendance? The Nobel Peace Prize is a global megaphone, a moral argument applied to a person as much as a cause. Yet in this case, the accolade also exposes a paradox of modern dissidence: the international applause can both protect and endanger.
If Machado does not travel to Oslo, the prize will sit with her absent name and an empty chair. If she travels and cannot return, the opposition will face yet another rift — between those who stay and those who must find new ways to influence events from abroad. Either path will test the durability of the movement she has galvanized.
Looking beyond the ceremony
The story is larger than any single day in Oslo. It is about how nations reckon with authoritarian drift, how international institutions confer legitimacy, and how personal sacrifice intersects with strategic necessity. It is about the millions of Venezuelans whose lives were reshaped by economic collapse — more than 7 million people on the move — and about a region grappling with migration, security concerns, and geopolitical postures.
“A prize can inspire,” a human rights lawyer I spoke to said. “But it does not replace red lines or realistic strategies. The next steps — negotiations, international pressure, civic organizing — will determine whether this moment becomes a turning point or a footnote.”
On Wednesday the ceremony will proceed at Oslo City Hall. The world will watch the ritual of laureates: speeches, applause, the exchange of medals and diplomas. But for those who follow Venezuela closely, the real drama is quieter, happening in hidden rooms, border crossings, encrypted messages and the long, hard work of rebuilding public life. The question remains: can recognition from afar translate into change at home, or will the laureate’s absence mark yet another cost of dissent?
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