Opinions

After years of public criticism directed at Europe, US President Donald Trump put together a National Security Strategy (NSS) that reflected his twisted perceptions. Still, it is one thing to hear his stage rhetoric and another to see his worldview codified in official doctrine. Its core claim: Europe will be “unrecognisable in 20 years” due to “civilisational erasure” unless the United States, “sentimentally attached” to the continent, steps in to restore its “former greatness”.

Trump is right, Europe has problems. But they are not what he claims.

Decades of underinvestment in people, persistent political incentives to ignore excluded communities and a reluctance to confront how demographic and economic decline interact, go unaddressed. Political leaders largely avoid this conversation. Some deny these problems, others concede them privately while publicly debating symptoms but not addressing the root causes.

A clearer perspective can be found among those who live with these failures. Across Europe, millions in the working class struggle to survive amid shuttered factories, underfunded schools, unaffordable housing and broken public services. Among them, the Roma sharpen the picture. As Europe’s largest and most dispossessed minority, their experience exposes the continent’s choice to treat entire populations as collateral damage. When Trump presses on Europe’s wounds, these communities confirm where it hurts.

What Trump gets right about Europe

The NSS argues that Europe’s “lack of self-confidence” is most visible in its relationship with Russia. Yes, Europe’s paralysis towards Moscow contrasts with its aggression towards weaker groups at home. This reflects the lack of confidence in European values.

Trump is right. We’re weak. If we were strong, we would stand up for European values of democracy and pluralism. We would not demonise our minorities.

But we do. Across the continent, Roma communities face racist policies. In Slovenia, following a bar fight that spiralled into public hysteria, the national legislature passed a law in November to securitise Roma neighbourhoods.

In Portugal, Andre Ventura of the far-right Chega party put up posters saying “G****es have to obey the law” as part of his presidential campaign. In Italy, far-right politician Matteo Salvini built an entire political brand on anti-Roma paranoia. In Greece, the police shoot at Roma youth for minor crimes.

Leaders over-securitise the Roma while overcompensating for their caution towards Russia.

The NSS also highlights Europe’s declining share of global gross domestic product, from 25 percent in 1990 to 14 percent today. Regulations play a part, so does demographic decline, but the deeper problem is Europe’s failure to invest in all its people.

Twelve million Roma, the youngest population in Europe, remain locked out of education, employment and entrepreneurship through structural barriers and discrimination, even though surveys show their overwhelming willingness to contribute to the societies they live in and their high success rates when they run businesses that receive support.

If Roma employment in Romania, Slovakia and Bulgaria – where their unemployment rates are currently 25 percentage points above those of the majority population – matched national averages, the combined GDP gain could be as much as 10 billion euros ($11.6bn). In a continent losing two million workers a year, letting this labour potential go unused is self-sabotage.

Trump is right about Europe’s declining share of GDP. If Europe were serious, it would not believe it can leave Roma people on the scrap heap.

The NSS further warns of “subversion of democratic processes”, and while he is not talking about minorities, it is true that Europe does fall short.  Proportionally, according to our estimates at the Roma Foundation, they should hold over 400 seats.

The European Parliament includes seats for Malta and Luxembourg, states with populations of 570,000 and 680,000, respectively; yet, it does not include any seats for the Roma community.

Trump is right that we have a democratic deficit. But it’s not because of laws against hate speech and constitutional barriers to the far right. The most pressing deficit is that 12 million Roma are not represented.

A continent that wastes its population cannot be competitive, and one that suppresses parts of its electorate cannot claim to be representative. Political exclusion reduces voter turnout and registration rates, leading to systematically underrepresentative institutions, while economic exclusion makes communities easier targets for vote-buying, coercion and political capture.

What Europe really needs

Trump’s proposed solution for Europe’s crisis would not resolve anything. He seems to assume that far-right pseudo-sovereigntists, opposed to immigration and minorities alike, can reverse Europe’s decline.

The evidence suggests otherwise. Countries where xenophobia influences policy have not performed well. In the United Kingdom, where the far right drove a campaign to leave the European Union over fears of migration, experts have calculated that GDP is 6-8 percent lower than it would have been without Brexit. In Hungary, where the government of Viktor Orban has enacted various anti-migrant and discriminatory policies, there is stagnant economic growth, a high budget deficit and frozen EU funds. Exclusion weakens economies and makes democracies vulnerable.

Empowering the ideological heirs of forces that the United States once helped Europe defeat would not aid the continent’s recovery. In fact, this “restoration” to power of extremist right-wing ideology would deepen Europe’s dependence on Washington, then Moscow.

It is also true that Europe cannot survive global realpolitik, leaning on liberal nostalgia, multilateral summits or rhetorical commitments, either.

What Europe needs is inclusive realism: the recognition that investing in all people is not charity but a strategic necessity. China’s rise illustrates this. Decades of investment in health, education and employment have expanded human capital, increased productivity and reshaped global power balances.

Europe cannot afford to waste its own population potential while expecting to remain a relevant player. The real choice is not between liberals and the far right, but between deepening its wounds by sidelining millions or beginning to heal by investing in the people it has long treated as expendable.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

On Saturday, United States military forces carried out a dramatic strike in Venezuela that resulted in the capture and forcible removal of President Nicolas Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores. They were flown to New York and are now in federal custody. Maduro appeared in federal court on drug and weapons charges and pleaded not guilty. Several governments, international legal experts and United Nations officials have described the military operation as an illegal “kidnapping” and a breach of international law. The UN secretary-general warned that it sets a “dangerous precedent”, undermining foundational norms of sovereignty under the UN Charter.

Yet, as Washington justifies its operation primarily with rhetoric about oil and narcotics, a deeper inspection reveals another dynamic: This was first and foremost an ideological battle, shaped by domestic political incentives in the US – in particular the strategic influence of Florida’s electorate and its political elite.

Oil is not the prime motive

The mainstream narrative frames Venezuela’s enormous oil reserves – officially among the largest proven in the world at roughly 298 billion to 303 billion barrels – as the core strategic prize. But a closer, evidence-based analysis shows the immediate economic rationale to be weak.

US crude imports from Venezuela, once significant, have dwindled to about 220,000 barrels per day (bpd) as of 2024, representing less than 4 percent of US crude imports. By contrast, imports from Canada dominate, accounting for roughly 60 to 63 percent of US crude import needs, and US production of light crude has risen sharply, reducing dependence on foreign sources. This shift undermines claims that Venezuelan oil alone is a strategic imperative.

Why does Venezuelan crude matter at all? The answer lies in its composition. Venezuelan oil is heavy and sour, the type that many US Gulf Coast refineries were designed to process. This, however, reflects refinery configuration rather than any compelling immediate strategic case. Furthermore, Venezuelan oil infrastructure has deteriorated over years of underinvestment with output falling from about 3.5 million bpd to roughly 1 million bpd by 2025, and a meaningful revival would require many years of sustained and consistent investment. Markets reacted only modestly to the capture of Maduro with global oil prices remaining relatively stable, suggesting that oil was not the main driver of the operation.

Not drugs either: Pretext vs reality

US officials have cited drug trafficking and “narcoterrorism” as part of the justification for the intervention. Maduro and other senior Venezuelan officials are indicted in the US on charges linked to alleged cocaine trafficking, and these accusations have been reiterated in court. However, research by international agencies and independent analysts suggests that, while Venezuelan territory is used as a transit route, it is not a major source of the drugs entering the US, which are overwhelmingly produced and trafficked through Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean. This gap between the scale of the drug trade and the rationale invoked has led many analysts to view the narcotics argument as a pretext rather than a primary driver of the operation.

Florida, ideology and domestic political incentives

A more persuasive rationale emerges when the domestic political incentives shaping US foreign policy are examined, particularly the role of Florida’s electorate and elite networks. With 31 electoral votes, Florida remains a pivotal state in presidential elections, where narrow margins mean even modest shifts among key constituencies can determine national outcomes.

This political reality is reinforced by Florida’s large and politically mobilised Latino communities. Cuban American voters have long prioritised anti-communist foreign policy positions while Venezuelan American communities, many of whom settled in the state over the past decade, have expressed strong opposition to authoritarian leftist governance in Caracas. Political scientists note that these constituencies constitute a significant voting bloc in closely contested elections, giving political elites strong incentives to adopt hardline positions against leftist regimes that resonate with these voters.

At the centre of this dynamic stands Marco Rubio, the US secretary of state and a Florida native whose political biography is deeply rooted in opposition to leftist governments in Latin America. Rubio’s family fled communist Cuba, and he has consistently championed confrontational policies towards socialist and authoritarian regimes in the region. Reports suggest that, during negotiations, Maduro offered concessions on oil and economic matters that could have been commercially beneficial, but advisers aligned with Florida’s political interests reportedly pushed for a harder line, prioritising ideological confrontation over economic pragmatism.

Florida’s political ecosystem also includes influential donor networks that have historically supported hawkish foreign policy positions, including well-organised pro-Israel constituencies with leverage at state and national levels. In recent months, high-profile visits by Israeli leaders to Florida and sustained engagement with US political figures have reinforced ideological alignments that frame regimes perceived as hostile to Israel or aligned with its adversaries as challenges requiring decisive responses. The convergence of electoral incentives, ideological commitments and elite networks helps explain why US policy towards Venezuela has been shaped as much by domestic political drivers as by external strategic interests.

Lessons for the Middle East

The implications for Middle Eastern actors are profound.

First, international law appears weakened. The US capture of a sitting head of state without multilateral authorisation underscores a willingness to sidestep international legal norms when domestic political imperatives are prioritised. The ineffectiveness UN Charter’s prohibition on the use of force absent Security Council approval or clear self-defence appears to have been discounted, eliciting global concern.

Second, the Middle East’s strategic relevance persists, albeit in an evolving context. While global energy markets are less dependent on Middle Eastern oil than in prior decades, other factors – capital flows, counterterrorism cooperation, strategic geography and enduring security partnerships – maintain the region’s importance. Intensifying US-China competition and Washington’s concern over closer China-Middle East ties will likely continue to anchor US engagement in the region. Israel, for its part, is expected to sustain robust lobbying efforts in Washington and European capitals to preserve its strategic relationships.

Yet the Venezuela episode illustrates that alliances predicated chiefly on energy security can be fragile and ideological and domestic political drivers can abruptly reshape foreign policy priorities. Middle Eastern states must, therefore, pursue a calibrated diplomatic strategy: engaging the US where interests converge while hedging against abrupt shifts driven by internal political calculations.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

For many years before becoming president, Donald Trump publicly criticised the George W Bush administration over its decision to launch the war on Iraq. And yet, today, in his second term as president, he finds himself presiding over a military debacle that is quite reminiscent of Bush’s.

Trump ordered a military intervention to remove an antagonistic foreign leader, based on a flimsy argument of national security, with the goal of accessing that country’s oil. In both cases, we see a naive confidence that the United States can simply achieve its goals through regime change. US intervention into Venezuela reeks of the same hubris that surrounded the Iraq invasion two decades ago.

Yet there are also important differences to consider. The most important distinguishing feature of the operation in Venezuela is its lack of an overarching vision. On Saturday after Trump finished an hour-long news conference alongside his secretaries of defence and state, it was not clear what the plan was for Venezuela going forward, or if there was a plan at all. His statements threatening more attacks in the following days brought no clarity either.

Past instances of US-led regime change fit into the larger ideological visions of the incumbent US commander-in-chief. In 1823, President James Monroe declared the Western Hemisphere off-limits to European colonialism. As the United States spent the 20th century consolidating its sphere of influence across the Americas, the Monroe Doctrine would justify various interventions in Latin America and the Caribbean. The Cold War added new justifications for the United States to overthrow leftist regimes and install friendly governments in the Americas.

As the Cold War ended, President George HW Bush sought to serve as a caretaker for a “new world order” in which the US had emerged as the world’s lone superpower. When Bush sent troops to Somalia in 1992 and his successor Bill Clinton reversed a military coup in Haiti in 1994, they did so under the paradigm of “humanitarian intervention”. When George W Bush ordered the invasion of Iraq, it was done under the umbrella of the post-9/11 “war on terror”. When President Barack Obama intervened against the forces of Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi in 2011, he was guided by the “responsibility to protect” doctrine concerning civilians in danger.

But in the case of the US attack on Venezuela, there has been no ideological justification. Trump and his team have haphazardly thrown around references to humanitarianism, counterterrorism and more to justify the attack. The president even brought up the Monroe Doctrine. But just as it seemed that he was grounding his foreign policy in a larger ideology, albeit one borrowed from two centuries ago, he made a joke of the concept.

“The Monroe Doctrine is a big deal,” Trump explained on Saturday. “But we’ve superseded it by a lot, by a lot. They now call it the Donroe Doctrine.” Trump did not make up this pun; it was used by the New York Post a year ago to describe Trump’s aggressive foreign policy as he threatened to annex Canada, Greenland and the Panama Canal.

The president’s decision to embrace the tongue-in-cheek term illustrates a disturbing reality of his foreign policy: Any notion that he is promoting an ideological vision is a joke.

The truth is Trump is pursuing an increasingly aggressive and militaristic foreign policy in his second term, not because he wants to impose a grand vision, but because he has discovered he can get away with it.

Striking a variety of foreign “bad guys” who have little capacity to fight back – ISIL (ISIS) affiliates in Nigeria who are “persecuting” Christians and “narcoterrorists” in Latin America – appeals to members of Trump’s base.

After he mentioned the Venezuelan gang Tren de Aragua during Saturday’s news conference, he went on a minutes-long tangent to brag about his military interventions into US cities. While the president’s inability to stay on topic may be concerning for those questioning his health and mental fitness, this digression into domestic affairs had some relevance for his Venezuelan intervention, at least as far as he was concerned: His increasingly militarised war on drugs and crime abroad justifies an increasingly militarised war on drugs and crime at home.

Past presidents have used US power to pursue a wide variety of ideologies and principles. Trump appears to be paying lip service to past ideologies to justify the use of US power. Many times, the “good” intentions of previous  presidents paved the way to hellish outcomes for the peoples who found themselves on the receiving end of US intervention. But those intentions at least created a level of predictability and consistency for the foreign policies of various US administrations.

Trump, by contrast, seems driven solely by immediate political concerns and short-term prospects for glory and profit. If there is a saving grace of such an unprincipled foreign policy, it may be the ephemeral nature of interventions conducted without an overarching vision. An unprincipled approach to military intervention does not foster the kind of ideological commitment that has led other presidents to engage in long-term interventions like the Iraq occupation.

But it also means that Trump could conceivably use military intervention to settle any international dispute or to pursue any ostensibly profitable goal – say assuming control of Greenland from Denmark.

Last year, he decided tariffs were a potent tool for asserting his interests and started applying them almost indiscriminately on allies and adversaries alike. Now that Trump has grown comfortable using the US military to achieve a range of goals – profit, gunboat diplomacy, distraction from domestic scandals, etc – the danger is that he will grow similarly haphazard in his use of force.

That does not bode well for the US nor for the rest of the world. At a time when multiple global crises are overlapping – climate, conflict and impoverishment – the last thing the world needs is a trigger-happy superpower without a clear strategy or a day-after plan.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Events in Yemen are escalating quickly and dramatically, reaching the point of armed clashes erupting between the Arab coalition supporting the internationally recognised government in Yemen, led by Saudi Arabia, and the so‑called “Southern Transitional Council” (STC), backed by the United Arab Emirates.

Many view these developments as a natural outcome of a long, cumulative trajectory of complexities the country has experienced since the civil war erupted in late 2014, and the humanitarian and economic repercussions that followed.

External interventions had a profound impact in creating political and administrative chaos that intensified internal divisions and exposed what remained of the legitimate state to further weakness, culminating in the loss of its most important sovereign tools: unity of territory and decision-making. These developments and events add further complexity to an already complex picture, and Yemen will not be safe from their future repercussions.

On the other hand, others view the situation from another, less bleak angle. The strong reaction to the STC’s moves — on the part of the Yemeni president (chairman of the Presidential Leadership Council, or PLC) and, behind him, the Saudi‑led Arab coalition — is a new and important variable, completely different from the usual approach to many similar events. So, there is hope that these events and changes will mark a new phase that works to correct the imbalances and deviations that accompanied the Arab coalition’s intervention over more than a decade.

Watching carefully are the Houthi rebels in northern Yemen, who have remained silent, apparently waiting to see what these events will produce as they continue to strike at the unity of the components of the Arab coalition’s leadership and undermine the legitimate government. In any case, they realise that the eventual outcome will ultimately be in their favour. Therefore, the Houthis, according to multiple reports, are currently intensifying their military preparations, redeploying and dispersing their forces along the theatre of operations adjacent to contact points on the fronts: the northeast (Marib), and the southwest in Taiz and Bab al-Mandeb, preparing for zero hour.

So, what is the nature and background of this bilateral conflict between allies? Where have these events and developments led Yemen, and where will they lead it? And what are their implications for the future of the country and the region?

There is broad agreement that what is happening today is merely an initial result of a deep internal conflict of interests between the two main coalition states — Saudi Arabia and the UAE. Although most of this conflict remained hidden, its accumulations continued to roll and grow like a snowball.

To understand how matters reached this point of an explosion of conflict between allies, we must first understand the background of this rivalry and conflict.

In late March 2015, Saudi Arabia led a coalition of 10 Arab and Muslim countries to intervene militarily in Yemen — later it was called the Coalition to Support Legitimacy in Yemen, with the aim of restoring the authority of Yemen’s former legitimate president, Abd-Rabbu Mansour Hadi, from the grip of the Houthi coup forces.

At the outset, the coalition achieved major, tangible successes on the ground before differences began to emerge between the two main allies, Saudi Arabia and the UAE.

There is a widespread and well‑grounded belief that the UAE entered this war with a plan to achieve purely geopolitical and strategic interests. Some argue, however, that this was not necessarily the case at the beginning, but that it may later have turned to exploiting weakness, vacuum, and internal divisions in order to redraw its strategy anew in light of that.

On the ground, the UAE formed, trained, and financed local forces loyal to it, using them to achieve its own objectives, away from the coalition and the legitimate government. Within just two years of its intervention, it managed — through its own local forces — to impose control over all strategic maritime outlets along southern and eastern Yemen, reaching the western coast of Taiz governorate in the country’s southwest, where the strategic Bab al-Mandeb Strait lies.

Over 10 years of the coalition’s intervention, the UAE established and built a hard-hitting army of its own militias, becoming the strongest force on the ground and the greatest threat to the interests of its ally (Saudi Arabia) in Yemen, including the system and the legitimate government that it had supported and sponsored from the outset. It can be affirmed that Riyadh committed fatal strategic mistakes in dealing with these deviations, remaining silent and failing to take decisive action on the ground to curb its ally’s overreach — perhaps settling for minor protective measures, and often acting merely as a “mediator” to resolve disputes that flared up from time to time — until the axe finally struck the head.

Military escalation

In early December, the STC, which was founded and backed by the UAE, triggered a military escalation by seizing control of the governorates of Hadramout and al-Mahra in eastern Yemen. This angered Saudi Arabia and pushed it out of its usual diplomacy and calm. Many may interpret this major shift in its policy as stemming from the fact that it views these two eastern governorates bordering it as a geographic extension of its national security, and that any compromise to their security constitutes a direct threat to its national security, something Riyadh stated explicitly in its recent statements issued in the wake of the crisis.

Accordingly, the head of the PLC dealt with these developments with great seriousness, describing them as unacceptable “unilateral measures”. Under the authority granted by the Power Transfer Declaration (April 2022), he called on the Saudi-led Arab coalition to intervene militarily.

The next day, coalition aircraft struck military equipment that had arrived on two ships from the UAE’s Fujairah port to the port of Mukalla in Hadramout. In response, Yemeni President Rashad al-Alimi declared a state of emergency and called on the UAE to end its presence in Yemen. Later that day, the UAE Ministry of Defence announced the withdrawal of what remained of its forces in Yemen (the UAE had previously announced in October 2019 that it was withdrawing its forces from Yemen).

The military escalation led to major, rapidly unfolding military and political repercussions, particularly after the STC continued to refuse to heed calls and threats by the coalition leadership and the Yemeni president to withdraw its forces from the two governorates.

Someone could ask: Why does the STC refuse to withdraw its forces despite the threats and successive strikes? The answer is that doing so would deal a powerful blow to its secessionist project. Clearly, the council’s takeover of these two governorates — both of which reject its project — raised broad hopes among southern separatists of declaring their state, but Saudi Arabia’s decisive intervention (in the name of the Arab coalition) dealt a crushing blow to that project.

Escalation and repercussions

With the start of the new year, government ground forces — formed by the Yemeni president through a presidential decision on January 27, 2023 under the name Homeland Shield, with Saudi support — began moving towards Hadramout and al-Mahra (east) to liberate them from STC forces, under air cover and support from coalition aircraft, and liberation and control operations began. In response, forces from the UAE-backed Giants Brigades, coming from Taiz’s western coast, moved towards Hadramout governorate to reinforce and support STC forces.

Amid the accelerating escalation and its repercussions, the head of the STC, Aidarous al-Zubaidi — also a member of the PLC — moved quickly to issue what he called a “constitutional declaration” (January 2, 2026), in which he announced what he termed the independent “State of the Arab South”, during a two-year transitional period.

While the country’s official institutions at the national, regional, and global levels have so far ignored this declaration, many Yemenis dealt with it ambivalently, each according to their affiliations and loyalties.

For the Southern separatists, they expressed overwhelming joy at the announcement of their state, while their opponents mocked the move as a leap over reality, an attempt to escape forward over facts and local and international laws and regulations. Some considered it merely a desperate attempt to rid the council of the pressure of promises it had made to those dreaming of secession, at a time when it became evident that secession was no longer easy after the recent events and developments.

Regardless of interpretations, even if this declaration has no legal effect, its political, economic, and administrative impacts will not be easy, whether in terms of deepening divisions among Yemen’s elite and the public (North-South), preserving the legal standing of the Yemeni state, or even the continuity of managing the fragile state.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, its dangerous repercussions for the main battle to restore the state and relieve Yemenis from the consequences of a decade of war and state collapse.

Clearly, the Yemeni scene is becoming more complex, with events accelerating, positions erupting, and reactions escalating. No one knows precisely where developments in Yemen are headed.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

The United States intervention in Venezuela to abduct President Nicolás Maduro is not law enforcement extended beyond its borders. It is international vandalism, plain and unadorned.

Power has displaced law, preference has replaced principle and force has been presented as virtue. This is not the defence of the international order. It is its quiet execution. When a state kidnaps the law to justify kidnapping a leader, it does not uphold order. It advertises contempt for it.

The forcible seizure of a sitting head of state by the US has no foothold in international law. None. It is not self-defence under Article 51 of the United Nations Charter. It was not authorised by the UN Security Council. International law is many things, but it is not a roving moral warrant for great powers to perform regime change by abduction.

The claim that alleged human rights violations or trafficking in narcotics justifies the removal of a foreign head of state is particularly corrosive. There is no such rule. Not in treaty law. Not in custom law. Not in any serious jurisprudence.

Human rights law binds states to standards of conduct. It does not license unilateral military seizures by self-appointed global sheriffs. If that were the rule, the world would be in a permanent state of sanctioned chaos.

Indeed, if the US were serious about this purported principle, consistency would compel action far closer to home. By the logic now advanced, there would be a far stronger legal and moral case to seize Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, given the extensive documentation of mass civilian harm and credible allegations of genocide arising from Israel’s conduct in Gaza.

Yet no such logic is entertained. The reason is obvious. This is not law. It is power selecting its targets.

Regime change is not an aberration in American foreign policy. It is a habit with a long paper trail, from Iran in 1953 to Guatemala in 1954, Chile in 1973 and Iraq in 2003.

But the kidnapping of a sitting president marks a new low. This is precisely the conduct the post-1945 legal order was designed to prohibit. The ban on the use of force is not a technicality. It is the central nervous system of international law. To violate it without authorisation is to announce that rules bind only the weak.

The US understands this perfectly. It is acting anyway and in doing so is conducting the autopsy of the UN Charter system itself.

The rot does not stop there. Washington has repeatedly violated its obligations under the UN Charter and the UN Headquarters Agreement. It has denied entry to officials it disfavours. Preventing the Palestinian president from addressing the UN General Assembly in person last year was not a diplomatic faux pas. It was a treaty breach by the host state of the world’s principal multilateral institution.

The message was unmistakable. Access to the international system and adherence to the UN Charter is conditional on American approval.

The UN was designed to constrain power, not flatter it. Today, it increasingly fails to constrain serious international law violations. Paralysed by vetoes, bullied by its host and ignored by those most capable of violating its charter, the UN has drifted from the supposed guardian of legality to a stage prop for its erosion.

At some point, denial becomes self-deception. The system has failed in its core promise. Not because international law is naive but because its most powerful beneficiary has decided it is optional.

It is, therefore, time to say the unsayable: The UN should be permanently relocated away from a host state that treats treaty obligations as inconveniences. And the international community must begin a serious, sober conversation about an alternative global structure whose authority is not hostage to one capital, one veto or one currency – or a system whose powers supersede the UN precisely because the UN has been hollowed out from within.

Law cannot survive as a slogan. Either it restrains those who wield the most force, or it is merely rhetoric deployed against those who do not. What the US has done in Venezuela is not a defence of order. It is a confirmation that international order has been replaced by preference. And preferences, unlike law, recognise no limits.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Within hours of a massive operation of regime change in Venezuela, United States President Donald Trump revelled in his “success”. He posted a photo of Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro in handcuffs and then addressed the American public.

He praised the military for launching “one of the most stunning, effective and powerful displays of American military might” in US history, allegedly rendering Venezuelan forces “powerless”. He announced that Maduro and his wife would be indicted in New York for “narcoterrorism” and claimed – without evidence – that US operations have reduced maritime drug trafficking by 97 percent.

Trump went further, declaring that the US would “run the country” until an unspecified transition could be arranged, while openly threatening a “second and much larger attack”. Crucially, he framed these claims within a broader assertion of US “domination over the Western Hemisphere”, explicitly invoking the 1823 Monroe Doctrine.

The US military intervention in Venezuela represents something far more dangerous than a single act of aggression. It is the latest manifestation of a centuries-old pattern of US interference that has left Latin America scarred. The regime change operation in Caracas is a clear sign the Trump administration is embracing this old policy of interventionism with renewed fervour. And that bodes ill for the region.

That this attack targeted Maduro’s repressive and corrupt government, which was responsible for the immense suffering of many Venezuelans, makes the situation no less catastrophic. Washington’s long history of supporting brutal dictatorships across the region strips away any pretence of moral authority. Trump himself can hardly claim any moral high ground given that he is himself embroiled in a major political scandal due to his close ties with convicted paedophile Jeffrey Epstein and has maintained unconditional support for Israel’s genocide in Gaza.

The Trump administration’s attack on Venezuela solidifies a catastrophic pattern of violations of international law. If the US can unilaterally launch military strikes against sovereign nations at a whim, then the entire framework of international law becomes meaningless. This tells every nation that might and power trump legality and sovereignty.

For Latin America specifically, the implications are chilling. To understand why this attack reverberates so painfully across the region, one must take a quick look at its history. The US has orchestrated or supported coups and military dictatorships throughout the region with disturbing regularity.

In Guatemala in 1954, the CIA overthrew the democratically elected government of Jacobo Arbenz. In Chile in 1973, the US backed the coup that brought Augusto Pinochet to power and ushered in an era of unchecked political violence. In 1983, the US invaded and occupied the island of Grenada to overthrow its socialist government. In Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay, and throughout Central America, Washington provided training, funding and political cover for military regimes that tortured dissidents and murdered civilians.

The new question now is, if the US carried out regime change in Venezuela so easily, who is next? Colombia’s President Gustavo Petro, who has been at odds with the Trump administration, was quick to react – and is right to be concerned, as in December, Trump threatened an intervention, saying “he’ll be next“. Others in the region are also nervous.

Beyond the looming threat of US intervention, Latin America now also faces the potential regional instability that a regime change in Caracas is likely to create. The political crisis under Maduro had already spilled beyond its borders into neighbouring Colombia and Brazil, where Venezuelans fled poverty and repression. One can only imagine the ripple effect the US-enacted regime change will have.

There are probably many Venezuelans who are celebrating Maduro’s ouster. However, the US intervention directly undermines the political opposition in Venezuela. It would allow the regime, which appears to retain power, to paint all opposition as foreign agents, eroding its legitimacy.

The Venezuelan people deserve democracy, but they have to achieve it themselves with international support, not to have it imposed at gunpoint by a foreign power with a documented history of caring more about resources and geopolitical dominance than human rights.

Latin Americans deserve better than to choose between homegrown authoritarianism and imported violence. What they need is not American bombs but genuine respect for self-determination.

The US has no moral authority to attack Venezuela, regardless of Maduro’s authoritarian nature. Both can be true: Maduro is a dictator who caused immense harm to his people, and US military intervention is an illegal act of aggression that will not resolve the crisis of democracy in Venezuela.

The region’s future must be determined by people themselves, free from the shadow of empire.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Move comes nearly two decades after the Balkan country entered the EU as hope for stability clashes with fear of rising prices.

Bulgaria has officially adopted the euro, becoming the 21st country to join the single currency nearly two decades after entering the European Union, a move that has led to both celebration and anxiety.

At midnight on Wednesday (22:00 GMT), the Balkan country abandoned the lev, its national currency since the late 19th century.

Images of Bulgarian euro coins lit up the central bank’s headquarters in Sofia as crowds gathered in freezing temperatures to mark the new year.

“I warmly welcome Bulgaria to the euro family,” said Christine Lagarde, the president of the European Central Bank.

Some residents welcomed the change with optimism. “Great! It works!” said Dimitar, 43, speaking to The Associated Press after withdrawing 100 euros from a cash machine shortly after midnight.

Successive Bulgarian governments have backed euro adoption, arguing it would strengthen the country’s fragile economy, anchor it more firmly within Western institutions and shield it from what officials describe as Russian influence. Bulgaria, with a population of about 6.4 million, remains the poorest member of the EU.

Divided public

Yet public opinion has long remained split. Many Bulgarians fear the euro will drive up prices while wages stagnate, worsening living standards in a country already struggling with political instability.

In a televised address before midnight, President Rumen Radev described the euro as the “final step” in Bulgaria’s integration into the EU.

However, he criticised the absence of a public referendum on the decision.

“This refusal was one of the dramatic symptoms of the deep divide between the political class and the people, confirmed by mass demonstrations across the country,” Radev said.

Bulgaria recently plunged into further uncertainty after anticorruption protests toppled a conservative-led government in December, pushing the country towards its eighth election in five years.

“People are afraid that prices will rise, while salaries will remain the same,” a woman in her 40s told the AFP news agency in Sofia.

At city markets, vendors listed prices in both levs and euros. Not everyone was worried.

“The whole of Europe has managed with the euro, we’ll manage too,” retiree Vlad said.

As we enter 2026, one truth is impossible to ignore: children around the world are facing their greatest levels of need in modern history – just as the humanitarian system meant to protect them and their futures is battling some of its biggest challenges in decades.

The events of 2025 marked a dramatic rupture in global humanitarian and development efforts. When the United States abruptly halted foreign aid in January, billions of dollars vanished overnight. Critical programmes were suspended, offices closed, and millions suddenly lost access to food, healthcare, education, and protection. Overnight, lifelines that communities had depended on for decades were thrown into jeopardy – and children, as always, paid the highest price.

For international NGOs, the shock was immediate and severe. At Save the Children, we were forced to take some of the toughest decisions in our 106-year history. We had to close country offices, cut thousands of staff positions, and wind down life-saving operations. We estimated that about 11.5 million people – including 6.7 million children – would feel the immediate impacts of these cuts, while many more would be impacted in the longer term.

The aid cuts came at a time when children globally were already facing major challenges, from conflict to displacement, to climate change, with decades of progress at risk of being reversed.

The facts are startling. In 2025, one in every five children was living in an active conflict zone where children are being killed, maimed, sexually assaulted and abducted in record numbers. About 50 million children globally are displaced from their homes. Nearly half the world’s children – about 1.12 billion – cannot afford a balanced diet, and some 272 million were out of school.

These numbers point to a global failure. Behind each statistic is a child whose childhood is being cut short, a childhood defined by fear, hunger and lost potential.

For children, the collapse of aid was not an abstract budgetary decision, but it was deeply personal.  Health clinics closed, classrooms closed, and protection services disappeared just as violence, climate shocks and displacement intensified. Years of hard-won progress in child survival, education and rights were suddenly at risk of being undone, leaving millions of children more vulnerable to hunger, exploitation and violence.

The crisis also revealed the fragility of the global aid system itself. When humanitarian support is concentrated among a handful of government donors, sudden political shifts reverberate directly through children’s lives. The events of 2025 showed how quickly international commitments can unravel – and how devastating that can be for the youngest and least protected.

Yet amid this turmoil, something extraordinary happened.

In many places, families, teachers, health workers and local organisations found ways to keep learning going, to provide care, and to create spaces where children could still play, heal and feel safe. These efforts underscored a simple truth: Responses are strongest when they are rooted close to children themselves.

There were also moments of progress. In a year marked by pushback against human rights, important legal reforms advanced children’s protection – from a ban on corporal punishment in Thailand, to the criminalisation of child marriage and the passing of a digital protection law in Bolivia. These gains reminded us that change is possible even in difficult times, when children’s rights are put at the centre of public debate and policy.

Out of the shocks of 2025 has come a moment of reckoning and an opportunity: to adapt, to innovate, towards approaches that are more sustainable, more locally led and more accountable to the people they are meant to serve. For children, this shift is critical. Decisions made closer to communities are more likely to reflect children’s real needs and aspirations.

This period of reinvention has also revived difficult questions that can no longer be postponed. How can life-saving assistance be insulated from political volatility? How can funding be diversified so that children are not abandoned when a single donor withdraws? And how can children and young people meaningfully participate in decisions that shape their futures?

Innovation alone will not save children, but it can help. When digital tools, data and community-led design are used responsibly, they can improve access, accountability and trust. Used poorly, they risk deepening inequalities. The challenge is not technological — it is political and ethical.

Children do not stop wanting to learn, play or dream because bombs fall or aid dries up. In camps, cities and ruined neighbourhoods, they organise, speak out and imagine futures that adults have failed to secure for them. They remind us why our work – and our ability to adapt – matters so profoundly.

In Gaza this year, I witnessed the horrors that children are living through daily, with the war now raging for more than two years and most of the Strip covered in rubble. I saw children facing malnutrition at our healthcare clinics and heard how some now wish to die to join their parents in heaven. No child should ever be living under such terror that death is preferable. They are children, and their voices need to be heard.

If 2025 exposed the failures of the old aid model, 2026 must become a turning point. A different choice is possible — one that builds systems resilient to political shocks, grounded in local leadership and accountable to the children they claim to serve. The challenge now is to reshape our systems so that, no matter how the world changes, we can put children first, always, everywhere.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Saudi Arabia’s strike on Mukalla port has triggered tensions with its partner in the Arab coalition in Yemen and its Gulf Arab neighbour, the United Arab Emirates.

The coalition spokesman, Major-General Turki al-Maliki, said two ships entered the port of Mukalla, carrying more than 80 vehicles and containers of weapons and ammunition destined for the Southern Transitional Council (STC), without informing Saudi Arabia or the internationally recognised Yemeni government.

There are serious differences between the two allies in Yemen, and now it is at its peak and perhaps a turning point that would impact Yemen.

The Yemeni government has lost control of events following a military escalation between Saudi Arabia and the UAE in Hadramout governorate, where Mukalla lies, in December.

The Presidential Leadership Council (PLC) is divided into two factions, each loyal to one party in this conflict. The difference had been simmering for years away from the spotlight until it exploded publicly over the past few days.

Saudi Arabia and the UAE are key members of the Arab military coalition in Yemen, formed to confront the Houthis, who took full control of the capital, Sanaa, by force in 2015 and later imposed their own government.

This conflict of interest between Saudi Arabia and the UAE has been escalating gradually since the UAE-backed Southern Transitional Council (STC) formed in 2017 as a separatist political and military force seeking an independent state in the south – South Yemen – an independent state between 1967 and 1990.

Earlier in December, the STC forces crossed red lines by controlling all southern governorates, including Hadramout and al-Mahra governorates. That did not go down well in Saudi Arabia, which considered the move a threat to its national security.

Hadramout also represents economic depth for Yemen with its oil and gas resources and related infrastructure, and also has a vital border crossing with Saudi Arabia, making it part of the equation for border security and trade.

The latest public fallout between Saudi Arabia and the UAE will cast a dark shadow over the situation in Yemen politically, economically, and militarily. The Yemeni political circles were divided into two camps, with the government members each following one of the external parties to the conflict – Saudi and Emirati.

The clearest outcome of the differences would be seen in the eight-member PLC, an internationally recognised body, which is already divided into camps loyal to Saudi Arabia and the UAE.

One camp is headed by Rashad al-Alimi, the PLC president, and includes Sultan al-Arada, Abdullah al-Alimi Bawazir, and Othman Hussein Mujalli. The second is led by the head of the STC force, Aidarus al-Zoubaidi, and includes Abdul Rahman al-Mahrami (also known as Abu Zaraa), Tariq Mohammed Saleh, and Faraj Salmin al-Bahsani.

The leaders of both camps issued two different statements regarding the calls made by al-Alimi for the UAE to withdraw from Yemen following the Saudi strike on the ships carrying weapons to the STC. One was in favour of the UAE’s exit from Yemen, and the other was against — showing they are representing the interests of regional players and at the same time confirming that Yemen is a venue for a proxy war.

Within the Yemeni political landscape, the quick developments and successive events are pushing Yemen into a new phase of an internal war among political and military components that make up the legitimate government, with new internal fighting among many armed factions.

It is also taking the focus away from the Houthi rebellion in the north, which controlled Sanaa and the most populous provinces in Yemen.

The main goal for the legitimate Yemeni government and the Saudi-led Arab coalition was to confront the Houthis’ takeover. Now, the country is on the brink of collapse and a new phase of turmoil after more than a decade of armed conflict, which could help the Houthis to expand their influence beyond their current areas of control.

The latest event will weaken the Saudi-led coalition further and cast doubt over its cohesion and ability to achieve its declared joint goals for Yemen.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Yesterday, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu paid his fifth visit to the United States since President Donald Trump took office in January. Before the meeting between the two, the Israeli press described the prime minister as fully engaged in an attempt to placate his domestic political partners by achieving “concessions” from Trump. What were these concessions? They were predominantly related to denying Turkiye any presence in the Gaza stabilisation force and to US approval for an Israeli strike on Iran.

Netanyahu failed on both counts. Trump specifically referred to his good relationship with Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, and spoke of “Bibi’s” respect for him, too. With regard to Iran, Trump mentioned Iran’s willingness to “make a deal” and provided clear guidelines for American involvement while saying nothing about authorising a solo Israeli operation. Israeli media suggests that Trump provided Israel with a “green light” for a strike on Iran. That is not reflected in Trump’s official statement in any way.

Trump talked about the reconstruction of Gaza beginning “soon”. When he spoke of the disarmament of Hamas, he said that it must happen or nearly 60 states will make it happen. Hamas has already agreed to disarm if the process is carried out by a Palestinian-led force. Trump said nothing to suggest that he does not agree with Hamas’s logic, especially when one considers the refusal of most participating countries to carry out a violent disarmament of the group. Trump also made no mention of the last hostage body held in Gaza as a necessary condition for moving to “Stage II” of the deal.

Nothing is more significant in Trump’s world than the use of language and symbolic gestures. When Trump referred to Netanyahu as a “great wartime prime minister” as he was discussing his blueprint for “peace”, he made it clear that his guest was running out of time. This was also clearly apparent when Trump said he had spoken with Israel’s official head of state, President Isaac Herzog, about a pardon for Netanyahu and was assured such a pardon was imminent. President Herzog, by the way, categorically denied that such a conversation had taken place.

What may be the best reflection of the Trump-Netanyahu meeting at Mar-a-Lago has to do with a brief conversation over the phone between Trump and Israeli Minister of Education Yoav Kish. The purpose of the call was for Kish to inform Trump that he will be awarded the Israel Prize on Israel’s Independence Day in 2026.

The award is given out by the minister of education in a televised ceremony attended by Israel’s leaders. It marks the official end of Independence Day celebrations. Its recipients are most frequently career academics at a late stage of their careers. The prize reflects a lifetime’s devotion to the expansion of human knowledge. Sometimes, special prizes are awarded in civic categories, most often for what is called a “life’s work”, such as fostering coexistence between Jews and Palestinians, promoting social equality, etc.

The prize, as understood by its name, is nearly always awarded to Israeli citizens but can be awarded to Jews living abroad and even to non-Jews who have made a “special contribution to the Jewish people”.

In other words, the Trump-Netanyahu meeting involved Trump instructing Netanyahu with regard to upcoming measures and Netanyahu snapping to attention and signalling his acceptance by heaping yet another semi-fictitious honour on Trump’s already crowded head.

Yet, despite these clear displays of the unequal nature of their relationships, there have been persistent voices suggesting that Trump and Netanyahu are operating in cahoots. According to such analyses, the United States fully supports the Israeli attempt to “change the Middle East” – Netanyahu’s favourite phrase – as the Americans make a pivot to Asia and the global race for dominance with China.

Israel will “take care” of the “Iranian threat” as the Arabs languish in their own irresolvable internal tensions and competitions. The mobilisation of Arab states after the Israeli strike on Doha is all but ignored.

These voices also point to the fact that Israel continues to completely ignore the “ceasefire” enacted by “Stage I” of the Trump plan, and does so with the full support of the United States. In fact, Trump said that Israel has “lived up” to the ceasefire “100 percent”, and that he has no problems with Israel’s actions in Gaza. These include bombing, destruction of buildings and infrastructure, the blocking of life-saving aid amid harsh weather and many other steps that ensure and expand the ongoing Israeli genocide.

It is indeed extremely difficult to reconcile this with the notion that Israel has run out of options for delaying Stage II and an internationally-brokered solution to Palestinian statehood. After all, one hears repeatedly from Israeli media about initiatives to “settle Gaza”, “relocate” 1.5 million Palestinians to Somaliland and dismantle the Oslo Accords, one ethnically cleansed Palestinian community at a time.

The US and other countries, like Germany and the UK, continue to buy Israeli arms at a massive rate and to equip Israel with arms of their own. How is it possible to reach a conclusion that the Israeli genocide is reaching its endgame?

The short answer is that it is not. Israel continues to kill, destroy, subvert and expand its efforts to destabilise any semblance of regional order. For example, Israel recognised the statehood of Somaliland in order to have a “dumping ground” for ethnically cleansed Palestinians, but also to pit the United Arab Emirates against Saudi Arabia, as both have conflicting interests in Somalia, and, by doing so, ensure that the Palestinian question is not addressed and that everyone remains frozen by fear of Israeli weapons.

The longer answer recognises the effects of this genocide on Israel itself: Genocide consumes genocidaires.

That is not to suggest that justice is assured by cosmic forces; far from it. Justice should be pursued at the most grounded and realistic level, as should the dignity and preservation of Palestinian lives.

However, the genocide has shaped Israel in its image on a daily, immediate level. Violence is rising as quickly as the prices of the staples, democracy is backsliding, and there is no end in sight to the “forever war”. This is not an abstract, “strategic” matter.

While Israel has been actively seeking to delete Palestinian identity for nearly 80 years, it has not succeeded in doing so. Israel’s internal contradictions have surfaced with paralysing force over the past two years.

Israel will not “die” or “recede”, but the gap between Israeli perceptions of the world and global perceptions of Israel has never been wider.

Trump and his vision of America do not appreciate “losers”. Israel no longer has any “wins” in the offing. It can and does kill and burn, procrastinate and obfuscate.

Even Trump recognises that this power has no lasting effects following its own immediate application. Israel has no options. There is no greater loss.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

The intensity of the current backlash against Alaa Abdelfattah in Britain is striking – not because it reflects a renewed concern for justice, but because it exposes how selectively outrage is deployed.

Alaa, an Egyptian-British writer and activist, spent more than a decade in and out of Egyptian prisons following the 2011 uprising that toppled President Hosni Mubarak. His detention was marked by prolonged hunger strikes, denial of basic rights and treatment that human rights organisations described as cruel and degrading. He was released on September 23 after a years-long campaign by his mother, sister and close friends. A travel ban on him was lifted only this month, and he was able to join his family in the UK on December 26.

Alaa left behind a decade of repression in Cairo only to be welcomed in London with public attacks and a call for the revocation of his British citizenship and his deportation. Public hostility was whipped up by the uncovering of a social media post from 2010 in which Alaa said he considered “killing any colonialists … heroic”, including Zionists.

The tweet has been widely condemned, referred to the counter-terrorism police for review, and seized upon by politicians calling for punitive measures.

The speed and intensity of this reaction stand in stark contrast to the silence surrounding far more consequential statements and actions that the UK not only tolerates but actively enables.

This is what selective outrage looks like.

While Alaa’s words are dissected and framed as a moral emergency, the UK continues to host and collaborate with senior Israeli officials who have been accused of participating in and inciting genocide.

In July, for example, Israel’s air force chief Tomer Bar – the man who has overseen the carpet bombing of Gaza, destruction of hospitals, schools and homes and the extermination of entire families – was granted special legal immunity to visit the UK. Reporting by Declassified UK showed that this immunity shielded him from arrest for war crimes while on British soil.

There has been no comparable outcry over this.

Israeli President Isaac Herzog was also able to pay a visit to the UK in September and hold high-level meetings. This is the same man who, at the start of the genocide, suggested that the “entire [Palestinian] nation” is responsible and that “This rhetoric about civilians not aware, not involved – it’s not true.” This and other statements by Herzog have been collected in a large database that currently supports the genocide case against Israel at the International Court of Justice (ICJ).

Yet, despite being accused of incitement to genocide, the Israeli president entered the UK without a problem and was welcomed by Prime Minister Keir Starmer. Those quarters concerned about Alaa’s tweet displayed no outrage over the visit of a potential war criminal.

They have also been silent about British citizens who have travelled to serve in the Israeli military, including during Israel’s offensives in Gaza and the ongoing genocide. These operations, documented by the United Nations, Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, have resulted in tens of thousands of civilian deaths, the destruction of hospitals and universities, and the devastation of entire neighbourhoods.

Despite extensive documentation of war crimes and crimes against humanity, and the ICJ’s warning of a serious risk of genocide, there has been no systematic investigation into whether British nationals may have been involved in violations of international law.

Again, there is little sustained outrage.

At the same time, the UK continues to license arms exports to Israel and to engage in political, military and intelligence cooperation. These policies have persisted even as international bodies have warned of grave humanitarian consequences and potential violations of international law. All of this unfolds with relatively little political cost.

And yet it is a decade-old tweet – not mass killing, not siege, not the destruction of civilian life on a vast scale, not incitement to genocide – that triggers political panic in the UK.

This contrast is not incidental. It reveals a hierarchy of outrage in which dissenting voices are policed and punished, and state violence is not, and in which public hostility is directed downward at individuals rather than upward at power. Alaa’s case shows how moral language is deployed selectively – not to restrain impunity, but to manage discomfort.

This asymmetry corrodes the credibility of the principles the UK claims to uphold. When human rights are defended selectively, they become tools of convenience rather than universal norms. When outrage is loud but inconsistent, it becomes performative. And when accountability is withheld from powerful allies, impunity hardens into policy.

Those who defend this approach often invoke “quiet diplomacy”, arguing that restraint is more effective than confrontation. Yet there is little evidence that silence has delivered accountability – either for Alaa or for civilians subjected to mass violence in Gaza. In both cases, discretion has functioned less as a strategy than as permission.

The UK has the tools to act differently: Suspending arms exports, investigating potential crimes by its nationals, conditioning cooperation on respect for international law, restricting visits by officials implicated in serious abuses. That these tools remain largely unused is itself revealing.

Until that changes, outrage will remain selective, accountability conditional, and impunity intact – widening the gap between the values the UK professes and the violence it continues to enable.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

I am a Palestinian. And increasingly, that fact alone is treated as a provocation.

In recent months, I have watched anti-Semitism — a real, lethal form of hatred with a long and horrific history — be stripped of its meaning and weaponised to silence Palestinians, criminalise solidarity with us, and shield Israel from accountability as it carries out a genocide in Gaza. This is not about protecting Jewish people. It is about protecting power.

The pattern is now impossible to ignore.

A children’s educator, Ms Rachel, whose entire public work is built around care, learning, and empathy, is branded “Anti-Semite of the Year” — not for her engaging in any form of hate speech, but for expressing concern for Palestinian children. For acknowledging that children in Gaza are being bombed, starved, and traumatised. For expressing compassion.

As a Palestinian, I hear the message clearly: even empathy for our children is dangerous.

Then there is Palestine Action, a protest movement that targets weapons manufacturers supplying Israel’s military. Instead of being debated, challenged, or even criticised within a democratic framework, it is proscribed as a “terrorist” organisation, casually equated with ISIL (ISIS) – a group responsible for mass executions, sexual slavery, and genocidal violence.

This comparison is not just obscene. It is deliberate. It collapses the meaning of “terrorism” so completely that political dissent becomes extremism by definition. Resistance becomes pathology. Protest becomes “terror”. And Palestinians, once again, are framed not as a people under occupation, but as a permanent threat.

Language itself is now being criminalised. Phrases like “globalise the Intifada” are banned without any serious engagement with history or meaning. Intifada — a word that literally means “shaking off” — is torn from its political context as an uprising against military occupation and reduced to a slur. Palestinians are denied even the right to name their resistance.

At the same time, international law is being actively dismantled.

Staff and judges at the International Criminal Court are sanctioned and intimidated for daring to investigate Israeli war crimes. Francesca Albanese, the United Nations special rapporteur on Palestine, has not only been sanctioned, but also relentlessly smeared — because she uses the language of international law to describe occupation, apartheid, and genocide.

When international law is applied to African leaders, it is celebrated.
When it is applied to Israel, it is treated as an act of hostility.

This brings us to Australia — and to one of the most revealing moments of all.

After the horrific Bondi Beach attack, which shocked and horrified people across Australia, Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu accused the Australian government of encouraging anti-Semitism. Not because of any incitement, not because of inflammatory rhetoric — but because Australia had moved towards recognising Palestine as a state.

Read that again.

The diplomatic recognition of Palestinian statehood — long framed as essential to peace and grounded in international law — is presented as a moral failing, even as a contributor to anti-Semitic violence. Palestinian existence itself is treated as the problem.

What makes this moment so disturbing is not only that Netanyahu made this claim, but that so many centres of power ran with it rather than challenged it.

Instead of forcefully rejecting the idea that recognising Palestinian rights could “encourage anti-Semitism”, governments, institutions, and commentators allowed the premise to stand. Some echoed it outright. Others stayed silent. Almost none confronted the dangerous logic at its core: that Palestinian political recognition is inherently destabilising, provocative, or threatening.

This is how moral collapse happens — not with thunder, but with acquiescence.

The result is not safety for the Jewish people, but erasure of the Palestinian people.

As a Palestinian, I find it devastating.

It means my identity is not merely contested — it is criminalised. My grief is not simply ignored — it is politicised. My demand for justice is not debated — it is pathologised as hatred.

Anti-Semitism is real. It must be confronted seriously and without hesitation. The Jewish people deserve safety, dignity, and protection — everywhere. But when anti-Semitism is stretched to include children’s educators, UN experts, international judges, protest movements, chants, words, and even the diplomatic recognition of Palestine, then the term no longer serves to protect Jewish people.

It protects a state from accountability.

Worse still, this weaponisation endangers Jews by collapsing Jewish identity into the actions of a government committing mass atrocities. It tells the world that Israel speaks for all Jews — and that anyone who objects must therefore be hostile to Jews themselves. That is not protection. It is recklessness masquerading as morality.

For Palestinians like me, the psychological toll is immense.

I am tired of having to preface every sentence with disclaimers.

I am deeply pained by watching my people starve while being lectured about tone.

I am angry that international law seems to apply only in certain politically convenient cases.

And I am grieving — not just for Gaza, but for the moral collapse unfolding around it.

Opposing genocide is not anti-Semitism.

Solidarity is not “terrorism”.

Recognising Palestine is not incitement.

Naming your suffering is not violence.

If the world insists on calling me an anti-Semite for refusing to accept the annihilation of my people, then it is not anti-Semitism that is being countered.

It is genocide that is being justified.

And history will remember who helped make that possible.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

The recent strikes by the United States on alleged ISIL (ISIS) targets in northwest Nigeria have been presented in Washington as a decisive counter-terror response. For the supporters of the administration of US President Donald Trump, the unprecedented operation signalled his country’s renewed resolve in confronting terrorism. It is also making good on Trump’s pledge to take action on what he claims is a “Christian genocide” in Nigeria.

But beneath the spectacle of military action lies a sobering reality: Bombing campaigns of this nature are unlikely to improve Nigeria’s security or help stabilise the conflict-racked country. On the contrary, the strikes risk misrepresenting the conflict and distracting from the deeper structural crisis that is driving violence.

The first problem with the strikes is their lack of strategic logic. The initial strikes were launched in Sokoto in northwest Nigeria, a region that has experienced intense turmoil over the past decade. But this violence is not primarily driven by an ideological insurgency linked to ISIL, and no known ISIL-linked groups are operating in the region. Instead, security concerns in this region are rooted in banditry, the collapse of rural economies, and competition for land. Armed groups here are fragmented and motivated largely by profit.

The Christmas Day strikes appear to have focused on a relatively new ideological armed group called Lakurawa, though its profile and any connection to ISIL are yet to be fully established.

The ideological armed groups with the strongest presence in northern Nigeria are Boko Haram and the ISIL-affiliate in West Africa Province (ISWAP). The centre of these groups’ activity remains hundreds of kilometres from Sokoto, in the northeast of Nigeria – the states of Borno, Yobe and Adamawa – where insurgency has a long history. This begs the question: Why strike the northwest first? The logic is unclear.

Equally concerning is the uncertainty surrounding casualties. So far, we have no authoritative figures. Some social media accounts claim there were no human casualties, suggesting the bombs fell on empty targets. Security analyst Brant Philip posted on his social media platform X: “According to a private source familiar with the US operation against the Islamic State in Nigeria, several strikes were launched, but most of the individuals and groups targeted were missed, and the actual damage inflicted remains mostly unknown.”

Nigerian news platform Arise TV reported on X that locals confirmed the incident caused widespread panic; according to its correspondent, at least one of the attacks happened in a district that had not suffered from violence before. They also noted that the full impact of the attack, including whether there were civilian casualties, is yet to be determined.

Other social media accounts have circulated images alleging civilian casualties, though these claims remain unverified. In a context where information warfare operates alongside armed conflict, speculation often travels faster than facts. The lack of transparent data on casualties from the US government risks deepening mistrust among communities already wary of foreign military involvement.

Symbolism also matters. The attack took place on Christmas Day, a detail that carries emotive and political significance. For many Muslims in northern Nigeria, the timing risks being interpreted as an act of supporting a broader narrative of a Western “crusade” against the Muslim community.

Even more sensitive is the location of the strikes: Sokoto. Historically, it is the spiritual seat of the 19th-century Sokoto Caliphate, a centre of Islamic authority and expansion revered by Nigerian Muslims. Bombing such a symbolic centre risks inflaming anti-US sentiment, deepening religious suspicion, and giving hardline propagandists fertile ground to exploit. Rather than weakening alleged ISIL influence, the strikes could inadvertently energise recruitment and amplify grievance narratives.

If air strikes cannot solve Nigeria’s security crisis, what can?

The answer lies not in foreign military intervention. Nigeria’s conflicts are symptoms of deeper governance failures: Weakened security, corruption, and the absence of the state in rural communities. In the northwest, where banditry thrives, residents often negotiate with armed groups not because they sympathise with them, but because the state is largely absent to provide them with security and basic services. In the northeast, where Boko Haram emerged, years of government neglect, heavy-handed security tactics, and economic exclusion created fertile ground for insurgency.

The most sustainable security response must therefore be multi-layered. It requires investment in community-based policing, dialogue, and pathways for deradicalisation. It demands a state presence that protects rather than punishes. It means prioritising intelligence gathering, strengthening local authorities, and restoring trust between citizens and government institutions.

The US strikes may generate headlines and satisfy a domestic audience, but on the ground in Nigeria, they risk doing little more than empowering hardline messaging and deepening resentment.

Nigerians do not need the US to bomb their country into security and stability. They need autochthonous reform: Localised long-term support to rebuild trust, restore livelihoods, and strengthen state institutions. Anything less is a distraction.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Every December, much of the Christian world enters a familiar cycle of celebration: carols, lights, decorated trees, consumer frenzy and the warm imagery of a snowy night. In the United States and Europe, public discourse often speaks of “Western Christian values”, or even the vague notion of “Judeo-Christian civilisation”. These phrases have become so common that many assume, almost automatically, that Christianity is inherently a Western religion — an expression of European culture, history and identity.

It is not.

Christianity is, and has always been, a West Asian / Middle Eastern religion. Its geography, culture, worldview and founding stories are rooted in this land — among peoples, languages and social structures that look far more like those in today’s Palestine, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, and Jordan than anything imagined in Europe. Even Judaism, invoked in the term “Judeo-Christian values”, is itself a thoroughly Middle Eastern phenomenon. The West received Christianity — it certainly did not give birth to it.

And perhaps nothing reveals the distance between Christianity’s origins and its contemporary Western expression more starkly than Christmas — the birth story of a Palestinian Jew, a child of this land who was born long before modern borders and identities emerged.

What the West made of Christmas

In the West, Christmas is a cultural marketplace. It is commercialised, romanticised and wrapped in layers of sentimentality. Lavish gift-giving overshadows any concern for the poor. The season has become a performance of abundance, nostalgia, and consumerism — a holiday stripped of its theological and moral core.

Even the familiar lines of the Christmas song Silent Night obscure the true nature of the story: Jesus was not born into serenity but into upheaval.

He was born under military occupation, to a family displaced by an imperial decree, in a region living under the shadow of violence. The holy family were forced to flee as refugees because the infants of Bethlehem, according to the Gospel narrative, were massacred by a fearful tyrant determined to preserve his reign. Sound familiar?

Indeed, Christmas is a story of empire, injustice and the vulnerability of ordinary people caught in its path.

Bethlehem: Imagination vs reality

For many in the West, Bethlehem – the birthplace of Jesus – is a place of imagination — a postcard from antiquity, frozen in time. The “little town” is remembered as a quaint village from scripture rather than a living, breathing city with actual people, with a distinct history and culture.

Bethlehem today is surrounded by walls and checkpoints built by an occupier. Its residents live under a system of apartheid and fragmentation. Many feel cut off, not only from Jerusalem – which the occupier does not allow them to visit – but also from the global Christian imagination that venerates Bethlehem’s past while often ignoring its present.

This sentiment also explains why so many in the West, while celebrating Christmas, care little about the Christians of Bethlehem. Even worse, many embrace theologies and political attitudes that erase or dismiss our presence entirely in order to support Israel, the empire of today.

In these frameworks, ancient Bethlehem is cherished as a sacred idea, but modern Bethlehem — with its Palestinian Christians suffering and struggling to survive — is an inconvenient reality that needs to be ignored.

This disconnect matters. When Western Christians forget that Bethlehem is real, they disconnect from their spiritual roots. And when they forget that Bethlehem is real, they also forget that the story of Christmas is real.

They forget that it unfolded among a people who lived under empire, who faced displacement, who longed for justice, and who believed that God was not distant but among them.

What Christmas means for Bethlehem

So what does Christmas look like when told from the perspective of the people who still live where it all began — the Palestinian Christians? What meaning does it hold for a tiny community that has preserved its faith for two millennia?

At its heart, Christmas is the story of the solidarity of God.

It is the story of God who does not rule from afar, but is present among the people and takes the side of those on the margins. The incarnation — the belief that God took on flesh — is not a metaphysical abstraction. It is a radical statement about where God chooses to dwell: in vulnerability, in poverty, among the occupied, among those with no power except the power of hope.

In the Bethlehem story, God identifies not with emperors but with those suffering under empire — its victims. God comes not as a warrior but as an infant. God is present not in a palace but in a manger. This is divine solidarity in its most striking form: God joins the most vulnerable part of humanity.

Christmas, then, is the proclamation of a God who confronts the logic of empire.

For Palestinians today, this is not merely theology — it is lived experience. When we read the Christmas story, we recognise our own world: the census that forced Mary and Joseph to travel resembles the permits, checkpoints and bureaucratic controls that shape our daily lives today. The holy family’s flight resonates with the millions of refugees who have fled wars across our region. Herod’s violence echoes in the violence we see around us.

Christmas is a Palestinian story par excellence.

A message to the world

Bethlehem celebrates Christmas for the first time after two years without public festivities. It was painful yet necessary for us to cancel our celebrations; we had no choice.

A genocide was unfolding in Gaza, and as people who still live in the homeland of Christmas, we could not pretend otherwise. We could not celebrate the birth of Jesus while children his age were being pulled dead from the rubble.

Celebrating this season does not mean the war, the genocide, or the structures of apartheid have ended. People are still being killed. We are still besieged.

Instead, our celebration is an act of resilience — a declaration that we are still here, that Bethlehem remains the capital of Christmas, and that the story this town tells must continue.

At a time when Western political discourse increasingly weaponises Christianity as a marker of cultural identity — often excluding the very people among whom Christianity was born — it is vital to return to the roots of this story.

This Christmas, our invitation to the global church — and to Western Christians in particular — is to remember where the story began. To remember that Bethlehem is not a myth but a place where people still live. If the Christian world is to honour the meaning of Christmas, it must turn its gaze to Bethlehem — not the imagined one, but the real one, a town whose people today still cry out for justice, dignity and peace.

To remember Bethlehem is to remember that God stands with the oppressed — and that the followers of Jesus are called to do the same.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

United States President Donald Trump’s second administration has introduced a bold and unconventional strategy for the Middle East. The administration intends to recalibrate US influence in a region historically scarred by conflict, prioritising regional stability through economic strength and military consolidation by asserting a stronger, business-minded US presence.

At the centre of Trump’s ambitious goal is what the new US envoy to Iraq, Mark Savaya, described as his goal to “make Iraq great again”. This approach moves away from traditional endless war tactics towards a transactional, results-oriented diplomacy that aims to restore Iraqi sovereignty and economic vitality. It could be the “great gamble” for Trump, who seeks an Iraq that serves as a stable, sovereign regional hub rather than a battleground for foreign interests.

Trump’s primary plans and wishes for Iraq involve a twofold mission: consolidating all armed forces under the command of the legitimate state and drastically reducing the influence of malign foreign players, most notably Iran. The administration seeks to open Iraqi markets to international investment, upgrade the country’s infrastructure, and secure the independence of its energy sector. Hence, the plan is to ground a genuine partnership that respects Iraq’s unity while ensuring that it is no longer a central node for militia activity or external interference.

Militias and political gridlock

This assertive US strategy lands directly in a highly contested and fractured political environment in Iraq, which is less a single state than a patchwork of competing powers. The heart of the problem lies not just in parliament, but also in the persistent shadow influence of armed factions and militias that often operate outside the formal chain of state command. Those groups were among the biggest winners in the November 2025 elections.

Now the ongoing government negotiations have thrown a stark light on these non-state actors.

Their power raises crucial concerns for the future: How can Iraq enforce the law and, crucially, attract the foreign investment needed for revival if armed groups challenge state authority? The consolidation of the country’s armed forces under complete state control is an urgent necessity, underscored by rising regional tensions and security threats.

Moreover, the path to achieving genuine stability is severely obstructed by entrenched political interests.

For Iraq to achieve stability, it must urgently strengthen its institutional frameworks and clearly establish a separation of powers. Yet, many political parties seem more focused on maintaining control over lucrative state resources than on implementing the meaningful reforms the country desperately needs. The result is a governance model struggling to stand firm amid the crosscurrents of competing loyalties and power grabs.

Washington’s play

To achieve these high-stakes goals, Trump has bypassed traditional diplomatic channels by appointing Mark Savaya as the US special envoy to Iraq on October 19. Such an appointment signals a shift towards “deal-making” diplomacy. Savaya’s mission is to navigate the complex political turmoil following Iraq’s parliamentary elections to steer the country towards a stable transition. His job is to bridge the gap between institutional support and massive financial investment, acting as a direct representative of Trump’s business-centric foreign policy.

Savaya is an Iraqi-born, Detroit-based businessman lacking the traditional diplomatic background; his experience is rooted in the private sector in the cannabis industry, but he gained political prominence as an active supporter of Trump’s campaign in Michigan.

He played a key role in the delicate negotiations that secured the release of Elizabeth Tsurkov, the Israeli-Russian academic and Princeton University student who had been kidnapped by an Iraqi militia for more than two years.

Savaya’s communal and ethnic ties have given him significant access to Iraqi power centres that traditional diplomats often lack.

The Iran factor

Iraq’s position in a geopolitical tug-of-war is compounding the internal struggles, forced to balance its critical relationships with two giants: the US and Iran. On the one hand, Washington’s objective is clear: it wants to bolster Iraq’s sovereignty while simultaneously pushing back against the dominance of powerful, often Iran-backed, militias. The US believes that allowing these armed groups too much sway could leave the nation isolated and wreck its fragile economic stability.

But Iranian influence remains a formidable and enduring force. Tehran views Iraq not just as a neighbour but also as a crucial strategic ally for projecting its power across the entire region. The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) has been actively working to maintain unity among key Shia factions in Baghdad. This move clearly signals Iran’s deep and enduring interest in shaping Iraq’s political alignment and its future path. Iraq must therefore navigate this high-stakes balancing act to survive.

Savaya’s mission unfolds at a time when Iran’s regional “axis of resistance” is under unprecedented pressure. Having already lost their primary foothold in Syria after the fall of the Assad regime in late 2024, and seeing Hezbollah’s political and military standing in Lebanon severely decimated by the 2025 conflict with Israel, Iranian proxies now face the very real prospect of losing their grip on Iraq too.

In Lebanon, a new government is committed to regaining the state’s monopoly on the use of force, leaving Hezbollah increasingly isolated. This regional retreat means that for Tehran, maintaining influence in Baghdad is a final, desperate stand to remain a relevant regional power.

Other regional actors

The success of Trump’s gamble also depends on the roles of other regional players. Turkiye has recently recalibrated its strategy to integrate Iraq into ad hoc regional trade and security frameworks, effectively diluting Iran’s centrality. Simultaneously, Gulf monarchies such as Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates are emerging as key economic and security partners for Baghdad, offering an alternative to reliance on Iran.

However, these regional actors also bring their own agendas — such as Turkiye’s focus on containing Kurdish movements — which may conflict with US objectives. If Savaya can successfully align these diverse regional interests with Trump’s plan, he may fundamentally rewrite Iraq’s turbulent future.

A realist pragmatism

The “Make Iraq Great Again” strategy reflects a pragmatic reassertion of US interests within the anarchic international system, prioritising Washington’s security and economic power over idealistic goals.

By appointing Savaya — an unconventional, business-oriented envoy — the Trump administration is employing “transactional realism”, utilising economic diplomacy and personal ties as strategic tools to pull Iraq away from Iran’s orbit. This approach views the US-Iran rivalry as a zero-sum game of power politics, where integrating Iraq’s armed forces under centralised state control is fundamental to restoring a state-centric order and sidelining non-state militias that currently feed Tehran’s regional influence.

The new US envoy to Iraq has made clear that “there is no place for armed groups in a fully sovereign Iraq”. His calls resonated with Iraqi officials and militia leaders alike – now at least three militias close to Iran have publicly agreed to disarm. However, other groups have yet to do the same, while rejecting the call from the outset.

However, this high-stakes attempt to shift the regional balance of power faces a significant “security dilemma”, as aggressive moves to diminish Iranian influence may trigger a violent defensive response from Tehran to protect its remaining strategic assets. While the strategy seeks to exploit a regional shift – leveraging the weakened state of Iranian proxies in Syria and Lebanon – it must contend with the “hybrid” power of Iraqi militias and the narrow self-interests of neighbouring players like Turkiye and the Gulf states.

The success of this gamble depends on whether the US can dismantle the shadow economies that facilitate foreign interference and establish a stable, autonomous Iraqi state capable of navigating the intense geopolitical tug-of-war between Washington and Tehran.

The stakes for Iraq’s future

Ultimately, the appointment of Savaya serves as the definitive stress test for Iraqi sovereignty, marking a high-stakes transition towards a transactional “America First” strategy aimed at “Making Iraq Great Again”. By attempting to consolidate military command under the state and dismantle the shadow economies fuelling Iranian influence, Savaya’s mission seeks to exploit the current regional weakening of Tehran’s proxies to transform Iraq into a stable, autonomous hub.

However, the success of this “Great Gamble” hinges on Savaya’s ability to overcome entrenched political opposition and reconcile the presence of US forces with the demand for national unity. If this unconventional diplomatic push can bridge internal divides — particularly between Baghdad and the semi-autonomous Kurdish region in the north — Iraq may finally secure a path towards economic independence; otherwise, the nation risks remaining a perpetual battleground caught in the geopolitical crossfire between Washington and Tehran.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

The way the story is often told is that Western countries gifted human rights to the world and are the sole guardians of it. It may come as a surprise for some, then, that the international legal framework for prohibiting racial discrimination largely owes its existence to the efforts of states from the Global South.

In 1963, in the midst of the decolonisation wave, a group of nine newly independent African states presented a resolution to the United Nations General Assembly (UNGA) calling for the drafting of an international treaty on the elimination of racial discrimination. As the representative from Senegal observed: “Racial discrimination was still the rule in African colonial territories and in South Africa, and was not unknown in other parts of the world … The time had come to bring all States into that struggle.”

The groundbreaking International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination (ICERD) was unanimously adopted by the UNGA two years later. The convention rejected any doctrine of superiority based on racial differentiation as “scientifically false, morally condemnable and socially unjust”.

Today, as we mark 60 years since its adoption, millions of people around the world continue to face racial discrimination – whether in policing, migration policies or exploitative labour conditions.

In Brazil, Amnesty International documented how a deadly police operation in Rio de Janeiro’s favelas this October resulted in the massacre by security forces of more than 100 people, most of them Afro-Brazilians and living in poverty.

In Tunisia, we have seen how authorities have for the past three years used migration policies to carry out racially targeted arrests and detentions and mass expulsions of Black refugees and asylum seekers.

Meanwhile, in Saudi Arabia, Kenyan female domestic workers face racism and exploitation from their employers, enduring gruelling and abusive working conditions.

In the United States, diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) initiatives aimed at tackling systemic racism have been eliminated across federal agencies. Raids by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) targeting migrants and refugees are a horrifying feature of President Donald Trump’s mass deportation and detention agenda, rooted in white supremacist narratives.

Migrants held in detention centres have been subjected to torture and a pattern of deliberate neglect designed to dehumanise and punish.

Elsewhere, Amnesty International has documented how new digital technologies are automating and entrenching racism, while social media offers inadequately moderated forums for racist and xenophobic content. For example, our investigation into the United Kingdom’s Southport racist riots found that X’s design and policy choices created fertile ground for the inflammatory, racist narratives that resulted in the violent targeting of Muslims and migrants.

Even human rights defenders from the Global South face racial discrimination when they have to apply for visas to Global North countries in order to attend meetings where key decisions are made on human rights.

All these instances of systemic racism have their roots in the legacies of European colonial domination and the racist ideologies on which they were built. This era, which spanned nearly four centuries and extended across six continents, saw atrocities that had historical consequences – from the erasure of Indigenous populations to the transatlantic slave trade.

The revival of anti-right movements globally has led to a resurgence of racist and xenophobic rhetoric, a scapegoating of migrants and refugees, and a retrenchment in anti-discrimination measures and protections.

At the same time, Western states have been all too willing to dismantle international law and institutions to legitimise Israel’s genocide against Palestinians in Gaza and shield Israeli authorities from justice and accountability.

Just as the creation of the ICERD was driven by African states 60 years ago, Global South countries continue to be at the forefront of the fight against racial oppression, injustice and inequality. South Africa notably brought the case against Israel at the International Court of Justice and cofounded The Hague Group – a coalition of eight Global South states organising to hold Israel accountable for genocide.

On the reparations front, it is Caribbean and African states, alongside Indigenous peoples, Africans and people of African descent, that are leading the pursuit of justice. The Caribbean Community (CARICOM) has been intensifying pressure on European governments to reckon with their colonial past, including during a recent visit to the United Kingdom by the CARICOM Reparations Commission.

As the African Union announced 2026-36 the Decade of Reparations last month, African leaders gathered in Algiers for the International Conference on the Crimes of Colonialism, at which they consolidated demands for the codification of colonialism as a crime under international law.

But this is not enough. States still need to confront racism as a structural and systemic issue, and stop pretending slavery and colonialism are a thing of the past with no impact on our present.

Across the world, people are resisting. In Brazil, last month, hundreds of thousands of Afro-Brazilian women led the March of Black Women for Reparations and Wellbeing against racist and gendered historic violence. In the US, people fought back against the wave of federal immigration raids this year, with thousands taking to the streets in Los Angeles to protest and residents of Chicago mobilising to protect migrant communities and businesses against ICE raids.

Governments need to listen to their people and fulfil their obligations under ICERD and national law to protect the marginalised and oppressed against discrimination.

The views expressed in this article are the authors’ own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

For the past 25 years, Somalia’s political transitions have not succeeded by accident. They were sustained through international engagement, pressure, and mediation aimed at preserving fragile political settlements. Today, however, Somalia stands at a dangerous crossroads. The federal government’s unilateral pursuit of power, cloaked in the language of democratic reform, threatens to trigger a legitimacy crisis and undo decades of political gains and international investment.

Universal suffrage is an ideal that all Somalis share. However, deep political disagreement among groups, persistent security challenges, the looming expiry of the government’s mandate, and financial constraints make the timely implementation of universal suffrage nearly impossible.

Pursuing universal suffrage without political consent, institutional readiness, or minimum security guarantees does not deepen democracy or sovereignty; it concentrates power in the hands of incumbents while increasing the risk of fragmentation and parallel authority.

Instead of addressing these constraints through consensus, the government is engaged in a power grab, deploying the rhetoric of universal suffrage. It has unilaterally changed the constitution, which forms the basis of the political settlement. It has also enacted self-serving laws governing electoral processes, political parties, and the Election and Boundaries Commission. Moreover, the government has appointed 18 commissioners, all backed by the ruling Justice and Solidarity Party (JSP).

Meanwhile, Somaliland announced its secession in 1991 and has been seeking recognition for the last three and a half decades. Most of Somalia’s national opposition, along with the leaders of Puntland and Jubbaland Federal Member States, have rejected the government’s approach and formed the Council for the Future of Somalia. These groups have announced plans to organise a political convention in Somalia, signalling their intent to pursue a parallel political process if the government does not listen.

The Federal Government of Somalia does not fully control the country. Al-Shabab controls certain regions and districts and retains the ability to conduct operations well beyond its areas of direct control. Recently, the hardline group attacked a prison located near Villa Somalia, a stark reminder of the fragile security environment in which any electoral process would have to take place.

Given the extent of polarisation and the limited time remaining under the current mandate, the international community must intervene to support Somalia’s sixth political transition in 2026. The most viable way to ensure a safe transition is to promote an improved indirect election model. Somalia’s political class has long experience with indirect elections, having relied on this model five times over the past 25 years. However, even with political agreement, the improved indirect election model for the 2026 dispensation must meet standards of timeliness, feasibility, competitiveness, and inclusivity.

The current government mandate expires on May 15, 2026, and discussions are already under way among government supporters about a unilateral term extension. This must be discouraged. If a political agreement is reached in time, some form of technical extension may be necessary, but this should only occur while the 2026 selection and election processes are actively under way. One way to avoid this recurring crisis would be to establish a firm and binding deadline for elections. Puntland, for example, has maintained a schedule of elections held every five years in January.

The improved indirect election model must also be feasible, meaning it should be straightforward to understand and implement. Political groups could agree on a fixed number of delegates to elect each seat. Recognised traditional elders from each constituency would then select delegates. Delegates from a small cluster of constituencies would collaborate to elect candidates for those seats. This system is far from ideal, but it is workable under current conditions.

Unlike previous attempts, the improved indirect election model must also be genuinely competitive and inclusive. In past elections, politicians manipulated parliamentary selection by restricting competition through a practice known as “Malxiis” (bestman). The preferred candidate introduces a bestman, someone who pretends to compete but is never intended to win. For the upcoming election, the process must allow candidates to compete meaningfully rather than symbolically. A clear threshold of “no manipulation” and “no bestman” must be enforced.

Inclusivity remains another major concern. Women’s seats, which should account for about 30 percent of parliament, have frequently been undermined. Any political agreement must include a clear commitment to inclusivity, and the institutions overseeing the election must be empowered to enforce the women’s quota. Government leaders have also arbitrarily managed seats allocated to Somaliland representatives. Given the unique political circumstances, a separate, negotiated, and credible process is required.

Finally, widespread corruption has long tainted Somalia’s selection and election processes, undermining their integrity. In 2022, the presidents of the Federal Member States managed and manipulated the process. To curb corruption in the 2026 improved indirect election model, one effective measure would be to increase the number of voters per seat by aggregating constituencies. In practice, this would mean combined delegates from several constituencies voting together, reducing opportunities for vote buying.

The international community has previously pressured Somali political actors to reach an agreement, insisting there should be “no term extension or unilateral elections by the government” and “no parallel political projects by the opposition”. This approach, combined with the leverage the international community still holds, can be effective. Somalia’s political class must again be pushed into serious, structured negotiations rather than unilateral manoeuvres.

As before, the international community should clearly define political red lines. The government must refrain from any term extensions or unilateral election projects. At the same time, the opposition must abandon plans for a parallel political agenda, including Federal Member States conducting elections outside a political agreement.

Somalis have repeatedly demonstrated their democratic aspirations. What stands in the way is not public will, but elite polarisation and the instrumentalisation of reform for political survival. At this critical moment, the international community cannot afford to retreat into passivity. Proactive and principled engagement is essential to prevent a legitimacy collapse, safeguard the gains of the past 25 years, and protect the substantial investments made in peacebuilding and state-building in Somalia.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

This week is shaping up to be crucial for the European Union’s policy on Ukraine. EU foreign ministers met in Brussels on Monday; EU heads of state will gather on Thursday. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy is meeting United States envoy Steve Witkoff. At the top of the agenda is the peace plan put forward by US President Donald Trump and continuing funding for Ukraine’s war effort.

The European strategy so far has been to alter the US-proposed peace plan in such a way that it becomes completely unacceptable to Russia. This, as European leaders hope, will reinforce the core narrative emanating from their capitals over the past two months – that Russian President Vladimir Putin is just playing games and doesn’t really want peace.

The idea behind it is to try to sway Trump to their side and have him apply additional military and economic pressure on the Kremlin rather than pressing Ukraine into signing an unsavoury peace deal right away. But this effort could easily backfire.

The main practical issue with regards to Ukraine’s capacity to withstand Russian aggression during 2026 is who is going to fund its army as well as its state and social welfare system. Trump proudly states that the US is no longer financing Ukraine’s war effort because, in his parlance, it is “Biden’s war” – ie, his predecessor Joe Biden is to blame.

The burden of funding is now squarely on Europe – the EU and rich non-EU countries, such as the United Kingdom and Norway. The US keeps providing weapons to Ukraine, but these are being paid for with money from European coffers. US intelligence support, crucial in Ukraine’s war planning, is currently available to Kyiv for free.

European leaders have been vocal and aggressive throughout the year in rejecting any realistic compromise that could end the war. But even as 2025 is ending, there is no clarity as to how they are going to back up their jingoistic rhetoric with sufficient funding that would allow Ukraine not just to stay afloat but tip the balance in the conflict in its favour.

Their plan A is what they call the reparations loan. It envisages using the assets of the Russian Central Bank frozen by European banks to fund the Ukrainian defence. This means that rather than spending the money on actual reparations – as in Ukraine’s post-war restoration – it would be spent on the war itself.

The thinking behind this plan is that once Russia suffers a strategic defeat, it would retroactively agree to the confiscation rather than demand its money back, so European governments would not have to reach into their coffers to return the money to the Russians.

The obvious problem here is that exactly nobody – except war cheerleaders who have been promising Russia’s defeat for the past four years – believes this outcome is even remotely realistic. Belgium, which holds the bulk of these assets, is equally sceptical, which is why it opposes this plan. It has been joined by a growing number of EU states, including the Czech Republic and Italy.

The other big problem is that Trump’s peace plan has radically different designs for the assets in question. It envisages using them as actual reparations, as in spending them on restoring Ukraine’s economy. Most crucially, Moscow has on numerous occasions signalled that it agrees with this part of the plan. It considers the money lost and wants to make sure neighbouring Ukraine does not turn into a failed state.

This means that if the reparations loan plan goes ahead, it would undermine the most attractive provision of Trump’s plan. If this happens, the US and the EU may find themselves more at odds with each other than they already are, and that would hardly sway Trump.

His administration has indicated on a number of occasions that it could walk out of the peace process if it is derailed, which means ending any help to Ukraine, be it with weapons or intelligence.

The reparations loan plan also comes with an enormous risk for the European economy. The confiscation of Russian assets would discourage any central bank in the world from keeping its money in Europe, meaning the European banking system stands to lose.

More importantly, this move cannot guarantee that Ukraine would be able to stop Russia’s slow but steady advancement. Securing funding for another year under the current circumstances basically means that more Ukrainian lives and territory will be lost in 2026.

This money cannot in effect counter the biggest threat to Ukraine and its neighbours right now: that of Russia precipitating a humanitarian catastrophe that could spill over into the region by devastating Ukraine’s energy infrastructure this winter. The latest blackout in Odesa when the whole city was left without water and heating in the middle of winter is a dark prelude of things to come.

All this warrants the question of why European leaders are acting the way they are now. Could their irrational radicalism be explained by their extensive political investment in delusional outcomes of this war that they have been selling to voters for the past four years? Or are they engaging in incessant moral posturing so as to avoid being scapegoated for the real outcome of the war?

There is probably a bit of both. But there is perhaps also an even more sinister motive, recently expressed by Wolfgang Ischinger, chairman of the Munich Security Conference: the idea that “as long as this war is being fought, … Europe is safe because the Ukrainians have successfully tied down this mighty Russian army.” In other words, there are some within the European political elite who perceive ending the war as being against European interests.

But regardless of what those on top think or are motivated by, the war fatigue in Europe is real. The rise of pro-Russia far-right groups in Germany and elsewhere, capitalising on the ruling elites’ shining ineptitude in handling the conflict with Russia, is a clear sign of that.

If the reparations loan scheme does not pass this week, the EU would have to go to plan B, which envisages loaning money from the EU budget. That, of course, would be met with fierce opposition from the European public.

The failure to secure funding for Ukraine may be seen as an embarrassing failure in Europe, but it would make things easier for Zelenskyy. With his administration losing popularity amid continuing military upsets and a major corruption scandal, Ukraine’s president is well on his way to becoming the chief scapegoat in this debacle.

But no more funding from Europe would allow him to declare that the West has betrayed Ukraine and proceed with the inevitable: accepting an unsavoury peace largely on Russia’s terms.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

On December 3, Israel announced that the Rafah border crossing with Egypt would reopen “in the coming days”, allowing Palestinians to leave Gaza for the first time in months. The statement was, of course, framed as a humanitarian gesture that would allow those in urgent need to travel for medical care, education or family reunification to leave.

However, Israel’s announcement was met almost immediately with Egypt’s denial, followed by a firm rejection from several Arab and Muslim states.

To the rest of the world, this response may seem cruel. It may seem like Arab states want to forcibly keep in Gaza Palestinians desperate to evacuate to safety. This fits right into the Israeli narrative that neighbouring Arab countries are responsible for Palestinian suffering because they would not “let them in”.

This is a falsehood that has unfortunately made its way into Western media, even though it is easily disproved.

Let us be clear: No, Arab states are not keeping us against our will in Gaza, and neither is Hamas.

They want to make sure that when and if some of us evacuate temporarily, we are able to come back. We want the same – a guarantee of return. Yet, Israel refuses to grant it; it made clear in its December 3 announcement that the Rafah crossing would be open only one way – for Palestinians to leave.

So this was clearly a move meant to jump-start forced displacement of the Palestinian population from their homeland.

For Palestinians, this is not a new reality but part of a long and deliberate pattern. Since its inception, the Israeli state has focused on the dispossession, erasure, and forced displacement of the Palestinians. In 1948, 750,000 Palestinians were expelled from their homes and were not allowed to return. My 88-year-old grandfather was among them. He still keeps the Tabu (land registry document) for the dunams of land he owns in his village of Barqa, 37km (23 miles) north of Gaza, where we are still not allowed to return.

In 1967, when Israel occupied Gaza, it forbade Palestinians who were studying or working abroad from returning to their homes. In the occupied West Bank, where colonisation has not stopped for the past 58 years, Palestinians are regularly expelled from their homes and lands.

In the past two years alone, Israel has seized approximately 55,000 dunams of Palestinian land, displacing more than 2,800 Palestinians. In Jerusalem, Palestinians whose families had lived in the holy city for centuries risk losing their residency there if they cannot prove it is their “centre of life”. In the past 25 years, more than 10,000 Palestinian residencies have been revoked.

Since October 2023, Israel has repeatedly attempted to engineer forced mass displacement in Gaza – dividing the Strip into isolated zones separated by military corridors and “safe” axes and launching successive operations to push residents of the north towards the south. Each wave of mass bombing carried the same underlying objective: to uproot the people of Gaza from their homes and push them towards the border with Egypt. The most recent push occurred just before the latest ceasefire took effect.

According to Diaa Rashwan, chairman of the Egyptian State Information Service, Cairo rejected Israel’s proposal because it was an attempt to shun its commitments outlined in the second phase of the ceasefire. That phase requires Israel to withdraw from Gaza, support the reconstruction process, allow the Strip to be administered by a Palestinian committee, and facilitate the deployment of a security force to stabilise the situation. By announcing Rafah’s reopening, Israel sought to bypass these obligations and redirect the political conversation towards depopulation rather than reconstruction and recovery.

That Israel wants to create the conditions to make our expulsion inevitable is clear from other policies as well. It continues to bombard the Strip, killing hundreds of civilians and terrorising hundreds of thousands.

It continues to prevent adequate amounts of food and medicines from getting in. It is allowing no reconstruction materials or temporary housing. It is doing everything to maximise the suffering of the Palestinian people.

This reality is made even more brutal by the harsh winter. Cold winds tear through overcrowded camps filled with exhausted people who have endured every form of trauma imaginable. Yet despite hunger, exhaustion, and despair, we continue to cling to our land and reject any Israeli efforts to displace and erase us.

We also reject any form of external guardianship or control over our fate. We demand full Palestinian sovereignty over our land, our resources, and our crossings. Our position is clear: the Rafah crossing must be opened in both directions; not as a tool of displacement, but as a right to free movement.

Rafah must be accessible for those who wish to return, and for those who need to leave temporarily: students seeking to continue their education abroad, patients in urgent need of medical treatment unavailable in Gaza, and families who have been separated and long to be reunited. Thousands of critically ill Palestinians have been denied life-saving care due to the siege, while hundreds of students holding offers and scholarships from prestigious universities around the world have been unable to travel to pursue their education.

Rafah should also be open to those who simply need rest after years of trauma – to step outside Gaza briefly and return with dignity. Mobility is not a privilege; it is a basic human right.

What we demand is simple: the right to determine our future, without coercion, without bargaining over our existence, and without being pushed into forced displacement disguised as a humanitarian project.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.