Minister warns COP30 negotiations have reached a difficult, crucial phase

November 22, 2025

COP30 negotiations at difficult stage, says minister — Minister for Climate Darragh O'Brien said the proposed text of a final agreement is 'not acceptable'

Under the Fabric Ceiling: A Night of Tension and Smoke at COP30

Belém is humid in November; the air has the slow, deep breathe of the Amazon. At the COP30 conference venue, the day began with the bright, hopeful choreography of diplomats—name badges, quick smiles, last-minute briefings. By evening, the choreography had broken. A small fire licked a hole through the venue’s fabric ceiling and, for a time, literal daylight streamed into a room full of negotiators who had been arguing over whether the final climate text should even name the thing at the center of the crisis: fossil fuels.

It’s theatre and emergency all at once: the smell of smoke in a room whose purpose is to stop the world burning, negotiators shuttled into side-rooms, and a palpable sense that something more than a clause was at stake. “We came here to tell the truth,” said Ireland’s Minister for Climate, Energy and the Environment, Darragh O’Brien. “To leave it out of the text is inexplicable.”

What’s Missing: The Fossil Fuel Void

The draft final agreement that made its rounds through the conference seemed to have been written with a glaring omission: no explicit reference to fossil fuels, and no roadmap for a managed, just transition off them. For many—especially European delegations and a coalition of nearly 85 countries—this was less a drafting oversight and more a moral failure.

Why does that matter? Because fossil fuels remain the principal driver of anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions. Around three-quarters of global CO2 emissions are tied directly to the burning of coal, oil and gas. Temperatures have already risen roughly 1.2°C above pre-industrial levels, and every fraction of a degree matters for heatwaves, sea-level rise, and ecosystems like the Amazon that are both carbon sinks and weather-makers.

The Letter That Stirred the Room

Earlier in the week, a bloc of 30 countries—composed of many EU members and partners including the UK, Colombia, Chile, Costa Rica, Panama, Palau and Mexico—delivered a stark letter to the COP30 Presidency. It said, bluntly, they couldn’t support a final outcome that failed to include a roadmap for a “just, orderly and equitable” transition away from fossil fuels. It also criticized the absence of strong commitments linking climate action to nature protection—no explicit language on halting deforestation, the letter noted, is “deeply concerning.”

Voices from Belém: Anger, Despair, Resolve

Human stories are what make negotiations matter. In a small circle near the conference’s coffee station, Juan Carlos Monterrey, Panama’s climate envoy, used uncompromising language. “A climate text that cannot mention fossil fuels is a climate text that refuses to speak the truth,” he said. “It fails the Amazon, it fails science, it fails justice, and it fails the people we are here to represent.”

On the ground, the scene mixed exhaustion and indignation. “We are standing here in the shadow of the forest and we cannot even agree to protect it,” said Ana Silva, a rubber-tapper who had come from a riverside community two hours outside Belém to observe. “My grandchildren ask me if the river will still be here. I do not have answers for them.”

An EU negotiator, speaking on condition of anonymity to convey an unvarnished mood, told me: “Europe is prepared to be constructive. But we cannot sign a blank check to the fossil fuel industry. Our citizens demand faster, fairer action.”

A Different Perspective: Sovereignty and Development

Not everyone at the conference saw omission as denial. A bloc of Arab nations and several African delegations expressed alarm at language that could be read as prescriptive on national energy choices. “Countries must maintain the right to decide their own energy mix,” said a delegate from an oil-producing country. “Development and energy security are not negotiable luxuries.”

That debate—between climate urgency and development rights—cuts to the heart of the COP process. It’s not merely technical drafting; it’s a clash of worldviews: priorities, histories of energy use, and the lingering scars of unequal development.

Why a Roadmap Matters

A “roadmap” is more than a bureaucratic artifact. For communities like Ana’s, it means time-bound plans, financial support, job retraining programs, and assurances that a transition won’t leave anyone behind. For investors and energy planners, it provides predictability. For scientists and activists, it offers an accountable pathway to close the emissions gap that current national pledges leave wide open.

Global emissions need rapid, deep cuts this decade to keep a 1.5°C pathway within reach. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change has repeatedly said the next five to ten years are decisive. A roadmap anchored in equity would include:

Clear timelines for phasing out coal and cutting oil and gas use, with safeguards for affected workers;
Major public finance shifts toward clean energy and nature-based solutions;
Mechanisms to assist low-income and climate-vulnerable countries with transition costs;
Strong measures to halt deforestation and restore degraded ecosystems.

Local Color: Belém, the Amazon, and the Human Scale

Walking the streets around the conference, you feel Belém’s rhythms: market stalls piled with açaí and tacacá, the scent of fried fish, conversations that slip seamlessly between Portuguese and Indigenous languages. The Amazon is not an abstract carbon ledger here; it is the weather, the food, and the cultural backbone of people who read the forest’s signs daily.

“We do not want to be climate refugees,” said José Pereira, a fisherman from a riverside community. “The forest gives us fish. If you take that away, you take our life.”

What This Moment Means Globally

The standoff in Belém is a microcosm of a larger reality: the world is entangled in competing imperatives—economic development, geopolitical stability, and environmental limits. That tension will not vanish in a night or a plenary; it will require political courage, finance, and a reimagining of what prosperity looks like in a warming world.

Do we prioritize narrow national interests, or do we steward a shared planetary inheritance? It is the question negotiators are chewing through sleepless hours, and it is the question citizens should be asking their leaders back home.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Negotiators are expected to keep working into the small hours, to stitch together a text that may yet include compromise language on fossil fuels and nature. Whether that stitch holds will depend on more than who wins a sentence in a document—it will depend on the political will to fund transitions, protect forests, and ensure that those least responsible for warming don’t pay the highest price.

“We can’t let the confetti of diplomatic language hide what needs to change on the ground,” said Dr. Maria Alvarez, a climate policy researcher who has worked across Latin America. “Words matter, but so does money, and technology transfer, and legal mechanisms.”

So ask yourself: if the draft text becomes the final text, what will that mean for the child in Belém who plays beneath the forest canopy? For the oil worker in a coastal town who fears unemployment? For the islands watching sea levels rise? Climate negotiations are not theater for spectators. They are a line of action that either loosens or tightens around the neck of our collective future.

Tonight, in a humid hall with a hole in its ceiling, the world is deciding whether to call the crisis by name. That choice will echo far beyond Belém.

McNally family seeks long-awaited closure after recent criminal sentencing

hanad

November 22, 2025

McNally family hoping for closure following sentencing — Sarah McNally was attacked and stabbed to death at a bar in New York last year

A courtroom in motion: twenty minutes that changed everything

The elevator to Court 309 smelled faintly of disinfectant and the old leather of worn benches. It was a gray November morning, the kind that compresses time. By the time the wall clock nudged 11:20 a.m., the case that had reverberated from a small bar in Maspeth to a grieving household in Ireland was finished.

He came in a beige sweatsuit, shorn head, a beard that softened his face into an unreadable mask. His hands were cuffed behind him. Marcin Pieciak did not stand trial. He had entered a plea a month earlier, and today the judge — Ushir Pandit-Durant — moved with a practiced economy, read the terms, and enforced them: 24 years behind bars, followed by five years of post-release supervision.

It felt swift. It was meant to be. Prosecutors and defense counsel had negotiated to avoid a jury trial and the prospect of a life sentence. “This disposition was negotiated,” the judge told the packed courtroom, “and the court will abide.”

Across an ocean: a family’s heartbreak read aloud

Sarah McNally’s parents were not physically present in Queens. They watched from Ireland via a court video link, listening as their letter — a testament to ordinary, incandescent love and extraordinary grief — was read into the public record.

“Sarah was the light of our lives,” the recorded voice said, reading the letter that circled between memory and disbelief. “She was our first child, our pride. She loved music, animals, and she lit up any room she walked into.”

The prosecutor paused to let the weight of those lines hang. The family’s words dominated the hearing; they stitched the crime back to a human life. In another era the letter might have stayed private; here it became the anchor of public reckoning.

Words in the room

An assistant district attorney described the evidence in stark, clinical terms. “The surveillance evidence shows a ferocity that is hard to watch,” the prosecutor told reporters afterwards, adding that the footage left no doubt as to the brutal nature of the attack. “We wanted the family’s voice to be heard.”

Pieciak spoke once. He paused, looked to the screen where Sarah’s parents watched, and said, “I’m thinking about Sarah every day. I have no answers now. Maybe one day you can forgive me.” It was the only public utterance he made in the courtroom.

Maspeth’s hush: a bar shuttered and a neighborhood unsettled

Walk the block around the old Ceili House and you will find a green facade and the echo of laughter that no longer fills the room. The bar has been boarded up and gutted; men with drills are knocking down a dividing wall to make space for a laundromat. The neighborhood has moved on in the small practical ways; the world keeps offering commerce where community once stacked chairs and traded stories.

“It’s like a shadow fell over the street,” a shopkeeper who asked not to be named told me, fingers still ink-stained from the register. “She used to come in every day. Bought a Coke and a sandwich. Always tipped the kids making the sandwiches. The place just…lost its heart.”

Julita, a law student and regular at the Ceili House whose favorite bartender was Sarah, came to court. She had expected a routine class assignment to be dull; instead she watched a town’s sorrow unspool in a 20-minute hearing. “I remember Sarah laughing behind the bar,” Julita said. “She was kind to everyone. It’s shocking to know what happened.”

The legal fast lane: pleas, proof, and the public’s right to see

It’s a fact of American criminal justice: most cases never see a jury. More than nine in ten convictions are the result of guilty pleas rather than trials. That system moves cases efficiently, but it also means the most wrenching facts often reach the public in compressed form — a document here, a recording there, a judge’s gavel at the end.

In Court 309, the judge allowed cameras. A defense lawyer had opposed filming; the judge reminded counsel that justice is supposed to happen with public oversight when possible. “New technology helps families and the public see and understand,” she said, and consent was granted. The videos and the victim’s letter became the courtroom’s memory.

What the deal means

The plea reduced the charge from murder to first-degree manslaughter — a change that determined the punishment. Facing a potential 25-years-to-life verdict if convicted at trial, Pieciak agreed to accept 24 years. For prosecutors it was a guarantee of punishment and a guarantee the family would not have to relive a trial; for the defense, an avoidance of the worst possible outcome.

Beyond one case: intimate partner violence and the questions we avoid

This story is local and global at once. Somewhere between the barstool and the court transcript lies a pattern familiar to advocates and researchers: a woman killed by someone she knew. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has long documented that millions of women experience intimate partner violence in their lifetimes. Those statistics are not just numbers; they are trajectories that end in hospital rooms, in restraining orders, and sometimes, tragically, in courtrooms like this.

“Every case like this should prompt us to ask what prevents intervention earlier,” said an academic who studies domestic violence. “Were there warning signs? Could community supports have intervened? These are uncomfortable—but necessary—questions.”

The McNally case also raises a legal question: when is a plea the best route to justice? Is a guaranteed sentence preferable to the uncertainty of a jury verdict? For families waiting for closure, the calculus is unbearably personal.

Small rituals, great absences

Outside the courthouse, a neighbor handed out a folded paper with Sarah’s name printed on it. Inside, the prosecutor thanked the family for trusting the office to represent Sarah’s voice. In Maspeth, the sandwich counter where Sarah once left tips now serves another customer. Across the Atlantic, her parents live with an absence that no courtroom order can fill.

“We will continue to speak Sarah’s name,” the family letter said. They will. Names are the small sacred things we hold onto when systems of law and order try to make sense of what cannot be undone.

What do we ask of justice?

When we leave a courtroom after a quick sentencing, what do we owe those who cannot be there? Is public punishment enough? Can a negotiated plea ever answer a family’s need for meaning, for ritual, for the sense that wrongdoing was seen and named?

We know one thing: for twenty minutes on a November morning, the machinery of law and the rawness of private loss intersected. For the McNally family, a sentence has been imposed. For a neighborhood, a bar closed. For a city, another statistic entered the ledger of violent crime. For all of us, the case is a reminder to look up from our screens and ask whether the ways we address domestic violence — from community support to legal strategy — are doing enough.

What do you think? When does the efficiency of plea bargaining become a disservice to victims, and when is it an act of mercy? The questions linger long after the gavel falls.

Former Fugees member Pras Michel handed 14-year prison term

hanad

November 22, 2025

Fugees rapper Pras Michel sentenced to 14 years in prison — Singer Pras Michel performs onstage with The Fugees on 4 November 2023 in Los Angeles, California

The Fall of a Fugee: Pras Michel’s 14-Year Sentence and the Long Shadow of 1MDB

On a brisk morning in Brooklyn — the kind where conversations about music and politics collide on stoops and in bodegas — longtime neighbors awakened to a headline that seemed to come from two different worlds at once: Prakazrel “Pras” Michel, a founding member of the Fugees, was handed 168 months in federal prison for his role in a sprawling international corruption scheme.

To many, Michel is a symbol of the 1990s: a Haitian-American kid who rose from neighborhood cyphers to Grammy stages alongside Lauryn Hill and Wyclef Jean. To federal prosecutors, he is a conspirator in a web of secret money, foreign influence, and opaque shell companies connected to the Malaysian 1MDB scandal — one of the biggest financial scandals of the 21st century.

A headline that links music, money and geopolitics

The court’s decision, confirmed by Michel’s attorney, caps a case that has routed through Hollywood, Wall Street, Kuala Lumpur and Washington. In 2023, a jury found the 53-year-old guilty on 10 counts — including money laundering, campaign finance violations, conspiracy and acting as an undisclosed agent of a foreign government.

Prosecutors portrayed a clear thread: funds siphoned from Malaysia’s 1Malaysia Development Berhad (1MDB) — investigators estimate roughly $4.5 billion was misappropriated — were used to buy art, real estate and finance cultural products and political influence across the globe.

“He betrayed his country for money,” a Justice Department prosecutor said last year. “He funneled millions of dollars in prohibited foreign contributions into a United States presidential election.”

The cast: fugitive financiers, famous faces, and fallen fundraisers

The scandal centers on Low Taek Jho, known as Jho Low, the Malaysian financier accused of orchestrating the 1MDB plunder. Low is a fugitive, believed to be in China, and he became infamous for a jet-setting lifestyle financed in part by alleged 1MDB funds. Those funds, prosecutors say, seeped into projects like the Hollywood film Wolf of Wall Street — where Leonardo DiCaprio later appeared as a witness in the trial — and into political channels in the United States.

Michel was accused of helping hide the true source of donations and using shell companies to channel millions into political activities, including contributions connected with the 2012 U.S. presidential campaign. The trial relied on a patchwork of bank records, text messages and testimony from high-profile witnesses.

“The evidence showed layers of shell companies and secrecy meant to obscure where the money came from,” said Dr. Maya Reynolds, a campaign finance scholar. “When foreign money enters a domestic political process hidden behind intermediaries, it corrodes both public trust and legal boundaries.”

Voices from the neighborhood

Outside a record store in Flatbush, Sylvia Jean-Baptiste, who sells vinyl and Haitian coffee, shrugged and folded a poster. “We loved the music,” she said. “But music and money are different things. I don’t know him the way the judge does, but it hurts to hear it.”

A cousin of Michel’s who asked not to be named told me the family feels “shocked and heartbroken,” and bristled at the suggestion that a musician could be more harshly punished than wealthier political operators. “No one gets the same yardstick,” the cousin said. “It’s not just law — it’s theater.”

Disparities and the fight to appeal

Michel’s legal team, led by Peter Zeidenberg, said the sentence was “completely disproportional” and announced plans to appeal. Zeidenberg highlighted disparities between Michel’s punishment and those of others tied to the same storyline: former fundraiser Elliott Broidy, who has been pardoned; former DOJ official George Higginbotham, who received three months of probation; and businesswoman Nickie Lum Davis, given 24 months.

“There simply is no justification for Mr. Michel being singled out like this except for the penalty for opting for trial,” Zeidenberg said. The lawyer argues Michel’s punishment reflects the hazards of going to trial rather than accepting plea deals — a critique echoed by defense attorneys across the country who warn of an uneven bargaining table in the federal system.

More than one scandal: China, Guo Wengui and the murk of influence

The Michel story is multi-threaded. In 2017, he also faced allegations of lobbying on behalf of Chinese interests to secure the extradition of Guo Wengui, an entrepreneur accused of defrauding investors of more than $1 billion. That episode illustrates how celebrity networks, foreign governments and private power can intersect in ways that blur lines of advocacy and law.

“There’s a marketplace now for influence,” observed Nora Patel, a former federal prosecutor. “Celebrities are powerful conduits — but with that comes responsibility. If you’re taking direction or money from a foreign interest without disclosure, you’re not just doing PR work; you may be breaking the law.”

The cultural context: when a pop star becomes a defendant

It’s jarring to see a figure from the soundtrack of a generation in court. The Fugees — with hits that fused hip-hop, soul and Caribbean cadence — captured the late 1990s with albums that sold tens of millions of copies worldwide and earned Grammy recognition. The irony is plain: a group that voiced social concerns in their music now finds a founding member entangled in a global scandal about money and power.

“We sang about community and pain,” said Alexis Dupont, a Haitian-American music historian. “Pras’ fall is a reminder that fame doesn’t inoculate you from the seductions of money and foreign intrigue.”

What this case tells us about accountability and power

Beyond the particulars of one man’s fate, the Michel case points to broader questions about how democracies police foreign influence, how wealth can corrupt civic processes, and how the legal system treats defendants unequally. It raises urgent questions for voters: How do we know who is buying access? What safeguards are adequate to prevent foreign cash from warping political debate?

The 1MDB case has led to rare global cooperation — investigations and prosecutions spanning the U.S., Malaysia, Switzerland, and Singapore — and to recovery efforts that have reclaimed assets, from yachts to paintings. U.S. authorities have sought to seize more than $1 billion in assets linked to the scandal, but many billions remain unaccounted for and many questions unanswered.

As Michel prepares to appeal and a community mourns an errant son who once helped craft anthems, the story will continue to unfold. Will the appeal narrow the sentence? Will other figures linked to the scandal face renewed scrutiny? And most importantly: what reforms will ensure that culture and politics remain separate from hidden, foreign influence?

When you think of the music that shaped you, do you also think about the forces that bankroll the world around that music? This case asks us to see both the beat and the ledger behind it — to listen with a critical ear.

Age at sentencing: 53 years
Sentence: 168 months (14 years)
Convictions: 10 counts, including money laundering and campaign finance violations
Notable linked scandal: 1MDB, estimated $4.5 billion misappropriated

Whatever you remember of the Fugees — the harmonies, the grit, the global reach — those memories are now braided with a legal saga that spans continents. The music still plays. The consequences are catching up.

What’s the purpose of Russia’s ‘research ships’ near UK waters?

hanad

November 21, 2025

Defence Forces 'aware' of Russian spy ship's movements — An image released by the UK of the spy ship Yantar on the edge of its territorial waters

In the shadow of the North Atlantic: a Russian ship, hidden machinery, and the fragile thread of the internet

On a damp morning off Scotland’s northern edge, the sea can look like a sheet of pewter — deceptively calm, hiding the depths. It’s here, between fishing grounds and the quiet hum of transatlantic cables, that a hulking silhouette has been tracked time and again: the Yantar. To sailors and residents, she’s a gray shape on the horizon. To strategists and cable engineers, she is a mobile, secretive platform with the capability to peer at the arteries of the modern world.

“We watch her when she comes,” said a fisherman who has worked the waters north of the Orkneys for three decades, asking not to be named. “You don’t see her every day, but when she’s here everyone notices. The boats change course. People talk.”

What is Yantar really doing?

Officially, Russia describes the Yantar as a civilian oceanographic research vessel, built at the Yantar shipyard in Kaliningrad, and intended for deep-sea research and search-and-rescue work. In practice, Western defense officials say it is much more: a platform for sophisticated undersea operations run by a shadowy arm of the Russian military, the Main Directorate of Deep-Sea Research, commonly known by the Russian acronym GUGI.

“Yantar is not a research vessel like you’d send to study whales,” a senior Western defense source told me, speaking on condition of anonymity. “It’s a capability for persistent seabed reconnaissance — mapping, surveying, and potentially interfering with undersea cables.”

Those cables matter more than most people realize. Estimates suggest that roughly 95% of intercontinental internet traffic travels via submarine cables — thousands of miles of fiber optic threads connecting continents. Around 400–450 active cable systems span more than a million kilometers of seabed, carrying everything from selfies to stock trades and emergency calls. Damage to just a few of these links could choke regional traffic and translate into real economic pain.

The ship and its toys

The Yantar is a big machine: about 108 metres long, with a complement of roughly 60 crew and endurance measured in months at sea. But its headline capability lies beneath the waves — she carries manned submersibles reportedly named Rus and Consul, capable of plunging to depths of 6,000 metres. In addition, a cadre of unmanned underwater vehicles — the so-called underwater drones — populate her decks.

Length: ~108 metres
Crew: ~60
Endurance: weeks to months at sea
Submersible depth capability: up to 6,000 metres

These craft are designed to find, inspect, lift and, if necessary, manipulate objects on the seabed. In past missions, the Yantar has been seen near wreckage and salvage sites, such as the location where a cargo ship sank in the Mediterranean. But defense officials worry the ship’s true mission extends beyond salvage: mapping the precise routes of cables, perhaps probing repeaters or anchor points, and — alarmingly to some — surveying for vulnerabilities that could be exploited in wartime.

Secrecy, sanctions and denials

GUGI itself is an enigma: a unit whose activities are so classified that only a small elite, sometimes described as Russian “hydronauts,” are said to know the full extent of its operations. Western governments have taken notice. Britain, for instance, has publicly linked the Yantar’s movements with intelligence-gathering on undersea infrastructure and placed sanctions on elements reportedly connected to GUGI.

“We’re not playing at conspiracy here,” said a maritime security analyst at a London-based think tank. “The technology exists: manned submersibles, remotely operated vehicles, cable grapplers. If a state chooses to map and, if necessary, disable undersea infrastructure, it’s within current capabilities.”

Russia’s counter-narrative is straightforward: these are civilian research ships. The embassy in London dismissed Western warnings as “militaristic hysteria,” insisting Moscow has no interest in British underwater communications. “They are drawing nautical charts,” Aleksey Zhuravlev, deputy chair of Russia’s Defence Committee, told a Russian news outlet. “That’s their job.”

Local reactions — curiosity, unease, resignation

In small coastal towns, responses run from bemused curiosity to quiet unease. “We’ve seen navy vessels before, but this one is different,” said a pier worker in Scrabster. “The locals don’t want trouble, but everyone’s aware how much depends on those cables. My grandson’s bank, my daughter’s job — they all rely on invisible things under the sea.”

There’s also a cultural layer. In the Highlands and Islands, the sea is both livelihood and identity; it feeds, isolates and unites communities. Seeing a foreign ship conducting operations — even charting and mapping — touches nerves about sovereignty and the sanctity of local waters.

Why this matters to you

It’s easy to imagine undersea cables as technical marvels far removed from daily life. But their fragility and strategic importance are very real. A targeted attack or even accidental damage can disrupt finance, communications, and emergency responses across regions. Governments are now investing in both defensive measures — like cable hardening and surveillance — and in diplomatic tools to secure seabed infrastructure.

Ask yourself: what would a day without reliable internet look like for your town, your work, your family? For cities dependent on cloud services, it could be crippling. For remote communities, it could sever lifelines.

Looking to the future

Russia is not alone in developing capabilities beneath the waves. Nations from the U.S. to China and smaller maritime states are increasingly focused on the seabed — not just for resources, but for strategic leverage. The Yantar is part of a broader tapestry: she’s the lead ship of a Project 22010 series that includes vessels commissioned in 2012 and 2022, and another, called Almaz, slated for completion in 2026.

“We’re observing a new frontier,” said a senior analyst who follows naval procurement. “The maritime domain has always been contested, but the focus is shifting deeper — literally — as undersea assets become critical infrastructure.”

That raises tough questions about law, norms and deterrence. How do nations establish rules for the seabed? Who polices activities in international waters? And what threshold of action constitutes hostile interference versus legitimate research?

Final thoughts: eyes on the horizon

As the Yantar moves through cold northern waters, her wake is more than a line on a map. It’s a flashpoint where technology, geopolitics and everyday life intersect. The ship herself may be a single platform, but the debate she sparks is global: about transparency in maritime operations, protection of shared infrastructure, and how nations will behave in the age of undersea power.

As a reader, consider the hidden architecture that keeps your world online. Are we doing enough to protect it? And as states test capabilities beneath the waves, are we — collectively — prepared for the consequences?

One thing is clear: the deep sea is no longer an empty void. It is a theatre where strategy meets silence, and the next move may be made far from sight but close to home.

Irish Bodybuilding Team Readies for World Championships in Los Angeles

hanad

November 21, 2025

Irish bodybuilders prepare for World Championships in LA — Conor McCarthy and Dylan Nolan are both competing at the World Natural Bodybuilding Championships in LA

From County Clare to the City of Angels: Ireland’s Natural Bodybuilders Head to Los Angeles

There is a peculiar kind of hush that settles over a gym at dawn—the smell of iron, the whisper of laces being tied, the low hum of someone cranking through cardio while a radio plays old rock. For 15 men and women from across Ireland, that hush has been the metronome of their lives for months. This weekend, those early mornings and strict meal plans will meet the bright, brazen lights of Los Angeles at the World Natural Bodybuilding Federation (WNBF) World Championships.

It’s not just a trip. It’s a statement: that muscle and discipline can be pursued without shortcuts, that grit and patience can still win applause on the world stage.

The long road from Sligo to L.A.

Dylan Nolan is the sort of person who greets a reporter with a grin and a list. He grew up in County Clare, now trains in Sligo, and earned his ticket to LA after topping his division at the WNBF Ireland nationals. By daylight he inspects products as a quality-assurance specialist; by evening he coaches clients and crafts his own training blocks.

“I train six days a week, usually once a day,” Nolan says, rolling his shoulders as if recalibrating them by habit. “A normal session might be ninety minutes of strength, then twenty to forty minutes of cardio. When you’re contest-ready, you add posing rehearsals—two, two and a half hours isn’t unusual. It becomes a full-time focus even if your job is full-time.”

His voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s an underlying tenderness when he explains the trade-offs. “You have to track everything. Food, sleep, weights—progression is tracked in spreadsheets and photos. It’s meticulous, almost ritualistic.” Those rituals tighten as competition nears: calories are pared down, sodium and water intake are manipulated, poses are polished until they look effortless. The aim is to arrive on stage looking sculpted, balanced, and—importantly—clean.

Natural by design: what the WNBF stands for

The WNBF was born in New York City under the guidance of Chen N. Low and has grown into a federation recognized for its strict drug-testing protocols. Its world championships draw athletes from more than 60 countries; this year Ireland sends a 15-strong squad led domestically by Finbarr and Lill Murphy from County Wexford.

“We wanted a platform where athletes could compete and be sure everyone was playing by the same rules,” says Finbarr Murphy. “People deserve a level field—especially in bodybuilding, where the temptation to take shortcuts can be intense.”

How strict is strict? Competitors in the WNBF face an intense polygraph and mandatory urinalysis for winners; random testing is standard at many events. For many athletes, that assurance—that everyone is clean—is the central appeal.

“If you go to a non-tested event, you can feel the pressure,” Nolan explains. “If you’re natural and someone beside you is chemically enhanced, you can be tempted to chase that. Here, it’s clear: you’re competing against dedication, not syringes.”

Behind the photos: the toll and the triumph

Bodybuilding, even in its “natural” form, is not free of controversy. Critics warn about extreme dieting, dehydration practices used to accentuate muscle definition, and the psychological toll of chronic body scrutiny. Medical research has shown that both misuse of performance-enhancing drugs and extreme weight manipulation can be harmful to cardiovascular health and metabolic balance.

Dr. Aisling Byrne, a cardiologist and sports-health researcher in Dublin, offers a measured view: “When dieting patterns become extreme—severe caloric restriction combined with dehydration and stimulant use—the heart can be put under significant strain. But there is a spectrum. Natural competitors who follow evidence-based plans and work with experienced coaches can mitigate many risks.”

There is also an emotional cost and a social one. Relationships shift around contest seasons; family gatherings are timed to fit prep phases; nights out are traded for meal prep and sleep. Yet many athletes insist they are healthier than before they started competing.

“You’d be surprised,” says Conor McCarthy from Mullingar, County Westmeath, a father of three and a seasoned WNBF competitor. “When you’re natural, your supplements are sensible, your food is clean. Sure, energy can drop near showtime, but overall you’re more disciplined and aware of your nutrition than most people.”

Local color: pubs, porridge and a pinch of rivalry

Travel with Irish bodybuilders and you notice small things: the careful packing of tupperware containers, a playlist of traditional ballads beside pump-up tracks, a quick detour to a local café that knows just how the athlete likes his porridge. Rivalries are good-natured, rivalry turning into camaraderie when a teammate hits a personal best.

“There’s banter about who makes the best pre-show oats,” Nolan laughs. “But on the day, you want everyone to do well. We’re small islands but big-hearted.”

Fans back home will gather in living rooms and gyms, streaming the event, swapping updates on social media, and cheering each good line-up as if Ireland itself were on stage.

What this competition means beyond trophies

Ask the athletes why they persist and the answers are rarely about ribbons. They speak of the quiet power of discipline, the pride in representing a tiny nation in a massive arena, and the hope that their visibility reshapes people’s ideas about the sport.

“People assume bodybuilding equals steroids—instantly,” McCarthy says. “But the WNBF shows another path. I want young people to see that strength and aesthetics can come with integrity.”

There’s a bigger cultural conversation at play: how societies value authenticity, fairness, and the narratives we craft about bodies. In an era of doctored images and performance-enhancing temptations, a movement insisting on clean sport feels almost insurgent.

So what do you think, reader? When a sport chooses verification over spectacle, does it become more meaningful? Does the story of disciplined, natural athletes resonate differently today, when everything can be faked by filters or chemistry?

Los Angeles: a stage and a test

By the time the Irish team steps out under Los Angeles lights, they will carry more than sunblock and trunks. They carry months of tiny sacrifices, the steadying presence of family, and the quiet hope that fair play still matters.

“I just want to get on stage and do my best,” Nolan says. “If I can inspire one person to pursue fitness honestly, that’s a win.”

Over the weekend, as champions are crowned and cameras flash, remember that every flex, every pose, is the endpoint of a story—of routine, restraint, community, and courage. Whether you’re a fitness devotee or someone curious about what integrity looks like in sport, this is a show worth watching.

Keep an eye on the results; tune in if you can. Let their journeys nudge a conversation about performance, fairness, and what “natural” truly means in a world obsessed with the quickest route to the top.

Miss Mexico Crowned Miss Universe Following Onstage Insult Controversy

hanad

November 21, 2025

Miss Mexico wins Miss Universe contest after insult drama — Fatima Bosch staged a walkout from a meeting where she was lambasted by Miss Universe Thailand director Nawat Itsaragrisil

When a Crown Becomes a Conversation: How Miss Mexico’s Victory Sparked a Global Moment

The sky over Villahermosa erupted in fireworks the night Fatima Bosch walked away with the Miss Universe crown — but what lit up more than the air were conversations that have been waiting a long time to catch fire.

In the city’s baseball stadium, thousands gathered beneath humid Tabasco skies, clutching makeshift signs and waving the green, white and red. Vendors hawked tacos and cold jars of agua de horchata; an old man beat a rhythm on a plastic bucket as the crowd chanted, “¡México, México!” When the announcement came, the chant became a roar that seemed to travel all the way to Bangkok, where the pageant took place.

A walkout that refused to be silent

The story was never meant to be only about a sash and a glittering crown. Weeks before the final night, Bosch left a meeting in Thailand after an unsparing exchange with a pageant organizer was broadcast live online. In the thick, awkward minutes that followed, Bosch — flanked by Miss Iraq — stood, collected herself and walked out. Cameras caught the moment tens of thousands of people would replay: a woman refusing to sit down when told to.

“What your director did is not respectful: he called me dumb,” Bosch later told reporters. “The world needs to see this because we are empowered women and this is a platform for our voice.”

The event crystallized a tension that is no longer theoretical. Pageants have long been a stage for beauty and spectacle; now they are stages for agency, for politics and for the messy, modern negotiation of power between organizers and participants. “She didn’t just walk out of a room,” said Lucía Fernández, a Villahermosa schoolteacher who watched the pageant at the stadium. “She walked out of an old way of being treated like a decoration.”

Victory amid chaos

On the night itself, Bosch strode across the stage and into history. Miss Mexico was crowned Miss Universe in a final round that also included contestants from the Ivory Coast, the Philippines, Thailand and Venezuela — selected from more than 120 entrants worldwide. The moment was as much a triumph over adversity as it was a win for Mexico.

But the road to that crown was jagged. Judges quit in the run-up, alleging irregularities in voting; contestants fell during costume and evening gown segments, one so badly injured she was taken to hospital; and backstage exchanges that had already gone viral set the scene for a highly charged atmosphere. “It felt like a live social experiment,” said Pierre Moreau, a cultural sociologist who follows global pageantry. “We are watching an institution remake itself in real time.”

Allegations, apologies and uneasy reconciliations

French composer Omar Harfouch publicly accused the contest of holding “a secret and illegitimate vote,” saying it took place without the official jury. The Miss Universe Organization pushed back, saying there was no impromptu jury. Former professional footballer Claude Makelele also withdrew as a judge, citing personal reasons, a move that observers read as another crack in the foundation of trust. Raul Rocha, president of the Miss Universe Organization, confirmed that Miss Jamaica, Gabrielle Henry, had been hospitalized after a fall during the evening gown showcase but assured the public she was under observation and not seriously injured.

Nawat Itsaragrisil, the director of Miss Universe Thailand who had publicly chastised Bosch, later apologized and at times sounded conciliatory in press remarks. “I do support, and congratulations again to Mexico’s fans,” he said at a news conference — an odd echo of solidarity that did little to settle the debate about the tone and conduct of organizers. The back-and-forth made obscenities of the old script: the organizers had always been the stagehands, invisible; now they were actors in the drama.

What this moment tells us about power, image and platforms

This is not simply a regional squabble. The Miss Universe pageant is one of the so-called “big four” in global beauty competitions and touches a network of industries — television, fashion, social media, tourism — worth billions to local economies. More important, it reflects shifting global conversations about who gets to speak and how women’s voices are validated in public spaces.

“Pageantry has been trying to pivot from aesthetics to advocacy for some time,” explained Dr. Ana López, who studies media and gender at a university in Madrid. “But institutions don’t change quickly. Contestants are more media-savvy and have larger platforms now. When an organizer tries to police that public voice, it can backfire spectacularly.”

Social media amplified every misstep. The allegations about missed promotional posts, the directive to call security, the walkout itself — all were captured, clipped and circulated. Platforms now give contestants direct access to audiences numbering in the millions. That redistribution of attention—away from closed-door backstage decisions and toward the contestants themselves—has altered the balance of power.

Local pride and global resonance

Back in Villahermosa, the crown was more than a national victory: it was a mirror. “Seeing her stand up there after everything felt like seeing my neighbor stand up for herself,” said Diego Martínez, 27, who sells tamales outside the stadium. “We are a proud place. Tonight, everyone’s proud.”

President Claudia Sheinbaum publicly lauded Bosch as an example, praising her courage to speak out in the face of aggression. That state-level recognition underscores how moments on global stages can ripple into local identity politics and national conversations about dignity and respect.

Not just a show — an invitation

The headlines will fade. The fireworks will stop. But the questions raised by this edition of Miss Universe will stick around: Who decides the rules of public performance? How much power should organizers have over the narratives contestants create about themselves? And when the entertainment economy spans continents, what responsibilities do institutions have to be transparent and to respect the dignity of those who participate?

It’s easy to dismiss a beauty pageant as mere spectacle. But spectacles always reveal something about us, and this one revealed a global appetite for more equitable forms of representation. “People want to see fairness, transparency and respect,” Dr. López said. “They also want to see women who are complex — who can be glamorous and fierce and vocal.”

So ask yourself: when the next public figure refuses to be hushed, will you watch quietly — or will you stand up too?

For now, Fatima Bosch carries a crown that is both literal and symbolic — a reminder that the world is a small stage and that sometimes, a single act of refusal can make that stage feel a little more just.

Ukraine’s Zelensky pledges sincere effort on US-backed peace plan

hanad

November 21, 2025

Zelensky ready for 'honest' work on US-backed peace plan — Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky said he expected to discuss the plan with US President Donald Trump

A Diplomatic Hail Mary or the Quiet Unraveling of Ukraine’s Frontlines?

There is a chill in the Kyiv air these days that feels less like the calendar turning and more like a warning. Street vendors pull their shawls tighter, apartment stairwells echo with the drip of melting snow from rooftop repairs; at night, candles appear in windows not as quaint décor but as insurance against a city that has learned to live with intermittent darkness.

Into this winter-tinted scene has dropped a draft — a 28-point roadmap that promises an end to the nearly four-year war but, according to the version reviewed by Reuters, would demand painful concessions from Kyiv. The contours of the document are jarring: recognition of Crimea, Luhansk and Donetsk as effectively Russian-held territory, a withdrawal from parts of Donetsk, and a cap on Ukraine’s military at 600,000 troops.

“Peace at what price?” asks Petro, a butcher in central Kyiv. “We’ve already paid with our homes.”

What the Draft Actually Proposes

The outline — reportedly crafted in backchannels and presented to President Volodymyr Zelensky by US Army Secretary Daniel Driscoll — reads like a cold calculus. It would lock NATO out of further eastward expansion, forbid stationing allied troops on Ukrainian soil, and lay the groundwork for phased lifting of sanctions, while inviting Russia back into international forums such as a G8 format.

Energy, rare earths, AI, and Arctic resources appear on the table too, suggesting this is not merely a ceasefire design but a sweeping realignment of geopolitical and commercial relationships.

“This plan was crafted to reflect the realities of the situation,” White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt told reporters, framing it as a pragmatic attempt to create a win-win after years of attrition. She also said the effort had the backing of former President Trump and that US envoys had been quietly counseling on ideas for roughly a month.

Security Guarantees — Vague, But Central

One striking clause promises “robust security guarantees,” but offers little in the way of detail. Would these guarantees translate into meaningful protection for Ukrainian sovereignty, or would they be a diplomatic shell — a paper promise without the boots, bases or deterrence that come with NATO integration?

Here, the voices diverge sharply: a US diplomat in Brussels told me on background that Washington is trying to stitch a realistic patch over a torn fabric. “We’re trying to buy Ukraine space — and time,” they said. “But time costs blood.”

On the Ground: A Country Worn but Not Broken

Walk through Kyiv and you’ll find the contradictions. Cafés buzz with the language of endurance — dodged jokes, clipped optimism — while newsrooms pulse around satellite feeds from the front. Hospitals are full; schools are open; municipal workers still paint playground fences. Yet outside of government corridors, the mood is skeptical.

“We want peace,” says Olena, a schoolteacher whose husband serves in the east. “But peace that asks us to concede is not peace — it is surrender.”

Reporters and officials on the ground speak of a Russian advance in parts of the east, and state claims — disputed by Kyiv — that key towns such as Kupiansk and sectors of Pokrovsk have fallen. Video released by Russian sources last week showed troops moving through scarred streets, but Ukrainian commanders deny full control.

Russian forces now occupy almost one-fifth of Ukrainian territory — a heartbreaking statistic that translates in daily life to checkpoints, power outages, and communities split by frontlines. With another winter looming, energy infrastructure has become a deliberate target: bombs that tear at power lines and gas stations send entire towns into darkness and cold, multiplying civilians’ vulnerability.

Voices From the Halls of Power and the Cafés of Kyiv

President Zelensky’s public response has been cautiously open. He told reporters after meeting Driscoll that his teams would “work on the points of the plan” and that Ukraine was ready for “constructive, honest and prompt work.” His office said he had already outlined the “fundamental principles that matter to our people” and planned to discuss diplomatic options with former US President Trump in the near term.

In Brussels, European Union foreign ministers were less sanguine. “Ukrainians want peace — a just peace that respects everyone’s sovereignty,” French Foreign Minister Jean-Noël Barrot said. “But peace cannot be a capitulation.”

A local civil engineer in Kharkiv, who asked not to be named for safety reasons, was blunt: “You can draw lines on a map, but you can’t erase what was stolen. There are homes there, graves, life.”

The Russian Angle: Dismissal, Then a Reprise of Old Demands

Moscow’s official posture has been to downplay any new process. Kremlin spokesperson Dmitry Peskov stated tersely that there are “contacts” but no formal consultations underway, and pointed back to President Vladimir Putin’s long-standing conditions at summit meetings as the baseline for any deal.

That insistence on addressing the so-called “root causes” — the Kremlin’s euphemism for its territorial and security demands — sets up a fundamental clash. On paper, the suggestion that Russia would be reintegrated economically while Ukraine makes territorial concessions looks like a reset button for global trade ties — at a cost.

Why This Matters Beyond Ukraine’s Borders

We are not merely watching a bilateral conflict; this is a moment that could reshape the architecture of European security, global energy flows, and standards for international law. If a major European country cedes territory under pressure and is then denied the protective umbrella of enlargement, what message does that send to other nations wondering whether alliances hold?

Moreover, the plan’s inclusion of economic cooperation in AI, rare earths, and Arctic extraction speaks to a larger scramble: nations are hedging their futures on access to critical materials and technologies. The West’s sanctions regime has been a blunt instrument; a phased unravelling of those penalties would rewire incentives across markets and corporate boardrooms.

Questions That Won’t Go Away

Can security guarantees without NATO membership truly deter renewed aggression?
Will phased sanctions relief be enforceable, or simply a diplomatic gesture that leaves victims without real justice?
How will Ukrainians — especially those displaced from occupied regions — reconcile with territorial cessions?

Looking Ahead: The Human Cost and the Hard Choices

There is no tidy path through this. Any agreement will demand sacrifices; some are material, some moral. For ordinary Ukrainians, the ledger is intimate: a school broken by shelling, a winter without heating, a father who might not return. For diplomats and strategists, the accounting is geopolitical and future-facing, an attempt to rebalance risk and avert further bloodshed.

“You cannot trade sovereignty like a commodity,” said an independent security analyst in London. “But you can also not keep grinding civilians down indefinitely and expect no voices to call for alternatives. This tension is the defining moral knot of our time.”

So what will the world choose — a brittle, negotiated pause with concessions, or a stubborn prolongation of war with uncertain ends? And which of these futures will deliver a safer, more just world?

As Kyiv braces for another winter and diplomats quietly shuttle drafts and arguments across capitals, the answers will not come from documents alone. They will come from the chorus of citizens who will inherit the consequences — those who will live, rebuild, or mourn in the shadow of what leaders decide now.

Trump Threatens Death Penalty Following Democrats’ Campaign Video

hanad

November 21, 2025

Trump threatens death penalty over Democrats video — Donald Trump said the video from Democratic politicians amounted to 'seditious behavior from traitors'

Don’t Give Up the Ship: When Rhetoric Meets Rifles in a Fractured Moment

There is a sound that wakes up a democracy: the low, steady thud of institutions doing their work. It is not dramatic. It is not televised. It is the hum of daily stewardship—judges issuing opinions, inspectors writing reports, commanders following the law. Lately, that hum has been punctured by something louder: a public argument about what the military should do when orders collide with the Constitution.

Last week, six members of Congress—veterans and former intelligence officers among them—recorded a short, pointed message aimed squarely at men and women in uniform. “We want to speak directly to members of the military and the Intelligence Community,” Senator Elissa Slotkin, a former CIA analyst, said on camera. “The American people need you to stand up for our laws and our Constitution. Don’t give up the ship.”

“Our laws are clear: You can refuse illegal orders,” added Senator Mark Kelly, a former Navy pilot and astronaut. The video did not enumerate hypothetical scenarios. It did not get into legal minutiae. It was a moral check-in, a reminder carved in plain English for a country where the line between lawful command and unlawful coercion has suddenly felt thin to many.

A provocation, a warning, a firestorm

The reaction was immediate. The former president reposted coverage of the video on his social media platform and wrote, in all caps, “SEDITIOUS BEHAVIOR, punishable by DEATH!” He followed with: “This is really bad, and Dangerous to our Country… Their words cannot be allowed to stand. SEDITIOUS BEHAVIOR FROM TRAITORS!!! LOCK THEM UP???”

Within hours, critics and allies alike were choosing sides. A White House spokesperson later told reporters the president did not mean he wanted to execute members of Congress. “No,” Karoline Leavitt said bluntly at a briefing when asked whether the extraordinary language was a literal call for execution.

But in the fevered ecology of modern politics, words matter. They are not abstract. They land like ordnance. They can change how people think about one another and what they perceive as permissible.

Why this matters to more than just Washington

Think about it this way: the United States fields roughly 1.3 million active-duty service members and maintains a far larger ecosystem of reservists, civilian intelligence professionals, contractors and veterans. These are people who sign an oath to “support and defend the Constitution.” They are trained to follow legitimate orders. They are also trained to recognize unlawful commands—this is a cornerstone of military law and international humanitarian law, forged from the bitter lessons of history.

“You can’t reduce complex legal obligations to sound bites, but you also can’t ignore when public leaders tell troops to think through the law,” said a retired JAG officer who served two tours overseas and asked not to be named. “Reminding service members they have a duty to refuse illegal orders is about preserving the institution’s integrity, not about fomenting insubordination.”

That perspective is shared by many who worry that escalating presidential rhetoric could have real-world consequences. “The danger is not just what is said,” a political scientist who studies civil-military relations told me, “it’s the accumulation of words that normalize the notion of targeting political opponents, then pairing that rhetoric with questions about the military’s role.”

Voices from the ground

On a damp evening in a small town outside Hampton Roads, Virginia, retired Master Sergeant Luis Ortega sipped a coffee and reflected. “I swore an oath,” he said. “When I was in, it was simple: follow lawful orders, refuse unlawful ones. If Congress—people like Slotkin and Kelly—are telling troops to remember the law, that’s not treason. That’s stewardship.”

Across town, a young active-duty sailor, speaking on condition of anonymity, told me she was unsettled by the spectacle. “I don’t want politics creeping into my chain of command,” she said. “But I also don’t want to be ordered to do something that breaks the rules. Who tells a soldier what to do when the rules are unclear? We need clarity—fast.”

The legal backdrop: not as mysterious as it sounds

Legal experts note that the question of refusing unlawful orders is not new. The Uniform Code of Military Justice and international law make clear that service members are not permitted to carry out manifestly illegal orders—those that would, for example, amount to war crimes. Still, the real world is messier. Orders are often given in fast-moving, ambiguous circumstances. Determining legality is rarely instantaneous.

“The principle is straightforward,” said a law professor who studies military justice. “The application is not. That’s why trust in chain-of-command processes, independent legal advice, and robust civilian oversight matter more than ever. When those things fray, the only way to protect both the troops and the republic is through clear norms and mechanisms for accountability.”

From Caribbean strikes to Venezuelan whispers

Underlying this latest clash is a larger foreign-policy context. Several Democrats have openly criticized recent military strikes in the southern Caribbean and the Pacific, questioning their legal basis and transparency. There are also persistent concerns—fuelled by officials and analysts—about the possibility of broader military action against Venezuela, a neighbor already roiled by economic collapse, migration and geopolitical tension.

“Calling for the execution of senators and members of Congress for reminding our troops of that is chilling behavior,” said Senator Chris Coons, echoing a worry that the rhetoric was reminiscent of authoritarian leaders elsewhere. “We should expect that from Orban or Putin, not from the president of the United States.”

The echo of January 6, 2021, still lingers. The former president had previously defended supporters who chanted for the hanging of the vice president as a mob stormed the Capitol—an image burned into the American psyche. For critics, the new language feels like more than a slip; it is a pattern.

What should we ask ourselves?

How do democracies self-protect when leaders weaponize rhetoric? When words edge toward violence, what mechanisms do we lean on—courts, legislatures, the press, or the civic conscience of everyday people? And crucially: who speaks for the soldiers and intelligence officers caught in the middle?

One thing is certain: the loudest sounds in politics are not always the most authoritative. Sometimes the quiet, steady decisions made in courtrooms, military legal offices, and Congressional oversight hearings are the ones that preserve the republic.

So where do we go from here? We can rage, retweet, and rally. Or we can insist on clarity—legal, procedural, and moral. We can demand that leaders of all stripes model restraint. We can remind ourselves that in a constitutional republic, the ultimate sovereignty rests with the people, not a single office, and certainly not with unchecked threats.

As you read this, ask yourself: do you trust the institutions that regulate the use of force? If not, what would it take to rebuild that trust? And if you do—what are you willing to do to protect it?

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