Nigeria’s security forces free abducted students in rescue operation

December 21, 2025

Nigeria secures release of 100 kidnapped children — Empty bunk beds and scattered belongings inside a student dormitory at St Mary's Catholic School in Papiri

They Came Back: A Quiet Night of Long Roads, Loud Hugs and a Country Reckoning

The midnight air outside Papiri tasted of dust and diesel and the thin, metallic tang of relief. Men and women who had not slept for nights clustered under the battered streetlights, faces lit by phones and prayer candles. Children—some small, some hardly taller than the school desks they had fled—arrived in small clusters, limbs trembling, mouths telling stories that started with gunfire and ended with the backseat of a motorbike.

“Another 130 abducted Niger state pupils released, none left in captivity,” President Bola Tinubu’s aide, Sunday Dare, wrote on X, a line that fluttered across screens and into the restless villages and city living rooms of Niger state and beyond. The announcement was at once a balm and a question: were all the nightmares over? Who paid? What will it cost them—emotionally, economically, politically?

What happened — and why counting lives became so complicated

It began with one of those attacks that force a country to look in the mirror. In late November, gunmen swept into St Mary’s co-educational boarding school in the hamlet of Papiri, in north-central Niger state. Initial reports from the Christian Association of Nigeria said the tally was 315 students and staff unaccounted for. Then the numbers buckled under the realities on the ground: roughly 50 escaped immediately; around 100 were released earlier in December; another 130 were announced freed this week.

But numbers are never just numbers when people’s lives hang in balance. A United Nations source cautioned that many of those believed kidnapped had actually fled during the attack and made their way home through night roads, over red earth, sometimes walking or riding three or four hours on motorbikes to remote settlements. “Some children walked for hours, barefoot, guided by the light of the stars,” said one relief worker who asked not to be named. “Families were calling every relative, every neighbor. We had to map people like a human puzzle.”

Daniel Atori, a spokesman for CAN in Niger state, tempered the triumphal tone: “We’ll have to still do final verification,” he said. “Governor Mohammed Umaru Bago has called the bishop to confirm the releases, but the figure was not mentioned.” Sister Mary T Barron, Superior General of the Missionary Sisters of Our Lady of the Apostles, whose order runs St Mary’s, told reporters she had “heard this news this evening” but expected clearer details in the morning.

Scenes from a reunion

At the makeshift reception center in Minna, the capital of Niger state, the scene was equal parts joyful and bewildering. Mothers brushed hair from the foreheads of teenagers whose eyes had grown older in a matter of weeks. Fathers cried openly for the children they thought they had lost forever. “I didn’t sleep. I climbed onto the roof every night to listen for motors,” said Aisha Ibrahim, a mother whose son arrived limp in her arms. “When they came back I felt the floor leave me. It is like being born again.”

Teachers hugged students and then themselves, shaking, laughed through tears, and promised to turn the school yard into a place where children could feel safe again. “They were taken where we could not follow them,” said one teacher, her voice low. “Now they are home. That is what matters, but how do we teach them without the shadow?”

Kidnap-for-ransom: a business built on fear

To understand why this episode took hold of a nation, look at the contours of modern Nigeria’s insecurity. From jihadists carving out territory in the northeast to heavily armed “bandit” gangs in the northwest, violence has metastasized into a kind of shadow economy. Analysts who track militant finance say Nigeria’s kidnappings-for-profit have become organized and professional. A recent report by SBM Intelligence, a Lagos-based consultancy, estimated that between July 2024 and June 2025 these activities netted roughly $1.66 million.

“This is no longer random criminality,” said a security analyst who monitors ransom payments. “It is an industry. They have logistics, negotiators, handlers. They know where to strike for maximum effect—schools, churches, wedding parties. It is both a business model and psychological warfare.”

November itself was a brutal month: two dozen Muslim schoolgirls, 38 church worshippers, a bride and her bridesmaids—dozens taken in separate attacks across rural areas, each incident the latest in a catalogue of fear that stretches back to Boko Haram’s abduction of nearly 300 girls from Chibok in 2014. That episode became an emblem of global outrage and yet, over a decade later, the structural problems that enabled it remain stubbornly in place.

What the government won’t say out loud

There has been no public explanation of who seized the children from St Mary’s or how the government secured their release. Analysts and journalists familiar with past operations suspect that ransom payments were made—payments that, technically, are illegal. “There are back channels, there are intermediaries,” a veteran negotiator said. “We like to imagine that state power alone frees hostages. In many of these cases, it is a messy combination of force, negotiation, and cash.”

That reality creates a difficult moral calculus. Pay the ransom and more children might be taken next time; refuse and lives could be lost. The tension has spillover consequences: schools close, parents withdraw children, and communities—especially in rural, agrarian parts of Niger state—lose both trust and a generation’s education.

Looking past the headlines: the deeper wounds

When the buses and motorbikes finally brought the children back to Minna, the work of repair began. Nurses checked for illness and dehydration. Counselors listened as small voices stitched together fragments of terror. “We trained our team to be patient,” said one psychologist volunteering at the center. “Trauma is not a single event. It unspools slowly.”

There are practical obstacles as well: confirmation of identities; tracing children to villages that require three- or four-hour journeys by motorbike; stigmas in communities that suspect trauma survivors of being “changed.” The UN source said that some of the girls would be taken to Minna for further verification, a necessary step before they can be returned to their families and classrooms.

Beyond logistics, the release raises political questions that ripple to global capitals. The United States has publicly accused parts of Nigeria’s security crisis of having sectarian elements; those claims have inflamed debate at home and abroad. Nigeria’s authorities and many analysts reject labels like “genocide,” arguing instead that the violence is the result of complex local dynamics: resource competition, porous borders, and a failure of governance.

What should we, watching from elsewhere, remember?

It is tempting to reduce this to a stat—130 freed, 100 freed earlier, 315 initially reported. But numbers hide the texture of the lives they represent: the boy who learned to whisper in a tent, the girl who refuses to ride the school bus without her mother, the teacher who now counts heads three times and sleeps with one eye open. What do we owe these children beyond headlines? What responsibility rests on regional neighbors, on donor nations, on the international community to help rebuild not just security but trust?

“We are relieved, yes—but we are also scared,” said Pastor Emmanuel, a local clergyman. “If nothing changes, we will be back here again.”

Small steps, long road

Immediate verification and reunification of the released children with their families.
Trauma-informed care, including counseling and safe schooling mechanisms.
Investment in rural infrastructure so families are not cut off and so verification can be done without days of travel.
Transparent investigation into the abduction and how releases were negotiated to weaken the economics of kidnapping.

As night gave way to a pale dawn over Papiri, the mood was cautious. There were songs—some nervous, some jubilant—and the smell of food being prepared for reunions. Children ran with an energy that belonged to those who had escaped but were still learning how to be safe. In the years since Chibok, Nigeria has learned that rescue is only the start. Rebuilding a sense of normalcy, of security, of future, takes time, resources, and above all, a collective will.

So ask yourself: when the cameras leave and the hashtags drift into the history of our feeds, who will stay to teach, to nurse, to listen? The children have come home for now. The real work—of healing a community and of cutting the profitable roots of violence—has only just begun.

Newly released Jeffrey Epstein files: top takeaways and revelations

hanad

December 21, 2025

Takeaways from latest release of Jeffrey Epstein files — The Deputy Attorney General said more than 1,200 victims of Jeffrey Epstein and their relatives have been identified during an 'exhaustive review' of the documents

A file cabinet opened, but the light is still dim

When the Department of Justice slid a fresh tranche of documents about Jeffrey Epstein across the public table, the world leaned in. The papers — part of a court-ordered release that officials say will continue in weeks to come — promised to answer questions that have shadowed elites, victims and politics for more than a decade.

Instead, for many, the sensation was less a revelation than a new kind of frustration: a partial glimpse through heavily blacked-out pages, a handful of photos, and a ledger of names that point toward a much larger, unwritten story.

What was released — and what we already knew

The files are a mosaic: FBI reports from multiple probes, grand-jury material, photographs, and lists assembled by Epstein’s circle. The Justice Department says the documents were culled from investigations spanning 2006, 2018 and the probe into Epstein’s death in 2019. Deputy Attorney General Todd Blanche told Congress the review identified more than 1,200 victims and relatives — a sobering tally that reframes this from scandal to human tragedy.

Among the items were a “masseuse list” containing 254 entries (names redacted in the release), flight manifests and some of the photographs investigators had gathered. But other pages were all but erased — entirely blacked out documents, including a 119‑page file that appears to contain grand-jury testimony, and multiple 100‑page documents that are unreadable to the public.

Quick facts

Epstein: convicted in 2008 on state charges in Florida; died in custody in 2019.
Ghislaine Maxwell: convicted in 2021 of sex‑trafficking-related offenses tied to Epstein.
Justice Department review identified 1,200+ victims or relatives.
254 names appeared on an Epstein “masseuse” list; all names redacted in this release.

Where the headlines went — and where they didn’t

Much of the public attention has been, predictably, political. How prominently do former President Donald Trump and former President Bill Clinton appear in the paper trail? That question drove the first wave of scrutiny.

To the surprise of some observers, this release contains scant references to Mr. Trump. He does appear in materials that circulated earlier — flight manifests and an Epstein contact book made public in other proceedings — but the new cache includes few photographs or substantive mentions. “People were waiting for a smoking gun,” said James Holloway, a former federal prosecutor. “What they received was a camera with the lens cap still on.”

By contrast, references to Bill Clinton and images connected to him are more visible in this batch: photos of Clinton at gatherings with associates of Epstein, some candid, some cropped and redacted. Those images have already animated both partisan narratives and the quieter question of what pictures of power mean when divorced from the context of criminality.

“Photographs can be misleading; so can silence,” said Professor Samir Patel, a criminal law scholar. “A photo in a hot tub or a painted portrait in someone’s home does not itself show criminal conduct. But for the public, images become shorthand — evidence of a social ecosystem in which terrible things happened.”

The human heat behind the pages

Beyond the famous names, the documents underscore the scale of the harm. The Justice Department’s count of more than 1,200 victims and relatives is not an abstraction; it’s a network of people who, advocates say, have been seeking acknowledgment for years.

“We have survivors who called us from parking lots, afraid to get out of their cars,” said Marisol Jimenez, director of a nonprofit representing survivors of trafficking. “Seeing that number in black and white is vindication that this was never an isolated case. But justice isn’t served with a number — it’s served when institutions stop protecting predators.”

Local color adds texture to the story: Palm Beach residents still recall the 1990s and early 2000s when Epstein hosted lavish gatherings, yachts dotted off the shore and yacht club gossip threaded through garden parties. In New York, a brownstone near the Upper East Side still sits in the imagination as a hub. On Little St. James — the tiny island in the U.S. Virgin Islands that became synonymous with Epstein’s empire — residents have spoken in past years of strange visitors and air schedules that never matched tourism patterns.

“We’d see men come and go at odd hours. It always felt like there was a rulebook foreigners didn’t know about,” said Ricardo Baptiste, who grew up on a neighboring island. “These documents don’t rebuild that history, but they confirm fingerprint patterns.”

Redactions, secrecy and the law

Perhaps the most contentious aspect of the release is what is missing. Large swaths of text have been redacted for reasons officials cite as grand‑jury secrecy, privacy protections for victims, and ongoing investigative concerns. Critics argue those protections have been overused.

“Blank pages don’t equal transparency,” said Senator Claudia Reeves, a member of the judiciary committee. “Congress passed a statute to pry these files open for a reason: the public deserves to see the evidence, and victims deserve to be heard.”

Legal scholars caution that the law sits at a friction point: transparency versus the inviolable rules surrounding grand juries and witness safety. “There are legitimate reasons for redactions,” said Professor Patel. “But where secrecy is invoked to shield the influential, the public rightly becomes skeptical.”

Politics vultures linger — or is it accountability?

The timing and patchiness of the release have predictably become fodder for political theater. Some lawmakers on both sides accused the department of withholding material or steering attention toward political rivals. Others warn that weaponizing the files will further traumatize survivors and obscure the primary issue: the exploitation itself.

“This has dissolved into a sideshow,” said Holloway. “Whether the focus is on a painting in a living room or which names were flown on a private jet, the crux remains: there was a system that enabled abuse. That system, up and down the ladder, needs scrutiny.”

Many survivors and advocates, however, are less interested in partisan scorekeeping. “It’s not about who’s in which photograph for us,” Marisol Jimenez said. “It’s about why these networks existed and who helped cover them. We want the institutions that allowed this impunity to change.”

What comes next — more pages, more questions

The Justice Department has promised more releases over the next couple of weeks. Whether the next installment will satisfy calls for complete transparency is uncertain. For now, the documents are both a window and a mirror: they let in some light while reflecting back the public’s unease with secrecy, celebrity, and uneven accountability.

So what should we watch for? First, fuller disclosures that clarify the roles of intermediaries and enablers. Second, whether law enforcement follows up on leads in the files. And third, whether the political noise recedes enough to let victims’ voices be heard.

In the end, these pages—black bars and all—ask us to confront a question that is not new but remains urgent: how does power get protected, and what does it take for systems to finally protect those who are vulnerable instead?

What do you think transparency should look like in cases that touch the powerful? How should societies balance victims’ privacy with the public’s right to know? The answers will shape not just how we read these documents, but how we reckon with the structures that produced them.

Community Gathers at Bondi Beach for One-Week Memorial After Attack

hanad

December 21, 2025

Memorial event held at Bondi Beach one week after attack — Mourners attend the memorial held for the victims of a shooting at Bondi Beach

Bondi’s Silence: A Beach Town Remembers After a Hanukkah Night of Violence

On a humid evening a week after a seaside Hanukkah celebration turned catastrophic, Bondi Beach felt like a place suspended between two worlds — the one it has always been and the new, raw version it is learning to carry.

At 6:47pm, the exact moment that gunfire tore through a crowd celebrating the eighth night of lights, a minute of silence fell along the foreshore. Flags on government buildings flew at half-mast. Lifeguard towers that usually squinted into sunset light stood stoic. People who yesterday had argued over café tables about surf conditions now stood shoulder to shoulder with candles in their hands, light mixing with spray and the faint, familiar smell of the ocean.

“We come to Bondi for the tide, for the sunrise, for little things — and suddenly the little things feel fragile,” said Miriam Cohen, 67, a long-standing member of Sydney’s Jewish community, her fingers tightening around a wax taper. “Tonight we lit a candle for each life. My granddaughter wanted to know why we were being quiet. I told her it was so the sea could remember, too.”

The facts people are holding on to

Authorities say 15 people were killed and dozens more wounded when two men opened fire at the beachfront Hanukkah gathering. Police have identified the assault as an act of terrorism directed at Jewish people; investigators believe the shooters were inspired by the militant group Islamic State. One alleged gunman, identified as a 50-year-old father, was killed at the scene by police. His 24-year-old son survived, has been charged with 59 offenses — including murder and terrorism — and remains in custody while recovering in hospital.

The scene was chaotic in every sense: sirens, armored police vehicles, officers carrying long guns, and an outpouring of grief that threaded through synagogues, school halls and small living rooms across the country. In Bondi, the small emergency shrine of flowers and teddy bears that formed beside a surf club felt almost unbearably intimate in the face of national headlines.

Government response and the arguments that follow

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese announced a sweeping review of Australia’s law enforcement and intelligence arrangements, to be led by a former chief of the national spy agency. “The ISIS-inspired atrocity last Sunday reinforces the rapidly changing security environment in our nation,” the prime minister said, adding that the review would look at whether federal police and intelligence services have the “right powers, structures, processes and sharing arrangements in place to keep Australians safe,” with conclusions expected by the end of April.

The federal government has also announced a nationwide gun buyback initiative and pledged to beef up hate crime laws. New South Wales authorities said they would introduce legislation to ban the public display of flags and symbols of groups designated as terrorist organisations — a list officials announced would include Islamic State, Hamas, al-Qaeda, Al Shabaab, Boko Haram and Hezbollah.

“There are gaps that the perpetrators exploited,” said Dr. Samuel Ortega, a security analyst who has advised Australian law enforcement. “It’s not only about guns. It’s how information travels between agencies, how risk is assessed, and how radicalising content proliferates in online spaces. This is a complex ecosystem.”

On the ground: grief, fear and defiance

Bondi’s cafés and kiosks reopened the next morning, but with a different rhythm. A café owner, Jamal Singh, wiped down tables and said, “We’re still selling coffee. People need normal. But normal feels like a brave act. When I saw the minute of silence, I cried. My mate is Jewish; his family were there that night. We are all family here.”

Around the city, a palpable rise in antisemitism has put Australia’s Jewish communities on edge. Since the outbreak of the war in Gaza in October 2023, there have been repeated incidents around the country — vandalism at synagogues, attacks on buildings and cars, and heated confrontations at public rallies. For many, the Bondi attack was not an isolated tragedy but the most devastating peak in a troubling trend.

“We’ve seen threats increase, we’ve seen graffiti and intimidation, but nothing like this,” said Rabbi Leah Mendel, who runs a community centre in eastern Sydney. “Our community is resilient. But resilience wears thin when people you love don’t come home.”

Gun laws, loopholes and a painful history

Australia’s firearm laws have long been cited as among the strictest in the developed world — a legacy of the 1996 Port Arthur massacre that prompted a national ban on certain weapons and a landmark buyback program. Yet the Bondi killing has exposed what many officials now describe as loopholes in licensing, possession and assessment procedures.

“We have a framework that works broadly, but it was designed for a different moment,” said Professor Karen Liu, a criminologist at the University of Sydney. “Policies rarely keep pace with new modes of harm: small-caliber handguns, rapid online radicalisation, and complex family dynamics.”

The decision to introduce a new, nationwide buyback echoes the 1996 program. But buying back weapons, experts say, is only one piece of a much larger puzzle that includes improving mental health services, stiffening penalties for hate crimes and upgrading intelligence sharing between police, community organisations and social services.

A community’s small acts of resistance

As dusk deepened and the last of the candles burned low, there were moments of light that felt more like vows than simple gestures. A group of teenagers placed a paper star on the sand. An older man sang an old Yiddish lullaby, the notes floating out over the breakers. Volunteers distributed hot soup to anyone who needed warmth.

“We’re trying to stitch things back together in little ways,” said Layla Hassan, who helped organise a neighbourhood vigil. “When you live in a community that’s multicultural, you learn to be each other’s watchman. Tonight, that’s more literal than figurative.”

What do we do with this anger?

The questions multiply: How do democracies balance civil liberties and security? Can better policing and intelligence stop someone bent on violence? How do communities address the root causes of hatred and the online platforms that amplify it? And for every policy fix, what work needs to be done at the level of daily human relationships to prevent the drift toward dehumanisation?

“Policies matter, but so do the small, daily acts of seeing one another,” Rabbi Mendel said. “If we only tighten laws without addressing social fractures, we will be back here again.”

As the waves kept their old rhythm and Bondi’s iconic sandstone cliffs held their shape against the wind, the city’s candlelight vigil closed with an old prayer and a new determination. The sea that has carried surfers and dreamers for generations now cradles something else: the memory of those lost, the complex questions left behind, and a community learning, slowly and painfully, how to live with both grief and resolve.

So, what can the rest of us learn from Bondi’s silence? Perhaps it’s this: that democracy is not only defended in courtrooms and in Parliament, but also in the everyday refusal to let fear become the only language we speak. How will you keep the light alive where you are?

Zelensky: Only the United States Can Persuade Russia to End War

hanad

December 21, 2025

Zelensky says only US can persuade Russia to end war — Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky said it will decide on the format once it ‍is clear whether bilateral discussions with US negotiators are positive

When Diplomats Fly Between Palm Trees and Black Sea Storms: Can the U.S. Pull a War to the Table?

There is an odd choreography playing out this week: diplomats, envoys and negotiators flying from the palm-lined runways of Miami to the battered port towns of southern Ukraine, carrying the same urgent message in different accents — can someone, anyone, convince Moscow to stop?

“I believe that such strength exists in the United States and in President Donald Trump,” Ukraine’s Volodymyr Zelensky told reporters in Kyiv, his voice firm against a backdrop of sirens and winter cold. “We should not be looking for alternatives to the United States.”

It is a striking line — not merely a plea for American muscle, but a political wager. In Miami this week, U.S. officials opened a possible new format: a meeting that could include Ukraine, Russia, the United States, and perhaps European envoys. The idea is simple and audacious: reintroduce direct contact into a conflict that has been marked by fights in the sky, strikes on ports, and months of diplomatic deadlock.

Shuttle diplomacy, returned

Shuttle diplomacy has been the quiet engine of recent talks — back-and-forth, corridor conversations, and the occasional face-to-face. Kyiv and Moscow have not sat across a table since July, but U.S.-backed initiatives have been intensifying. Ukrainian negotiators resumed bilateral contact with American counterparts this week, and officials in Kyiv say they will only commit to a format once those initial conversations show promise.

“We want to be sure that any format brings tangible results,” Rustem Umerov, head of Ukraine’s delegation, told reporters after a round of talks. “That means clear mechanisms to stop strikes, to secure civilian infrastructure, and to restore exports.”

A U.S. diplomat, speaking on background ahead of the Florida meetings, framed the approach bluntly: “You don’t get peace with smoke and mirrors. It takes leverage, credibility, and parties who can actually deliver.”

Odesa’s black sea of oil: how the conflict bites into global food and fuel

While envoys swap papers and promises on U.S. soil, the front line is at sea and on the docks. Russia intensified strikes on the Odesa region, once the open face of Ukraine to the world. This week, artillery and missiles struck storage facilities at the Pivdennyi (Yuzhnyi) port — including what the Allseeds Black Sea terminal calls “Ukraine’s largest vegetable oil terminal.”

“Early Saturday, a bombardment hit our terminal,” Cornelis Vrins, director of trade at Allseeds, said. “One employee was killed and two were wounded. Thousands of tonnes of sunflower oil were destroyed. It is the worst damage we have seen since the start of the war.”

Sunflower oil is not just a commodity; for many nations it is a staple. Ukraine is one of the world’s leading producers and exporters of sunflower oil, historically accounting for a very large share of global shipments — estimated in some years at around 40–50% of exports. Attacks on terminals and ports ripple outward, raising prices, disrupting supply chains, and squeezing state revenues that pay for defenses, pensions and heat.

“When a silo burns, it’s not just oil that is lost,” said Olena Kovalenko, a grain trader in Odesa. “It’s livelihoods, it’s the money that feeds municipalities, it’s the fuel for the next planting season. We feel the impact in the fields long after the smoke clears.”

Human evenings, cold and fragile

Residents of coastal towns have been living through a winter of rolling blackouts. Bridges and infrastructure were hit in recent weeks, and thousands of households were left without reliable heating as temperatures slipped. “We had to boil water on the stove to keep the children warm,” said a pensioner in the outskirts of Odesa who asked to be identified only as Halyna. “There is fear, yes, but also a strange stubbornness. You learn to manage. You make soup for neighbors. We survive.”

From shadow fleets to neutral seas: the widening theatre

At the center of recent escalation is a cat-and-mouse game on the high seas. Kyiv has publicly claimed strikes on vessels it labels part of Russia’s “shadow fleet” — tankers and freighters that have been used to evade sanctions and move crude. This week Ukraine said it hit another such tanker in the neutral waters of the Mediterranean — marking a troubling extension of the maritime conflict far from the Black Sea coast.

Moscow has responded in kind with threats to broaden its strikes on Ukrainian ports. “If they continue targeting tankers, we will expand our strikes,” President Vladimir Putin warned this month, according to Kremlin statements. The result is a dangerous spiral: attacks on shipping, which prompt wider retaliation, which in turn threatens global food and fuel markets.

“This isn’t just about two countries,” said Dr. Marco Santini, an analyst of maritime security. “When ports are disrupted, the effects are immediate across supply chains. Refiners, food processors, and consumers in North Africa, South Asia and Europe feel it. Shipping reroutes, insurance premiums spike, and prices climb. We are watching a conflict reach into the everyday shopping basket.”

What’s at stake — and why the U.S. matters

Zelensky’s appeal to the United States is rooted in both power and perception. Washington still holds significant diplomatic and economic leverage with Moscow, and it remains a primary security backstop for Kyiv. But there is also an element of optics: for the Ukrainian president to name a single actor is to put a spotlight on where he believes meaningful pressure — and potential guarantees — might come from.

“The U.S. has unique capacity to convene and to threaten both carrots and sticks,” said Ambassador Maria Thompson, a veteran negotiator who has worked conflicts from the Balkans to the Middle East. “Whether it’s sanctions, access to finance, or naval presence, Washington’s toolkit is deeper than most. But leverage only works if it is wielded carefully and in coordination with other partners.”

And coordination is the friction point. Zelensky suggested Europe could join if U.S.-Russia talks reopen, but Europe’s degrees of distance, historical ties and domestic politics make unanimity rare. Each country reads the costs and benefits of pressuring Moscow differently — and each worries about the consequences if sanctions or concessions fail to change behavior.

Beyond the headlines: questions to sit with

What does peace look like when cities have been bombed and seaborne supply lines severed? Can a meeting around a table — or a set of back-to-back sessions in Miami — halt strikes that are part military tactic, part economic warfare?

Maybe the better question is this: who will be at the table, and who will stand outside wondering whether their voices were counted? The farmers whose oil stores burn, the dockworkers who pick through rubble, the children shivering in dark apartments — their stories demand more than posturing.

“Diplomacy without guarantees is a photograph of peace,” a local teacher in Odesa said quietly, “but people need firewood, money for electricity, and a future for their children. That is real peace.”

Where do we go from here?

The next days in Florida and Kyiv will matter. Negotiators will test whether the United States can be the fulcrum that both sides pivot toward — that seems to be Zelensky’s hope. For the world, the stakes are large: food security, maritime law, and the precedent set when ports and civilian infrastructure are treated as legitimate targets.

So watch closely. Ask questions. Demand clarity about guarantees, humanitarian corridors, and the mechanics of any ceasefire. And remember the people behind the headlines: their oil silos and broken lives are the true cost of what this conflict has become.

“We are not just statistics on a map,” a volunteer in Odesa said. “We are mothers, fathers, cooks, and teachers. If the world wants peace, it must be detailed, practical, and immediate.”

U.S. and Russian delegations meet in Florida for Ukraine negotiations

hanad

December 21, 2025

US, Russian officials meet in Florida for Ukraine talks — Russia's war with Ukraine began in February 2022

In the Heat of Miami, an Attempt at Peace — and the Cold Reality Waiting in Kyiv and Moscow

The lobby of a Miami hotel is not the obvious place to imagine the fate of a nation hangs in the balance.

But on a humid December afternoon, beneath palms that rustled like whispered side conversations, delegations from Washington and Moscow sat across from one another in a room that felt more like a crossroads than a conference hall. Men in dark coats and women in quiet silk spoke in clipped, rehearsed tones. Cameras lingered. Couriers shuffled folders. And outside, Little Havana carried on — dominoes clacking in a park, the scent of cafecito drifting through an open window.

“You kind of felt history was here and also ordinary life refusing to stop,” said Ana, a hotel barista who watched the arrivals disappear into a private elevator. “People still need coffee. People still argue about the weather. That didn’t change.”

Who was at the table — and who wasn’t

The meeting in Miami was part of a flurry of diplomacy centered on an audacious push by the Trump administration to broker some form of settlement to the war that began with Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022.

On the U.S. side, the delegation included special envoy Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner, who has continued to play an informal role in foreign mediations. Representing Moscow was Kirill Dmitriev, President Vladimir Putin’s special envoy. U.S. officials said discussions with Ukrainian and European representatives took place separately earlier in the week, as part of a broader American effort to see whether common ground could be found.

“The discussions are proceeding constructively,” Dmitriev told reporters after a session, adding that the talks would continue. That cautious optimism was echoed in private by U.S. participants — wary, hopeful, and acutely aware that the margin for progress is narrow.

What’s on the table — and what’s not

At the heart of any negotiation is the age-old friction between security guarantees, territorial integrity and political survival. U.S., Ukrainian and European officials have reported progress on proposals for security arrangements for Kyiv — an idea that has drawn guarded interest from Kyiv as a possible alternative to full NATO membership, which Moscow has long treated as a red line.

But major obstacles remain. Moscow’s stated demands — reiterated by President Putin earlier in a national address — have not shifted from the terms laid out in mid-2024: Ukraine must forswear its NATO ambitions and withdraw from four regions that Russia claims. Kyiv has repeatedly and flatly refused to cede land that Russian forces have not captured, and its leaders insist on maintaining sovereignty and self-determination.

“We agreed with our American partners on further steps and on continuing our joint work in the near future,” Ukraine’s top negotiator, Rustem Umerov, wrote on Telegram, underscoring Kyiv’s cautious engagement with the U.S. initiatives.

Sticking points at a glance

Territorial claims: Moscow insists on recognition of territories it annexed or claims; Kyiv refuses to relinquish land.
NATO membership: Russia demands Ukraine abandon prospects of joining the alliance; Ukraine resists foreign dictates about its alliances.
Security guarantees: Western proposals suggest multi-lateral, perhaps U.S.-backed guarantees — but details on enforcement and timelines are unsettled.
Prisoner exchanges and humanitarian moves: Areas of potential agreement, often treated as confidence-building measures.

Between hope and skepticism

“The role we’re trying to play is a role of figuring out whether there’s any overlap here that they can agree to,” Marco Rubio, the U.S. national security advisor, told reporters. “That may not be possible. I hope it is. I hope it can get done this month before the end of the year.”

That line captures the dual impulse of these talks: a push for breakthroughs before calendars turn, and a recognition that durable peace requires far more than a single weekend of diplomacy. Intelligence assessments, cited by U.S. officials, continue to warn that Mr. Putin’s strategic objectives may still include capturing all of Ukraine — a claim that hardens skepticism in Kyiv and among many Western capitals.

“We can’t negotiate away our country,” said Olena, a schoolteacher from Kyiv who held a leaflet for missing persons as she attended a small rally downtown. “Talks are necessary. But what kind of peace asks us to forget our homes?”

Local color: Miami’s odd diplomacy theater

Miami offered a striking backdrop for this drama: a city that lives in the in-between — North American but Caribbean-tinged, a place where languages and loyalties cross borders. The meeting’s choice of venue speaks to more than convenience; it reflects a new era where traditional diplomatic capitals are joined by global cities with the logistical infrastructure and relative calm to host sensitive talks.

“We get all kinds of high-profile guests,” the hotel’s concierge told me. “One day it’s a celebrity, the next it’s an envoy talking about nuclear war. It keeps us busy.”

What people on the ground think

A retired diplomat who has watched decades of negotiations cautioned against headline-driven optimism. “You can have constructive talks and still have a long way to go. Constructive means they didn’t walk out. It doesn’t mean they agreed to the same map,” he said, lighting a cigarette on the sidewalk where tourists queued for trolley rides.

In Kyiv, volunteers patch uniforms and collect winter supplies, thinking in practical terms. “Talks mean less shelling, hopefully, and more leave for our fighters to be with family,” a volunteer medic said. “But until ships of ruin stop crossing the border, people will stay nervous.”

Why this matters far beyond Miami and Kyiv

The war in Ukraine is not a regional quarrel with contained impact. Energy markets, grain prices, and the credibility of international law all move with the fortunes of this conflict. Millions have been uprooted; millions more live in shadow — economies strained, cities scarred. If a compromise were possible, it would redraw lines not just on maps but in global politics.

Ask yourself: what is peace worth if it has to be bought with sacrifice that feels like surrender to one side? And what is war worth if it is fought until there is nothing left to bargain with?

Beyond the headlines

Diplomacy often unfolds in agonizing increments. There are confidence-building measures, back-channel conversations, and technical talks about how to verify what is promised. Small wins — a prisoner swap, an agreed ceasefire window — can build momentum. But so too can deception and bad faith.

“The devil is always in the details,” said the retired diplomat. “Security guarantees sound good on paper. But who patrols the demilitarized zone? Who rebuilds what? Who pays for it? And how do you prevent spoilers?”

What comes next

In the coming days, negotiators said the talks would continue. There are practical reasons to keep trying: humanitarian needs, captive exchanges, and the enormous political costs of continued fighting in Europe’s backyard. But until Moscow and Kyiv find a real convergence of interests, any treaty will strain under the weight of competing narratives and existential fears.

As the delegations pack their briefcases and step back into the Miami sunlight, the palms keep swaying. Tourists photograph them unbothered. For others, the sway is a heartbeat — a reminder that life proceeds even as negotiations try to decide whether it can proceed at all.

Will diplomacy bridge the chasm? Or will the talks simply provide another pause in a longer, cruel rhythm? Keep watching. Ask hard questions. Because in the end, peace will need more than negotiators in a humid hotel room — it will require people ready to accept the messy, imperfect compromises that realpolitik and real people demand.

Russian assets push EU and Belgium to a breaking point

hanad

December 21, 2025

Russian assets: A bridge too far for EU and Belgium — Volodymyr Zelensky said the debt deal 'truly strengthens our resilience'

Brussels at Dawn: When Money Became a Battleground for Europe’s Future

The hallways of the European Council in Brussels felt like the lounge of a warship—tense, dry, full of maps and the sound of many clocks. Outside, winter pressed its face against the windows; inside, leaders were wrestling over a different kind of cold asset: billions of euros frozen in the chaotic aftermath of an invasion.

For weeks, the debate had been framed as a technical fix—how to unlock cash to keep Ukraine alive. At its heart, however, were questions much bigger than finance: who decides the limits of sovereignty in wartime, what risks is a union of 27 willing to shoulder for a neighbour, and when does law bend to necessity?

Three Ways to Keep Ukraine Afloat

By mid-December, EU officials were quietly circulating three options to channel support to Kyiv.

Joint EU debt: Brussels borrows on capital markets, backed by remaining EU budget headroom.
Direct bilateral loans: Member states individually lend to Ukraine.
The “Reparations Loan”: Use immobilised Russian central bank assets as a guarantee to underwrite lending.

Each option carried its own legal tangle and political poison. Each would define Europe’s appetite for collective risk.

Frozen Funds, Fiery Politics

When Russia invaded in February 2022, EU sanctions froze roughly €210 billion in Russian central-bank assets. About €185 billion of that pot sat in Euroclear’s securities depository in Belgium—a symbol now of both leverage and liability.

“This is money that’s not merely numbers on a balance sheet,” said an EU diplomat who asked not to be named. “It has become leverage in negotiations, but it’s also a tinderbox. If you touch it wrong, it explodes in your face.”

Some capitals, notably Dublin and Berlin, saw a moral case for converting these immobilised reserves into a tool for Ukraine’s reconstruction and defense. Others—Belgium above all—warned of legal and political blowback. “You cannot make a rule today that legitimises seizing another state’s central-bank holdings and expect no consequences,” Belgium’s prime minister told colleagues, according to people in the room.

Legal Lines and Courtroom Shadows

Legal advisers were split, but one theme emerged: there is no neat international court that will deliver an unequivocal answer about the legality of turning frozen central-bank reserves into a quasi-reparations fund.

“In theory, Russia could sue, and in practice, enforcing a favourable judgment against a state that refuses to recognise a court is exceedingly difficult,” said an international-law scholar at a major European university. “At the same time, you cannot pretend the risk is zero—companies, banks, and politicians may face pressure points that are hard to quantify.”

That uncertainty was sharpened when Russia’s central bank filed a claim in Moscow seeking roughly €190 billion in damages from Euroclear. The filing was theatrical—and strategically aimed at countries that might be receptive to Russian jurisdiction. The legal paper trail multiplied the anxiety inside capitals that had already lost businesses and investments because of the war.

A Fracture Line Runs Through the Union

What could have been an orderly, technocratic choice morphed into a referendum on solidarity. Hungary and Slovakia—both with leaders who have kept warmer ties to Moscow—were reluctant to endorse anything that might financially bind them for Ukraine’s debt. Ireland and several northern states pushed for bold action. Belgium insisted on ironclad guarantees that any legal-claims fallout would be mutualised across the Union.

“We’re asking our citizens to accept a risk we don’t fully control,” said a Belgian finance official. “If a Belgian company loses property abroad as retaliation, who pays? That’s not a theoretical exercise. That’s a family that loses a pension.”

On the other side of the argument, voices of urgency grew louder. “It is money today, or blood tomorrow,” said an Eastern European leader at the summit, echoing a sentiment that was part moral calculus, part plea. The phrase—brisk, stark—captured how some saw the debt decision as a short-term financial trade for longer-term life-and-death consequences.

A Summit Stretched Into the Small Hours

Negotiations pushed into the night. Technical teams rewrote legal texts, lawyers debated Article 122 of the Lisbon Treaty, and suddenly familiar rules looked optional—if you could find a legal pathway to justify them.

Belgium’s demand for a blanket indemnity—covering corporate losses, legal claims, even retaliation—proved the deal-breaker for the plan that would have leveraged Russian assets directly. Modified draft language that appeared shortly before dinner essentially made Belgium’s indemnity unlimited. It was a non-starter for nations that had asked businesses to exit Russia and had already accepted the pain of lost market share and assets.

“We were asked to guarantee other people’s risks without a clear cap,” said a finance minister from a southern member state. “It subverts the principle of proportionality; it’s not sustainable.”

When the Deadline Is 3 a.m.

At around 3 a.m., exhaustion and pragmatism found common ground. Leaders abandoned the novel reparations construct and instead resurrected a more traditional route: joint EU borrowing. The compromise would raise roughly €90 billion over two years, using an enhanced-cooperation mechanism to sidestep unanimity rules that would have allowed a single member state to veto the initiative.

Under the deal, Russia’s assets remain frozen and could later be used to service the debt if reparations are ever enforced. For Ukraine, the result was a guarantee of funding for the coming years, an insurance policy against immediate economic collapse.

Faces at the Table, Voices on the Street

After the vote, Kyiv’s president posted gratitude on social media; European leaders praised unity. EU officials framed the result as a sober, realistic response—one that preserved legal safeguards and secured short-term financing.

In Brussels cafés the next morning, the conversation felt like a Greek chorus: relief threaded with worry. “It’s a victory, but a cautious one,” said Elena, a Ukrainian café owner who fled Kharkiv and now runs a small bakery near the EU quarter. “We still live day to day. The money helps, but the war continues.”

At a factory in Poland that had begun producing drones for Ukraine’s front lines, an engineer wiped his hands and conceded, “This will buy us time. But time alone won’t win this. We need strategy, not just loans.”

Bigger Questions Remain

What did the summit truly settle? A short-term funding gap, yes. But also a larger question about Europe’s geopolitical maturity: can a union with diverse histories and interests translate moral commitments into collective risk-taking without fraying under pressure?

The episode exposes the growing phenomenon of financial statecraft—where reserves, sanctions, and legal instruments are as much weapons as tanks and missiles. It also underscores how fragile alliances can be when domestic politics and legal realities collide.

So what should you watch next? Look to court dockets, corporate boardrooms, and the unusual legal theories that emerge when politics and money intersect. Watch how enhanced cooperation will be used—or weaponised—going forward. Observe which firms bear losses, and how governments balance the cost of standing with what they say they defend.

In the end, Brussels produced an imperfect solution—messy, human, necessary. It was a reminder that in geopolitics there is rarely a clean answer. There are choices. There are trade-offs. And there are people—bakers, engineers, lawyers, and leaders—who must live with them.

Australian Lifeguards Honour Bondi Beach Victims in Moving Ceremony

hanad

December 20, 2025

Lifeguards in Australia honour Bondi Beach victims

When Bondi Fell Silent: A Shoreline Ritual of Grief and Resolve

There are moments when a place you think you know—its light, its smells, the rhythm of its tides—suddenly shifts and feels unfamiliar. On an early Sydney morning, the iconic stretch of sand at Bondi lost its usual soundtrack: no surf boards clacking, no buskers, no laughter carried on salt-thick wind. Instead, hundreds of red-and-yellow uniforms stood motionless, facing the ocean, and the world felt a fraction quieter for it.

For three minutes, surf lifesavers—men and women who usually patrol the break and joke with swimmers—held a vigil. Some bowed their heads. Some clutched one another. A helicopter hovered low, its rotor wash a distant drum, like breath being held across the city. It was a public act of mourning for the 15 people killed when gunmen opened fire at a seaside celebration of Hanukkah last week—one of the deadliest mass shootings in Australia’s history.

The faces behind the uniforms

“We don’t wear the red and yellow for show,” said Ella, a volunteer who started training in junior surf club at ten. “We wear it because someone might need help at any moment. Today that meant we needed to stand still and remember, even though every instinct is to run back into the water and do something.”

Among them were career lifeguards, teenagers in training, and grandparents who still volunteer patrols. Their silence was not a media moment; it was a heartbeat of collective grief. Across the continent, lifesaving clubs matched the homage—small, somber gestures before their morning patrols began.

What happened at the celebration

On 14 December, a seaside gathering to mark Hanukkah turned to horror when two men opened fire into the crowd. Nationals and visitors alike now know the names associated with the attack: Sajid Akram, 50, who was later killed during a police shootout, and his son Naveed, 24, who survived and has since been charged with terrorism-related offenses and 15 counts of murder. Families are grieving. A community bound by ritual and welcome has been wounded.

“We are heartbroken,” said Rabbi Miriam Katz, standing near a table of flowers and candles set up by local residents. “This was an attack on our celebration, on our sense of safety. The support from strangers—people who came up to us with a sandwich or a blanket—reminds us that love can be louder than fear.”

Everyday heroes at the water’s edge

It’s impossible to tell the story of that night without the lifeguards. They were among the first people on the scene—pulling people out of panic-swollen waves, applying dressings, performing CPR on unfamiliar bodies under the flicker of streetlights. An image that spread around the world captured one of those moments: a young lifeguard, Jackson Doolan, sprinting barefoot down the road from Tamarama to Bondi carrying a defibrillator, intent on saving lives.

“That photo says it all,” Waverley Council Mayor Will Nemesh told reporters. “Our lifeguards show selflessness every day in keeping our world-famous beaches safe for surfers and swimmers, but what we saw on Sunday night should be commended and celebrated.”

Across Australia, volunteer surf lifesaving clubs trace their roots back to the early 20th century—born of local communities coming together to tame a dangerous coastline. Today they are a national institution.

More than 200,000 people are members of surf lifesaving clubs across Australia.
In the past year those volunteers carried out over 8,000 rescues.

Numbers like that are not abstract; they are a ledger of lives watched over. “We train for waves, but we also train for the moment a person needs immediate care,” said Marcus Chen, a senior lifeguard who has patrolled Bondi for 12 summers. “That night tested every part of our training—and our hearts.”

A nation asked to pause

On the week mark of the attack, the country was asked to stop. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese called for a national day of reflection and urged Australians to light candles at 6.47pm on 21 December—exactly one week after the assault began.

“Light a candle, remember those lost, and stand with the Jewish community and with the bravery of those who tried to save others,” a government spokesperson said, echoing the prime minister’s appeal. The precise time—6.47pm—has acquired ritual significance; a small, synchronized act of remembrance in homes, synagogues, town halls, and on balconies.

It is a fragile form of solidarity, but an important one. In a world where grief can be privatized by scrolling feeds and algorithmic news cycles, synchronized gestures invite shared sorrow and say: we are paying attention.

Local color and small kindnesses

Around Bondi, ordinary acts of care cropped up like small beacons: café owners making free coffee for stunned lifeguards, surfers leaving bouquets on the lifeguard tower, a retired nurse setting up a quiet place for people who needed to sit. “We had people come in shaking, asking if they could just sit and be,” said Rosa Martinez, who runs a corner bakery. “We made them a croissant and wrapped their hands around a mug. It’s what you do. You keep each other warm.”

A father who had been at the celebration, his voice still thin with disbelief, told me, “You’re supposed to come here and feel the sea clean your lungs. That night, the water couldn’t wash it away. But when the lifeguards came—when strangers picked up strangers—that gave us something to hold on to.”

Beyond the sand: larger questions

Grief here is local and global at once. Bondi is a postcard for millions, but this incident reverberates beyond Australia’s sandy arc. It raises questions about targeted violence against minorities, the responsibilities of communities to protect public spaces, and the emotional labor volunteers carry during crises.

What happens when the people we trust to keep us safe—volunteer and professional—become the ones who must extract our neighbors from harm? How do communities heal when the site of celebration becomes a crime scene?

We won’t find simple answers in ritual alone. But small rituals—candles, silence, the presence of a volunteer with a defibrillator—are not nothing. They are the halting, human scaffolding we build when we don’t yet know how to stand again.

How to respond

If you live in Australia, consider the practical: show up to vigils, offer blood if there are calls for donation, show support to local Jewish organizations and mental health services. If you’re abroad, light a candle in solidarity, speak out against antisemitism and violence, and remember that the impulse to help is not confined by borders.

As I left Bondi that morning, the tide slowly swallowing footprints, a teenage surf patrol member tucked a single tea light into his pocket. “For tonight,” he said. “We’ll light it at 6.47.”

Will you join him? Will you let a moment of silence and a single flame move you toward renewed care for strangers, toward building communities that can both celebrate and protect? The shore remembers. The sea keeps its own counsel. But it is the people—rescuers, neighbours, strangers—who stitch the coastline back together, one small act at a time.

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