Alabama carries out execution of convicted killer using nitrogen gas

October 24, 2025

Alabama executes convicted murderer with nitrogen gas — Anthony Boyd was executed at the state prison in Atmore

A Quiet Town, a Loud Decision: Alabama’s Latest Execution and the Questions It Leaves Behind

In the late heat of an Alabama evening, the town of Atmore felt ordinary — crickets under the oaks, a church bell marking the hour, the slow exhale of a community used to its own rhythms. But inside the state prison, a different kind of hush settled: mechanical, clinical, final. At 6:33pm Central time, Anthony Boyd, 54, was pronounced dead. The method was nitrogen hypoxia — a face mask and a steady stream of inert gas — a technique that has opened a new front in the long, polarizing fight over capital punishment in the United States.

The case that followed a life

Boyd had been on death row for decades. Convicted in 1995 for the 1993 killing of 32-year-old Gregory Huguley, he insisted until the end that he was innocent. Prosecutors said Boyd and three others abducted Huguley, allegedly over a $200 drug debt. According to court testimony, Huguley was bound, doused in gasoline and set alight at a baseball field. The conviction rested largely on the testimony of a co-defendant, Quintay Cox, who, unlike Boyd, was spared the death penalty.

“I’ve sat with dozens of families on both sides of cases like this,” said a retired public defender who asked not to be named. “For the state, executions are supposed to be about closure. For many families — and for those who believe in rehabilitation or fear judicial error — they breed more trauma than peace.”

Nitrogen Hypoxia: A New Method, Old Debates

Nitrogen hypoxia works by displacing oxygen with an inert gas. In theory, it causes a painless loss of consciousness — a simple, modern alternative to lethal injection. In practice, it has become a lightning rod. United Nations human rights experts have called the method cruel and inhumane. Ethics scholars and medical organizations have raised alarms about any medicalized involvement in executions.

“We’re walking a tightrope between technological efficiency and moral responsibility,” said Dr. Laila Mercer, a bioethicist at a university in the Southeast. “When the state experiments with new ways to end life, ensuring transparency and scientific scrutiny is not optional.”

Numbers that matter — and some that don’t

This execution was recorded as the 40th in the United States this year — the highest annual total since 2012, when 43 people were put to death. Florida has led that grim tally with 14 executions, while Texas and Alabama have each carried out five. Those numbers are more than tallies; they are a map of where the death penalty remains an active part of criminal justice.

Approximately half the states have moved away from capital punishment: 23 states have abolished it outright, while California, Oregon and Pennsylvania maintain formal moratoriums on executions.
Federal and state policies vary: some jurisdictions are accelerating execution schedules, others are stepping back entirely.

“These statistics remind us that the death penalty in America is a patchwork,” said an analyst at a criminal justice think tank. “It’s driven by local politics, availability of drugs for lethal injection, and shifting public opinion.”

Voices from the margins — family, neighbors, campaigners

Outside the prison gates, reactions were raw and diverse. A woman who said she was a cousin of Huguley shook her head as she remembered the man she lost. “It wasn’t justice that took him back,” she said. “It was a life tangled up in drugs and pain.”

On the other side, a small group of activists chanted and held signs urging abolition. “You can’t put the state in the business of deciding when people die without accountability,” said Marcus Reed, who has campaigned against executions for more than a decade. “We’re not anti-victim; we’re pro-justice.”

Inside the prison, a chaplain who had spoken with Boyd in the days before his death described a man worn by time but steady in his convictions. “He kept asking for his mother,” the chaplain said. “He wanted forgiveness and he wanted to be heard.”

Law, politics and the wider context

The recent uptick in executions has been shaped by several forces. Supply shortages of drugs used for lethal injection pushed states to explore alternatives, including nitrogen. Political leaders who publicly back capital punishment have influenced the pace of executions. On the federal level, supporters have called for broader use of the death penalty for heinous crimes — a stance that has filtered into state politics as well.

“The mechanics of execution are only one piece of the puzzle,” said a law professor who studies capital punishment. “We also need to look at representation quality, plea bargaining dynamics, racial disparities, and how poverty and addiction feed into violent crime.”

What do we owe each other?

The sight of a gas mask and a machine in a small Alabama room raises a question many Americans are confronting anew: what is the purpose of punishment? Is it retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, or rehabilitation? Or some mixture of them all?

“We must ask, honestly, whether the state should claim the authority to end lives — and under what safeguards,” said Dr. Mercer. “That conversation involves not just lawyers and politicians, but doctors, ethicists, and everyday citizens.”

Across the country, attitudes are shifting. Younger generations appear less supportive of capital punishment than their elders; several states have moved to abolish it or to impose moratoriums. Yet in places where violent crime and political rhetoric collide, the death penalty remains a tool some leaders turn to.

Questions for the reader

What do you think justice looks like for victims’ families? When a legal system convicts someone based largely on the testimony of a co-defendant, should the state proceed with the ultimate punishment? How should societies balance a demand for accountability with a precaution against irreversible error?

These are not simply legal queries. They are moral and civic ones, pushing us to examine what kind of society we want to be. As Anthony Boyd’s last breath became part of the public record, the debate did not end. It widened — across kitchens and courtrooms, across choked towns and city halls.

There will be more stories like this one. There will be other faces and other families. And each time, we will be invited — implicitly or explicitly — to decide whether the machinery of punishment is meeting the demands of justice, or merely amplifying its wounds.

Rubio pushes for swift deployment of multinational Gaza security force

hanad

October 24, 2025

Rubio seeks quick deployment of international Gaza force — A humanitarian aid convoy consisting of 50 trucks sent by Egypt on its way to Gaza City

A warehouse, a truce and the weight of a war: Inside the fragile pause in Gaza

There is an oddness to the place: a cavernous, rented warehouse in southern Israel converted into a nerve centre, its concrete floors softened by a strip of artificial grass and its walls lined with screens pulsing maps, satellite feeds and lists of names. Uniforms of many nations shuffle past one another. Coffee cups multiply on a cluttered table. Hope and skepticism hang in the air like dust.

It is here, amid the hum of radios and the quiet urgency of people who have not slept properly for months, that the future of a fragile ceasefire is being debated. US Secretary of State Marco Rubio arrived as part of a diplomatic flurry — a visit after the US vice-president and a sign that Washington is leaning hard into stabilising a conflict that has ravaged Gaza for two long years.

“We have to put the stabilisation force in as soon as it is ready,” Rubio told a small press grouping inside the warehouse. “Countries have volunteered; Israel must feel comfortable with who is on the ground.”

Who can be trusted to hold the peace?

That line — Israel’s comfort — is the hinge on which everything turns. The deal being pushed by the US administration proposes an international force to enter Gaza to ensure security as Israeli forces stand down after a devastating war that began with Hamas’s October 7, 2023 attack.

But comfort is a complicated thing in the Middle East. Turkey, a NATO power and the first Muslim-majority nation to recognise Israel decades ago, is now in fraught political orbit with Jerusalem. Under President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, Ankara has hosted Hamas leaders and has accused Israel of atrocities — charges Israel rejects. As a result, Istanbul’s potential participation has reportedly raised Israeli objections.

Other offers are on the table: Indonesia, the world’s most populous Muslim-majority nation, has said it could send troops. The United Arab Emirates — which normalised ties with Israel in 2020 and has experience in ceasefire monitoring — has already been involved in aspects of the truce. The United States may seek a United Nations mandate to give countries the political cover they need to deploy.

Turkey — reportedly objected to by Israel
Indonesia — has said it is ready to participate
United Arab Emirates — already engaged in monitoring
Multiple Western countries — personnel seen at the coordination centre

“If they send forces that Israel can’t live with, the whole thing collapses,” said an Israeli defence official who asked not to be named. “We will veto; we must be certain this is not a ticking time bomb.”

Between politics and the people

For those who live with the day-to-day consequences of the war, the debates about vetoes and mandates can feel remote. In Khan Yunis, in southern Gaza, vendors have begun to reopen stalls. A small cluster of oranges, a crate of tomatoes, a bar of locally made cheese — these are almost miraculous after months of siege and bombardment.

“You come to buy a kilo of onions and feel like you have bought the sea,” laughed Samira, a market vendor, her hands still shaking from the afternoon’s bustle. “We had lost everything. The pause has given the children bread again.”

Yet the pause has not fixed the deeper wounds. The World Health Organization has issued a stark plea: the inflow of aid is still far below what is needed. While the WHO has helped evacuate nearly 7,800 patients from Gaza since the war began, it estimates roughly 15,000 people still need advanced medical care outside the territory — a figure that includes about 4,000 children.

“The situation still remains catastrophic because what’s entering is not enough,” WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus said. Rik Peeperkorn, the WHO’s representative in the Palestinian territories, put it bluntly: only 14 of 36 hospitals in Gaza are even partially functioning for a population that tops two million. At the pace of current evacuations — just 41 patients since the new ceasefire took effect — clearing the backlog could take years.

“Open the medical corridors,” Peeperkorn urged from Geneva. “If crossings were functioning as before the war, we could move hundreds, not dozens, of patients every day. It would be a game-changer.”

Power plays, promises and the politics of reconstruction

There is also a larger political dance taking place. The US administration driving the ceasefire deal is one that has, until recently, pulled back from certain United Nations engagements. Its architects are trying to thread a needle: reassure Israel while persuading Arab states and Muslim-majority countries to engage in a mission that will be watched — and judged — globally.

At the same time, domestic Israeli politics loom. Proposals in the Israeli parliament to advance laws on annexation of parts of the West Bank raised alarm among regional capitals and in Washington. “We don’t think it’s going to happen,” Rubio said of the immediate push to annex territory, a line that hints at quiet diplomatic pressure behind the scenes.

Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, meeting Rubio, sought to frame the visits as a reaffirmation of friendship. “This is a circle of trust and partnership,” he told reporters, careful to underline the strategic bond between the two countries.

Can an international force answer the moral test?

Ask yourself: what kind of mandate does a stabilisation force need to truly protect civilians? Is peacekeeping the right tool after an offensive that some describe as one of the most destructive in recent memory? And who gets to write the rules — the victims, the victors, or distant capitals?

These are not idle questions. More than 700 people have reportedly died waiting for medical evacuation since the war began. Buildings across Gaza lie in rubble. Millions live amid displaced-person camps and the constant ache of loss. To local civilians, the force is not a matter of geopolitics but of whether their children will awake from nightmares, whether hospitals can treat a fractured arm, whether an elderly patient can receive dialysis.

“We want peace,” said Ahmed, a father of three, as he watched aid trucks crawl slowly toward a nearby crossing. “Not flags or speeches. We want the quiet to last long enough to rebuild a house and plant a tree.”

What happens next?

The coming weeks will be decisive. Will countries rally around a model that balances Israel’s security concerns with the urgent humanitarian needs of Gazans? Will a UN mandate be secured to give participating nations the legal authorization they need? Can the fragile logistics of aid, medicine and evacuations be scaled up fast enough to spare lives?

The answers will tell us more about the international community than about any single ceasefire. They will reveal whether global institutions and alliances can translate diplomatic language into safe passage, functioning hospitals and a real chance for longer-term recovery.

For now, the warehouse continues to flicker with activity: maps overlay maps, lists are updated, and people argue and make concessions in hushed tones. Outside, in Gaza, a child clutches an orange like a small sun. Inside, officials try to stitch together a force that can keep that sun from being eclipsed again.

What would you want to see from the international community if you were in their place: robust boots on the ground guided by community leaders, a strictly monitored air and sea embargo, or a different architecture of peace altogether? The debate is no longer abstract. It is happening in that rented room with the artificial grass, and in streets where families are slowly, tremblingly, beginning to live again.

Russian drone strike kills two Ukrainian journalists while reporting

hanad

October 24, 2025

Two Ukrainian journalists killed by Russian drone — Olena Hubanova and Yevhen Karmazin were in a car at a petrol station at the time of the strike

Under a Grey Kramatorsk Sky: Two Journalists Killed, a Community Shaken

On a crisp, ordinary morning in Kramatorsk — a city of factories, bazaars and the patient hum of trains — a blast cleaved the air and left a scar that will not heal easily. Two journalists from Ukraine’s state-backed Freedom television channel, known for broadcasting in Russian to reach families on both sides of divides, were killed while refueling their car at a petrol station. A colleague was wounded.

The names filtering through official channels and text-message chains — Olena Hubanova and Yevhen Karmazin — arrived like a second wound. They were not just bylines. They were neighbors, colleagues, storytellers who chased truth into the places where it is most dangerous. Donetsk regional governor Vadym Filashkin said the strike came from a Lancet loitering munition, an expensive, precision-like weapon usually deployed against tanks and armored convoys. To see it used where people gather — at a petrol pump, near a home-bound bus stop — adds a chilling layer of calculation to the carnage.

A war crime, an investigation, and a community’s stunned hush

“This tragedy is further evidence of Russia’s systemic war crimes against civilians,” Dmytro Lubinets, Ukraine’s human rights ombudsman, wrote on Telegram, a message that streaked across social networks and into breakfast rooms. The general prosecutor’s office announced it had opened a war crimes investigation, and released a photograph of a ruined red car and two press-marked flak jackets tumbled in the boot — the very visible badge of their profession made suddenly tender and vulnerable.

At least 20 journalists have been reported killed in the combat zone since the full-scale invasion began in February 2022, a grim tally compiled from newsroom memos and international press watchdogs. Each name on that list is a ledger entry of stories untold, faces unseen, questions unanswered.

In early October, another drone strike near Druzhkivka, south of Kramatorsk, took the life of a French photojournalist and gravely wounded a Ukrainian colleague. Last week, Russian state media reported the death of a correspondent in occupied Zaporizhzhia, struck in a separate drone attack. The pattern is stark: reporters are being targeted or swept up in increasingly lethal, impersonal methods of warfare.

What it means to report under drones

Photography and journalism in this war have become an act of ledger-bearing courage. Journalists are expected to be impartial chroniclers of human suffering, yet they operate in a landscape where airspace is contested, where technologies once reserved for battlefields — loitering munitions, small armed drones — now hover above civilian neighborhoods, markets, and filling stations. The Lancet, Filashkin said, is designed to home in on metal and armor. Yet on Monday it found a car, a petrol pump, press jackets in a boot. The contradiction is brutal.

“We used to measure danger by cell signal,” said Maksym, a local fixer who helped foreign crews get access to front lines and has moved his family out of the city. “Now we measure it by the distance to the sky. You can’t see these things until it’s too late.”

Journalists in eastern Ukraine try to layer safety into their routines: wearing press flak jackets, marking vehicles with “PRESS,” avoiding checkpoints at night, moving in pairs. Yet a photo of those jackets, stained and crumpled in the wreckage, shows how fragile those protections have become.

Lives on the margins of headlines

Walk Kramatorsk’s streets — past the bakery that scent-sells mornings to commuters, past the metalworkers’ shops whose windows glitter with oil and sparks — and you will find people who know these journalists not from television but from the small human exchanges that make a civic fabric. “Olena came to our school to film a story about how mothers were coping with two jobs,” one teacher recalled, eyes wet. “She laughed with the children. She was part of the neighborhood.”

For many here, the war is measurable more in lost routines than in maps. A favorite café closed its doors last winter. The market has fewer vendors. Trenches and checkpoints reshape where children play. The killing of reporters is therefore not only a loss to journalism; it is a loss to communal memory. Those who used to document the local life — its festivals, its funerals, its small betrayals and triumphs — are disappearing from the frame.

The global significance: drones, impunity, and the shrinking space for truth

These strikes remind us of broader, troubling trends. Drones and loitering munitions have democratized lethality: sophisticated strike capabilities are no longer limited to satellite-guided bombers. They can be controlled from afar and used with a precision that makes their deployment politically flexible and morally slippery.

When journalists are the victims, the knock-on effects ripple globally. Newsrooms become risk-averse. Investigations that might hold combatants accountable are shelved. Citizens in and beyond Ukraine lose their windows into conflict. Who will tell the granular stories — of displacement, of tests failing in hospitals, of children’s schooling interrupted — if those who listen, verify and record are silenced?

“The removal of witnesses is as old as war,” said Anna Petrovna, an independent media analyst based in Lviv. “What is new is how technology enables that removal to be mass-produced and anonymized.”

Questions to sit with

What protections should be non-negotiable for civilians and journalists in modern warfare?
How can international law and enforcement keep pace with remote, high-tech weaponry?
And if the chroniclers are gone, who will record the truth — and whom will the future hold accountable?

Grief, resilience, and the work ahead

People in Kramatorsk are already arranging memorials and exchanging calls, trying to reconcile the grief with a stubborn, practical resilience. “We will keep telling the stories,” said Lena, a fellow journalist who worked with Hubanova. “Not because it’s safe. Because that is how we keep the world honest.”

There are signs of systemic response: investigations opened, photographs collected, legal pathways pursued. Yet across international legal forums and human rights organizations, the refrain is familiar — pursuit of evidence, trials, and accountability can take years. In the meantime, a community stitches itself back together around the memory of two reporters who did what they could to bring truth to light.

As you read this, consider the small personal economies of war — the baristas who will now lock earlier, the teachers who will miss a visiting reporter, the children who will be deprived of stories read aloud by those who came to document ordinary life. Ask yourself: when the tools of war shrink the space for the truth, how do we, far from Kramatorsk or Druzhkivka, keep that space open?

Names have been added to a list that will, in the end, become more than a statistic. They are human. They were doing their jobs. And for the families, friends and readers left behind, their absence is immediate and intimate — as sharp as the blast that echoed under a grey sky this morning.

New Zealand Parliament to Debate Ban on Teenagers’ Social Media Access

hanad

October 24, 2025

New Zealand parliament to debate teen social media ban — The legislation will require social media platforms to conduct an age verification process

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A bill to restrict social media for children under 16 will be introduced in the New Zealand parliament, officials said, building momentum for parliament’s efforts to prevent young people from being harmed while online.

The proposed legislation will require social media platforms to conduct an age verification process, similar to Australia’s world-first teen social media ban law passed in 2024.

A member’s bill submitted in May by ruling National Party MP Catherine Wedd to restrict children using social media was selected to be introduced in the parliament.

The bill has received support from National Party members but its coalition partners have not confirmed whether they will support the bill.

Members’ bills can be introduced by any MP not in the cabinet and are selected after a ceremonial lottery.

It is not immediately clear when the bill will be introduced in the parliament.

A New Zealand parliamentary committee has been looking at the impact of social media harm on young people and the roles that government, business, and society should play in addressing those harms. A report is due in early 2026, according to a statement from the committee last week.

Prime Minister Christopher Luxon has been raising concerns about harms to mental health from the overuse of social media among young teens, including misinformation, bullying and harmful depictions of body image.

Civil-liberties organisation PILLAR said the bill would not protect children online, and instead would create serious privacy risks and restrict online freedom for New Zealanders.

“Aligning with international efforts may sound responsible, but it is lazy policymaking,” PILLAR Executive Director Nathan Seiuli said in a statement.

Trump Announces End to All Trade Negotiations with Canada

hanad

October 24, 2025

Trump says all trade talks with Canada are terminated — Donald Trump has used tariffs as leverage on many countries around the world