Sep 08(Jowhar)-Shan qof ayaa lagu dilay toogasho ka dhacday meel baska laga raaco oo ku taalla magaalada Qudus, sida Ay sheegeen waaxda gurmadja deg dega ah ee Israel, iyadoo boolisku sheegeen in raggii falkan ka danbeeyay la dilay. Lama oga cidda fulisay weerarka ama sababta ka dambeysa.
Afghan survivor describes ‘total destruction’ after deadly earthquake
From Roscrea to Noorgal: When an Earthquake Travels by Phone
When the phone lit up late one night in Roscrea, County Tipperary, it carried a different kind of time and place. The messages were short, urgent, and impossible to make sense of at first: a deep rumble, houses crumbling, people running into the dark. For Raoof Safi, 17 years in Ireland could not mute the sound of a homeland being torn apart.
“I felt every message like a small earthquake in my chest,” Raoof told me over a steaming mug of tea in his modest home. “You are 7,000 kilometres away but your ears are glued to every voice on the line. You listen to how someone cries, and you try to count the cost.”
The tremor he was hearing about struck the Noorgal District in Kunar province at roughly 11:45pm on 31 August — a 6.0 magnitude quake, according to local reports. Taliban authorities put the human toll in the thousands, saying thousands had been killed and thousands more injured. For families already battered by poverty, conflict and isolation, the numbers translate into a very simple cruelty: roofs that collapsed on sleeping children, walls that gave way while families lay in bed, and, in many places, entire villages rendered unlivable.
Stories You Can’t Ignore
Raoof’s phone became a conduit for grief. First came the disorienting accounts — a neighbour’s voice, breathless; a cousin sending shaky video from beneath a tarp. Then came the lists of names. In the days after, the hazy tally of loss hardened into reality: members of his extended family among the dead.
“I remember when my uncle called. He kept saying, ‘We have nothing. The house is nothing. The walls, they have fallen,’” Raoof said. “The thing that haunts me is that we had no time. People woke up and the ceilings were on them.”
Not every story carried the same shape of sorrow. Sangar Hashimi, a journalist who has worked for Kabul’s 1TV Media and insists on returning to report from remote valleys, described scenes that read like pages from a cruel, intimate novel.
“I stood in front of a mass grave and counted blankets instead of bodies,” Sangar said. “A man told me he lost 14 members of his family. A little girl I filmed was the only one left in her household. These are not numbers on a map. They are the faces I have known.”
Homes of Mud and Memory
Across Kunar, many dwellings are built of mud-brick and unreinforced stone, materials that are cheap and available but unforgiving under seismic stress. When the ground moves, these homes do not flex — they fall.
“We built our houses like our fathers did, with mud and stone,” said Abdul Hadi Sarwari, who watched his home in Bar Noorgal village tilt and then collapse. “Now we sleep in the open. Twenty-two of us are on my uncle’s farm. We sit under trees at night. If the wind comes, it feels like everything could be taken again.”
There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of similar makeshift encampments across the affected valleys, where families have clumped together on fields and hillsides to escape the shadow of another aftershock. Tents are scarce; many are simply too remote to have received emergency supplies in the first days. Children play amid rubble, their games edged with a new fragility.
Winter Is Coming — and So Is the Hardest Test
The calendar is more than a convenience in Afghanistan’s highlands. Winter can be a matter of survival. Temperatures in these parts routinely fall below freezing; when snow comes, isolated communities can be cut off for weeks. For the displaced, the threat is immediate and sharp.
“When you lose your home before winter,” said Dr. Leila Mahmoud, who has worked with humanitarian agencies in eastern Afghanistan, “you lose your shield against the cold. Blankets and stoves are good, but they are tiny bandages when entire villages have been leveled. Hypothermia, chest infections, diarrhoea—these are the next wave.”
Humanitarian access is a familiar problem here: steep terrain, narrow footpaths, and intermittent communications make relief operations slow and costly. Aid workers who did reach the worst-hit communities had to walk long distances, sometimes for days, carrying food, blankets and medical supplies on their backs.
Voices That Won’t Be Silenced
Closer to home in Ireland, Raoof has become something of an informal coordinator — a son who wants to speak for those whose words cannot cross the mountains. “I feel responsible,” he said. “Not because I am heroic, but because I can call, I can write, and other people can hear.”
Across the world, that voice matters. It pushes a story beyond an item in a newsfeed and into the messy, human work of response: donations, pressure on decision-makers, and the steady churn of journalists and aid workers trying to reach the inaccessible.
“We must not only mourn,” Sangar added quietly. “We must remember that rebuilding is a moral choice. Who will help rebuild those homes when attention moves on?”
Why This Scares Us — and Should Make Us Think
There are broader lessons here. Natural disasters rarely occur in isolation; they intersect with politics, poverty and neglect. In Afghanistan, decades of conflict have left infrastructure weak and social services fragmented. When the earth moves, it finds those fault lines and exploits them.
Ask yourself: how would your community fare if a quake hit tonight? Do you have the social safety nets, the infrastructure, and the will to rebuild equitably? These are uncomfortable questions, but the kind worth asking.
What People Need Now
- Immediate shelter: tents, tarpaulins, warm blankets.
- Food and clean water: to prevent disease and malnutrition.
- Medical care: for the injured and for those at risk from hypothermia and infection.
- Longer-term aid: materials and tools to rebuild safer homes, and psychosocial support for trauma.
Local leaders, relief workers and diaspora communities are trying to respond. But resources are finite. Voices like Raoof’s can help translate grief into action.
Where Do We Go From Here?
If you find yourself moved by these stories, consider supporting well-established humanitarian organizations that operate in Afghanistan and the region. Small gestures—donations, raising awareness, or even urging your local representative to support humanitarian channels—can expand the circle of care.
Raoof himself is carrying a quieter mission. “When I speak about Noorgal,” he told me as dusk pooled in his living room, “I am carrying my childhood with me. I want people to see the fields where we played, not just the collapsed walls. I want them to know that when houses fall, memories fall too.”
Earthquakes rearrange landscapes, but they also reconfigure obligations. They force distant relatives to become advocates, neighbours to share what little they have, and the international community to choose whether it will answer. In the weeks and months ahead, the real measure of this crisis will not be the headline figure on day one, but how many lives are made whole again.
What would you do if a single phone call could mean the difference between being heard and being forgotten?
Madaxweyne Xasan oo ka qeyb galaya furitaanka biya xireenka GERD ee Itoobiya
Sep 08(Jowhar)- Madaxweynaha Soomaaliya Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud ayaa ka qaybgalaya furitaanka Biyo Xireenka GERD ee Itoobiya oo qorshaha yahay inuu beri qabsoomo.
Trump oo digniintii u danbeysay siiyay Xamaas
Sep 08(Jowhar)-Ururka Xamaas ayaa sheegay in ay Maraykanka ka heleen hindisayaal loo soo marsiiyay dhexdhexaadiyayaasha oo ku saabsan sidii xabbad joojin looga gaadhi lahaa Qasa.
European leaders travel to U.S. for talks on Ukraine conflict
On a Knife’s Edge: After the Largest Air Raid, Hope for Talks and the Weight of Uncertainty
When Donald Trump stepped off Air Force One and into the glare of New York’s late-summer sun, photographers still had the echo of tennis crowds in their ears — he had been at the US Open. But the mood shifted immediately from sport to war. “Certain European leaders are coming over to our country on Monday or Tuesday individually,” he told reporters, adding that he would soon speak with Vladimir Putin. “The Russia-Ukraine situation, we’re going to get it done,” he said, a blunt promise that landed like a small, unstable raft in a very rough sea.
Those words were part reassurance, part diplomatic preview. Who, exactly, would travel to Washington and why remained unstated. The White House did not immediately clarify. In a world where every handshake and corridor conversation is scanned for meaning, the vagueness is its own message: diplomacy is sprinting and stumbling at the same time.
A night of sirens and smoke
Across Ukraine, the evening after Mr. Trump’s remarks was quieter only in the literal sense — the constant hum of drones, the whump of interceptors, the distant rumble of ordnance. Ukrainian officials described what they called the largest air assault since the full-scale invasion began: a barrage of missiles and drones that left smashed facades, gutted apartments and, by official tallies that night, four dead.
Cities from Zaporizhzhia to Kryvyi Rih and port-washed Odesa reported damage. In Kyiv, flames licked the government building; rescue workers in helmets and orange vests worked to douse hotspots while residents wrapped in quilts and blankets clustered on sidewalks, like a small, tired flock counting what remained.
“We woke up to a flash, like a firefly that turned malignant,” said Iryna, a teacher who stood on a block strewn with glass. “The kids are asking if the world will end. I tell them no, but I am not sure I believe it.”
President Volodymyr Zelensky, speaking in his evening address, voiced a plea that was both political and primal: “It is important that there is a broad response from partners to this attack,” he said. “We are counting on a strong response from America. That is what is needed.” The request echoed across Kyiv and along the lines where soldiers and volunteers watch for the next shadow in the sky.
The human arithmetic behind the headlines
Four deaths were the immediate, tragic count. The stories that fill the margins are the slow-burn ones: relatives piecing together where a family member slept that night; an elderly man who refuses to leave his block because the bread shop two doors down has his “lucky” patronage; a volunteer driver who has moved more bodies to safety than friends can name.
Since the conflict’s escalation in 2022, the human toll has been staggering: millions displaced, towns hollowed out, and economies bent to war-time shapes. Exact numbers shift with each report, but the unmistakable pattern is one of sustained civilian suffering. Aid convoys—small bridges of relief—try to thread through the ruins. They are an imperfect solution to an immense problem.
- Immediate casualties: Authorities reported four fatalities in the recent barrage.
- Regions impacted: Assaults were reported in Kyiv, Zaporizhzhia, Kryvyi Rih, Odesa, Sumy and Chernihiv regions.
- Humanitarian picture: Millions displaced and sustained civilian infrastructure damage since 2022 have compounded hardship.
Washington’s calculus: sanctions, diplomacy and the heavy leash of geopolitics
Back in Washington, Mr. Trump’s language toggled between frustration and optimism. “I’m not happy” about the state of the war, he admitted. Yet he also said he was prepared to move to a “second phase” of sanctions on Russia — the clearest indication yet that his administration would consider escalating economic pressure.
What a “second phase” looks like was not spelled out. Sanctions can mean a spectrum: targeted freezes of assets, bans on technology exports, or broad restrictions on energy and finance that ripple through global markets. Each choice carries risks: political, economic, and humanitarian. The world remembers previous rounds of sanctions that battered economies but did not always change leaders’ calculations.
“Sanctions are a tool, not a silver bullet,” said an unnamed European diplomat waiting to board a plane. “They must be timed, coordinated, and big enough to bite—but not so broad they close the window for dialogue.”
There is a geopolitical backdrop that complicates the arithmetic. Russia has deepened ties with China, creating new economic and political buffers. For Moscow, that partnership offers alternative markets and diplomatic cover; for Kyiv and its backers, it narrows options. NATO states have reinforced political and material support, and billions in military and humanitarian aid have flowed into Ukraine since early 2022—a fact that both steadies and strains alliances.
Allies’ positions and the thorny subject of boots on the ground
European capitals issued swift condemnations of the latest attack and pledged continued support. But when the conversation turns to troops, the rhetoric grows cautious. The prospect of foreign soldiers operating inside Ukraine remains a red line for many governments wary of a direct military confrontation with Russia.
“We will bolster Ukraine’s ability to defend itself,” one European foreign ministry official said, “but that doesn’t mean we are ready to send a brigade over the border. There are limits to what public opinion will stomach, and limits to the calculus of escalation.”
Every head of state who considers a trip to Washington, every minister who drafts a statement, is wrestling with this same tension: stand firm and risk widening the war, or step back and risk Kyiv losing vital allies at a decisive moment.
What to watch next — choices that matter
In the coming days, there are three things to watch closely:
- Which European leaders meet Washington and what commitments they coordinate.
- Whether the United States follows through with a defined “second phase” of sanctions and what those measures target.
- How Ukraine’s civilian and military resilience evolves in the face of targeted strikes and ongoing supply challenges.
These are not abstract items for policy wonks; they shape the daily life of people in Kyiv, Odesa and countless other places—who wake to sirens, relearn the route to the nearest shelter and measure hope in the arrival of a delivery truck carrying generators or medicine.
Why this matters to you
Beyond the borders of Eastern Europe, this conflict tests the scaffolding of international order: alliances, trade, energy security, and the rules that try to limit war’s reach. It forces nations and citizens to answer uncomfortable questions about intervention, sovereignty and the global appetite for risk.
What do we, as a global community, owe to those living under the shadow of daily bombardment? How do we balance the moral imperative to act with the practical limits of geopolitics? These are questions that echo in the quiet rooms of displaced families and the marbled halls of diplomacy alike.
As you read these words, consider this: decisions being shaped behind closed doors in capitals and airplanes will ripple outward into streets where people wash shards of glass from their doorsteps and try to coax normalcy back into a coffee cup. The path from policy note to human consequence is short—far shorter than many of us imagine. What kind of world are we willing to create, and what are we prepared to do to protect it?
Trump threatens trade probe after calling Google ruling unjust
When Regulators and Presidents Clash: The Google Fine That Echoed From Brussels to Washington
There are moments when a line on a page—an official notice, a terse legal order—becomes a story that ripples through boardrooms, backrooms and breakfast tables across continents. This was one of those moments: Brussels had just told Alphabet’s Google that its ad-technology practices crossed a line, slapped a nearly €3 billion fine on the company and demanded an end to what it called “self-preferencing.” Within hours, the dispute had moved from legal briefs to diplomatic posturing, and from the ears of publishers to the feed of the U.S. president.
The European Commission’s decision to levy a €2.95 billion penalty marked another chapter in a decade-long tug-of-war between the EU and one of Silicon Valley’s largest players. It accused Google of skewing the market in its favour—tilting auctions, advantaging its own tools and crowding out rivals and independent publishers. The Commission gave Google 60 days to outline how it would comply, and left the door open to structural remedies, including possible divestments.
A signal and a warning
“Digital markets exist to serve people,” an EU official told me in Brussels, speaking on condition of anonymity. “When platforms become gatekeepers and games are rigged, public institutions have to act.”
For many in Europe’s publishing sector, the decision came as vindication. In a dimly lit café near the Commission’s roundabout, a small publisher from Lisbon—who asked to be identified only as Ana—told me, “We lost out for years. Our ad revenue is the thin bread on which our newsroom survives. If someone at the top is playing for themselves, that’s not competition. That’s theft.”
She is not alone. The complaint that triggered the investigation came from the European Publishers Council, a group representing newspapers and magazines worried about how programmatic ad markets shifted revenues away from traditional local media. Across the continent, publishers have watched market share of ad tech aggregate into a few hands, and the conversation shifted from irritation to alarm.
Washington reacts
Across the Atlantic, reaction was immediate and pointed. U.S. President Donald Trump took to his Truth Social platform to excoriate the ruling, framing it as an assault on “American ingenuity.” He warned of retaliation, invoking Section 301 of the U.S. Trade Act of 1974—a powerful tool the United States has used in the past to impose tariffs in trade disputes.
“We cannot let this happen to brilliant and unprecedented American ingenuity,” he wrote. “If it does, I will be forced to start a Section 301 proceeding to nullify the unfair penalties being charged to these taxpaying American companies.”
The tweet-readers in Brussels and Washington both understood the subtext: this was not only about ad tech. It was about the geopolitical leverage of tech giants, the instruments of trade policy, and the delicate choreography of U.S.–EU relations.
Google’s stance
Google responded swiftly, vowing to challenge the decision in court. “The European Commission’s decision about our ad tech services is wrong and we will appeal,” a company representative said. “It imposes an unjustified fine and requires changes that will hurt thousands of European businesses by making it harder for them to make money. There’s nothing anticompetitive in offering services for buyers and sellers, and alternatives to our tools are more numerous than ever.”
That defense will land in a courtroom sooner or later. It is a familiar playbook—argue that proprietary integration is efficient and benefits consumers, and that any remedy risks fragmentation of a smoothly functioning digital economy. But regulators counter that what looks like convenience to users can mask systemic barriers for competitors.
Why the fine matters
The financial muscle of the penalty—€2.95 billion—is substantial, but not unprecedented. It joins a string of past EU sanctions against Google: €2.42 billion in 2017, €4.34 billion in 2018, and €1.49 billion in 2019. Those earlier cases touched search shopping, Android, and search advertising respectively. What makes this latest ruling noteworthy is less the size of the fine than the Commission’s demand that Google change the architecture of its business.
- 2017: €2.42 billion (shopping services)
- 2018: €4.34 billion (Android)
- 2019: €1.49 billion (search advertising)
- 2024/25: €2.95 billion (ad tech self-preferencing)
The regulator’s preliminary view that a divestment might be necessary signals a willingness to go beyond mere financial punishment toward structural fixes. It’s a stance that asks a broader question: when tech platforms are both platforms and players in the same marketplace, can markets remain fair?
On the ground: publishers, advertisers and the human cost
Walk into any newsroom in Europe and you will find a mosaic of anxiety, stubborn optimism, and old-fashioned tenacity. “Every ad euro we lose is an hour of investigation we can’t fund,” said Tomas, editor of a regional paper in Poland. “The more power the intermediaries have, the less we can do real journalism.”
For advertisers, the picture is mixed. Some welcome stricter rules as a way to increase transparency and reduce the layers between budget and audience. Others worry that forced unbundling might fragment supply chains, raise costs, and complicate campaign planning.
“We want trust and clarity,” said Petra Müller, head of digital buying at a Berlin agency. “If platforms are making both the rules and the game, transparency becomes impossible. But we’re also worried that sudden changes could disrupt campaigns and metrics we rely on.”
A window onto bigger debates
This dispute is also a prism through which to view larger global trends. Governments are increasingly comfortable challenging big tech power—Europe through regulation and litigation, the U.S. through trade levers and domestic probes. The result is a patchwork of rules and threats that could reshape global markets. Do we want global digital commons governed by rules that protect competition—even if those rules ruffle national champions? Or a laissez-faire digital order where market concentration is “corrected” by winners and losers?
Ask yourself: should a platform be allowed to run the marketplace and be the largest seller within it? And if answers differ between economies, what happens to global digital commerce?
What happens next
Google has 60 days to present a compliance plan. If regulators deem it insufficient, stronger remedies—including divestment—could follow. And if Washington pursues a Section 301 investigation, the matter could escalate into a broader trade spat between allies.
“This is a test of transatlantic trust,” said a trade analyst in London. “If a domestic trade response emerges, it will recalibrate how the EU regulates tech companies headquartered outside its borders—and how the U.S. protects its digital champions.”
Closing thoughts
The headline is about a fine. The deeper story is about power—who holds it, who checks it, and who pays for its consequences. For the small publisher in that Brussels café, for the advertising executive in Berlin, and for the policymaker pacing in Brussels’ corridors, this case is a pivot point.
It asks whether modern democracies can shape the destiny of digital markets before those markets reshape us. It asks whether law and policy can keep pace with technology without turning into protectionist blunt instruments. And it asks us, the readers and consumers, to consider what kind of marketplace—and what kind of public square—we want in the digital age.
China’s military parade: Do goose steps herald a new world order?
When Parades Become Proclamations: Beijing, Bluster and the New Geopolitical Dance
Walk through central Beijing the morning after the spectacle and you will find more than confetti in the gutters. There are conversations—sharp, curious, sometimes frightened—about what the footage meant, and what it will mean for the rest of the world.
At a street stall near Qianmen, an elderly tea vendor named Mrs. Zhang sips a steaming cup and watches a looped clip of the parade on a tiny phone. “They made it look eternal,” she says, fingers stained with tea, eyes on the screen. “But power is like tea—boiling now, cooling later. Nothing stays hot forever.”
That image—the theatrical projection of state power, set against tableaux of intercontinental missiles, synchronized troops, and sleek new weapons—wasn’t just domestic pageantry. It was a diplomatic broadcast, a message to audiences at home and abroad: that the axis of influence in global affairs is shifting, and fast.
Flags, Formations and the New Coalition
In Tianjin, not far from Beijing, leaders and delegations shuffled through the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation summit with a mixture of frank commerce and theatrical solidarity. Once dismissed as a sleepy, regional forum, the SCO now brings together a constellation of states that collectively wield serious economic and demographic weight.
Analysts estimate SCO members are responsible for roughly 30% of global GDP and together account for a sizable share of the world’s population—figures that matter in an era when geopolitical muscle increasingly follows economic heft. That numerical reality is part of why the gathering felt like more than a meet-and-greet: it was an attempt to knit alternative institutions and norms to the fabric of global governance.
“This is the attempt to show that multilateralism need not look a certain way,” says Dr. Amina Rahman, a political economist who has studied rising regional coalitions. “When powers like China and India move in concert—even if imperfectly—the calculus for Washington, Brussels and Tokyo changes.”
Not a Monolith, but Not a Sideshow
Make no mistake: the forces on display are not a lockstep alliance of identical aims. New Delhi’s handshake with Moscow—warm in photographs but transactional under the surface—illustrates that point. India buys Russian oil and refuses to be boxed entirely into any one camp. Pakistan, Central Asian republics and even some African and Middle Eastern partners watch with a mixture of interest and wariness.
“We are trading partners, not foot soldiers of anyone’s court,” says a senior Indian diplomat who asked not to be named. “Countries pursue their national interests—sometimes the map looks like alignment, sometimes like coincidence.”
Rhetoric, Reality and the Rules of the Game
Words weigh heavy in this moment. In speeches and policy papers, the language has shifted away from abstract liberal universalism toward “sovereignty,” “development cooperation,” and “non-interference”—phrases that ring differently depending on whether you sit in a small island state or a capitals’ defensive planning room.
China’s leader framed his vision as a call for a “reformed UN” and a multipolar world where the powerful institutions better represent a world that no longer mirrors the post-1945 architecture. He spoke of “rejuvenation” and warned against the “law of the jungle.”
Behind the rhetoric, Beijing has been busy building alternatives: the Belt and Road Initiative, the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank, and a steady roll of trade deals. The aim is clear—create pathways for influence that don’t run through Washington, London, or Brussels.
But the Old Order Didn’t Retreat Without Leaving Scars
Washington’s recent turn inward—withdrawals from the Human Rights Council, reduced engagement with some multilateral bodies and a rip-and-restore approach to alliances—has left gaps. In practical terms, the U.S. remains an economic titan and security guarantor, but its selective embrace of international rules has created credibility costs in some quarters.
“If you pick and choose the rules, others will too,” notes Marco Bellini, a Brussels-based analyst. “We are already seeing a world where norms are contested and alliances are malleable.”
Between Conspiracy and Convenience: What These Partnerships Mean
It would be tempting—and comforting—to simplify the new arrangement as a neatly defined bloc poised to replace the U.S.-led system. The truth is messier. There are partnerships of convenience, points of friction and divergent long-term visions. Russia, China, North Korea: a tableau of mutual interests but also mutual suspicions.
“There is a lot of theatre,” says Dr. Mei Lin, a historian in Beijing. “But there are also real transfers of technology, trade flows and security cooperation that underpin those scenes. That is what policymakers really look at.”
Consider the case of dual-use technology transfers and energy purchases: these are not romance—they are lifelines. Russian oil sales help keep Moscow’s economy afloat; China’s purchases and shipments feed industries and military modernization. These ties complicate the calculus for European policymakers scrambling to reconcile values with strategic realities.
Local Color, Global Consequences
In Vladivostok, a ferry captain mutters about shipping routes and fuel costs more than ideology. “We sell what they buy,” he says. “Politics changes, but ships still need bunkers. People still need to eat.”
On the other side of the map, a market vendor in Karachi worries about loans and infrastructure projects jammed with strings. “They build roads,” she says. “But who owns the tolls later?”
So What Should Europe—and the Rest of Us—Do?
Europe is at a crossroads. Some leaders call for strategic autonomy: investing in defence, creating resilient supply chains, and speaking with one voice on trade and human rights. Others urge caution, reminding us that raw geopolitical rivalry will reshape economies and livelihoods in ways that hit ordinary people hardest.
“If Europe wants to be a moral and geopolitical actor, it has to be consistent,” says Kaja Müller, a policy adviser in Brussels. “You cannot credibly call for rules-based order while appearing to apply double standards.”
And the wider question hangs in the air: what kind of world do we want? One where might makes rules, or one where multilateral institutions—reformed, inclusive and effective—mediate conflicts and distribute opportunities?
Ask yourself: do you want global governance run like a club with exclusive membership, or like a city square where different voices are heard and negotiated? The answer will shape the next decades of trade, security, technology and human rights.
Closing, for Now
The banners will come down, the missiles will be returned to hangars, and the footage will feed endless commentary. But beneath the visuals, deep and durable shifts are quietly unfolding—trade lines being rerouted, institutions reimagined, and alliances that are sometimes adhesive, sometimes brittle.
History will have the final say about whether this week marked the beginning of a new, stable order or simply a particularly vivid episode in an ongoing struggle for influence. For now, citizens and leaders alike must navigate a world that refuses simple binaries—where theatre and transaction, symbolism and strategy, collide on the same stage.
How are you reading the signals? And more importantly, how will your country answer the questions being asked in capitals from Beijing to Brussels?
Villa Somaliya oo war kasoo saartay safarka madaxweyne Xasan uu ku tahay Addis ababa
Sep 07(Jowhar)-Madaxwaynaha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Mudane Dr. Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud ayaa soo gaaray magaalada Addis Ababa ee caasimadda dalka Itoobiya halkaas oo uu kaga qaybgali doono Meertada Labaad ee Shirka Cimilada Afrika.
Duqa Muqdisho oo furaay Waddada “ VIA MOSCOW”
Sep 07(Jowhar)-Guddoomiyaha Gobolka Banaadir ahna Duqa Magaalada Muqdisho, Dr. Xasan Maxamed Xuseen (Muungaab), ayaa maanta xarigga ka jaray wadada dib loo dhisay ee VIA Moskow, taas oo isku xirta buundooyinka degmooyinka Xamar Jajab iyo Waaberi.
Pope names first millennial saint, hailed as “God’s influencer”
Under the shadow of St. Peter’s dome: a new kind of saint for a wired world
On a clear Roman morning, St. Peter’s Square felt more like a global village than the centre of a city. Flags from distant parishes fluttered beside backpacks, teenagers with earbuds threaded under their scarves stood shoulder to shoulder with nuns in habits older than the century. The Vatican estimated roughly 80,000 people had come to witness what many described as a hinge moment between ancient ritual and contemporary life: the canonisation of Carlo Acutis and Pier Giorgio Frassati.
The scene was all texture—tapestries unfurled across the basilica’s façade, papal banners catching the breeze, the smell of roasting chestnuts from nearby vendors mixing with incense. Smartphones lifted in unison produced a soft constellation of screens. English, Spanish, Tagalog, Italian, Portuguese and Polish stitched the air into a dozen conversations. “It felt like every continent had a seat in that piazza,” said Maria Lopez, a pilgrim from Colombia. “I came for the moment, but I stay for the people.”
“God’s Influencer”: a teenager in jeans and trainers
Carlo Acutis is not the sort of saint most art historians would have painted. Born in London in 1991 to Italian parents and raised in Milan, he died at 15 in 2006 after a brief battle with leukaemia. Yet his preserved body—dressed in jeans and Nike trainers—lies in a glass-walled tomb in Assisi and has become a destination for nearly one million pilgrims in the last year alone, according to the local diocese.
“Carlo was a normal teenager,” said Antonia Salzano, his mother, speaking quietly after the Mass. “He loved football. He loved computer games. But he loved the Eucharist more than anything. He believed that holiness is for everyone.”
Where older models of sainthood were forged in monasteries or on battlefields, Acutis built his devotion at a keyboard. A self-taught coder, he documented Eucharistic miracles online and taught friends how to merge their digital talents with their spiritual lives. That blending earned him the nickname that trailed in news reports and social feeds: “God’s Influencer.” Whether you find that label charming or jarring, it carries a simple truth—the Church is acknowledging that sanctity can be cultivated within the architecture of contemporary culture.
Miracles, the paperwork of heaven
Canonisation is not folkloric adoration: it is a painstaking process of investigation that, in modern practice, typically looks for two verified miracles attributed to the candidate’s intercession. For Acutis, Vatican investigators recorded two recoveries that doctors could not fully explain: firstly, the healing of a young Brazilian child born with a rare pancreatic malformation; secondly, the recovery of a Costa Rican student who survived serious injuries after an accident. In both cases, family members said they prayed to Carlo.
- Miracle 1: Brazilian child with pancreatic malformation (healing attributed to Acutis)
- Miracle 2: Costa Rican student, serious injuries reversed (also attributed)
“Science and faith are not enemies,” said Father Marco Bernini, a Vatican official involved with the cause. “The Church’s tribunals examine medical records, call experts, and weigh testimony. When doctors say there is no medical explanation, the Church acknowledges what the people of faith have experienced.”
Pier Giorgio Frassati: the mountaineer of charity
The other figure today lifted to the altars was Pier Giorgio Frassati, an earlier kind of youthful luminary. Born in 1901 and dying in 1925 of poliomyelitis at age 24, Frassati was an engineering student who spent weekends climbing the Alps and weekdays caring for the poor of Turin. His life—equal parts risk on the rock faces and risk for the destitute—has long been a touchstone for young Catholics drawn to action as prayer.
“Pier Giorgio taught that joy and service are bedfellows,” said Sister Lucia Pellegrino, who runs a shelter in Turin inspired by Frassati’s example. “He was irreverent, and he was real. That is why young people still come to him.”
For Frassati, the second miracle needed for sainthood was recognised in 2024: the unexplained healing of a young American man who had been in a coma. With that recognition, the path was clear for today’s elevation.
What this moment says about youth, faith and the internet
Look closer and you’ll see patterns that explain why two young men—one a mountaineer, one a coder—were chosen now. Nearly 1.3 billion people identify as Catholic worldwide. Yet the Church, like many long-standing institutions, is wrestling with how to retain the attention of a generation whose attention is fragmented across apps, global crises and rising secularism. Carlo’s story answers an anxious question: Can holiness be visible in the lived, messy middle of everyday modern life?
“I told my friends about Carlo on Instagram,” said Eleanor Hauser, a 15-year-old American on a school trip. “They laughed—then they Googled him. That’s how it works now. Faith travels through networks as much as it does through catechism books.”
Experts point out that this is not merely a PR move. “Canonising younger models is a pastoral strategy and a theological statement,” said Dr. Emiliano Rossi, a theologian at the Gregorian University. “It signals to youth that sanctity is not the exclusive domain of elders or monks; it can be lived in school corridors, soccer pitches, and online forums.”
Faces in the crowd: local color and human stories
There were simple, human moments that the cameras missed. A vendor from Trastevere joked about the spike in sales of rosaries and espresso. A retired teacher from Poland sobbed quietly as she displayed a battered photo of Carlo clipped to a rosary she’d carried for years. Young Italians compared pilgrimage routes to hiking maps—Assisi versus Rome—while a Brazilian mother traced the name of the child healed by Carlo’s intercession on her palm.
“He’s not a statue to me,” said Filippo Bellaviti, 17, who came from Milan. “He’s someone who shows faith can fit inside homework and football practice. That’s hopeful.”
Beyond the rituals: questions to take home
Standing beneath tapestries that showed both young saints, one felt the pull of larger questions: What does holiness look like in an age of screens, algorithms, and global churn? How do communities form meaning today, and who gets to be a model? The canonisation of Carlo Acutis and Pier Giorgio Frassati asks us to expand our imagination of virtue—toward courage, yes, but also toward creativity, compassion, and the courage to be ordinary and extraordinary at once.
Are saints suddenly more relatable because they wore jeans or scaled mountains? Or is this a deeper call—to see divine possibility in skills and passions we might otherwise consign to the mundane? As you read this, somewhere someone is livestreaming a Mass, teaching a prayer on TikTok, or knitting a scarf for a stranger. Small acts. Big faith.
Whether you stand within Rome’s cobblestoned squares or watch the ceremony from a living room halfway across the world, the message reverberates: sanctity adapts to culture, but it never loses its essentials. It asks for kindness. It asks for courage. And, increasingly, it asks us to notice where the sacred and the secular quietly intersect.
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