Dec 29(Jowhar)-Ra’iisul Wasaaraha Israa’iil, Benjamin Netanyahu, ayaa gaaray dalka Mareykanka, gaar ahaan gobolka Florida, halkaas oo uu kula kulmi doono Madaxweynaha Mareykanka Donald Trump.
Bulgaria switches to the euro amid public fear and economic uncertainty
On the Brink: Bulgaria’s Leap into the Euro and the Uneasy Calm Along the Danube
There is a quiet energy in the air in Sofia this winter — not the celebratory kind you might expect when a country takes another step deeper into Europe, but something more complicated: a mixture of pride, nerves and a simmering doubt that you can taste in the morning market stalls and hear in the cafes that line Vitosha Boulevard.
Bulgaria is preparing to swap the lev for the euro, joining a monetary club that began in 2002 and has slowly grown to include nations across the continent. If all goes to plan, the country will become the next member of the euro area — a geopolitical and economic milestone many politicians hail as a modernization rite of passage, while others warn it could be a leap into new vulnerabilities.
Why this matters — and why it feels so personal
To understand why this change matters on the ground you need to stand in a village shop in the northwest, or sit in a small Sofia restaurant whose owner balances pride in national heritage against the daily arithmetic of rent and suppliers. “My customers ask me if onions will cost more tomorrow,” says Bilyana Nikolova, who runs a groceries counter in Chuprene, a tiny community near the Serbian border. “They’ve heard stories from friends abroad that prices jump when the euro arrives.”
Her worry is not idiosyncratic. Polls conducted over the past year show substantial ambivalence: nearly half of Bulgarians say they don’t want the euro, according to an EU survey. That reticence grows where incomes are lower and memories of past economic shocks — especially the hyperinflation of the 1990s — remain vivid.
“People remember losing value in their pockets,” explains Boryana Dimitrova of Alpha Research, a polling institute that has followed public sentiment around the changeover. “When a policy affects the everyday — the bread, the bills, the bus ticket — it becomes political overnight. If something goes wrong, opponents will use it as proof that Brussels lost touch.”
Promises on the table
Proponents at home and abroad point to clear advantages. The European Central Bank and international economists argue that single-currency membership can reduce transaction costs, lower borrowing rates, and promote trade. Christine Lagarde, president of the European Central Bank, told Bulgarian audiences in recent months that the gains are “substantial” — smoother commerce, cheaper finance for businesses, and steadier prices among them.
For small and medium-sized enterprises, the arithmetic is stark: analysts estimate up to roughly €500 million saved annually in reduced exchange fees and banking costs. In tourism — a key sector that accounted for about 8% of national output this year — having the euro could make Bulgaria a simpler, less costly destination for millions of European travelers.
“Being inside the decision-making room matters,” says Georgi Angelov, an economist with the Open Society Institute in Sofia. “We have had our currency effectively pegged to the euro for decades through a currency board. Today we trade stability for representation. We will be part of the conversation at the ECB table rather than just following its notes.”
Fear, faith, and politics
The debate is never purely economic. Bulgaria’s politics are fragile; in recent years the country has seen wave after wave of protests against corruption, which toppled a conservative government and pushed the nation toward its eighth election in five years. In such an atmosphere, any economic hiccup could be amplified into a political crisis.
“The adoption will be politicised,” Dimitrova warns. “If prices spike or if there are perceived winners and losers, anti-EU forces will use it as fuel.”
Some of those forces are explicit in their messaging. Far-right and pro-Russia elements have organized ‘save the lev’ campaigns, mobilizing rural communities and older voters with a mix of nostalgia and economic fear. Their rallies often feature local grievances: pensions that feel small, wages that haven’t kept pace with inflation, the sense of being left behind.
“This isn’t only about money,” says Maria K., a teacher from the Rhodope mountains who asked that her surname not be used. “It’s about control. People worry about losing the little autonomy they feel they have after years of foreign influence, sanctions, and distant decisions.”
Numbers that matter
Context helps. Bulgaria has been an EU member since 2007 and joined the ERM II “waiting room” for the euro in 2020. Its lev has been effectively pegged to Western currency standards ever since the chaotic 1990s, when the country’s economy suffered hyperinflation and dramatic currency swings. That experience made fiscal stability a matter of national trauma and policy obsession.
On the inflation front, data show consumers are already squeezed: food prices were up around 5% year-on-year in November, according to the national statistics office — more than twice the eurozone average. That is one reason why the government has created oversight bodies to monitor and limit “unjustified” price hikes during the transition.
Yet history of prior euro entries suggests that any price bump from switching currencies is usually small and short-lived — studies of earlier changeovers have found increases in the range of 0.2 to 0.4 percentage points. The tricky part is perception: for a family buying milk and bread every week, even a tiny percentage feels large.
Coins as culture: Bulgaria’s new small-money portraits
There is poetry in the detail. The images chosen for Bulgaria’s euro coins are a deliberate act of storytelling: the Madara Rider — an eighth-century cliff relief of a horseman triumphing over a lion — will appear on the smaller cent denominations, while the €1 and €2 coins will bear the figures of Saint John of Rila and Paisius of Hilendar, respectively. The edge of one coin carries the inscription “God protect Bulgaria.”
“There is comfort in symbols,” says Dr. Elena Popova, an art historian who works with cultural heritage projects. “When your money carries your myths, you feel continuity. The choice of iconography is an embrace: the state says, we join Europe, but we bring our story with us.”
What’s at stake for the world
Bulgaria’s move is a small story with big echoes. Across Europe, the eurozone’s gradual expansion raises questions about monetary sovereignty, regional inequality, and the political cohesion of the bloc. For the Balkans, membership signals deeper Western alignment, a message particularly resonant given the region’s historic tug-of-war between Brussels and Moscow.
Will joining the euro steady Bulgaria’s economy and curb Russian economic pressure? Can Brussels and Sofia safeguard vulnerable households during the conversion? Will a country still wrestling with corruption win the political stability it needs to reap long-term benefits?
These questions are not unique to Bulgaria. They resonate in Madrid and Malta, Tallinn and Zagreb—everywhere a currency ties people together while asking them to share the risks and rewards.
Final thoughts
On market day, the vendor next to Bilyana sells fresh peppers and jars of homemade lyutenitsa. He motions toward a little boy counting coins into his pocket and says, half-jokingly, “Let him save in euros — maybe he will dream bigger.”
Perhaps that is the simplest way to think of this moment: a bet on the future, balanced on the everyday ledger of a nation still finding its footing. Will the euro lift Bulgaria’s long-term prospects? Or will the transition become another chapter in a story of political churn and economic anxiety? Only time will tell, but the people of Bulgaria will feel the consequences in their shopping baskets, their travel plans, and the stories they tell their children.
What would you choose if it were your currency on the line — stability and shared rules, or the comfort of something known and local? The answer may reveal more about how we measure progress than any headline ever could.
- Estimated tourism share of GDP: ~8%
- Reported food price inflation (Nov): ~5% year-on-year
- Estimated SME savings from euro adoption: ~€500 million annually in reduced exchange costs
- Public sentiment (EU poll): roughly 49% opposed
Peace Within Reach, but Donbas Remains a Sticking Point
A Mar-a-Lago Sunset and the Unfinished Business of War
On a warm Florida afternoon that tasted of salt and citrus, two presidents sat not in a formal palace but at the baroque edge of Mar-a-Lago, inches from a seaside that has seen far gentler disputes than the one that has torn through eastern Europe. The scene felt cinematic: palms leaning like question marks, gold light sliding across marble, and behind the carefully staged smiles, the hum of unfinished negotiations.
“We’re getting a lot closer, maybe very close,” President Donald Trump told reporters, his voice carrying that mixture of triumph and caution familiar to those who have watched him negotiate. Beside him, President Volodymyr Zelenskiy — still the wartime leader who has become a global symbol of resistance — nodded as if measuring each syllable for the weight it would carry back to Kyiv.
This was not the sort of summit that ends wars. It was, rather, the sort of summit that keeps faith with the most fragile of possibilities: that between hard, painful lines on a map lies a bargain people can live with. And it exposed, cruelly and clearly, the two stubborn truths of the moment — that security guarantees and the fate of the Donbas remain the twin axes around which any settlement must turn.
An Unlikely Table: What Was Said — and What Was Not
Details were scarce. For all the flash of cameras and the choreography of official statements, both leaders offered more of a draft than a contract. Zelenskiy declared that “an agreement on security guarantees has been reached,” a line that will be parsed for weeks by diplomats and deputies, while Trump tempered the mood: he said they were “95% of the way” there and predicted European partners would shoulder much of the postwar security burden.
French President Emmanuel Macron — who joined parts of the meeting remotely — hinted at concrete follow-ups, announcing on social media that a “Coalition of the Willing” would meet in Paris in early January to finalize their contributions. “Europe is ready,” wrote Ursula von der Leyen, echoing a refrain that has been repeated across capitals: security guarantees must be “ironclad.”
“We had frank conversations about what it will take for Ukraine not merely to survive but to be secure,” Zelenskiy told aides after the meeting. “Any deal will be subject to our parliament, perhaps to a referendum. That is not negotiable.” His emphasis on domestic consent reflects an acute sensitivity: peace imposed from above would not satisfy a nation that has bled to stay sovereign.
The Donbas Dilemma: Territory, Identity, and a ‘Tough Issue’
If security guarantees are the scaffolding for peace, the Donbas is the stubborn foundation that refuses to shift. Moscow demands the entire Donbas, Kyiv asks that the front line be frozen where troops currently stand, and middle-ground proposals — including a U.S. concept for a free economic zone if Ukraine withdraws — remain deeply problematic and vague.
“It’s unresolved, but it’s getting a lot closer,” Trump said, adding, “that’s a very tough issue.” He acknowledged “a few thorny issues” around territory that must be resolved before signatures are inked. Zelenskiy’s position is politically fraught: to concede land would be to affront many Ukrainians who view territorial integrity as non-negotiable.
A senior Ukrainian lawmaker, speaking on condition of anonymity, described the conversations as “intense and, at times, painfully practical.” “No one here wants to trade citizens for short-term peace,” she said. “We need guarantees that will not evaporate the moment a crisis is forgotten.”
What the Numbers Say
Territorial claims remain contested, and even reported figures can be political. Russian estimates — cited by officials at the meeting — suggest Moscow controls around 12% of Ukrainian territory, including most of the Donbas and large parts of Zaporizhzhia and Kherson. Whether those numbers reflect battlefield reality or negotiating postures matters less than the human cost: millions displaced, towns shredded, and an economy reeling.
Zaporizhzhia: Nuclear and Negotiation Hotspots
One subject that stopped the small-talk was the Zaporizhzhia nuclear plant, Europe’s largest. The International Atomic Energy Agency has brokered local ceasefires and overseen power line repairs, but the plant remains a tinderbox in international eyes. U.S. negotiators floated the idea of shared control — an arrangement meant to reduce the risk of a catastrophic accident while also keeping the facility functioning for civilian needs.
“We have to treat Zaporizhzhia as more than a bargaining chip,” said Dr. Elena Markov, a Kyiv-based nuclear safety expert. “Stability there is a public good, not a point to trade for short-term territorial gains.” Her blunt assessment underscored the global stakes: a mishap would be felt not only across Ukraine but across the continent.
Echoes of War While Negotiations Unfold
The talks in Florida unfolded against the dissonant backdrop of more missiles and drones. The day before Zelenskiy’s arrival, Russian strikes knocked out power and heat in parts of Kyiv, a reminder that ceasefires can be fragile and that military pressure often increases when diplomacy appears to gain traction.
“It felt cruelly timed,” said Olena, a schoolteacher in Kyiv, who watched news of the Mar-a-Lago meeting between candlelit stove-top kettles and generator-powered lamps. “You hear ‘progress’ and then the sky lights up. How are we supposed to believe in ‘getting closer’ while houses burn?”
For his part, Trump reported a lengthy phone call with Vladimir Putin before Zelenskiy’s arrival, calling the talk “productive” and saying Putin pledged to help with reconstruction and energy supplies should a deal be struck. Moscow’s side described the call in warmer tones, suggesting Russia appreciated U.S. mediation efforts.
Voices from the Ground
Back in Palm Beach, a local hotelier watched the procession of limousines and diplomats with bemused curiosity. “This is a place of deals — sometimes big, sometimes small,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “But even here you can feel the absurdity: peace talks with missiles still flying half a world away.”
A Ukrainian veteran in Kyiv sent a voice note through a mutual contact: “We want peace. We want to wake up without sirens. But peace without dignity is surrender. Don’t mistake our fatigue for readiness to give up.” His short sentence captured the tension that diplomats must translate into clauses and guarantees.
So, What Comes Next?
Both presidents spoke of a timeline measured in weeks rather than years. Trump said it will be “clear in a few weeks” whether the negotiations will succeed. Macron’s Paris meeting in early January, along with other European consultations, will shape the architecture of any security guarantees — who contributes troops, funds, training, or emergency response — and how they will be enforced.
Important questions remain: Who watches the watchers? How binding are these guarantees? And how will the voices of ordinary Ukrainians be heard in corridors of power from Florida to Paris to Kyiv?
Perhaps the most urgent question is moral: can the international community build a peace that is not only durable but also just? Can a nation be asked to accept borders that feel imposed rather than chosen? These are not abstract dilemmas; they are decisions that will determine whether a generation rebuilds with dignity or with resentment.
Beyond Florida: The Global Stakes
What happened at Mar-a-Lago was never going to be the final act. It was, instead, another scene in a long drama that has tested alliances, reconfigured geopolitics, and forced ordinary people to imagine futures they did not choose. The stakes extend far beyond Ukraine: credibility of institutions, the precedent for resolving territorial conflict, and the moral calculus of postwar reconstruction are all on the table.
As you read this, ask yourself: what would you accept to stop a war? What would you refuse? And who, in the end, should get to decide? The answers will shape not only maps, but the lives of millions who just want to live without the sound of sirens.
- Key threads to watch: security guarantees, the Donbas settlement, the role of the “Coalition of the Willing,” Zaporizhzhia’s status, and European follow-up meetings in early January.
- Human reality: displacement, power blackouts, and still-unsettled political processes in Kyiv that require parliamentary or popular approval for any deal.
The Mar-a-Lago meeting opened a door, just a crack. Whether that crack will widen into a corridor to lasting peace — or slam shut under the pressure of missiles and mistrust — depends on choices to be made in the weeks ahead. For now, both hope and skepticism walk the same thin line beneath the Florida sun.
Trump says Zelensky and Putin are both serious about peace talks
When Words Walk the Tightrope: Trump’s Claim That Putin and Zelensky Are “Serious” on Peace
There is something uncanny about the sound of a peace plan emerging — not from diplomats’ quiet rooms but from the mouth of a former U.S. president speaking to a packed crowd. “Both Zelensky and Putin are serious on peace,” he said. The line landed like an unexpected chord in a song everyone thought they already knew: a note that seems to promise conclusion, but leaves the melody unresolved.
Walk the streets of Kyiv today and you encounter a city living in two times at once: the present urgency of daily life and a future that refuses to be taken for granted. In a small café just off Maidan Nezalezhnosti, steam from espresso cups fogs the window as patrons glance at their phones. “We’ve learned to measure every statement in action,” said Oleksandra, a teacher who fled fighting in eastern Ukraine and returned last year. “A promise without security is just a lullaby.”
What Was Said — and Why It Matters
The remark that both leaders are “serious” on peace has rippled through capitals and kitchen tables alike. On the surface, it’s a generous appraisal. If true, it would mean something seismic: that two figures at opposite ends of a bloody conflict — Volodymyr Zelensky, the Ukrainian president who rallied a nation under bombardment, and Vladimir Putin, the Russian president who ordered the full-scale invasion in 2022 — have shifted toward negotiation rather than escalation.
But words are only the opening salvo. “You can say ‘serious’ and still be thousands of miles apart on the terms,” said Dr. Elena Markov, a political scientist at the Kyiv School of Public Policy. “The devil, as ever, is in the guarantees, verification, and sequencing.”
Numbers That Ground the Conversation
What gives weight to the stakes are not only the leaders’ statements but the scale of human cost. Since the full-scale invasion in February 2022, millions have been uprooted: families scattered across Europe, whole towns reduced to rubble, lives paused and restarted in other cities or countries. Humanitarian agencies have documented widespread civilian casualties and infrastructure damage on a scale that will take years — perhaps decades — to repair.
International support has not been trivial. Western countries have provided equipment, training, and humanitarian aid totaling tens of billions of dollars, and Ukraine’s economy has been propped up by loans and grants even as its industrial base was battered. Yet even generous assistance cannot buy trust or rewrite the calculus of security that keeps negotiators awake at night.
Voices From the Ground: Skepticism, Hope, and Weariness
“If there’s peace tomorrow, I’ll celebrate like everyone else,” said Mykola, a 52-year-old bus driver from Kherson. “But I’ve seen too many ceasefires that held only in name. My neighbor lost his home in 2022, and no ‘peace’ can return what was taken.”
Others hear the words and allow themselves a small breath. “We need any opening that can stop the artillery and the children’s hospitals being evacuated,” said Anna, a mother of two who volunteers with a relief organization. “But we also know peace that leaves war criminals untouched only stores the next tragedy.”
In Moscow, reactions were predictably varied. Some commentators framed the comment as a diplomatic olive branch, while hardliners dismissed it as noise. Analysts point out the domestic political calculus in Russia that makes any offer palatable to Western audiences hard to sell at home.
Experts Weigh the Odds
“This moment should be read as an opportunity, not a guarantee,” said Michael Harrow, a conflict resolution specialist who has mediated peace talks in the Balkans and the Caucasus. “Negotiations succeed when there’s leverage, credible guarantees, and international monitoring. Absent those, we’re back to bargaining over casualties.”
Harrow notes that peace processes require sequencing — ceasefire first, withdrawal second, then a roadmap for security, reparations, and political settlement. “Rushing to sign a paper for the optics of peace can leave unresolved grievances that fester.”
What Would a “Serious” Peace Look Like?
Imagining a realistic blueprint means confronting uncomfortable trade-offs. For Ukraine, territorial integrity is non-negotiable for many. For Russia, the political face-saving measures it may demand can be existential. International law, accountability for alleged war crimes, and the role of NATO or other security guarantees add layers of complexity.
Any viable plan would likely include:
- Ceasefire mechanisms monitored by impartial international observers.
- Gradual and verifiable withdraw of forces, with phased security arrangements.
- Humanitarian corridors and a plan for reconstruction funding tied to benchmarks.
- Transitional justice measures to address alleged violations without derailing negotiations.
Each point is simple on paper, fiendishly hard in practice.
The Political Theater — and the Human Cost
Politics plays like theater on this stage. Domestic audiences in both countries will judge leaders less on diplomacy and more on perceived strength or betrayal. “Elected leaders must translate peace into something their citizens understand and trust,” said Dr. Kovacs, a European security analyst based in Budapest. “That means sliding past slogans to deliver secure borders and safety for families.”
For people on the ground, the arithmetic is intimate. A grandmother in Odesa counts the days until she can sleep without hearing rockets in the distance. A young man rebuilding a bakery in Chernihiv worries about where the grain will come from next year. These are the small ledger entries that any peace plan must account for if it’s to be more than paper and promises.
Questions That Remain — For Leaders and for Us
So what should we watch for in the coming weeks?
- Concrete steps: Are there back-channel talks? Are neutral parties like the UN or another state being invited to verify progress?
- Timing and sequencing: Is a ceasefire being negotiated first, or are parties skating straight to political declarations?
- International buy-in: Are major powers prepared to offer security guarantees and reconstruction aid linked to milestones?
And for the reader: what does peace mean to you? Is it an immediate end to gunfire, or a long project of justice and rebuilding? How much compromise between justice and stability is acceptable in the name of stopping more bloodshed?
Conclusion: Hope, But Vigilant
There is power in the notion that leaders could be ready to talk. Yet hope must be vigilant. For Ukrainians returning to neighborhoods scarred by shelling, for refugees arranging lives in distant cities, and for soldiers who have seen friends fall, talk of peace without the architecture to sustain it feels like a fragile thing.
“We want leaders to be brave enough to secure peace, and honest enough to share the price,” Oleksandra said, stirring her coffee. “Courage is not only leading to a table. It’s staying there and doing the hard work.”
In the end, a single sentence — “they are serious” — cannot remake what years of conflict have unmade. But if those words lead to concrete steps, verified actions, and the hard work of reconciliation, perhaps then they will have meant more than rhetoric. Until then, the world watches, waits, and wonders whether this chord is the prelude to the final movement, or simply another refrain in a long, sorrowful song.
Xuutiyiinta Yemen oo digniin culus u jeedisay Somaliland
Dec 28(Jowhar)-Hoggaamiyaha Xuutiyiinta Yemen, Cabdimalik Al-Xuuti ayaa hadal uu soo saaray sida ay baahisay Al Jazeera, wuxuu digniin culus u jeedisay Somaliland, isagoo ugaga digay iney saldhigyo dhulkeeda kasiiso Israel.
EAC oo taageero buuxda u muujisay Soomaaliya
Dec 28(Jowhar)-Urur-goboleedka Bariga Afrika (EAC) oo qoraal kasoo saaray Aqoonsiga ay Isra1l siisay Somaliland ayaa kahor-timid arrintaasi, waxeyna si buuxda u taageertay mowqifka Midowga Afrika, iyadoo mar kale adkaysay in la ixtiraamo midnimada, madaxbannaanida iyo xuduudaha taariikhiga ah ee Soomaaliya.
Watch skiers carve snowy slopes amid Mount Etna’s dramatic eruption
Snow, Ash and the Strange Calm of Etna: Skiing on the Edge of Fire
There is a particular kind of hush that descends on a place when two great elements meet: snow and fire. On the slopes of Mount Etna this Christmas, that hush was punctured by laughter, the crunch of skins on new powder and the distant roar of an ever-hungry mountain. Ski mountaineers threaded up crater-lined ridges in crisp, blue Sicilian air, stopping often to stare at columns of ash that puffed into the sky like ink in water.
“It’s very impressive to climb at this time,” said volcanological guide Giuseppe Curcio, breath condensing in the chill. “The contrast—the eruption, the snow, the sea just below—it’s an experience you don’t get anywhere else. It’s raw. It’s beautiful. It makes you feel alive.”
The image is almost cinematic: skiers in bright jackets against blackened pumice, silhouettes of small towns clinging to the mountain’s flanks, the Ionian Sea shimmering far below. Yet this is no postcard. For locals and scientists alike, Etna is not scenery; it is a living system that is watched, measured and negotiated with every day.
Alert Raised, but Life Goes On
Italy’s Department of Civil Protection raised the alert level for Etna from green to yellow yesterday, signaling the possibility of a rapid escalation of activity. Yellow is a cautionary shade — not immediate alarm, but an instruction to sharpen vigilance. The Civil Protection and the Istituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia (INGV) maintain continuous monitoring, with seismographs, gas sensors and thermal cameras trained on the mountain.
“Yellow means we expect more energetic activity is possible,” explained Prof. Marco Bellini of the INGV. “It’s our way of saying: pay attention. We might see stronger lava fountains, increased ash emission or changes in the seismic pattern. But it’s also important to avoid panic—most of Etna’s episodes are localised and do not impact populated areas drastically.”
Practical life, meanwhile, carried on. Catania Fontanarossa — one of Sicily’s busiest airports — reported normal operations, with officials cautious but confident that a minor ash fall would not immediately disrupt flights. “We monitor ash clouds continuously in coordination with meteorological services,” said Francesca Marino, head of airport operations. “Unless ash accumulation increases substantially, flights will operate as scheduled.”
On the Mountain: A Place of Rituals and Risk
Etna is a study in contradictions. It is at once a beloved backdrop for Sicilian identity and a threat that can rearrange life in an instant. The mountain rises to more than 3,300 metres and presides over eastern Sicily like an ancient, somewhat temperamental guardian. Its slopes are dotted with vineyards, citrus groves and tiny villages where stone facades and baroque church bells recall centuries of coexistence with fire.
At higher altitudes the landscape changes. Patches of black volcanic glass glitter underfoot. Steam curls from vents. The snowpack carries a fine dusting of ash that leaves a gray sheen on ski jackets and a faint metallic taste in the air. Guides like Curcio balance safety with the desire to share this rare scene.
“You know the risks,” he said. “But there’s also deep respect. We teach people where to go, how to read the mountain. We have radios, we check gas readings, and we never, ever take chances with sudden weather shifts or unstable slopes.”
Local Lives, Local Wisdom
In the towns beneath Etna, life is threaded with volcanic lore. At a small café in Nicolosi, a woman named Elena Russo wiped her hands on a flour-dusted apron and watched a postcard-perfect eruption feeds on her phone’s screen.
“We have ash on our balconies sometimes, and our grapes get a little dusting,” she said, smiling. “But the fruit here grows with the mountain. It makes the soil strong. My grandmother used to say: Etna gives and takes—mostly she gives.”
That duality—blessing and menace—defines the mountain’s relationship with communities. Farmers prize the rich, mineral soils. Tour operators thrive on the steady stream of hikers, photographers and skiers who come for the dramatic panoramas. Yet emergency plans and evacuation rehearsals are a routine part of civic life.
Why People Come: The Pull of Extreme Beauty
What draws skiers to skin up towards an active crater? Adventure, certainly. But there is also the curious human hunger to stand close to something vast and indifferent. The modern sport of ski mountaineering—where participants climb with skins and crampons, then descend untracked slopes—has found a fitting theatre on Etna.
“You feel tiny,” said Lucía Menendez, a visiting skier from Madrid, cheeks flushed from exertion. “And yet, you’re part of a story that’s older than any of us. It’s humbling.”
For photographers, the setting offers a rare color palette: basalt and snow, flame and sky, villages lit like constellations against the dark flank of the mountain. For volcanologists, every ash plume and lava flow is data, a clue to the mountain’s inner plumbing.
What to Know if You Go
- Mount Etna stands over 3,300 metres high and is among Europe’s most active volcanoes.
- Alert levels range from green (normal) to red (major activity); yellow indicates heightened vigilance.
- If planning a trip: book a licensed guide, carry a gas mask for ash, and check local advisories daily.
Broader Threads: Risk, Tourism and the Climate Question
Etna’s episodes are more than local news. They pose questions about how communities balance economic opportunity and environmental risk, how tourism can be both a lifeline and a liability, and how climate change may alter patterns of snow and eruption visibility.
Scientists are studying how warming winters could change Etna’s snowpack, with implications for both ecosystems and recreational seasons. Meanwhile, global air travel protocols have learned hard lessons from past ash crises—ash can damage jet engines and reduce visibility, so even marginal increases in ash emissions are taken seriously.
“Volcanoes like Etna force us to live with uncertainty,” said Prof. Bellini. “They remind us that geological time and human time are different. We have tools and science to reduce surprise, but not to eliminate it. That’s part of the human condition.”
Standing There—A Moment to Reflect
Watching the sunset throw long shadows over the ash-darkened slopes, it is hard not to feel small and lucky at once. The mountain’s eruptions are not spectacles in a theme-park sense; they are natural events that call for respect. Yet people still come—because there are moments here that alter a person’s sense of scale, of beauty, of what it means to live on a lively planet.
So, what would you do if you found yourself under Etna’s gaze? Step back and watch from the safety of the valley? Strap into skins and climb toward the steam and the sky? Whichever choice you make, the mountain will be there—speaking in ash and light, centuries old and profoundly alive.
Lukewarm early voter turnout in Myanmar election suggests public apathy
Ink on Fingers, Silence in the Streets: Myanmar’s Election That Felt Like a Postcard From a Country at War
When the polling stations opened, the ritual was familiar: the dip of an index finger into indelible ink, the soft shuffle toward a cardboard booth, the hushed murmur of names crossing the ballot. But the scene felt hollow in places that once overflowed. In Yangon’s quieter neighborhoods, in Mandalay’s wide avenues, and in the government-built capital of Naypyitaw, people moved past polling booths as if skimming the surface of a story they no longer trusted.
For many, this was the first national vote since a military seizure of power in early 2021, and it arrived in three slow beats — a first phase followed by voting scheduled for 11 and 25 January in a process the junta framed as the return to normalcy. Yet normality is a word that sits uncomfortably beside checkpoints, regular clashes in the hills, and a dissolved opposition—not to mention a Nobel laureate who remains behind bars.
Under the Guarded Lamps: How Voting Looked on the Ground
Security was everywhere. Armored vehicles idled on side streets; platoons walked past temples where monks once canvassed in quiet. In Naypyitaw a man in plain clothes—junta chief Min Aung Hlaing—appeared on state television beaming as he showed off his inked finger, a small, defiant signal of civic participation. Reporters pressed him about presidential ambitions; he smiled and deflected, saying only that the parliament will decide the next head of state.
But across the country, voters simply stayed home. Ten residents Reuters spoke to reported turnout that was markedly lower than the 70% participation seen in both the 2015 and 2020 general elections, figures remembered almost reverentially by those who had campaigned door-to-door for years. In many townships the queues were thin. In others—particularly those affected by active resistance—the streets remained entirely empty after calls from armed groups to boycott the polls.
What the Numbers Hide
The junta has not set a legal minimum turnout for the vote, a quirk that allows it to claim legitimacy regardless of how thin crowds may be. Meanwhile, the landscape of candidates has shifted dramatically. Parties linked to the military, most prominently the Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP), were the loudest voices on the campaign trail—old machinery dusted off for a new march. Observers counted the USDP among the most visible, noting it had placed a significant share of candidates on ballots where opposition parties are absent or disbanded. Local analysts estimate the USDP accounted for roughly one-fifth of candidates in this cycle, though seats still extend across complex and often contested terrain.
Voices From the Lines: Citizens, Analysts and the Unheard
“I came to see what the fuss was about,” said Thiri, a tea-shop owner near Yangon’s western district, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup. “But I don’t believe this is for us. It feels like a show.” Her words echoed those of a college student in Mandalay who told me, “We have elections, yes. But does anyone outside these walls believe in them?”
Others spoke through resignation rather than outrage. “I voted because my mother asked me to,” said an elderly man in Mawlamyine, his voice small amid the muffled thud of military vehicles. “She remembers better days.” In Hakha, capital of Chin State, the story was different: residents described deserted streets after local resistance groups urged families to stay indoors, saying the choice to abstain was also a form of protest.
Experts were blunt. “This election is engineered to entrench military power under a civilian veneer,” said Lalita Hanwong, a lecturer and Myanmar specialist at Kasetsart University in Thailand. “Institutions that once allowed political competition have been hollowed out.” Tom Andrews, the UN’s special rapporteur on human rights in Myanmar, called the vote “not a pathway out of the country’s crisis” and urged the international community to reject the exercise.
The Political Terrain: A Dissolved Opposition and a House of Mirrors
Since the 2020 landslide victory for Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy (NLD), Myanmar’s political terrain has shifted violently. The NLD was dismantled by the junta; its leader remains detained and charged with multiple offenses. In the absence of a major pro-democracy contender allowed to campaign freely, parties with military ties have reasserted themselves, drawing lines between past rule and the current architecture of power.
“They want the trappings of democracy without the messy business of dissent,” said a Yangon-based civil society activist, who requested anonymity for fear of reprisal. “You get ballots and booths, but not competition.” This set-up raises an uncomfortable question for any external observer: when electoral form exists without genuine choice, can we call it a democracy at all?
Local Colors and Quiet Rebellions
Myanmar’s streets tell the truth in small details. Around many polling stations, vendors still sold laphet—fermented tea leaves—wrapped in banana leaves, and schoolchildren in crisp uniforms glanced at soldiers with curiosity rather than fear. In rural markets, the familiar rhythm of bargaining persisted even as the country’s political heartbeat faltered.
But other places suggested deeper ruptures. Refugee buses lined up near border towns; families whispered about relatives who had fled. In towns where the junta never fully asserts control, networks of resistance continue to operate, offering basic services and local governance in the vacuum created by the coup.
What This Means Beyond Myanmar
Myanmar’s election is more than a national event. It is a case study in how modern authoritarians co-opt democratic forms to gain a semblance of legitimacy. It is a warning for a world where constitutional processes can be hollowed and repurposed. And it is a test of international resolve: whether foreign governments and institutions will recognize governments that emerge through constrained, coerced, or staged contests.
As you read this, consider the choices nations make in the face of repression. When the ink on a finger becomes the symbol of civic life, what does it mean when so many hands remain unstained?
Looking Ahead
The junta has promised to announce preliminary results after the first phase and to continue with subsequent rounds covering 265 of 330 townships—some of which it does not fully control. For many inside Myanmar and for observers abroad, that is not the end of a story but another chapter in a struggle that has already cost lives, livelihoods, and trust in institutions.
Will the world engage with the government that emerges? Will locals find ways to rebuild democratic life amid conflict? Those answers are not in the ink on a finger but in the choices people—inside Myanmar and outside—make in response. For now, the polling booths stand like empty sets at the end of a play, lights still on while the audience files out, uncertain if the show can or should go on.
Gazan student torn between hope and fear amid ongoing conflict
Last Photos, First Steps: A Student’s Escape from the Ashes of Home
The photo is simple: a young woman grinning into a phone camera, three little girls shoulder-to-shoulder, smoke-darkened stones and a cooking pot steaming behind them. It is a collage of ordinary things — a meal, a selfie, a sibling stirring a pot — and yet, for Ghada Ashour, 24, it is everything she can carry of Gaza with her to Dublin.
“Gratitude, fear and guilt,” Ghada told me, pausing as if weighing each word. “Those three sum up how I felt the day I left.” She says the words slowly, as if letting them settle on the table between us. They do not feel like abstractions; they feel like luggage worn on the shoulders.
From Tents to Trinity — Not Quite, But Close
Until August, Ghada was one of many living in a tented displacement camp in Khan Younis, studying remotely through the American University in Cairo while the war unfolded around her. She had been filming life there for RTÉ: the long walks to find a plug and an internet signal, the patchwork rhythms of study and survival.
Then a door opened. Ghada was among 52 Palestinian scholarship recipients who were evacuated from Gaza in August and began studies at Irish universities in September. For her, Dublin City University — a scholarship made possible by United Against Online Abuse and DCU’s own support — became an improbable haven.
“I’m here, I’m in Ireland, I’m safe and sound,” she smiled from her Glasnevin student room, the chill of the city pressing at the window. “None of this would have been possible without the university and our sponsors.”
The Practical Miracle and the Emotional Cost
The logistics of getting students out of Gaza were a tangle of diplomacy, paperwork and peril. Officials from universities, NGOs and private sponsors describe sleepless nights coordinating visas, flights and safe corridors while monitoring ceasefire windows. For Ghada, the practical miracle arrived on 26 August — the day she shared a last lunch with family, snapped the photos now treasured on her phone, and boarded a plane.
“We had to choose between staying with family in a town that might never be the same, or taking a chance to finish our education,” she said. “It was the toughest decision I’ve ever made.”
Rubble, Memory and a Little Girl Named Mariam
News reports said an agreed ceasefire came into effect on 10 October. For Ghada, however, the ceasefire is not a headline — it is a yardstick. “We can believe there is a real ceasefire when houses are rebuilt, when students and children go safely back to school,” she told me. Her family has been able to visit the place where their house once stood near Khan Younis. Footage sent by relatives shows a familiar plot reduced to dust and jagged concrete.
Among the faces in those videos is Mariam, a shy niece who wanders stones and remembers a home she can no longer find. “She is the daughter of my brother who was killed on 10 March 2024,” Ghada said, the date like a small, hard pebble lodged in her throat. “She wants to study. She always says, ‘I want to be strong like you, I want to resume my education.'”
It is a detail that refuses to be just poignant: a child naming education as her future even when safety, shelter and a father are gone. It cuts across assumptions about what people want when everything has been taken. It is also a reminder of the broader, quieter losses that accompany armed conflict — the loss of continuity, of classrooms, of teachers and textbooks, of the certainty that childhood will look like childhood.
Survivor Guilt, Determination and the Weight of Prayer
“Sometimes I ask myself, ‘Why me? Why not her?'” Ghada said, thinking of girls back in Gaza who are drawing water from reservoirs instead of opening books. “I have survivor guilt. I sit here and study while others run to fill water tanks.” She sifts through her memory: the smell of her mother’s cooking, the way her mother prayed over her. “I miss my mother’s prayers. I feel like I am here today because of her prayers.”
Yet survivor guilt sits alongside a sharp, pragmatic resolve. Ghada talks of high expectations for herself, of finishing a master’s degree and turning education into a tool for the future. “I feel I must work harder,” she says. “Not just for me, but for those left behind.”
Voices Around the Story
Not everyone sees evacuation as an unambiguous victory. A local teacher in Khan Younis, who asked to be named Amina, explained: “When a student leaves, the classroom loses energy. When many leave, schools may close. Education can be emptied out of a place long before buildings collapse.”
A spokesperson from DCU who coordinated student arrivals—Michael O’Connell—described the program as “a moral imperative, not a charity project,” adding, “Universities have responsibilities to global students and to the future we all share. Education is both sanctuary and instrument.” He also noted the logistical strain: “We housed dozens of students in the matter of weeks—supporting visas, courses, counseling. It changes us as institutions.”
And an aid worker who has spent years operating in Gaza, Leila Haddad, offered a sobering frame: “A ceasefire on paper does not mean reconstruction overnight. Basic services, schools, health centers—those take time, agreements, and sustained funding. Displacement is not a moment; it is a longer arc.”
What This Moment Tells Us
Ghada’s story is intimate and specific, but it reverberates with global themes. Who gets to keep learning in times of war? What does it mean when universities — traditionally anchors of stability — become, in effect, rescue ships for talent fleeing violence? And what happens to places that lose their young people, their future teachers, doctors and engineers?
Consider these questions: If education is an emergency need, why is it often the last to receive consistent humanitarian funding? How do host communities and universities balance rapid emergency support with long-term integration? And finally, how do survivors reconcile the moral complexity of safety built on someone else’s continuing peril?
Small Acts, Big Ripples
- Last lunches with family become talismans, small rituals that preserve identity in transit.
- Scholarship programs can pivot lives, but they do not replace collective reconstruction.
- Children like Mariam embody both fragility and fierce aspiration — the kind of resilience that is often underestimated.
Leaving, Staying, and the Work Ahead
Ghada watches her old RTÉ report sometimes, she told me, “to remind myself where I began.” When she studies, she says she carries two images: a tent where she once did exams, and a small Dublin desk cluttered with notes and a kettle. “I hold both. I don’t want anyone to think we’ve only escaped. We also carry responsibility to those we left behind.”
As readers, what are we to do with a story like this? We can feel helpless, or we can notice the power of small acts — universities opening their doors, donors funding scholarships, ordinary people lighting open fires and feeding families against a season of ruin. We can ask our institutions — educational and civic — to think globally about safety, access and the future of learning.
Finally, perhaps the most human response is to keep looking. To look at photographs, to listen to voices like Ghada’s, to remember that in the rubble there are names, ambitions and prayers. “Hope feels risky,” she confessed. “But I try.” It is a modest manifesto for a world where education can still be a form of courage.
Guatemala bus crash kills 15 and injures 19 passengers
Ravenous Fog, a Cliff Road, and a Bus That Didn’t Make It: A Night in Guatemala’s Highlands
They found the wreckage snuggled in the ribcage of a ravine, half-swallowed by mist and broken glass. A passenger bus that had been threading the Inter-American Highway — the long, vital spine of Central America — came apart at a bend in Sololá, a mountainous department where the road shoulders drop away like old promises.
By the time first responders finished counting, 15 people were dead and 19 more were being rushed to nearby hospitals with injuries ranging from minor to critical. A fire service spokesperson later specified the toll as 11 men, three women and one child. Social media from the scene showed firefighters wedged inside twisted metal and rescuers hauling survivors up a steep, muddy slope as police cordoned off the highway.
What Happened in the Fog
The exact sequence is still under investigation. Local authorities and witnesses describe the ubiquitous early-morning fog that clings to these hills, reducing visibility to little more than a car’s headlights. “This road is beautiful and treacherous,” said Maritza Chuy, who runs a small eatery in a lakeside village near Panajachel. “You can’t see the turn until you are on it.”
Drivers in Sololá speak of microclimates — pockets of cloud that appear without warning — and of a narrow, serpentine highway that was built long before modern safety engineering. “You have to be careful every time you drive here, even if you’ve done it a thousand times,” said a bus driver who asked not to be named. “A second of distraction, or one patch of fog, and it’s over.”
Rescue and the Human Cost
Images released by the fire department showed the bus crumpled against boulders at the bottom of the ravine as firefighters and volunteers worked through the night. The injured were transported to clinics and hospitals in Sololá and neighboring towns. Local health workers, many of whom were also grieving neighbors and relatives, readied operating rooms and crowded hallways.
“We did everything we could for those who came in,” said Dr. Ana López, an ER physician at a regional hospital. “Every injury is a person: a mother, a father, a child. We need more ambulances, better road signs, and a culture of prevention.”
Beyond the Crash: Patterns and Pressures
Road safety in Guatemala is not just a matter of isolated tragedies. It is the product of geography, poverty, and an aging transport network strained by increasing demand. The Inter-American Highway — part of the greater Pan-American route that connects continents — threads through highlands and valleys, carrying commuters, produce, tourists, and freight. Where engineering is thin and enforcement even thinner, accidents occur with painful regularity.
Road traffic injuries are a significant public health challenge across Latin America. In Guatemala, where rural populations rely heavily on public and informal transport, crashes are among the leading causes of emergency admissions. Every year, thousands of people lose their lives or are left with life-changing injuries on roads that a generation ago were designed for far fewer vehicles.
Voices from the Valley
At the market in Santiago Atitlán, a woman named Rosa clutched her woven shawl and spoke of fragile livelihoods. “People travel this road to sell their corn, their textiles, their crafts,” she said. “A bus is not just a bus. It is how we connect to our children’s schools, to doctors, to work.”
A volunteer rescuer, Carlos Martínez, sat down on a rock with soot on his hands. “We don’t want names in the headlines,” he said softly. “We want safer roads. We want warning lights where fog is common and guardrails where the cliff is hungry.”
What Could Make a Difference?
There is no single answer, but a combination of infrastructure investment, public education, and sensible regulation can reduce the toll. Simple interventions — reflective signage, rumble strips, guardrails, weather-activated warning systems — have saved lives elsewhere. Better driver training and limits on nighttime passenger services on risky stretches could also be meaningful.
- Improve fog-warning systems and install reflective road markers in high-risk areas.
- Strengthen enforcement of speed limits and vehicle maintenance checks for passenger transport.
- Invest in emergency medical services and quicker response times in rural areas.
- Promote community-led safety programs, especially in indigenous and rural regions.
Experts note that the cost of proactive measures is almost always smaller than the social and economic toll of frequent accidents. “Prevention is not a luxury,” said María Elena Rivas, a transport safety researcher. “It’s an investment in people’s lives and livelihoods.”
Local Color: Life on the Highlands Road
Sololá’s slopes are vivid with color — traditional woven skirts (cortes) and huipiles patterned with ancestral motifs, small altars at crossroads, and the early-morning stalls selling hot tamales and coffee. On good days, the lake below mirrors the sky and volcanoes loom like sentinels. On bad days, that beauty becomes a hazard: a sudden bank of cloud can turn the road into a silent, dangerous narrowway.
“My father used to say the road has two moods: generous and jealous,” laughed an elderly man in a market stall, though his voice softened when the subject turned to the crash. “There is joy here, and also risk. We must hold both in our hands.”
Looking Outward: Local Tragedies, Global Lessons
This crash is a local sorrow, but it also feeds into global conversations about safe mobility, climate and infrastructure resilience, and equity. Mountainous and rural roads worldwide — from the Andes to the Himalayas — share similar vulnerabilities: dense fog, landslides, narrow shoulders, and long distances to medical care.
What should an international community that values connectivity and safety take from this? Perhaps that progress is not just about paving roads, but about designing them for people; not just about moving goods, but about protecting lives. The bus that fell into the ravine was carrying more than passengers: it was carrying a community’s fragile promise of opportunity.
Questions to Hold as We Remember
As you read this, ask yourself: How do we value the lives of those who use the world’s most dangerous roads? What would you change in your own community if a stretch of highway regularly claimed lives? And — most urgently — what will authorities do now, in the wake of this grief, to keep another bus from slipping off a misty curve?
The names of the dead and injured will enter local memory, woven into family stories and market conversations. For now, Sololá is staying awake, watching the highway and the sky, counting lessons and losses. The fog will lift, but the questions it leaves behind are heavy and clear.
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