US refuses visa to former EU commissioner over digital regulations

December 24, 2025

US denies visa to EU ex-commissioner over tech rules — Thierry Breton was the most high-profile individual targeted by these bans

A New Front in the Digital Cold War: When Visas Became Weapons

Across a rain-slicked Parisian boulevard, a café owner wipes down a metal table and squints at his phone. “We used to talk about trade wars,” he says, stirring a small spoon with a practiced flick. “Now they’re arguing about who can tell whom what to say online. It feels like the world has gone inside-out.”

Two continents away, in a sunlit office in Washington, the State Department announced a move that has already reverberated through the halls of Brussels and the backstreets of Berlin. The United States will deny visas to a small group of high-profile European regulators and civil-society actors — among them Thierry Breton, the French technocrat who helped shepherd the European Union’s Digital Services Act (DSA), and several leaders of nonprofit organisations described by Washington as having “coerced” American tech platforms into censoring viewpoints they opposed.

“These radical activists and weaponised NGOs have advanced censorship crackdowns by foreign states — in each case targeting American speakers and American companies,” the State Department said in the statement that set off a storm of protest across Europe. Secretary of State Marco Rubio framed the action in blunt geopolitical terms: “Extraterritorial overreach by foreign censors targeting American speech is no exception.”

Who is affected?

The visa restrictions target five people who have been prominent in the EU’s digital-policy universe:

Thierry Breton, former EU Commissioner and key architect of the DSA;
Imran Ahmed, head of the Centre for Countering Digital Hate (CCDH);
Anna‑Lena von Hodenberg and Josephine Ballon, associated with Germany’s HateAid;
Clare Melford, who leads the Global Disinformation Index (GDI).

For Europeans, many of whom see the DSA and the UK’s Online Safety Act as efforts to shape a safer, more transparent internet, the decision landed like a diplomatic slap. “We strongly condemn these visa restrictions,” France’s foreign minister posted on social media. “Europe cannot let the rules governing our digital space be imposed by others upon us.” Breton himself called the move a “witch hunt,” invoking the McCarthy era as a warning about political persecution.

Why this matters: law, power and the architecture of speech

If you work in tech policy, the contours are familiar but the stakes are shifting. The DSA — negotiated in Brussels and agreed in the early 2020s — set a new standard for online accountability. It demands that very large online platforms (the so-called VLOPs, reaching roughly 45 million or more users in the EU) explain why they remove content, provide safeguards for researchers, and give users clearer routes for redress. For many European lawmakers, it was an effort to rebalance power between global platforms and the societies they serve.

But to the Trump-era US administration, and to influential conservatives who have loudly criticised the DSA, such rules look like a novel form of jurisdictional aggression. The fear they articulate is this: if Brussels can impose transparency rules and content moderation regimes, could it indirectly tilt public debate elsewhere? Could European regulation choke American voices — or at least make it easier to do so?

That question is not abstract. In recent months Brussels fined X (formerly Twitter) for breaches tied to ad transparency and account verification — a move that incensed some US political actors. The White House also paused a technology cooperation deal with the UK, citing incompatibilities between American priorities and Britain’s Online Safety Act. Taken together, these skirmishes signal a widening rift over who gets to govern speech online.

Voices on the ground

“It feels personal,” says Maya, a London-based content moderator who asked to use a pseudonym. “My work is to triage harm. But the rules keep changing depending on who is shouting loudest — governments, shareholders, activists. You wonder whether policy is serving people or political theater.”

At a university in Berlin, Dr. Luis Alvarez, a researcher who studies platform governance, offered perspective on the legal dynamics. “The DSA explicitly aimed for transparency and researcher access — that is, to understand algorithmic amplification and the exposure of children to harmful content,” he said. “What Washington calls ‘extraterritorial overreach’ is often described in Brussels as the EU exercising regulatory autonomy over companies that operate inside its single market.”

What’s at stake globally

Beyond personalities and headlines, this clash touches deeper questions about sovereignty, the reach of democracies, and the shape of public discourse in an age where code and law collide.

Some figures help frame the scale. More than half the human population now uses social media; internet platforms host billions of interactions daily. The companies targeted by EU and UK rules — giants with global networks of users and advertisers — often generate revenues that dwarf small nations. Regulators in Brussels and London argue that if a global platform serves European users, Europe has a right to insist on safeguards. Washington’s counterargument is straightforward: American speech and American companies must be defended from foreign pressure.

But is the conflict really binary — Europe vs America, regulation vs freedom? Or is it a more complex scramble to set global norms? “Every big tech regulation becomes a template,” Dr. Alvarez noted. “Once a standard is implemented in one market, companies often extend it globally for operational simplicity. That’s why everyone fights over the rulebooks.”

Cultural colors and human reverberations

Walk through the Marais in Paris or Kreuzberg in Berlin and you’ll hear debates tie themselves to daily life: a small bookstore owner worrying about algorithm-driven visibility; a schoolteacher fretting over the platforms her students consume; a pensioner in Marseille, who uses Facebook to follow grandchildren, confused by sudden content removals. These are not abstract policy contests; they shape how communities find one another, recall memory, and contest truth.

“We don’t want to be told what to think from Washington, nor from Brussels,” said a Parisian retiree, name withheld. “We want rules that protect our children and our neighbours, not rules that silence some voices because others are louder.”

Where do we go from here?

The visa ban may be a punitive stunt — or it could be an opening gambit in a broader strategy to keep the digital commons fragmented along national lines. Either way, the current episode raises questions we all ought to consider: who decides the rules of the global internet? How do we balance the protection of vulnerable users with the protection of political speech? And what happens when norms and markets collide across borders?

As you scroll through your feed tonight, pause to think about the invisible architectures shaping those pixels. Who built them? Who polices them? Whose voice gets amplified and whose is muffled?

Policy fights like this one are messy, human and consequential. They are fought not only in capitals and courtrooms, but in cafés, classroom chats, and the small civic acts that keep public life alive. If the internet is a public square, then debate over its rules is an argument about what a public square should be — and who gets to speak there.

Putin Receives U.S. Briefing on Proposed Ukraine Peace Plan

hanad

December 24, 2025

Putin briefed on US proposals for Ukraine peace plan — A heavily damaged residential building following a Russian drone strike on one of Kyiv's residential districts in Ukraine yesterday

When Backroom Peace Talks Meet Frontline Dirt: Inside the Latest Push to End the Ukraine War

There is a curious, uneasy quiet after stormy headlines—a pause when diplomats whisper and generals hold their breath. This time the whispers crossed oceans: envoys connected to former US President Donald Trump met with a Russian delegation in Miami. Moscow says its leader, Vladimir Putin, has now been briefed and that the Kremlin will “formulate its position.” But on the ground in Ukraine, the sound is different: the scraping of earth where trenches are dug, the distant creak of electricity pylons, and the slow, stubborn work of clearing explosive remnants of war.

When politicians talk about “peace plans,” citizens think about doors that will stay closed or schools that might reopen. Who gives up what? Who gets to decide? And who pays for the reconstruction when the dust finally settles?

The Miami Thread and a Kremlin in Waiting

At the center of the recent diplomatic thread is Kirill Dmitriev, a well-known Russian businessman who has in recent months been acting as an informal channel between Moscow and the United States. Kremlin spokespeople confirmed Dmitriev briefed President Putin after talks in Miami with envoys linked to Mr. Trump. The Kremlin’s tone was cautious—no public thumbs-up, no outright rejection.

“We received the information and now we will study it,” a Kremlin aide told reporters in a clipped, formal register. “All main parameters of the Russian position are already known to our American colleagues. We will continue contacts through established channels.”

Translation: Moscow isn’t showing its cards in public yet. And for Kyiv, every moment of diplomatic opacity comes at a price.

What’s in the Latest Plan — and Why It Matters

In Kyiv, President Volodymyr Zelensky laid out a version of a 20-point plan that sounds, at once, like a pragmatic roadmap and an uneasy compromise. Key elements include a freeze of the front line—essentially recognizing where troops sit now as the “line of contact”—and provisions that could allow for Ukrainian withdrawals and the creation of demilitarized zones. Some previously proposed concessions, like a formal renunciation of Ukraine’s NATO aspirations, have reportedly been dropped.

Front line freeze: the current deployment lines would be accepted as the starting point for any negotiations.
Withdrawals and demilitarized zones: mechanisms to pull back troops and create buffer areas are on the table.
Joint management of the Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant: an idea that raises as many alarms as it does hopes.
A referendum: any territorial concessions would have to be put to a public vote in Ukraine.

“This plan opens windows rather than shutters,” Zelensky told reporters. “It could delay choices, but it cannot substitute for sovereignty.” He emphasized that any referendum and presidential elections would only come after an agreement was signed—an attempt, perhaps, to preempt accusations that Kyiv would be forced into hasty decisions under pressure.

Numbers That Stain the Map

Putin has publicly suggested Ukraine should cede roughly 5,000 square kilometers of territory in the Donbas region—ground that Kyiv still controls. For context, that area is larger than Luxembourg. Meanwhile, independent observers have documented a grinding attrition on the battlefield: in 2025, Russian forces were estimated to have taken roughly 12–17 square kilometers of Ukrainian territory per day at some points—an unforgiving arithmetic of loss.

Local Voices: Fear, Hope, and the Daily Work of Survival

To understand what these diplomatic exchanges mean, listen to people who return to broken streets every morning. In Kyiv’s Podil district, a café owner named Oksana sips tea and watches young men load crates of rescue gear into vans.

“We hear talk about peace,” she said. “But peace means my sister can go home to Donetsk without fear. It means schools open and that the man who fixes the clock at Saint Michael’s can breathe. Words on a paper don’t fix the pipes under our streets.”

In a village outside Zaporizhzhia, an elderly man named Anatoliy remembers when Energodar—near the Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant—was quiet, populated by nuclear engineers and sunflower fields. Now the town’s name pulses with geopolitical significance.

“If they make the plant a zone run together by Russians and someone else—who knows?—maybe it calms the risk of disaster,” he said. “But do I trust those who occupied my town to keep the lights on for my grandchildren? It’s not a yes; it’s a question.”

Zaporizhzhia: A Nuclear Red Line

The idea of joint US-Ukrainian-Russian oversight of the Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant is both pragmatic and perilous. The plant is Europe’s largest nuclear facility and has been occupied by Russian troops during the conflict, drawing repeated warnings from international nuclear watchdogs. Kyiv insists on no Russian oversight—understandable, given accusations of militarization around the site and fears about safety protocols.

Experts warn that any misstep at Zaporizhzhia would reverberate far beyond Ukraine’s borders. “Nuclear safety cannot be collateral bargaining,” said Elena Markova, a nuclear energy analyst. “Even the perception of politicized control over reactors damages global confidence in complex safety systems.”

How the World Watches—and Worries

Across Europe, capitals are watching with something like dread: what if the United States pursues a pragmatic, rapid deal that leaves European nations with the long, expensive task of reconstruction and security? There are whispers that Trump-era envoys seek a “peace as a political trophy” approach—quick, visible results that might be packaged for domestic audiences.

“If Washington makes concessions that look like a sellout, Europeans will be left not only carrying the bill but bearing the political fallout,” said an EU diplomat in Brussels, speaking on condition of anonymity. “It’s not just about money; it’s about credibility.”

And credibility matters. After years of sanctions, humanitarian aid, weapons deliveries, and a continent re-arming, any abrupt shift in the US posture could force a strategic reckoning in NATO and the EU: Can Europe shoulder the cost of rebuilding a battered neighbor? Should it have to?

So What Happens Next?

We are at a hinge moment. The Kremlin says it will formulate a response; Kyiv insists any concessions must be validated by its people. In the middle are millions of lives—farmers, nurses, teachers—whose daily chores have become acts of resistance.

Expect more backchannel diplomacy, more envoys and memos exchanged in hotel suites and embassy basements.
Expect the Kremlin to calibrate language carefully, keeping public options open while listening for guarantees it finds acceptable.
And expect Kyiv to demand legal and popular legitimacy for any territorial compromise—hence the insistence on referendums and delayed elections.

Questions to Sit With

What is the price of peace? Who decides it? If peace requires territorial concessions, who pays for reconciliation—and how do you restore trust once land has been ceded under duress?

These are not merely diplomatic abstractions. They are decisions that will echo in schoolrooms and marketplaces for generations. They will shape borders, but also identity, memory, and how future leaders learn to negotiate under fire.

As you read this, imagine sitting on a bench in a Kyiv park where cherry trees once blossomed and now stand stripped; imagine being a parent in Zaporizhzhia worried about radioactivity and ballots; imagine a policy adviser in Brussels running the numbers for decades of reconstruction. Which questions would you put first?

Peace is more than a document. It is the sum of small, stubborn acts of everyday life—and the wisdom of negotiators who remember that.

Irish peacekeepers spend Christmas on duty, calling it “just another day”

hanad

December 24, 2025

'Just a normal day' - Irish peacekeepers at Christmas

A Quiet Christmas Under Olive Skies: Ireland’s Peacekeepers at Camp Shamrock

The sun falls quickly in southern Lebanon. By late afternoon, the hills around Camp Shamrock are a wash of rose and dry grass, the air carrying the faint scents of citrus and diesel, cedar and dust. For more than 300 Irish soldiers stationed there, Christmas will arrive wrapped in a different kind of silence — not the hush of home churches or family living rooms, but the careful, watchful stillness of a peacekeeping post.

I visited the camp over the weekend. It is a place of tidy routines and improvisation, of laminated notices on mess-hall doors and hastily strung fairy lights over sandbagged parapets. Inside the tents and prefab buildings, people are busy — the very busyness that keeps the mood steady when the calendar says it should be festive and hearts say otherwise.

Keeping the peace, keeping busy

Camp Shamrock is part of UNIFIL, the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon, a multinational mission originally formed to restore peace in the wake of conflict. The force today is tasked with monitoring a tense ceasefire line between Israel and Hezbollah, supporting the Lebanese Armed Forces, and helping to create the conditions for lasting calm.

“We try to make it as normal a day as possible,” a battalion sergeant major told me, speaking with the blunt, steady humour you get from people who have learned to keep perspective. “For the soldiers, the work itself — the patrols, the radio checks, the logistics — that structure keeps the weight light. It’s harder, often, for the families back home.”

Indeed, while more than 300 of Ireland’s soldiers will be on duty at Camp Shamrock this Christmas, thousands of peacekeepers from more than 40 nations serve across different sectors of UNIFIL. For those who trade their kitchen tables for rations and radars each year, the holidays are less a holiday than a different kind of service.

Small rituals, big meaning

Holiday in a military camp is not one thing. It is a stitched-together mosaic of gestures: a makeshift tree squashed into a transit container, a pot of stew simmered on a camp stove, a Christmas Mass celebrated beneath a corrugated roof. These are the things that make a place feel like home, even when the lights of Dublin are a world away.

At dawn, some will go on patrol — a frozen landscape of checkpoints and watchtowers that nonetheless sees a lot of ordinary life: shepherds moving flocks, children playing in olive groves.
In the late morning, hot food is served. Men and women in uniform carve up turkey or chicken, share slices of Christmas cake sent from families, or tuck into something as simple as stew and soda bread.
In the evening, there will be video calls, folded letters, and the quiet exchange of photographs — portraits of smiling nieces, screenshots of living-room trees, the little particulars of a life paused at home and continued here.

“You miss the smell of your mum’s cooking,” one corporal admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting into a rueful smile. “But there’s also a sense of being part of something bigger. The lads from Argentina and Ghana — they’ll put on carols in Spanish and in Ewe. We’ll sing along. It sounds different here, but it’s still Christmas.”

Voices from two worlds

Back in County Cork, a mother I spoke with said it was “strange and quiet” without her son around the dinner table. “We Skype and he sends pictures of the decorations,” she said. “But you can’t hug over a screen. There’s a trade-off — proud and worried at the same time.”

Locals near the Blue Line — the buffer zone monitored by UNIFIL — offered their own perspective. A fruit seller in a small town south of the camp shrugged and said, “They are our neighbours in uniform. We see them on patrol, and sometimes they help fix things. For us, Christmas is about family. For them, maybe it is too.”

And a UN liaison officer noted the fragility that hangs over the region. “The ceasefire is more than an absence of bullets,” she said. “It’s a set of agreements, a network of trust between forces and communities that must be nurtured every day. These soldiers are not only watching borders; they’re watching the fragile threads that keep peace possible.”

Why these small sacrifices matter

Why should we care about a hundred or three hundred soldiers spending Christmas abroad? Because peacekeeping is the quiet seam of international order—often invisible, sometimes thankless, but crucial. Tensions along Israel’s northern border flare regularly; every patrol that reports a safe village, every supply convoy that arrives on time, every tense conversation defused before it becomes violent, helps keep that thin line intact.

Ireland has a long tradition of contributing to UN missions. While numbers ebb and flow, the symbolic weight of a small nation sending personnel to stand in dangerous places is significant, reminding the world that stability is a collective responsibility.

Comforts, and the cost of distance

There are comforts. There are extra blankets, a warm mess hall, chaplains who lead Christmas services, and care packages from home. There are also the kinds of things no kit can fix: the empty chair at a kitchen table, the child who will unwrap a present and turn to find their parent absent, the partner who must make do with messages and memories.

“We tell them to call home,” a senior NCO said. “We set up the tech, we hand out the timezones, and we make sure they get a hot meal. But mostly, we listen. That matters.”

What are we willing to ask of those who ask to help keep the world safe?

As you read this, ask yourself: what would it mean to spend a holiday in the service of something larger than your own celebration? Would you want to? Would you pay the price of distance for the chance to stand between communities and conflict?

The men and women at Camp Shamrock answer that question in small, continuous ways. They trade home comforts for discipline, family dinners for shared ones, the certainty of their own traditions for the improvised, multinational tapestry of a peacekeeping camp.

Their Christmas will be quieter, different, and full of small, human moments that matter a great deal to people in a place that is trying to keep the peace. That simple fact — the ordinary heroism of a Thursday patrol on a holiday — is, perhaps, the most potent reminder that peace is maintained not by headline, but by habit.

May their lights burn bright tonight, and may the conversations they keep alive here lead to safer mornings for everyone who lives under these olive skies.

Senior Russian general killed in Moscow car bombing, officials report

hanad

December 24, 2025

Russian general killed in Moscow car bomb, say officials — Russia is investigating if the Moscow bomb was planted by ‍Ukrainian special services

When a Quiet Moscow Street Became a War Zone

It was supposed to be an ordinary morning in a quiet southern district of Moscow — a place of cherry trees, Soviet-era apartment blocks, and market stalls where grandmothers haggle over black bread. Instead, a single blast ripped through the calm, shredding metal, shattering glass and, according to Russian officials, ending the life of Lieutenant General Fanil Sarvarov, a senior military figure whose career had taken him from the mountains of the North Caucasus to the deserts of Syria.

The scene that greeted residents and investigators was cinematic and brutal. A white Kia SUV lay mangled, its doors flung open, its frame twisted and charred. Windows in nearby buildings trembled; a smell of burning and spent cordite hung in the air. Sirens wailed. For those who had called this corner of the city home for decades, the blast was a jolt back to the front lines of a conflict they had long been told took place far away.

Voices from the Street

“The windows rattled,” said Grigory, 70, a lifelong resident whose balcony looks onto the blast site. “You could tell it wasn’t a car backfiring. It was like a thunderclap. We all ran to see.” He paused, then added with a kind of weary pragmatism: “We need to treat it more calmly. It’s the cost of war.”

Others sounded less resigned. A young mother who had been pushing a stroller nearby clutched her child and whispered, “I heard the bang and I thought the world was ending.” Her name, she said, was Yelena. “You feel unsafe in your own city,” she said. “How can anyone sleep?”

Who Was Killed — and Why It Matters

Lieutenant General Fanil Sarvarov, 56, headed the Russian General Staff’s training department, and his service record — deployments to Chechnya in the 1990s and command responsibilities in Syria in 2015–16 — reads like a modern history of Russian military engagement. For Moscow, his death is a blow. For many observers abroad, it underlines a grim fact: the war in Ukraine is no longer confined to battlefield frontlines or occupied territories. It has begun to reach into the heart of Russia itself.

Russian investigators, including the Investigative Committee, announced they were pursuing multiple leads and explicitly said one avenue was whether Ukrainian special services had orchestrated the attack. Kyiv has not commented on the incident. The absence of a statement leaves a space filled by speculation, accusation and the politics of a war in which deniability and covert action are part of the toolbox.

The Pattern of High-Profile Attacks

This strike follows a string of high-profile killings and attempted assassinations that have punctured Russia’s sense of domestic security in recent years — from car bombs and booby-trapped devices in Moscow to explosive gifts delivered in cafés. Each incident is an echo of the asymmetric tactics that emerge when one side lacks the conventional advantage but seeks to destabilize or demoralize the other.

In April, a car blast near Moscow killed General Yaroslav Moskalik, a deputy of the General Staff.
In December 2024, an explosive-laden electric scooter killed Igor Kirillov, head of Russia’s radiological, chemical and biological defence forces — an attack claimed by Ukraine’s security service.
In April 2023, a Russian military blogger was killed when a statuette detonated in a Saint Petersburg café.
And in August 2022, a car bomb killed Daria Dugina, daughter of a prominent ultranationalist.

Whether these strikes are the work of state-directed sabotage, freelance operatives, or an amalgam of actors remains contested. What is clear is the psychological reverberation: Moscow’s elite, and the neighborhoods where they live, are no longer insulated.

Diplomacy in Miami — and an Explosion at Home

The timing could not be more pointed. The blast occurred just hours after separate talks in Miami involving Russian and Ukrainian delegates and US envoys — part of a flurry of diplomacy aimed at ending a war that has now entered its fourth year. The meetings, mediated by envoys associated with former US President Donald Trump, were described by one US interlocutor as “constructive,” but Moscow called the progress “slow.”

“Slow progress is being observed,” quoted state media said, citing Deputy Foreign Minister Sergei Ryabkov, who also warned against European involvement in the talks. Moscow’s preference for a bilateral route through Washington reflects a larger geopolitical play: the contest not only over Ukraine, but over who gets to shape any post-war order.

Both sides, meanwhile, maintain public ambiguity. Kyiv’s negotiators have been cautious, and President Volodymyr Zelensky has repeatedly questioned whether Moscow genuinely seeks peace or is engaged in a broader geopolitical project. Even as diplomats whisper and trade drafts in hotel rooms across the Atlantic, explosions in Russian neighborhoods are a sharp reminder that the human costs of the conflict reverberate back home.

Experts Weigh In

“This is a classic example of conflict bleed,” said Dr. Olga Markov, a security analyst based in Warsaw who studies irregular warfare in Eurasia. “When a conflict is prolonged, actors find ways to strike where their adversary feels most secure. Targeted killings have both tactical and symbolic value: they disrupt command, intimidate, and send a message.”

“But there are risks,” she added. “Escalation is not just a military calculation. Every such attack feeds a narrative that can harden public opinion and complicate diplomacy.”

What This Means for Civilians and the Idea of Peace

For ordinary people — market vendors, pensioners, parents — the political chessboard is of secondary importance next to the immediate question: am I safe? “You fear going to the supermarket, to the park,” said Dmitri, a shopkeeper who swept glass from his storefront sidewalk that afternoon. “This is not the kind of life one expects in Moscow.”

Beyond personal safety, there is a wider civic erosion. When violence becomes part of daily life, trust in institutions frays. Investigations may begin quickly, but answers rarely arrive with the speed or clarity that would soothe a frightened populace. Meanwhile, the international community watches: negotiations in Miami, the role of European states offering potential peacekeeping contingents, and the murky intelligence assessments about leaders’ ambitions — all are variables that could either temper or intensify the conflict.

Consider the human arithmetic: tens of thousands killed, millions displaced, cities reduced to smoldering ruins. Those figures — estimates from humanitarian agencies and independent analysts — represent real families, small towns emptied of their youth, and a generation whose prospects are reshaped by loss. How much more of this will the world tolerate before the urgency to find a durable settlement overcomes the political inertia?

Looking Ahead: Questions Without Easy Answers

What happens next is uncertain. Will the attack harden Moscow’s resolve and lead to further clampdowns and retaliatory operations? Will it spur negotiators to redouble efforts in Miami and beyond? Or will it deepen the shadow war, in which deniable operations and tit-for-tat violence replace transparent diplomacy?

The blast in southern Moscow forces us to confront an inconvenient truth: wars that begin across borders eventually seep into living rooms. They transform neighborhoods into theaters of geopolitics and turn courtyards into crime scenes. They leave behind questions that are not easily answered by statements from ministries or color-coded maps.

As you read this, ask yourself — what is the cost of peace, and who is willing to pay it? How do we measure security when an explosion can unsettle a city and alter the course of talks thousands of miles away? And finally, what does it say about our shared global condition that diplomacy and violence can so often be found operating on the same day, in different hemispheres, but all connected by the fragile promise of stability?

In the end, the charred metal and shattered glass on that quiet Moscow street are not just evidence of an attack. They are a mirror, reflecting a world where civilian life, military policy, and high-stakes diplomacy intersect — sometimes with deadly consequences.

Greenland Pushes Back Against Trump’s Comments on Its Territory

hanad

December 24, 2025

'We have to have it' - Trump says US needs Greenland — US President Donald Trump has advocated for Greenland to become part of the United States

Wind, Willow and a World Watching: Greenland’s Moment

On a gray morning in Nuuk, the capital’s narrow streets smelled of diesel and hot coffee, and the flag of Kalaallit Nunaat snapped stubbornly in the wind. An elderly woman selling smoked trout shrugged when asked about the headlines from Washington: “We’ve been talked about before,” she said, tapping ash into the gutter. “Now they speak louder. Our life does not change because others shout.”

That quiet defiance — part weary, part proud — has become the refrain across Greenland since a renewed U.S. push to stake a claim, rhetorically if not physically, over the vast island. At the center of the storm is a simple idea and a complicated history: who decides the future of Greenland? The island’s leaders insist that answer is obvious to them. “Our choices are made here, in Kalaallit Nunaat,” wrote Greenland’s prime minister in a message to citizens, a short, firm reminder that sovereignty, for many Greenlanders, is more than a line on a map.

Why the Fuss? Geography, Minerals and Strategic Lines

Greenland is not just a wind-swept expanse of ice and fjords. It is a geological treasure chest and a strategic crossroads. The island stretches over 2 million square kilometers, yet its population hovers around 57,000 — a small, resilient community spread across an enormous Arctic stage. On one hand, fishing remains the backbone of the local economy; on the other, the promise of minerals beneath melting ice has global capitals circling hungrily.

Analysts point to deposits of rare earth elements, uranium, iron, zinc and other resources that could become vital in a world racing to electrify and rearm. The thawing Arctic also opens shorter shipping lanes between Atlantic and Pacific markets. For the United States, Greenland’s location has long been militarily useful — from early-warning radar at Thule Air Base to the broader calculus of missile defense and Arctic access.

“This is not hypothetical,” said Dr. Ingrid Mikkelsen, an Arctic geopolitics scholar. “Greenland sits where Atlantic meets Arctic. Whoever controls reliable access to these routes and resources can shape trade and security for decades.”

Numbers that Matter

Greenland’s economy remains heavily influenced by Denmark’s support. Annual grants from Copenhagen — a subsidy that helps run services in communities across the island — amount to several hundred million dollars (around DKK 3.5–3.8 billion in recent budgets), a reality that colors conversations about independence and modernization. Meanwhile, polls show a complex mix of feelings: many Greenlanders see independence as a future goal, yet most do not want to become part of the United States, preferring a homegrown path forward.

Voices from Nuuk: Pride and Unease

Walking through the market near the harbor, you hear the different threads of this story. A young teacher named Anja Jensen told me she wants sovereignty on Greenland’s terms, not at the point of a foreign power’s pen. “We don’t want to be traded like a chess piece,” she said, eyes on the harbor where small trawlers rocked gently. “People want control of our schools, our language, our future. Not a headline that changes everything.”

An older fisherman, Peder Olsen, laughed and shook his head. “I’ve seen ships come and go, men in suits, men in uniforms. They promise things. We have friends in Denmark, and we speak Greenlandic — that keeps us rooted. If outsiders think they can just take us, they’re dreaming.”

“Calm but firm” is how Greenland’s prime minister described the islanders’ response. That tone has been echoed by international partners, too: Copenhagen summoned the U.S. envoy to state its displeasure, and leaders in Brussels and Paris expressed solidarity with Denmark’s position. “Greenland belongs to its people,” one European leader wrote succinctly on social media, underscoring what has become an unexpectedly broad diplomatic chorus.

Diplomatic Ripples and a Special Envoy

In Washington, the rhetoric hardened when a U.S. president publicly declared Greenland essential to national security and appointed a special envoy to oversee relations with the island. The envoy’s first public lines read like a pledge: to deepen ties, to “lead the charge” on American engagement. Within hours, capitals in Copenhagen and Nuuk went into diplomatic mode.

“Sovereignty is not a bargaining chip,” said Denmark’s foreign minister in a terse statement. “We expect our partners to respect that.” In Nuuk, the office of the prime minister released a message of sadness and resolve, thanking citizens for meeting the moment with “calm and dignity.”

Outside the formal briefings, the affair triggered vivid local commentary. “This is 21st-century colonial theater,” said Alfeq Sika, a historian at the University of Greenland. “We’ve been ruled from afar in different ways for centuries. What people want now is the right to choose — without outside pressure, without spectacle.”

Muscles and Missives: The Military Angle

As diplomats traded notes, another narrative unfolded: visions of naval power. High-profile talk in Washington about new classes of warships — larger, faster vessels billed as part of a broader navies buildup — fed the sense that military tools and political messaging were moving in lockstep. “We will ensure we can protect critical supply chains and strategic locations,” an official in the U.S. administration said, pointing to a desire to reduce dependence on foreign suppliers for minerals and technology.

Sea power and Arctic access are not academic topics in an era when climate change rewrites maritime possibilities. Yet many Greenlanders worry that militaristic postures will drown out their right to self-determination. “We don’t want our valleys or towns to be bargaining chips,” an elder in Ilulissat told me. “If the world needs something from us, they must ask — and listen.”

What This Moment Reveals

At its heart, the Greenland story is more than a geopolitical flashpoint. It is a meditation on agency in an unequal world. The islanders’ desire for independence is entwined with economic dependency, cultural revival, and the practicalities of running a modern state in a harsh environment. It is also a reminder that climate change can create new opportunities and new pressures in the same breath.

So what should the global public learn from this tussle? First, that sovereignty matters as much as security; people’s identity and rights cannot be abstracted into strategic convenience. Second, that Arctic policy demands nuance — investments in local infrastructure, education and sustainable development matter as much as military access. Finally, that transparency and respect are essential when the voices being discussed are from communities of only a few tens of thousands but whose land holds outsized value.

Ask yourself: if your town were suddenly in the headlines because the world wanted what lay beneath it, would you feel protected or exposed? Would you trust distant powers to respect your wishes?

Closing: A Place That Will Decide Its Own Future

Back in Nuuk, the wind had not changed its course, nor had the lamps along the waterfront. People continued to go about ordinary lives — children in bright parkas, fishermen mending nets, shopkeepers trading the day’s gossip. The island may be the subject of great-power calculation, but the final word, many Greenlanders insist, will come from here.

“We have the right to write our own story,” Prime Minister Jens-Frederik Nielsen told reporters in a voice that mixed caution and conviction. “That is our sovereign duty.”

For anyone watching from afar, the message is as clear as the Arctic light: the world may circle and covet, but Greenlanders intend to remain the authors of their destiny. The question for global actors, and for the rest of us, is whether we will listen — and how we will act when small communities hold answers to large, shared challenges.

Palestinian physician in Ireland urges increased humanitarian aid to Gaza

hanad

December 24, 2025

Palestinian doctor in Ireland calls for more aid for Gaza — Mahmoud Abumarzouq (C) with his nephews Mohamed (left) and Refat before they were killed

Between Two Worlds: A Doctor’s Grief in Navan, His Family’s Ruin in Gaza

The front room in Dr Mahmoud Abumarzouq’s house in Navan smells of coffee and old photographs. On the mantel, a scattering of smiling faces — cousins, nephews, a woman with a paint-splattered apron — look out as if frozen in a kinder, quieter time. Outside, the quiet of County Meath rolls on: tractors, school runs, the steady rhythm of an Irish town. Inside, Mahmoud keeps replaying a different kind of sound — the thunder of bombings, the shuffle of rubble, the small, fragile noises of a baby waking without a mother.

“Every morning, I sit with the same cup Noor and I used to share,” he says, his voice low and steady. “When the war started, it tore everything. You cannot put that back. It is like trying to stitch glass.”

Personal Loss at the Scale of a Crisis

Mahmoud’s story is both painfully intimate and painfully familiar to many families from Gaza now scattered across the world. Earlier this year, four of his close relatives were killed in an Israeli strike. In the first days of the conflict his younger brother, Ahmed, 30, was killed, leaving a small boy without a father. Last March, a home in Rafah collapsed after an attack; two nephews, Mohamed, 16, and Refat, 14, and two nieces, Dina, 23, and Noor, 25, died beneath the rubble. Noor had given birth just three days earlier. Her baby, Yaqut, is now six months old.

“My sister Saham was trapped six hours under the debris. She survived, but with fractures in her back and wrist,” Mahmoud says. “She lost four children at once. No words can carry that weight.”

Mourners in Navan and elsewhere often hear casualty figures on the news and feel a familiar, numbing grief. But numbers cannot contain the texture of loss: Mohamed’s schoolbooks, Refat’s football boots, Dina’s sketchbooks, Noor’s lesson plans for her English class. “When I drink my coffee, I see Noor,” Mahmoud says. “It is small things that hit the hardest.”

Watching from Afar: A Diaspora’s Helpless Vigil

Mahmoud, an orthopedic surgeon by training, now does what he can from Ireland. He sends money when he is able, watches video messages from relatives, and fights the bureaucratic and practical barriers that make help feel almost impossible.

“Banks have been banned from transferring to Gaza,” he explains. “Even when you have the money, getting it in their hands is next to impossible.”

His parents, in their seventies and grappling with chronic illnesses like diabetes and hypertension, live in a converted warehouse near the coast. “There is no electricity,” Mahmoud says. “Medicines, basic care — these are daily worries that never switch off.”

And then there are the small mercies and stubborn threads of life. Yaqut, Noor’s daughter, shows delayed motor development, Mahmoud says, but is receiving physiotherapy and “getting better all the time.” The sight of the infant’s tiny videos — one of a tentative hand lift, one of a slow, effortful kick — are both a comfort and an ache.

Facts, Figures, and the Wider Humanitarian Landscape

On the scale of the conflict, official figures vary and are often contested. The health ministry in Gaza, administered by Hamas, has reported upwards of 70,000 deaths since the outbreak of hostilities — a number that has reverberated through global media and humanitarian channels. Independent verification is extremely difficult in the fog of war; humanitarian agencies repeatedly warn of the urgent needs that remain unaddressed.

Gaza is home to roughly two million people, many of them densely packed into urban neighborhoods and refugee camps. Years of blockade and border restrictions had already strained supplies before the latest escalation. Now, with damaged hospitals, destroyed schools, and disrupted supply lines, the task of providing food, medicine, and shelter has become monumental.

“We face a winter that could be lethal,” says an aid coordinator speaking from a European humanitarian NGO. “Fuel shortages, broken generators, and inadequate shelter mean that respiratory infections, malnutrition, and chronic disease complications will rise. The international response needs to be faster and sustained.”

On the Ground: Ceasefires and the Fragility of Peace

A brittle ceasefire has held in places, and fighting has waned in many areas, but both sides have accused the other of violating agreements. “We are praying for a full ceasefire,” Mahmoud tells me. “Ceasefire is the beginning; rebuilding is the work that follows.”

He lists what he hopes will happen next: hospitals rebuilt, universities re-opened, schools cleared of rubble. It’s a catalogue of basic civic infrastructure — the things that give a society its future: education, health, normal rhythms. “Palestinian people in Gaza are resilient,” he says. “They will stand up again and rebuild, if they are given the chance.”

Human Stories, Systemic Challenges

The plight of Mahmoud’s family opens a window onto broader issues that shape modern conflict: forced displacement, fragmented family networks, legal and financial barriers to remittances, and the long-term trauma that arrives with bereavement. It raises difficult questions about responsibility and global solidarity.

“When you see a child who won’t support her neck yet, it brings the political down to the human,” says Dr Siobhán O’Leary, a Dublin-based humanitarian physician I spoke with. “Whether you are a policymaker or a passer-by, the question becomes: what are you doing to protect that child’s future?”

Immediate needs: food, clean water, fuel for hospitals and heating, medicines for chronic conditions.
Medium-term: clearing rubble, rebuilding schools and hospitals, restoring supply chains.
Long-term: psychosocial support, education for children who missed years of school, economic recovery.

What Can Readers Do?

It’s tempting to feel helpless when stories like Mahmoud’s arrive in our feeds. But there are ways to translate empathy into action. Support reputable humanitarian organizations with clear track records in Gaza; advocate for safe and sustained aid corridors; press financial institutions and governments to ease lawful channels for remittances. And above all, listen to and amplify the voices of those living through the aftermath.

“If people around the world care, if they keep pressing, we can keep the story from being forgotten,” Mahmoud tells me. “Not all of us can be there in person, but we can stand in solidarity.”

Resilience in Small Acts

Back in Navan, he keeps Noor’s cup on the sideboard. He goes to clinics, operates when he can, and talks to his nieces and nephews across continents. He imagines a future where he returns to Gaza to practice again, to stitch bones and lives together. “Rebuilding is not only bricks and mortar,” he says. “It is teaching a child to read again, helping a mother to stand, treating the wounded so they can walk home.”

As winter approaches and the world’s attention flickers between crises, Mahmoud’s plea is both simple and urgent: more aid, more access, and the chance to rebuild. “The pain is always there,” he says. “But so is the hope — thin, stubborn, and very human.”

Two convicted over plot to attack Jewish community in Manchester

hanad

December 23, 2025

Pair convicted of plotting attack on Jews in Manchester — Walid Saadaoui (left) and Amar Hussein had a 'visceral dislike' of Jewish people

When the Plan Met the Undercover Agent: How a Plot to Target Manchester’s Jewish Community Was Stopped

On a gray morning in early May, more than 200 police officers fanned out around a hotel car park in Bolton. The atmosphere was clinical, rehearsed — the orchestration of men and radios, of unmarked vans and plain-clothed detectives. By the time the sun burned through the clouds, two men were in custody and a conspiracy that could have reshaped lives and neighborhoods had been laid bare.

“This could very well have been the worst single terrorist incident this country has seen,” said a senior officer speaking after the verdicts, his voice steady but exhausted. “We were confronting a plan that sought mass casualties and targeted a community purely for who they were.”

Walid Saadaoui, 38, and Amar Hussein, 52, have been found guilty of preparing acts of terrorism after plotting what prosecutors said was an Islamic State-inspired gun attack aimed at Jewish people in the Manchester area. The aim, investigators concluded, was simple and brutal: bring in lethal weaponry, attack a public gathering and then go on to hunt members of the Jewish community in north Manchester.

A plot sketched online and rehearsed on the docks

Their intentions did not spring from nowhere. Over months, Saadaoui — a father of two originally from Tunisia — moved from dark corners of social media to the more tangible realm of reconnaissance and logistics. He allegedly used multiple fake Facebook accounts to spread extremist views and to infiltrate groups where information about public events could be found.

In January, the information he gleaned included details about a large “March Against Anti‑Semitism” held in Manchester city centre, which drew thousands. Days after viewing those plans, Saadaoui is said to have told an associate that Manchester represented a promising concentration of Jewish life and that he intended to “hit them where it hurts.”

What Saadaoui believed were co-conspirators were in fact part of a meticulous counter-terrorism operation. An undercover operative — known in court as “Farouk” — cultivated his trust online and in person. Over months, the plot moved from rhetoric to purchase orders: a deposit was paid for a shipment of firearms and ammunition that, if real, would have transformed a hate-fuelled idea into mass murder.

Four AK-47-style assault rifles
Two handguns
Around 900 rounds of ammunition

He travelled to Dover twice to study how a shipment could be slipped past controls. He visited shooting ranges, bought an air weapon, surveilled synagogues, nurseries, Jewish schools and kosher shops in Prestwich and Higher Broughton, and even secured a safe house in Bolton to store the weapons.

The sting and the courtroom

On 8 May, the “strike day,” Saadaoui went to a Bolton hotel car park to collect what he thought were real firearms. Instead, he walked into the long arm of an operation that had purposefully placed deactivated weapons within reach. He was arrested; Hussein, who had been recruited to assist, was also detained. Investigators later revealed both men had been planning their attack between December 2023 and May 2024.

In court, Saadaoui denied an extreme ideology, saying he had been “playing along” with the undercover agent and that he intended to sabotage any attack before it could happen. Hussein said he was not part of any plan, and his barrister argued that while he held strong opinions about the conflict in Gaza, that did not make him a terrorist.

But jurors were unconvinced. Saadaoui was linked in court to a disturbing admiration for militant figures linked to mass-casualty attacks, and his movements, communications and actions were presented as consistent with someone engineering a large-scale, armed assault.

Voices from the community

In Prestwich, the Jewish neighborhood that figured heavily in the case files, people spoke of a town rattled but resolute. “We go about our business — schools, bakeries, shul — but there’s an undercurrent now,” said Miriam, a local nursery teacher who asked that her last name not be used. “You think about who you sit next to on the tram.”

“It felt personal to so many of us,” said Rabbi David Gold, whose synagogue has been part of the community fabric for decades. “But what we also saw was the best of Manchester: the police, the councils, neighbours of every background looking out and saying, ‘Not here. Not now.’”

Those neighbours include people whose lives resemble scenes found across Britain’s towns: a furniture-store employee in Bolton who may have been an unwitting accomplice, a brother at home in Wigan found guilty not of planning violence but of failing to pass on information that may have prevented the plot. Such ordinary connections underscore how plots often grow from everyday conversations and places.

Undercover policing: necessary but complex

Undercover officers are an essential, if controversial, line of defence. The operative in this case put himself at risk over months to build trust with the suspects, and prosecutors have publicly praised his courage. “He undoubtedly saved lives,” the senior officer said.

Yet the use of covert operatives raises ethical questions. Did the presence of an embedded agent merely reveal intent that existed, or did it shape and accelerate plans that might otherwise have stalled? Counter-terrorism experts say the answer lies in the evidence of action: logistics, financial transactions, reconnaissance and procurement — all signs that planning had moved beyond talk.

Dr. Hana Ahmed, who studies online radicalization, explained: “There’s a gradient from grievance to violence. Social media and private messaging provide echo chambers where ideology intensifies. But operational preparedness — buying weapons, scouting locations — is where law enforcement has to step in.”

What this means for a global moment

This episode in Manchester is not an isolated story. It reflects a troubling global trend: antisemitism on the rise in many countries, violent models broadcast by extremist groups, and the ease with which those ideas can traverse borders online.

Consider the wider context: the 2015 Paris attacks, orchestrated by people who likewise combined ideology and logistics, left 130 people dead and changed Europe’s sense of security. Today, policing, intelligence-sharing and community resilience must evolve to meet threats that are transnational and often digital in origin.

Communities and authorities are asking hard questions: how to safeguard public spaces without turning them into fortresses? How to support civil liberties while disrupting plots? And how to rebuild trust when the threat feels both diffuse and personal?

“We have to be careful not to let fear dictate how we live,” Rabbi Gold said. “That’s exactly what the people who push this violence want.”

So what do we do? Vigilance, yes — but also investment in education, social services, and interfaith work that addresses the grievances and misdirections that lead some individuals toward violence. We need better online moderation, smarter community policing, and international cooperation to stop illegal arms flows.

As the court process continues and Bolton’s streets return to a wary normal, Manchester’s story is a reminder: violent ambitions can be hidden in the most mundane corners of life, but they can also be thwarted by determined, often unsung public servants and communities that refuse to cede ground to hatred.

How will your community respond if something similar happens nearby? What civic ties can be strengthened now, before a crisis, so that neighbours know each other’s faces and stories? These are the quieter, harder questions that may be the real safeguards against tomorrow’s plots.

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