Israel Plans Funeral for Final Hostage Recovered After Captivity

January 28, 2026

Israel to hold funeral for last hostage recovered — Mourners gather for the funeral of Ran Gvili in his hometown of Meitar

A procession toward something like closure

The van turned into Camp Shura under a low winter sun, its engine a steady, mournful hum that seemed to match the slow march of people waiting to see one last photograph or to touch a casket that had been away for too long.

Hundreds gathered there, at a facility that has quietly become a way-station for grief — a place where identity is confirmed, remembrances are read, and the private work of mourning must be made public. A large screen flickered images of the procession. Rows of plastic chairs filled with uniformed officers. Children clutched small Israeli flags. Some people wore yellow ribbons, the symbol that has stitched together families and strangers for more than two years in vigil and pain.

They had come for Ran Gvili.

Who was Ran?

He was 24. An off-duty police officer on medical leave, scheduled for shoulder surgery, whose leave lasted only until the call of October 7, 2023, when militants struck across southern Israel. Family members and neighbours called him “the Defender of Alumim” — a young man who raced toward danger rather than away from it. Members of the elite Yassam unit, his colleagues, described him as the first to grab a weapon and the last to leave a fight.

“He ran toward the fence,” a neighbour told me, voice trembling. “He was our son, our brother. He could not stand the idea that others would be taken.”

Israeli officials say that Mr Gvili was killed in combat and that Islamic Jihad fighters carried his body into Gaza. For months the status of many abducted or missing people remained painfully unclear. Of approximately 250 people taken during that first day of slaughter — an assault Israeli tallies say killed around 1,200 people — dozens later died in captivity or were returned only after protracted negotiations.

The van that arrived at Camp Shura had previously been to a forensic centre in Tel Aviv. It carried the remains of the last Israeli hostage to be recovered from Gaza — a grim punctuation to a hostages chapter that has shadowed Israeli life for years.

In the crowd: faces of a country

There were veterans in uniform, mothers clasping rosaries, teenagers with eyes too old for their years. An elderly man, his hands rubbed raw by grief, said simply: “We have been counting days like prayers.” A kibbutz teacher wiped her cheeks and spoke of the quiet that will follow for the Alumim community. “He was ours,” she said. “The whole kibbutz felt he was a son and a brother.”

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu — who addressed the nation in the hours before the burial — framed the return as the completion of a sacred duty. “We have fully completed the sacred mission of returning all of our hostages,” he said, lauding Ran as both the “first to charge” and “the last to return.” His words were meant to give shape to national sorrow: heroism, resolve, victory.

But not everyone heard triumph in that language. In the shaded corner where young parents stood with toddlers, several spoke of the long haul of trauma: sleepless nights, children who flinch at loud noises, families who have been reshaped by absence. “This is not finished,” one woman said. “The wounds are deeper than a single day.”

The exchange that closed a painful chapter — and opened others

The return of Mr Gvili’s remains marked the final act in a complex exchange born of negotiations between armed groups and mediators from several countries. Under terms reached last October — brokered by regional and international intermediaries including the United States and others — Hamas and allied groups agreed to return the remaining hostages, dead or alive, in exchange for the release of Palestinian prisoners.

Short pauses in the conflict had permitted the release of many hostages earlier. Two significant ceasefires allowed dozens to come home. But the negotiations were fraught and the human ledger remained heavy: dozens of those taken never made it back alive.

“Hostage exchanges are never clean. They’re messy and human and cruel,” said Dr. Miriam Halevi, a scholar of conflict resolution. “They leave open ethical questions: what do we trade for a life? Under whose terms do we decide? And what happens to the societies afterwards, when the bargaining has stopped but the grieving continues?”

Numbers that haunt a region

Statistics do not soften the edges of grief, but they do help us measure the scale of harm. Israeli authorities estimate roughly 250 people were abducted during the October 7 attack. Israeli tallies put the immediate death toll from that day at about 1,200 people. Meanwhile, Palestinian health authorities say that more than 71,000 Palestinians have died in Gaza since the war began — a figure that international groups warn reflects a humanitarian catastrophe.

These counts differ depending on who reports them, yet the pattern is clear: civilians have borne the brunt. Entire families have been shattered; cities and towns have been hollowed out. The challenge of translating these raw numbers into policy and action is one that diplomats, humanitarians, and ordinary people continue to wrestle with.

Meitar: a town marked and made

Ran will be buried in Meitar, a southern Israeli town tucked into the rolling hills that mark the Negev highlands. Meitar’s streets are both ordinary and marked by loss — playgrounds and small cafes rub shoulders with memorials and photographs taped to lampposts. People here speak of him with a kind of protective pride: bright, brave, too young.

“When we come to a funeral now, we are all trying to stitch back something that was torn,” said a local teacher. “We put flowers and flags, but what we really want is to be able to let our children grow up without alarms.”

What happens next?

The burial closes a grim chapter, and yet the story of the region keeps writing itself. U.S. officials have signalled the beginning of a second stage tied to the deal, including the reopening of the Rafah crossing between Gaza and Egypt — a move aimed at easing the flow of aid and people. Whether reopening borders, rebuilding homes, or addressing accountability will translate into lasting calm is an open question.

International human rights groups and humanitarian organizations warn that rebuilding must go hand in hand with justice and protection. “Reconstruction without rights is only a temporary fix,” said Amal Nasser, a humanitarian worker who has supervised relief convoys in Gaza. “If people are not safe, if the root causes are not addressed, we will see the cycle repeat.”

Questions for the reader — and for ourselves

How does a society honor a hero without sanctifying a cycle of violence? How does the world treat the return of a fallen person with dignity while also tending to the living who remain wounded and displaced? These are not questions with easy answers.

The funeral of Ran Gvili will be a private family moment inside a national frame. It will be a place where a community will try to say goodbye and remember who he was: a son, a colleague, someone who ran toward others in a moment of terror. For those who watched the procession, the images will keep returning — the yellow ribbons, the small flags, the slow cadence of marching feet.

And for the rest of us, this moment can be a reminder of how every headline is made of human lives. Close your eyes and picture a single name on a placard. What stories are behind that name? What does the path to healing look like for them, for their neighbours, for people on the other side of the fence?

In the end, the burial in Meitar is not merely about returning a body; it is about returning a story to the people who loved him, and about asking whether a society, and indeed the international community, can find ways to break cycles so fewer names will need to be read aloud in future.

Budapest mayor faces charges for organising banned Pride parade

hanad

January 28, 2026

Budapest mayor charged for organising banned Pride parade — Last year's parade saw a record turnout

A rainbow in defiance: Budapest’s Pride and the moment a city said “enough”

Last June, the wide avenues of Budapest filled with color as if the city itself had decided to breathe in a new way. People spilled from side streets and clambered up tram steps, carrying banners, dancing, singing. Organisers later estimated more than 200,000 people attended — a number that felt both astonishing and inevitable to anyone who had watched the months of tension that preceded the march.

It was more than a parade. It was a declaration: public joy made political, a mass refusal to let laws and threats shrink the space for human expression. For weeks, the government of Viktor Orbán had signalled its intent to stamp out Pride with legal restrictions couched in language about “protecting children.” The ruling coalition had tightened laws and folded protections into constitutional text, sending a clear message: certain identities and celebrations were unwelcome in the public square.

Budapest city hall, led by Mayor Gergely Karácsony, did something risky and intentional — it agreed to co-organise the march. The aim was to thwart those new rules and defend the right to assemble. The police, however, issued a ban. Mr Orbán warned of “legal consequences.” Still, the streets filled anyway.

The charge sheet: a trial of symbols

Weeks later, prosecutors filed charges against Mayor Karácsony, saying he “organised and led a public gathering despite a police ban” and seeking a fine. The district prosecutor’s office said it proposed a summary judgment without trial — a fast-track way to impose penalties — though it did not specify the amount requested.

Karácsony, who was questioned in August and who faced the technical possibility of up to one year in prison for organising a banned rally, answered with defiant humor. “I went from a proud suspect to a proud defendant,” he wrote on Facebook. “They don’t even want a trial… because they can’t even comprehend that here in this city, we have stood up for freedom in the face of a selfish, petty, and despicable power.”

Organisers warned attendees that, according to law, individuals could face fines up to €500 simply for joining the march. Yet, in a twist that revealed the limits of enforcement, police later announced they would not take action against participants.

The legal backdrop

For close observers, the dispute is not merely about a single parade. It sits atop years of legal changes in Hungary that rights groups say have curtailed space for LGBTQ+ people and civil society more broadly. In 2021, the government pushed through laws restricting the portrayal of homosexuality and gender identity to minors — measures that critics likened to censorship and that prompted condemnation from Brussels and human-rights organisations across Europe.

“When laws are used to police love, the law itself loses legitimacy,” said Éva Horváth, a legal scholar at a Budapest university. “This is not just administrative nitpicking; it is about whether a democratic society allows difference to be seen.”

Voices from the crowd: why people came

Walking the route, you heard a thousand reasons for why people turned out: solidarity, defiance, the desire to celebrate identity in public without apology. “My son is gay,” said Anna, a 56-year-old schoolteacher who held a rainbow flag tied to a walking stick. “I came because we have to show him we are with him. When the state threatens his dignity, we answer with presence.”

There were others, too. A young man with a painted face told me he had never seen such a turnout in his life. “It felt like the city was finally ours,” he said, voice raw with excitement. “We are not invisible anymore.”

Volunteers explained they had coordinated logistics in secret at times, worried about permits and police moves, yet buoyed by a broader international atmosphere. “People here watch what happens in other parts of Europe and feel both inspired and vulnerable,” said Márk, who organised marshals for the march. “You feel the pressure of a government that wants to make you afraid, and then you realise fear won’t stop us.”

Why this matters beyond Budapest

Ask yourself: when a city official risks legal peril to defend a parade, what does that say about the state of civic life? This is not just a Hungarian story. Across the continent and around the world, debates over free assembly, minority rights, and the power of law to shape social norms are playing out in similar, sometimes subtler, ways.

For the European Union — which has repeatedly raised concerns about Hungary’s democratic backsliding — the incident is another test. Can supranational institutions protect rights when member states use national laws to curtail them? For civic movements, it is an instructive example of how local authorities can act as a bulwark against centralised power.

“Cities often become frontline defenders of pluralism,” said Dr. Lucien Moreau, a political scientist specialising in urban governance. “When national governments pull centre-stage toward illiberalism, municipal leadership can preserve democratic practices. That is what happened in Budapest: the mayor and city hall chose to interpret their mandate as protecting citizens’ rights.”

Numbers that matter

Organisers’ estimate of attendees: more than 200,000 people.
Fines individuals could face for attending (under the contested rules): up to €500.
Potential prison time for organising a banned rally: up to one year.

What happens next — and what it reveals

Prosecutors’ move to seek a fine without a full trial speaks to an administrative route that can be quicker and less visible than a drawn-out court case. Critics worry such mechanisms can be wielded to intimidate political opponents and civic actors without the public scrutiny of a trial.

“The aim is not always to win in court,” said Júlia Szabó, a human-rights campaigner. “The aim can be to make the cost of dissent higher, to drain activists emotionally and financially.”

And yet, cracks show: the police declaration that they would not act against participants suggests that state power is not monolithic. There are pockets of resistance within institutions, and there remain people each day choosing to show up.

Final thoughts: the hard work of visibility

Standing among the crowd that day, it was hard not to think about the paradox of visibility. To be seen can be both liberating and risky. The marchers chose to be visible because invisibility had proven costly: erasure, stigma, laws passed in quiet votes.

“Visibility is a weapon,” said an older man who had marched decades ago and still attends now. “We wield it not to hurt others but to refuse to be erased.”

Whatever the legal outcome for Mayor Karácsony, the scene in Budapest last June will linger as evidence that civic bravery still matters. It raises a question for all of us — not just Hungarians, not just Europeans: when laws seek to redraw the boundaries of belonging, what will we do to redraw them back?

After fierce storms, landslide leaves Sicilian town teetering on cliff

hanad

January 28, 2026

Landslide leaves Sicilian town on cliff edge after storms

The day the edge gave way: Niscemi’s cliffside exodus

They say you can hear a town breathe. On the morning the plateau unclipped itself from the plain below, that breath turned into a gasp.

In Niscemi, a town of roughly 25,000 souls tucked into south-central Sicily’s honeyed landscape, families stepped into the street and watched whole chunks of earth slide away. Houses that had stood for generations were suddenly perched on a new, terrible horizon. A car dangled over the void like a child’s toy abandoned mid-play. Garden walls cracked into puzzle pieces. The church bell, which had marked births and funerals for decades, tolled once and then fell silent.

“Let’s be clear: if a house is on the edge it cannot be occupied,” Fabio Ciciliano, Italy’s civil protection chief, told reporters at the scene, his voice equal parts command and counsel. The message was simple, but the consequences were not. Authorities ordered more than 1,500 people to leave their homes. For many, the evacuation felt sudden; for others, it felt overdue.

Evacuation and official response

Emergency tents and buses arrived within hours. Social workers set up triage points to register families and coordinate temporary shelter. The government moved as well: Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni’s administration declared a state of emergency for Sicily, Sardinia and Calabria, the three southern regions hammered by the same violent storm system that opened Niscemi’s wounds.

The cabinet approved an initial 100 million euros to meet urgent needs — food, shelter, immediate repairs. Local authorities, however, estimate the damage across the affected area could top 1 billion euros once rebuilding, business losses and repairs to infrastructure are counted.

“There’s no sugarcoating it,” a municipal official, answering on the condition of anonymity, said over coffee in the square. “We’re looking at a permanent relocation for some neighborhoods. People don’t just lose walls; they lose memories. You can patch a roof, but you can’t move a childhood.”

Lives uprooted: voices from the plateau

There are names and faces behind every statistic. Francesco Zarba, whose family has lived on the plateau for generations, spoke bitterly when he stood on the temporary safety line and watched surveyors measure the slope.

“I have been told that I have to leave. We had the first landslide 30 years ago, and no one ever did anything,” he said. “They knew the ground was tired. They knew the water was eating under our feet. My wife cried when she packed the recipes.”

Maria, a widowed retired teacher, wrapped her shawl tighter against the wind and described putting photographs into a plastic bag as if they were precious seeds to be planted elsewhere. “We have this little piazza where everyone meets. In summer, the street singers come. For me, it’s not the house; it’s the piazza’s sound I will miss,” she said. “I feel like we are being reshuffled by forces we don’t see.”

A young volunteer from Catania arrived with thermoses of coffee. “You can tell people are angry, but mostly afraid,” she observed. “They ask, ‘Where do I go? Who will fix the slope? Who pays for this?’”

Why the plateau failed: water, geology, and a warming Mediterranean

At the heart of the catastrophe is a deceptively simple culprit: water. Officials say the plateau is gradually collapsing toward the plain below, a process accelerated by water that has been saturating the subsoil. The violent storms that swept the region released intense bursts of rain, but they were simply the trigger for a simmering problem.

“This is a slow-motion geologic event that reached a sudden, catastrophic moment,” said Dr. Elena Russo, a geologist at the University of Catania. “When soils become saturated over long periods, the cohesion that holds slopes together vanishes. In urbanized landscapes, human activity — poorly maintained drainage, altered land use — compounds the risk.”

Scientists have repeatedly warned that the Mediterranean is warming faster than the global average, changing rainfall patterns and increasing the intensity of storms. Italy has seen a rise in extreme precipitation events in recent decades, and landslides and flash floods have followed. What was once statistically rare is becoming part of seasonal reality.

Local color, ancient land

Niscemi’s plateau is not just a geological feature; it is a patchwork of olive groves, citrus orchards, terracotta roofs and narrow lanes where neighbours trade small kindnesses. In the lower streets, a barber swept hair onto a mosaic floor, and in the cafés people argued with friendly heat over football and politics. The land remembers the toil of families and the rhythms of harvests.

“You can’t separate people from place here,” said a local priest, who arrived to offer quiet comfort. “Even our saints’ festivals are shaped by the land. When the ground moves like this, it feels like the center of our stories is shifting.”

What comes next: money, policy and migration

The million-euro question is both fiscal and moral. Initial government funds are a start, but rebuilding safely will require sustained investment in geotechnical studies, drainage, reinforced coastal defenses, and — crucially — the political will to act before the next storm. Local authorities warn that without substantial, long-term investment the cycle will repeat.

Beyond infrastructure, there is the human toll. Relocations often lead to social upheaval: schools empty, small businesses close, and the cultural fabric that knits a community frays. Across Europe and beyond, climate-related displacement is emerging as a quietly accelerating phenomenon, reshaping demographics and social supports.

“This is not just a Niscemi problem,” Dr. Russo said. “It is a litmus test for how we adapt to a new norm. Do we shore up coasts and slopes piecemeal, or do we reimagine our relationship with fragile landscapes?”

Immediate needs and long-term choices

Short-term: safe housing, psychological support, rapid geotechnical assessments, and compensation schemes.
Medium-term: reinforced drainage, slope stabilization, and urban planning that respects geological maps.
Long-term: national investment in climate adaptation, early warning systems, and community-led relocation planning.

Policy talk aside, communities must be centered in these decisions. Residents like Francesco and Maria want assurances that relocation isn’t erasure — that their stories will move with them, not be placed in archives. They want a say in where and how they restart.

Where do we go from here?

As Niscemi’s people arrange their lives around temporary addresses and uncertain futures, one thing becomes clear: modern disasters are rarely single events. They are the intersection of weather, geology, policy choices and long-term neglect. They test our institutions, our compassion, and our imagination for a just response.

So as you read this, ask yourself: what would you want your leaders to do if land beneath your feet began to slip away? And what would you want history to remember about how we treated our neighbors when the ground fell out from under them?

In a land of enduring light, where seasons have always been a promise, Niscemi now waits — a community suspended between memory and rebuilding, asking not just for money and engineering, but for a future that keeps people and place together. The work ahead is technical, political and moral. It is also deeply human.

Ilhan Omar doused with unknown substance while delivering speech

hanad

January 28, 2026

Ilhan Omar sprayed by unknown substance during speech — A man is tackled after he sprayed liquid at Ilhan Omar

A Syringe, a Scream, and a City Holding Its Breath

Last night a packed community hall in Minneapolis tilted for a few heart-stopping seconds toward chaos. The air — warm from bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder — smelled faintly of coffee and winter coats. Ilhan Omar, Congresswoman, Somali‑American daughter of refugees, and a lightning rod in American politics, was in mid-sentence when a man in the front row leapt up and sprayed an unknown liquid at her from what looked like a syringe.

Someone behind me shouted. Others froze. Security pushed forward like a delta of hands and jackets. The man was wrestled down and led away by officers from the Minneapolis Police Department; the audience exhaled in a collective, uneven sigh that was part relief, part rage, part disbelief. The congresswoman, shook but unbowed, stepped back to the microphone and finished her remarks. “We are Minnesota strong,” she told the room. “We will stay resilient in the face of whatever they might throw on us.”

What it felt like to be there

As a journalist who’s sat through dozens of town halls, I’ve learned that the most revealing moments are sensory ones: a cough at a tense pause, the sudden silence when a rumor sweeps a crowd. Last night, time snapped; a second stretched out into a small eternity of scrabbling shoes and shouted instructions. People pushed forward to help. One woman near the front, her hijab pinned in a careful knot, said to me afterwards, “I came to ask about healthcare for my mother, not to see someone try to hurt my Congresswoman.” Her eyes were wet but steady.

“I looked down and saw the tube,” said a security guard who helped tackle the man, his voice still shaking. “You don’t expect to be in a classroom and suddenly be in an emergency room. We did what we had to do.”

Context: Why this moment matters

The incident was not an isolated lapse in etiquette. In recent years, elected officials — particularly women of color and immigrants — have seen a spike in threats, harassment, and physical attacks. Across the United States, political rhetoric has become rawer and more personal, and it has bled into how people treat one another in public spaces. When attacks happen in places meant for civic conversation, it is a symptom and a signal: a symptom of polarisation, and a signal about how fragile our public sphere has become.

For Minnesota, the stakes feel particularly close. The state hosts one of the nation’s largest Somali‑American communities, centered in the Cedar‑Riverside neighborhood not far from where last night’s event occurred. For many residents, Omar is not simply a politician — she is a neighbor, a mosque‑goer, an emblem of possibility after decades of displacement. “She’s family,” said Ahmed, who runs a small cafe that doubles as a community bulletin board. “When they attack her, we take it personally.”

The politics behind the moment

Omar has been an outspoken critic of immigration enforcement policies and of statements from national leaders that single out immigrants and refugees. The exchange last night took place just after she called for comprehensive changes to how the Department of Homeland Security approaches enforcement. Her language — blunt, urgent — is the sort that draws applause from supporters and sharp rebuke from opponents. Presidential rhetoric has not helped soothe tensions; it has often amplified them.

Beyond the headlines and the applause lines, the issue touches millions: how nations handle borders and migrants; how communities balance security and compassion; and how rhetoric from the top filters down into everyday behavior. When public speech becomes dehumanizing, the downstream effects are tangible and sometimes dangerous.

Voices from the room: fear, defiance, resolve

After the man was removed, people lingered, reluctant to leave the circle of attention. A retired schoolteacher in the third row, who has lived through Minnesota’s civil rights battles, spoke in a voice that was equal parts exhaustion and determination. “We’ve raised our children here,” she said. “We will not let violence be normalized at a podium.”

A younger attendee, a community organizer who asked to be identified as Sofia, said, “This is what happens when leaders stoke fear — someone hears it louder than reason and decides to act. It could have been worse. It could happen elsewhere. We need to teach people to argue without trying to erase each other.”

Security staff later told me the suspect was taken into custody by Minneapolis police. Officials were still testing the sprayed substance; by the early morning hours there were no reports that the congresswoman had been seriously harmed. Yet the psychological ripple — the feeling that the public square is less safe — will linger for days, perhaps weeks.

What experts say

“Political violence rarely stems from one moment alone,” said Dr. Lena Ortiz, a political sociologist who studies political polarization and civic safety. “It is an outcome of a thousand small escalations — persistent dehumanizing rhetoric, echo chambers online, and a sense among some that extremes are the only way to be heard. Town halls used to be places of civic repair. We need to bring that back intentionally.”

Research supports Ortiz’s warning. Studies of political violence show that when public discourse degrades into demonization of opponents, incidents of harassment and threats rise. In addition, communities with high immigration enforcement activity often report elevated anxiety and distrust toward public institutions — a fact that local leaders in Minneapolis say colors everything from civic participation to school involvement.

Where do we go from here?

There are immediate, practical questions: How should security be managed at public events? What protocols keep both speakers and citizens safe while preserving the openness that democracy requires? But there are deeper questions, too. How do we speak across difference without reducing another person to a caricature? How do we honor the dignity of people whose histories and faces are different from our own?

“Resilience is not only standing back up after something scary happens,” said Omar in the minutes after she returned to the podium. “It is the decision to keep showing up, to keep listening, and to keep arguing for policies that make our community safer and healthier.” Her words landed like a benediction in a town hall meant to be about policy but that became a test of civic courage.

A community’s choice

As you read this from wherever you are — a café in Rome, a living room in Johannesburg, a university dorm in Seoul — ask yourself: what kind of public square do you want to inhabit? One where fear dictates who speaks and who is silenced? Or one where disagreement is heated but humanized? The answers matter. They are not abstract. They shape the air in community halls and the safety of people who step up to lead.

For now, Minneapolis will tend to its bruises and measure its next steps. The Somali cafes will open in the morning, the children will return to school, and the town hall’s chairs will be reset for the next time citizens want to be heard. The image that stays with me is simple: a woman returning to the microphone after being attacked, steadier than the moment deserved. That kind of steadiness is contagious, and in a season that desperately needs it, perhaps it is the most meaningful thing to witness.

UN Agency Confirms Delivery of School Supplies to Gaza

hanad

January 28, 2026

School materials enter Gaza, UN agency says — Trucks carrying aid enters Gaza through the border crossing in Rafah, Egypt

When a Pencil Becomes a Promise: School Kits Reach Gaza After Years of Blockade

There is a small, wooden cube on the concrete floor of a makeshift classroom in Khan Younis that catches the light like a tiny beacon. A boy — no older than nine — rolls it between his palms, then tucks it under his arm and grins. For him, that cube, along with a sharpened pencil and a narrow exercise book, is not just a toy or a tool; it is a fragile signal that life might, slowly, edge toward something resembling normalcy.

After nearly two-and-a-half years of aid items being stuck at checkpoints and in bureaucratic limbo, UNICEF says it has finally succeeded in getting thousands of educational kits into Gaza. The shipment includes pencils, exercise books, “school-in-a-carton” kits, and recreational wooden toys — the sort of basic things most children around the world take for granted. James Elder, UNICEF’s spokesperson, told reporters: “We have started to see real change: thousands of recreational kits and hundreds of school-in-a-carton kits have come in. We’ve got approval for another 2,500 school kits in the coming week.”

Not just stationary — but dignity

To understand why these modest packages matter, you must imagine learning in the dark. Many of Gaza’s children have been schooling in tents without reliable lighting, in buildings that are damaged or destroyed, or not at all. Teachers scrawl on scraps of paper by battery-powered lamps. Classrooms are improvised under tarpaulins, in community halls, or in narrow alleyways where children squeeze together like beads on a string.

“I used to teach from memory and whatever paper I could salvage,” says Fatima, a primary school teacher who asked that only her first name be used. “We would share a single pencil among five children. We worked by day as best we could, and studied by night with the glow of phones. These kits — they are a small thing, but they are a message to our children that someone remembers them.”

The kits arriving now include items that are mundane in most classrooms, but transformative here: pencils with erasers, ruled notebooks, counting cubes, and basic recreational materials designed to support learning and play. UNICEF plans to scale up education programming to reach roughly half of school-age children in Gaza — about 336,000 children — most of whom will be taught in tents or temporary learning spaces because 97% of schools sustained some level of damage, according to a UN satellite assessment in July.

Faces in the statistics

Statistics here read like a ledger of grief. The Hamas-led attack in October 2023 killed 1,200 Israelis, according to Israeli tallies. Gaza’s health authorities report that Israel’s assault killed some 71,000 Palestinians. UNICEF has cited official data that more than 20,000 children were reported killed in the conflict, including 110 since an October 10 ceasefire last year.

Numbers are necessary. They help humanitarian organisations plan, donors allocate funds, and governments weigh responses. But they are also blunt instruments: they can’t describe the curled fingers of a child gripping a pencil for the first time in years, the eyes of a mother relieved by a handful of exercise books, or the hush that falls over a tent when children recite a poem together for the first time since displacement.

Logistics, red tape, and politics

The route from an aid warehouse to a child’s hand in Gaza is rarely simple.

Entry approvals: Aid consignments were frequently delayed or blocked by authorities citing security concerns. UNICEF and other agencies say school supplies were among items restricted.
Physical destruction: With most school infrastructure damaged, learning spaces now occupy tents, community centres, and the remains of buildings.
Operating geography: UNICEF reports most learning spaces will be concentrated in central and southern Gaza; the north remains hard to access after intense fighting and heavy damage.

Israeli authorities have said militant groups embedded in civilian areas, including schools, making the delivery and protection of civilians during conflict complex and fraught. “We cannot accept the militarisation of schools,” an Israeli official told a local press briefing last year. At the same time, aid agencies argue that children and teachers should be shielded from politics and given the supplies they need to learn and heal.

Voices from the ground

“The first thing my daughter did when she saw the new notebook was to trace the lines with her finger,” says Ahmed, a father of three in a displacement camp near Rafah. “She said, ‘Now I can write again.’ For us, it’s more than a notebook. It’s hope.”

Health workers in Gaza warn that malnutrition, limited access to clean water, and interrupted health services are undermining children’s ability to learn. “Even when you have the materials, a child who is hungry or sick cannot concentrate,” says Dr. Leila Mansour, a pediatrician volunteering at a clinic. “Education and health are inseparable in emergencies.”

Education as protection

There is growing global recognition that education in emergencies is not a luxury; it’s a form of protection. Schools provide structure, a sense of normalcy, psychosocial support, and practical skills that keep children safer from exploitation, child labour, and recruitment into armed groups. UNICEF’s efforts in Gaza are part of a broader international push to embed learning spaces in humanitarian responses.

“We’re not just handing out paper and pencils,” James Elder said. “We are helping children to heal, to reconnect to their futures.”

What this moment asks of the world

As those simple school kits circulate from hands to hands across Gaza, they expose a larger set of questions for the global community. How do we ensure consistent access to humanitarian supplies in conflict zones? How do we protect children’s rights to education and to safety amid protracted crises? And perhaps most pertinently: what does rebuilding a generation look like after the disruption of childhood?

These small deliveries will not erase loss, nor will they rebuild the schools that stood as community pillars. But they are a start — an acknowledgement by the world that children belong at the center of recovery efforts. They also ask something of the reader: to consider what it means to support learning where the stakes are not just grades and exams but survival, dignity, and the fragile scaffolding of hope.

So the next time you sharpen a pencil, pause. Imagine, briefly, that in a tent in Gaza a child is doing the same — and feel the weight of that ordinary, defiant act. What would you give to see a classroom return to life? And what more would you ask your leaders to do so that no child is left to learn in the dark?

Russian airstrikes kill two people in Kyiv region, officials say

hanad

January 28, 2026

Russian strikes kill 2 in Kyiv region - authorities — Previous Russian strikes had already killed at least 12 people across Ukraine [file image]

Morning Frost and the Sound of Impact: A Small Town’s Loss Near Kyiv

The sun rose on a thin crust of frost, the kind that makes breath hang steady in the air and lends an ordinary morning a brittle clarity. In Bilogorodska, a community on the outskirts of Kyiv, that clarity was broken not by birdsong but by the blast of shells and the ragged, distant echo of jets.

Local officials later reported two people dead and several more wounded after strikes hit the area overnight. For the neighbors who gathered on the snow-lined street outside a low-rise apartment block, grief looked like a woman with a scarf pulled tight across her face and a man looping a coat around himself as if to hold on to warmth in more than one sense.

“We were asleep. I heard the windows rattle and thought a truck hit something,” said Olena, 47, a schoolteacher who stood quietly by a neighbor’s door. “Then we smelled smoke and saw the glow. You learn to move quickly. You don’t think about life or death—only about where the children are.” Her voice steadied and then cracked. “Two of our people are gone. That is not a number. That is a mother and a neighbour.”

A Wider Night of Violence

Across Ukraine, the same night brought more anguish. Authorities said at least a dozen people lost their lives in strikes that hit multiple regions, and among the dead were passengers on a train that Ukrainian officials say was struck by a drone. The images circulating afterward—of scorched railcars and charred debris—forced a new round of questions about the cost of war at the busiest arteries of civilian life.

President Volodymyr Zelensky described the bombardment as a direct blow to diplomatic momentum, calling on Western partners to intensify pressure on Moscow. “Peace cannot be negotiated when people are being killed as the talks take place,” he said in a televised appeal. For many Ukrainians, each strike feels like a repudiation of any hope that diplomatic channels will protect ordinary life.

Winter Makes Everything More Dangerous

We are now in the season when the daily arithmetic of survival grows more painful. Freezing temperatures amplify the stakes of any outage: loss of power means no heating, no hot water, no safe place for families to gather. In the last few days, strikes have left thousands without electricity in regions already vulnerable to cold. Aid workers say they are racing to distribute generators, blankets and portable stoves, but distribution is slow in places where roads are damaged and supplies scarce.

“Winter turns shortages into emergencies,” said Kateryna Ivanenko, a coordinator for a Kyiv-based humanitarian NGO. “People die from exposure, not only from bombs. When the grid goes down, hospitals switch to backup systems that can only run for so long. Our job is to keep those systems alive and to find shelter for the elderly.”

Voices from the Ground

Not all the voices in Bilogorodska were of despair. There was fury, practical resolve and—surprisingly—humor that felt defiant more than flippant. A young volunteer named Mykola, who spent the night ferrying people to a makeshift clinic, laughed briefly when asked how he slept. “You make tea in the middle of the night and hope that tomorrow the world will be less mad,” he said. “We patch what we can. We carry each other.”

At the clinic, a retired paramedic who refused to give his name described the scramble to treat shrapnel wounds and hypothermia simultaneously. “You have to think like a machine: temperature, bleeding, breathing. But you can’t forget to hold a hand. That is the hardest part—reminding people that they are not alone.”

Diplomacy and Destruction: Talks in the UAE

These attacks came in the wake of diplomatic encounters in the United Arab Emirates, where Russian and Ukrainian delegations met in talks brokered by the United States. The meetings were cautious, the language measured. Yet for the families in Bilogorodska and the passengers on the train, meetings in faraway hotel rooms offer little consolation when violence scratches at the door.

“Diplomacy has to be matched by deterrence,” said Dr. Marta Radev, a conflict analyst with a think tank in Warsaw. “What we are seeing is a classic mismatch: negotiators talk about steps forward while tactical operations continue to inflict civilian harm. That undermines both trust and the practical mechanics of reaching an agreement.”

What the Numbers Tell Us

Since February 2022, the war has displaced millions and exacted a heavy toll on civilian infrastructure—factories, hospitals, schools and power stations have been repeatedly damaged. Humanitarian agencies warn that winter amplifies risks: every power outage, every targeted piece of logistics infrastructure, affects access to food, medicine and safe heating. Exact casualty figures fluctuate and are often contested; what remains indisputable is that the human cost is concentrated among ordinary people who must navigate survival amid political calculations.

Beyond Headlines: The Everyday Consequences

This is not a story that fits neatly into a scroll of headlines. It is a slow, layered erosion of ordinary routines. The cafe on the main street that once opened at 7 a.m. now opens at noon when volunteers have had time to check pipes and electrical lines. Children still go to school where possible, clutching thermoses of tea, but their laughter sounds different—hushed and careful. Farmers report missing harvest windows when they cannot get machinery fueled because supply chains are interrupted.

“We are not soldiers,” said one farmer, Ilya, wiping frost off his cap. “We are people making bread, paying for schoolbooks. War turned everything into a calculation I never learned.”

Small Acts, Big Meaning

In Bilogorodska, neighbors have begun a tradition of leaving a small bowl of porridge at the clinic door for those waiting through the night. It is a ritual of sustenance and solidarity. It is also, in its own modest way, an assertion of humanity against the logic of destruction.

Immediate needs: warmth, shelter, medical care.
Short-term priorities: restoring power, clearing roads, supplying fuel for generators.
Long-term work: rebuilding infrastructure and restoring trust between communities fractured by violence.

What Can the World Do?

As you read this, ask yourself: how do distant policy debates translate into the small acts that keep people alive? Humanitarian organizations need steady funding, clear access corridors and political cover to work safely. Diplomacy needs leverage—sanctions, incentives, security guarantees—that translate into real changes on the ground, not just headlines.

“We must insist that talks mean something for people,” said Dr. Radev. “That requires a combination of pressure and protective measures for civilians. Otherwise, we are simply negotiating while the bombs fall.”

Closing: A Night Remembered

When the night finally receded and the frost began to glisten, the town of Bilogorodska gathered names. They said them aloud so that the people who had died would not be reduced to statistics. They are more than the news cycle’s casualties. They were parents, co-workers, bakers, teachers. Their loss ripples through kitchens and classrooms.

One of the neighbors lit a candle and placed it on a windowsill, its tiny flame barely warding off the chill. “We don’t know what the next day will bring,” she said. “But we will be here. We must be. That is all we can promise.”

Is that enough? It cannot be. But it is a start—a reminder that amid geopolitics and grand strategy, the clearest imperative remains the protection of human life. What will you do with that knowledge?

France enacts law barring social media access for under-15s

hanad

January 28, 2026

Australia social media ban for under 16s to take effect — Ten of the biggest social media platforms will be required to block Australians aged under 16 or be fined

A New Childhood: France’s Push to Keep Kids Off Social Media

On a gray morning in a Parisian lycée, the air smelled of rain and croissants, and the schoolyard hummed with the familiar soundtrack of adolescent life: laughter, the clack of trainers, the distant click of a scooter. But tucked into that ordinary scene is a debate that now has the full weight of state law behind it — a debate about screens, algorithms, and the shape of childhood itself.

France’s lower house of parliament has just voted through a bill to ban social media use for children under 15, a move President Emmanuel Macron hailed as “a major step” to protect the emotional lives of young people. The measure — now headed to the Senate — also reinforces a longstanding prohibition on mobile phones in middle schools and would extend restrictions in high schools. Lawmakers hope the new rules will take effect with the 2026 school year for new accounts, with platforms given until the end of that year to close out existing underage accounts.

What’s in the bill?

At its core, the legislation forbids minors under 15 from accessing commercial social networking services. It makes exemptions for online encyclopedias and educational platforms. Supporters say an effective age-verification system will need to be put in place — a technical hurdle not resolved at the national level, though work is underway across Europe.

Ban access to commercial social platforms for under-15s.
Ban mobile phones in certain schools (building on the 2018 ban for collèges — ages 11–15).
Platforms would have a transition period to deactivate non-compliant accounts.

Former prime minister Gabriel Attal, speaking for the governing Renaissance party, framed the move as about more than screen time. “Social media platforms will no longer be able to colonize the minds of our children,” he said in the wake of the vote. “This is about autonomy, health, and civic resilience.”

Voices from the schoolyard

Walk into almost any classroom in France and you’ll find that the question of whether social media is toxic or merely unavoidable is no abstraction. “I’m relieved,” says Marie Dupont, a mother of two in Lyon who watches her 13-year-old scroll in the evenings. “There are nights when I write ‘no phone’ on a post-it and it still comes back to me — this feels like an extra hand.”

Not everyone shares Marie’s relief. “It’s unfair,” says Karim, a 16-year-old lycée student in Marseille who asked for only his first name. “Social media is how we organise group work, how we joke with friends. If you remove it for everyone until 15, you also remove a piece of our social life.”

Teachers, too, are divided. “Enforcement will be the real test,” says Isabelle Laurent, a history teacher in Bordeaux. “In one sense, the classroom has never been more precious — free from the constant pinging. But if the policy becomes a paper tiger, kids will be pushed to other places where there is no guidance.”

Why now? The data and the worry lines

The move in Paris follows a pattern in liberal democracies wrestling with the rapid spread of social media. Australia was the first country to set a national minimum age, requiring major platforms to block users under 16 — a law that forced platforms to block more than a million accounts and carry the threat of multimillion-dollar fines. France’s public health agency ANSES has warned of several detrimental effects of platforms like TikTok, Snapchat, and Instagram on adolescents, particularly girls, citing increased exposure to cyberbullying, violent content, and pressures that can exacerbate body-image concerns.

Globally, the World Health Organization estimates that between 10% and 20% of adolescents experience mental health conditions, and social media is one factor among many that researchers point to when trying to explain recent trends. Yet causality is complex: screen time intersects with sleep disruption, socioeconomic stress, family dynamics, and pre-existing vulnerabilities.

Implementation: technical, legal, and ethical knots

Proponents admit the law will hinge on age verification — a notoriously thorny technical challenge that brings privacy questions front and center. How do you confirm a user’s age without creating massive databases of teen identity data? Should companies require ID checks, rely on AI, or accept parental attestations? Each option creates its own risks.

“Age-gating must not become a surveillance mechanism,” argues Céline Moreau, a digital rights lawyer. “If verification is done sloppily, you could end up collecting sensitive data about minors or forcing them into opaque verification flows that create new harms.”

Others are skeptical of the law’s paternalism. Arnaud Saint-Martin of La France Insoumise called the approach “an overly simplistic response” that treats children as passive consumers rather than as citizens to be educated. Nine child protection associations urged lawmakers to focus on holding platforms accountable instead of banning children outright.

Global ripples

France isn’t acting in isolation. Regulators worldwide are experimenting with age limits, content transparency, and heavy fines for noncompliance. Tech companies argue that nation-by-nation rules create a logistical nightmare, while parents and child advocates counter that the business models of many platforms actively monetize attention and not the well-being of young users.

“This law is part of a wider push to rebalance power between transnational tech firms and democratic states,” says Dr. Antoine Pelletier, a sociologist who studies youth and media. “It’s as much about digital sovereignty as it is about mental health.”

So what could change for families?

If the law becomes final, some everyday scenes may feel different. School corridors might be quieter. Family evenings might be less interrupted by glowing screens. But change will be uneven. Staff shortages, loopholes, and tech-savvy teens will all shape the lived reality.

Practical questions remain. Will parents have to verify their children’s ages with documents? How will children who depend on messaging for caregiving arrangements or for safety be accommodated? What about teenagers who use platforms to access support networks or to organise political engagement?

Where do we go from here?

The vote in the National Assembly is a vivid reminder that the digital lives of children are public policy, not just private choices. It forces us to ask uncomfortable questions: What kind of childhood do we want to defend? Who gets to decide the boundaries between protection and autonomy? And can societies design digital spaces that respect both safety and freedom?

As the bill moves to the Senate, the conversation will deepen — and not just in Parisian chambers. It will surface in kitchen tables, in teacher break rooms, in legal clinics and in the start-up corridors of tech firms. Whatever your view, the issue is personal: it touches how we raise children, how we teach responsibility, and how we treat the next generation as members of a digital public.

Are we ready to legislate childhood in the age of algorithms? That’s the question France is asking the world — and the answer may reshape more than playground rules. It may shape the very contours of growing up in the 21st century.

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