Opinions

On Sunday, Mexican security forces killed 59-year-old Nemesio Ruben Oseguera Cervantes, alias “El Mencho”, the leader of the notorious Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG), based in western Mexico’s Jalisco state.

The Mexican defence ministry acknowledged that the lethal operation had been conducted with “complementary information” from the United States, whose “peacemaker” president, Donald Trump, has repeatedly threatened to attack Mexico to combat the drug cartels.

Mind you, these are organisations that owe their very existence to US policy and drug consumption in the first place.

US Deputy Secretary of State Christopher Landau greeted the news of El Mencho’s death with glee, taking to X to proclaim: “This is a great development for Mexico, the US, Latin America, and the world.”

And yet things aren’t looking quite so “great” thus far.

As anyone who has ever paid remote attention to global affairs might have predicted, violence has broken out across several Mexican states in the aftermath of the killing – which is generally what happens when you take out a cartel kingpin.

Gunmen have torched vehicles and blocked highways in various locales while various US media have reported sensationally on the plight of American tourists “stranded” in Mexican resort cities on account of the upheaval.

Shortly after his initial enthusiastic post, Landau returned to X with a “PS, I’m watching the scenes of violence from Mexico with great sadness and concern.” But no matter: “We must never lose our nerve.”

The deputy secretary of state ended his “PS” with some words of encouragement in Spanish for the Mexican nation: “¡Animo Mexico!” (Cheer up, Mexico!)

But again, there is hardly room for cheer given that there is not a single example in pretty much the entire history of the world in which the killing of one cartel boss has resolved the narcotrafficking problem – or anything else, for that matter.

Recall the case of Pablo Escobar of the Medellin Cartel, killed in 1993 by Colombian police with a whole lot of help from the US Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA).

Despite Escobar’s absence, the international drug trade proceeded apace, and ensuing decades played host to spectacular levels of violence in Colombia – much of it coincidentally perpetrated by heavily US-backed state security forces.

In one particularly memorable episode, members of the Colombian army slaughtered an estimated 10,000 civilians and passed the cadavers off as left-wing “terrorists”.

To this day, Colombia remains the world’s top producer of cocaine.

In other words, to hail El Mencho’s demise as a “great development” for Mexico or anyone else is at best preposterously delusional.

On Sunday I phoned a Mexican friend in the southern state of Oaxaca, a supporter of Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum, for our requisite argument over the day’s events. In his view, Mexico’s government had simply been “doing its job” in the “war on drugs” by eliminating El Mencho, and the US had nothing substantial to do with it.

Indeed, much like her predecessor and mentor Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, Sheinbaum has perfected the art of doing the gringos’ dirty work while purporting to act in a “sovereign” fashion – and even to defy the imperial overlords to the north.

Granted, she does not have a whole lot of room to manoeuvre given the recent kidnapping by the US of Venezuelan head of state Nicolas Maduro – and the fact that Trump has made it known that he is beholden to no law, whether domestic or international.

But while Sheinbaum may have seen no choice but to temporarily placate the Americans and satisfy Trump’s need for blood, Mexicans will pay a heavy price.

A brief review of contemporary Mexican history confirms as much. No sooner did then-Mexican President Felipe Calderon launch his “drug war” under US guidance in 2006 than homicides and enforced disappearances skyrocketed in the country.

Well over half a million people have since been killed and disappeared, many of them victims of militarised agents of the state who often operate in cahoots with organised crime.

Nary a dent has been put in the northward flow of drugs while the southward flow of US-manufactured weapons continues unabated.

The state of Jalisco itself happens to have the highest number of enforced disappearances in all of Mexico and made headlines last year with the discovery of a clandestine crematorium on a ranch outside Guadalajara, one of the host cities of the upcoming World Cup.

The ranch was reportedly used by the CJNG as a recruitment and training centre as well as an extermination site.

And the removal of El Mencho from the equation will do precisely nothing in terms of pacifying the landscape – just as the respective extraditions to the US of Sinaloa cartel leaders Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman and Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada merely set off an ongoing violent battle for power.

Contrary to lofty soundbites from US officials, the empire is not at all interested in getting rid of either drug trafficking or violence south of the border as both phenomena provide a perennial excuse for US interference in Mexico and beyond.

Were the gringos actually serious about ridding “Mexico, the US, Latin America, and the world” of the whole cartel problem, a decriminalisation of drugs would do much to nip the business in the bud by rendering the movement of drugs far less fantastically lucrative.

A moratorium on the US’s obsessive manufacture of weapons would also help.

Obviously, nothing so much as resembling those potential solutions is even on the horizon. If it were, that would be one hell of a “great development” indeed.

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

On February 16, a group of Palestinian footballers, clubs and advocacy groups referred the heads of FIFA and UEFA to the International Criminal Court (ICC). The 120-page filing accuses Gianni Infantino and Aleksander Čeferin of “aiding and abetting war crimes (specifically, the transfer of civilian population into occupied territories) and crimes against humanity (specifically, apartheid)”.

This historic case marks the first time sports leaders are being accused of these crimes and sends a warning to presidents of all other corporate entities in and beyond athletics. It offers a perfect opportunity to challenge the impunity of Israeli apartheid, occupation and genocide.

Football is the world’s most popular form of cultural expression, with some five billion fans across the planet. Therefore, the stakes of this charge are immense in terms of the spectacle of accountability and legal precedent.

In the course of its campaign in Gaza, of genocide generally and “athleticide” particularly, Israel has killed 1,007 Palestinian sportspeople and destroyed 184 sports facilities, while damaging 81 others.

Although this “athleticide” cannot be directly attributed to the Israel Football Association (IFA), its activities linked to clubs from illegal Israeli settlements located on the occupied Palestinian territory and their participation in domestic and international tournaments can be seen as abetting Israeli crimes of occupation and apartheid.

Despite facing demands for the suspension of these clubs or the IFA, UEFA and FIFA leadership have taken no action. In a recent interview, FIFA chief Infantino said he opposed a ban on Israeli teams from participation in global football, calling it “a defeat”. He went on to add that he was in favour of enshrining in FIFA statutes that no country should ever be banned from “playing football because of the acts of their political leaders”.

Ironic, when you consider he is the very person who oversaw the suspension of Russia from FIFA in 2022 and the banning of Crimean clubs from playing in the Russian league, linked to UEFA, after the Russian occupation of the Ukrainian peninsula in 2014.

The complaint is filed against Infantino and Čeferin because private organisations cannot be defendants before the ICC, but those individuals responsible for their policies can be.

The focus of the complaint is the fact that the IFA has been permitted to materially support, recognise, and include in domestic and international competitions clubs that are based in the stolen settlement land of the occupied West Bank.

Article 64(2) of FIFA Statutes prohibits member associations and their clubs from playing on the territory of another member association without the latter’s approval.

The complaint alleges that by allowing the IFA to oversee clubs that operate on stolen land, Infantino and Čeferin are accountable for normalising illegal Israeli settlements, in direct contravention of a 2024 pronouncement by the International Court of Justice (ICJ) and a resolution from the United Nations General Assembly, which found the settlements to be “unlawful” and required Israel to “cease immediately all new settlement activities, and to evacuate all settlers from the Occupied Palestinian Territory”.

The existence of sanctioned Israeli clubs in West Bank settlements, the referral argues, contributes to the transfer of the civilian population into the occupied territory, contrary to the Rome Statute Article 8(2)(b)(viii), by normalising colonisation.

Likewise, because Israeli clubs in the occupied territory prohibit Palestinians from spectating matches or playing for or managing these teams, the continued sanction of these organisations falls under the definition of aiding and abetting apartheid (a crime against humanity pursuant to Rome Statute Article 7(1)(j).

In continuing to allow the membership of these clubs and the IFA in global and European sport, the filing alleges that Infantino and Čeferin have acted in full knowledge that they have participated in the violation of international law based on the fact that they have deliberately ignored numerous reports and letters advising them to intervene.

Now that the complaint has been formally filed, the Office of the Prosecutor of the ICC will conduct a preliminary examination to confirm that the elements of jurisdiction, admissibility, and the interests of justice have been satisfied. They will then have the option to either decline to open the investigation or proceed to investigate the legal issues raised in the complaint.

If an investigation does ensue, evidence-gathering will occur and arrest warrants or summonses may ultimately be issued. If that happens, this would set an important precedent and give momentum to the campaign for justice for Palestine.

It is notable that while Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has been able to dodge an ICC arrest warrant by cowering away from Rome Statute signatory states, it would be impossible for Infantino and Čeferin to do so while still fulfilling their roles, assuming it is enforced.

Football is, without question, one of the most popular sports on the planet. When such a cultural juggernaut is connected to business, what emerges is an industry like no other. FIFA and UEFA are global regulatory monopolies, meaning their rules and regulations act the same way a country’s legislation acts on its population. They also preside over a huge, lucrative industry worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

Given the amount of eyeballs and money at stake, the impact of a ban on participation is enormous, as Russia understands all too well after being subjected to suspension. This is no doubt exactly why the presidents of these organisations have refused to act against Israel under the guise of “political neutrality”.

As former UN special rapporteur on the occupied Palestinian territory, Michael Lynk, told us: “When an occupying power is blatantly committing war crimes by creating civilian settlements in occupied territory, the rest of the world – including states, corporations and international sporting organisations – is required to ensure the enforcement of international law by doing everything in their power to bring the violations to a swift end. Yet, FIFA and UEFA are sportswashing the illegal Israeli occupation by allowing the Israeli Football Association to include clubs based in the illegal settlements to participate in their domestic leagues. Nothing could be further from the rules of fairness and equity.”

The bottom line is that sport is and has always been political. The veneer of “political neutrality” conceals the reality that politics is the name of the game for FIFA and UEFA.

Nobody is entitled to stand above international law. It is time for the ICC to prove it.

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

The Israeli Knesset is pushing through a bill that, if passed, would allow the occupation authorities to legally execute Palestinians. This development has attracted hardly any international attention, but for Palestinians, it is yet another looming horror.

The bill is part of the deal that allowed the formation of Benjamin Netanyahu’s coalition government in late 2022. It was demanded by Itamar Ben-Gvir, now national security minister, who has led a reign of terror across the West Bank for the past three years.

In November, the bill passed its first reading, and in January, its provisions were revealed: execution carried out within 90 days of sentencing, no appeals, and death by hanging. Palestinians charged with planning attacks or killing Israelis would face the death penalty. Ben-Gvir has repeatedly called for the execution of Palestinians, most recently during his visit to Ofer Prison, where he filmed himself overseeing the abuse of detainees.

That we got to this point is hardly surprising. For decades, the international community has neglected the fate of Palestinian prisoners. In the past two and a half years, there has been almost no global reaction to the mass brutalisation of Palestinians held in Israeli jails with or without charges. Israeli efforts to legalise executions of Palestinian is the logical next step in eliminating the Palestinian question.

‘Prisoners’ or captives?

The use of the term “prisoners” to refer to Palestinians held by Israel is deceptive. It strips this cruelty of its context – the military occupation and colonisation Palestinians live under. Prisoners of war or captives are much more accurate terms. That is because Palestinians are taken away either for resisting the occupation or for no reason at all – for the sake of terrorising their families and communities.

Currently, more than a third of the Palestinians Israel is holding are under “administrative detention” – ie, they are being held without charge – and some are women and children. Palestinians are also “tried” in military courts, which are blatantly biased against the occupied population.

I, myself, was a victim of this system of oppression through unjust detention.

In November 2015, Israeli soldiers burst into my home in Ramallah and took me away.  They tortured and isolated me for weeks without even telling me what I was accused of.

Eventually, they came up with an accusation of “incitement”, for which they did not produce any evidence. They kept me under their “administrative detention”, or what is really an arbitrary arrest. The abuse continued, and during one interrogation session, an Israeli officer threatened me with rape.

They treated me like an animal without rights or legal protection. Representatives from the International Committee of the Red Cross were prevented from visiting me. I was released only after I went on a hunger strike for three months and my condition deteriorated to a dangerous level.

This happened to me 10 years ago, long before October 7, 2023. Back then, the international community was turning a blind eye to Israel’s violations of international law through administrative detention and abuse.

After October 7, the conditions in Israeli military prisons worsened, with rampant torture, starvation and medical neglect. At least 88 Palestinians have been killed in Israeli detention since then. The international community has remained silent, issuing an occasional weak condemnation.

Legalising the illegal

Israel’s brutal mistreatment of detained Palestinians is in direct violation of the Geneva Conventions, which it is a party to. By virtue of being under occupation, Palestinians are considered a protected population and have rights which the Israeli authorities have systematically denied.

Nevertheless, the international community has accepted these flagrant violations. Under the guise of anti-terrorism, the international discourse has transformed Palestinians from an occupied people to threats to Israeli and international security.

Not even the shocking images and testimonies of mass rape at Israeli detention centres managed to overturn this flawed framing.

In this context, the death penalty bill is not an extremist proposal; it fits right into the pattern of the brutalisation of Palestinian detainees.

From the perspective of the Palestinians, this bill is yet another tool of Israeli revenge. If passed, it would spread more fear and further diminish any peaceful resistance against the Israeli settlers’ violent assaults on the Palestinian people and their property.

The bill is also a nightmare for every family that has a member in an Israeli prison. They have already been pushed to the edge by the lack of information about their loved ones since a ban on visiting amid the spike in deaths in detention.

Even more horrific is the prospect that the bill may be applied retroactively. This means anyone with the charges of planning or causing the death of an Israeli could be executed.

There are currently reports in Israeli media that supposedly, the Israeli government is under pressure not to push forward with this law. There have been some suggestions to amend the text to make it more palatable. But we know that Israel will eventually get to executing Palestinians. Just as it has done with other laws, it will deceptively manoeuvre to minimise reactions but still proceed with what it wants to do.

As Israel is well on its way to bulldozing through yet another international legal norm, the most it will likely get is “calls for restraint” or “statements of condemnation”. Such weak rhetoric has enabled its onslaught against international law for the past few decades, and especially during the past two and a half years.

If the international community wants to salvage what is left of the international legal regime and save face, it is time to radically change its approach.

Instead of making weak statements about respect for international law, they must impose sanctions on Israel. Israeli officials who have been accused of committing crimes against Palestinians should not be hosted but held to account.

Only then can there be hope for the safe and peaceful return of all Palestinian prisoners – something that was already agreed upon during the Oslo Accords. And only then can there be hope that Israeli efforts to dismantle international law so it can do as it pleases in Palestine will be stopped.

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

It is no longer possible to interpret the Yemeni landscape solely through the lens of politics. The developments witnessed in the southern Yemeni governorates under government control in recent months clearly indicate that security and military affairs have become the decisive factor in determining the course of power on the ground. Any governmental or political arrangements will be unsustainable unless the issue of security control and the unification of military command are resolved.

Nor can the escalating Saudi–Emirati rift between two allies who have militarily, politically and economically shaped southern Yemen in recent years be overlooked, given its direct impact on the balance of power and stability.

Over the past years, a complex security structure has taken shape across the southern governorates, comprising official units and others that emerged during the war. Some of these units are linked to state institutions, while others were established with Emirati support, such as the Southern Transitional Council’s forces, which number in the tens of thousands, or through local arrangements shaped by the circumstances of the conflict.

Although recent months have seen moves to restructure this landscape following the defeat of the Southern Transitional Council (STC), which declared its dissolution in Hadhramaut and al-Mahra on January 3, 2026, security control remains uneven from one governorate to another. Furthermore, the STC’s security and military formations have not disappeared entirely; some have been redeployed, while the fate of others remains unknown.

In Aden, the temporary capital, security agencies operate within a complex structure. Some units formerly affiliated with the STC have seen their personnel and weapons disappear, while others have been renamed or redeployed. However, longstanding networks of influence remain, and the transfer of leadership or redeployment of camps reflects attempts to rebalance power rather than a definitive resolution of the situation.

The same applies, to varying degrees, to Lahij, Abyan, Dhale, Shabwah and Hadhramaut, where the state’s ability to assert effective authority varies, as does the level of coordination between official security forces and the formations that emerged during the war.

The most sensitive issue at this stage is the integration of military and security formations into the Ministries of Defence and Interior. The state seeks to end parallel security authority, but the process faces complex challenges, including differing sources of funding for some units, varying political loyalties, fears among some commanders of losing local influence, and considerations related to the composition of these forces. As a result, integration appears gradual, relying more on redeployment and restructuring than on decisive measures that could risk triggering confrontation.

The government now based in Aden, southern Yemen, finds itself facing a delicate equation: it must impose its security authority without plunging the country into renewed internal conflict.

The transition from multiple armed groups to a state monopoly on the use of force requires political consensus, regional support and international backing. Any hasty move could reignite internal clashes, particularly given existing political and regional sensitivities, as well as fears that the Saudi–Emirati dispute could once again trigger confrontation on the ground.

For this reason, government efforts are focused first on establishing a stable security environment.

This trajectory cannot be understood without considering the regional dimension. Saudi Arabia views Yemen as a direct strategic depth for its national security and seeks the emergence of a stable state along its southern border.

The dispute between Riyadh and Abu Dhabi, particularly after Yemen requested the withdrawal of Emirati forces from its territory, has become a significant factor shaping the course of the crisis, especially amid Saudi accusations that Abu Dhabi continues to support the STC and consolidate its influence on the ground.

Yemen today is part of a broader regional landscape, intertwined with Red Sea dynamics and maritime routes, competition for influence in the Horn of Africa, and tensions stretching from Sudan to Somalia to the Gulf. For this reason, international actors — particularly the United States — are keen to keep the situation in Yemen under control, fearing that a security collapse could trigger intra-Gulf conflict, threaten international shipping, create space for a new wave of armed groups, or allow the Houthis to exploit the situation.

In the next phase, the government is likely to continue efforts to consolidate security control in Aden and other southern governorates, including Hadhramaut, which borders Saudi Arabia, while gradually integrating military units and maintaining political balances to prevent renewed conflict.

The success of these efforts will determine whether the country is moving towards gradual stability or another round of reshaping power centres. Given this reality, the central question remains: who truly possesses the ability to impose security on the ground, particularly as some actors continue to push the Southern Transitional Council towards escalation that could reignite the conflict?

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

President Donald Trump’s description earlier this month of the UK–Mauritius agreement on the sovereignty of the Chagos Islands as “an act of great stupidity”  briefly turned the world’s attention to the remote archipelago.

While most of the coverage and debate focused on the US military base on Diego Garcia island, little attention has been given to the sordid story of US and UK involvement in ongoing crimes against humanity against the islands’ Indigenous people – the Chagossians.

The Chagossians, whose island homeland is in the middle of the Indian Ocean, are largely descended from formerly enslaved East Africans. More than 60 years ago, US officials decided that the largest island, Diego Garcia, would be a suitable location for a remote military base.

The US saw the Chagossian population as a problem, as they wanted the island “clean” of inhabitants. Over the next decade, they secretly plotted with the UK – the colonial power governing Chagos – through a manufactured story based on racism and lies, to force the islanders from their home.

One US admiral, Elmo Zumwalt, said the islanders “absolutely must go”. To scare them into leaving, UK and US personnel gassed their dogs. From 1967 to 1973, the UK proceeded to force all the Chagossians – as many as 2,000 people – from all the islands, not only Diego Garcia. The US built and has now operated the Diego Garcia base for more than 50 years.

Today, the Chagossians live in exile, largely in the UK, Mauritius and the Seychelles. Many remain in poverty and have been prevented by the UK and US from returning to live in their homeland, even though generations have continued to campaign to do so. The islands, apart from the US military base, remain abandoned.

The story of US involvement in this forced displacement has been gradually uncovered, including through a congressional inquiry, the work of the academic David Vine, and the indefatigable struggle of generations of Chagossians to uncover the truth and return home. In 2023, Human Rights Watch found that the UK and US were responsible for crimes against humanity and had a duty to provide reparations – an opportunity to right their wrongs.

As a result, the US State Department for the first time acknowledged “regret” for what had happened to the Chagossians. Subsequently, the UK and Mauritius agreed in principle to a treaty to recognise Mauritian sovereignty over the islands, although the UK will maintain formal control of Diego Garcia island and the US military base will remain.

Forgotten in this settlement are the Chagossians. The treaty talks about historical wrongs, but the crimes are ongoing. The Chagossians are still prevented from returning home: Their islands – apart from the base – remain empty. Some Chagossians hope that the treaty will allow them to live on some of the islands, though this will depend on Mauritius fulfilling its obligations. The treaty itself provides no guarantee of their return and says nothing about the reparations owed to the Chagossians.

The US still appears opposed to Chagossians returning to Diego Garcia, even though the base occupies at most half the island. No Chagossian we’ve spoken to wants the base to close; instead, they would like the opportunity to work there. The US has kept a very low public profile in the negotiations – at least until President Trump’s comments – hiding behind the UK.

But the agreement’s terms make it clear that the US has been influencing the negotiations. The US “regret” for the treatment of the Chagossians has yet to translate into ensuring the Chagossians can return to Diego Garcia.

The treatment of the Chagossians is a crime in which the US has been implicated for more than 50 years, and to which Trump has inadvertently drawn attention. Having acknowledged regret, the US and UK governments should now ensure that their actions align with their obligations under international law, including working with Mauritius to enable the Chagossians to return to their homeland and providing appropriate reparations. Until that happens, the injustice remains unresolved.

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

More than 457,000 European citizens have signed a petition calling for the full suspension of the European Union’s partnership agreement with Israel within the initiative’s first month.

Launched on January 13 as a formally registered European citizens’ initiative, the petition must reach 1 million signatures from at least seven EU member states by January 13 next year to trigger formal consideration by the European Commission. It is not a symbolic appeal. It is a mechanism embedded within the EU’s democratic framework, designed to translate public will into institutional review.

The speed and geographic spread of this mobilisation matter. The demand to suspend the EU-Israel Association Agreement is no longer confined to street demonstrations or activist circles. It has entered the EU’s formal democratic architecture.

The petition calls for suspension on the grounds that Israel is in breach of Article 2 of the association agreement, which conditions the partnership on respect for human rights and international law. As the initiative states, “EU citizens cannot tolerate that the EU maintains an agreement that contributes to legitimize and finance a State that commits crimes against humanity and war crimes.” The text further cites large-scale civilian killings, displacement, destruction of hospitals and medical infrastructure in Gaza, the blockade of humanitarian aid and the failure to comply with orders of the International Court of Justice.

As of Monday, the initiative had gathered 457,950 signatures, more than 45 percent of the required total in just one month. Signatories come from all 27 EU member states without exception. This is not a regional surge. It is continental.

The distribution of signatures reveals more than raw numbers. France alone accounts for 203,182 signatories, nearly 45 percent of the total. That figure reflects the country’s longstanding tradition of solidarity mobilisation, sustained mass demonstrations throughout the genocidal war on Gaza and the clear positioning of major political actors, such as La France Insoumise. France has emerged as the principal engine of this institutional push.

Spain follows with 60,087 signatures while Italy stands at 54,821, a particularly striking figure given the presence of a right-wing government that openly supports Israel. Belgium has registered 20,330 signatures from a population of roughly 12 million, reflecting high relative engagement. In the Nordic region, Finland with 12,649 signatures, Sweden with 15,267 and Denmark with 8,295 show sustained participation. Ireland has reached 11,281 signatures from a population of just over five million.

Several of these countries have already exceeded their required national thresholds under EU rules. France, Spain, Belgium, Finland, Ireland, Italy and Sweden have all surpassed the minimum number needed for their signatures to count towards the seven-member-state requirement. This is a critical development. It means the initiative is not merely accumulating volume but is also already satisfying the geographic legitimacy criteria built into the European citizens’ initiative mechanism.

The Netherlands, with 20,304 signatures, is approaching its national threshold. Poland, at 22,308 signatures, reflects engagement that extends beyond Western Europe. Even in smaller states such as Slovenia with 1,703 signatures, Luxembourg with 900 and Portugal with 4,945, participation is visible and measurable.

Germany presents a revealing contrast. Despite being the EU’s most populous member state and the site of some of the largest demonstrations against Israel’s genocidal campaign in Gaza, the petition has gathered 11,461 German signatures, only 17 percent of Germany’s national threshold of 69,120. This gap between visible street mobilisation and formal institutional participation highlights the particular political and legal environment in Germany, where pro-Palestinian expression has faced restrictions and where successive governments have maintained near-unconditional support for Israel as a matter of state policy. The relatively low percentage does not signal absence of dissent. Rather, it illustrates the structural constraints within which dissent operates. That more than 11,000 citizens have nevertheless formally registered their support indicates that institutional engagement is occurring even under conditions of political pressure.

Taken together, these patterns reveal something deeper than a petition’s momentum. Over more than two years of genocidal war, ethnic cleansing and the systematic destruction of civilian life in Gaza, solidarity across Europe has not dissipated. It has moved from protest slogans and street mobilisation into a formal democratic instrument that demands institutional response.

Petitions do not automatically change policy. The European Commission is not legally bound to suspend the association agreement even if the initiative ultimately reaches 1 million signatures. But the political implications are significant. A successful initiative would formally compel the commission to respond to a demand grounded in the EU’s own human rights clause. It would demonstrate that the call for suspension is rooted in broad and measurable public support across multiple member states.

The European Union has long presented itself as a normative power committed to international law and human rights. Article 2 of its partnership agreements is foundational. If hundreds of thousands, and potentially more than a million, European citizens insist that this principle be applied consistently, EU institutions will face a credibility test.

This petition is not merely a count of signatures. It is an index of political will. It shows that across France, Spain, Belgium, Italy, Ireland, the Nordic states and beyond, citizens are invoking the EU’s own democratic mechanisms to demand accountability.

Whether the initiative ultimately reaches 1 million, one reality is already established. The demand to suspend the EU-Israel partnership has entered Europe’s institutional bloodstream. It can no longer be dismissed as marginal rhetoric. It is embedded within the union’s formal democratic process, and that marks a significant development in Europe’s response to the genocide in Gaza.

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

President Prabowo Subianto’s government said on February 10 that Indonesia is preparing to deploy up to 8,000 troops to a proposed multinational Gaza stabilisation force under Donald Trump’s so-called Board of Peace (BoP). The troop proposal forms part of Jakarta’s broader decision to participate in the BoP framework, an initiative conceived and driven by Trump. Together, these steps signal a significant shift in Indonesia’s longstanding foreign policy posture. At a time of intensifying geopolitical volatility, Jakarta appears to be committing itself to a project shaped around a single, deeply polarising political figure. The decision raises a fundamental question: is Indonesia advancing its national interests and diplomatic credibility, or allowing its foreign policy direction to be shaped by an external agenda?

Geopolitics is not a theatre for symbolic proximity to power but a disciplined calculation of national interest and sovereign credibility. Indonesia’s decision to engage with the BoP appears less like a carefully calibrated strategic choice and more like a reactive impulse that risks weakening the philosophical foundations of its diplomacy, built over decades. Indonesia’s international influence has historically rested on strategic equidistance rather than personal alignment with controversial leaders.

There is a growing sense that Jakarta risks acting out of geopolitical urgency. Yet the initiative Indonesia has chosen to support is led by a figure known for transactional diplomacy and disregard for international consensus. The implications extend well beyond Middle East peace initiatives. What is at stake is Indonesia’s reputation as an independent stabilising actor in global diplomacy.

If Indonesia proceeds with troop deployment under the BoP framework, the risks become even more acute. Gaza is not a conventional peacekeeping theatre. It is one of the most volatile and politically contested conflict environments in the world, where humanitarian imperatives and hard security objectives frequently collide. Deploying thousands of troops into such an arena without an inclusive multilateral mandate risks drawing Indonesia into a conflict environment where neutrality would be difficult to sustain.

The erosion of the ‘Free and Active’ doctrine

The most serious concern is the gradual erosion of Indonesia’s “Free and Active” foreign policy doctrine, the intellectual backbone of its diplomacy since the Djuanda Declaration and the Bandung Conference. Indonesia has historically positioned itself as a mediator rather than a follower of personalised diplomatic agendas.

By participating in an institution closely identified with Donald Trump, Jakarta risks legitimising unilateral approaches that often conflict with established international norms. “Free” diplomacy implies independence, and “active” diplomacy implies engagement driven by national priorities rather than external pressure.

Indonesia also risks being reduced to a symbolic endorsement of a United States-centred foreign policy outlook. If Jakarta drifts too far into this orbit, its leverage with other major actors, including China, Russia and ASEAN partners, could weaken. Indonesia’s leadership in Southeast Asia has depended on its credibility as a neutral stabilising force. That credibility may erode if it is seen as participating in great-power security agendas.

Indonesia’s respected record in United Nations peacekeeping has historically rested on internationally recognised neutrality under UN command structures. Participation in a BoP framework, which sits outside established multilateral systems, risks shifting Indonesia from neutral arbiter to participant in a political security architecture shaped beyond globally recognised peacekeeping norms.

More troubling is the precedent this sets. If foreign policy principles become negotiable in exchange for economic or strategic promises, Indonesia risks undermining the coherence of its diplomatic identity. Its constitutional commitment to promoting global peace and social justice depends on preserving policy independence.

The Palestine paradox

Indonesia’s participation in the BoP also creates a visible moral and constitutional tension. The Indonesian constitution explicitly rejects all forms of colonialism and emphasises international justice. Participation in an initiative led by the architect of policies historically skewed in Israel’s favour creates a contradiction that is difficult to reconcile.

Trump’s record in the region remains controversial. His decision to relocate the US embassy to Jerusalem altered decades of diplomatic consensus and drew widespread criticism across the Muslim world. For Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation and a consistent supporter of Palestinian statehood, association with this framework carries significant political sensitivity.

If the Board of Peace advances regional normalisation without firm guarantees of Palestinian sovereignty, Indonesia risks being linked to a process widely perceived as externally imposed. This would conflict with domestic public sentiment and weaken Indonesia’s moral leadership in forums such as the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation and the United Nations.

The troop deployment dimension deepens these concerns. The Gaza conflict landscape extends beyond Israeli and Palestinian actors to include broader regional power networks, including the so-called “Axis of Resistance”. Indonesian forces could be perceived by militant groups as extensions of Western-backed security arrangements, increasing the risk that peacekeeping troops become operational targets.

Strategic and economic trade-offs

Deploying 8,000 personnel overseas is not a marginal decision. For Indonesia, it represents a full brigade likely composed of some of its most capable units. At a time of rising tensions in the North Natuna Sea and intensifying Indo-Pacific competition, diverting elite forces to the Middle East risks diluting focus on core national defence priorities and stretching military readiness across distant theatres.

The financial dimension is equally significant. Sustaining thousands of troops in a devastated and heavily militarised enclave would require extensive logistical infrastructure. Even when operations receive international support, hidden costs often revert to national budgets. At a moment when Indonesia’s domestic economy requires stimulus and its defence sector seeks modernisation, allocating substantial resources to an expeditionary mission with uncertain strategic returns warrants serious parliamentary scrutiny.

Diplomatic engagement must deliver tangible dividends to the public, not impose new burdens on an already stretched state budget. Without clearly defined security or economic benefits, troop deployment risks appear as an expensive geopolitical gamble. Indonesia could find itself dependent on security arrangements shaped by shifting US domestic political priorities, creating commitments that may prove unreliable over time.

The absence of robust public debate surrounding this decision is equally concerning. Large-scale overseas military commitments require democratic oversight. Without transparency, foreign policy risks becoming an elite-driven exercise detached from national consensus.

Reputational risk and strategic myopia

Indonesia’s close association with an initiative so strongly linked to Donald Trump introduces long-term reputational risk. US politics remains deeply polarised. If future administrations distance themselves from Trump-era initiatives, Indonesia could face diplomatic exposure through no necessity of its own.

Foreign policy frameworks built around highly personalised leadership often prove unstable. Indonesia’s diplomatic partnerships have traditionally been grounded in multilateral institutions such as the United Nations and ASEAN, which provide durability precisely because they are not tied to individual leaders.

If the Board of Peace becomes politically contested or evolves into a coercive security instrument, Indonesia may struggle to disengage without reputational damage. Participation, therefore, concentrates diplomatic risk rather than diversifying it.

In a rapidly multipolar world, Indonesia does not require shortcuts to global influence. Its credibility has historically been built on independence, balance and principled diplomacy. The central question is whether Indonesia will preserve that tradition or compromise it in pursuit of geopolitical visibility and proximity to power. Indonesia deserves a far more independent role than that.

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

In the end, the 13th parliamentary election in Bangladesh was not a revolution. It was a reckoning.

When the ballots were counted, the Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) had secured a decisive victory, returning to power after years in the political wilderness under Sheikh Hasina’s 15-year rule.

Most headlines framed it as a dramatic comeback, and rightfully so. But beneath the surface, this was less a tidal wave of voter choice than a carefully navigated current. This was a contest shaped by frustration and the arithmetic of first-past-the-post (FPTP).

To understand why BNP prevailed, one must first dispense with the lazy narrative that this was a Jamaat moment squandered. When the results became clear, Bangladesh Jamaat-e-Islami (JI) secured 68 seats, while the Jamaat-led bloc secured 77 seats in parliament. That is no small feat for a party whose previous best parliamentary showing was just 18 seats in 1991. Many analysts had suggested Jamaat’s support had grown in the run-up to the poll, and the data vindicated that claim. But in an FPTP system, a swelling vote share does not automatically translate into 151 seats out of 300 elected constituencies.

This election was not driven by any momentous revolution, even though it came on the back of a mass uprising that toppled Hasina’s autocracy in August 2024. But there was no deep ideological rupture, and no permanent reordering of voter loyalties, at least not on a scale that would rupture the very fabric of the country’s electoral mindset.

And of course, it was not a national wave election, in which a single mood sweeps towards a particular party across class, gender and region. What unfolded was a hybrid: Largely a normal election with significant deviations, but a predictable outcome.

Party loyalists mostly stayed home. Swing voters mattered. And in pockets of the country, frustration with BNP’s local leadership triggered temporary defections – many of them to Jamaat or NCP.

The anger was real. After August 5, BNP’s grassroots machinery performed abysmally. Petty leaders across districts were accused of corruption and extortion. In rural market towns and urban peripheries, resentment simmered.

Voters were not merely disappointed; they were, to use the language heard in tea stalls and union parishad courtyards, “really, really pissed off”. That fury explains Jamaat’s surge. A portion of BNP loyalists and a significant share of swing voters drifted towards the promise of an “honest alternative”.

But drift is not destiny.

BNP’s base, historically broader and organisationally deeper than Jamaat’s, did not collapse. Even after defections, it remained numerically larger. BNP’s nomination strategy proved unexpectedly shrewd.

Where Jamaat fielded relatively unknown but ideologically trusted figures, BNP leaned on its old guard – candidates with entrenched name recognition and dense informal networks.

That mattered, particularly in rural Bangladesh. Urban, educated voters may be thrilled by the rhetoric of ethical governance. For them, the idea of an incorruptible, ideologically disciplined candidate resonates as a moral reset.

But rural voters are pragmatic actors. They operate within intricate patronage webs. An MP is not an abstraction; he (and it is usually he) is a broker of safety nets, jobs, stability and dispute resolution. Honesty, in isolation, does not guarantee access. Familiarity does.

Thus emerged the central voter dilemma. Disgusted with BNP’s excesses, many considered a switch. In constituencies where Jamaat fielded a well-known leader, some made it. But elsewhere, voters encountered candidates they did not know, whose “honesty” they could not verify, and whose party offered little beyond moral branding.

Faced with uncertainty, they chose the “devil” they knew.

Jamaat compounded its structural limitations with strategic missteps. Its awkward posture on women’s issues – oscillating between reassurance and dog whistles – failed to convince large segments of female voters who have, over decades, carved out expanding public roles.

Bangladesh’s social transformation is not cosmetic, and women are central to its labour force, education system and microcredit economy. A party that cannot articulate a credible vision for gender equality cannot win a national wave.

More damaging was Jamaat’s revisionist flirtation with the memory of 1971. The Liberation War is the country’s moral founding document. Attempts to soften or reinterpret Jamaat’s historical role alienated voters far beyond the secular-liberal elite.

Even conservative families drew red lines around 1971. The prevailing mode of public sentiment was probably blunt: One may forgive; one does not forget.

Yet Jamaat’s performance was still historic. Jamaat-e-Islami and its allied coalition secured 77 seats, a testament not only to its disciplined cadre but also to BNP’s own misdeeds. Extortion scandals and local arrogance pushed voters into Jamaat’s arms.

In a tightly contested FPTP landscape, even a few percentage points can flip dozens of seats. Jamaat capitalised on that anger with precision in Rajshahi, Khulna and Rangpur divisions, where its organisational muscle is strongest.

But precision is not the same as breadth. Jamaat’s surge remained regionally concentrated. Its support varied sharply by class, gender, education and age. That is the opposite of a wave election. Without uniform national momentum, being a victor in FPTP is not an easy task.

Then there was the ghost in the machine: The Awami League (AL). Much commentary underestimated its residual vote. Surveys suggested a hardcore 5 to 7 percent would never defect, but beyond that lay a larger bloc – perhaps 20 to 25 percent – either undecided or unwilling to disclose preferences. In this election, that particular bloc mattered a lot.

Pre-election field research and multiple polls indicated that many non-hardcore AL voters were breaking towards the BNP – probably not out of ideological alignment but out of instrumental rationality. They believed BNP would form the government and wanted access to services through the winning MP.

In areas where BNP’s old guard had harassed AL supporters, some abstained or flirted with Jamaat. But nationally, the gravitational pull favoured BNP. Voters wanted to be on the side of the winner. Perception became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The four plausible scenarios before election day clarified the stakes. Without significant AL turnout, BNP would likely secure a plurality in a tight race. With moderate AL support, it would win a comfortable majority. With overwhelming AL backing, even a two-thirds majority was conceivable. Only a full-blown Jamaat wave – a cross-class, cross-gender national embrace – could have reversed the equation.

That wave never materialised.

BNP’s victory, then, is a product of structural advantage, strategic candidate selection and the rational calculations of the country’s traditional voters. It was aided by Jamaat’s self-inflicted wounds on women’s rights and historical memory. It was enabled, paradoxically, by BNP’s own local misconduct, which inflated Jamaat’s vote share but not enough to overcome FPTP mathematics.

One more footnote of this election deserves attention: The emergence of the National Citizen Party (NCP), which captured five seats. For a new party born out of an uprising, in the highly polarised political environment of the South Asian nation, that is no small accomplishment.

It signals a hunger, however modest, for alternatives outside the new binary of BNP and Jamaat. Under proportional representation, such a party might flourish. Under FPTP, five seats is both a breakthrough and a ceiling.

Bangladesh’s 13th parliamentary election was, in the end, a story of limits: The limits of anger, the limits of moral branding, the limits of revisionism, and the enduring power of organisational depth in a winner-take-all system.

BNP won not because it inspired a nation, but because it understood it.

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

This Valentine’s Day, chocolate prices are no longer at last year’s peak, but cheap chocolate has not made a comeback, and it probably never will. Last year’s cocoa price crisis, driven by a combination of extreme heat, drought and disease in key producing regions, may have eased. But the aftertaste remains: A market that no longer behaves the way it used to, because the landscapes that grow cocoa are no longer the same. And the world’s unwitting appetite for cheap chocolate at the expense of biodiversity is part of the reason.

Cocoa is one of the most rainfall-dependent crops in the tropics, grown mainly by smallholders with few safety nets. Because cocoa production is concentrated in a handful of regions, a bad season in one place can quickly ripple across global supply. That fragility was laid bare in 2024, when the Ivory Coast and Ghana, which produce nearly 60 percent of the world’s cocoa, were hit by climate extremes that slashed harvests. Prices surged by more than 300 percent, squeezing some farmers, enriching others, and leaving consumers paying for the uncertainty.

The problem is not simply that cocoa is vulnerable. It is that we have built a cocoa economy that magnifies the vulnerability. For decades, the world has chased low prices and high output, and too often that has meant converting forest landscapes into farmland, from West Africa to parts of Latin America and Southeast Asia.

But forests are not optional. They regulate rainfall, protect soils, and create the microclimates on which cocoa depends. Full-sun cocoa farms can produce higher yields in the short term, but the sugar rush is followed by a costly crash: Depleted soils, limited protection from heat and drought that is on the increase, and little for farmers to fall back on when the monocrops fail. Yields fall, farms expand deeper into forests to compensate, and the cycle repeats.

This is why cocoa’s price volatility is not a temporary blip. It is a warning sign: We are weakening the natural systems cocoa depends on at the same moment that climate change is making harvests less reliable.

Research by the United Nations’ Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) shows how extreme heat undermines agriculture, reducing both the quantity and quality of crop yields and increasing pest and disease pressure. A recent study modelling cocoa under mid-century climate change finds that warming could wipe out as much as a third to half of today’s suitable cocoa area in some core producing zones, while shifting production towards new regions. Without safeguards, that transition risks trading climate stress in one place for forest loss in another. The details will vary across regions, but the implication is global: As climate change alters weather patterns, the geography of cocoa production will shift, and a stable supply will become harder to take for granted.

Unless we build resilience now, future Valentine’s Days may come with less chocolate and higher prices.

But we can eat our chocolate and keep forests too, by changing how cocoa is grown. It starts with bringing trees back to cocoa farms, reversing the damaging practices that are ultimately undermining production. Change can be made through climate-resilient agroforestry practices that rebuild shade cover, improve soil health and moisture retention, and reduce cocoa’s exposure to heat and drought. Cocoa grown under shade trees can stabilise farm conditions and support biodiversity, while producing higher-quality beans that meet premium market standards, giving farmers stronger incentives to maintain tree cover rather than clear more land.

Sceptics argue that growing cocoa with trees means accepting lower yields. But when it comes to unsustainable practices, high productivity today comes with a high cost tomorrow. A farm that exhausts its soil, loses shade, is exposed to drought, and needs ever more chemical inputs to maintain production is not a success story. It is a trap.

In a changing climate, the point is not how much cocoa a farm can produce in a year, but how reliably it can produce year after year. That requires resilience built into the landscape, now more than ever: More tree cover, healthier soils, and diversified farm systems that protect livelihoods when climate extremes hit.

This is not theoretical. It is already happening.

In Ecuador’s Amazon province of Napo, a project financed by the Global Environment Facility (GEF) and supported with technical assistance from the FAO has helped strengthen a sustainable cocoa value chain built around the traditional Chakra agroforestry system used by Kichwa communities. Put simply, it is cocoa grown as part of a forest garden: Kichwa women known as Chakramamas help steward these farms, cultivating cocoa under shade trees alongside a diverse mix of other crops and native plants, rather than clearing land for a single crop. Recognised by FAO as a Globally Important Agricultural Heritage System, the model is still expanding more than a decade on, helping Indigenous producer families earn more from premium cocoa through stronger processing, marketing, and partnerships with high-value buyers. High-end chocolatiers continue to source from Chakra producers, showing that cocoa grown alongside trees can deliver world-class quality while keeping forests standing for biodiversity, climate and land benefits.

There are more examples. In the Ivory Coast, FAO-backed efforts supported by the Green Climate Fund are already delivering results, restoring 1,084 hectares (2,679 acres) of degraded land and converting 3,527 hectares (8,715 acres) of conventional cocoa into improved agroforestry systems while reducing pressure on forests. Meanwhile, 234 farmers now have access to cocoa cooperatives, ensuring access to international fair-trade and organic certifications and a better price for their products. In Sao Tome and Principe, FAO has supported cocoa agroforestry through the GEF-funded Restoration Initiative, helping restore nearly 10,000 hectares (about 25,000 acres) of forest and improve land management across a further 23,000 hectares (about 57,000 acres). These are not boutique experiments. They are working models for stabilising supply, supporting farmer incomes, and reducing the forest loss that fuels cocoa’s growing volatility.

But projects alone will not be enough. Scaling them will take serious investment: From governments, companies, and consumers. It will also require rules that shift incentives across the entire cocoa economy, such as a new European Union law that requires cocoa and chocolate entering the EU market to be deforestation-free. By tying market access to how cocoa is grown, these rules are pushing governments, producers, and companies to rethink production models, improve traceability, and strengthen zero-deforestation cocoa systems.

Governments will also need to invest in farmer adaptation and long-term productivity, not just short-term output. That means accessible finance, practical support on farms, and policies that reward sustainable production instead of expansion into forests.

And chocolate companies need to promote resilience across their supply chains, not just chase volume. In a world of climate disruption, the cheapest cocoa is not necessarily the best bargain if it comes at the expense of farmers’ livelihoods or the ecosystems that keep cocoa viable in the years to come.

Paying farmers for chocolate that keeps forests standing is not a luxury. It is part of what makes cocoa more available and keeps farmers in business in a warming world. Chocolate is sold as a simple pleasure, but cocoa is no longer a simple crop: Its future depends on whether we treat forests and biodiversity as essential infrastructure for stable and resilient agrifood systems.

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

On January 6, a group of 25 British members of parliament tabled a motion urging global sporting authorities to consider excluding the United States from hosting the 2026 FIFA World Cup until it demonstrates compliance with international law. It followed weeks of mounting pressure across Europe over the political climate surrounding a tournament expected to draw millions of viewers and symbolising international cooperation.

Dutch broadcaster Teun van de Keuken has backed a public petition urging withdrawal from the competition while French parliamentarian Eric Coquerel has warned that participation risks legitimising policies he argued undermine international human rights standards.

Much of the scrutiny has focused on US President Donald Trump’s immigration crackdown and broad assaults on civil liberties. The deaths of Minneapolis residents Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti during immigration enforcement operations in January triggered nationwide outrage and protests. In 2026, at least eight people have been shot by federal immigration agents or died in immigration detention.

These developments are serious, but they point to a broader question about power and accountability – one that extends beyond domestic repression and into the consequences of US policy abroad. The war in Gaza represents a far deeper emergency.

For decades, Washington has served as Israel’s most influential international ally, providing diplomatic protection, political backing and roughly $3.8bn in annual military assistance. That partnership finances and shapes the destruction now unfolding across Palestinian territory.

Since the day the war began on October 7, 2023, Israel’s military has killed more than 72,032 Palestinians, wounded 171,661 and destroyed or severely damaged the vast majority of Gaza’s housing, schools, hospitals, water systems and other basic civilian infrastructure. Nearly 90 percent of Gaza’s population – about 1.9 million people – has been displaced, many repeatedly, as bombardments move across the enclave. Meanwhile, Israeli forces and armed settlers have intensified raids, farmland seizures and sweeping movement restrictions across Palestinian communities in Jenin, Nablus, Hebron and the Jordan Valley in the occupied West Bank.

By many accounts, Israel is carrying out a genocide.

Across the African continent, this grave assault carries profound historical resonance because organised sports competitions have often been inseparable from liberation struggles.

On June 16, 1976, 15-year-old Hastings Ndlovu joined thousands of schoolchildren in Soweto protesting against the imposition of Afrikaans language education. By the end of the day, he was dead, shot by police as officers opened fire on unarmed pupils marching through their own neighbourhoods.

Hastings was murdered by a regime that viewed African children as political threats rather than students or even human beings. Police killed 575 youths and injured thousands more that day, yet the bloodshed failed to disrupt diplomatic and sporting relations between the apartheid state and several Western allies.

Weeks later, as families buried their children in solemn funerals, New Zealand’s national rugby team, the All Blacks, landed at Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg on June 25, ready to play competitive matches inside the segregated republic.

The tour provoked fury among many young African governments. Within weeks, the backlash reached the 1976 Montreal Olympic Games in Canada. Twenty-two African countries withdrew after President Michael Morris and the International Olympic Committee chose not to act against New Zealand.

Athletes who had trained for years packed their bags and left the Olympic Village in Montreal, some after already competing. Morocco, Cameroon, Tunisia and Egypt began the Games before withdrawing as their delegations were urgently recalled by their governments.

Nigeria, Ghana and Zambia pulled out of the men’s football tournament, collapsing first-round fixtures at Montreal’s Olympic Stadium and Varsity Stadium mid-competition. Television viewers worldwide watched empty lanes and abandoned tracks replace what had been promoted as a global event. More than 700 athletes forfeited Olympic participation, including world-record holders Filbert Bayi (1,500 metres) of Tanzania and Uganda’s John Akii-Bua (400-metre hurdles).

African leaders recognised the scale of the decision. Nonetheless, they concluded that their countries’ Olympic participation would give “comfort and respectability to the South African racist regime and encourage it to continue to defy world opinion”.

That moment offers a defining lesson for 2026: Boycotts come at a cost. They demand sacrifice, coordination and political courage. History shows that collective refusal can redirect global attention and force both institutions and spectators to confront injustices they might otherwise overlook.

Nearly five decades later, Gaza presents a similar test amid a deepening and seemingly endless catastrophe.

Take what happened to Sidra Hassouna, a seven-year-old Palestinian girl from Rafah.

She was killed along with members of her family during an Israeli air strike on February 23, 2024, when the home they had sought shelter in was struck amid intense shelling in southern Gaza.

Sidra’s story mirrors thousands of others and reveals the same truth: childhoods erased by bombardment.

These killings have unfolded before a global audience. Unlike apartheid South Africa, Israel’s destruction of Gaza is being transmitted in real time, largely through Palestinian journalists and citizen reporters, nearly 300 of whom have been killed by Israeli air and artillery strikes.

At the same time, the US continues supplying Israel with weapons, diplomatic cover and veto protection at the United Nations. While Trump’s civil liberties abuses are serious, they are not comparable in scale to the devastation endured by Palestinians in Gaza.

The humanitarian toll is measured in destroyed hospitals, displaced families, enforced hunger and children buried beneath collapsed apartment blocks.

The central question now is whether football can present itself as a weeks-long celebration of sporting prowess across 16 host cities in the United States, Canada and Mexico from June to July while the United States continues to sustain large-scale civilian destruction abroad.

African political memory understands these stakes. The continent has witnessed how stadiums and international competitions can project political approval and how withdrawal can destroy that image.

A coordinated boycott would require joint decisions by governments representing the qualified teams – Morocco, Senegal, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Ivory Coast, Ghana, Cape Verde and South Africa – supported by the African Union, regional institutions and the Confederation of African Football.

The consequences would be immediate.

The tournament would lose its claim to global inclusivity, and corporate sponsors would be compelled to confront questions they have long avoided.

Most importantly, international attention would shift.

Boycotts do not end conflicts overnight. They accomplish something different: They remove the comfort of pretending injustice does not exist. The 1976 Olympic withdrawal did not dismantle apartheid instantly, but it accelerated isolation and broadened the universal coalition opposing it.

At present, FIFA’s longstanding political contradictions intensify the need for external pressure. At the World Cup draw in Washington, DC, on December 5, its president, Gianni Infantino, awarded Trump a “peace prize” for his efforts to “promote peace and unity around the world”.

The organisation cannot portray itself as a neutral body while extending symbolic legitimacy to a leader overseeing mass civilian death.

In that context, nonparticipation becomes a critical moral position.

It would not immediately end Gaza’s calamity, but it would challenge US support for the sustained military onslaught and honour children like Hastings and Sidra.

Although separated by decades and continents, their lives reveal a shared historical pattern: Children suffer first when imperial systems determine that Black and Brown lives hold absolutely no value.

Africa’s stand in 1976 reshaped international resistance to apartheid. A comparable decision in 2026 could strengthen opposition to contemporary systems of domination and signal to families in Gaza that their suffering is recognised across the continent.

History remembers those who reject injustice – and who choose comfort while children die under relentless air strikes and occupation.

If African teams compete in the 2026 World Cup as if nothing is happening in Gaza City, Rafah, Khan Younis, Jenin and Hebron, their involvement risks legitimising colonial power structures.

While European critics urge authorities to exclude the US, our history demands a complete withdrawal.

Football cannot be played on the graves of Palestinian martyrs.

Africa must boycott the 2026 World Cup.

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

Global markets rarely reveal their vulnerabilities quietly. They do so when shipping lanes come under threat, energy prices surge, or supply chains fracture. Few regions illustrate this reality more starkly than the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden, which are now among the world’s most contested maritime corridors. What unfolds along these waters no longer remains local. It shapes economic security across the Arab world and far beyond.

Yet, amid growing attention to this strategic corridor, one factor remains persistently underestimated: Somalia.

For decades, Somalia was viewed primarily through the lens of conflict and fragility. That narrative no longer reflects today’s reality. The country is undergoing a consequential transition, moving away from prolonged instability, rebuilding state institutions, and re-emerging as a sovereign actor with growing regional relevance. Situated at the intersection of the Arab world, Africa, the Red Sea, and the Gulf of Aden, Somalia is not peripheral to regional stability; it is central to it.

Geography alone explains much of this significance. With the longest coastline in mainland Africa, Somalia lies adjacent to the Bab al-Mandeb passage connecting the Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden and the wider Indian Ocean. A substantial share of global maritime trade and energy shipments passes through this corridor. Disruptions along Somalia’s coast, therefore, have immediate implications for shipping reliability, energy markets, and food security — issues of direct concern to Gulf states and Arab economies.

For the Arab world, Somalia should be understood not as distant terrain but as a front-line partner in regional security. Stability along Somalia’s coastline helps contain threats before they reach the Arabian Peninsula, whether in the form of violent extremism, illicit trafficking networks, piracy, or the entrenchment of hostile external military presences along Africa’s eastern flank.

Somalia is not attempting to build stability from scratch. Despite persistent challenges, tangible progress has been made. Federal governance structures are functioning. National security forces are undergoing professionalisation. Public financial management has improved. Diplomatically, Somalia has reasserted itself within the Arab League, the African Union, and multilateral forums. These gains continue to be built on daily and reflect a clear commitment to sovereign statehood, territorial unity, and partnership rather than dependency. Somalia today seeks strategic alignment grounded in mutual interest, not charity.

Somalia’s relevance also extends beyond security. Its membership in the East African Community integrates the country into one of the world’s fastest-growing population and consumer regions. East Africa’s rapid demographic expansion, urbanisation, and economic integration position Somalia as a natural bridge between Gulf capital and African growth markets.

There is a clear opportunity for Somalia to emerge as a logistics and transshipment gateway linking the Gulf, the Red Sea, East Africa and the Indian Ocean. With targeted investments in ports, transport corridors, and maritime security, Somalia can become a critical node in regional supply chains supporting trade diversification, food security, and economic resilience across the Arab world.

At the heart of Somalia’s potential is its dynamic population. More than 70 percent of Somalis are aged below 30. This generation is increasingly urban, digitally connected, and entrepreneurial. Somali traders and business networks already operate across Southern and Eastern Africa, spanning logistics, finance, retail, and services. A large and dynamic diaspora across the Gulf, Europe, North America, and Africa further amplifies this reach through remittances, investment, and transnational expertise.

None of these momentums, however, can be sustained without security. A capable, nationally legitimate Somali security sector is the foundation for durable stability, investment confidence, and regional integration.

For Gulf states and the wider Arab world, supporting Somalia’s security sector is therefore not an act of altruism. It is a strategic investment in a reliable stabilising partner. Effective Somali security institutions contribute directly to safeguarding Red Sea and Gulf of Aden maritime corridors, countering transnational terrorism before it reaches Arab shores, protecting emerging logistics infrastructure, and denying external actors opportunities to exploit governance vacuums. Such support must prioritise institution-building, Somali ownership, and long-term sustainability, not short-term fixes or proxy competition.

The stakes are rising. The Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden are entering a period of heightened strategic contestation. Fragmentation along their African coastline poses a direct risk to Arab collective security. Recent developments underscore this urgency.

Israel’s unilateral recognition of the northern Somali region of Somaliland, pursued outside international legal frameworks and without Somali consent, is widely viewed as an attempt to secure a military foothold along these strategic waters, risking the introduction of the Arab-Israeli conflict into the Gulf’s security environment.

Even more troubling are emerging narratives advocating the forced displacement of Palestinians from Gaza, with proposals to relocate them to Somaliland against their will. Such ideas, whether formally advanced or not, represent grave violations of international law and human dignity. Exporting the consequences of occupation and war onto African soil would not resolve conflict; it would multiply it.

For the Arab world, this should serve as a wake-up call. Allowing external actors to fragment sovereign states or instrumentalise fragile regions for unresolved conflicts carries long-term consequences. Somalia’s unity and stability, therefore, align squarely with core Arab strategic interests and with longstanding Arab positions on sovereignty, justice and self-determination.

Somalia is ready to be part of the solution. With calibrated strategic support, particularly in security sector development and logistics infrastructure, Somalia can emerge as a cornerstone of Red Sea and Gulf of Aden stability, a gateway to East Africa, and a long-term partner for the Arab world.

The question is no longer whether Somalia matters in the regional and global Red Sea and Gulf of Aden discussions and plans. It is whether the region will act on that reality before others do.

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

The first round of Iran-US talks in Muscat produced no breakthrough. The next few weeks will determine whether they laid foundations or merely bought time before escalation.

When Iranian and American negotiators concluded several hours of talks in Muscat on February 6, publicly, neither side signalled any shift from its opening position. Iran insisted the discussions focus exclusively on the nuclear file. The United States arrived seeking a comprehensive framework that would also cover ballistic missiles, regional armed groups, and more broadly, issues Washington has raised publicly, including human rights concerns. Neither prevailed. Both agreed to meet again.

On the surface, this looks like a non-event. It was not.

The Muscat round was the first high-level diplomatic engagement between the two countries since the joint US-Israeli strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities in June 2025, an escalation that Iran later said killed more than 1,000 people and involved strikes on three nuclear sites. That the two sides returned to the same palace near Muscat’s airport where previous rounds were held in 2025, and agreed to return again is significant.

But continuation is not progress. The distance between what happened in Muscat and what a deal requires remains vast.

Diplomacy conducted under military escort

The most striking feature of the Muscat round was not what was said, but who sat in the room. The American delegation was led by Special Envoy Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner, President Trump’s son-in-law. It also included, for the first time, Admiral Brad Cooper, the commander of US Central Command, in full dress uniform.

His presence at the negotiating table was not incidental. It was a signal. The USS Abraham Lincoln carrier strike group was operating in the Arabian Sea as the talks unfolded, and days earlier, US forces had shot down an Iranian drone that approached the carrier.

An Iranian diplomatic source told the Reuters news agency that Cooper’s presence “endangered” the talks. Another, quoted by Al-Araby TV, warned that “negotiations taking place under threat” could impose strategic costs rather than advance them. For Tehran, the message was unmistakable: This was diplomacy conducted in the shadow of force, not as an alternative to it.

Washington, for its part, sees this as leverage. President Trump, speaking on board Air Force One after the talks, described them as “very good” and said Iran wants a deal “very badly”, adding: “They know the consequences if they don’t. They don’t make a deal; the consequences are very steep.”

This is diplomacy framed as an ultimatum. It may create urgency. It is unlikely to create trust, and trust is what this process most desperately needs.

The structural problem

The US withdrew from the 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) in 2018, despite international verification that Iran was meeting its obligations. That decision shattered Iranian confidence in the durability of US commitments. Tehran’s subsequent incremental breaches of the agreement, steadily increasing enrichment levels from 2019 onwards, weakened its credibility, in turn.

This mutual distrust is not a negotiating obstacle that can be resolved with creative diplomacy alone. It is the defining condition under which any agreement must be built. The US has the capacity to impose enormous economic and military costs on Iran. But power does not automatically produce compliance. For commitments to hold, Iran must believe concessions will bring relief rather than new demands. That belief has been badly damaged.

Consider the sequence of events surrounding the Muscat round itself. Hours after the talks concluded, the US State Department announced new sanctions targeting 14 shadow fleet vessels involved in transporting Iranian petroleum, alongside penalties on 15 entities and two individuals. The Treasury Department framed the action as part of the administration’s “maximum pressure” campaign. Whether preplanned or timed for effect, the message was clear: Washington intends to negotiate and squeeze simultaneously.

For Tehran, which has consistently demanded that sanctions relief be the starting point for progress, this sequencing confirms precisely the pattern it fears. Iranian Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi identified this dynamic explicitly, telling Iranian state television that “the mistrust that has developed is a serious challenge facing the negotiations.”

What actually happened in Muscat

Beneath the competing narratives, the outlines of the substantive discussion have begun to emerge. Iran reportedly rejected a US demand for “zero enrichment”, a maximalist position it was never going to accept in a first meeting. The two sides instead discussed the dilution of Iran’s existing uranium stockpile, a more technical and potentially more productive avenue.

Meanwhile, Al Jazeera reported that diplomats from Egypt, Turkiye and Qatar had separately offered Iran a framework proposal: Halt enrichment for three years, transfer highly enriched uranium out of the country, and pledge not to initiate the use of ballistic missiles. Russia had reportedly signalled willingness to receive the uranium. Tehran has signalled both the enrichment halt and uranium transfer would be nonstarters.

Perhaps the most important development was the least visible. According to Axios, Witkoff and Kushner met directly with Araghchi during the talks, breaking from the strictly indirect format that Iran had demanded for most of last year’s rounds of negotiations. Iran had previously insisted on communicating with the US only through Omani intermediaries. Crossing that barrier, even partially, suggests both sides recognise the limits of indirect talks once bargaining becomes technical.

Oman’s framing was arguably the most honest assessment of the day. Foreign Minister Badr al-Busaidi described the talks as aimed at establishing “appropriate conditions for the resumption of diplomatic and technical negotiations”.

What the next few weeks will decide

Trump said a second round of talks would take place soon. Both sides indicated to Axios that further meetings were expected within days. The compressed timeline is notable. During last year’s rounds, weeks separated each session. The pace suggests Washington believes the diplomatic window is narrowing, and Tehran is at least willing to test that claim.

Several tests will show whether urgency produces substance or merely speed.

First, the scope question. The fundamental dispute over what the talks are about remains unresolved. Iran won the first procedural battle: The venue moved from Turkiye to Oman, regional observers were excluded, and Araghchi claims only nuclear issues were discussed. Secretary of State Marco Rubio said before the talks that the agenda needed to include “all those issues”. If the second round begins with the same fight over scope, it will signal that even the basics remain unsettled.

Second, Iran’s enrichment posture. Before the June 2025 war, Iran had been enriching uranium to 60 percent purity, a short technical step from weapons-grade. Tehran has said enrichment stopped following the strikes. But Iran has also conditioned International Atomic Energy Agency inspections of the bombed sites on new inspection arrangements, raising concerns among non-proliferation experts. Conversely, reports of enrichment resumption or acceleration would likely end the diplomatic track.

Third, the military environment. The US naval build-up in the Arabian Sea is not decorative. The drone shootdown near the Abraham Lincoln and Iran’s attempted interception of a US-flagged vessel in the Strait of Hormuz in the days before the talks show how quickly signalling can slide into miscalculation. Whether the carrier group is reinforced, maintained or gradually drawn down in the coming weeks will reveal more about Washington’s assessment of diplomacy than any press statement.

Fourth, the sanctions rhythm. The same-day announcement of shadow fleet sanctions establishes a pattern. If Washington continues to layer new economic penalties between rounds of talks, Tehran will treat it as evidence that diplomacy is performance rather than process.

Fifth, backchannel activity. The most consequential diplomacy over the next few weeks may not occur in formal settings. Oman, Qatar, Egypt and Turkiye have been working behind the scenes to sustain dialogue. If those intermediary contacts remain active, space for de-escalation persists. If they fall silent, the margin for error narrows.

A managed deadlock is not a strategy

The most probable short-term outcome remains neither breakthrough nor war, but a managed deadlock in which both sides maintain maximal public positions while avoiding steps that would make future talks impossible. In practice, this is a pause sustained by caution rather than a settlement anchored in confidence.

For the broader region, the distinction matters urgently. Gulf states have no interest in becoming staging grounds for escalation. Public statements across the region have consistently emphasised de-escalation, restraint and conflict avoidance. But regional actors can facilitate, host and encourage; they cannot impose terms on either Washington or Tehran.

The Muscat talks did not fail. Neither did they succeed. They established that a channel exists, that both sides are willing to use it, and that direct contact between senior officials is possible.

But a channel is not a plan. The absence of war is not the presence of a deal. The period between Muscat and whatever comes next is a window in which miscalculation remains close to the surface, sustained only by the assumption that both sides are reading each other’s signals correctly.

The next round of talks will not produce an agreement. But it may show whether the two sides are building a floor beneath the standoff or simply postponing the moment when that floor gives way.

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

After Pakistan announced their boycott of the forthcoming T20I World Cup match against India, the International Cricket Council (ICC) was quick to lament the position the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) had put fans in. “[Pakistan’s] decision is not in the interest of the global game or the welfare of fans worldwide,” the ICC said in a release, before going on to make special mention of “millions in Pakistan”, who will now have no India fixture to anticipate.

Through the course of this statement, and the one the previous week, justifying the ICC’s ultimatum to the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB) – which eventually led to Bangladesh’s exit from the tournament – the ICC leaned on ideals of fairness and equality. The “integrity and sanctity” of the World Cup was invoked, as well as the “neutrality and fairness” of such an event.

Pakistan’s fans may clock, of course, that they had not attracted such concern before the Champions Trophy in 2025, when India had refused to play in Pakistan for what were, in truth, purely political reasons. As it happened, a semifinal and the final of that tournament were eventually moved away from Pakistan, India’s cricketing magnetism pulling the knockouts to Dubai, after the ICC had adopted a “hybrid” model wherein India played all its matches outside the “host” country.

This was a key moment setting cricket on its current trajectory. In return for India’s refusal to play in its home country, Pakistan insisted they would not travel to India for this year’s T20 World Cup – two of the most storied cricketing nations on the planet descending to reciprocal petulance. In the lead-up to this World Cup, Bangladesh was also drawn into the fray, the Indian Premier League (IPL) franchise’s jettisoning of Bangladesh bowler Mustafizur Rahman prompting Bangladesh to demand all its matches be played in Sri Lanka (India’s co-host for this tournament), and that demand, in turn, leading to it being thrown out entirely.

All claims that any of these boycotts are founded on security concerns are, in fact, bogus; security assessments ordered by the ICC had found India sufficiently equipped to handle Bangladesh’s visit, while Pakistan had hosted ICC-sanctioned international cricket involving multiple touring teams, and Pakistan had played an entire One Day International (ODI) World Cup in India as recently as 2023.

What is also clear, however, is that the ICC has now allowed its sport to become the medium through which South Asian states, currently as riven as they have been for decades, exchange geopolitical blows. What’s more, the ICC has begun to favour one set of geopolitical ambitions over others, India never so much as copping a censure for its refusal to play in Pakistan, while India’s men’s team’s refusal to shake hands with the Pakistan players in last year’s Asia Cup has now been adopted across the Board of Cricket in Control’s (BCCI’s) teams – the women’s and Under-19 (U19) sides following suit. To take the ICC at face value would also require believing that ICC Chair Jay Shah is conducting his business in complete separation from Amit Shah, who is India’s home minister.

It is India’s stupendous cricket economy that has chiefly brought about this imbalance. Since 2014, when a Big Three (India, Australia, England) takeover at the ICC diverted cricket to a hypercapitalist path, the game’s top administrators have been adamant that it is profits that must define cricket’s contours. Because India is the wellspring of much of the game’s finances, the ICC has organised for the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) to receive close to 40 percent of the ICC’s net earnings, while international men’s cricket largely surrenders a fifth of the calendar to the IPL. The sport’s high-octane driver of financial growth demands protection, or so the official line goes. If member boards fail to align with the BCCI agenda at the ICC, it has long been taken as read that the BCCI may threaten to cancel India’s next tour of that country, which in turn may shatter the smaller board’s revenues. The vote to issue that ultimatum to the BCB had run 14-2 against Bangladesh. A board must never forget at whose table it eats.

A cricket world that has spent 12 years lionising economic might cannot now be surprised that politics has now begun to overrun even the game’s financial imperatives. That monopolies tend to lead to appalling contractions in consumer choice has been a fundamental tenet of economics for generations. Hundreds of millions of Bangladesh fans are about to discover this over the next few weeks, as will the remainder of the cricketing world on February 15, when India and Pakistan were due to play. That profit-driven systems, which equate wealth with power, frequently lose the means to check the most powerful, is another longstanding principle in political economics.

The tournament’s competitive standards will also undoubtedly slip for Bangladesh’s absence. Bangladesh have a body of work in cricket that, respectfully, utterly dwarfs that of Scotland, who have replaced them. There are warnings here, too, for other cricketing economies. Although broadcast revenues from Bangladesh are a mere sliver of the mountains India presently generates, macroeconomic indicators from Bangladesh (a growing population, an improving gross domestic product (GDP) per capita and Inequality-adjusted Human Development Index (IHDI) ranking) suggest that market is set to grow in future decades. If the ICC is willing to freeze a Full Member with Bangladesh’s potential, what will it do to more vulnerable boards – Sri Lanka, New Zealand, and the West Indies, for example?

The irony for many boards is that they have largely served the BCCI’s agenda at the ICC for a dozen years, helping extend its financial dominance. Since the Big Three first carved up governance and finances at the ICC in 2014, most smaller boards have been enthusiastic supporters of the BCCI’s programme, believing that only by appeasing India can they survive, which in itself is a tacit admission of a galling lack of ambition. And still, a dozen years of carrying this water has delivered them to no less bleak a position. In fact, several of the smaller Full Members have regressed..

Sri Lanka Cricket, for instance, has in recent years been among the BCCI’s most loyal allies. But it has now been a dozen years since any of their senior teams made the semifinal of a global tournament. Their Test cricket survives, but barely – the schedule is increasingly thin. Sri Lanka men only have six Tests on their slate in 2026, having had as few as four Tests to play last year. Cricket West Indies, meanwhile, has not seen a major resurgence on the field either, their men’s T20 fortunes having subsided since 2016, while both their men’s and women’s ODI teams have failed to qualify for the most recent World Cups. Zimbabwe Cricket is in no less challenging a footing now than it was two decades ago.

New Zealand and South Africa have held their own on the field, especially in women’s cricket and in the Test format. But to get here, Cricket South Africa (CSA), in particular, has had to be publicly chastened by the BCCI – in 2013, when India shortened a tour there because the BCCI resented the appointment of a CEO it didn’t like. More recently, South Africa’s top T20 league has also failed to feature Pakistan players, because each of the SA20’s franchise owners has a base in India. Excluding sportspeople based on the circumstances of their birth cuts hard against the ethos of post-Apartheid sport in South Africa. And yet even this national ambition has been subjugated by Indian political interests. Smaller boards have become so reliant on funds flowing from India that India increasingly chooses the terms of their cricketing survival.

Now, a World Cup is about to begin with Bangladesh having learned the harshest lesson of all. The BCB had been among the first of the smaller boards to sign away power to the Big Three during the first takeover in 2014. In 2026, the BCB now finds itself deeply out of favour for non-cricketing reasons.

India is inarguably the greatest cricketing superpower there ever has been. Even in the days of the Imperial Cricket Conference (the ICC’s predecessor), Australia and England could perhaps be relied on to check each other’s most predatory instincts. Such checks do not hold when one board is the sun, and the remainder are merely planets in its orbit. Perhaps the lesson for CA and the ECB – the BCCI’s most eager collaborators – is that the time may be coming when India has decided they are past their use-by date too. Why shouldn’t the BCCI freeze them out eventually? Would India not merely be doing what all superpowers tend to do, which is to leverage its stupendous power until all others either conform or are cast off? And why should the BCCI’s ambitions fall short of gobbling up even those established markets?

Cricket is now making clear its allegiances, and despite the ICC’s rhetoric, its commitments are no longer to neutrality and competitive equilibrium which are such vital rudiments of any sport. Other boards have allowed India’s will to prevail to such an extent that its motives now need not be merely economic; they can be nakedly political. And cricket is being eaten alive in this dark intersection between money and politics.

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

Last month during the violent clashes between Kurdish forces and the Syrian army, the United States delivered a devastating message to Syria’s Kurds: Their partnership with Washington had “expired“. This was not merely a statement of shifting priorities – it was a clear signal that the US was siding with Damascus and abandoning the Kurds at their most vulnerable moment.

For the Kurds across the region watching events unfold, the implications were profound. The US is no longer perceived as a reliable partner or supporter of minorities.

This development is likely to have an impact not just on the Kurdish community in Syria but also those in Iraq, Turkiye and Iran.

Fears of repeat marginalisation in Syria

US support for Damascus under interim President Ahmed al-Sharaa paves the way for a centralised Syrian state – an arrangement that Kurds throughout the region view with deep suspicion. Their wariness is rooted in bitter historical experience.

Centralised states in the Middle East have historically marginalised, excluded and assimilated Kurdish minorities. The prospect of such a system emerging in Syria, with US backing, represents a fundamental divergence from Kurdish hopes for the region’s future.

The approach the Assad regime to the Kurdish question was built on systematic denial. Kurds were not recognised as a distinct collective group within Syria’s national fabric; the state banned the public use of the Kurdish language and Kurdish names. Many Kurds were denied citizenship.

Al-Sharaa’s presidential decree of January 16 promised Kurds some rights while the January 30 agreement between Damascus and the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) included limited recognition of Kurdish collective identity, including acknowledgment of “Kurdish regions” – terminology conspicuously absent from Syria’s political vocabulary and government documents in the past.

These represent incremental gains, but they are unfolding within a transitional government structure that aims for centralisation as its ultimate objective. That is why Syrian Kurds remain suspicious of whether the promises made today will be upheld in the future.

While a consensus has emerged among the majority of Kurdish groups that armed resistance is not strategically viable at this stage, any future engagement with the US will be perceived with mistrust.

Possibility of renewed Shia-Kurdish alliance in Iraq

After years of power rivalries between Shia and Kurdish parties in Iraq, both groups are now observing developments in Syria and potential changes in Iran with a shared sense of threat and common interests. If in 2003, their alliance was driven by a shared past – the suffering under Saddam Hussein’s regime – today it is being guided by a shared future shaped by fears of being marginalised in the region.

At both the political and popular levels, Shia and Kurdish parties and communities have had much more in common over the past few weeks than in the past. This convergence is evident not only in elite political calculations but also in public sentiment across both communities.

For the first time in recent memory, both Kurdish elites and ordinary citizens in Iraq are no longer enthusiastic about regime change in Iran, a position that would have been unthinkable just a few weeks ago.

In addition, last month, Iraq’s Shia Coordination Framework, an alliance of its Shia political parties, nominated Nouri al-Maliki for prime minister, the most powerful position in the Iraqi government. Remarkably, the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP), the dominant Kurdish political force, welcomed the nomination.

The KDP’s support for al-Maliki was not solely a reaction to anger over US policy in Syria. It was also rooted in Iraqi and Kurdish internal politics. The endorsement is part of an ongoing rivalry between the KDP and the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK) over Iraq’s presidency, an office reserved for the Kurds. The KDP needs allies in Baghdad to ensure its candidate, rather than the PUK’s, secures the position.

However, Washington might see an alignment between the KDP-led Kurdistan Regional Government in northern Iraq and an al-Maliki-led government or a similar government in Baghdad as not conducive to its interests in Iraq, especially its efforts to curb Iranian influence.

Before casting blame, Washington should ask itself why the Kurds feels compelled to adopt this position. The Kurdish stance cannot be fully understood without factoring US policy in Syria into the discussion. From a Kurdish perspective, the US has not been a neutral arbiter in Syria.

The peace process in Turkiye

Over the past year, many believed that the sustainability of Turkiye’s peace process with the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) hinged on a resolution of the Kurdish question in Syria and the fate of the SDF.

The violent clashes between Damascus, backed by Ankara and Washington, and the SDF threatened to close the door on negotiations. Remarkably, however, not all avenues have been shut.

It now appears the two issues are being treated as separate files. Negotiations with the PKK are likely to continue within Turkiye’s borders, and crucially, PKK leaders have not translated their disappointment over the weakening of the SDF into a definitive rejection of talks with Ankara.

What sustains this dynamic is that the SDF has not been entirely dismantled, leaving some breathing room for continued dialogue between Ankara and the PKK.

The Iranian Kurds

The Iranian Kurds, although farther away from Syria, have also observed events there and made their conclusions. The abandonment of the SDF reveals the unpredictable nature of US support for the region’s minorities.

In light of this and given continuing US incitement against the Iranian regime, it is quite significant that the Iranian Kurds collectively and deliberately decided not to be at the forefront of the recent protests or allow themselves to be instrumentalised by Western media.

The Kurdish community in Iran is not enthusiastic about a potential return of Reza Pahlavi, who clearly enjoys support from Washington, and the restoration of the shah’s legacy, which was also oppressive. Iranian opposition groups – many of them based in the West – have not offered a better prospect for the Kurdish question. There is widespread fear that the current regime could simply be replaced by another with no guarantee for Kurdish rights.

Some Iraq-based Iranian Kurdish armed groups did carry out attacks on Iranian positions near the Iran-Iraq border. But the main Iranian Kurdish armed actors chose not to engage directly or escalate militarily. Their calculations are based on the uncertainty about the endgame envisioned by Israel and the US and the reality that any escalation would provoke Iranian retaliation against Iraqi Kurds.

With each abandonment of its Kurdish allies, the US further erodes the foundation of trust upon which its local partnerships rest. Iraqi and Syrian Kurds have learned to live with American unreliability, but this arrangement may not endure indefinitely. When it fractures, the consequences for US influence in the region could be profound.

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

Jamal’s nine-year-old body is paralysed. He experiences constant, uncontrollable, violent spasms. He cannot sleep through them. Nor can his mother. To keep the spasms under control, a drug called baclofen is required. It relaxes the muscles and stops the shaking. Suddenly halting the use of baclofen can have serious health consequences.

Jamal’s mother, my cousin Shaima, wrote to me from the family’s tent in al-Mawasi displacement camp in Gaza a week ago. It was her son’s seventh day without the medicine. The violent, neurological spasms that seize Jamal’s limbs leave him screaming out in pain.

Baclofen is unavailable anywhere in Gaza: not in hospitals, not in clinics, not in Ministry of Health warehouses, and not even through the Red Cross. Shaima has searched all of them. It is one of the many medicines blocked by Israel, along with painkillers and antibiotics.

Jamal now endures dozens of spasms each day. There is no alternative medication or substitute. There is no relief, only pain.

Jamal’s story is not to be told, if the likes of former US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo are to have their way.

Speaking at the United States-based, Israel-focused MirYam Institute last month, he said, “We need to make sure that the story is told properly so that when the history books write this, they don’t write about the victims of Gaza”. At this line, the audience applauded.

Pompeo went on to say that every war has civilian casualties, but the true victims in this case are the Israeli people. His concern is that October 7th and the war in Gaza would be remembered “incorrectly”.

It seems Pompeo wants to argue that the people of Gaza are just “collateral damage” in Israel’s war.  They are to remain nameless, faceless, forgotten. He wants their stories erased from the pages of human history.

His remarks reflect the next phase in Israel’s genocide. Dissatisfied with its progress in eliminating Gaza’s people, their mosques, their schools and universities, their cultural institutions, economy and land, Israel and its Christian-Zionist allies like Pompeo have now embarked on the erasure of memory and martyrdom.

The campaign is evident both inside and beyond Gaza. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) – an institution that has long preserved the status of the Palestinian refugee population and safeguarded their right of return under international law – is being systematically undermined and dismantled. TikTok – one of the few social media platforms where Palestinian voices have had a bit more freedom to speak – is now shadow banning and restricting pro-Palestinian accounts, after being taken over by an Israel-friendly conglomerate.

In the US, United Kingdom, and elsewhere, local laws are weaponised to come after pro-Palestinian youth, with scores being detained for using what should be their protected right to free speech. Laws are even passed at the state level in the US to shape what can be taught at schools about Israel and Palestine.

But what Pompeo – and those like him who misread biblical verses to justify their support for Israel and its genocide – do not understand is that Palestinians have faced erasure before and have overcome it. We will do so again.

In thinking about memory and bearing witness, the word “martyr” comes to mind. “Martyr” comes from the Greek word “martus”, meaning “witness”, and features prominently in the Bible. Similarly, the word “shaheed” in Arabic is derived from the root of the word for “witness” or “witnessing”. As the word evolved, it also took on connotations of violent suffering due to one’s beliefs, and even a sense of heroic steadfastness due to the scale of one’s sacrifice.

I can think of no better word than “shaheed” to describe Jamal and the people around him: they are living martyrs. Jamal’s little body has witnessed immense suffering; it has been pounded with the violence of the war, and he – like his mother – pushes on because of his overwhelming desire to live.

All around Jamal and Shaima’s tent are thousands of other tents. Day and night, each of them is pierced by the sound of Jamal’s screams. Inside the tents, cold and often wet from the recent floods, are thousands of other people who require urgent and important medical evacuation to hospitals.

The pain and suffering are immense, yet the likes of Pompeo continue to justify the ongoing and historically rooted process of the elimination of the Palestinian people.

The Palestinian people are also poets at heart. And what Pompeo – who devalues language, memory and history – will never understand is that the poet is a witness.

As Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish wrote in one of his verses:

Those who pass between fleeting words

Take your names with you and go

Rid our time of your hours, and go

Steal what you will from the blueness of the sea and the sands of memory

Take what pictures you will so as to understand

That which you never will:

How a stone from our land becomes the ceiling of our sky.

The Palestinian people will keep memory alive, just as we have kept alive the pain of Beit Daras, Deir Yassin, Jenin, Muhammad al-Durrah, Anas al-Sharif and the roots of every olive tree ripped from its soil. The Palestinian people, and millions in solidarity around the world, witnessed Israel’s destruction of Gaza. In defiance of Pompeo and honouring the living martyr Jamal, each of us will take the stones of Gaza and build a new sky.

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

Ever since the crackdown on protests in Iran between January 8 and 10, there has been contention on what the true death toll of those bloody events is. According to figures provided by the Iranian government, 3,117 people were killed, including civilians and security forces. Yet estimates from outside the country have put the number at anywhere between 5,000 and a staggering 36,500.

This wide range not only reflects the fact that it has been extremely difficult to verify these reports, but also that there has been a concerted effort to use the death count to manufacture global consent for an attack on Iran and, in a deceitful rhetoric, downplay the official death toll of the genocide in Gaza.

Since the outbreak of the protests, there has been a race to estimate and report on the casualties – something I call a “Death Toll Olympics”.

Iran-focused human rights organisations led by dissident activists have been going through all sorts of evidence and testimonies to verify the number of the dead. As of writing this piece, the US-based organisation HRANA (Human Rights Activists News Agency) has cited more than 6,000 deaths and a further 17,000-plus cases under examination.

However, there are valid doubts about the speed of the activist-led verification process.

For every reported death, multiple accounts have to be examined, possible duplications must be identified and eliminated; and dates, locations and specific circumstances must be cross-checked against the timeline of events.

Furthermore, any visual evidence has to be localised and authenticated based on open-source data or corroborated by the accounts of multiple witnesses. From an investigative standpoint, the reliability and quality of activist-led counts that increase rapidly on a daily basis, therefore warrants caution.

The UN Special Rapporteur on Iran, Mai Sato, has cited a conservative estimate of around 5,000 deaths. At the same time, she has mentioned that unverified numbers of up to 20,000 have been reported to her by medical sources.

The described obstacles, and difficulties of verification over the past weeks, have been further exacerbated by Iran’s severely restricted internet access. Despite this, major media outlets have begun distributing much higher figures, solely based on vague anonymous sources who claim privileged access within Iran’s government or health sector.

On January 25, for example, UK-based TV network Iran International published a report claiming 36,500 were killed, citing “extensive reports” allegedly obtained from the Iranian security apparatus – reports it has neither published nor otherwise made transparent.

The same day, United States news magazine Time published an article titled “Iran Protest Death Toll Could Top 30,000, According to Local Health Officials”. It claimed that “as many as 30,000 people could have been killed in the streets of Iran on Jan. 8 and 9 alone” based on the accounts of two senior officials of the country’s Ministry of Health, whose identities were not revealed for security reasons. Notably, the magazine admitted in the text that it did not possess any means to independently confirm that number.

Two days later, British newspaper The Guardian followed the same trend with an article titled “Disappeared bodies, mass burials and ‘30,000 dead’: what is the truth of Iran’s death toll?” The piece introduced the figure of 30,000 based on estimates of an anonymous doctor, who spoke to the newspaper. He and his colleagues in Iran, the outlet admitted, were actually hesitant to provide a concrete figure.

Other media – from the Sunday Times to the Pierce Morgan Uncensored show – have cited papers circulated by Germany-based ophthalmologist Amir Parasta claiming death toll numbers between 16,500 and 33,000. However, the latest available version of the paper, dating back to January 23 uses disputable extrapolation methods to reach its figures. Strikingly, Parasta does not make any secret of his affiliation with Reza Pahlavi, the son of Iran’s ousted Shah

The exiled crown prince and his team, whose extensive social media manipulation and disinformation efforts have been exposed by recent investigations by the Israeli newspaper Haaretz and University of Toronto’s The Citizen Lab, have been key actors in inciting and escalating the recent protests towards confrontation. Accordingly, the fatality numbers disseminated by Mr Parasta cannot be perceived as neutral and constitute partisan estimates at best.

Despite acknowledging their own inability to verify these estimates, the media in question nevertheless put these extreme figures in titles and subheadings. It didn’t take long for other outlets to report on these inflated numbers, referring to these major publications as primary sources. Activists and Western politicians have also used them to push their respective agendas, thereby further fuelling a spiral of disinformation campaigns on social media. – In other words, a “death toll olympics” was born.

All of this has served two ends.

First, it has supported efforts to manufacture consent for foreign military intervention and malicious political action. While the protests were still ongoing, US President Donald Trump repeatedly threatened military action against Iran in the event of a deadly crackdown. As of writing these lines, there has been a significant US military build-up around Iran, effectively thickening the war cloud.

Second, the speculation about the Iranian death toll has helped pro-Israel politicians and commentators in the West to downplay the casualties of the Israeli war on Gaza. In this way, it has become a utilitarian tool for relativising the genocide of the Palestinian people.

Confronted with mounting pressure regarding the death toll, Iran’s President Masoud Pezeshkian ordered the authorities to “publicly publish the names and personal data of those deceased during the recent bitter incidents”. His director of communication has even promised that a procedure has been set up to examine and verify any conflicting claims.

It remains to be seen how effective and transparent the promised procedure will turn out. It is undeniable that thousands have been killed in Iran, mostly by Iranian security forces, amid a multi-day brutal crowd and riot control effort.

Structural obscurity and the restricted access to Iran for independent experts will likely mean that the exact death toll will never be determined. However, the more transparency can be established regarding the scale of the killings, the more likely it is that the perpetrators can be held accountable.

An arduous verification process of the recent deaths is crucial not only for the sake of accountability, but also to expose the media manipulation that is once again preparing the ground for a unilateral US-led act of aggression in the Middle East. In light of this, the “Death Toll Olympics” remains an ignominious disservice to the wretched of the Earth from Palestine to Iran.

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

Over the past year, United States President Donald Trump has pursued “peace-making” all across the world. A prominent feature of his efforts has been the belief that economic threats or rewards can resolve conflicts. Most recently, his administration has put forward economic development plans as part of peace mediation for Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza, the war in Ukraine and the conflict between Israel and Syria.

While some may see Trump’s “business” approach to “peace-making” as unique, it is not. The flawed conviction that economic development can resolve conflicts has been a regular feature of Western neoliberal peace initiatives in the Global South for the past few decades.

Occupied Palestine is a good example.

In the early 1990s, when the “peace process” was initiated, Israeli Foreign Minister Shimon Peres started advocating for “economic peace” as part of it. He sold his vision of the “New Middle East” as a new regional order that would guarantee security and economic development for all.

The project aimed to place Israel at the economic centre of the Arab world through regional infrastructure — transport, energy and industrial zones. Peres’s solution for the “Israeli-Palestinian conflict” was Palestinian economic integration. The Palestinians were promised jobs, investment, and improved living standards.

His argument was that economic development and cooperation would foster stability and mutual interest between Israelis and Palestinians. But that did not happen. Instead, as the occupation continued to entrench itself after the US-brokered Oslo Accords and the establishment of the Palestinian Authority (PA), anger in the Palestinian streets grew and eventually led to the outbreak of the second Intifada.

This neoliberal approach was tested again by the Quartet – consisting of the United Nations, the European Union, the US and Russia – and its envoy Tony Blair in 2007. By then, the Palestinian economy had collapsed, losing 40 percent of its gross domestic product (GDP) in eight years and plunging 65 percent of the population into poverty.

Blair’s “solution” was to propose 10 “quick impact” economic projects and fundraise for them in the West. This went hand-in-hand with the policies of then-Palestinian Prime Minister Salam Fayyad, in what came to be known as “Fayyadism”.

Fayyadism was sold to Palestinians as a pathway to statehood through institution-building and economic growth. Fayyad focused on generating short-term economic gains in the occupied West Bank while simultaneously rebuilding the Palestinian security apparatus to meet Israeli security demands.

This model of economic peace never addressed the root cause of Palestinian economic stagnation: the Israeli occupation. Even the World Bank warned that investment without a political settlement ending Israeli control would fail in the medium and long term. Yet the approach persisted.

There were Palestinians who benefitted from it, but they were not common Palestinians. They were a narrow elite: security officials who gained privileged access to financial institutions, contractors tied to Israeli markets, and a handful of large investors. For the wider population, living standards remained precarious.

Rather than preparing Palestinians for statehood, Fayyadism replaced liberation with management, sovereignty with security coordination, and collective rights with individual consumption.

This economic approach to conflict resolution merely gave Israel time to entrench its colonial enterprise by expanding its settlements on Palestinian land.

The latest economic plan for Gaza, presented by Trump’s adviser and son-in-law Jared Kushner, is unlikely to bring economic prosperity to the Palestinians either. The project reflects two deeply contradictory dynamics: it foregrounds opportunities for investment and profit for global and regional oligarchies while systematically ignoring the fundamental national and human rights of the Palestinian people.

Security is framed exclusively around the needs of the occupying power, while Palestinians are compartmentalised, securitised, and surveilled — reduced to a depoliticised labour force stripped of social and national identity.

This approach views people as individuals rather than as nations or historically established communities. Under this logic, individuals are expected to acquiesce to oppression and dispossession once they obtain jobs and improve their living standards.

These strategies are failing to build peace not just in Palestine.

In the Israeli-occupied Golan Heights, the US has proposed expanding the demilitarised zone and converting it into a joint economic zone, featuring a ski resort. The US approach seems designed not only to pressure Syria to relinquish its sovereign rights over the territory, but also to recast it as a security project in ways that primarily benefit Israel. Under this framework, the US would act as the security guarantor. Its close alliance with Israel, however, puts its impartiality and true intentions in doubt.

In Ukraine, the US has proposed a free economic zone in parts of the Donbas region, from which the Ukrainian army would have to withdraw. This would allow Moscow to expand its influence without direct military confrontation, creating a buffer zone favourable to Russian security interests.

The Donbas has historically been one of Ukraine’s industrial bases, and transforming it into a free economic zone would deprive Ukraine of a critical economic resource. There are also no guarantees that the Russian army would not simply advance after the Ukrainian withdrawal and take the whole region.

These neoliberal “solutions” to the conflicts in Gaza, the Donbas and the Golan Heights are doomed to fail just like the economically-driven peace initiatives of the 1990s and 2000s in occupied Palestine.

The main problem is that the US cannot really provide credible guarantees that the areas would remain stable, so investors can secure returns on their investments. That is because no solid political settlement would be in place, given the fact that these proposals ignore the political, cultural and most importantly, national interests of the people living in these regions. As a result, no serious or independent investor would commit capital to such an arrangement.

Nations are not made up of consumers or labourers; they are made up of people with a common identity and national aspirations.

Economic incentives should follow, not precede, a political resolution that secures the self-determination of indigenous peoples. Any conflict-resolution framework that ignores collective rights and international law is therefore bound to fail. Political settlements must prioritise these rights, a requirement that stands in direct opposition to the logic of neoliberalism.

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