Dec 08(Jowhar)-Warar dheeraad ah ayaa laga helayaa dhowr qof oo siyaabo kala duwan saacadihii u danbeeyay loogu dilay magaalada Beledxaawo ee gobolka Gedo.
Trump discusses trade with Canada and Mexico during World Cup draw
Three Leaders, One Ball: A Washington Meeting That Was More Than a Photo Op
There was a gust of wind through the flags outside the hall where the 2026 World Cup draw was held — a small, bracing reminder that sport and diplomacy often mix in the most public of places. Inside, amid the hum of cameras and the tang of coffee, U.S. President Donald Trump, Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney and Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum slipped away from the pageantry for roughly 45 minutes to talk about trade, borders and a partnership that binds three economies, three cultures and millions of lives.
A sideline encounter with weighty consequences
It would be easy to call it a courtesy meeting, the kind of handshake diplomacy that accompanies international events. But the stakes were plain: CUSMA—known to many as USMCA—was on the table. Audrey Champoux, a spokesperson for Mr. Carney, told reporters the leaders “agreed to keep working together on CUSMA.” It was a succinct statement that belied how much is riding on that agreement.
“This wasn’t a cup of tea,” a Canadian aide later told me, lips tight with the memory of the brisk exchange. “It was a first step back into a track that’s been uneven for years.”
The three nations are co-hosting the 2026 World Cup—an event that will, in practical terms, require unprecedented logistical cooperation across borders. Yet the political landscape is pricklier: tariffs that President Trump imposed on certain Canadian and Mexican exports, threats of renegotiation of trade terms, and fiery rhetoric about migration and drug trafficking have strained relations. Mexico’s president, according to the account of the session, reaffirmed that any suggestion of unilateral military action on Mexican soil would be unacceptable. “Air strikes on Mexico will never happen,” President Sheinbaum has declared emphatically in public forums, and that line of red was not crossed in private either.
Underneath the applause: trade, tariffs and uneasy coordination
Trade between the three countries is not small talk. Across the continent, supply chains for autos, food, energy and components form a living web. Economists often point out that annual trade across the North American triangle exceeds a trillion dollars, supporting millions of jobs on both sides of the borders. The USMCA, which replaced NAFTA on 1 July 2020, was meant to modernize those ties. Yet in recent months, the U.S. administration has signaled it wants tweaks, and slapped tariffs on goods that fall outside the trade pact. Those moves have rattled businesses on both sides of the border.
“When steel tariffs go up, factories in Hamilton and Monterrey feel it the next month,” said Dr. Ana Morales, a trade analyst at a Washington think tank. “This meeting was partly about reminding each other that the economic costs of discord are tangible—jobs, investments, confidence.”
If politics color trade, they also color perception. Earlier this year, Mr. Trump’s off-the-cuff remark that Canada should consider becoming the 51st state provoked outrage and mockery in Ottawa. In other rounds of public sparring, Mr. Carney’s crisp dismissal—“Who cares?”—in response to a question about when he last spoke to Mr. Trump made headlines and highlighted how personal politics have sometimes tripped up pragmatic cooperation.
Migration, drugs and a line that won’t be crossed
Border security was never absent from the conversation. Migration remains an issue that generates headlines—and human stories. Hundreds of thousands of encounters at the U.S.-Mexico border have been recorded in recent years, and the push-and-pull of economic opportunity, climate displacement and cartel violence means migration rates are unlikely to tumble overnight.
Mr. Trump’s past rhetoric—suggesting he would be “OK” with air strikes on Mexican soil to target traffickers—met with fierce rebuke from Mexico. “We are neighbors, not targets,” said Héctor Ríos, a Mexico City soccer coach who watched the draw unfold on television. “We want cooperation but respect above all.”
That demand for respect was felt in Washington’s corridors too. “Sovereignty is not a bargaining chip,” President Sheinbaum reportedly emphasized during the meeting. “If we are to work together, we must do so as equals.”
A prize, a partner, and a controversy
When the day turned to evening, President Trump was presented with FIFA’s first-ever Peace Prize, a decision that ignited debate. Human rights organizations had urged FIFA not to bestow the honor, arguing that the choice risked politicizing an organization that has long sought to position sport above the partisan fray. Supporters of the award lauded what they called diplomatic engagement and assistance in preparing a continent-spanning tournament.
“This prize recognizes people who contribute to unity,” said Gianni Infantino, FIFA’s president, as cameras flashed. “The 2026 World Cup is itself a symbol of shared commitment.”
But beneath the formalities, critics were candid. “FIFA’s job is football. Political endorsements like this blur lines and undercut accountability,” said Lucia Mendes, a human rights advocate based in Geneva. “Awards matter because they confer legitimacy.”
Local color and unexpected moments
Outside the venue, fans and locals offered a more textured chorus. A vendor from Tijuana who has sold scarves at international matches for decades shrugged as he stacked pennants. “We sell the same scarves to Americans, Mexicans, Canadians,” he said, hands stained with ink from tickets. “People come for the game. Politicians can talk until the final whistle.”
In Ottawa, a small café near Parliament buzzed with conversation about the summit. “It’s theatre, but theatre with consequences,” said Amrita Singh, a policy student studying trade law. “A bad deal or new tariffs could be a real setback.”
Why you should care—and what comes next
Why should a soccer draw and a brief meeting matter to someone in Lagos, Lagos; Lagos, Portugal; or Lagos, Nigeria? Because globalized economies knit us tighter than any timetable suggests. A disruption in North American trade ripples through supply chains: cars, food, digital services. And a deterioration in regional cooperation on migration and narcotics enforcement can map onto routes that affect transit countries and global criminal markets.
- CUSMA/USMCA affects tariffs, automotive rules, digital trade, and labor standards for three of the world’s largest economies.
- Border encounters measured in the hundreds of thousands each year reflect deep human flows that cannot be solved by rhetoric alone.
- Sporting events like the 2026 World Cup create logistical pressure-cookers that demand real coordination—or face costly failure.
So what next? Expect talks to continue. Negotiations over trade terms do not resolve in an afternoon, and the optics of a co-hosted World Cup make a cooperative failure a political headache for all three leaders. Watch for working groups, technical committees, and perhaps the most consequential: the listening that turns partisan statements into practical policy.
Will we get a renewed pact that stabilizes supply chains and respects sovereignty, or more headline-driven brinksmanship? The answer will unfold over months—measured in briefings, spreadsheets and, perhaps inevitably, in the quiet of another sideline conversation.
As the draw finished and the stadium emptied, a young soccer fan from Montreal sighed and smiled. “We’ll cheer for our team,” she said. “But I want to know if my father keeps his job at the plant. That’s the real score.”
In international affairs, as in sport, the scoreboard at the final whistle is what counts. The leaders’ 45 minutes in Washington were a small piece of a longer match. The real test will be whether they can translate the handshake into durable, respectful results.
Nigeria Secures Release of 100 Kidnapped Children After Government Intervention
Released at Last: 100 Children Walk Free After a Nightmare in Rural Niger State
When the sun rose over Papiri, it glanced off dusty roofs and a small white church steeple that has long been the village’s compass point. For weeks that morning light had also cut across faces brimming with worry — parents who had watched their children vanish into a stillness thicker than the harmattan haze.
On Tuesday, the hush broke. Local officials announced that 100 children, survivors of a mass abduction that stunned Nigeria last month, had been freed and returned to their communities. It was a relief so sudden it felt almost unreal to those who had lived in the slow-motion panic that followed the raid on St Mary’s Catholic boarding school.
Numbers that Refuse to Fit
The Christian Association of Nigeria had reported that 303 pupils and 12 staff were seized on 21 November when gunmen stormed the peaceful hamlet. Fifty children escaped in the immediate chaos; the rest were carried off into nights that stretched longer than any parent should know.
Now, with 100 children back home and some of the others still unaccounted for, the arithmetic of trauma is painfully incomplete. Who is still missing? In what condition? At what cost were the released children returned? Answers arrive in fragments, through terse government briefings, the quiet urgency of clergymen, and the halting, raw testimony of parents.
Voices from Papiri
“I held my breath every minute for thirty days,” said Amaka, a mother whose seven-year-old son managed to escape but barely speaks since the night of the attack. “When they told me some children came back, my legs gave way. Not because we are done. Because for a minute, we could breathe again.”
A local headmaster, who asked not to be named for safety reasons, told me, “These boys and girls have been through something I cannot explain to people who have not sat awake by a kerosene lamp waiting for news. The trauma will need more than a bandage.” His hands trembled as he talked; in his voice were the quiet, exhausted registers of a community stretched thin.
Context: A Pattern of Pain
This kidnapping reopened old wounds across Nigeria — and not only because it echoes the Chibok abductions of 2014, when 276 schoolgirls were taken from their dormitories. Over the last decade, mass abductions of schoolchildren have become a terrifying pattern in parts of northern and central Nigeria, from Kankara and Jangebe to dozens of lesser-known villages.
Experts say the phenomenon is driven by a mix of criminal banditry, weak local governance, and, in some places, extremist activity. Kidnapping for ransom has become an industrial-scale business, and schools — often poorly defended and isolated — are tragic soft targets.
“Kidnappings are now an economy in some regions,” said Dr. Musa Ibrahim, a security analyst based in Abuja. “There is money for ransom, a lack of accountability for attackers, and communities that cannot rely on timely protection. Until you break that chain, these cycles will continue.”
How Negotiations Unfold
Authorities have been characteristically opaque about how the 100 children were released. In situations like these, a few common paths lead to freedom: military operations, negotiated transfers involving community intermediaries, or ransom payments. Each route carries its own moral and strategic complications.
“If the state pays quietly or agents negotiate, the immediate goal is to bring children home — but the longer-term signal might be dangerous,” noted Aisha Bello, a human rights lawyer who has worked with families of abducted children. “Every successful payout can incentivize another raid. Yet what choice do you give desperate parents?”
What the Return Looks Like
Reunions were jagged and full of small miracles. A father interviewed outside the parish hall hugged his son so tightly neighbors cheered — yet when the boy pulled back, his eyes were hollow, his small fingers stained with months of worry.
Medical teams and psychologists are now the first responders, tasked with untangling physical needs from emotional ones. Immunizations, nutrition checks, and sleep routines will be the immediate focus. But the longer, quieter work — helping children learn to trust, to sleep without nightmares, to return to classrooms — can take years.
“We have to be patient and professional,” said one NGO worker coordinating aid in the area. “The safest thing is not always the quickest. Reintegration requires continuity of care and community support.”
Beyond Papiri: The Bigger Picture
What happened in Papiri is local, but it resonates globally. It raises urgent questions about state capacity, the right to education, and how societies protect their most vulnerable. Around the world, schools are supposed to be sanctuaries. When they are violated, it is not just an assault on a building — it is an assault on the idea that childhood should be a time of safety and learning.
Consider the ripple effects: families who lose faith in local schools may pull their children out, driving down future literacy and economic prospects. Teachers and administrators may abandon rural postings. The social fabric that binds neighborhoods frays under repeated terror.
And then there is the politics. Governments are judged not only on their ability to respond to crises but to prevent them. For Nigeria, a nation of more than 200 million people, these events are a test of institutional resilience and moral leadership.
Questions Worth Asking
- What resources are being directed to protect rural schools?
- How will the government and communities address the long-term psychological harm to returned children?
- Are there sustainable strategies to disrupt the kidnapping economy without endangering hostages?
These aren’t simple queries. They require honest debate about security priorities, investment in education, and meaningful accountability for those who attack civilians.
A Fragile Hope
As night fell over Papiri again, the small church bell tolled. Families gathered, not in triumph, but in a cautious congregation of relief and continued worry. A teacher I spoke to said, “We will put the children back in classrooms, but we will also teach them to tell stories — to tell what happened — because silence can be a prison too.”
That line lingered with me. In the smoke of worry and the heat of grief, stories are how communities keep memory from calcifying into resignation. They are also how pressure builds for change.
So what do we want to happen next? Do we demand better protection for schools? Do we push for transparent investigative mechanisms that deter future attacks? Do we support long-term mental health services for these children and their families? Each of those choices carries political cost — and moral urgency.
For the parents who welcomed their children home this week, answers will begin at the local hospital, in the hands of a counselor, and at the doors of whatever school reopens. For the rest of us — readers in distant cities, policymakers with levers of power, citizens of a global village — the question is whether we will allow this to be one more headline before it dwindles back into the endless churn of crisis, or whether its echoes will push for deeper, lasting change.
In Papiri, life has returned but not returned to normal. The children laugh in fits and starts. Mothers sleep with radios on through the night. Fathers patch boards against windows. Hope is complicated and fragile — and for now, it will have to be enough.
Australian officials urge thousands of residents to evacuate as bushfires spread
When the Sky Turns Orange: A Night on the Edge in New South Wales
There are moments when the ordinary world becomes thin as tissue: the backyard barbecue, the dog dozing on the porch, the hum of a distant ferry — and then the sky changes. It takes on the color of an old bruise, the air tastes of iron, and the gum trees that have shaded a town for generations throw off their scent like an alarm.
That was the scene this week along the Central Coast north of Sydney, where bushfires forced hasty evacuations from Phegans Bay and Woy Woy, communities that sit along the fingers of Brisbane Water. Emergency warnings climbed to the highest level, and people who had never imagined leaving their homes with minutes to spare found themselves packing photo albums, medications and their lives into cars while a heatwave, with thermometers nudging 42°C, stoked the flames beyond what most hoped possible.
“We just left with the dog and a few things in a bag”
“We just left with the dog and a few things in a bag,” said Sarah Thompson, who runs a tiny seafood café that usually smells of prawns and coffee. “The smoke came in so fast. One minute we were serving breakfast, the next the whole street was being told to go.”
Her voice was calm over the phone, but there was a raggedness beneath it. “The ash fell like gray snow. You could see then that it was serious.”
Local firefighters and residents spoke of frantic car queues, of people helping neighbors who did not drive, and of elderly residents carried out of houses by volunteers. The Rural Fire Service put it plainly: leave now if your escape route is clear. For many, that order arrived as sirens skimmed the coast and bushland flanked the roads like living tinderboxes.
More than embers: the scale of a growing season
Across New South Wales, more than fifty separate bushfires were burning at the height of the emergency. In the Upper Hunter, a fire reached the emergency rating and blazed through almost 10,000 hectares of countryside — a patchwork of farmland and native woodland now scarred in black. Early reports from the Central Coast counted as many as 16 homes lost; those numbers may change as damage assessments continue.
“We’ve got crews working around the clock,” said Mark Reynolds, a volunteer captain with a regional fire brigade. “It’s not just fighting flames — it’s doing triage on infrastructure, saving what we can, and trying to keep people calm. The heat makes everything harder. Crews are exhausted, but the community’s stepped up.”
Volunteer firefighters are the backbone of Australia’s rural emergency services. In towns like Woy Woy, they are baristas, teachers and tradespeople by day, and the men and women who will stand on the front line when the bush calls. The combination of blistering heat, low humidity and accumulated dry fuel from previous seasons creates a threat that can outpace even seasoned crews.
History as warning: remembering Black Summer
There is a name that still echoes through Australia’s consciousness: Black Summer. The 2019–2020 fires burned roughly 18.6 million hectares, destroyed thousands of homes and took 33 lives. Researchers estimate roughly three billion animals were affected, and entire ecosystems were altered in ways that may be irreversible. Those memories sharpen the communal anxiety when another hot season arrives.
“People remember the smoke and the loss,” said Dr. Emily Carter, a climate scientist at a Sydney university. “What’s different now is the frequency and intensity of heat extremes. The link between human-caused climate change and increased fire weather — higher temperatures, more prolonged drought — is well established.”
Local voices, broader truths
The Central Coast is a place of fishermen’s huts, weekend holidaymakers, and long-standing local communities. On a normal afternoon, the boardwalks are full of dogs, kids and anglers. Under threat, those same public spaces become staging areas for worry and kindness in equal measure.
“We opened the surf club as an information point,” said Liza Ahmed, a volunteer who had been handing out water and sunscreen to evacuees. “People come here confused and scared. They want facts and someone to hold their hand. That’s what small towns do.”
In the shadow of the fires, elders from local Indigenous communities have also been reaching out, speaking to the need for different approaches to land management. Around Australia, traditional cultural burning — small, controlled fires timed to reduce fuel and protect country — is gaining renewed attention as part of a broader conversation about prevention and stewardship.
“Our people knew the country,” a local community leader said. “We used fire like a tool. It’s about knowledge that’s been here longer than any of us. We need to listen.”
What the numbers tell us
Facts can anchor feeling. Here is what we know so far:
- Temperatures reached around 42°C during a central-coast heatwave, raising the fire danger significantly.
- More than 50 bushfires were active across New South Wales during the high-alert period.
- The Upper Hunter blaze burned nearly 10,000 hectares, while initial reports from the Central Coast listed up to 16 homes lost.
- The 2019–2020 Black Summer fires consumed an estimated 18.6 million hectares and led to massive ecological and human tolls.
Not just an Australian problem
Wildfires are a global symptom — from California to the Mediterranean, from Siberia to the Amazon. They expose the collision between climate change, land use, and communities that increasingly live at the edge of wild places. As urban areas expand into bushland, the risk to homes and lives grows, creating a policy problem that mixes disaster preparation, housing strategy, and climate mitigation.
“Preventing these fires isn’t just about firefighters and aircraft,” Dr. Carter added. “It’s about urban planning, funding for local brigades, and international action on emissions. You fix the symptom with suppression measures, but you reduce the disease by reducing emissions and adapting landscapes.”
Where people stand now
As the flames cool into smoldering edges and the wind shifts, communities begin to count what they have and what they have lost. For some, the day will be about reclaiming a home; for others it will be about deciding whether to rebuild at all. And for many, the day will be about how to prepare for the next time the sky turns orange.
“We’ll sweep up the ash and get back to work,” Sarah from the café said. “But there’s a tiredness. You don’t forget the smell of your town burning.”
What you can take away
If you’re reading this from somewhere far away, pause and think about your own neighborhood. How well would your community stand up under extreme weather? Who are the volunteers who would carry you out? What planning is happening now that could lower the risk next season?
These fires are not isolated incidents; they are part of a new normal. The choices we make in policy rooms and at kitchen tables will shape whether future generations inherit a world of smoke-filled skies or one where towns are safer, forests healthier, and communities more resilient.
For now, the people of the Central Coast wait under gray skies, making cup after small cup of tea, calling neighbors, tallying losses, and holding onto one another as the landscape heals — and, somewhere in the country, a volunteer brigade straightens their helmet, prepares their truck and goes back out to the edge.
Benin authorities say military thwarted coup attempt overnight
Dawn Gunfire, State TV and a Country Holding Its Breath: Inside Benin’s Foiled Coup
At first light in Cotonou, a cadence of shots cracked the usual Sunday rhythm — the clatter of motorbikes, the distant call to prayer, the vendors arranging their stalls at Dantokpa market. People paused, looked up, and then did what people do in cities that have learned caution: they shuffled toward radio and television, toward neighbours’ doorways, toward the small truths that anchor a community in an uncertain morning.
By mid-morning, the startling image of uniformed men had flooded state television: at least eight soldiers, faces set, rifles at their sides, announcing the dissolution of national institutions, the suspension of the constitution and the closure of borders. “The army solemnly commits to give the Beninese people the hope of a truly new era,” one of them declared on air, speaking of fraternity, justice and work as if reciting a national pledge.
Hours later, Interior Minister Alassane Seidou appeared on the same network and told the nation the plot had been thwarted. The minister’s calm, measured voice — an attempt to return the country to its ordinary pulse — was underscored by practical reassurances: go about your business, police have deployed to key intersections, normality will return. A government spokesperson confirmed arrests linked to the bid.
What Really Happened This Morning?
The details are still being sorted, but a skeletal timeline is emerging.
- Early morning: gunfire reported in several neighbourhoods, including near the president’s residence.
- Soon after: a group of soldiers briefly took control of the state broadcaster and read a statement announcing a takeover.
- Within hours: loyalist forces regained control, broadcasting resumed, and authorities announced arrests connected to the attempt.
“It was surreal,” said Narcisse, a furniture salesman in Cotonou who asked to be identified only by his first name. “I heard the shots around 8.00am. I brought the sofas inside and closed up. People were in the streets whispering. Now it’s calmer, but you can still feel the unease.”
The Echoes of a Troubled Region
Benin’s scare cannot be read in isolation. Over the past decade, West Africa has been a testing ground for an uneasy pattern: civilian governments challenged by military actors citing insecurity, corruption or national decline.
Since 2020, Niger, Mali and Burkina Faso have all seen coups; Guinea and Guinea-Bissau have also experienced ruptures. The ripple effects are as political as they are human. Families flee violence; markets lose confidence; international partners scramble to respond. Regional bodies — notably ECOWAS and the African Union — swiftly condemned the attempt in Cotonou, framing it as yet another threat to fragile democratic advances in the region.
“You can’t separate national politics from regional currents,” said Amadou Diop, a Sahel analyst based in Dakar. “What happens in one capital resonates across borders — security forces talk to one another, grievances are shared, and opportunists see openings.”
Security Concerns, Political Tensions
The soldiers who spoke on air referenced deteriorating security, particularly in northern Benin, and invoked the “neglect of our fallen brothers-in-arms.” The country has, after all, been confronting a new reality: jihadist violence spilling south from Mali and Burkina Faso.
In April, the government publicly acknowledged a devastating attack that killed dozens of soldiers — an assault it attributed to a group affiliated with Al Qaeda. Those losses have reverberated. For many Beninese, the questions are raw: are the forces we trust able to defend us? Who protects the protector?
“Our communities in the north have lived with fear. Farms lie abandoned. Children don’t go to school,” said Mariam Ade, a teacher from a town near the border with Burkina Faso. “When soldiers die and families get no support, anger grows.”
The Politics Behind the Guns
Security aside, political tensions have been simmering. President Patrice Talon — in power since 2016 — has been praised for economic reforms that helped push Benin’s growth into single-digit territory after years of sluggish performance. At the same time, critics accuse his administration of tightening its grip on state institutions.
In recent months, Benin adopted a new constitution that created a Senate and extended presidential terms from five to seven years. Finance Minister Romuald Wadagni has been selected as the ruling coalition’s candidate for the upcoming April election, a vote that would mark the end of Mr. Talon’s current tenure but under circumstances critics say favor the incumbent bloc.
“Constitutional change is a legitimate part of politics,” said Professor Hélène Kpatindé, a political scientist at the University of Abomey-Calavi. “But when reforms are rushed and opposition voices feel marginalized, the avenues for peaceful contestation narrow. That creates fertile ground for those who believe a rifle can reset the scales.”
Indeed, the opposition Democrats party, founded by Mr. Talon’s predecessor Thomas Boni Yayi, saw one of its potential presidential candidates barred over what the courts said was insufficient backing. To many on the streets of Cotonou, those judicial decisions feed a sense of injustice.
Voices from the Ground
Across town, a pastor named Father Kossi stood outside a small church, the fragrance of incense mixing with the morning sun. “People looked to the heavens today,” he said. “We pray for peace and for leaders of conscience. Violence solves nothing.”
A market woman, Awa, folded her hands over her basket of peppers and smiled tightly. “We want stability,” she said. “We want to sell, to send our children to school. Guns scare customers away.”
A European diplomat, speaking on condition of anonymity, said embassy staff had warned nationals to stay home when gunfire was reported near the presidential residence and commended the swift response by loyalist units.
Questions That Outlast the Headlines
What happens next matters not only for Benin but for West Africa’s democratic trajectory. Will the arrests lead to prosecutions and a transparent accounting? Will political doors be opened to the opposition so citizens can choose without coercion? Will the government address the security vacuum in the north that prompted the coup plotters to invoke their dead comrades?
“A foiled coup is not an answer,” said Amadou Diop. “It’s a symptom. The work now is to stitch back trust in institutions, to show citizens that constitutional politics can deliver security and justice. Otherwise, the cycle repeats.”
After the Shock
For now, Cotonou is tentatively returning to its rhythms: buses hum, markets reopen, churches and mosques resume their services. But there is a new layer in the city’s conversation — in the hair salons, cafés and on the radio. People ask the same question: what price for peace?
As night falls, the lights along the lagoon shimmer and the city exhales. The day’s gunfire becomes a story told with new details, shape and consequence. The story of Benin’s foiled coup attempt is not finished — it will be written in courtrooms, parliamentary chambers and in the slow, stubborn rebuilding of public trust.
So I ask you, reader: when institutions wobble, what do we owe one another as citizens — to demand justice, to protect the vulnerable, and to insist that change come through ballots rather than bullets?
Netanyahu and Trump to discuss Gaza plan’s second phase
On the Edge of a Plan: Jerusalem’s Waiting Game for Gaza’s Next Chapter
Jerusalem in late autumn carries a particular hush — a city where the call to prayer threads through morning traffic and Orthodox prayers ripple down alleys of the Old City. It is also a place where negotiations look like a game of patience and power, and where the lives of people who never sought headlines are quietly rearranged by diplomatic timetables.
That hush was punctuated this week by an unusually candid moment. Standing outside the Prime Minister’s Residence, Benjamin Netanyahu sounded cautiously optimistic about the “second phase” of a high-stakes American plan to end the fighting in Gaza — and then, as if reminding listeners of the brittle reality, he listed the knots still waiting to be untied.
“Phase two is close,” he told reporters alongside Germany’s Chancellor Friedrich Merz, “but the timetable, the forces, the details — they remain open questions.” Then, speaking of an invitation extended by the White House, Mr Netanyahu said he would carry those questions to Washington and discuss them with US President Donald Trump at the end of the month.
What the “Second Phase” Promises — and Why It’s Fragile
The blueprint, as described by officials involved, is straightforward in theory and fiendishly complicated in practice: Israel would pull back from more of Gaza; a transitional authority would be installed to govern; Gaza would be demilitarised and Hamas disarmed; reconstruction efforts would begin, and a multinational security presence would stand watch.
Under the first phase of the plan — tied to the release of hostages and detainees — Israel retained control of some 53% of Gaza’s territory, a point Netanyahu emphasized as a necessary security measure. The multinational coordination centre established in Israel is meant to shepherd the transition, but those who track the process say it has, so far, moved at the pace of a hesitant relay team.
“There are practical questions we cannot finesse,” Mr Netanyahu said. “What will be the timeline? Which forces will come in? Will there be international forces? If not, what are the alternatives?”
- Territorial control: Israel retained control of 53% of Gaza during the first phase.
- Casualties since the truce: Gaza’s health ministry reports 373 Palestinians killed since the ceasefire began; Israeli officials report three soldiers killed by militants during the same period.
- Hostages and remains: The handover of the final hostage remains — those of an Israeli police officer from the 7 October clashes — remains pending.
Voices from the Ground: Fear, Hope, and Frustration
In the cramped neighborhood of Mea She’arim, an elderly man named Avi sat outside a bakery and watched the smoke of a wood-fired oven blur the skyline. “We want peace,” he said. “But peace that means safety. Not promises.” He tapped his chest. “We need guarantees.”
Across town in West Jerusalem, a Palestinian pharmacy worker, who asked not to be named for fear of repercussion, folded a receipt into her pocket and offered a quieter assessment: “People here are tired of the same horizons. We need hospitals, schools, electricity. Not just troops coming and going.”
Experts warn that the human stakes behind the political language are enormous. “This is a junction where security logic collides with humanitarian urgency,” said Dr. Leila Haddad, a Middle East analyst who has followed Gaza reconstruction efforts for two decades. “The longer we wait for a clear, enforceable multinational presence, the more reconstruction stalls — and the more fertile the ground for renewed militancy.”
Germany’s Calculus — and the Global Ledger
Chancellor Merz spoke with measured urgency. Germany, he said, is prepared to assist in rebuilding Gaza — but Berlin wants clarity about what Washington will commit before it writes its own checks or sends engineers and money into a landscape still dotted with uncertainty.
“Phase two must come now,” Merz told reporters. “But we need to know: Who is on the ground? What is the mandate? Without answers, there is no responsible way for us to proceed.”
Those words reflect a wider European dilemma: nations want to help, but many are loath to assume responsibility for security tasks they cannot fully control. The idea of a multinational force — whether European, Arab, or a NATO-style coalition — has proven thorny: who leads it, under whose rules does it operate, and how long does it stay?
The Uncomfortable Middle: Ceasefire, Violations, and the Hard Work of Trust
The ceasefire that began in October has, at times, resembled a fragile glass bowl balanced on a table: whole, but under constant strain. Both sides have accused the other of violations. Israel says it conducts strikes to fend off attacks or to destroy militant infrastructure; Palestinian authorities tally civilian casualties and warn that reconstruction cannot begin in earnest until safety is secured.
“You cannot rebuild on the basis of a handshake,” said an unnamed Israeli security official. “You need boots, data, verifiable weapons caches, and a regional commitment that this won’t be a brief pause before the next eruption.”
On the other side, Gazans who returned to pick through rubble have spoken of small joys and persistent fears. “I planted tomatoes on the roof this week,” said Amal, a schoolteacher who returned to Gaza City to see what was left of her home. “The plants drink the same water, the sun is the same, but the nights are different now. We wake at every sound.”
Beyond Gaza: A Regional Chessboard
Netanyahu mentioned another strand of conversation he intends to bring to the White House: the push to normalise relations with Arab and Muslim states. “There’s a path to broader peace with Arab states,” he said, “and possibly a workable peace with our Palestinian neighbours.” Yet he insisted Israel would press to retain security control over the West Bank — a non-starter for many Palestinians.
Donald Trump, Mr Netanyahu noted, has reportedly assured Muslim leaders that Israel would not annex the West Bank — a remark that adds yet another layer to the negotiation. The question of political annexation remains alive and unresolved, even as diplomats convene.
What Comes Next — and What We Should Watch For
So where does this leave ordinary people who are not diplomats or generals? With questions that demand answers, and hard ones at that.
Will a multinational force arrive with a clear mandate and the logistics to disarm militant groups? Will reconstruction cash arrive along with accountability to ensure it reaches hospitals, not bunkers? Can a transitional authority govern without being perceived as an occupying force?
We should watch for three signals that would show tangible progress:
- A signed agreement specifying the mandate, composition, and duration of any international security force;
- Rapid deployment of humanitarian reconstruction resources, coupled with transparent oversight mechanisms;
- Concrete commitments from regional states — not just statements of intent — to support a sustainable political settlement that respects Palestinian rights and Israeli security concerns.
Readers, ask yourselves: What would you accept as a fair trade-off between security and sovereignty? How much confidence do you place in international forces and diplomatic guarantees?
The answers matter, not just for policymakers, but for the father planting tomatoes on a rooftop in Gaza, the Israeli grandmother watching the news with dread, and the diplomats who are now, quietly and urgently, trying to stitch together a next chapter. In Jerusalem, that work is underway; but whether it will bring healing or a protracted intermission depends, as always, on the messy arithmetic of trust, deterrence, and the human need for normalcy.
U.S. Signals Deal to End Ukraine War Is Very Close
On the edge of a deal: how two sites stand between peace and more war
There are moments in diplomacy that feel less like negotiations and more like the final, breathless minutes of a marathon. Last week, in an auditorium beneath the California sun, a veteran of American interventionist wars — a man who once led troops across continents — told an audience that the effort to stop the fighting in Ukraine had reached “the last 10 metres.” His shorthand was ordinary; the consequences are anything but.
Keith Kellogg, the outgoing U.S. special envoy on Ukraine, told attendees at the Reagan National Defense Forum that only two issues remained truly thorny: the territorial fate of the Donbas and the status of the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant. Settle those, he argued, and “the rest of the things will work out fairly well.” It was the kind of line that excites negotiators and terrifies civilians.
A quiet but explosive geography
The Donbas — a patchwork of mined fields, shattered factories and stubborn towns — has been the epicentre of this long, grinding contest since 2014. Russia formally annexed Crimea that year, and the region of Donetsk and Luhansk has been contested even longer. When a full-scale invasion began in February 2022, the fighting metastasized: today, Russia holds roughly one-fifth of Ukrainian territory, including Crimea and large swathes of eastern and southern regions.
That reality is central to every conversation about surrender, compromise or a frozen line on a map. “If you cede Donetsk without proper consent, you don’t so much solve the war as invite a later, deeper one,” says a Ukrainian legal adviser in Kyiv who has followed negotiations closely. “A handover without a legitimate referendum is a legal abyss.”
Across the line in towns that have known only warfare for a decade, opinions are not monolithic. “My mother remembers Soviet times fondly,” says Olena, a teacher from a small Donbas village now under Ukrainian control, nursing a thermos of black tea in a Kyiv flat. “But she also remembers the shelling. People are tired. We want peace. But not at the cost of our freedom.”
The heart of the matter: Zaporizhzhia
More than any headline-grabbing clause about troop positions, however, it is the Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant that haunts negotiators. The plant — the largest in Europe by capacity — sits under Russian control and has been a recurrent flashpoint for months. A power plant is not merely an industrial asset; it is a potential disaster in a conflict zone.
“You can bargain territory, you can bargain ceasefires,” says Dr. Marie Koumbis, a nuclear safety expert and former IAEA inspector. “You cannot afford to gamble with a reactor’s safety culture. Any ambiguity about operational responsibility is dangerous.”
Kellogg’s assessment that resolving these two nodes could unlock broader progress is not naïve. But Russian officials have signalled they expect significant rewrites to the U.S. drafts. Yuri Ushakov, a longtime Kremlin aide, said Moscow wants “serious, radical changes” — though he did not specify them. That vagueness is, in itself, a negotiating tactic.
Intermediaries in the Kremlin corridors
Diplomacy took an unusual detour last week when two figures from the private sector — along with a high-profile presidential son-in-law — met with President Vladimir Putin. Long nights of Kremlin hospitality followed; public comment was thin but pointed. Moscow’s readout said “territorial problems” were discussed. Washington’s readouts were, until now, cautious and measured.
“Back-channel talks are necessary; they’re also risky,” notes Andriy Petrov, a retired European diplomat who has watched many rounds of peace talks in his career. “They can move the needle, but they can also create the illusion of progress without guarantees.”
Casualties, calculations and leaked drafts
Amid all the negotiating theatre, the human ledger is grim. Kellogg described the toll as “horrific,” citing — controversially — more than two million dead and wounded on both sides. Independent verification of such totals is elusive; both Moscow and Kyiv guard their figures closely. Yet even conservative tallies speak to a conflict that has left cities, families and livelihoods shattered.
Complicating the diplomatic picture was the emergence of a leaked document of U.S. draft proposals. The 28-point outline alarmed many in Kyiv and across Europe because, critics argued, it seemed to accommodate some of Moscow’s central demands — including limits on Kyiv’s military posture and the effective recognition of Russian control over substantial swathes of land. That leak illustrated an inescapable truth: once a draft enters the public realm, it shapes perceptions and politics as much as it shapes negotiations.
New U.S. framing, and Moscow’s cautious welcome
In parallel with the back-and-forth over a settlement, Washington shifted language in its latest national security strategy, removing a clause that had described Russia as a “direct threat.” The Kremlin, predictable in its relief, called the change “a positive step” and said Moscow would study the document closely. The move signals possible openings for limited cooperation on issues like strategic stability — arms control, nuclear risk reduction — even as fighting continues on the ground.
“Words matter in international diplomacy,” says Emily Rourke, an analyst at a strategic think-tank. “Labeling a state a ‘threat’ locks you into certain policies. A sliding scale of language gives diplomats more flexibility, at least on paper.”
Winter, power and the grind of strategy
Winter is never just a season in this conflict; it is a weapon and a test. Russian forces have broadened long-range strikes on power, heating and water infrastructure in recent months, a campaign designed to sap morale and disrupt civilian life as temperatures fall. Overnight strikes hit central cities, including Kremenchuk, leaving neighborhoods without heat and water and local officials scrambling to assess damage.
“We will restore everything,” the mayor of Kremenchuk posted on social media after a strike that blacked out parts of the city. His pledge, sincere and defiant, echoes from municipal halls across Ukraine: repair, restart, survive.
On the ground, people improvise. A baker in Kharkiv swaps ovens on his route to serve communal bread. An electrician in a Black Sea port works 16-hour days to link backup generators as diplomats debate clauses in conference halls thousands of miles away. These are the small acts that stitch life back together while states haggle over maps.
Where do we go from here?
So what should we expect next? Negotiators, intermediaries and weary residents all hope for de-escalation. But hope will not hold a line on a map. Peace, if it is to be durable, will require more than signatures and press conferences: enforceable mechanisms, credible local buy-in, and safeguards for nuclear facilities.
Would you trade land for peace? Would you accept a frozen conflict if it spared another winter of blackout-strewn nights? These are not academic questions for the families whose windows show a streetlight blown out by the last strike.
For now, the deal — if deal there will be — rests on two stubborn fulcrums: the contested earth of Donbas and the reactors of Zaporizhzhia. Resolve those poorly, and the rest could unravel. Resolve them well, and a weary region might finally begin the slow work of rebuilding, remembering, and returning home.
Whatever comes next, the human stories will remain: teachers serving tea, mayors counting the cost, diplomats pacing corridors, and civilians asking the simplest of questions — when will it end?
Gunmen open fire at South African bar, 12 people killed
At Dawn’s Edge: A Small Township, a Shebeen, and a Massacre That Left a Community Shaken
When the sun had barely found the rooftops of Saulsville, the township west of Pretoria, the air still hung with the last traces of night—cooked maize, diesel from the taxis, the faint hum of distant radio. And beneath it all, a silence that felt wrong. Plastic chairs lay overturned. Beer bottles glinted like glassy teeth in the dust. Blood had already been swept into rainwater drains where it would go, for now, unnoticed.
By the time police and ambulances arrived, the numbers made the silence a headline: 25 people shot, 12 dead. Among them, three children—the youngest only three years old—were pulled from the chaos. Ten people died at the scene in Saulsville; two more succumbed later in hospital. Fourteen others survived but were wounded, some critically. The assault, authorities say, involved three gunmen who stormed the illegal liquor outlet—locally called a shebeen—at about 4:30am and opened fire on a group of people drinking inside and around the premises.
Scenes from the Aftermath
“I saw men running, others trying to pick up children while bullets kept coming,” said Miriam, 34, who lives two streets away from the shebeen. “We run to help—what else can we do? But there were babies and blood and crying, and when the police came, they started sealing everything like it was something that belonged to someone else.”
Residents described a surreal early morning: neighbours spill out in nightshirts, cigarettes dangling, faces streaked with tears and dust. A local pastor set up blankets in a taxi rank and began offering comfort and water. Shopkeepers were late to open, staring at the cordon tape. “This place is where people come to forget, even if only for a little while,” said Sipho, a 27-year-old mechanic. “Now people are asking: forget what?”
Shebeens, Shadow Economies, and Social Fault Lines
Shebeens are a fixture in South African townships—informal, often unlicensed bars that serve as social hubs, safety valves, and sometimes economic necessities. For many, they are more than places to drink: they are living rooms, community noticeboards, stages for local music. For law enforcement, however, illegal liquor outlets present a recurring hotspot for violence, an observation police have repeatedly made.
“We are having a serious challenge when it comes to these illegal and unlicensed liquor premises,” police told local media after the attack, noting that many mass shootings occur at such locations and that innocent bystanders frequently become collateral victims. Authorities launched a manhunt for three suspects, but as of the latest reports no arrests had been made and the motive remained unclear.
Why the Violence Keeps Coming
This massacre is the latest in a string of mass shootings that have left South Africa reeling. The country of roughly 63 million people is grappling with entrenched violent crime that experts link to a complex mixture of poverty, deeply unequal opportunity, entrenched organized-crime networks, and a proliferation of illegal firearms. Police data released for a recent six-month period showed that some 63 people were killed each day between April and September—an alarm bell for a society still wrestling with the legacy of apartheid’s spatial and economic injustices.
“When communities lack formal economic opportunities, informal economies thrive,” explained a criminologist at a South African university who asked to remain anonymous. “Those spaces—like shebeens—become nodes where social life and criminal opportunity intersect. Add illegal firearms into the mix, and the potential for mass harm escalates.”
South Africans are permitted to own licensed firearms for personal protection—many do—but the number of illegal guns on the streets is widely believed to be far larger, fed by past smuggling networks, raids, and illicit trade. In townships where poverty bites hardest and policing is often uneven, this creates a powder keg: conflicts that might have been contained in other settings erupt into deadly violence because of the easy availability of high-powered weapons.
Voices from Saulsville: Anger, Grief, and Resilience
Grief here is public and raw. Neighbours gathered, speaking in low tones, some in Zulu, some in English, some switching mid-sentence. “We bury one another too soon,” said Thandi, a 58-year-old grandmother. “I have lost cousins to this kind of shooting. You think your child is safe in his small yard, but the bullets don’t read addresses.”
Others called for practical steps. “Shutting down shebeens might seem like a quick fix,” said Morena, a young community organizer, “but you must remember people work there, small traders sell food nearby, and sometimes it’s the only heated room in winter. We need policing that is smarter, not just tougher. We need outreach, youth programs, real economic investment.”
In the wake of the killings, community leaders demanded more presence from police—not just sirens and statements, but sustained engagement, patrols, and resources for trauma counseling. Local volunteers started making lists of the wounded and offering transport to distant hospitals, because the nearest clinics in the township are small and already overburdened.
What This Means for South Africa—and the World
When a country’s streets are punctuated by shootings like this, the consequences ripple outward. Families left with the sudden absence of breadwinners, children who now absorb another layer of trauma, businesses that lose customers and employees—these are slow-moving impacts that deepen inequality and undermine trust in institutions.
But there is also a political dimension. South Africa’s struggle with crime plays into debates around policing, gun control, corruption, and social policy. It forces policymakers to reckon with the uncomfortable truth that legal restrictions on firearms will only go so far if illegal markets remain unchecked and social grievances unaddressed.
Globally, the story speaks to a pattern seen in many unequal societies: when economic marginalization coincides with weak state capacity and entrenched networks of illicit trade, ordinary life becomes more dangerous. It is a reminder that development isn’t only about GDP growth; it is also about safe public spaces and accessible social services.
After the Screams: Questions We Have to Ask
How do you dismantle a network of illegal arms without first cutting the demand? How do you regulate informal economies without destroying livelihoods? How do you offer justice when the motive is unknown and suspects remain at large?
These are the hard questions policymakers, police, and communities must answer together. For residents of Saulsville the questions are immediate: who will watch the children now, how will funerals be paid for, who will clean the stains from the chairs and floors and carry on as if nothing happened? For the nation, the urgency is different but no less pressing: reduce the daily toll of violence, rebuild trust, and create alternatives so that late-night conversations and laughter in shebeens do not end in tragedy.
“We are not asking for miracles, only for safety and dignity,” Miriam said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “If we can’t sit somewhere without fear, what kind of country are we building?”
As the town mourns, investigators continue to piece together the timeline: surveillance footage, witness statements, forensic evidence. The manhunt for the three suspects is under way. Meanwhile, in living rooms and on stoops, people tend to one another in practical ways—preparing food, organizing transport, nursing wounds that are not just physical. The headlines will move on in time. The people of Saulsville will not.
Drone Strikes on Sudanese Kindergarten and Hospital Leave Dozens Dead
Bombed Playground: A Kindergarten, a Hospital — and a Country Unraveling
There are sights that refuse to leave you: a tiny shoe on scorched earth, crayons melted into the dirt, a stroller turned on its side like a blown-over toy. In Kalogi, a town in Sudan’s South Kordofan, those images are now seared into the memories of people who once woke to the call to prayer and the clatter of market life, not the whine of paramilitary drones.
On a dry Thursday, according to local officials reachable only through a fragile Starlink link, three strikes ripped through Kalogi. First the kindergarten, then the hospital, and then — mercilessly — a third strike as family members and neighbours rushed in to pull children from the rubble. The head of the local administrative unit, Essam al-Din al-Sayed, told reporters the pattern bore the mark of an attack meant to inflict maximum human suffering.
Numbers that don’t add up — and the silence that grows between them
In the fog of war, figures become battlegrounds of their own. UNICEF’s office in Sudan reported that more than 10 children between the ages of five and seven were killed. The foreign ministry aligned with the army released a much higher toll: 79 dead, including 43 children. Independent verification remains agonizingly difficult — communications are sporadic, humanitarian access is tightly restricted, and security is far from assured.
“Killing children in their school is a horrific violation of children’s rights,” said Sheldon Yett, UNICEF’s Representative for Sudan, in a statement that echoed around humanitarian circles. “All parties must stop attacks on civilians and allow unfettered access for aid.”
There is a grim arithmetic at play: since the conflict erupted in April 2023, tens of thousands have died and nearly 12 million people — roughly a quarter of Sudan’s population — have been forced from their homes. In just the past month, the United Nations says more than 40,000 people fled Kordofan alone as fighting intensified. These are not abstract statistics. They are children who no longer go to school, farmers who no longer sow, markets that lie empty at dawn.
Who attacked Kalogi — and why this region?
Local officials blamed the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), the powerful paramilitary group that has been at the centre of Sudan’s catastrophe, and its ally, the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement-North (SPLM-N) faction led by Abdelaziz al-Hilu. The RSF, which has been waging an offensive across western Sudan in recent months, seized El-Fasher in October — the army’s last big foothold in Darfur — and appears to be pushing eastward into the oil-bearing Kordofan states.
Military analysts say the RSF’s strategy is to sever the army’s defensive arc around central Sudan and to position itself to contest major cities, including Khartoum. “Control of these towns chokes off supply lines,” said one regional analyst who monitors military movements in Sudan. “It’s about logistics, but also symbolism: seize the towns and you seize legitimacy in the eyes of some locals.”
Oil, alliances, and the geopolitics of a collapsed state
Kordofan’s soil is not just sand and seed; it is economically strategic. Oil fields dot the wider region, and whoever controls transport routes and pumping stations wields leverage far beyond the town square. International mediators — the United States, Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates and Egypt — offered a truce plan that the RSF said it would accept in November. Yet even with diplomatic manoeuvring, there has been little on-the-ground de-escalation.
“There is no sign of de-escalation,” UN human rights chief Volker Türk warned, noting “clear preparations for intensified hostilities” that threaten an already long-suffering people. The lament is not merely about broken ceasefires. It is about a broader failure of international systems to protect civilians when formal governance collapses and irregular forces carve up territory.
At the heart of Kalogi: faces, voices, and the ragged courage of survival
Amina, who taught at the kindergarten hit in the first strike, speaks in a voice threaded with disbelief and raw grief. “They were coloring,” she says. “One little boy asked me if the planes were angels. I told him they were not. The next minute the roof came down.” She pauses, and a long silence fills the line. “We have no hospitals left that we trust.”
Dr. Mustafa — a surgeon who asked to be identified by his first name only — recounted hauling children into a tent outside a shattered hospital ward. “We had four stretchers and a bucket of antiseptic,” he said. “We worked until our hands trembled. We tried to stop the bleeding, to stop the sound of crying. What we couldn’t stop was the fear in the mothers’ eyes.”
These are the testimonies that anchor the wider geopolitical narrative in human terms. They remind us that war is not a chess game of generals, but a daily grind of survival, where civilians watch passports burn and recipes are shared to stretch a bag of grain over a family of seven.
What this means for humanitarian aid — and for the wider region
Humanitarian agencies are sounding the alarm. Blocked roads, denied visas, and insecurity make it near impossible to reach many enclaves around Sudan. Aid workers say the destruction of medical facilities and schools multiplies suffering in ways that will last for generations: untreated injuries lead to disability; missed education becomes a permanent scar.
“Once a school is bombed, children stop learning — and the social fabric frays,” said a humanitarian coordinator who has worked in Sudan for nearly a decade. “You don’t just rebuild walls. You try to rebuild trust.”
- Nearly 12 million people internally displaced or forced to flee since April 2023 (UN estimates)
- More than 40,000 people fled Kordofan in the past month alone (UN)
- Tens of thousands killed since the conflict began (various humanitarian sources)
Beyond Kalogi: a warning from history
When violence repeatedly strikes schools and hospitals, it is not accidental. Targeting civilian infrastructure has become a hallmark of some modern conflicts. It is strategic cruelty: break the social institutions and you break the community. The international community’s attempts at mediation, fragile and halting, face the harder task of not just stopping guns but restoring institutions.
Is that even possible when entire cities have been reshaped by displacement and trauma? How do you reconstruct a classroom where a child died clutching a math book? These are questions that transcend Kalogi and speak to conflicts from Syria to Ethiopia, from Yemen to parts of the Sahel.
What we can watch for — and what we must demand
Keep an eye on three things: humanitarian access (are aid convoys allowed in?), independent verification (can reporters and watchdogs enter to confirm claims?), and the care of survivors (are hospitals resupplied, are children offered psychosocial support?). If these fail, then the numbers we are seeing today will be the quiet prelude to a deeper collapse of social life in affected regions.
We are watching lives being unmade in real time. The question for readers — and for the world — is whether we will let these events pass as distant tragedies or whether we will demand stronger protections for civilians, better mediation, and swift aid corridors so that no child dies alone under a sky once known for its morning call to prayer and the tender chaos of playground laughter.
In Kalogi, neighbors gather to bury the dead, to barter for disinfectant and to sort through what remains. They are telling the same story told across war zones: in rubble, small acts of compassion persist. As one local elder put it between sips of sweet tea, “We are broken, yes. But our hands still reach out to each other.” What will our hands reach out to do?
Madaxweyne Xasan oo la kulmay Wasiirka Arrimaha Dibadda Masar
Dec 07(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Soomaaliya Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud ayaa magaalada Doha kula kulmay Wasiirka Arrimaha Dibadda Masar, Dr. Badr Cabdulcaati, intii uu socday Madasha Doha.
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