Bondi shooting suspect Naveed Akram appears in court today

February 16, 2026

Australia passes tougher gun laws in wake of Bondi attack — The 14 December attack at Bondi Beach killed 15 people who were celebrating at a Jewish festival

A Quiet Courtroom, Loud Questions: The Man on the Screen and a City Still Grieving

The small rectangle on a courtroom monitor was all that stood between a packed Sydney courtroom and the man accused of one of the most brutal attacks on Australian soil in decades.

For five minutes on a frosty morning, Naveed Akram — watched by victims’ families, community leaders and a nation still raw from December’s violence — appeared by video link from prison. He said almost nothing. When the judge asked if he had heard the discussion about suppression orders, he offered one single syllable: “yeah.”

Outside the court, lawyer Ben Archbold told journalists that his client was being held in “very onerous conditions”, and that it was too early to say whether Mr Akram would plead guilty. The next public hearing has been set for 9 March.

What the Courtroom Heard — and Didn’t

The brief hearing was largely administrative: suppression orders, timelines for evidence and the technical choreography of a sprawling prosecution. But the paperwork masks a tragedy that has stretched across suburbs and synagogues and into the living rooms of millions of Australians.

Mr Akram, authorities say, and his father Sajid carried out a meticulously planned attack on a Hanukkah celebration in December. Sajid was killed by police during the attack. Naveed has been charged with terrorism, 15 counts of murder, dozens of counts of causing wounds with intent to kill and allegations of planting explosives.

It is a roster of accusations that reads like a country’s worst wound: among the dead were an 87-year-old Holocaust survivor, a couple who stepped forward to confront one of the gunmen, and a 10-year-old girl. The loss has sent shockwaves through Australia’s Jewish communities — a minority of roughly 120,000 people spread across cities and suburbs — and reignited debates about public safety, hate, and the limits of prevention.

Faces, Names and the Household Sound of Grief

In the weeks after the killings, synagogues filled not just with candles and prayers but with questions that refuse easy answers. “We lit candles in the park outside the shul,” said Miriam Levy, a volunteer who helped organise a community vigil. “People said each other’s names. That’s how we held on — to the names. To the faces. It was how we remembered that these were mothers, fathers, children.”

At another vigil on a windy coastal night near Bondi, an elderly man pressed a hand to his heart and muttered, “We thought this kind of thing happened somewhere else.” A teenage survivor, speaking through a friend, described an instinctive urge to protect: “It felt like everything slowed down — people were moving and shouting and I just wanted to get everyone out.”

Red Flags, Reconnaissance, and the Machinery of Prevention

Behind the human stories are documents that sketch a different, chillingly methodical picture.

Police say the pair practised with firearms in the New South Wales countryside, recorded videos in October railing against “zionists” in front of a flag linked to the so-called Islamic State, and even conducted a nighttime reconnaissance of Bondi Beach days before the killings. They had returned to Sydney weeks prior from a four-week trip to the southern Philippines, police documents state.

Intelligence agencies had previously flagged Naveed Akram in 2019. But officials decided then that he did not pose an imminent threat. “Sometimes the system works by constantly reassessing risk,” says Dr Hannah Sutherland, a terrorism and intelligence analyst based in Melbourne. “But it’s a tragic truth that people can slip between those reassessments. The threshold for intervention is high — rightly so in a liberal democracy — but that means early warning signs can be missed.”

How security experts see the problem

Thresholds and legal standards: Agencies often need clear, immediate markers of intent before they can lawfully intervene.
Resource constraints: Small teams must triage thousands of leads and tips daily.
Online radicalisation: Content that isn’t illegal can still be corrosive, radicalising people in plain view.

“This was not a sudden flash of violence,” said Sutherland. “The picture painted by police indicates planning. The question now is what pieces of that picture were seen by whom, and when.”

Gun Laws, Memory and the Promise to Do Better

Australia’s memory of mass gun violence is long and specific. The Port Arthur massacre in 1996, which killed 35 people, reshaped the country’s relationship with firearms — a national buyback and sweeping laws followed. Since then, truly large-scale shootings have been rare, and Australians have often pointed to their laws as a model.

But December’s attack prompted fresh debate about whether laws alone are enough. Ministerial statements since the shooting have promised tougher measures: stricter controls on firearms possession, closer monitoring of individuals deemed at risk, and a national conversation about antisemitism.

“Legislation can do a lot,” said Professor James Hollis, a criminologist. “But you can’t legislate away ideology. Prevention requires community work — early intervention programs, mental health services, better community-police relationships and more careful monitoring of extremist networks.”

A Community’s Reckoning with Antisemitism

The attack also reopened a raw national conversation about antisemitism. Community leaders have reported increases in harassment and hostile incidents in recent years, mirroring trends in other Western nations where Jewish communities have felt a rise in hostility linked to global tensions.

Rabbi Naomi Feldman, who has led interfaith vigils since the shooting, asked a question that has haunted gatherings: “How do we make our streets and places of worship feel like home again?” Her voice, measured and weary, carried on a video livestream. “That isn’t only a job for the police. It is a job for neighbours, for social media companies, for schools.”

What Comes Next — Courts, Questions, and the Long Tail of Justice

The courtroom procedures that began this week are only the first act of what will be a long legal process. Evidence timelines were discussed. Victim identification suppression orders were extended. The accused will next be back before a judge on 9 March.

As the legal machine moves at its own deliberate pace, families will continue to live with the absence left behind. “We will come to court,” said an organizer for the families in a quiet, resolute voice. “But a date in a diary won’t fix the empty chair at our table.”

So where should our gaze fall now? On the man on the screen, on the holes in the system, on the families rebuilding lives — or all of the above?

It is tempting to answer simply: prosecute, reform, heal. But grief and policy do not unfold in tidy steps. They require sustained attention, moral courage and the willingness to look at uncomfortable trade-offs between security and liberty. They require communities to rebuild trust, and for institutions to explain, transparently, what was seen and what was missed.

As the legal proceedings unfurl, and as Sydney remembers, the city asks itself a question that reaches beyond its beaches and benches: how do we make sure the next emergency is not met by the same chorus of “if only”?

In the meantime, candles keep flickering outside synagogues, people continue to leave flowers near Bondi, and the small rectangle on a monitor waits for its next appearance in court — a screen that shows a man accused of violence, and screens the questions we all must answer together.

Myanmar Expels East Timor Envoy Over Alleged War Crimes Probe

hanad

February 16, 2026

Myanmar expels East Timor's diplomat over war crimes case — Myanmar police patrol a Rohingya camp on the border with Bangladesh

A Diplomat’s Suitcase and a Mountain of Evidence: When a Tiny State Takes On a Soldier Regime

There is a photograph I cannot stop seeing: a modest embassy office in Dili, sun slanting in through louvered windows, a young Timorese diplomat closing a battered leather suitcase. He told a colleague not to forget the jar of coffee beans from his hometown and a rosary tucked into the pocket—small comforts against an abrupt departure. “We were given seven days,” he said quietly. “Seven days to take home everything we could carry.” That image — intimate, human, oddly defiant — captures the strange ballet of power that has just unfolded between two Southeast Asian nations.

At the heart of that suitcase is a legal paper trail that a community battered for generations says will not be folded away. The Chin Human Rights Organization (CHRO), representing Myanmar’s Chin ethnic minority, has handed Dili a dossier of alleged atrocities — gang rape, massacre, the killing of religious leaders and even reports of a hospital struck from the sky. Those allegations, the CHRO says, are “irrefutable evidence” and have now been passed to Timorese prosecutors under the principle of universal jurisdiction. A small nation, newly seated among regional peers, is moving to try to hold a military junta accountable for crimes committed thousands of kilometers away.

Why this matters

Every legal strategy has a geography. Universal jurisdiction is one that lets states — regardless of where a crime occurred or the nationality of the accused — seek accountability for the gravest international crimes: war crimes, crimes against humanity, genocide. It has been used sporadically over the years, by Spain, Argentina and others, often to pierce the shield of impunity when victims’ homelands cannot or will not prosecute.

Timor-Leste, also known simply as East Timor, conducts itself in these parts of international law with an urgency born of experience. Its citizens remember the Indonesian occupation and the struggle for independence that cost tens of thousands of lives; its constitution and its politics are shaped by the memory of a people who once turned to the international community for justice. So when activists came with a file, the state paid attention.

The junta’s response — and the expulsion

In Naypyidaw, Myanmar’s military — the Tatmadaw, which wrested control in a 2021 coup and has since been accused of systematic abuses — reacted with a swift diplomatic rebuke. A junta statement described Dili’s move as a breach of sovereign norms and accused East Timor of “violating the principles of non-interference” that have long undergirded the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN).

Within days, East Timor’s top diplomat was summoned and told to leave the country within a week. “They told me to pack only what I could carry,” the diplomat later recounted. “No time to say goodbye to colleagues who have hidden survivors in their homes.” The message — one of forced distance, of diplomatic isolation — was loud and clear.

Voices from the ground

“We have watched our villages burn and our priests killed,” said a Chin community leader in a voice that folded between anger and exhaustion. “For years, we whispered names of the dead. To see those names on paper and heard by others — that is something we felt we had to do.” His hands are callused from farming on steep ridges, and his eyes still crinkle remembering the festivals where women wear traditional hemp skirts and the hills echo with hymns; those rhythms have been interrupted by violence and displacement.

“This is not just a legal case—it’s a plea,” said a Timorese prosecutor assigned to the file. “Small countries have to show that justice is not the preserve of the powerful.” An ASEAN analyst in Jakarta observed, “What we are seeing is a collision between regional norms and evolving global norms—non-interference versus the imperative to act on mass atrocities.”

Context: Myanmar today and the long shadow of Rohingya

Myanmar’s modern history is crowded with episodes that test the world’s conscience. The 2017 crackdown on the Rohingya in Rakhine State drove an estimated 700,000 people into neighboring Bangladesh and has been at the center of a case at the International Court of Justice (ICJ), where The Gambia accused Myanmar of genocide in 2019. In response, a 2020s ICJ ruling ordered provisional measures to protect the Rohingya; the broader legal battle continues.

Since the 2021 coup, Myanmar has lurched into deeper turmoil. Thousands have been killed and tens of thousands detained or displaced according to UN estimates and human rights organizations. Ethnic minorities like the Chin, Kachin, Karen and others have borne the brunt of heavy-handed tactics that include village burnings, forced displacement and—allegedly—sexualized violence used as a weapon of war.

ASEAN’s dilemma: solidarity, sovereignty, or something new?

For decades ASEAN’s glue has been a doctrine of non-interference — a pact that allowed diverse regimes to sit around the same table without fear of being judged. But as human rights catastrophes become more transnational, that doctrine fractures. East Timor, which the junta claims has violated ASEAN’s charter, only recently became the bloc’s newest member. Its accession marks an ironic twist: a state born of international legal advocacy is now using those same tools to seek accountability for others.

“If ASEAN wants to be relevant in the 21st century, it cannot simply hide behind principle when people are dying,” said a Southeast Asia scholar. “There needs to be a balance between respect for sovereignty and protection of human rights.”

How this ties into global trends

Beyond regional geopolitics, the episode illuminates a larger shift. The past decade has seen a rise in creative legal strategies and alliances that bypass traditional power centers. Small states, civil society groups and international prosecutors are increasingly leveraging courts to contest impunity. The technology of documentation has also evolved: satellite imagery, survivor testimonies, and mobile-phone footage make it harder for atrocities to be fully concealed.

Consider the simple arithmetic: East Timor’s population hovers around 1.3 million, while Myanmar counts roughly 54 million people. In most geopolitical scenarios, the larger state’s muscle would prevail. But the court of public opinion, evidence, and legal mechanism can level unexpected playing fields.

What comes next

There are many possible futures. The junta may double down on diplomatic retaliation, expelling more staff or imposing restrictions. East Timor may pursue a full criminal investigation and, if warranted, bring suspects to trial if they are ever within reach. Human rights organizations will continue to gather testimony, and the victims — always central to the story — will press for recognition.

And the rest of us? What do we do when the rules of sovereignty and the imperative to protect human life collide? Can regional bodies such as ASEAN evolve from a club of cautious diplomats into a forum that can respond to atrocity without splintering?

Perhaps the most vivid thing about this episode is how it reframes courage. It is not only the courage of those who pick up rifles or take to the streets. It is the quiet, stubborn courage of a tiny nation deciding to turn a file of horrors into an instrument of law, of a Chin mother who keeps the names of her children in a notebook, of a Timorese prosecutor who knows the risks and presses on anyway.

What would you do if you were asked to choose between realpolitik and the memory of the dead? That is the question now confronting leaders in capitals from Jakarta to Geneva. The suitcase has been closed for now. But the paper inside it — testimony, evidence, a demand for accountability — has been set in motion. And once such a case begins to travel, it rarely returns to its original home unchanged.

Author of UK gender report warns children are being ‘weaponised’

hanad

February 16, 2026

Children 'weaponised', says author of UK gender report — Dr Hilary Cass led a review of NHS gender care for under-18s, which led to sweeping changes, including a ban on puberty blockers

Children, Social Media and the New Rules: A Conversation Britain Can’t Ignore

On a damp Thursday morning in a school playground in northern England, a cluster of eleven-year-olds trade stickers and secrets. One girl scrolls through her phone between games of tag, staring at images that promise neat, transformative identities—filters, hashtags, before-and-after threads. Nearby, a teacher watches, worry and curiosity in equal measure.

“They see lives that look flawless and fast,” says a primary school teacher I’ll call Emma. “Kids think there’s a path that fixes everything. They don’t see the appointments, the medications, the hospital stays. It’s Instagram sunsets and then suddenly, big medical decisions.”

This is the terrain Dr Hilary Cass—who led a sweeping review of NHS gender services for under-18s—has been navigating. Her recent comments, published after the Department for Education circulated draft guidance for schools, read like a warning flag hoisted above the chorus of online certainties: young people have been “weaponised” and misled by social media about the realities of transitioning.

What’s changed — and why the debate feels so raw

The past decade has seen a rapid increase in young people seeking help for gender-related distress. NHS services, which once handled modest caseloads, were inundated. That surge, combined with a new cultural visibility of trans identities and ever-more sophisticated social media ecosystems, forced a national reckoning. Dr Cass’s review prompted a series of policy shifts—some controversial—aimed at slowing, scrutinising and reshaping how young people are supported.

“There are a tiny number of people who will never be comfortable with their biological sex,” Dr Cass told broadcasters. “For them, a medical pathway is the only way they’re going to live their life comfortably. And we don’t understand why that is, but we have to try and help those people thrive as much as the young people who are going to grow out of this.”

That line captures the dilemma: how to provide compassionate, individualized care to the few while protecting the many, especially in a landscape where online narratives can compress life-changing choices into a few viral posts.

New school guidance — a cautious path between support and safety

The Department for Education’s draft guidance asks schools to avoid “rigid rules based on gender stereotypes” while urging them to take children’s feelings seriously and to be alert to vulnerabilities such as bullying or mental health problems.

Key shifts include a default expectation that schools should engage parents when a child requests a social transition, with only “rare circumstances” permitting omission. Practically, that means fewer secretive decisions and more involvement from family.

Schools should discuss social transitions with families and consider clinical advice.
Staff are advised to avoid enforcing gendered stereotypes around clothing or activities.
Vulnerable students are to receive safeguarding assessments rather than immediate social transitions.

“When I was doing my review, the default seemed to be not to contact parents,” Dr Cass told the Press Association. “This guidance has turned that completely the other way around.”

Voices from the neighbourhood: parents, teachers and young people

Walk into any town and you’ll hear the same tangled threads: concern, compassion, anger and fear. A father in Birmingham, Amir, describes lying awake at night after his 13-year-old told him they wanted to transition. “We want to be loving parents,” he said. “But we also want answers. How long will this take? Who will explain the long-term effects?”

Across town in a youth centre, 16-year-old Sam shrugs and says, “People online make it look like a reboot. You post a new bio and boom—someone else. But the more I look, the more it seems complicated.”

And then there’s Lucy, a teenager who decided against medical transition after months of counselling. “I felt rushed by what I saw online,” she told me. “I needed someone to say, ‘Let’s slow down and see how you feel in a year, two years.’”

Child psychologists caution that adolescence is a period of profound flux. Dr Rachel Mendes, a clinician specialising in adolescent mental health, told me, “Identity exploration is normal. What’s changed is the speed and scope of influences—peer networks amplified by algorithms, and a marketplace of personal narratives framed as universal solutions.”

Social media’s influence: amplification without context

Algorithms reward clarity, certainty and emotion. They surface success stories and dramatic transformations, not the years of therapy, the surgical complications, or the people who retrace their steps. This creates a skewed impression of what transition “really” means.

“Unrealistic images and expectations on social media were misleading children about what transition would really mean,” Dr Cass warned. “We must be honest about quite intensive medical treatments and sometimes quite brutal surgeries.”

Consider the global context: daily, millions of teenagers scroll through curated glimpses into others’ lives. Surveys show that a significant majority of young people use social media daily; many admit their self-image is influenced by what they see. In such an environment, the line between exploration and medical action can blur quickly.

Wider questions: rights, autonomy and the role of institutions

Behind the headlines sit thorny ethical and legal questions. At what age can a young person make irrevocable medical choices? How should institutions balance the right of a child to self-express with parental responsibilities and public health concerns? How do we avoid infantilising adolescents while not rushing them into lifelong interventions?

These aren’t only British questions. Across Europe, North America and beyond, societies are wrestling with similar tensions: rising mental health needs among youth, greater acceptance of gender diversity, and new pressures from digital life. Policies in one country ripple outward—lessons and missteps both.

What might a thoughtful approach look like?

A growing consensus among some clinicians and educators favours a measured, multi-disciplinary approach: more thorough mental-health assessments, careful use of social-transition measures, and clear pathways to specialist care for those who persistently need it.

“We should be slow and steady,” suggests Dr Mendes. “Provide space for exploration, ensure support systems are in place, and only pursue medical interventions when evidence, consent and long-term care are aligned.”

Where do we go from here?

Policy proposals now sit in a ten-week consultation period. Emotions will stay heated. But what matters most is the day-to-day world—classrooms, GP surgeries, family kitchens—where young lives are lived and decisions are made.

That’s why some grassroots groups are pushing for better sex and relationships education, clearer mental health provision in schools, and more investment in family support services. “It’s not about stopping people being who they are,” says a campaigner who works with parents. “It’s about giving children the time and help they need before making decisions that last a lifetime.”

Readers, what do you think? Should schools always tell parents about a child’s wish to socially transition? How do we balance privacy, safety and care in the digital age? These are questions without easy answers, but they demand humane debate, careful evidence, and, above all, a commitment to do right by young people—who are coping with storms we adults only partly see.

For now, Dr Cass’s words linger: children “were weaponised.” If we believe that line, our aim should be simple and urgent—shield them from political crossfire, give them room to grow, and build a system that listens harder and acts wiser.

Starmer seeks new powers to tighten regulation of online access

hanad

February 16, 2026

UK minister says talk of plan to replace Starmer not true — Keir Starmer's Labour Party is languishing in the polls

Building a digital fence: Britain’s bid to shield children — and the slippery trade-offs

On a damp January morning in central London, a mother watches her son scroll through videos on his phone while they wait for the bus. She laughs at a clip, then winces as a darker clip auto-plays. “I don’t want him seeing everything,” she says, folding a scarf tighter around her neck. “But I also don’t want to become a spy.”

That uneasy double-take — between protection and intrusion — now sits at the heart of a new push from Downing Street. Prime Minister Keir Starmer has signalled a drive for broader powers to regulate online access for children, arguing that the law must sprint to keep pace with rapid technological change. Behind the rhetoric are concrete proposals: an Australian-style ban on children under 16 using social media and urgent amendments to existing crime and child-protection legislation. The aim, ministers say, is simple: keep kids safer. The consequences, critics warn, are complex.

What’s on the table

The government plans to consult on measures that would give regulators and ministers swifter authority to curb digital harms. Instead of years of primary legislation each time an app or platform invents a new risk, officials want the power to act within months.

That matters in a world where an overnight algorithm tweak can create new exploitative content streams, and where generative AI tools are already capable of producing convincing — and sometimes sexualised — images of people at scale. The UK government has signalled that more AI chatbots will be swept up in a ban on creating sexualised images without the subject’s consent — a move spurred in part by controversies around AI products such as Elon Musk’s Grok.

Legally, the measures are being packaged not as an entirely new bill but as amendments to current crime and child-protection laws. That choice of route is telling: it offers speed, but critics say it could shrink parliamentary scrutiny and public debate — the very things that build trust when rights and freedoms are on the line.

From Imgur to encrypted tunnels: enforcement headaches

Governments are not guessing at the problems. When the UK tightened age-verification rules last year, a number of sites simply blocked British users rather than build systems they said would be invasive. Image-hosting site Imgur, used by millions for memes and conversation, served up blank images to users in the UK. Several adult websites also opted to block access entirely rather than implement what they called insecure and privacy-invasive verification.

Those knee-jerk blackouts expose a central paradox: protections that are too blunt encourage either overblocking or widespread circumvention. Virtual private networks (VPNs), which route your traffic through other countries, are already a common workaround. The government says it will consider restrictions on VPNs as part of its consultation, raising fresh questions about internet freedoms and the technical feasibility of policing encrypted pathways.

Voices from the frontline

“Kids are digital natives, but that doesn’t mean they’re equipped for every dark corner of the web,” says Dr. Aisha Patel, a child psychologist who has advised schools across the UK. “We need safety scaffolds, yes. But scaffolds that don’t stifle curiosity or make children feel policed.” She worries that age bans could push younger teens towards clandestine use rather than safer, supervised engagement.

Across town in a sixth-form common room, 17‑year-old Jamal rolls his eyes at the idea of a blanket ban. “You give us VPNs or older siblings’ accounts, and that’s that,” he says. “If the government wants to stop kids from seeing stuff, they need to teach us to spot the rubbish already.” His friend Anna adds, “Teaching beats banning. I’d rather get taught about consent than be told to stay away.”

For parents like the woman at the bus stop — who asked to be named Clare — the calculus is different. “I work two jobs. I can’t monitor everything. If there’s a law that makes apps less predatory, I’m in. But promise me it won’t mean the state snooping into every message.”

International ripples

Britain’s deliberations come as other countries move in similar directions. Officials in Spain, Greece and Slovenia have publicly declared plans to introduce age-related social media restrictions. The spread of these proposals reflects a global unease: from Rio to Riyadh, democracies and authoritarian regimes alike grapple with how to contain digital harms without throttling speech and privacy.

Those tensions become geopolitical when regulators in one country ask platforms — many of which are US-based — to enforce rules that conflict with other nations’ laws or with the platforms’ own privacy commitments. Digital-rights groups in the United States and Europe have frequently warned of clashes between child-protection ambitions and free-speech norms.

Data and the debate

How dire is the problem? Studies are mixed, but there are clear trends: most teenagers are online daily, and mental-health services report increased referrals related to online harms. Ofcom and other watchdogs have documented widespread access to social platforms by minors, along with concerns about grooming, exploitation and exposure to harmful content. At the same time, social media is a place of community and support for many young people.

“The data tell two stories,” says Professor Liam Ortega, a technology and society scholar. “There’s increased exposure to risk at the same time platforms are where many teens find identity and support. Policy needs to be surgical, not sledgehammer.” He warns against one-size-fits-all bans that might do more damage than good.

Culture, commerce and the cost of safety

Local colour matters. In the UK, family dynamics, school cultures and community resources vary wildly. In seaside towns where youth clubs have closed, screens fill the gap. In wealthier boroughs, parents can afford supervised tech solutions or tutors. A national law interacts with those inequalities.

Commercial realities matter, too. Platforms are profit-driven; building robust age-verification and moderation systems costs money. Some will decline to invest and simply cut off markets. That has already happened. And as companies make market decisions, privacy-conscious citizens may find their choices reduced.

So what now?

The government says it will run consultations and seek evidence before laying down new rules. But speed is the mantra: ministers want the ability to act fast, they say, when a new threat emerges. The question for citizens and lawmakers alike is whether fast action should mean fewer checks and balances.

How should societies balance the safety of children with individual rights and practical enforceability? Is a ban the blunt instrument we need, or should the focus be on education, better design, and targeted tech solutions? And who gets to decide where the line sits?

These are not hypothetical queries. They will determine whether a child in a northern town sees a harmful clip, an adolescent in London finds a support group, or a parent in Brighton can trust that tech companies have their family’s privacy intact. They will also shape how democracies — not just Britain — navigate the messy, urgent business of governing the digital world.

As the consultation opens, expect the debate to be loud, granular, and profoundly human. Because at the end of the policy papers and technical briefings are kids — curious, impulsive, vulnerable, ingenious — and the adults who love them. Which path do we choose for them?

Four months after ceasefire, Gaza civilians continue to die

hanad

February 15, 2026

Four months on from ceasefire, Gazans still being killed — Food shortages in Gaza continue, despite the opening of the Rafah crossing

Four months after the ceasefire: Peace on paper, rubble on the ground

There is a strange, brittle quiet in the streets of Gaza that sounds like a promise someone has already broken. Shop shutters hang open; where paint once brightened facades there are layers of ash. Children dart between piles of rebar and smashed concrete, their laughter a thin reed of normalcy in a landscape that insists otherwise.

Four months ago diplomats signed a ceasefire and declared an end to open hostilities. On the world stage the moment was framed as a turning point—an end to the relentless cycle of bombardment and counterattack. But down at ground level the story has not ended with a handshake. The ceasefire, many here say, has the look of a truce on paper and a war in practice.

Violence persists: pockets of fury, a cascade of suffering

The United Nations and aid groups have tracked a grim ledger since the truce: more than 570 Palestinians killed and roughly 1,500 injured in the months that followed the ceasefire. Among the dead were at least 108 children and 67 women, according to UN estimates. Explosive remnants of war continue to take victims—33 explosive ordnance incidents have been reported, leaving nine dead and 65 injured.

“You could tell people there was a ceasefire. They might believe it,” said a UN protection officer speaking from Amman. “But belief doesn’t mend bones, it doesn’t put bread on the table, and it doesn’t keep a child from being killed by remnants of yesterday’s bombs.”

Some attacks have occurred close to the so-called “yellow line”—the narrow boundary where Israeli forces agreed to pull back. Others have struck much deeper into the enclave. A UN spokesman recently told reporters that the past 24 hours had seen renewed airstrikes, shelling and naval fire, including in residential neighborhoods where civilians shelter. Two Palestinians on bicycles were killed in a drone strike in a single day; for many families, that imagery has become unbearably familiar.

Humanitarian winter: food, fuel and faith running thin

For the people living here, the immediate reality is less geopolitical theory and more daily survival. Winter has arrived on already fragile supplies. Humanitarian agencies describe conditions inside the enclave as “hanging by a thread”—food rations run low, medical supplies are insufficient and clean water is scarce. The opening of the Rafah Crossing to Egypt allowed some medical evacuations and family reunions, but did not change the broader calculus of shortages.

“We queue for bread and then wait again for water,” said Aisha, a mother of three who asked to be identified by a single name. “My children went to sleep in a room that smells like smoke. What peace is this, when you have to choose which child gets medicine?”

Beyond food and medicine, much of Gaza lies in ruins. Nearly 80% of buildings were damaged or destroyed over the course of the bombardment. Homes, schools, clinics—structures that once anchored daily life—now exist as blackened skeletons. Rebuilding will not be about reassembling bricks; it will be about restoring dignity and a sense of future that has been systematically eroded.

Politics in the palimpsest: reconstruction, control and competing blueprints

On the international stage, plans for Gaza’s recovery have taken a theatrical turn. A global “Board of Peace”—an umbrella body that promises to marshal funding, expertise and political support for reconstruction—has been presented with great pomp. Its advocates speak of “New Gaza” and “investment opportunities.” Yet several analysts and regional experts warn that the structure is shoddy, with overlapping committees, opaque lines of responsibility and no clear consensus on who enforces the rules or who will commit boots—or cash—on the ground.

“A plan without implementation is a brochure,” said Lina Haddad, a humanitarian analyst based in Beirut. “You can show beautiful maps and investor slides, but if you do not secure a political settlement, if you do not protect civilians and ensure humanitarian corridors, you are inviting a costly, hollow exercise in optics.”

One of the thorniest ingredients of Phase 2 of the deal is disarmament—how, if at all, weapons held by non-state actors will be addressed. Reports suggest elements within the Israeli military contemplate new operations to neutralize militant capabilities, while militant factions insist they will not disarm as a condition of a reset they distrust.

The West Bank: simmering unrest far from the headlines

If Gaza’s ruins are visible and visceral, the pressure cooker in the West Bank is quieter but no less dangerous. Settler violence and eviction orders have tightened the space for Palestinians, and last weekend’s announcement of new administrative measures to expand Israeli control over parts of the West Bank has been called a “de facto annexation” by Palestinian officials and condemned by much of the international community.

“The West Bank is at a boiling point and it is not getting the attention it deserves,” said a regional UN rights monitor. “That is a recipe for spillover that will be very hard to contain.”

In recent months, UN reporting has also documented at least 80 killings attributed to intra-Palestinian violence, including summary executions and feuds—troubling signs of the breakdown of rule of law in the absence of a functioning civil order.

Who will rebuild, who will protect—and who will pay?

Leaders at Davos and ministers in conference halls may speak of reconstruction as an opportunity for investors. Several countries, from Indonesia to Egypt and Turkey, have publicly discussed roles in a proposed international stabilisation force; Indonesia reportedly considered pledging troops for a force of several thousand. But questions remain: who pays for soldiers’ mandates, who provides equipment, and who ensures impartiality in a terrain of competing loyalties?

“You cannot parachute in peacekeepers and then walk away,” said a former UN peace operations adviser. “A mission needs a clear mandate, resources to protect civilians and a plan for long-term governance that Palestinians themselves can own.”

What does this mean for the two-state reality?

The broader political horizon—whether a two-state solution remains achievable—casts a long shadow. New settlement measures, declarations by hardline politicians, and administrative changes in the West Bank all feed a perception among Palestinians and many foreign governments that the path to an independent state is narrowing.

Can the world hold its moral attention long enough to shepherd a durable political settlement? Or are we watching the slow collapse of international norms where occupation, settlement expansion and administrative decrees quietly remap a people’s future?

What readers can take away

Human cost: The UN records hundreds of deaths and injuries since the ceasefire, with children and women among the casualties.
Material devastation: Roughly 80% of buildings in Gaza were destroyed or damaged during the recent wave of violence.
Political uncertainty: Reconstruction plans are under debate, but responsibilities and funding remain unclear, while the West Bank edges toward further administrative changes.

Looking ahead: questions, choices, responsibilities

Ask yourself: when the cameras leave and the headlines move on, who will stay to pick up the pieces? Reconstruction, resettlement and reconciliation are not just engineering problems; they are political projects that require trust, transparency and time—three things that are in short supply.

People on the ground talk about more than aid shipments and blueprints. They speak of schools that need to reopen, of olive trees that must be replanted for future harvests, of the legal protections families require to keep their homes. “We want to sleep without hearing planes,” said Rami, a teacher who distributes learning packets from a tent classroom. “Is that too much to ask?”

There are no easy answers. But the alternative—abandonment, incremental dispossession and cycles of violence—asks every member of the international community a different question: will you be a witness, or will you be a partner in a real, hard, often thankless project of rebuilding lives and institutions?

For now, the truce is fragile, the rubble is real, and the people—so often reduced to statistics—keep living, hoping and asking for the basics: protection, dignity and a future. That, perhaps, is the clearest measure of whether we are truly at peace.

Kaja Kallas rejects claims of Europe’s cultural erasure

hanad

February 15, 2026

'Europe not facing civilisational erasure,' says Kallas — Kaja Kallas was speaking on the last day of the Munich Security Conference

Munich in February: Where Old Alliances Meet New Fault Lines

The city smelled of strong coffee and exhaust — a bitter, familiar perfume these conference weeks — as hundreds of delegates streamed through the glass doors of the Munich Security Conference. Outside, the Bavarian winter bit at the cheeks of delegates hustling between meetings; inside, the conversations were hotter than the spiced wine that warmed the nearby Christmas market a month earlier.

What played out across those heated rooms was not just diplomacy. It felt like a reckoning: a conversation about who Europe can trust, what “strategic autonomy” actually looks like, and whether a continent that once leaned on American muscle can truly stand on its own two feet.

Pushback, Not Panic: Europe Responds to a Changing Transatlantic Script

EU foreign policy leaders arrived with a crisp, pointed message: Europe is not a museum piece to be pitied or lectured. That sentiment — equal parts defiance and pragmatism — threaded through speeches and private briefings.

Kaja Kallas, the EU’s high-profile foreign affairs representative, used the Munich stage to shrug off what she called gratuitous “Europe-bashing” from across the Atlantic. The subtext was clear: jibes about a “woke, decadent” Europe do not sit well when the continent is racing to arm itself and shelter millions displaced by conflict.

“We are not begging for approval,” one senior EU official told me after a session. “We are recalibrating. If the world is changing, so must our posture.”

Not all voices harmonised

On the other side of the podium, American officials were reassuring — and sharp. One high-ranking U.S. diplomat reminded the audience that the United States and Europe share deep historical ties and intertwined security interests. But that olive branch came with a caveat: migration and cultural anxieties remain central to political calculations in Washington.

The result was a strange duet. A declaration of mutual belonging, and a tug-of-war over who should carry what weight in the years ahead.

Ukraine: The Linchpin of European Defence

Conversations kept circling back to one cornerstone: Ukraine. For many European leaders, how the war ends in Kyiv matters more than any rhetoric from Washington. Ukraine is the proving ground of European defence policy — the place where Europe’s words about autonomy either ring true or fall hollow.

“Support for Ukraine is not an abstract moral duty,” said a Brussels-based defence analyst. “It’s the mechanism by which Europe tests and accelerates its own defence capabilities.”

Across halls and café tables, there was a shared anxiety: if Russia walks away from talks with more than it seized on the battlefield, the diplomatic victory will be Russia’s. That anxiety translated into concrete proposals: a cap on Russian military strength, reparations for the damage inflicted, and accountability for war crimes.

Cap the size of the Russian armed forces to reduce future invasion risk.
Require reparations and reparative mechanisms for civilian damage.
Establish robust war-crimes investigations with international oversight.

These are not small asks. They would reshape security architecture and force Europe — and the world — into uncomfortable but necessary conversations about enforcement and endurance.

From Munich to the Street: What People Are Saying

Outside the conference bubble, Munichians noticed the fraying threads of alliance rhetoric too. At a tiny bakery near Marienplatz, I spoke with a Ukrainian volunteer who had come to Munich to coordinate humanitarian shipments.

“Back home, people ask us: will Europe fight for our borders or for its principles?” she said, stirring her tea with a trembling hand. “The answer matters for my neighbours who have lost everything.”

A taxi driver, a man of few words and firmer opinions, offered a different lens. “We used to rely on one big friend across the ocean,” he said. “Now we are learning to sharpen our own knives. Better late than never.”

These small voices are the pulse under the diplomatic pronouncements — reminders that strategic decisions touch kitchens, schools and the quiet corners of refugee centers as much as they touch state budgets and military doctrine.

Rearming Europe: Urgency, Money, and Politics

There is momentum behind Europe’s call to rearm. Since Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, European governments have increased defence spending and sped up procurement cycles. NATO’s 2% of GDP benchmark remains a lodestar for many member states, and new joint procurement mechanisms in the EU aim to reduce duplication and accelerate delivery of arms and ammunition.

But spending more is only part of the puzzle. Europe also needs higher-speed decision-making, interoperable systems, and resilient supply chains for munitions and critical components. That reality was echoed in private meetings between defence ministers over sausage platters and espresso rituals between panels.

“Money opens doors, but doctrine opens wars well,” a French policy adviser commented. “If we don’t coordinate, we’ll spend a lot and end up with incompatible systems.”

The Bigger Picture: Migration, Identity, and Global Compacts

Migration wove itself into every conversation like a shadow. Some U.S. remarks focused on migration as a civilisational threat — language that stokes political anxieties across Europe. Others at Munich warned against letting migration fears obscure the need for humane, practical policy frameworks.

Who gets to define “civilisation” and who gets to protect it? Ask a policymaker in Tallinn and they’ll speak strategy; ask a refugee in Warsaw and they will speak survival. Both answers matter.

As leaders posture about defence and borders, society-wide questions also bubble up: How do democracies remain open and resilient in the face of demographic shifts? How can defence investments be reconciled with social spending? How do we hold aggressors to account without sliding toward permanent militarisation?

Leaving Munich: Questions to Carry Home

When the conference lights dim and the delegates drift back to their capitals, the rhetoric will be remembered — but the real test will be policy and implementation. Will Europe translate this weekend’s resolve into sustained investment, shared procurement, and the political will to hold Moscow to account?

Here are a few questions worth taking home:

Can Europe sustain increased defence spending without hollowing out social programs?
Will transatlantic ties be reinforced by mutual respect or strained by divergent priorities?
How can global institutions be empowered to ensure accountability and reparations for war crimes?

Munich felt like a crossroads: a place where old alliances were reaffirmed with caveats, where Europe claimed agency and where the world was reminded that security is as much about values as it is about firepower.

So, reader — what do you think? Should Europe step into a fuller role as guarantor of its own security, or will an enduring partnership with the United States always be the safer bet? The answers will shape a continent, and perhaps, the shape of this century.

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