France commemorates a decade since the deadly 2015 Paris attacks

November 13, 2025

France marks 10th anniversary of deadly Paris attacks — Flowers and candles are placed at the Place de la Republique to commemorate the victims of the attacks

Paris Remembers: Ten Years Since a Night That Changed a City

On an autumn evening a decade ago, Paris—city of narrow cafés and flamenco-light laughter—was carved into “before” and “after.” The dates on the calendar read 13 November 2015; the memory feels like a permanent bruise. Ten years on, the city gathered quietly and with a fierce tenderness to remember 130 people who would not reach the mornings that followed, and to hold the hands of hundreds more who still bear invisible wounds.

The numbers are stark and simple: 130 killed, more than 400 wounded. But numbers cannot hold fingerprints, names, unfinished songs, the scent of coffee on a table, or the ache of a daughter who rang her father’s phone all night until her worst fear was confirmed. They cannot hold the taste of the blackboard menu from La Belle Équipe, still pierced by bullet holes, the words “Happy Hour” forever frozen beneath the marks.

Walking Through Memory

On the anniversary morning, small processions threaded through the city. First the Stade de France, the site of the first blasts where Manuel Dias, a 36-year-old bus driver, became the first victim. Then across bridges and down cobbled streets to the cafés and concert hall where gunmen tore through ordinary lives. Wreaths were laid, candles lit, and names read aloud—names now inscribed on plaques that ring the neighborhoods like a slow, quiet chorus.

“There is an emptiness that never leaves you,” Sophie Dias told the crowd as she placed a single white rose where her father fell. Her voice, raw and steady, carried over those gathered: “We must hand these memories down—not as horror stories, but as reminders of what was taken and why we must protect what remains.”

Survivors Carry Their Night

Inside the Bataclan the music had been loud and the crowd close. Sebastian Lascoux remembers thinking the bangs were firecrackers. Then the darkness widened and the smell of blood. “People collapsed together like waves,” he said, his hands folding his words into the air. One friend died shielding another. Sebastian now avoids crowded rooms; cinema seats and packed festivals bring back the gunfire in his chest.

Eva—who asked that her last name not be printed—lost her leg at La Belle Équipe. She returned, she said, because Paris is made of terraces and light and perseverance. But she will never again sit with her back to the street. “I drink my coffee facing out,” she told a reporter. “It is small, but it is how I feel safe.”

How a City Responds: Laws, Memory, and Museums

The attacks forced France to grapple with a new domestic reality. A state of emergency was declared within days and, in the years that followed, many emergency measures were codified into law—changes to policing, surveillance, and the architecture of public safety. The debates these changes ignited—security versus liberty, prevention versus social cohesion—are still alive in parliament and in cafe conversations.

Yet memory has taken many forms beyond legislation. Families have given fragments of their lives to a forthcoming Terrorism Memorial Museum, due to open in 2029. Curators are cataloguing about 500 objects: a ripped concert ticket, a luthier’s unfinished guitar, a menu with the words “Happy Hour” frozen under blood-stained holes. These are not mere artifacts; they are witness objects—domestic, personal, unbearably human.

What Gets Remembered—and How

Commemoration is never neutral. Some survivors attend memorials as an act of defiance; others avoid them entirely because remembrance itself can be re-traumatizing. “I can’t go back to the Bataclan,” said Stéphane Sarrade, who lost his 23-year-old son Hugo there. “It’s like a wound that reopens with every step.” Others, like Catherine Bertrand, vice-president of a victims’ association, insist on the necessity of living: “Concerts are happening again at the Bataclan. We go where we must. We meet. We sing.”

These contrasting responses speak to the complexity of collective mourning: public rituals can bind a nation, but they do not replace the private work of grief.

Voices on the Street

Walk through the 10th and 11th arrondissements today and you will hear the ordinary music of urban life—bicycles, scooter bells, a vendor calling out croissants. But there are small, deliberate acts of remembrance too: fresh flowers on lampposts, laminated photos on café windows, a young couple pausing to touch a name etched on a plaque.

“It reminds you how fragile everyday life is,” said Amélie, a barista who grew up nearby. “Sometimes customers ask why we still have the old photos pinned up. I tell them: because those people were our neighbours. Because someone came into our shop and never left.”

Looking Outward: The Global Lessons

Paris is not alone. Cities worldwide have experienced similar ruptures—in Barcelona, Christchurch, Boston, London—and each one has had to reweave public life from the torn edges. The global pattern is unsettling: while the territorial hold of groups like Islamic State has receded since 2015, their propaganda lives online, refining techniques to catch the young and the isolated. Social researchers estimate that although large coordinated attacks have declined in Europe, individual and small-cell attacks persist, often inspired via social media reach rather than battlefield command structures.

That reality prompts hard questions. How do democracies balance openness with vigilance? How do communities watch for radicalization without stigmatizing entire neighbourhoods? How do schools, local health services, and social networks step in early to provide belonging before violent ideologies do?

Data and Detours

Consider the numbers we can measure: since 2015, France has prosecuted dozens of terrorism-related cases, tightened border and intelligence cooperation across the EU, and invested in de-radicalization programs and mental health services for survivors. Yet experts warn that funding is uneven and social reintegration is often under-resourced.

“Security is not only cameras and checkpoints,” noted Dr. Inès Moreau, a sociologist specialising in urban trauma. “It must include schools, youth centres and jobs. Without the social fabric, prevention frays.”

Ten Years On: A Question for the Reader

So how do we remember without being consumed? How do we honor suffering while preventing it from defining us? In Paris, the answer is both fragile and stubborn: memory rituals, legal changes, museums, therapy, public conversations, and the small, daily acts of resisting fear—sitting outside with friends, blowing out candles, reopening the concert hall doors.

As you read this from wherever you are—city, town, or village—ask yourself: what does a resilient society look like? Is it one that fortifies itself with walls and laws, or one that strengthens its ties to one another so fewer people fall between the cracks?

On this tenth anniversary, Paris offers both a memorial and a challenge. The city remembers, tenderly, loudly, and with wounds that will take generations to close. But in the cafés, on the terraces, and in the halls where music plays, life insists on continuing. And that insistence may be the most human response of all.

Official toll: 130 people killed, more than 400 wounded in attacks across Paris on 13 November 2015.
Sole surviving attacker, Salah Abdeslam, is serving a life sentence; investigations into related networks continue.
Terrorism Memorial Museum scheduled to open in 2029 with approximately 500 artifacts from victims and sites.

Colombia Pauses Intelligence Cooperation, Halts Data Sharing with U.S.

hanad

November 13, 2025

Colombia suspends intelligence sharing with US — Gustavo Petro said the order would remain in place while the US continues to conduct missile attacks on boats in the Caribbean (file photo)

The Caribbean Nightingale and the Echo of Explosions: How a Drug War Is Rewriting Regional Alliances

On a humid Caribbean evening, fishermen in a small Colombian port pause their usual banter and tune into a different kind of weather report: the distant thump of jets and the way the sea seems to hold its breath. “You can smell it before you see it—this metallic, diesel smell,” said Lucía Pérez, who has fished off the Magdalena Delta for three decades. “We used to sleep through the rains. Now we wake up to the sound of explosions.”

That sound has rippled into capitals across Latin America and beyond. In Bogotá, President Gustavo Petro made a striking — and unusually public — decision: he ordered Colombia’s security services to stop sharing intelligence with US agencies while Washington continues to strike suspected drug-running boats in the Caribbean. His message, posted on X, was blunt: the fight against narcotics “must be subordinated to the human rights of the Caribbean people.”

From Night Seas to Diplomatic Storms

The immediate cause is a string of US military strikes at sea. US figures cited in regional reporting say at least 20 vessels in international waters have been attacked since early September; at least 76 people have died. For many coastal communities, those numbers carry faces and names. “They hit a boat that was barely two metres longer than ours,” a crew member from a panga-style fishing boat told a local radio station. “We don’t know if they were smugglers. We only know our neighbours did not come back.”

Washington argues these are necessary interdictions in the long-running campaign against trafficking. Critics — from foreign leaders and members of Congress to legal experts and families of the deceased — say the strikes lack transparency and due process. They ask: who gathered the evidence? Where is the chain of custody? Where is the accountability?

Allies Pause, Questions Multiply

It is not only Colombia that has stepped back. Reports suggest the United Kingdom has suspended some intelligence-sharing with the US in the region, aligning with concerns raised by the UN’s human rights chief, Volker Türk, who reportedly views some of the strikes as extrajudicial killings. A UK source close to security cooperation described the move as “a sobering, if painful, recalibration” of routine intelligence flows.

In the United States, the responses are fractured. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth confirmed recent strikes and framed them as part of a broader effort against illicit trafficking. “We will act to protect international waters and interdict criminal organizations,” he said in a terse briefing. But even within US politics, unease has been voiced: California Governor Gavin Newsom told delegates at the COP30 climate summit in Brazil that watching warplanes blow up boats with “no transparency” was chilling. “What happened to due process? What happened to the rule of law?” he asked. “We must be held to higher standards.”

An Aircraft Carrier Sails In — and So Do Old Fears

Strategically, the drama intensified with the deployment of the USS Gerald R. Ford strike group into the Latin America region — a visible sign that Washington is raising the military stakes. Two US officials said the carrier’s movement was ordered nearly three weeks before officials spoke publicly about it, a timeline that has only compounded anxieties in Caracas, Bogotá, and on island capitals.

Venezuela reacted predictably and forcefully. Caracas announced a “massive deployment” of land, sea, air, river and missile forces, as well as civilian militias, to counter what its defence ministry called “imperial threats.” A Venezuelan military officer, speaking on condition of anonymity, described the manoeuvres as “both show of force and defensive posture.” He added, “We will not allow our waters to be turned into battlegrounds for others’ politics.”

Lives and Laws: The Human Cost

Behind the geopolitics, villagers who cast nets before dawn are grappling with loss and confusion. “They told us he was smuggling,” said Rosa Hidalgo, who lost a brother in one of the incidents. “They said he was a drug runner, but he was a father who repaired nets. Bring me the proof, then we will accept it. But give us his body, give us the truth.”

Legal scholars and human-rights advocates have raised precise, technical concerns: if states or militaries are striking in international waters based on signals intelligence or remote imagery, is there adequate corroboration? Is there judicial oversight? “Extra-judicial use of lethal force at sea opens a Pandora’s box,” said Dr. Andrés Molina, an international law professor at the University of Bogotá. “It risks erasing the thin line that separates police work from military action.”

Local Color, Global Consequences

Walk the markets of Cartagena or the boardwalks of San Andrés and the ripple effect is obvious. Tourism operators worry about headlines. Garifuna communities recall past scars of militarized drug enforcement that displaced coastal populations. Overnight, the Caribbean’s gentle cultural rhythms — rumba, ceviche, and conversations written in salt and sun — have acquired a sharper cadence.

And yet, the drugs trade itself is stubbornly resilient. According to UN Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) reports in recent years, transatlantic and transpacific trafficking routes continually adapt to enforcement pressure, with actors shifting routes, methods, and alliances. That adaptability explains, in part, why militarized measures can appear decisive in the short term but less effective as long-term strategies.

Questions for the Reader — and the Region

What does security look like when the instruments used to enforce it become sources of fear for civilians? How do nations balance the need to disrupt criminal networks with the obligation to protect human life and uphold international law?

Those are not rhetorical alone. They are practical governance questions with electoral implications throughout the hemisphere. Colombia’s pause in intelligence sharing is a political signal: cooperation has limits when domestic constituencies feel endangered or dispirited by the human cost.

Looking Ahead: Diplomacy, Oversight, and the Long Game

If there is a path forward, it will likely run through three channels: rigorous, transparent investigations into each lethal incident; renewed multilateral dialogue about rules of engagement at sea; and investment in criminal-justice reforms that reduce reliance on purely military solutions.

“We cannot let a single policy area, however urgent, justify suspending the rule of law,” said María Velasquez, director of a Bogotá-based human-rights NGO. “If we do, victories will be pyrrhic—built on distrust and blood.”

For the people who live with the sound of jets as part of the weather, the immediate demands are simple and human: tell us why our neighbours died; show us the evidence; help us heal. For policymakers, the questions are complex and strategic. For the rest of us — readers clicking, scrolling, talking over coffee — this episode asks us to reconsider familiar stories about security, sovereignty and the boundaries of force.

When a night fishing community remembers the names of those lost, or when a president halts intelligence flows in protest, those are moments that expose the raw nerve of modern geopolitics. They force a reckoning with how we wage wars without declaring them, and how, ultimately, the seas that connect us can become a mirror for our collective choices.

UK minister denies rumours of plot to oust Starmer

hanad

November 13, 2025

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

Downing Street’s Quiet Storm: Rumours, Resilience and a Party at a Crossroads

If politics is theatre, this week the stage lights in Westminster have been turned up so bright you can see every freckle on the actors’ faces.

A whisper in a hallway turned into a headline: British health minister Wes Streeting emphatically dismissed talk that he — or anyone — was plotting to topple Prime Minister Keir Starmer. “That’s not true,” he told broadcasters in a brisk, exasperated tone. “My focus is on the country, not conspiracy theories.”

On the surface, it looks like a very British bit of soap opera — rival factions, frantic whispering in corridors, a dash of celebrity-reality-show snark for flavour. Beneath that, though, sit harder questions about leadership, trust and the pressures that come when a government that stormed into power is suddenly mired in unpopularity.

From Landslide to Lull

Less than a year and a half after a 2024 victory that many described in Westminster as one of the most decisive in recent memory, the glow has cooled. Opinion polls show a Labour Party that is struggling; headlines now suggest it may even break a long-standing pledge on income tax increases — a promise Labour said would be avoided for the first time since the 1970s.

It’s a startling reversal of political fortune. The jubilation of a landslide win is being shadowed by grinding fiscal realities: Chancellor Rachel Reeves has hinted at tough choices ahead, warning of a “fiscal hole” that might require raising revenue. That echoes last year’s controversial raise — around £40 billion in levies that the government insisted was a one-off correction, but which now looks like a prelude to further pain.

The Sound and the Fury of Rumour

Streeting’s denial was sharp and pointed; he compared the whisper campaigns to watching too much reality television — specifically name-checking Celebrity Traitors, and hinting that the juicier the gossip, the more self-defeating it is for the party. “It’s the worst hit on a faithful I’ve seen,” he told one broadcaster, casting the net wide for blame. “This isn’t about boots at Downing Street. It’s about delivering for people who are worried about bills, jobs, health care.”

He is not alone in that line of defence. Allies close to the prime minister, and even some grassroots Labour figures, have been at pains to stress that the party should be fighting on policy, not personalities. “We need to remind the public why they put us here,” a local constituency organiser in Leeds told me over a pint in a faded campaign office. “Rumours are a distraction from bread-and-butter issues.”

Voices From the Street

Walk through towns like Manchester, Cardiff or small coastal communities and the conversations are mercilessly practical. “My heating bill’s gone up and I’m watching everything,” said Joanne, a nurse and mum of two in Brighton. “I voted for change. I don’t want chaos, but I want answers.”

Over in a north London kebab shop, a young delivery rider shrugged. “Politics is for old men in suits mostly,” he said. “If they squabble, my money doesn’t go further. Just fix transport and stop messing with my taxes.”

These are not soundbites contrived for the camera. They are the notes of a nation feeling the tug-of-war between lofty pledges and hard economic arithmetic. They reveal how leadership dramas can feel distant when your rent, childcare, or small business survival are pressing concerns.

What’s at Stake — and Why It Matters

There are several trajectories this crisis of confidence could take. At best, the government steadies, focuses on a budget that carefully balances austerity and investment, and regains public trust. At worst, factionalising and negative headlines sap momentum, giving space to opposition parties and eroding the capacity to implement meaningful reform.

The upcoming budget on 26 November is a clear hinge moment — it could cement a narrative of competence or deepen a story of drift.
Economic signals — growth figures, inflation trends, and unemployment statistics — will colour public interpretation of any tax decisions.
Media cycles and social platforms now amplify every whisper, turning what used to be internal party manoeuvrings into national spectacles.

“Leadership in modern politics is as much about perception management as policy,” says Dr. Amina Shah, a political sociologist at a London university. “But perception follows outcomes. If people see improvements — in wages, services, and living costs — the temperature will fall. If not, rumours become a catalyst rather than a symptom.”

Global Echoes

This story is not uniquely British. Around the globe, parties that win on promises of renewal soon confront the entropy of governance. Voters expect clarity and delivery; their patience for backroom manoeuvres is thin. The dynamics we see — a leader’s popularity dipping, a party’s pledges colliding with fiscal realities, and the media frenzy that follows — mirror trends in democracies everywhere.

Consider the broader questions: how much forgiveness should an elected government be afforded when global economic turbulence squeezes budgets? How do democracies handle the tension between short-term pain and long-term reform? And how should parties communicate when trade-offs are unavoidable?

What to Watch Next

As we move toward the November budget, watch three things closely: the tone coming out of Downing Street (defensive or outward-looking?), the specific measures the chancellor proposes (tax hikes, spending cuts, investments?), and public reaction across different regions — not just Westminster diaries but real conversations in market squares and commuter trains.

In the meantime, the rumour mill will grind. Some will be mischief, some will be desperation. Yet the real test won’t be who trades barbs in the press; it will be whether the government can translate a fractured moment into coherent action that re-earns trust.

So I ask you, reader: when politicians falter, do you demand overhaul or patience? Do you weigh promises against present pain, or insist on sticking to pledges at all costs? The answer you choose says a lot about how we, as citizens, expect democracy to deliver in an era that is as unforgiving as it is fast-moving.

Whichever way this plays out, one thing is clear: Westminster’s whispers are noisy now, but the verdict of households up and down the country will be the final arbiter of political fate. That is where the real theatre — and the real stakes — lie.

EU unveils ‘Democracy Shield’ initiative to counter disinformation across Europe

hanad

November 13, 2025

EU launches 'Democracy Shield' to combat disinformation — Michael McGrath said that deepfake videos were becoming better quality

A Shield for the Ballot Box: Europe’s Answer to Election Sabotage in the Age of AI

The conference room in Brussels felt like a cross between a war room and a university seminar — screens, murmured asides, a patchwork of flags. Outside, a drizzle lacquered the city’s wide boulevards. Inside, Ireland’s EU Commissioner Michael McGrath unfolded the latest idea in Europe’s ongoing effort to keep votes honest: a “Democracy Shield.”

It sounded simple in theory: a hub that pulls together expertise, early-warning systems and civil-society partners so that member states — especially smaller ones with thinner cyber-resources — can spot and blunt disinformation before it wrecks the last, fragile days of an election campaign. In practice, it will be stitched of new institutions and familiar tools: a Centre for Democratic Resilience, links to the EU’s Rapid Alert System, and a platform to coordinate fact-checkers, researchers and media outlets.

Why now? Because the toolbox of interference has changed

“It has opened up opportunities and potential for interference in all elections in the European Union,” McGrath told reporters, warning that “deep fake AI videos, which are becoming better and better quality as time goes on, have the potential to really impact on elections in the last 24–48 hours [of the campaign].”

Anyone who has watched a manipulated video convince a small but noisy corner of the internet will understand the urgency. In an era when a politician’s face can be made to say things they never did, the speed at which falsehoods travel is almost impossible to catch with old-school rebuttals. The EU’s answer is not a single law or a single algorithm, but a networked, rapid-response architecture: share information fast, amplify verified corrections faster, and help nations that don’t have a big cybersecurity staff to stand up defenses quickly.

Ursula von der Leyen, president of the European Commission, framed the project in moral terms: the Democracy Shield will “reinforce the core elements that allow citizens to live our shared democratic values every day — free speech, independent media, resilient institutions, and a vibrant civil society.”

What the centre will actually do

The new Centre for Democratic Resilience is intended to be a hub, not a monolith. It will act as a meeting place for diverse actors — diplomats, tech regulators, journalists and grassroots NGOs — to together translate signals into action when elections teeter. It will connect to existing EU tools like the Rapid Alert System and will be open to EU candidate countries, McGrath said, extending guardrails to nations preparing to join the bloc.

“As countries move closer to EU membership, the intensity of the threat that they face in terms of foreign interference is only going to grow,” McGrath added, underlining that the response must grow in tandem. For many governments in the Western Balkans, the South Caucasus, or other nearby regions, that kind of support could mean the difference between a local controversy and a destabilizing wave of disinformation.

On the ground: how people see the problem

In a café near Dublin’s St Stephen’s Green, a teacher named Aoife stirred her tea and shrugged. “You can’t ask every voter to be a tech detective,” she said. “People need to know that when a video is circulating at 2 a.m., there will be an institution that can say, ‘this is false, here’s why, and here’s the official record.’”

A cybersecurity researcher in Tallinn, who asked to speak anonymously, framed it in less sentimental terms: “Adversaries now have automated toolchains. A coordinated campaign with bot amplification and a convincing AI clip can create a cascade in hours. Speed is our enemy; speed is also our solution — you need systems that can move faster than the lie.”

These voices echo a broader reality: digital manipulations don’t stay local. A doctored clip released in one country can be translated, repurposed and weaponized abroad within a day. That is what makes an EU-wide approach practical, even necessary.

Where law meets technology

The Democracy Shield won’t exist in a vacuum. It arrives against the backdrop of the Digital Services Act, the EU’s sweeping rulebook for online platforms that aims to make tech companies more accountable for what spreads on their services. The EU is currently in the middle of a two-year probe into X (formerly Twitter) under the DSA for alleged failures around disinformation, “dark patterns,” ad transparency and researcher access to data.

Henna Virkunen, the EU commissioner for tech sovereignty, said the investigation would wrap up soon. Yet the law itself is only one blade in the toolkit: legislation can set standards and penalties, but an election can be destabilized in the space of 48 hours with content that is already viral before any regulator can act.

Freedom of expression and political crosswinds

Critics — including voices in the United States — sometimes frame Europe’s interventions as censorship. McGrath pushed back, saying clearly that freedom of expression remains “a fundamental right of every EU citizen,” and that the shield is about protecting the right to vote in “open, free and fair elections.”

“There’s a balance to strike,” said a veteran journalist in Rome. “People worry about governments deciding what is true. But we also have to ask: if a manipulated video convinces a significant number of voters, who is protecting the integrity of the ballot?”

Domestic politics: Ireland’s moment under the microscope

Behind the headline of international digital defense was a quieter Irish subplot: McGrath’s robust defense of Micheál Martin, the country’s former Taoiseach, who has faced controversy over his party’s presidential nomination process. McGrath praised Martin’s experience and signaled confidence that he would provide steady leadership during Ireland’s upcoming EU presidency.

“It’s been a very difficult few weeks for him and indeed for his family,” McGrath said. “I have full faith in his resilience and his ability to come through this period.”

For Irish voters, the presidency — which cycles back to Ireland roughly every 13 years — is not an abstract honor. It’s a spotlight that will put Dublin at the center of negotiations on the next EU budget, security and defence files, and competitiveness agendas. Locals recall 2004 and 2013 presidencies as moments when Ireland translated small-state savvy into outsized influence; expectations for 2025 are similarly high.

The larger conversation: what kind of democracy are we building?

Ask yourself: when a lie can be dressed in pixels to look like truth, what does it mean to live in a democratic society? The Democracy Shield is an answer that acknowledges a sobering reality — that democracy is no longer defended only by courts and ballots, but by networks, code and social trust.

This initiative isn’t a magic wand. It will require constant updates as AI models evolve, sustained funding, and buy-in from the messy, pluralistic world of civil society. It will also force hard conversations about where to draw lines between countering harmful interference and preserving open debate.

“This is a generational fight,” the Tallinn researcher told me. “But it isn’t just about technology. It’s about education, about media literacy, and about rebuilding trust in institutions. If we only focus on bots and algorithms, we’ll miss the human work that actually keeps democracies healthy.”

In the end, the Democracy Shield is both pragmatic and aspirational: pragmatic in its aim to stop last-minute fakes that can swing votes, aspirational in its larger aim to shore up the shared norms that let a diverse continent govern itself through argument rather than force. Will it work? That depends on speed, resources and a willingness to partner across borders — and on whether citizens, from Dublin to Zagreb to Tirana, think it’s worth defending what they cast their ballots for.

Israel Confirms Crucial Crossing to Northern Gaza Now Open for Aid

hanad

November 13, 2025

Israel says key crossing to north Gaza opens for aid — People collect aid at the Zikim crossing in August

When Trucks Become Hope: The Reopening of Zikim and the Fragile Relief Line into Northern Gaza

The early morning air over the Gaza border smelled of dust, diesel and a kind of brittle expectation—the kind that gathers in a place where supplies, not promises, keep people alive.

On a recent day, Israeli authorities reopened the Zikim Crossing, a narrow artery north of Gaza that had been closed since 12 September, according to UN reports. The military’s civilian liaison, COGAT, said the move followed a directive from the political echelon. UN and international agencies will receive the cargo after security inspections by the Land Crossings Authority of Israel’s Ministry of Defence.

To anyone who has watched humanitarian corridors become battlegrounds of policy, language like “opened” and “inspected” offers only a partial picture. What matters on the ground is whether the trucks hold enough food, medicine, diapers, and fuel—and whether they arrive in time.

More than a checkpoint: what the crossing means

For months, northern Gaza—Gaza City and its surrounding towns—has been a place of acute hunger, displacement and deprivation. Humanitarian monitors warned last month that parts of northern Gaza were suffering famine-like conditions. The UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) recorded that Zikim had been closed to incoming aid since mid-September, forcing agencies to divert limited shipments through the south or to smaller, more dangerous routes. The logistical cost of those detours is enormous: delays, extra inspections and fewer trucks ultimately mean fewer rations per family, fewer life-saving medicines per clinic.

“When a crossing is closed, people don’t die on the border—they die in their homes because their baby runs out of formula, or an elderly person cannot get their insulin,” said a UN logistics coordinator who has overseen convoys into Gaza. “Opening Zikim is not a political victory. It is a short, vital lifeline. But lifelines need to be steady, not sporadic.”

Inside Nuseirat, where an Egyptian Committee has set up a new displacement camp under a tented canopy, the scene is quietly urgent. Children play in dust circles between fabric shelters. Women bargain for small bundles of flour with gestures and smiles that continue despite hunger. A volunteer with the committee said they had seen a steady trickle of people arrive over the past weeks—families who fled the north, those who lost homes to fighting, and many who still dream of returning.

“We cook in shifts now,” said Fatima, 36, whose small tent shelters six relatives. “When the trucks come, we share with our neighbors. When they don’t, we ration and go hungry. You learn to value every single loaf.” Her hands made a small circle as if holding an invisible bread loaf; there was both humor and sorrow in the motion.

What the numbers tell us

Gaza is home to roughly 2.3 million people—one of the most densely populated territories on earth—and the enclave’s humanitarian needs have been consistently acute. UN agencies and aid groups have repeatedly said that access is the single most important constraint to meeting those needs. While some supplies have reached the north via southern crossings, agencies have cautioned that the volumes were far too small to meet the scale of need. “A trickle,” one aid official called it, “when what’s needed is a stream.”

The opening of Zikim, then, is a tactical change in the flow of relief, but the strategic question remains: can this corridor be sustained, and can it be scaled up to reach the hundreds of thousands still in need?

Where human need and political currents intersect

COGAT framed the reopening as an administrative act—”in accordance with a directive of the political echelon”—and emphasized security inspections. That phrasing reflects the tightrope governments walk: balancing security concerns with international obligations to allow humanitarian access. But for people sat under canvas in Nuseirat or in the gutted blocks of Gaza City, the calculus is simpler and more urgent. They measure time in meals and medicine, not ministerial memos.

“Security checks are understandable,” said Amal, a nurse at a small clinic in Nuseirat run by an international NGO, “but security cannot be the reason to delay insulin or antibiotics. People here are already living on borrowed time.”

Meanwhile, the opening of a crossing doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It sits beside other domestic dramas in Israel—most recently the announcement by Israel’s defence minister that he plans to close the publicly funded Army Radio, a move he framed as preserving the military’s non-partisan character. The decision has been denounced by the station’s management and by opposition politicians as a blow to press freedom.

“This feels like an attempt to silence a familiar voice,” said Tal Lev Ram, the station’s chief, in a statement that rippled through Israeli media. “It is a real, regrettable and dramatic blow to the people’s army, to Israeli society, and to freedom of the press in a democratic state.” Opposition figures have suggested the closure aligns with a broader wariness of criticism in an election cycle.

Why mention a radio station in a piece primarily about aid into Gaza? Because both stories are chapters of the same book: how states negotiate the balance between power, security and public accountability. And because the health of a society—its media, its institutions, its clarity of conscience—shapes how it confronts crises beyond its borders.

Voices from both sides of the fence

A Palestinian aid worker waiting near Zikim laughed once—an almost absurd sound—when asked what the reopening meant to him. “It means families might live a little longer,” he said. “It means the hospital can take another breath. It is not joy. It is a relief. We will celebrate when no one needs trucks to eat.”

An Israeli defense official, when asked about the reopening, framed it in terms of control and safety. “Humanitarian needs are real,” they said, “but any transfer of goods must be carefully monitored to prevent diversion for malicious purposes. Our inspections are thorough because lives are at stake—both civilian and military.” The official declined to be named so they could speak candidly.

“There is always skepticism,” said a regional analyst in Tel Aviv. “For many in Israel, any loosening of access can be seen as a security risk. For many in Gaza, every closure feels like abandonment. The truth sits somewhere in between: both are right about their fears, and both are right to want security and dignity. The challenge is converting security-language into sustained, scalable aid without political strings.”

What comes next—and what you can ask

So what does this reopening actually change? In the short term, it allows more supplies to get into a part of Gaza that has been starving not only of food, but of predictability. In the medium term, its value depends on whether inspections become perfunctory bottlenecks or reliable checkpoints that enable steady deliveries. And in the long term, it raises harder questions: how do we build mechanisms that protect civilians, respect legitimate security concerns, and keep humanitarian aid out of political tug-of-wars?

Ask yourself: when a crossing opens and closes at the whim of geopolitics, who bears the cost? How does a society reconcile the need to defend itself with obligations toward millions of people living under siege-like conditions? And how do the health of institutions—free media, robust civil society—shape how those answers are found?

For the people in Nuseirat and the windswept edges of Gaza City, the answers are not abstract. They are measured in the weight of sacks of flour, in the swiftness of a convoy, and in whether a child wakes up to a clean bandage. The reopening of Zikim may be a pause—an opening of a door—but what those on the other side need most is a steady path to normality, dignity, and the quiet, unremarkable right to live.

Israel Confirms Key Crossing into North Gaza Open for Humanitarian Aid

hanad

November 13, 2025

When a Gate Opens: Trucks, Tension and the Fragile Thread of Aid into Northern Gaza

The first trucks crawled forward before dawn, their headlights carving pale ribbons through the coastal gloom. Drivers kept silent inside cabs dusted with the same ochre that coats much of this strip of land—sand and weariness—while soldiers and aid workers completed final checks under the watchful eyes of the Land Crossings Authority.

It was the kind of moment that feels small and enormous at once: a checkpoint opened, a flow of life-sustaining supplies permitted through a crossing that had been shut for weeks. Israel’s COGAT—the military body that manages civilian affairs and crossings—announced the reopening of the Zikim Crossing in northern Gaza, saying the move was made “in accordance with a directive of the political echelon” and that all goods would pass after security inspections.

For people in northern Gaza, where aid has been staggered and scarce, that procedural language means more than bureaucracy. It means food, medicine, baby formula, clean water. It means an end—however tenuous—to a tightening noose of scarcity that humanitarian agencies have warned could tip whole communities into famine-like conditions.

The gap between need and access

Humanitarian organisations, led by the UN’s Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), had been pressing for Zikim to reopen. The crossing had been closed since 12 September, OCHA reported, cutting off one of the few viable routes into the devastated northern enclave.

“We need safe, predictable, and sustained access,” a UN relief coordinator told me, speaking on condition of anonymity to preserve working relationships on the ground. “Intermittent openings create a rhythm of hope and despair. When trucks arrive, people breathe easier. When they don’t, the impact is immediate—children go without, clinics close, chronic conditions worsen.”

Supplies have been trickling in from the south, but volume has consistently fallen short of need. The UN has previously said that several hundred truckloads a day are necessary just to meet basic humanitarian needs across Gaza—an order of magnitude that has proven politically and logistically difficult to meet.

And the situation in the north has been particularly dire. Independent monitors and aid groups have warned of famine-like conditions in and around Gaza City, with acute malnutrition on the rise and hospitals stretched beyond capacity. Families who once relied on bakeries and markets now rely on what arrives in convoyes, if anything at all.

On the ground: the human calculus of aid

At a newly established displacement site in Nuseirat—set up by the Egyptian Committee—tents stood in neat rows but the faces were raw with fatigue. A father who gave his name as Hassan sat outside a flimsy shelter, cradling a thin child. “We have not had a proper meal in days,” he said, voice low. “We used whatever we could to survive. If the trucks stop again, I don’t know what will happen.”

Aid workers describe a delicate choreography—security clearance, inspection, transfer, distribution—where each step can be delayed by politics, shifting frontlines, or bureaucratic wrangling. COGAT’s statement insisted that UN and international organisations will manage the distribution after inspections, a line designed to reassure donors and critics alike.

Yet trust is fragile. “Every checkpoint is a promise,” said one veteran logistics coordinator with an international NGO, who asked not to be named. “When promises are broken, people’s lives are broken, too.”

Under Strain at Home: The Debate Over Army Radio and the State of Media Freedom

While aid convoys threaded through checkpoints in the south, political storms brewed in Jerusalem. Israel’s defence minister, Israel Katz, announced plans to propose the closure of Army Radio—a public, state-funded station that has long served both soldiers and civilians—moving to end its broadcasts by 1 March 2026. He framed the move as an effort to preserve the Israel Defense Forces’ “non-partisan character.”

The announcement landed like a blow in media circles. Tal Lev Ram, the station’s chief, called the decision “a regrettable and dramatic blow to the people’s army, to Israeli society, and to freedom of the press.” He vowed to fight the proposal “by every means.”

This is not a solitary act. Government critics point to a broader campaign against editorial independence: two public outlets—Army Radio and the public broadcaster KAN—have long been editorially independent, but have drawn the ire of some ministers and coalition members who argue they are biased. Moves to privatise KAN and to shutter state-funded outlets are seen by many as part of a pattern that threatens the checks and balances of a democratic media ecosystem.

“This is about the public’s right to hear different perspectives,” said a senior journalist at a national paper. “When you muffle a widely trusted station, you don’t just silence news—you erode the civic muscle that holds institutions accountable.”

Politics, polarization and the run-up to elections

Opposition figures were quick to pounce. Yair Lapid called the defence minister’s move an attempt by “an anxious government that fears criticism,” accusing the coalition of changing “the rules of the game” ahead of next year’s elections. Israel’s journalist union announced it would challenge the proposed closure, calling it harmful to press freedom.

Public opinion polls, frequently carried in Israeli media, point to a complex political backdrop: the current right-wing coalition that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu leads has struggled in the polls, with many surveys suggesting it would not secure enough seats to form a government if elections were held today. Whether the media debate will meaningfully shift public sentiment remains to be seen, but for many Israelis, the fate of Army Radio feels personal.

Two Stories, One Pattern

What connects the reopening of a crossing in Gaza and the controversy over Army Radio in Jerusalem is not obvious at first glance. But step back and the lines blur: both are about access—access to food, to medical care, to truth, and to accountability.

In one contested strip of land, food convoys are lifelines. In another contested space—inside a public square of ideas—the airwaves are battlefields where narratives are won or lost. Both arenas are under strain from political decisions and both pulse with consequences felt by ordinary people.

As you read this, consider what it means when a crossing opens and a radio falls silent. Which do we value most in a crisis: the uninterrupted flow of food or the uninterrupted flow of information? Perhaps the answer is obvious: both. Without sustained access to either, human dignity frays.

Key facts: Zikim Crossing was closed on 12 September and has now been reopened by COGAT.
Humanitarian need: UN agencies have repeatedly called for hundreds of truckloads daily into Gaza to meet basic needs; actual deliveries have been far lower.
Media freedom: Defence Minister Israel Katz has proposed closing Army Radio, aiming to end broadcasts by 1 March 2026; this has drawn condemnation from media leaders and opposition politicians.

In moments of crisis, the smallest gestures—an opened gate, a verified broadcast—can feel like affirmations of common humanity. They remind us that policy is not abstract; it lands in the mouths of hungry children and on the ears of listeners who turn to the radio for solace and truth. How we choose to manage those gates—literal and figurative—says a great deal about the societies we want to be.

So I’ll ask you directly: when the world’s attention moves on, who will hold the gates open? Who will keep the microphones alive? These are not rhetorical questions. They sit, like dust, on the truck beds and the studio floors—waiting to be either swept away or allowed to settle into something worse.

Moscow signals readiness to resume Ukraine negotiations in Istanbul

hanad

November 12, 2025

Russia says ready to resume Ukraine talks in Istanbul — The Kremlin has said Vladimir Putin would meet Volodymyr Zelensky - but only in Moscow

Istanbul Again: A City of Bridges, and Maybe a Place to Mend One

When diplomats speak of Istanbul, they rarely mean merely the city. They mean a bridge — across seas and centuries, across empires and rivalries. They mean a place where East and West brush shoulders on ferries and in tea gardens, where the call to prayer harmonizes with distant foghorns. It is against that restless, beautiful backdrop that the latest flickers of diplomacy between Russia and Ukraine have reappeared.

On a humid summer day in July this year, delegations from Kyiv and Moscow met in Istanbul for just forty minutes. A few weeks later, Russia — through state news agency TASS and a Foreign Ministry official named Alexei Polishchuk — said it was ready to resume face-to-face talks in the Turkish city, adding that Turkish hosts had “repeatedly urged” a continuation.

“The Russian team is ready for this, the ball is in the Ukrainian court,” Polishchuk told reporters, according to TASS.

Simple language, theatrical in its passivity. It places Agency and Responsibility like chess pieces on opposite sides of a map. But anyone who has followed the conflict that erupted on 24 February 2022 knows that negotiation tables are rarely simple, and the stakes are not merely diplomatic points but lives, homes and the direction of a continent.

Why Istanbul?

Turkey has been an uneasy, sometimes surprising convener in this crisis — a NATO member courting the Kremlin for trade and détente, a regional power eager to underline its mediation credentials. For locals along the Bosphorus, the city has become a discreet host for back-channel meetings and public diplomacy alike.

“We always welcome talks,” a mid-ranking Turkish diplomat in Ankara told me over the phone. “Istanbul is not neutral in history, but it can be neutral in purpose. Here, people come to listen.”

That listening is what Moscow appears to be inviting back to. Turkish officials, the Russian statement suggested, have urged a resumption of talks. For Kyiv, however, the optics and conditions matter as much as the words uttered around a table.

A Short Meeting, a Longer Standoff

Rewind to 23 July: the 40-minute encounter made headlines for its brevity. Ukraine walked away saying it had proposed a high-level meeting — one that would place Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky across the table from Vladimir Putin. Moscow quickly qualified its openness to a presidential meeting by insisting it take place in Moscow, a demand that Kyiv dismissed.

“We will not put our president at a disadvantage by accepting a meeting that plays into a narrative of coercion,” a senior Ukrainian foreign policy adviser said in Kyiv. “Any talks must be on neutral ground and within a framework that respects Ukraine’s sovereignty.”

And so a pattern emerges: offers that sound nominally positive, conditions that convert possibility into stasis. Kyiv rejects the notion that it is responsible for the stalled peace process. Moscow, meanwhile, frames Ukraine as the party that refuses to engage fully. The public messaging becomes a duel in which the chessboard is the world stage.

The Human Backdrop

What do these diplomatic maneuvers mean on the ground? For millions of civilians, the calculus is painfully simple: peace negotiations are not academic. They are a means for children to return to school without air-raid sirens, for farmers to tend their fields without fear, for families to sleep in their homes rather than in temporary shelters.

International agencies estimate that the conflict has caused mass displacement and immense human suffering. According to UN and humanitarian reports, millions have been internally displaced or have sought refuge abroad, while infrastructure and communities continue to bear the scars of intermittent and sustained heavy fighting.

“When people come to Istanbul they see the Bosphorus ferries and the tourist cafés,” said Leyla, who runs a teahouse near the Galata Bridge and watches legions of negotiators and journalists pass through every time the city hosts a summit. “But those people I serve tea to — many of them have family in the east. They ask: will my son see summer again without a uniform?”

What Would a Real Breakthrough Need?

If this were a play, the third act would require three things: mutual trust, clear terms, and verifiable guarantees. In reality, trust is the scarcest commodity; terms are debated endlessly; and guarantees demand mechanisms — observers, monitors, perhaps peacekeeping contingents — that no party has yet wholeheartedly embraced.

“Negotiations without enforcement are like promises without witnesses,” said Dr. Elena Markov, a professor of conflict resolution who has monitored Eastern European peace efforts for decades. “You can sign pages, but if there is no implementation mechanism, the ink will blot and run.”

Experts also point to a broader truth: peace processes are rarely sequential and rarely neat. They are messy, iterative and often propelled by external pressures — economic sanctions, battlefield reversals, domestic political cycles, or shifts in third-party patrons.

Turkey’s Delicate Role

For Turkey, playing host is both an opportunity and a strategic tightrope. Ankara wants to be seen as a regional powerbroker — someone who can shepherd difficult conversations without alienating either side. That balancing act has made some Western capitals wary and others quietly appreciative.

“Turkey can convene, but it cannot guarantee implementation,” a European diplomat familiar with the situation told me. “What it can do, though, is keep lines of communication open. That matters. In diplomacy, silence is the enemy.”

Questions to Consider

As global citizens, what do we want from mediators? How much patience do we give to talks that take place in luxurious hotel suites while people suffer in the provinces? And when two nations talk about peace, who decides whose security concerns are negotiable and whose are non-negotiable?

If you close your eyes and imagine a map of Europe, what do the borders look like? For many people directly affected by the conflict, the border lines are not abstract; they trace neighborhoods, graves, lost livelihoods. For the rest of us, the choices made at diplomatic tables will ripple through refugee flows, energy markets and the architecture of security across the continent.

Where We Go From Here

The ball, as the Russian statement intoned, sits — figuratively — in Kyiv’s court. But diplomacy is not a sport judged on a single pass. It is a long, often bruising relay. Turkey’s role as a host gives this iteration of talks color and convenience, but it does not change the hard calculus that underpins any settlement.

Can Istanbul, that city of bridges, be the place where a new route to peace is sketched? Perhaps. Or perhaps it will be one more station in a long journey toward a settlement that must be as much about justice as it is about cessation of fire.

As the seagulls wheel over the Bosphorus and tea steeps in tulip-shaped glasses, negotiations may resume, stall again, or transform into something new. The world will watch. And behind the headlines, people will keep asking the simplest question: when will the fighting stop, and what will it take to keep it stopped?

Keep an eye on Istanbul. It will tell you more than the official statements do — if you know how to listen.

Newsom Decries Trump’s Climate Change Stance as ‘a Disgrace’

hanad

November 12, 2025

Trump's attitude to climate change a 'disgrace' - Newsom — Gavin Newsom said he did not want the US to be a footnote at the conference

Under the Canopy: California’s Rebuke and an Indigenous Uprising at COP30

Belém wears the Amazon in its pores. Steam rises from the river at dawn, and the air tastes like wet earth and possibility. It is here, under giant canopies and between rows of climate tents that smell faintly of coffee and the industrial cool of air conditioning, that two very different scenes unfolded at COP30: a state governor’s sharp rebuke of a national stance, and Indigenous voices literally colliding with the meeting’s security apparatus.

On a steamy evening, California Governor Gavin Newsom strode to the podium as if to remind the world that subnational power sometimes fills diplomatic vacuums better than an absent capital. His words were clear, barbed, and brimming with urgency. “We will not let my country’s absence become the global narrative on climate ambition,” he told reporters, voice steady over the buzz of translators and the drone of cameras. “California will show that prosperity and decarbonization are not mutually exclusive — they are the same project.”

Newsom’s presence in Belém felt like an act of reclamation. He insisted that the Golden State — home to Silicon Valley, Hollywood, and a $3–4 trillion economy that rivals nations — is not just a policy laboratory but a marketplace-shaping power. “On many days this year, our grid has run on predominantly clean energy for stretches of time,” he said. “We’re competing for the green jobs, the investments, and the technologies that will define the 21st century.”

It was a classic subnational diplomacy pitch: if Washington will not lead, states and cities will. This is not mere rhetoric. Cities and regions already sign bilateral and multilateral agreements to reduce emissions, invest in battery storage, and decarbonize transportation. California’s aggressive climate agenda — from strict vehicle emissions standards to mandates for rooftop solar and ambitious forest-management programs — gives it a global footprint.

When a State Acts Like a Country

“People ask me why I’m here,” Newsom told me later in a quieter corridor, away from microphones. “Because the climate crisis is unfolding now, and delay is the most expensive policy of all. My job is to ensure that American ingenuity — California ingenuity — is part of the solution.”

He added a sobering note about the economic fallout of climate-driven disasters. “We are seeing climate risk show up as financial risk. Homeowners in fire-prone zones are finding insurance unaffordable or unobtainable. Mortgages are harder to secure. That is not hypothetical — it is a national crisis with local consequences.”

That point lands hard in California, where wildfires have burned millions of acres in recent years, causing billions in insured losses and prompting insurers to pull back in the riskiest markets. Analysts estimate that climate-exposed losses are increasing insurance rates unevenly, making large swaths of coastal and inland communities harder to insure and, therefore, harder to sell or mortgage.

For Newsom and for many state and city leaders in the room, this year’s COP felt like a stage to reframe climate action not just as environmental idealism, but as an economic necessity — part of everyday household budgets and national competitiveness.

Voices at the Gate: Indigenous Protest and a Moment of Confrontation

But the scene outside the blue-tented high-level zone was starkly different. As negotiations hummed along, dozens of Indigenous activists and their supporters stormed the main entrance, attempting to carry their demands into the heart of the conference. The skirmish that followed was brief but jarring: scuffles with security, overturned chairs used as barricades, and the kind of chaos that underlines a deeper frustration.

“We have been talking long enough,” said Maria Clara, an organizer with a local Indigenous rights network who had her voice hoarse from chanting. “They will sign documents at the COP and go home — but our rivers, our forests, our lives are still being taken. We came to make them listen inside the blue zone.”

Joao Santiago, a professor at the Federal University of Pará who watched the scene from the fringe, put it bluntly: “The Indigenous movement wanted to present their demands inside, not on a list or behind a rope. They were pushed, and then the pushback became physical.”

UN and Brazilian security personnel quickly moved to restore order. A United Nations spokesperson confirmed that two security staff sustained minor injuries and that the venue had been secured. “Brazilian and UN authorities are investigating,” the spokesperson said. “The negotiations continue.”

Still, the image of activists clambering over barricades — driven by decades of dispossession and the current acceleration of land-grabbing and deforestation — haunted the corridors. It exposed a recurring criticism of global climate summits: that the people most affected by climate policy decisions often find themselves excluded from the rooms where those decisions are made.

Why This Matters

There are larger threads woven through these two scenes — the governor’s speech and the protesters’ breach. First, the rise of subnational diplomacy: cities, states, and regions are increasingly stepping into roles once monopolized by national governments. They sign deals, set standards, and attract capital. This decentralization can accelerate solutions but also complicates accountability and equity.

Second, the struggle over who gets to sit at the table. Indigenous communities have long argued that global conferences often elevate technical fixes while sidelining ancestral knowledge and rights. “Recognition without rights is tokenism,” said a leader from an Amazonian federation, speaking on condition of anonymity for safety. “We need legal protections for our lands, not photo ops.”

And finally, there is the political drama of national representation. Whether a national delegation is thin, vocal, or absent, the global stage interprets such choices as signals. They shape market expectations, investor confidence, and — crucially — the trust of vulnerable communities who want both justice and survival.

Questions for the Reader

What do we expect from a climate summit? Is it a place for grand commitments backed by new finance and law, or is it a theater where reputations are managed? When subnational actors like California assert influence, is that hopeful experimentation or fragmented governance?

And perhaps the most urgent question: how do we create spaces where Indigenous peoples and frontline communities are not forced to storm the gates to be seen and heard?

Where We Go From Here

The incident in Belém is not an isolated spectacle; it is a mirror. It reflects a climate politics in transition — a world where power is diffuse, where local and global demands collide, and where the urgency of action is increasingly measured in household losses and burned forests, not just in emissions charts.

California’s governor left with headlines. The Indigenous delegation left with a sharper platform and, perhaps, renewed solidarity. Negotiators inside continued their slow arithmetic of pledges and plans. The Amazon kept breathing — for now — and the world watched, unsettled and attentive.

As you read this, consider where you stand in that uneasy balance: patient with diplomacy, impatient for justice, or somewhere in between. Climate policy is no longer only the business of ministers and scientists. It is also deeply personal — a question of whose home is insured, whose river is protected, and whose voice is allowed inside the tent.

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