Sep 25(Jowhar)-Guddi Xildhibaano ah oo ka soo jeeda Beesha Hawiye ayaa bilaabay dadaalo lagu qaboojinayo xiisaddii shalay ka dhacday Saldhigga degmada Warta Nabadda, iyagoo xalay la kulmay dhinaca mucaaradka.
Madaxweyne Xasan oo khudbad ka jeediyay shirka Golaha Ammaanka ee Q.Midoobe
Sep 25(Jowhar)-Madaxweynaha Jamhuuriyadda Federaalka Soomaaliya Mudane Xasan Sheekh Maxamuud ayaa khudbad ka jeediyey dood furan oo Golaha Ammaanka ee Qaramada Midoobay ay kaga arrinsanayeen tiknaloojiyadda casriga ah iyo saamaynta ay ku leedahay ammaanka caalamka.
Palestinian leader to address United Nations amid renewed peace efforts
When a leader speaks from afar: Mahmoud Abbas, the UN, and the precarious fate of Palestine
There is an odd intimacy to virtual diplomacy. In a cavernous General Assembly hall where world leaders usually stride the carpet and journalists crowd the aisles, an 89‑year‑old statesman sat in a small room somewhere between Ramallah and the horizon of an uncertain future and spoke to the world through a screen.
Mahmoud Abbas’s address to the United Nations this week was not merely a speech. It was a symbol—of exclusion and endurance, of politics reconfigured by power, and of a people whose claims to statehood have been argued and postponed for three decades.
“I speak on behalf of millions whose rights have been deferred,” a calm, measured Abbas told viewers via the virtual link. “We will not be erased from history by declarations and unilateral acts.”
A summit of recognition and a ban on travel
Three days earlier, Paris had hosted a high‑profile summit that left an indelible mark on the diplomatic calendar: France led a group of Western nations in recognizing, at least politically, a state of Palestine. It was a move designed to prod a stalled peace process back into motion. The gesture also exposed a fault line within the transatlantic community.
For the United States, the response was different. The Trump administration—consistent with its longstanding policy of aligning closely with the Israeli government during his term—explicitly opposed the recognition of Palestinian statehood. In an unusual and striking diplomatic turn, Washington barred Abbas and senior Palestinian aides from traveling to New York for the annual UN meeting, a prohibition that transformed a routine visit into a global story about movement, access, and legitimacy.
The General Assembly, however, stepped in: members voted overwhelmingly to permit Abbas to address the body by video. The decision was a quiet rebuke to the idea that diplomatic access can be rationed according to alliance politics.
Annexation threats and international alarm
In Jerusalem, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu reiterated a line that has rattled Palestinians for years: he refuses to countenance an independent Palestinian state. That stance has emboldened hard‑line ministers in his coalition to threaten annexation of parts—or all—of the West Bank, moves that would reconfigure maps and lives.
“We won’t allow a second state on lands that are integral to our history and security,” one senior Israeli official declared privately; a more strident voice from the far right told reporters that annexation was a “final answer” to independence efforts.
Many in the international community view annexation as a dangerous escalation. French President Emmanuel Macron, despite his own disagreements with Washington over how to handle the situation, said President Trump had told him that Europeans and Americans shared opposition to annexation. “What President Trump told me yesterday was that the Europeans and Americans have the same position,” Macron said in a joint interview with France 24 and Radio France Internationale.
From ceasefire plans to troops on the ground: an uncertain, 21‑point road map
On the sidelines of the UN gathering, U.S. representatives presented a comprehensive plan—reported as a 21‑point framework—aimed at ending the recent and devastating cycle of violence. “I think it addresses Israeli concerns as well as the concerns of all the neighbours in the region,” said the U.S. special envoy, who outlined a vision that mixes security guarantees with political steps.
“We’re hopeful, and I might say even confident, that in the coming days we’ll be able to announce some sort of breakthrough,” he added at a Concordia summit event. The plan reportedly incorporates elements similar to a French proposal: disarmament of extremist groups in Gaza, the creation of an international stabilization force, and the slow handover of security responsibilities—first in Gaza and eventually in parts of the West Bank—to a reformed Palestinian Authority.
The mechanics are thorny. A French position paper seen by diplomats calls for gradual security transfers once a ceasefire is solid. Indonesia—home to the world’s largest Muslim population—took the bold step of offering to contribute troops, with President Prabowo Subianto signaling willingness to commit at least 20,000 personnel for a stabilization mission. Even the suggestion of foreign boots on the ground conjures complex logistical and political puzzles: under what mandate would they operate, and who would pay the bills?
The Palestinian Authority’s frayed legitimacy
The Palestinian Authority, which sprang from the Oslo Accords of 1993 and exercises partial control over pockets of the West Bank, finds itself squeezed between external demands and internal fractures. Fatah, Abbas’s party, remains the primary Palestinian political force in the West Bank; Hamas controls the Gaza Strip and is anathema to many Western governments. Yet Israeli leaders have sometimes blurred the distinction, using security rhetoric to justify political steps.
“People here feel abandoned,” said Rania Khalil, a schoolteacher in Ramallah who spent the morning after the UN vote talking with neighbors over coffee. “We have passports that mean nothing unless someone else decides otherwise. We want institutions that serve citizens, not institutions that serve survival.”
European capitals have been critical but pragmatic: they have refused wholesale delegitimization of the PA while insisting on much‑needed reform. Corruption, lack of transparency, and a political system that has not held competitive presidential elections in years are problems human rights groups and foreign donors frequently flag.
Voices from the streets and the edge of the map
In the West Bank, life continues in its mosaic of ordinary moments and extraordinary constraints. A farmer in the hills outside Bethlehem tends olive trees that have fed his family for generations, the soil stained with memories and politics. In Ramallah’s cafes, people debate international diplomacy between sips of strong coffee and the slap of backgammon stones.
“We feel like chess pieces,” said Omar, a 34‑year‑old IT specialist. “Our lives are measured in checkpoints and permits. A speech at the UN warms the heart, but a permit to visit my sister in Nablus warms the life.”
Across the Green Line, in Israeli towns and settlements, the tone is different: fear and security calculate into everyday routines. Israeli settlers point to the rise of regional instability and say sovereignty claims are not abstract; they are about safety and continuity. “We want to live here without fear,” said Miriam, a resident of a West Bank settlement, “and we believe political reality should reflect that.”
Where do we go from here?
Abbas’s video address was part plea, part diagnosis. He condemned the 7 October attacks by Hamas and called on the group to disarm and defer security responsibilities to the Palestinian Authority, seeking to separate the Palestinian national cause from the tactics of extremist actors. Whether Hamas would acquiesce—and whether Israel would accept an empowered, reformed PA—remains unclear.
Netanyahu is scheduled to speak to the General Assembly tomorrow. His address will likely crystallize the trench lines: security, sovereignty, and the legal status of territory. But beyond speeches and high‑level meetings there is a restless global public watching, judging, and often distrusting the slow churn of diplomacy.
Can an international consensus be built that balances Israel’s security concerns with Palestinian aspirations for dignity and statehood? What would a credible, reformed Palestinian Authority look like—one that can govern Gaza and the West Bank or negotiate for the people it claims to represent? And perhaps most urgently: can the region prevent unilateral steps that harden lines and make a two‑state horizon ever more distant?
These are not just policy questions. They are human questions about movement and belonging, about ancient olive trees and newborn children, about checkpoints and markets, about the ability to imagine a future shared rather than divided.
In diplomacy, as in life, distance is both a problem and an opportunity. When leaders are forced to speak from afar, their words can be amplified into new possibilities—or they can echo as reminders of what remains out of reach. The coming days in New York will tell us a little more about which way this chapter will bend. For the millions living under occupation and the millions more who care, the stakes could not be higher.
Tories demand probe into Labour leader Keir Starmer’s chief of staff
A Storm in Westminster: Why One Chief of Staff’s Past Is Rattling British Politics
There are moments in politics that feel small—an old invoice dug up, a phrase taken out of context—and then there are moments that stretch outward, tugging at the threads that hold public trust together. The latest uproar centers on Morgan McSweeney, the Downing Street chief of staff whose rise from a quiet Irish hometown to the nerve centre of UK power has now become the focus of a cross-party squall about transparency and influence.
McSweeney, who arrived at Number 10 in October last year, is a familiar name to anyone who followed the long campaign that culminated in July 2024. Before entering government, he helped run Labour Together, a policy and campaigning think-tank credited by allies with sharpening Labour’s message and tactics ahead of the election victory. But the organization’s past—specifically a 2021 Electoral Commission fine for failures around donation reporting—has provided the opposition with a toehold.
What’s the Allegation?
At the centre of the row is a question that sounds almost quaint but strikes at a modern nerve: how were donations logged, and were they properly declared? In 2021, Labour Together was fined £14,250 for issues connected with the handling of nearly £740,000 in donations. Conservatives say recently published correspondence shows advice was given to an official to describe the omission as an “admin error,” and they are now asking for an official inquiry into whether McSweeney tried to mislead the Electoral Commission.
“Citizens deserve to know that the people shaping government policy play by the rules,” said a Conservative Party spokesperson. “We’ve simply asked the Parliamentary Standards Commissioner to look into these documents and make a determination.”
Voices from the Heart: Macroom and Westminster
McSweeney’s story is also, in human terms, a story of place. He comes from Macroom in County Cork—a town that, in the imaginations of many, represents a very different life from the marble corridors of Westminster. On the high street there, an elderly shopkeeper shrugged when I asked about McSweeney’s rise.
“Ah, he was always sharp as a tack,” the shopkeeper said, smiling. “We’re proud, but we’re not surprised. Still, none of us like seeing our name in headlines that make things messy.”
Back in Westminster, the mood is raw and combative. Labour ministers have been at pains to close ranks. Deputy Prime Minister David Lammy dismissed the attacks as “muck-racking,” a phrase that landed with thud against the polished furniture of Number 10. Pat McFadden, Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, told BBC Radio that the Conservatives were attempting to “attack somebody who is very effective” and lauded McSweeney as “an integral part of Labour’s general election campaign.”
Labour Together, for its part, insisted the matter was settled long ago. “The Electoral Commission’s investigation, with which Labour Together fully co-operated, was completed in 2021,” the group said in a statement. “The outcome was made public and widely covered by the media at the time.”
The Political Stakes
It’s important to see this as more than a personal scandal. The Conservatives have also suggested Prime Minister Keir Starmer failed to declare the think-tank’s support—alleging “secret polling” and behind-the-scenes help that may have informed speeches and strategy. Downing Street has robustly rejected those claims, insisting all support and interactions were properly declared.
“The really serious question here is about transparency in political campaigning,” said Dr. Helen Archer, a political ethics expert at an unnamed university. “Whether or not these actions rise to the level of unlawful behaviour, they test the frameworks we rely on to keep politics open and accountable.”
Why This Resonates with the Public
People are fatigued by stories of fuzzy money and unseen influence. The narrative taps into larger anxieties: is power being exercised quietly by those we cannot see? Who writes the speech that moves a nation, and who funds the persuasion?
Consider these figures: the fine against Labour Together—£14,250—might sound modest against the near-£740,000 in donations at issue. The discrepancy is a reminder that regulatory penalties often trail behind the sums at stake. It’s a technicality with outsized emotional resonance.
“You don’t have to be a conspiracy theorist to worry,” said Anjali Rao, a community organiser in Leeds. “I want to know the handshake deals, the emails we never see, and the tapes people don’t release. It’s about power, not personality.”
Local Color, Global Questions
Ask a shopkeeper in Macroom or a barrister in London, and you get different accents but similar unease. The Irish landscape that shaped McSweeney—peat-smoke mornings, tightly knitted communities, a sense of pride in where you come from—clashes with the antiseptic logic of political operations. It’s a human juxtaposition that matters. One man’s backyard is now part of a national conversation about how democracies are run.
That conversation isn’t local. Across democracies, think-tanks and political NGOs have become sophisticated engines for policy formation and public persuasion. In the United States, dark money debates dominate; in continental Europe, party funding rules vary wildly. The UK’s crisis here is another iteration of a global trend: the tension between expertise and accountability.
So What Happens Next?
The Conservatives have written to the Parliamentary Standards Commissioner asking for an investigation. The Commissioner must decide whether the evidence warrants a formal probe. If it does, this could drag into months of inquiries, witness statements, and fresh press cycles. If it doesn’t, accusations of a partisan witch-hunt will only grow louder.
There are broader choices here, too. Lawmakers can tighten reporting rules, increase penalties, and demand greater transparency around think-tank cooperation with political parties. Or they can leave the status quo, a tacit acceptance that campaigns will stretch grey areas until clear boundaries are drawn.
Which path will we choose? It’s a question that matters not only for Morgan McSweeney or for Keir Starmer, but for any citizen who hopes that the mechanisms of power remain visible and accountable.
Closing Thoughts
Politics is messy. It always has been. But the mess becomes corrosive when it obscures rather than illuminates. Whatever the final finding about an “admin error,” a fine, or a forgotten form, this episode is a reminder: democracies require sunlight as well as strategy. They demand that the people who plot a nation’s direction are not the only ones who can see the compass.
So I ask you, reader: when a story seems small, do you look the other way—or do you demand to know the whole account? The answer tells us as much about the health of our politics as any report or fine ever could.
Decode Your Clothing Labels: What Care Tags Actually Mean
The tag on your T‑shirt is a half‑truth
That little seam label you glance at while deciding whether to toss a shirt into your cart—“Made in Portugal,” “Made in Bangladesh”—feels decisive. It whispers the garment’s origin like a geographic seal of authenticity. But that tiny rectangle rarely tells the whole tale.
Follow that cotton fiber back a few steps and you’ll find a global odyssey: seed and soil, irrigation canals and spinning mills, middlemen, shipping containers and, sometimes, corners where oversight thins and harm can hide. The garment’s birthplace on the tag often marks only the last stop on a long, complicated journey.
The long, secret journey of a cotton thread
Cotton’s life begins in fields that sprawl across deserts and deltas, in farms large and small. From there the raw boll moves through ginning, spinning, weaving or knitting, dyeing, cutting and sewing—each stage possibly in a different country. A T‑shirt assembled in a Dhaka factory might include cotton grown in Texas, yarn spun in Turkey and dyeing done in a third place. Labels typically document only where the final sewing happened.
“If you ask a factory manager, they’ll tell you their paperwork is in order,” said Maria López, a textile supply‑chain consultant who has worked with brands from Barcelona to Bangalore. “But paperwork follows business logic, not human lives. The person who sewed the seam sees the final stitch; nobody on that label sees the farmer who pruned the plant.”
Who grows the world’s cotton?
Cotton is a global crop. Major producers include India and China, followed by the United States, Pakistan, Brazil and several countries in West and Central Asia. Millions of smallholders and large commercial farms together produce the raw fiber that feeds textile mills worldwide, and production fluctuates with weather, policy and global demand.
Those regional patterns matter. Cotton irrigated from Central Asian rivers helped build great export industries—and also contributed to environmental crises. The shrinking of the Aral Sea, once one of the world’s largest inland seas, is tied in large part to Soviet‑era diversions of water for cotton. The image of a salt‑crusted seabed, dotted with abandoned ships, is a stark example of how fibre choices ripple across ecosystems.
Environmental and chemical costs
Beyond water, cotton’s environmental footprint can be heavy. It is a thirsty crop in many climates, requiring large volumes of irrigation in places where water is scarce. It also draws significant pesticide and fertilizer use in conventional systems, which can affect soil health and local water quality.
“Cotton is a crop of contrasts,” said Dr. Hans Meier, an agronomist working on sustainable fibres. “When grown with ecological care—using rotation, organic practices and water‑efficient methods—it can be part of a resilient rural economy. When grown intensively to feed fast fashion, it becomes a stressor on people and planet.”
The human cost: labour, coercion, and the invisible worker
It’s not only ecology at stake. Human rights investigators and journalists have flagged serious concerns in parts of the cotton supply chain, from forced or coerced labour to exploitative working conditions on plantations and in factories.
Since 2020, governments and civil‑society groups have increasingly focused on allegations of forced labour, especially in China’s Xinjiang region, where authorities have said they are implementing internal programs while critics have documented coercive labour practices targeting Uyghur and other Muslim minority groups. In response, the U.S. adopted the Uyghur Forced Labor Prevention Act in 2021, which effectively bans imports from that region unless companies can prove their goods are not made with forced labour.
“Regulations like the UFLPA are a blunt tool, but they reflect a global awakening: consumers and policymakers no longer accept supply chains built on invisible suffering,” said Irene Khalid, a human‑rights researcher focused on labour in global apparel supply chains.
On the factory floor the harms are often more mundane but still grievous: low wages, long hours, hazardous chemical exposure and precarious contracts. “We finish a line and sometimes there is no overtime pay,” said Asha, a garment worker in a coastal town in South Asia. “We mend shirts at night because our children need school books. The label doesn’t tell that story.” (Name changed at the worker’s request.)
Why labels can be misleading
Legally and practically, label rules vary. Many countries require only that the place of final assembly is listed. The cotton could have crossed oceans, been blended with fibers from other countries, or passed through many hands long before becoming fabric.
That complexity allows risk to hide in plain sight. Audits and supplier declarations can be gamed or incomplete. A factory may subcontract tasks, or a trader may mix bales from different origins. By the time a brand stamps a tag, the connection between raw material and finished product can be frayed.
Traceability is getting better—but it’s not everywhere
Some companies have invested in traceability technologies—blockchain pilots, DNA markers, and supply chain maps. Certifications such as GOTS (Global Organic Textile Standard), Fairtrade Cotton and Better Cotton aim to set standards for welfare and environmental practice. But coverage is partial: only a minority of global cotton flows through certified channels, and certification standards and enforcement differ.
How to read beyond the tag: practical tips
- Ask questions: look at brand transparency reports and traceability tools. If a company can’t tell you where the fiber came from, push for more information.
- Look for recognized standards: GOTS for organic textiles, Fairtrade for social standards, and Better Cotton for improved practices are a start, though they are not a panacea.
- Consider the lifecycle: buy less, choose higher‑quality items, repair and reuse. Second‑hand and circular models reduce pressure on production systems.
- Support policy change: stronger corporate‑due‑diligence laws and import controls create systemic incentives for cleaner supply chains.
Voices from the fields and the markets
On a dusty road in Gujarat I met Sonal, who farms a few hectares of cotton alongside other crops. She spoke of unpredictable rains, rising fertiliser costs and the way seed companies and commodity buyers shape what she grows.
“We want our children to study. Cotton used to give us a steady income, but now everything is uncertain,” she said, wiping her brow under a wide‑brimmed hat. “When middlemen come, the prices are small but the bills are many.”
In a different scene, a fashion buyer in Milan shrugged when I asked how they verified cotton origin. “We rely on suppliers and audits, but truthfully, if a fabric supplier brings you a competitive price and paperwork, most brands will take it. The market is unforgiving.”
Bigger questions for a connected world
What should a global consumer expect from the clothes they buy? If we accept that a mere label won’t reveal a product’s full history, then transparency becomes a collective project—of consumers who demand it, companies that must earn trust, regulators who set standards, and journalists who investigate.
Are you comfortable buying a garment when you can’t trace its cotton back to a farm? Would you pay more for fully traceable fibres? These are choices with political and environmental consequences.
Where do we go from here?
Change is already stirring. Laws and corporate policies are tightening. Technology promises better provenance tracking. Civil society is louder. But supply chains are vast and adaptive, and meaningful reform requires sustained pressure from many directions.
So the next time you check a tag, ask a different question: not only where was this made, but where did the cotton sleep, who tended it, and who stitched the seams? Every garment is an invitation—to care, to ask, to reckon with the full cost of what we wear.
Investigative journalism has started to peel back those layers. Watch, read and share—because the story on that tag is only the beginning.
West Bank residents report persistent growth of Israeli settlements
A valley of olives and drones: life at the edge of an expanding settlement
The buzz of a drone cuts across a late afternoon sky that ought to be full of birdsong and the scent of crushed olives. Instead there is the metallic tang of fear and the dust of bulldozers. In the West Bank towns of Turmus Ayya and al‑Mughayyir, an ancient landscape of terraced groves and stone houses is being remade—by tents, by trucks, by men with guns and by machines that rip rooted trees from the earth.
“This was supposed to be my father’s retirement. He came here from California and planted these trees with his own hands,” says Yasser Alkam, a man in his forties whose palms still smell faintly of oil when he speaks. “I have the title papers. I have the documents. But the paperwork means very little when someone points a gun at you and says ‘leave or else.’”
There is a rhythm to his words: a long, slow breath, then a detail. “Two weeks ago there was one tent,” he tells me, looking down the dusty lane. “Now there are two—one on the right, one on the left. It keeps spreading, inch by inch.” Above us, the drone hovers, sentinel and witness, as a settler on a nearby hill watches and his machine mirrors every movement.
When trees become currency
Six kilometres away, in al‑Mughayyir, the scene turned from intimidation to outright erasure. Locals counted the stumps and the empty hills; they say more than 10,000 olive trees were bulldozed, hundreds of hectares stripped bare. “They took our history,” says Marzouq Abu Naem, deputy head of the al‑Mughayyir municipality. “Those trees would have produced about 5,000 gallons of oil. At $150 a gallon, that’s a lifetime of income gone—gone with the roots.”
The arithmetic is stark: 5,000 gallons multiplied by $150 equals roughly $750,000 in lost revenue that, for a small farming community, would have funded schools, repairs, the medical bills of elderly parents. But the loss is not merely economic. “People collapsed in grief when they saw the land,” Abu Naem says. “These trees were our calendar. They marked births, weddings, funerals. You cannot replace a thousand-year‑old olive with a sapling and say the grief is over.”
Days after my visit, locals reported another attack. A man who was wounded in the confrontation later died of his injuries; his funeral, sombre and angry, threaded through narrow lanes where children still play among the stones. In these regions, grief and politics are braided together; every funeral echoes with old injustices and new fears.
On the ground: tents, patrols and the normalisation of outposts
The tents Yasser describes are part of a wider pattern. Outposts—often declared illegal even under Israeli law—appear on ridges and in valleys, sometimes with the protection of night patrols and the visible presence of the Israeli military by day. “We see soldiers, then settlers, then earthmovers,” a farmer from Turmus Ayya told me, hands inked with years of olive pressing. “It feels like watching a slow occupation of space.”
According to Israeli data and international monitors, settler populations in the West Bank and East Jerusalem number in the many hundreds of thousands; their expansion, years in the making, has accelerated in recent months. The past year, beginning 7 October, has seen a marked increase in tensions and violence across the occupied territories, with independent observers noting a surge in attacks on Palestinian communities and their property.
“There is a sense of impunity now,” says Rana Haddad, an aid worker who has documented incidents across the region. “When bulldozers arrive after confrontations, or when new tents appear on private land, it’s not just the buildings that change—the rules of space and belonging shift, quietly but irreversibly.”
Voices from different sides
Not everyone sees this as dispossession. “We are building homes, creating safe places for our people,” one settler told a reporter, speaking on condition of anonymity. “We are farmers too; we want to work the land.” Yet the scenes on the ground—armed confrontations, drone surveillance during interviews, the uprooting of centuries‑old groves—leave many Palestinians feeling besieged.
“I returned from California because I believed in this land,” Yasser says. “My American friends would say: why risk it? I would tell them about the olive trees, about the stone walls my grandfather built. But what good are memories when your land is being taken while the world watches and says little?”
Olive trees as a ledger of culture and climate
Olives are not merely crops in the West Bank; they are a cultural ledger. The harvest—stolen from children who learn to carry baskets before they can read—is a season of songs and jokes, of women beating nets against branches, of the first dark, bitter oil cooling in jars. Olive oil is served not only at meals but at weddings, presented as a blessing, poured over bread and into the mouths of infants on feast days.
There is also a climate dimension. Olive trees are drought‑resistant and part of a sustainable, very old agricultural system that helps stabilise the soil. Bulldozers that remove them accelerate erosion and make hillsides less resilient to increasingly erratic weather. “You don’t just lose fruit—you lose a buffer against climate extremes,” notes Dr. Laila Barghouti, an agronomist who has worked with smallholders in the region.
Questions for the reader, and for the world
What does it mean to protect cultural landscapes when political forces prize land as strategic advantage? How do you quantify the worth of a tree that has seen generations and named children? These are not abstract questions. They are answered in the crumbling walls of a family home, in the silence where a grove once stood, in the little jar of oil that will no longer be sold at market.
International law frameworks and appeals from human rights groups have yet to halt the spread of outposts or the bulldozing of groves. Calls for independent monitoring and for accountability echo in diplomatic corridors, but on the ground, families keep harvest calendars and wait for seeds to sprout in places they hope will not be taken again.
As you read this from wherever you are—city apartment, coastal town, highland village—consider how closely land and memory are bound for so many people. And ask: when a community loses its trees, what does the rest of us lose? A landscape of olives is, in many ways, a map of belonging. When that map is erased, the story that remains is one of absence and, for those who love the hills, a profound longing to be let back in.
Zelensky: No Security Guarantees, But Weapons and Allied Backing
At the United Nations, a Wartime President Warns the World: “Weapons and Friends”
On a cool autumn morning in New York, the General Assembly chamber felt oddly small for the magnitude of the conversation inside it. Ukraine’s president, Volodymyr Zelensky, stood again before the world — his fourth address as a wartime leader — and offered a message that was less a diplomatic appeal and more a wake-up call: global security today rests on two uncomfortable pillars, he said, “weapons and friends.”
It was not a flourish but a diagnosis. “We are living through the most destructive arms race in human history,” he told the hall, his voice steady but urgent, “because this time, it includes artificial intelligence.” The image of history repeating itself — but with machine intelligence at the center — hung in the air like static.
The New Geometry of War: Cheap Drones, Long Shadows
Zelensky’s words were part policy briefing, part testimony. He sketched a new face of conflict: cheap, mass-produced drones turning wide swathes of land into “dead zones,” places where no one drives, where fields remain fallow, where life grows wary. “Ten years ago,” he said, “war looked different. No one imagined drones could create areas stretching dozens of kilometres where nothing moves.”
Across the world, analysts nod. Small commercial drones—modified, weaponised, networked—have altered the equation for both attackers and defenders. The barrier to entry is lower than ever: a laptop, an autopilot chip, a cheap airframe, and suddenly a battlefield is awash with dozens or hundreds of autonomous or semi-autonomous flying weapons.
“We’ve seen the democratisation of firepower,” said Dr. Laila Hassan, a defence analyst who studies unmanned systems. “When the technology that used to be exclusive to states becomes affordable, the strategic calculus changes. Non-state actors and smaller militaries can project force in asymmetric ways, and AI accelerates that process.”
“Stop Them Now”—A Stark Economic & Moral Argument
Zelensky did not mince words about the stakes. “Stopping Russia now is cheaper than wondering who will be the force to create a simple drone carrying a nuclear warhead,” he told delegates, a line that landed like a cold splash. His argument cut two ways: there is an economic logic to decisive resistance, and a moral case for preventing a cascade of weapon innovation that could slip beyond control.
He also unveiled a pragmatic response: Ukraine has become, by necessity, a laboratory of improvised defence technology. From volunteer workshops in Kyiv to university labs, Ukrainians have retooled commercial drones into reconnaissance platforms and loitering munitions. “We don’t parade big missiles,” he said. “We build drones to protect our right to life.”
Later in the speech, he suggested an even bolder policy: Ukraine is willing to share its weapons technology with friendly nations, arguing that systems tested in real war could provide “modern security” to others when global institutions falter.
Diplomacy on the Sidelines: Trump’s Shift and the Kremlin’s Reply
The chamber’s drama was shadowed by a presidential sidebar. Zelensky met Donald Trump on the margins of the UN summit, and within hours the US president posted that he believed Ukraine could reclaim every inch of territory taken by Russia. For a leader whose public stance has swung dramatically on the war, that social media moment was read as a pivot.
Back in Moscow, pressure valves hissed. The Kremlin rejected the idea that Ukraine can retake lost ground. “The idea that Ukraine can recapture something is, from our point of view, mistaken,” Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov told reporters, wrapping the rebuttal in carefully measured rhetoric. When Mr Trump described Russia as a “paper tiger,” the Kremlin bristled, likening the nation instead to a bear — a metaphor designed to signal endurance and strength.
That exchange underscores a broader strategic impasse. Russia still controls roughly one-fifth of Ukraine’s territory, including Crimea, which Moscow annexed in 2014. The conflict has left a devastating tally: tens of thousands dead, damaged cities and towns across the east and south, and millions forced to flee—registered refugee figures have numbered in the millions, with several million more internally displaced.
On the Ground: Kyiv’s Cautious Hope and Wearied Skepticism
In Kyiv’s coffee shops and volunteer hubs, people parsed the UN drama with a mix of hope and weary realism. “A single tweet won’t fill the holes in our roofs,” said Bogdan Tkachuk, 33, a volunteer coordinator handing out thermal blankets near a makeshift shelter. “We need weapons, yes. But we also need long-term commitments — training, munitions, repair parts.”
Svitlana Fetisova, a teacher who fled a village near Donetsk and now volunteers teaching children, was blunter. “Words are cheap. We hear promises, we see ceremonies, but our kids sleep in basements and study over Zoom,” she said. “If leaders mean it, let them make it concrete.”
Beyond Borders: AI, Arms Races, and the Fragility of Institutions
Read through Zelensky’s appeal and an uncomfortably modern pattern emerges: nations are stuck between two imperfect choices. Rely on international law and institutions that may lack teeth, or invest in the means of coercion and deterrence. “International law doesn’t work fully unless you have powerful friends willing to stand up for it,” Zelensky told the Assembly. “Even that doesn’t work without weapons.”
That calculus raises global questions. What happens when AI lowers decision times and increases the autonomy of lethal systems? How do you prevent accidental escalation when both sides deploy autonomous sensors and machine-guided missiles? And who regulates the spread of military-grade AI when it can be assembled from off-the-shelf parts?
“We are at a crossroads,” said Professor Elena Markovic, who researches international security. “Either we use the next years to build norms, verification mechanisms and restraint, or we allow a diffuse arms race to proceed unchecked, and then the cost is not just geopolitical — it’s existential.”
Where Do We Go From Here?
As readers, what should we carry away from a speech that combined stark warnings with military realities? For some, the lesson is immediate: the pillars of peace are fraying, and new technologies make those fractures faster and deeper. For others, it is a call to activism: demand more robust multilateral responses, fund humanitarian corridors, push for treaties on autonomous weapons.
There’s no easy answer. But the questions are now public and urgent: can the world revive institutions with the strength to restrain an accelerating arms race? Can democratic publics find the political will to marshal both the friends and the hardware Zelensky says are necessary?
Walking out of the UN, the city’s noise returned — taxi horns, a street vendor calling out, the smell of roasted chestnuts somewhere nearby — and the global emergency felt, for a moment, unbearably intimate. The choices made in the coming months will ripple far beyond Kyiv, Moscow or Washington. They will shape whether this century’s conflicts are managed by law and diplomacy, or by a terrifying new industrialisation of violence.
Which future do we want to build? And who among us will insist on it?
Madasha mucaaradka oo iclaamiyay banaanbaxyo Sabtida ka dhacaya Muqdisho
Sep 24(Jowhar)-Madasha Mucaaradka ayaa iclaamiyay bannaan bax nabadeed oo dhici doona maalinta sabtida oo taariikhdu tahay 27 September 2025.
Italy Dispatches Naval Support Following Attack on Gaza Aid Flotilla
Night at Sea: A Flotilla, Drones and the Taste of Salt on the Air
The sea can be both a highway and a courtroom. On a cool night off Crete, the salt air carried the metallic staccato of distant explosions and the high-pitched whine of drones, turning what had been a quiet humanitarian mission into an unnerving episode of modern maritime protest.
Onboard the Global Sumud Flotilla — a ragtag armada that left Barcelona on 31 August with 51 vessels and a manifest of aid, activists and musicians — people clustered along rails and in cramped cabins, listening, watching and trying to make sense of sudden, unseen threats. Among them were environmental campaigner Greta Thunberg and, by official estimates, 22 citizens from Ireland. Most of the boats are now anchored near the Greek island of Crete, where the Mediterranean narrows and political tensions seem to compress into every wave.
What Happened — and Who Is Saying What
According to participants, several boats were targeted by unmanned aerial vehicles that dropped small devices. “We saw fifteen to sixteen drones,” said German human rights activist Yasemin Acar in a video posted to social media, her voice tight with fatigue and anger. “Communications were jammed. Explosions were heard. They tried to frighten us. It didn’t work.”
The flotilla’s statement was uncompromising: “We are carrying only humanitarian aid. We have no weapons. We pose no threat to anyone.” The message read like both an appeal and a rebuke: an appeal for international protection and a rebuke at the blockade that has kept Gaza under tight maritime controls.
Italy’s Defence Minister Guido Crosetto moved quickly, saying in a ministry post that he had authorised the Italian Navy frigate Fasan — then operating north of Crete as part of Operation Safe Sea — to proceed to the area for “possible rescue operations.” “To ensure assistance to the Italian citizens on the ‘Flotilla’… I spoke with the Prime Minister and authorised the immediate intervention of the Italian Navy’s multi-purpose frigate Fasan,” he wrote, condemning the “attack” and dubbing the perpetrators “currently unidentified.”
Rome was explicit in warning Israel that any operation in the area must conform to international law and be conducted with “absolute caution.” The Italian foreign ministry urged Tel Aviv to guarantee the protection of personnel on board, a diplomatic nudge at a tense geopolitical rope.
Voices from Aboard
“There are fishermen here and medics and schoolteachers,” said Layla, a volunteer from Barcelona who asked that her surname not be used. “When you are in the little kitchen on a boat and someone passes you a bag of rice, you remember why you came. And then you hear an explosion and you realize how fragile that memory is.”
Thiago Avila, a Brazilian activist on one of the boats, posted video showing devices falling and explosions in the background. “Four boats were targeted with drones throwing devices,” he said. “Our radios were jammed and loud music blared in our ears—classic psychological operations.” Whether anyone aboard was injured has not been confirmed by independent authorities; flotilla organisers said there were no casualties in the immediate footage they shared.
Context: A Blockade, A Humanitarian Crisis, and a Long Game of International Law
The flotilla’s mission is both practical and symbolic: break through Israel’s naval blockade of Gaza and deliver aid — and, perhaps more importantly, galvanize global attention. Israel has flatly rejected attempts to reach Gaza by sea, blocking similar flotillas in June and July. The country says the measures are necessary for security; activists and many international observers call them collective punishment.
The stakes are enormous. Gaza is home to roughly 2.3 million people, many of whom live under siege conditions that limit food, fuel and medical supplies. Last month a UN-backed body declared famine in parts of Gaza, an alarming formal recognition of extreme food insecurity. On 16 September, UN investigators accused Israeli authorities of actions that could amount to “genocide” — a phrase that jolted diplomatic halls and deeply polarized global public opinion.
What happens at sea matters for what happens on land. Blockades, despite being naval in nature, affect hospitals, bakeries and collective memory. When food and medicine are reduced to negotiation chips, the ripples are felt across generations.
Why Drones Change the Equation
What is novel about this confrontation is the deployment of drones against civilian protest vessels. Unmanned systems complicate attribution and raise new legal questions about responsibility in congested maritime spaces. Naval law traditionally assumes identifiable actors on identifiable vessels; drones blur both lines.
“Drones are a force multiplier and a deniable one,” said Dr. Miriam Al-Saleh, an expert in maritime security at a European university. “They can intimidate, disable communications and escalate without direct, visible human attribution. That creates a grey zone that is hard to police under existing international frameworks.”
Local Color: Crete, Fishermen and Midnight Conversations
On the island of Crete, where much of the flotilla has gathered, locals watched from rocky cliffs and tavern terraces. “We are used to the sea bringing everything, olives, tourists, storms,” said Nikos, a 62-year-old fisherman from Heraklion, who pointed to the horizon with a knife-stained thumb. “But men and women risking their lives to carry food? That’s a new kind of cargo.”
Nighttime in Crete is a mosaic of lights: fishing boats, the glow of village lamps, the distant silhouette of the frigate’s navigation mast. Locals remember other nights when politics arrived by water — refugee boats, patrols, rescue missions — and the community learned to treat the sea as an extension of the café where people argue about the world.
The Bigger Picture: Protest, Solidarity and the Limits of Diplomacy
Why do citizens form flotillas? Because when borders look immovable and institutions seem sluggish, people still believe physical presence can alter a narrative. A small boat with aid and an outspoken activist on deck is, in the eyes of the organisers, a moral microphone. It is protest as logistics, hope as cargo.
But will that moral argument translate into policy? Or will it harden lines and invite new forms of confrontation? The arrival of a NATO-member navy frigate to “assist” complicates the optics: European states are being forced to reconcile domestic human-rights sensibilities with alliance politics and operational realities.
Actions at sea may trigger legal reviews, diplomatic cables and, perhaps, international court cases. They will also push the question of accountability beyond capitals and into living rooms worldwide: when a humanitarian mission is met by drones, who is responsible? How do we, as a global community, regulate technologies that outrun our treaties?
What to Watch Next
- Whether the Italian frigate Fasan reaches the area and what role it assumes.
- Official responses from Israel about the alleged drone incidents and any forensic evidence.
- Independent verification of casualties or damage aboard flotilla vessels.
- Any legal actions or international inquiries into attacks on civilian vessels.
Questions for the Reader
If you were on one of those boats, would you stay? What do solidarity and safety look like when both are in short supply? And as drones become part of everyday conflict, how should international law evolve to protect unarmed civilians who choose the sea as their stage?
There are no easy answers. But tonight, as the flotilla rocks in the dark and the frigate’s silhouette grows on the horizon, you can almost hear the collective breath of a dozen nations, a handful of languages, and a single human urgency: to reach people in need, whatever the ocean demands of us.
Jimmy Kimmel Returns, Calls Kirk’s Death ‘No Laughing Matter’
On Stage Again: Jimmy Kimmel’s Return and the Politics of Punchlines
When the lights came up on the studio on a humid Monday night, the applause that greeted Jimmy Kimmel sounded less like a polite TV clapping track and more like a small, human roar. For five days the show had been absent from ABC’s lineup, suspended amid a storm of criticism following comments Kimmel made about the controversial killing of conservative activist Charlie Kirk. Now, with the band warming and a live audience watching, the comedian walked back into the ring and into a debate that reaches far beyond late-night jokes.
“It felt like coming home,” Kimmel told the crowd, voice steady beneath the bright set lights. “But there are some things you don’t make light of.” He went on to insist he had never intended to trivialize the death that had set off the backlash. For viewers at home and thousands online, the segment became less about a single joke than a test case in an increasingly fraught public square where comedy, politics, and corporate caution collide.
A sudden suspension, a louder conversation
Network suspensions of high-profile hosts are not unheard of, but they are rare enough that each one invites intense scrutiny. The five-day hiatus drew as much attention to ABC as the brief remarks that prompted it. Public outrage—on both sides—did not take long to ignite. In the days leading up to Kimmel’s return, social platforms filled with petitions, op-eds, and accusations: some demanding a firmer stand against what they called callousness, others warning of an erosion of comic freedom.
“If comedians can’t push boundaries, where does that leave us?” asked Dr. Aisha Raman, a media professor who studies satire and civic discourse. “Comedy has always been a pressure valve for society, but there are moments when the valve gets jammed.” Raman notes a broader trend: in an era of polarized media and lightning-fast outrage cycles, comedians are often the first to feel corporate attrition and the last to receive institutional protection.
Voices from the studio — and the street
Inside the studio, the mood was complicated. A standing ovation met Kimmel when he stepped out; some fans cheered, others watched in silence. “He’s a smart man and he joked badly,” said Maria Lopez, an audience member who’d driven two hours from Oxnard. “But we also want honesty. It wasn’t funny.” Across the street from the network building, counter-protesters waved signs and chanted in fragmented slogans about accountability and media bias.
“People are exhausted with one-sided narratives,” said Daniel Price, a freelance journalist covering the protests. “This isn’t just about a joke—it’s about which voices get amplified and which get silenced.” Price’s observation echoed in the social feeds of millions. On the conservative platform Truth Social, former President Donald Trump—whose post drew immediate attention—blasted ABC for rehiring Kimmel, insisting the host harmed the network’s standing.
Beyond a punchline: what’s at stake?
The Kimmel episode is a microcosm of larger tensions at work across the media landscape. Is a satirist’s job to press against norms and highlight hypocrisy, even during moments of tragedy? Or do public figures have a heightened responsibility to tread carefully when a community is grieving? There are no easy answers, but the collision of comedy, politics, and corporate self-interest tends to make everyone look worse.
“Networks respond to money and risk in equal measure,” said former network executive Laura Chen. “A major advertiser pulling out, or a rogue government official promising pressure, moves the needle quickly. That’s not an excuse—it’s a reality.” Chen pointed to recent advertising boycotts aimed at cable news and streaming shows that have left networks skittish. “Executives don’t want headlines; they want balance sheets,” she added.
Indeed, financial stakes are real. While late-night viewership has shifted in recent years to streaming and snippets online, nightly network talkers still command millions of viewers cumulatively. Nielsen estimates have shown that established shows often pull in well under two million live viewers nightly in the streaming era, but the ripple effect in digital clips and syndicated segments can multiply that reach exponentially—making every controversial moment into a marketing and legal chessboard.
Free speech, corporate pressure, and political fury
Kimmel framed part of his return around a constitutional concern. “A government threat to silence a comedian the president doesn’t like is anti‑American,” he said on air, tapping into a long-standing trope about free speech and state overreach. Whether the alleged government pressure in this case met any legal threshold is a matter for lawyers, but the rhetoric mattered—especially to free-speech advocates.
“Threats, explicit or implicit, from officials toward media organizations create a chilling effect,” said Elise Navarro, director of a press‑freedom NGO. “Even the suggestion can make outlets self-censor. That undermines robust debate, which is vital in democracies.” Navarro cautioned, though, that free speech is not a shield from consequences: “People can say things freely, but organizations also have the right to act when public trust is threatened.”
How communities process grief and anger
Outside the immediate controversy lies a simpler human story: people wrestling with loss and meaning. When a public figure dies—or is reported to have been killed—communities rush to interpret the event in ways that reflect their identities. Some see opportunity; others see danger.
“We had a candlelight vigil across from the studio,” said Janae Olumide, who organizes local memorial events. “People came to grieve, not to score points. It’s heartbreaking when grief becomes a political tool.” The impulse to politicize tragedy is global: from public memorials in small towns to viral midnight takes on social platforms. The result is often a layered discourse where sincerity and opportunism sit uneasily side by side.
Where to from here?
As Kimmel rejoined a familiar set and ABC resumed broadcasting, the nation continued to argue. Was his suspension fair? Was his return a capitulation to free expression? Or was it an inevitable compromise between a network and its star? The answers depend on whom you ask.
For viewers, the episode offers a prompt: what do we want from public conversation in tense times? Do we value levity even amid sorrow? Do we demand decorum even when comedy has a long history of critique? These are not merely entertainment questions; they are civic ones.
“I want accountability,” said Lopez, the audience member. “But I also don’t want us to forget how fragile honest conversation is. If we silence every comedian, who will point out our blind spots?”
So the show goes on—on a late-night set bathed in neon, in newsrooms feverishly parsing every clip, on timelines where anger and support both get amplified. If nothing else, Kimmel’s return reminds us how tightly wound comedy and politics have become—and how small a misstep can feel like a national crisis.
What would you defend: the right to joke, even badly, or the responsibility to keep certain moments solemn? It’s a hard question—and one we’ll be asking again, and again, as the cultural conversation keeps changing the channel.
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