Trapped and Scarred Inside the World’s Biggest Refugee Camp

December 15, 2025

Trapped, traumatised: Inside world's largest refugee camp — The population density in the refugee camp is 45,000 people per sq.km

On a Hillside of Memories: Life Inside the World’s Largest Refugee Settlement

The photograph is small, the edges curled and browned by years of sun and rain. Nur Haba cradles it like a relic, a single frame that contains an entire life: her mother, smiling before the world she knew collapsed into smoke and gunfire.

“She was only forty-four,” Nur says, voice low enough that the bamboo walls of her shelter seem to lean in. “They shot her in front of me.” Her fingers tremble as she smooths the paper. “Everything I had left—this picture, a scarf—I’ve kept close. Memory is all that is left to us.”

That shelter sits on a stubbled hillside in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh: a patchwork of tarpaulin, bamboo poles and corrugated sheets that together house a city-sized population. Around 1.3 million people live here, by most counts—the largest concentration of refugees anywhere on earth. For many of them, daily life is an exercise in holding on: to memories, to dignity, to a tentative claim on the future.

A history of being denied

The Rohingya fled not because they wanted to leave, but because of what they feared would happen if they stayed. Denied citizenship in Myanmar since 1982, systematically excluded from education, healthcare and civil rights, they have long endured discriminatory laws and practices. In 2017, a brutal campaign in Rakhine State—documented by UN investigators and described by international experts as tantamount to ethnic cleansing—forced more than a million people across the border into Bangladesh.

“We walked, we ran. Some of us hid. Many did not make it,” a neighbour in the camp mutters as children weave between food distribution lines. “The past is not a story for us; it is the air we breathe.”

How do you house a city?

Try to imagine a density no planner would ever design for: roughly 45,000 people packed into a single square kilometre in parts of the settlement. That figure, stark on paper, becomes visceral on the ground. Narrow footpaths wind between rows of shelters. Open drains line the lanes. Where there should be green space, there are sleeping mats and drying clothes. A child plays with a plastic bottle; an old woman chops vegetables over a tiny stove.

“If I put it another way,” says Manish Kumar Agrawal, who runs a major aid programme in the area, “Ireland—a whole country—has around 73 people per square kilometre. Here, entire families share space smaller than many living rooms back home. Seventy-five percent of the camp are women and children. It’s not simply crowded; it’s dangerous.”

Dangerous because close quarters make disease an impatient neighbour. Over the past year, humanitarian teams have battled outbreaks of cholera and dengue, along with recurring spikes of acute diarrhoeal disease. Clinics, set up in converted shipping containers and tents, are often overwhelmed. Water and sanitation systems strain under the load. And when illness strikes, the pathways to care are clogged by queues, lack of transport and the constant churn of arrivals.

Weathering the climate on the frontlines

The geography that once seemed to offer safety now compounds vulnerability. The camps hug steep hills carved by monsoon rains; when cyclones and heavy rains come, landslides can sweep through rows of fragile shelters without warning. In the dry season, heat shimmers over a landscape of plastic sheeting and sun-bleached bamboo, and the risk of fire is ever-present.

“These communities are on the frontlines of climate change,” a UN official told me during a recent visit. “Summers sear and dry out, then the rains arrive with a fury. People lose homes and lives over and over.”

You can still see the scars: gullies where entire slopes gave way, the rusted skeletons of shelters flattened in past storms, and families rebuilding with the same limited materials, season after season. “We have to relive the flood and the fire in our heads before they happen,” says 23-year-old Aziz Ullah, who arrived in 2017. “We talk about the past. We worry about the next rain. The future for our young people—honestly, it feels dark.”

The human cost of restriction

Life in Cox’s Bazar is heavily regulated. Movement is restricted, the right to formal work is denied to most, and many daily routines are defined by aid distributions: food, water, shelter upgrades, occasional cash assistance. That dependency shapes more than material conditions; it affects mental health, social structure and prospects.

“When people have nothing to do—when young men and women are idle—frustration breeds danger,” explains a protection specialist with a long experience of displacement settings. “We see petty crime, reports of exploitation, tensions between groups. It’s not inevitable, but it’s a pattern we must acknowledge.”

There have been disquieting reports—kidnappings, armed clashes, and cases of sexual exploitation within the camp. For many families who fled violence only to arrive in crowded, under-resourced shelters, the fear of a second betrayal—of safety promised but not delivered—weighs heavily.

The continuing tide: arrivals and the limits of hospitality

Despite the years since 2017, the exodus continues. Humanitarian agencies estimate that roughly 150,000 Rohingya have arrived in Bangladesh over the past year alone, driven by renewed violence, economic collapse and a lack of security in parts of Myanmar. Each new arrival is a human face in an already packed grid of tents, a family joining queues for water and the few school classes available.

Bangladesh, a nation with its own vulnerabilities and a dense population, has repeatedly signalled its limits. “We are a small, land-hungry country,” said a government official overseeing refugee affairs. “We can host, but we cannot absorb millions permanently. Our goal is safe and dignified return when conditions allow.” Yet safe, voluntary repatriation remains a distant hope while violence and systemic discrimination persist in the places many Rohingya left.

What does justice look like?

As you read this, ask yourself: what responsibility do we owe to people who have been stateless for generations? To those who escaped killing and came to live under tarpaulin roofs while the wider world pivoted from headline to headline?

There are practical answers: increased funding for healthcare and shelter upgrades, safer education for children, expanded livelihoods so people can work and provide for themselves, and sustained diplomatic pressure on Myanmar to create conditions for the safe return of its citizens. There are also harder moral questions about citizenship, belonging and the architecture of national identity that rendered an entire community invisible on paper and vulnerable in practice.

Numbers that matter

Estimated camp population: ~1.3 million people
Reported population density in parts of the camp: ~45,000 people per square kilometre
Recent arrivals (approximate, past year): 150,000 Rohingya
Proportion of camp population who are women and children: ~75%

Faces, not statistics

Back on the hill, a boy kicks a flattened soccer ball toward a line of boys his age. Laughter rings out for a moment that feels almost ordinary. Nur tucks the photograph back into a small tin. “I still hope my story will change,” she says. “Not just for me—for my son, for all the children here. I hope someone sees us as people, not numbers.”

We, as a global community, are measured not only by our declarations—but by the shelter we provide, the dignity we defend, and the political will we muster to make return safe and rights durable. Cox’s Bazar is a test of that resolve. Will the story end in cycles of loss and displacement, or will it be written into a different future—one where citizenship, shelter and opportunity are not privileges but rights?

If you have read this far, I invite you to hold one fact in your mind: behind every statistic is a person who remembers a name, a song, a life that did not deserve to be erased. What will you do with that knowledge?

Ukraine Shelves NATO Ambition as Berlin Peace Talks Are Extended

hanad

December 15, 2025

Ukraine drops NATO goal as peace talks in Berlin extended — Volodymyr Zelensky was greeted by German leader Friedrich Merz in Berlin ahead of the talks

At the Gates of Power: A Quiet, High-Stakes Pause in Berlin

There was a hush over the Chancellery in Berlin—an odd, taut quiet that felt more like a held breath than the usual hum of state business. Snipers took position on rooftops. An anti-drone cannon blinked its ready lights. Two limousines with blue police beacons slid up to the entrance, their engines barely murmuring against the cold pavement.

Inside, for more than five hours, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky sat across from emissaries from the United States—Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner—while German Chancellor Friedrich Merz opened the door and then stepped back. The talks, officials said, were paused only to resume the following morning. But the shape of what was on the table felt decisive: could Ukraine shelve its long-standing aspiration to join NATO in exchange for ironclad security guarantees from the West?

The Offer That Shakes the Foundation

The idea is simple, brutal, and rare in modern European diplomacy: Ukraine would forgo a constitutionally enshrined goal—membership in NATO—if the United States and its allies would sign legally binding agreements to defend Ukrainian territory. For a nation that has fought to secure its borders since Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022, the offer would mark an extraordinary pivot.

“This is a painful, strategic concession,” said a senior Ukrainian aide who spoke on condition of anonymity. “The presidency knows what the constitutional aspiration meant to many people here. But we are weighing whether a practical, enforceable security umbrella is preferable to a promise of membership that could be deferred for years.”

Article 5, NATO’s mutual-defense clause, has long been the gold standard of collective security—an assurance that an attack on one is an attack on all. Zelensky’s camp, sources say, is asking for Article-5-like assurances from the U.S., and legally binding guarantees from European partners including Germany, as well as other democracies such as Canada and Japan.

Why this matters

Put simply: membership in NATO confers a political and military status that supposedly deters aggression. But membership is also a process, one that requires consensus among 32 allies. For Ukraine, whose membership bid is woven into its post-2014 national identity, the shift toward bilateral and multilateral guarantees represents a strategic gamble for survival.

On the Ground in Berlin: Tension, Curiosity, and Coffee

Outside the government complex, Berliners paused over their cappuccinos and smartphones, watching the incremental choreography of security. “You could feel the tension like static in the air,” said Lena Müller, who runs a kiosk near the Chancellery. “People asked each other, ‘Is this the beginning of peace, or the end of something else?’

A group of students clustered nearby, scrolling through headlines. One of them, Anton, shrugged and said, “If it stops the bombs, why not? But who will enforce the guarantees? That’s the big question.”

Russia’s Terms and the Historical Backdrop

Moscow has repeatedly demanded that Ukraine formally renounce NATO membership, withdraw forces from parts of the Donbas, and accept a neutral status—no foreign troops or bases on Ukrainian soil. Russian officials have pushed for written promises from Western capitals to halt NATO’s eastward expansion, a demand that reverberates beyond Kiev’s borders to Georgia, Moldova, and other former Soviet republics.

For many analysts, those positions are not merely about borders or alliances. “This is a contest over spheres of influence and the very rules of the post-Cold War order,” said Dr. Mariam Aliev, a senior analyst at the European Security Institute. “One party is asking to revert to a world where great powers draw lines and lesser ones live by them. The other is trying to maintain the principle that sovereign nations choose their alliances.”

What Was at the Table

Details of the Berlin talks were sparse. Officials described a 20-point plan as a framework for negotiation, with a potential ceasefire along existing front lines one of the options being considered.

Legally binding bilateral security guarantees to be signed by the United States and other states
Article-5-style commitments, short of NATO membership
Possible neutral status and restrictions on foreign bases—negotiable items that echo Russian demands
A staged ceasefire and mechanisms for verification and withdrawal of heavy weaponry

“What we need is not promises made in press rooms but enforceable, clear mechanisms,” said a retired NATO officer now working as an independent consultant. “Verification, rapid response, and political will—these are the things that determine whether a guarantee is a line on paper or a shield in reality.”

Voices from Kyiv and Beyond

Back in Kyiv, people reacted with a mixture of cautious relief and skepticism. “We will endure whatever compromises are necessary,” said Olena, a nurse whose clinic treated civilians wounded in shelling. “But I don’t want guarantees that vanish when a politician changes his mind.”

A member of Zelensky’s inner circle framed the choice starkly: “We face a war of attrition. If NATO membership is a road that leads to a dead end, perhaps a bridge of guarantees is worth building. But any bridge must be supported by concrete pillars.”

Questions That Won’t Fit Neatly into a Treaty

As the negotiations proceed, questions proliferate. How enforceable are guarantees from plural democracies, some of which face their own political turbulence? What happens if a guarantor delays or withdraws support? How will such an agreement affect the geopolitics of Europe—and the precedent it sets for other aspirant nations?

“If Ukraine trades NATO aspirations for security pacts,” asked Dr. Aliev, “does that harden Russia’s gains and incentivize aggression elsewhere? Or does it pragmatically prevent more bloodshed? Those are the moral and strategic calculations leaders must make.”

What You Should Watch For

Whether the draft 20-point plan includes robust verification mechanisms (third-party observers, real-time monitoring, sanctions for breach).
Which countries formally sign guarantees and the legal architecture underpinning them.
How Moscow responds—will it demand more, or will it accept a framework that falls short of full Ukrainian capitulation?

Negotiations that touch the bones of a nation cannot be sterile. They are messy, human affairs: lit by grief, anger, fatigue, and stubborn hope. As the talks in Berlin resumed, you had to wonder—what do we owe countries that face annihilation by land? What do we risk when we restructure guarantees so that they are immediate and tangible but perhaps less absolute?

In the chill of Berlin, with the city’s history of walls and bridges humming beneath the surface, that question felt personal. For Ukrainians, it is the question of whether to cling to a promise of future membership or to buy a present peace that may yet be fragile. For Europe and the wider world, it is about the architecture of security in an age when borders are again being contested by force.

So look closely as this week’s talks unfold. Not just at the headlines, but at the small print that will determine whether the next lull is a lasting ceasefire or the calm before another storm. What would you choose—membership that may be someday, or a guarantee that is here now? The answer will shape more than maps; it will shape lives.

U.S., Ukraine negotiators reconvene in Berlin for renewed peace talks

hanad

December 15, 2025

US, Ukrainian negotiators resume peace talks in Berlin — The talks began in Berlin yesterday

At the table in Berlin: a fragile conversation about frozen cash, warm bodies, and the future of a nation

There is a distinct hush in the high-ceilinged room where diplomats and leaders are gathering — not the brittle silence of too many prepared statements, but the kind of low, expectant quiet that arrives before a crucial decision. Outside, traffic threads through Berlin like veins. Inside, chairs were pulled close together; maps and dossiers lay open. Tonight, the talks will swell when EU heads and the NATO secretary general join the already ongoing discussions between U.S. envoys and Ukrainian representatives. The aim is not small: to find a path toward ending a war that has reshaped Europe’s security architecture and tested the international order.

Frozen money, hot politics

At the heart of the debate is a stark arithmetic problem dressed in legal and moral garb: Europe holds hundreds of billions of euros in immobilised Russian assets. Some proposals would convert a portion of that pile — figures as high as €210 billion have been floated — into a long-term loan program to keep Ukraine afloat through its winter and beyond. For many in capitals from Dublin to Vilnius, turning dormant foreign reserves into a lifeline for Kyiv is both symbol and substance: a way to punish an aggressor and rebuild the victim.

“It feels like a justice issue,” a Brussels-based diplomat confided, sitting with a coffee that had gone cold. “These assets were never meant to be used to finance aggression. If we can lawfully redirect them to help rebuild a democracy, why wouldn’t we?”

But the path is thorned with legal, political, and ethical questions. Belgium is cautious. Italy, Malta and Bulgaria have suggested alternatives such as joint EU borrowing. Hungary and Slovakia oppose the idea outright. Ireland — echoing voices across northern and western Europe — argues that using frozen assets is the clearest, most direct option.

Options on the table

Convert frozen Russian assets into a long-term loan for Ukraine (majority favoured by many EU states).
Issue joint European debt to fund Ukraine, avoiding direct use of the immobilised funds.
Explore bespoke bilateral arrangements with the U.S. and other allies to share costs and risks.

Each has pros and cons. Turning assets into a loan is politically satisfying and administratively efficient — but it requires legal groundwork and a united front. Joint borrowing dilutes the moral clarity of the action and may take longer. Small states worry about precedent: what message does it send if frozen foreign assets can be turned into a wartime credit line?

Leaders gather; the clock ticks

EU foreign ministers are meeting in Brussels while Berlin hosts the first, face-to-face phase of Ukrainian-U.S. talks since a controversial 28-point paper was tabled last month. That paper, quietly circulated and widely discussed, included a proposal — one that startled many in Kyiv — to deploy some frozen assets in joint US-Russian investment projects. Moscow’s unexpected reference in the document has hardened some European instincts against any compromise that might reward the aggressor.

A senior EU official, speaking on condition of anonymity, offered a blunt summation: “We are under time pressure. Ukraine’s treasury files show a narrowing window. If we do nothing, the consequences will be immediate and painful for civilians and soldiers alike.” Published estimates in recent briefings suggest Kyiv could face a severe financing gap by April of next year, a date that has become a sobering line on many calendars.

On the ground in Ukraine: cold, hope, and skepticism

In Kyiv, the mood is a mixture of weary resolve and anxious pragmatism. Winter is more than a season here — it is a test of infrastructure, a threat to heating systems, to hospitals keeping lights on in the regions where the lines of front have already shifted. “We will fight with what we have,” said a volunteer coordinator at a community centre that doubles as a shelter. “But we also need to know that someone is holding the other end of the rope.”

Another resident — a teacher who had been collecting donations for displaced families — put it this way: “Words are important. Money is even more so. When the classroom heater goes out, you can’t send a letter to the Kremlin and ask them to be kinder.” These small, direct images bring the abstract debate about frozen assets down to stoves, hospital generators, and schoolrooms.

The strategic red lines

Equally thorny is the question of territory. Ukraine’s leadership has signalled a willingness to discuss security guarantees — even floating the possibility of setting aside its long-cherished bid for NATO membership if rock-solid protections from Western partners can be guaranteed. For many in the EU, however, any deal that requires Kyiv to cede parts of the Donbas or other regions is a non-starter. “If you give up Donbas, you give up the wall that keeps the rest from falling,” warned an EU security analyst in Brussels.

This is not simply a regional quarrel; it is a debate over deterrence, sovereignty, and the rules that have bound post-World War II Europe together. Allowing territorial grabs to stand in order to secure a temporary ceasefire would set a precedent with global ripples.

Drones, airports, and the wider theatre of conflict

Even as talks proceed, the battlefield is not idle. On the other side of the conflict, Russia reported that its air-defence units intercepted dozens of Ukrainian drones overnight — a figure running into triple digits in some official statements — and said many were aimed at Moscow. Airline disruptions followed: Moscow’s Domodedovo and Zhukovsky airports, among others in Russia’s south, temporarily suspended operations. The contest over the skies — and the economic disruptions that ripple from every closure and interception — reminds negotiators of a basic truth: ceasefires seldom stay quiet for long without clear, enforceable mechanisms.

Why this matters to you

You might live continents away from Kyiv or Berlin, but these negotiations matter because they ask a question central to modern international life: how do we marry law and force, finance and principle? If frozen assets can be retooled to underwrite recovery and defend a country against aggression, what does that do for the future of sanctions? If they cannot, what tools remain to deter revisionist powers?

Consider these points: Europe’s unity on sanctions and funding sets precedents for how states respond to aggression worldwide; the economics of war — freezing assets, rerouting funds, underwriting reconstruction — will shape global finance in the decades to come; and, perhaps most importantly, the human costs remain immediate and brutal.

Closing the room, opening a path

Tonight’s session will broaden into a summit in Brussels where leaders will attempt to firm consensus. The air will be thick with competing urgencies — humanitarian, strategic, legal, domestic political pressures. For negotiators, there will be technical conversations about bonds, legal mechanisms, and conditionality. For citizens, there will be the simpler, sharper question: who will keep the lights on?

And for each of us reading from afar, there is another question: what sort of international order do we want to live in? One where sovereignty can be traded away at the negotiating table? Or one where frozen assets can be mobilised to protect people and punish unlawful aggression? The choices being shaped in Berlin and Brussels this week will ripple far beyond their conference rooms. The task for leaders is to blend courage with caution, law with compassion — and to remember the faces behind the dossiers.

“We need decisive action, not just statements,” an aid worker said as she packed thermal blankets bound for the east. “If the world hesitates now, the people who suffer are the ones who can’t wait.” What will you, as a global citizen, ask of your leaders?

Chile elects Kast as president, signaling a conservative shift

hanad

December 15, 2025

Chile elects Kast as president in rightward shift — Jose Antonio Kast secured some 58% of the vote

At the crossroads: Chile wakes to a new, hard-right chapter

In the early hours after the count closed, Santiago felt like a city pulled taut between relief and dread. Car horns bounced off glass towers in the financial district, while in quieter neighborhoods the flags of a man who has stirred both fervent devotion and sharp fear hung from balconies like thunderheads.

Jose Antonio Kast, a 59-year-old father of nine and a three-time presidential candidate, won roughly 58% of the vote, according to official tallies — a margin that leaves little doubt about the mandate he claims. His opponent, Jeannette Jara, a labor minister who led a broad left coalition, conceded the race and told her supporters that “voters have spoken loud and clear.”

The result marks the clearest swing to the right in Chilean presidential politics since the return to democracy 35 years ago. For many, it’s the end of one political cycle and the beginning of another whose contours few can fully predict.

Scenes from the street: jubilation and unease

At Plaza Italia, the traditional pulse point of public life and protest, jubilation and anxiety had their own separate languages. Supporters beamed beneath plastic Chilean flags, cheering as Kast took the stage and promised to “restore respect for the law.” Someone nearby beat a drum; someone else unfurled a portrait of Augusto Pinochet. Moments later, a small group of counterprotesters — mostly students and a few older faces — chanted back, and police kept a wary watch.

“Finally, someone who will act,” said Gina Mello, a retiree whose voice wavered between relief and impatience. “We want order. If he brings the military to protect our streets for a time, I won’t oppose it.”

Not everyone felt so reassured. “I’m fearful,” admitted Cecilia Mora, 71. “I saw what Pinochet did. This man admires him. That scares me — I don’t want repression.” Her hands wrung the strap of her bag, and behind her, a mural remembering the disappeared from the dictatorship era was splashed with fresh paint like a silent rebuttal.

Kast’s promises — and the numbers behind the rhetoric

Kast’s campaign leaned on a handful of visceral issues that had climbed to the top of the national agenda. Polling in the run-up to the vote showed more than 60% of Chileans cited public security as their primary concern — a statistic politicians could neither ignore nor easily fix.

Key campaign pledges included:

Expulsion of some 300,000 migrants he said were in the country illegally
Sealing the northern border and bolstering deportation machinery modeled after U.S. immigration enforcement
A hard line on crime, promising to strengthen police powers and deploy security forces to troubled neighborhoods
A pro-market economic reset meant to kick-start growth after what he and his allies describe as four years of floundering policy

Chile remains the world’s top copper producer and a major supplier of lithium — commodities at the heart of global decarbonization efforts. Markets responded to Kast’s victory with cautious optimism: the peso strengthened and local equities rose as traders bet on deregulatory, business-friendly policies. But those market ripples don’t erase the human questions on the street about who benefits from growth and at what social cost.

Migration, security, and a region in motion

Organized crime groups have exploited Chile’s long northern deserts and bustling ports, and migration from countries in crisis — notably Venezuela, but also Peru, Colombia and Ecuador — has added complexity to an already fraught public conversation about security. Crime statistics show a notable increase in violent incidents over the past decade, though Chile still ranks relatively safe by regional comparisons. Fear, however, has outpaced statistical change.

“Security is both a reality and a perception,” said Richard Kouyoumdjian, a former naval officer and security consultant. “Any government that doesn’t address both risks losing credibility fast. The challenge is complex: borders, policing, social programs and intelligence all need coordination — not slogans.”

History’s long shadow: authoritarian nostalgia and painful reminders

Kast’s public defense of elements of Chile’s military past — and the applause some of his supporters offered for General Augusto Pinochet — have provoked a visceral reaction in a country still healing from human rights abuses of the 1973–1990 dictatorship. Chanting “Pinochet! Pinochet!” in the streets, some of his backers embraced a nostalgia for order over the memory of repression.

Questions about Kast’s own family history have only deepened the unease. Investigations have reported that his father served in the German army and was a member of the Nazi party; Kast maintains his father was conscripted and not a supporter of Nazism. Such revelations add layers of moral and historical complication to an already polarized debate.

“This election forced us to choose what kind of memory we carry forward,” said Ana Fuentes, a human rights lawyer in Valparaíso. “Democracy isn’t just about elections — it’s about protecting the dignity that was attacked for decades. That work continues, regardless of who sits in the Palacio de La Moneda.”

Constraints and the road ahead

Despite a strong presidential result, Kast will not have a blank check. The Senate remains evenly balanced between left and right, and the lower house has become a shifting battleground where a populist swing vote can dictate major legislative outcomes. His more radical proposals will face scrutiny, negotiation and likely legal challenge.

“A president is powerful in symbolism; legislation is where real change happens,” said political scientist María Soler of the University of Chile. “Kast’s administration will need to form coalitions. Otherwise, bold promises will hit the hard wall of institutional checks.”

He is set to take office in March, inheriting a nation that has woven protest and reform through its recent history: mass demonstrations in 2019 over inequality, a bruising constitutional rewrite process that faltered, and the long tail of a pandemic that strained public services and social trust.

What should the rest of the world watch for?

Chile’s trajectory matters beyond its borders. As a leading supplier of minerals crucial to the green transition and as a bellwether for regional politics in Latin America, the country’s choices will reverberate. Will a tougher approach to migration and security inspire similar policies elsewhere? Will business-friendly reforms attract investment without exacerbating inequality?

And here is the core question for all of us who watch democracies in motion: how does a country reconcile the craving for order with the imperative of rights? How do you keep your streets safe without sacrificing the liberties that define a free society?

In the days to come, Chileans will test those answers on the ground: in border towns where new enforcement may be felt first, in courtrooms where legal battles over policy will be fought, and in neighborhoods where families decide whether their future remains within Chile’s borders or beyond them.

For now, the city breathes, waits and debates. The flags will stay up for a while — fluttering, for some, with hope, for others, with apprehension. Which way Chile leans next will be a story not only of votes, but of voices: those who cheered at Plaza Italia, those who painted murals for the disappeared, and the many quieter voices in between. Will they be heard? That is the narrative yet to be written.

Australian PM calls for tougher gun laws in wake of shooting

hanad

December 15, 2025

Australian PM proposes tougher gun laws after shooting — Mourners gather by tributes at the Bondi Pavillion

Bondi Beach, a Light Doused: How One Night of Celebration Became a Reckoning

Bondi Beach is a place of ritual — dawn swims, fishermen with their lines like punctuation against the horizon, teenagers with chipped Vans and sun-bleached hair. On a Sunday evening in early December, that familiar rhythm was broken. A Hanukkah festival meant to mark light in the darkest days of winter turned into chaos when gunfire ripped across Archer Park and into the sand where more than a thousand people had gathered.

By morning the numbers were grim and specific: 16 people dead, dozens wounded, and a community reeling. Officials said the attack appeared targeted at the Jewish event. Two men — a father and son — opened fire with long guns, witnesses recalled. The father, a 50-year-old man who had held firearms licences since 2015, was later found dead at the scene. His 24‑year‑old son was critically injured and remains in hospital. Police confirmed about 40 people were treated in hospital; among them were two officers in serious but stable condition. The victims’ ages spanned generations, from a child of ten to an elder of 87.

The Ten Minutes That Changed a Beach

“I thought they were fireworks at first,” said Morgan Gabriel, a 27‑year‑old Bondi local who had been on her way to the cinema. “Then people started running up the street — screaming, phones ringing, shoes and blankets left on the sand. Ten minutes felt like forever.”

Those ten minutes, witnesses said, were both horrifying and oddly cinematic: people diving for cover behind palm trees, families sprinting toward side streets, and, amid it all, strangers pulling others to safety. One video went viral — a bystander wrestling a gun away from one of the shooters. That man, later identified as Ahmed al Ahmed, a 43‑year‑old fruit shop owner who served previously with police, was shot twice as he intervened. He survived after surgery; an online fundraiser for him has now topped A$350,000 (€198,539).

“He didn’t hesitate,” said Mohamed Fateh al Ahmed, speaking through a translator. “He saw people lying on the ground and he had to act. He has always felt he must protect others. Today we are proud — he is a hero of Australia.”

A Nation’s Conversation Reignited

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese visited Bondi Beach the next day and planted flowers on the sand. His voice carried the weight of national mourning and a challenge: tougher gun laws. “Licences should not be in perpetuity,” he said, bluntly stating what many were already whispering in op-eds and living rooms — that existing rules had gaps. He announced he would take reforms to National Cabinet, urging state premiers to act.

“What we saw yesterday was an act of pure evil, an act of anti‑Semitism,” the prime minister told reporters. “The Jewish community are hurting today. All Australians wrap our arms around them.”

Officials said the father held licences for six firearms, which police believe were used in the attack. Surveillance footage and cellphone clips showed what appeared to be a bolt‑action rifle and a shotgun. Police Commissioner Mal Lanyon said investigators were still building a picture of motive and background: “We are very much working through the background of both persons. At this stage we know very little.”

Faces, Flags and a Makeshift Memorial

Within hours, a line of flowers, candles, and Israeli and Australian flags formed a makeshift memorial near the Bondi Pavilion. Mourners left scarves, flip‑flops and thermoses — items abandoned by people fleeing the beach — and lined them up for collection. An online condolence book filled with messages from Australia and abroad: “We are with you,” wrote strangers in different languages.

Private Jewish security volunteers joined police at the site. Elders, children and teens came to lay flowers; for some, the ceremony was also an act of defiance. “Light defeats darkness,” Albanese urged the nation, asking Australians to light candles in solidarity — a line he repeated, invoking Hanukkah’s promise of small, persistent lights against long nights.

Heroes, Questions, and a Community Bruised

There were quiet acts of courage everywhere: fishermen offering their boats to ferries, café owners handing out shirts and towels to those who lost their footwear, and medics working until late into the night. Yet the city also asked tough questions. How had men with licensed weapons been radicalised? How long had they been under observation, if at all? Should firearm licences be renewable rather than indefinite? Could stricter caps on ownership help prevent future attacks?

Home Minister Tony Burke disclosed that the father arrived in Australia in 1998 on a student visa, while his son was Australian‑born. The attack lands amid an uptick in anti‑Semitic incidents across the country since the Israel‑Gaza war reignited last October. In August, Australia expelled Iran’s ambassador, accusing Tehran of directing at least two anti‑Jewish attacks. International leaders also weighed in: messages of condolence arrived from capitals, a reminder that this is not just a local tragedy but part of global currents.

Gun Control in the Shadow of Port Arthur

Australia’s relationship with guns has long been shaped by Port Arthur, the 1996 massacre in Tasmania that killed 35 people and led to sweeping reforms — a national buyback, tighter licensing, and limits on semi‑automatic weapons. Those measures were hailed worldwide and have correlated with a steep drop in mass shootings.

Still, Port Arthur is decades ago. Societies change, radicalisation finds new arteries in social media and fractured communities. “Laws are only as strong as the systems that enforce them,” said Dr. Laila Hassan, a criminologist at the University of Sydney. “We must look beyond possession: risk assessment, mental health, community support, and surveillance of extremist networks matter.”

Australia’s firearm homicide rate has been among the lowest in the OECD for years — estimated at around 0.1 to 0.2 per 100,000 people — but as experts note, a single mass shooting alters a nation’s sense of security. “Rare doesn’t mean impossible,” Dr. Hassan reflected. “And policy must evolve accordingly.”

What Comes Next?

There will be inquiries, policy meetings and political pressure. The prime minister has signalled a limit on how many firearms one person can own and suggested licences should require renewals and reassessments. Opposition and states will debate details, and civil liberty groups will watch closely for proportionality.

But beyond the technical measures is a quieter, harder task: healing a community. How do you comfort a child who hid beneath a towel as shots rang out? How do you honor the dead while ensuring their faces become a lesson for future prevention? These are the questions residents keep asking on Bondi’s hilltops as the tide moves in and out.

“We have to remember the people, not just the politics,” said Rabbi Miriam Stein, who has been counseling families. “Yet we must also be practical. Today we mourn. Tomorrow we rebuild and make sure light truly defeats darkness.”

Invitation to Reflect

How should democracies balance individual freedoms with collective safety? What responsibility do we carry as neighbours, employers, online citizens to identify harm before it manifests? As you read this, consider the rituals you cherish — the festivals, public spaces, the ordinary moments — and imagine them safeguarded by conversations that are both urgent and compassionate.

Bondi’s sand will eventually be washed smooth again by the Pacific. For the families and friends of those lost and injured, some scars will never fade. For the rest of the country, an old lesson must be relearned: the cost of complacency is sometimes measured in lives. The challenge now is to turn grief into policy and memory into prevention, so that the lights we kindle in winter are only ever symbols of hope, never the response to another night of terror.

Footage shows bystander tackling and disarming gunman at Bondi Beach

hanad

December 15, 2025

Watch: 'Hero' tackles and disarms gunman at Bondi Beach

When Ordinary Courage Blooms on Bondi Beach

It was the kind of autumn afternoon that makes Sydney feel like the whole world has gone to the shore: sun low, salt in the air, surf stretching into an indecipherable blue. Families draped in towels, a man with a metal detector scanning the sand, teenagers doing tricks on the promenade rail. Then the sound—impossible at first—of gunfire fracturing the soundtrack of waves and chatter.

In the panic that followed, one figure stands out in smartphone footage that rippled across the globe: a man who sprinted toward a gunman, reached for the weapon, wrestled it away, and turned the tide of a scene that might otherwise have become a massacre. His name, reported by local outlets, is Ahmed al Ahmed. He is 43, a fruit seller who works near the beach, the kind of person whose mornings begin before sunrise sorting crates of oranges and whose face you recognize if you’ve queued for figs from a market stall.

What Happened

Authorities later described the incident as a terrorist attack that targeted members of the Jewish community. Eleven people were killed and many more injured in one of Australia’s deadliest shootings in recent memory.

Footage circulating online shows Ahmed lunging at one of the shooters as gunshots ring out. He manages, amid the chaos, to prise the firearm from its owner. For a moment, the weapon is pointed back at the assailant. The attacker retreats. Witnesses scrambled to help the wounded. Ahmed himself suffered two gunshot wounds and was taken to hospital.

Voices from the Sand

“He ran straight at the shooter without thinking,” said Layla, a local café owner whose outlet overlooks the beach. “I saw him grab the gun like he was grabbing a hot pan. He didn’t calculate, he didn’t panic—he acted.”

Ahmed’s cousin, who gave his name as Mustapha to a local reporter, waited at the hospital and spoke with a trembling mixture of fear and pride. “We don’t fully know what the doctors will say yet,” he told journalists. “But he is my cousin, and he is a hero. He always looked after his family, and now he has looked after strangers.”

A lifeguard who helped ferry people away from the scene described the mood afterwards. “There was this silence—like the sea had swallowed its breath. Then people started helping. Strangers carried others, shopkeepers opened up, someone turned a surfboard into a stretcher.” The local council worker who coordinated volunteers later said those windowless acts of compassion were the most important things in those first hours.

Why This Moment Matters

Australia is, by many measures, not a country accustomed to mass shootings. The nation’s painful pivot after the 1996 Port Arthur massacre brought sweeping gun reforms and a national reset. Since then, large-scale shootings became far rarer here than in many other Western countries. That rarity makes this attack not just a criminal act or a terrible statistic—it is a rupture in a social contract that promised safer public spaces.

And yet, even in the darkest hour, there is a stubborn bloom of bravery. Ahmed’s intervention was not the result of training or nationalist script. It was an act of improvisation: a fruit seller using his hands, his body, his will. He became what neighbors and leaders called, in the immediate aftermath, a symbol that ordinary people can still make extraordinary choices.

First-responders, neighbors, strangers

Paramedics worked alongside volunteers, police secured the precinct, and citizens set up impromptu aid stations. “People brought water, towels, blankets. Old men offered their jumpers. A yoga teacher started giving breathing support to hysterical kids,” said one volunteer on the promenade. “You saw the city’s better instincts awake.”

It’s worth asking: what creates that willingness to help? Neighbors told me it’s the nature of Bondi itself—a kaleidoscope of cultures, a place where a Portuguese fishmonger knows the names of surfers and an Iranian café owner buys bread for a night shift nurse. In times of crisis, those relationships become lifelines.

Public Response and Political Ripples

Across the country, political leaders expressed shock and grief, praising the acts of those who interceded. But the event also reopened old debates about public safety, the proliferation of extremist ideologies, and how a globalized world raises the stakes for how we protect minority communities.

Analysts say that attacks singled out for religious or ethnic reasons have been a growing concern globally. Community organizations here and abroad monitor a rise in anti-Jewish incidents and worry about spillover from conflicts overseas. In Australia, where social cohesion is both celebrated and contested, this attack forces renewed conversations about integration, radicalization, and communal security.

Human Stories, Not Just Headlines

Beyond the figures and the briefings are the people who tide through trauma to tell their stories. A nurse who treated victims told me she keeps replaying one detail: “A little girl kept saying she wanted to go home. It wasn’t about politics; it was a child wanting the banal comfort of bedtime.” A pensioner who helped bandage wounds later said, “I don’t feel brave. I just couldn’t look away.”

Such testimonies matter. They remind us that attack narratives often flatten individuals into data points. The dead and injured were mothers, sons, students, retirees—people whose phone contacts now hold names that will never again ring.

Questions for a Global Audience

When a tranquil beach becomes a crime scene, what do we owe one another? How do urban communities knit safety into everyday life without curbing the openness that makes them vibrant? And how should democracies respond when an attack has clear targeting of a minority group?

These are not questions with easy answers. Policies can change; policing can be re-evaluated. But the first line of any response is something more human: conversation, solidarity, and a commitment to remembering the people behind the headlines.

What Comes Next

Ahmed remains in hospital. The community has rallied—food donations, fundraisers, vigils at the promenade—and yet the sense of shallow grief hums beneath the noise. Investigations continue. Authorities are piecing together motives, affiliations, and the sequence of events.

For now, the immediate lesson is simple and stubborn: in moments of terror, people can reach for one another. They can turn toward danger to pull others back. History may debate the causes and the remedies; in the sand, in the emergency rooms, and around kitchen tables, people are already doing the hard work of care.

Closing Reflection

What would you do if you were there? It’s not a challenge to glorify risk but an invitation to consider the small preparations that make big differences: first aid, awareness, knowing how to check on a neighbor. The violence that punctured Bondi’s calm will be measured in reports and time lines. But its deepest counterweight may be the everyday courage—like Ahmed’s—that refuses to let terror win the final image.

When the tide pulls back, Bondi will keep drawing visitors who come for surf and sun. They will also come to a place changed in ways both visible and invisible—where a stallholder’s quick hands and a community’s open hearts were as decisive as any policy in saving lives. That, perhaps, is the lesson the world needs right now: how ordinary generosity and decisive action can push back against extraordinary harm.

Ukraine war pushes European nations toward revived military conscription

hanad

December 14, 2025

Ukraine war sparks European march towards conscription — Danish conscripts during a training exercise in June 2024

The Return of the Draft: Europe’s Quiet Reboot of Citizen Armies

On a rain‑slick morning in Ahlen, western Germany, a line of young people hunched into their jackets waiting to register. Some chatted about university applications; others clutched CVs and sported the nervous energy of first‑time job seekers. A stern drill sergeant barked orders in the distance, but what you could see, more than the uniform, was a question etched on every face: what does service mean in a Europe that suddenly feels less certain?

Since Russia launched its full‑scale invasion of Ukraine, governments across the continent have quietly but decisively rewritten a chapter many thought closed after the Cold War. Once, the post‑1990s orthodoxy favored lean, professional armies and the idea that national defence could be outsourced to small standing forces and international alliances. Today, the drumbeat is different: call it a return to citizen soldiers, a revival of conscription in new clothes, or simply a pragmatic move to ensure readiness.

From Professional Armies to Mass Reserves

What we’re seeing is less a monolithic return to compulsory national service and more a range of hybrid models. Some countries are reintroducing mandatory drafts. Others are offering attractive short‑term contracts, incentivised voluntary programs, or national training courses designed to build large reserve pools. The logic is straightforward: trained bodies are the backbone of deterrence.

“We no longer live in a security environment where ambition equals complacency,” said Dr. Elena Kovac, a defence analyst in Brussels. “European capitals have recalibrated. It’s not nostalgia for the past; it’s an insurance policy for the future.”

Germany and France: Different Flavors of the Same Idea

Germany’s parliament voted in early December to create what officials call a voluntary conscription system — a phrase that has already been contested on the streets and in cafés. Young men turning 18 will complete a digital questionnaire and a medical review, and those who opt in will serve six to 11 months. Recruits will receive a monthly pay of roughly €2,600 and, after their initial service, will become part of the reserves. The target is striking: the Bundeswehr aims to grow from about 184,000 active personnel and 60,000 reservists today to roughly 260,000 full‑time soldiers and 200,000 reservists by 2035.

But the law also contains a caveat that sits uneasily with many: it permits the activation of a wider draft if security conditions demand it or if enlistment goals fall short. Thousands of students protested across German cities the weekend the bill passed. “We’re not opposed to security; we’re wary of sudden powers,” said Lara Meier, a sociology student in Cologne, holding a handmade placard. “This bill feels like a first step that could turn into something bigger.”

France, too, is reviving a form of national service for 18‑ and 19‑year‑olds after a two‑decade hiatus. President Emmanuel Macron framed the plan as aligning France with its European partners: recruits will spend 10 months in service, earning around €800 a month, as Paris aims to enrol 10,000 volunteers annually by 2030. “We must not stand still,” Macron said when announcing the plan, pointing to a changing security landscape that leaves no room for complacency.

Northern Europe: A Longstanding Sense of Frontier

Closer to the eastern flank, the scars of past geopolitics have kept conscription alive or born it anew. Lithuania reintroduced compulsory service in 2015, and Sweden resurrected a selective conscription system in 2017 for both men and women. The Swedish model is meritocratic and surgical: all 18‑year‑olds answer an online questionnaire, undergo tests and interviews, and the military selects under 10% in a given year — last year that meant about 7,000 recruits serving between nine and 15 months.

Finland never abandoned the draft. Every man is eligible for six to 12 months of service, with conscientious objectors able to opt for civil service, often twice as long. These conscripts become reservists until their 50s: in crisis, Finland can mobilise up to roughly 280,000 trained reservists. “This isn’t about aggression; it’s about readiness,” explained Captain Aino Pietilä at a Finnish training base. “We prepare so that citizens know how to protect what they love.”

Estonia, which has maintained conscription since breaking free from the Soviet Union in 1991, counts about 40,000 reservists and treats military service as a civic rite for many. “I met people who came back from service more confident, more community‑minded,” one young Estonian teacher told me. “It’s woven into a sense of national survival.”

Varied Responses Further West

Not every European government is marching in the same direction. Poland, which ended conscription in 2008, has opted for flexible, modular training: a recent program allows citizens to sign up for between one and 30 days of basic military and survival training, with a target of training 100,000 people by 2027. Political surveys in Poland are mixed — one late‑November poll suggested 59% support for reinstating compulsory service, while other polls paint a less enthusiastic picture.

The United Kingdom, despite being one of Europe’s nuclear powers, has no plans to revive conscription. Ireland and Malta, both neutral, have no history or appetite for a draft. Italy and Spain rely on professional forces, though Italian officials have floated voluntary service models similar to France and Germany. The farther west and south you travel from NATO’s eastern flank, the less appetite there seems to be for mandatory service — a pattern as much cultural as it is strategic.

Quick Overview: Who’s Doing What?

Germany: new voluntary conscription (6–11 months), pay ~€2,600, reserve targets by 2035.
France: 10‑month national service for 18–19 year olds, €800/month, aim 10,000/year by 2030.
Sweden: selective conscription for men and women, <10% conscripted, ~7,000 last year.
Finland: continuous conscription for men, mobilisable reserves up to ~280,000.
Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania: conscription reintroduced or maintained; Baltic states especially focused on reserves.
Poland: modular training for civilians; large reserve and training ambitions.

What This Means for Young People and Societies

At stake is more than manpower. Europe’s revival of conscription-like programs forces a conversation about citizenship, intergenerational obligations, and the militarisation of daily life. For some families, service is a source of pride — a rite that teaches discipline, first aid, camaraderie. For others, especially in large metropolitan areas, it raises questions about civil liberties, the role of the military in society, and unequal burdens across socioeconomic lines.

“We must ask: who bears the cost?” wondered Professor Marta Delgado, a sociologist in Madrid. “If conscription becomes the patch to fix budget shortfalls, it risks becoming coercive. If it’s a well‑resourced civic program, it can knit communities closer together.”

There are practical questions, too. How do countries ensure meaningful employment and retraining pipelines for reservists? How will these programs adapt to new forms of warfare — cyber, drones, information operations? And what will happen if political winds shift and the urgency that drove these reforms cools off?

Conclusion: A Continent Rethinking Its Contract

Walking past the registration tent in Ahlen, a woman in her sixties paused to watch. “When I was young, we marched for hope,” she said, eyes bright with a mixture of worry and resolve. “Now they march for safety. That’s a different kind of hope.”

Whether Europe’s new emphasis on citizen soldiers will prove a prudent hedge or a slippery slope is a question only time can answer. For now, what is clear is that the post‑Cold War era of small professional forces has been reassessed. Governments are betting that a broader base of trained citizens—whether through conscription, voluntary service, or modular training—will strengthen deterrence and deepen civic ties.

So I’ll leave you with this: should defence be a private choice, a public duty, or something in between? The answer may define a generation.

1...515253...230 Page 52 of 230