Opinions

For most of Israel’s history, disagreements between political leaders and the military remained largely private. Arguments over strategy, timing or risk were real, but they were managed away from the public eye. Citizens saw a country that, whatever its internal tensions, could present a coherent face in wartime.

That quiet arrangement has frayed. Nearly three years after the October 7 attacks, open clashes between ministers and senior officers have become almost routine. The latest began when Defence Minister Israel Katz criticised Major-General Avi Bluth, the commander of Israeli forces in the occupied West Bank, for seeking to extend the detention of an extremist settler. Katz then announced on live television that Bluth would be replaced, only for Chief of Staff Eyal Zamir to push back publicly, insisting that the general would remain in his post and that the proper procedures must be followed. What was once contained now plays out in full view.

This exchange, like many before it, is not the real story. The real story is what these repeated public ruptures reveal about a country still at war. The campaign that began with a demand for national unity has gradually redefined the relationship between those who set the direction and those who must turn it into reality. The disagreement is no longer mainly about tactics. It is about something more fundamental: Who has the right to define victory, to set the aims of the war, and to decide what is possible.

This change is bigger than a simple loss of discipline or a personal clash. Israel was never a state in which the army merely carried out orders. From the state’s earliest years, the military was a partner in shaping security policy, not a pure executive arm. David Ben-Gurion built the Israeli military as a central national institution. Later leaders – Yitzhak Rabin, Ehud Barak, Ariel Sharon, Benny Gantz, Yoav Gallant – rose from its ranks. The boundary between political authority and military judgement was always porous. The army did not simply implement policy; it helped define the realistic limits of what politics could demand.

For decades, that partnership rested on an unspoken understanding. The military, with its professional assessment of force, terrain, and risk, often set the ceiling of political ambition. Generals could, and frequently did, tell elected leaders: This is possible, this is not, this will cost more than you are prepared to pay. Politicians retained formal authority, but they operated within a framework of military realism that constrained excess. The army, in its own way, protected the political system from overreach by insisting on the boundaries of the achievable.

That relationship has inverted under the weight of a long war.

Four realities help explain why.

The first is time. Short wars allow disagreements to remain professional. A war that stretches across years turns almost every choice into a political one. How many reservists to call up, when to push deeper, how to weigh the lives of captives against broader military aims, how long a society can sustain the burden of repeated mobilisations – these are no longer purely operational questions. They touch families, communities, and the daily lives of hundreds of thousands of people. As the fighting has continued into its third year, the space for quiet professional judgement has narrowed.

The second is the absence of a shared definition of success. Official statements still speak of dismantling Hamas’s military capacity, bringing the captives home, and restoring security to the border communities. In practice, these aims pull against one another and are valued differently by different actors. Some emphasise lasting control or the elimination of residual threats. Others place the captives first or warn against an open-ended occupation. When the meaning of victory itself remains unsettled, each side begins to measure progress by its own lights. Soldiers and their commanders look for results that can be sustained. Political leaders look for outcomes that can be explained to a weary public and to their own political bases.

The third is the divergence of human incentives. Senior officers live with the state of the force and with the consequences of decisions that send people into harm’s way. Ministers live with coalition pressures, public anger, and the next election. When these pressures collide, public disagreement becomes more likely. The longer the war continues without a clear and jointly accepted end, the more often those collisions occur in the open.

The fourth, and most revealing, is the reversal of who defines the possible. Previously, the army told the political leadership what could realistically be achieved. Today, political leaders increasingly tell the army what must be achieved – and attack it when the answer is no. The military is no longer the institution that sets the ceiling of ambition. It is expected to make the politically desired outcome possible, and it is blamed when the limits of force become visible. This is not a minor adjustment in tone. It is a structural inversion of the old partnership.

The result is a deeper uncertainty about authority. In a short campaign, the question of who ultimately directs the war can remain unspoken. In a long war, it becomes unavoidable. Does final responsibility rest with the prime minister, the security cabinet, the defence minister, or the chief of staff? Different answers produce different strategies, different tolerances for risk, and different timelines for ending the fighting. When these answers are disputed in public, the coherence of decision-making suffers, and so does the clarity of what is being asked of the people who must execute the decisions.

The practical effects are already felt. Shared objectives become harder to set. An end that both political and military leaders can accept becomes more difficult to reach. A single durable strategy grows less likely. These are not problems of personality. They are problems of a system under prolonged strain. A country that once relied on the military’s professional standing to define the realistic boundaries of political ambition now finds politicians demanding outcomes that the army is expected simply to deliver, while soldiers, reservists, and families continue to bear the human consequences.

The public dispute between a defence minister and a chief of staff may look, on the surface, like another round of personal or partisan conflict. It is better understood as the latest expression of a larger question that has accompanied Israel since October 7: When a war stretches across years rather than weeks, who finally decides what is possible – the politician whose survival depends on the appearance of control, or the general who believes he understands the limits of military power? The answer will shape not only the relationship between government and army, but the manner and the moment in which this war eventually ends, and the human price still to be paid until then.

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

Every Palestinian born in the West Bank before the start of the occupation in 1967 has witnessed the extent to which Israel has transformed the landscape through spatial planning, military closures, and settlement, infrastructure and road construction. Sixty years on, what used to be a straightforward journey from point A to point B within the West Bank has become an arduous and frequently hazardous undertaking.

As a foreigner living in the West Bank in the 1980s and visiting it off and on ever since, this transformation revealed itself in incremental leaps and bounds, on each occasion provoking a shock of recognition mixed with consternation at how things looked the same but different.

I remember driving from Jerusalem to Ramallah in the 1980s, for example. The two cities were linked by a single highway with an Israeli army checkpoint at Qalandia refugee camp. To get to my destination would take me from 20 minutes to half an hour, at most, depending on traffic and the mood of the soldiers that day.

Fast forward to 2000. I had not visited for several years on the day I took my rental car along the old road out of Jerusalem. Ten minutes into my journey and not having taken any turns, I suddenly found myself inside an Israeli settlement, a suburb of occupied East Jerusalem.

Backtracking, I discovered that the way to Ramallah now required leaving the main highway for a lesser road. I proceeded. Yet before another 10 minutes had passed, I ended up at the entrance to another Israeli settlement, this time in the occupied West Bank, having again missed the relevant exit.

Looking back at those days, I now remember such unexpected forced deviations as annoyances that barely consumed additional time. Today, by contrast, travelling from Jerusalem to Ramallah can take an hour, or hours, as the army slows down or holds up traffic at all the available access points to Ramallah at will.

For Palestinians, the experience is 10 times worse. Ever growing in number and impact, Israeli restrictions on Palestinian movement have come in various types. One class includes army checkpoints, both stationary and mobile, on West Bank arteries, makeshift earthen embankments blocking roads to villages and refugee camps, and steel gates that the army can close and open via remote control.

A second category involves access to occupied East Jerusalem and Israel, which is possible only by obtaining a permit from the military authorities. This affects Palestinians wishing to visit Islam’s and Christianity’s holy sites as well as those employed inside Israel.

And a third category of restrictions concerns West Bank Palestinians’ ability to travel abroad via the Allenby Bridge border crossing with Jordan.

Movement restrictions intensified after the October 2023 Hamas attacks on southern Israel. Their cumulative impact has been to fragment Palestinian society and the way it functions. They have disrupted the economy, in particular.

A combination of military no-go zones and settler violence has made the 61 percent of the West Bank that constitutes Area C, where most agricultural lands are located, increasingly inaccessible.

Curbs on movement have affected trade, raising the cost of commerce when transport is delayed at checkpoints and perishable goods spoil.

Imports and exports also face impediments, harming a Palestinian economy that is heavily dependent on trade with Israel and the outside world (representing roughly 67 percent of its GDP).

Restricted hours at Allenby and an untransparent, elastic definition of “dual-use” goods cause costly delays for imports, stymying development. Traders’ inability to meet their Israeli counterparts in person forces them to use intermediaries at additional expense.

Movement restrictions have created their own self-perpetuating cat-and-mouse dynamic as Palestinians find ways to circumvent them and the army imposes additional curbs, forcing people to pursue evermore inventive bypass tactics. But their clever manoeuvring may carry additional costs or even risks to their lives.

Take, for example, efforts by Palestinians – desperate to put food on the table – to illegally cross into Israel for work. Some have been shot dead when breaching Israel’s separation barrier while others have been detained.

In the months before October 2023, about 193,000 West Bank and Gaza workers were employed in Israel or Israeli settlements, mainly in construction and agriculture, contributing 20 to 25 percent to the Palestinian GDP.

Israel stopped workers from crossing the Green Line on the heels of the Hamas attack, citing security concerns, even though it has offered no evidence that Palestinian workers employed in Israel in any way played a role in the events of October 2023. Since then, the number of those permitted to go to their Israeli jobs is estimated at a mere 44,000, mostly in skilled professions.

The loss of what may be a family’s primary income has been calamitous, affecting about 750,000 people (based on an average family size of five) in a population of about 3.3 million. Meanwhile, an economic downturn has further swelled the ranks of the West Bank unemployed. Poverty rates have shot up.

Movement restrictions have also disrupted family networks, limiting participation in large gatherings, such as weddings and funerals, as extended families are spread throughout the West Bank. Curbs on movement additionally complicate access to emergency or specialised medical care and even to education. Since October 2023, Palestinian institutions of higher education have reduced in-class teaching as students have faced repeated delays – often of unpredictable length – in coming to school. Online classes can only partially compensate for this disruption.

What purpose do the myriad movement restrictions serve? Palestinians often describe their experience of navigating army checkpoints as a humiliation and a form of harassment, an effort by Israeli soldiers to both show who is boss and make the population’s life difficult. Many Palestinians see in soldiers’ conduct a way of taking revenge for the Hamas attacks.

Yet by increasing the occupation’s severity, checkpoints and other restrictions on Palestinians’ movement could well have the opposite effect of triggering greater violence and thus making Israel and its citizens, including those residing in illegal settlements, not more but less secure.

While the Israeli army might argue that a certain checkpoint at a given location and time is justified on the grounds of maintaining security, in their ubiquity and seeming arbitrariness, these restrictions have, over the years, gone far beyond what could reasonably be termed a security rationale.

A motive other than maintaining security must, therefore, be at play. It is not hard to find one when Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has ruled out a two-state solution and champions annexing the occupied West Bank to Israel while some members of his cabinet, like Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich, a settler himself, openly espouse policies that would encourage West Bank Palestinians to emigrate.

Whatever the declared policy, the compounding impact of Israel’s movement restrictions has been to break up the West Bank into smaller zones that the Israeli army and intelligence apparatus can more easily penetrate and control. Palestinian politics remains vibrant in these localities (elections to West Bank municipal councils were held most recently this past April) while national politics and governance have eroded, partly as a result of obstacles to movement.

And Israel has been able to suppress, for now, armed resistance to the occupation, which has assumed an increasingly local character. The army made short work of small armed groups like the Lions’ Den, for example. These had emerged five years ago in the northern West Bank, spontaneously and largely uncoordinated between localities.

Yet even as Israel splits Palestinian society into separate enclaves, it has found no effective answer to Palestinians’ enduring aspirations to free themselves from the military occupation. To the contrary, it is sowing the seeds for further resistance through its annexationist agenda and unremittingly punitive actions.

A version of this article appeared first on Al Jazeera Arabic’s website. 

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

On Thursday, United States President Donald Trump announced that Hamas had agreed to disarm and move to the next phase of the ceasefire deal in Gaza. The announcement was received positively by various regional actors while the US president characterised it as a “historic agreement”.

The problem is that the disarmament is unlikely to take place. That is because Hamas has made clear that it has conditioned relinquishing its weapons on Israel abiding by its obligations under the agreement, which the latter has failed to do since it was reached in October. The Board of Peace, the body tasked with overseeing the ceasefire and Gaza’s reconstruction, has done nothing to pressure it into compliance.

This is one of the many failures of this body, which has very little to show for its six-month existence. It lacks the power, financing, enforcement mechanisms and legal standing within the international legal system to fulfil its self-declared mandate. Rather than creating a pathway towards de-escalation, it has created an appearance of diplomatic progress that provides political cover for the continuation of the Israeli genocide in Gaza.

The only way to move forward is for the board to be abandoned and responsibility returned to the United Nations.

Achieving nothing

The Board of Peace was established under Article 9 of Trump’s 20-point peace plan for Gaza, announced in October. Its mandate is to oversee a temporary Palestinian technocratic body that would manage Gaza and an International Stabilization Force (ISF) of multinational peacekeepers. In theory, the board would supervise Gaza’s reconstruction and Israel’s gradual withdrawal. In practice, it has not achieved any progress on either of these processes.

Despite lofty promises from the Trump administration about transforming Gaza into a modern urban landscape, there has been no movement in that direction. The majority of the population still lives in abhorrent conditions in tents.

Last month, the board scaled down the reconstruction plan to a pilot project near Rafah, close to the Egyptian border, which is under the control of the Palestinians who collaborate with Israel. Israel would vet the Palestinians who are allowed to stay in that development.

Worse still, the board is trying to give itself the right to confiscate Palestinian properties or use them “free of charge”. This signals its willingness to serve as a facade for continuing Israeli theft of Palestinian land.

An Israeli withdrawal – the other major process the board should oversee – has been all but forgotten. Instead, Israel has continued to kill Palestinians in regular bombardments and encroach on more and more Palestinian land.

Since the ceasefire began in October, Israel has killed more than 1,100 Palestinian civilians. It has continued to carry out demolitions of Palestinian homes and to move its “Yellow Line”, expanding its control to about 70 percent of Gaza’s territory, up from 53 percent at the start of the ceasefire.

The Board of Peace has taken no action in response to these Israeli colonial practices and has not issued any public statements condemning them.

Meanwhile, the board has framed Palestinians as responsible for the lack of progress. Its high representative, Nickolay Mladenov, has described Hamas as the “principal obstacle” to implementing the ceasefire despite no recorded Palestinian attacks since its beginning.

This one-sided scrutiny reveals the board’s function: not peacemaking but providing cover for the ongoing occupation.

The Board of Peace has also maintained arrangements that allow Israel to control the flow of aid into Gaza. Although Trump’s plan stipulates that neither Hamas nor Israel should interfere with the entry and distribution of assistance, the Israeli military continues to determine both the quantity and type of assistance allowed into the Gaza Strip.

Major European countries and China have declined to join the Board of Peace. States that initially signalled a willingness to contribute to the ISF have since frozen or withdrawn their commitments.

This lack of confidence is also reflected in funding failures. Despite initial pledges of $10bn from the US and a further $7bn from other countries, the World Bank account established for the board reportedly has received no funds. Instead, it has relied on a few million dollars deposited into a private JP Morgan account, much of which has been spent on salaries and administrative overhead rather than reconstruction or civilian protection.

The return of the UN

Perhaps the starkest sign of the failure of the Board of Peace is that it is seeking to give itself immunity from prosecution. In a draft resolution, the board appears to pursue protections for its members and administrative bodies, including the Office of the High Representative, Palestinian technocrats, international military forces and nonresident contractors.

In other words, the board wants to operate above the law. The goal is clear: impose a foreign governance structure that obscures Israeli colonisation of Gaza behind an international body.

The continuing existence of such a body is an international disgrace, and it needs to end.

The appropriate response is a collective push by states that support the two-state solution and the peaceful resolution of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to bring the process back to the United Nations umbrella. Palestinian factions should be at the forefront of this effort.

The UN should assume responsibility and transfer any relevant functions away from the board to established UN bodies.

Critics may counter that the UN has failed to resolve the Palestinian-Israeli conflict for more than seven decades. That is true. But its umbrella offers an international legal framework that anchors action in international law and readily identifies violations. That provides structure and legal levers the Palestinians can use to continue pushing for their rights.

What is more, there is a dedicated UN agency – UNRWA – that deals with Palestinian refugee problems and is best equipped to handle the vast challenges of a displaced and impoverished population. The return of UNRWA is important not only as a service-provision body but also as an entity that protects the rights and status of Palestinian refugees.

The UN and its associated bodies have established accountability and transparency mechanisms that can minimise the misuse of resources needed for rebuilding Gaza. While ending the occupation depends on the political will of the world’s foremost powers, the UN umbrella maintains the legal status of Gaza as occupied territory and protects the rights of the occupied population.

The UN can also play a role in the deployment of the ISF. The force should be deployed not just in Gaza but also the West Bank to protect Palestinians from settler attacks. Giving the ISF a UN mandate would encourage more countries to contribute to its creation and help build a wider coalition of countries invested in the stabilisation and protection of Gaza and the West Bank. This could be a preliminary step that sets up Israel’s withdrawal from these occupied territories.

The international community must act now. The Board of Peace must be abandoned, and all responsibility for Gaza must be transferred back to the UN system. The UN must be empowered to take the lead in any future arrangements.

Continuing to maintain the current situation in Gaza means the continuation of Palestinian suffering and the deepening of uninhabitability, in effect paving the way for the forced displacement of Palestinians from their land. What is urgently needed is a UN-led mechanism that is immediately enforceable and grounded in international law.

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

Police cases, social media takedowns and online abuse have followed many who took part in India’s Cockroach Janta Party-led demonstrations that ended on July 25. Prime Minister Narendra Modi says he forgives ‘misled children’ who abused him during the protests.

Nearly eight decades after the establishment of Israel, the creation of a sovereign Palestinian state remains the defining question of the Arab-Israeli conflict. Wars have been fought, peace treaties signed and diplomatic initiatives launched, yet this central strategic issue remains unresolved.

Today, Saudi Arabia is at the forefront of the efforts to establish a Palestinian state and deliver a lasting peace arrangement with Israel. Its commitment to the issue is made clear by its decision to cosponsor the creation of the Global Alliance for the Implementation of the Two-State Solution in 2024, which is currently meeting in Rome.

King Salman and Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman are following in the footsteps of successive Saudi monarchs. For more than half a century, the kingdom has maintained a remarkably consistent position. The question has never been whether peace with Israel is possible, but whether the political conditions required to make such a peace comprehensive, legitimate and irreversible were present.

Within that framework, recognition of Israel and the establishment of a sovereign Palestinian state are parallel components of a single settlement. Neither is intended to precede the other.

That doctrine originated under King Faisal, who made Palestinian self-determination a central pillar of Saudi national security policy. His successors preserved the principle while adapting its diplomatic expression to changing regional realities. The objective remained constant even as the diplomatic environment evolved.

The Fahd Plan of 1981 – named after King Fahd – translated that doctrine into a formal peace proposal calling for Israeli withdrawal from occupied Arab territories and recognition of Palestinian national rights. Two decades later, the Crown Prince and later King Abdullah expanded the same strategic logic through the 2002 Arab Peace Initiative. Israel was offered comprehensive peace and normal relations with the Arab world in return for withdrawal from the territories occupied in 1967 and the establishment of an independent Palestinian state.

The current Saudi leadership therefore inherits an established strategic doctrine rather than an unresolved policy debate. Their responsibility is to determine whether today’s diplomatic environment can finally satisfy conditions that have remained fundamentally unchanged for decades.

That continuity also reflects a broader question of state legitimacy. For the Saudi monarchy, support for Palestinian statehood has never been solely a matter of foreign policy. It has become one of the enduring pillars of the kingdom’s political and religious legitimacy, rooted in the monarch’s role as Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques and reinforced by the kingdom’s longstanding position within both the Arab and Islamic worlds.

The significance of that continuity became clearer after the Abraham Accords of 2020. By establishing diplomatic relations between Israel and the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain, later joined by Morocco and Sudan, the accords demonstrated that Arab-Israeli normalisation could advance without progress on Palestinian statehood. They reshaped regional diplomacy, but they neither resolved the Palestinian question nor completed the wider peace process.

Successive US administrations have regarded Saudi participation as the decisive missing element. The Abraham Accords could expand without Riyadh, but they could not acquire their full strategic significance without the kingdom’s participation.

The Trump administration has once again placed Saudi-Israeli normalisation at the centre of its regional diplomacy. But this diplomatic push has to be evaluated in the larger post-October 7 context.

The war in Gaza created an entirely new diplomatic environment. The subsequent ceasefire initiative and the establishment of the Board of Peace introduced a framework intended to end the conflict, stabilise the territory and begin reconstruction. Their significance lies not in replacing a political settlement, but in creating conditions under which one might become possible.

For the kingdom, however, the essential political requirement remains unchanged: the actual and irreversible establishment of a sovereign Palestinian state.

That position rests upon mutually reinforcing political, religious and economic foundations. The monarch governs not only as head of state but also as Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, a responsibility carrying religious authority throughout the Islamic world. Any decision concerning recognition of Israel would therefore require both political approval and broad religious legitimacy. Such legitimacy could not credibly rest upon promises of future negotiations. It would require the establishment of a sovereign Palestinian state.

The kingdom’s wider influence reinforces that position. It is by far the Arab world’s largest economy, representing about one-third of total Arab economic output. The kingdom is the only regional member of the G20, one of the world’s leading energy superpowers and the world’s leading crude oil exporter. It is also the Middle East’s principal economic engine. Combined with its religious standing, these factors give Saudi decisions consequences extending far beyond bilateral diplomacy.

The implications would reach well beyond the kingdom itself. Several major Arab states, including Lebanon, Syria, Iraq and Algeria, have not recognised Israel. Their decisions are sovereign, but a Saudi-Israeli settlement founded upon Palestinian statehood would nevertheless transform the political environment in which those decisions are made.

Lebanon illustrates the point. Washington is encouraging Beirut to move towards formal relations with Israel as part of a broader effort to stabilise the Israeli-Lebanese frontier. The domestic political cost of such a decision, however, would look fundamentally different after a Saudi-backed settlement based upon Palestinian statehood than before one.

The same logic extends across the wider Muslim world. Major influential countries such as Pakistan, Indonesia, Bangladesh and Malaysia have withheld recognition of Israel because the Palestinian question remains unresolved. A settlement accepted by the Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques and accompanied by the establishment of a Palestinian state would compel those governments to follow. It would remove the principal political and religious obstacles to reconsidering their positions.

This is what ultimately distinguishes Saudi Arabia from the earlier Abraham Accords. Saudi Arabia’s participation would be different in kind, not merely in scale, carrying political, economic and religious significance across the Arab and Muslim worlds.

Whether the current diplomatic process can ultimately reach that point remains uncertain. Israel, the Palestinians, the United States, the European Union and certain regional governments all have indispensable roles to play. The final Saudi decision, however, rests with King Salman and Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman.

Within the strategic framework they have inherited, Palestinian statehood and recognition of Israel are not sequential steps but parallel obligations. Neither can acquire lasting legitimacy without the other.

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

The recent uprising of the youth in India might seem to have subsided after forcing Dharmendra Pradhan, the education minister of India, to resign. Still, he was never the true target of this historic youth revolt. The slogans, the placards, the irreverent digital art and the collective anger of the young were directed at one man alone: Narendra Modi.

There exists a pervasive prejudice among the intelligentsia that young Indians today are politically indifferent, consumerist and unconcerned with politics or the erosion of democratic norms. The events at Jantar Mantar have laid bare the shallowness of this assumption. The young harboured no illusions about the nature of this regime. They understood with absolute clarity that in the present constitutional setup, no minister possesses independent agency.

The Indian state today has been reduced to a single face, a single voice and an unyielding hub of authority: Narendra Modi. To demand the resignation of a minister, therefore, was not an administrative plea; it was a deliberate act to compel the supreme leader himself to yield.

Walking through Jantar Mantar, the protest site in central Delhi, occupied by thousands of young people for weeks, one could not escape this truth. What these young people achieved was nothing short of the iconoclasm of our times: the systematic demolition of the carefully curated, mythic public persona that this regime has spent a decade building as the sole visage of the nation.

What was most remarkable about this uprising was its radical decentralisation.

There were no high-budget, professionally printed banners. There was no vanguard organisation dictating the visual language of the protest or distributing uniform slogans for the benefit of television cameras. Scraps of cardboard, discarded paper and cheap marker pens sufficed. Each placard bore the unmistakable, authentic imprint of individual moral agency.

Yet, beneath this extraordinary heterogeneity, there remained an unwavering thematic unity.

Everything revolved around Modi.

The prime minister was mocked, caricatured and systematically stripped of the sacral aura that had been constructed around him for more than 10 years. In a matter of weeks, this generation transformed an imposing figure of state authority into a subject of collective laughter.

The young were outraged, above all, by the sheer, unbridled arrogance of power.

This uprising did not spring from material grievances alone; it arose from a profound sense of humiliation. The immediate symbolic spark was the deeply insensitive remark made by the chief justice of India, who publicly compared unemployed young people to “cockroaches”.

Coming after years in which the higher judiciary has increasingly appeared less like an independent guardian of the Constitution and more like an extension of executive power, the remark was understood as an articulation of the regime’s own contempt for its youth.

The formation of the “Cockroach Janta Party” (CJP) was an act of counter-humour born of deep injury. The already unfolding scandal over irregularities in the NEET examinations provided the movement with a concrete institutional focal point. The scandal became the occasion to demand accountability not just for a single test, but for an entire culture of governance.

The regime, meanwhile, suffered from its own hubris. It had persuaded itself that Indian society was thoroughly managed. Preoccupied with engineering electoral outcomes through the manipulation of rolls, managing parliamentary majorities through party defections, and consolidating its hold over state institutions, it failed to notice the quiet, gathering storm beneath the surface.

Those who possessed platforms, prestige and the power to shape public discourse were engrossed in celebrating the grand narrative of national glory. Television studios debated the nation’s civilisational destiny and its global standing. The mainstream press sang panegyrics to a “New India”. Scarcely anyone looked towards the young who found every avenue of mobility blocked. Their anxieties were rendered invisible because the state and its allied media did not consider them worthy of serious democratic attention.

Deprived of traditional spaces, they constructed their own. Their smartphones became their public square; social media platforms became their political assemblies; and satire became their primary democratic vocabulary.

The ruling ideology had convinced itself that the project of cultural hegemonisation was complete: once the majority was mobilised around a politics of religious identity and grievance against minorities, material realities would cease to matter. The aspirations, anxieties and dignity of an entire generation simply did not figure in this political imagination.

It was against this backdrop of institutional indifference that Sonam Wangchuk began his fast at Jantar Mantar. The government’s initial response was its standard weapon: calculated silence. As Wangchuk’s health deteriorated, the refusal to even acknowledge his presence generated profound moral outrage. Then came the fateful decision to forcibly remove him.

It proved to be a fatal miscalculation. The young perceived the treatment of Wangchuk as an insult to their own citizenship. What was done to him could be done to anyone who dared to stand up. His humiliation became their collective provocation. The response was immediate: Jantar Mantar was flooded by thousands of young bodies.

When the young marched towards parliament on July 20, the state relied on its familiar playbook: barricades, prohibitory orders and violent suppression. It had deployed these very methods against the anti-CAA protesters and the farmers’ movement. But this time, the internal mechanics of fear failed to operate. The blows they received did not shatter their spirit; they deepened their moral clarity.

Their struggle was not merely about securing a policy change or extracting a routine administrative concession. They set out to breach that institutional arrogance. When the Delhi police rained blows on the protesters on July 20, beating young citizens with a ferocity typically reserved for enemy combatants, the protesters did not view those batons as the instruments of an indifferent police force. They recognised them as the direct expression of Narendra Modi’s political will.

Yet, fear failed to perform its intended historic function. Many returned to Jantar Mantar carrying their wounds like badges of honour. Some returned barefoot. Their injuries became symbols of moral persistence rather than reasons for retreat. Their resolve was remarkably simple: they would force Modi to sacrifice one of his own.

Crucially, the protesters refused to yield to the temptation of violence. Their weapons remained language, images and satire. Armed with their phones, they launched an unrelenting assault on the prime minister’s public image, the very asset he has guarded most fiercely throughout his political life. For the first time, Modi was drawn onto a battleground where he could not dictate the rules.

When the prime minister attempted to intervene directly on social media, addressing the youth as “friends”, the rebuttal was instant and devastating:

“We are not your friends.”

It was more than a clever slogan; it marked the psychological collapse of a carefully cultivated paternalistic relationship. For years, Modi had sought to speak directly to the populace, bypassing mediating institutions and independent media. The young rejected that calculated intimacy in a single sentence. The authority of the patriarch dissolved into the irreverence that a free people reserve for their elected officials. The spell of fear was broken.

The assault on Modi’s public image appears to have shaken the regime far more deeply than any routine electoral setback ever could. For more than a decade, his authority has rested not merely on the coercive power of the state, but on the illusion of invulnerability: an image of a leader who never retreats, never admits error and never compromises.

The movement had to be contained before the satire hardened into permanent collective memory and the laughter of the young became the common language of the republic.

Pradhan’s resignation must be read precisely in this light. It is not the sacrifice of a minister; it is a desperate attempt to construct a firewall around the prime minister himself. The government will undoubtedly frame this as evidence of its responsiveness and democratic sensitivity. But the young understand it differently. For them, the resignation is a political concession extracted from an authority that had run out of options.

Before arriving at this point, the state had exhausted its standard repertoire of delegitimisation. It ignored the movement, questioned its motives, accused the youth of being proxies for opposition parties and deployed its media networks to allege foreign plots. When these slurs failed to stick, it resorted to force. Having endured all of this, the young do not view the minister’s exit as an act of state benevolence; they see it as the reluctant admission of a defeat that could no longer be disguised.

Ordinarily, the vocabulary of victory and defeat should not dominate a constitutional democracy. A government is expected to listen to its citizens, not view them as adversaries to be crushed. Dissent is not treason. But when a state consistently treats criticism as hostility and peaceful protesters as enemies of the state, it transforms democratic dialogue into a confrontation. When that happens, it cannot complain if citizens celebrate its retreat as a democratic victory.

The ultimate significance of this movement lies in its moral and creative form. The young answered state coercion with speech, wit, art and an extraordinary mastery of contemporary cultural forms. Their elders have often lamented that a generation raised on short-form content lacks political depth and endurance. Jantar Mantar has demolished that patronising assumption.

The meme was elevated to a potent instrument of political resistance. Laughter accomplished what solemn political rhetoric often fails to do: it punctured fear, dismantled false authority and deprived power of the uncritical reverence upon which authoritarian politics depends.

Authoritarianism requires not just obedience, but awe. It survives as long as people believe the ruler is beyond challenge, beyond satire and beyond defeat. The young at Jantar Mantar refused to grant Narendra Modi that sacral status. They restored him to the position he must occupy in a constitutional republic: an ordinary, accountable political leader, subject to the scrutiny, criticism and satire of the citizenry.

The protest site at Jantar Mantar may now be empty. The barricades have been moved aside and the crowds have returned to their hostels, campuses and homes. But movements of this nature do not end when the physical space is vacated. The critique inaugurated on the streets will continue in countless quiet spaces: university libraries, rented rooms, bus rides and millions of illuminated screens. The language that has been discovered cannot easily be unlearned.

If this youth uprising leaves behind an enduring lesson for the republic, it is a simple, fundamental truth: democracy begins the moment a people recover confidence in their own voice.

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

Last week, it was reported that US President Donald Trump placed massive attacks on Iran on hold after a meeting with advisers at the White House. Clearly, domestic political pressure on him and on the Republican Party over rising economic costs is fierce. Current polls suggest nearly 70 percent of Americans oppose the war.

Despite assertions, notably by Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, that Iran’s military has reached “its lowest point ever”, Iran is still able to conduct massive drone and missile strikes. Some intelligence suggests Iran has reconstituted and increased its capacity to build these weapons.

Meanwhile, the US has moved more aircraft and missile defence units in preparation for what may be a campaign to target staging points for Iranian forces. Two Marine Expeditionary Units (MEUs) and components of the 82nd or 101st Airborne are currently stationed in the region.

Yet, reports that the US and its Gulf allies have exhausted defensive missile magazines, as well as Tomahawk land-attack missiles, may be a powerful constraint.

While Trump appears not to have made a decision yet, he has several options on how to move forward.

The first option is ramping up air and missile strikes. One of the challenges of this strategy is that the list of military targets may have been exhausted. If so, expanding the aerial campaign would mean attacking largely civilian infrastructure, including energy production facilities, electricity and power grids, bridges and roads, and television and phone networks. The likely outcomes are all bad.

Trump would be accused of war crimes. The Iranian public would coalesce in their resentment against the US. Iran’s ability to strike back would not be significantly curbed and it may strike Gulf desalination and energy infrastructure. The result would be a humanitarian catastrophe. No plans exist to deal with this contingency. And of course, oil could soar to $150 or even $200 a barrel, triggering an international economic disaster.

Another option is a ground invasion of some sort. The forces currently deployed in the region are too small to achieve any realistic military objectives. A MEU numbers about 2,500 marines and only 800 of them are infantry, able to conduct very limited ground operations. Airborne units deploy with only a few days worth of bullets, beans and batteries. Resupply is essential for these units.

As retired US Army General Barry McCaffery has pointed out, even 150,000 troops may not be enough to secure control of the Strait of Hormuz along the Iranian coast.

Attacking Kharg Island requires a long and dangerous transit from the western end of the Strait of Hormuz. That would create conditions for a high number of casualties among US troops.

The third option is for Trump to employ a nuclear weapon, at least as a demonstration shot. That would open a catastrophic Pandora’s box of consequences. Trump would be declared a war criminal. Wherever and however the weapon is detonated—an air or surface burst—it would have destructive outcomes.

If exploded exoatmospherically, the nuclear bomb would emit an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) which would destroy virtually all chip-installed systems for hundreds of miles beyond Iran. Few modern militaries, including in the Gulf, are protected from EMP due to costs. A surface burst would form a radioactive cloud that would travel east given the winds and affect populations well beyond Iran.

A major geopolitical consequence would be that such an attack could change the way Russia’s President Vladimir Putin sees the possibility of using nuclear weapons in the war in Ukraine.

Given this list of unpalatable options, the most promising is to claim victory and pursue negotiations. Trump will say he has brought Iran to the negotiating table even though talks between Washington and Tehran have not stopped despite the escalation. The first issue would be reopening the Strait of Hormuz and Bab al-Mandeb. Oil prices would drop. Stock markets would rebound.

Trump would take the credit. And a devastating war and economic crisis would be sensibly avoided. This is his best and only sensible option.

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

The world claims to regard education as a universal right. Its financial system tells a different story.

⁠New figures released by UNESCO show that 113 countries with a total population of 6.1 billion now spend more on servicing debt than educating their people. In low-income countries, debt payments are nearly four times education expenditure. In 18 of the most heavily indebted countries, governments spend at least five times more on debt than on education.

These are not merely signs of strained public finances. They reveal a stark political hierarchy.

Creditors possess enforceable claims on government revenues. Children possess declarations, development goals and promises. When the two collide, creditors are paid first.

The consequences are visible in overcrowded classrooms, deteriorating school buildings, teacher shortages, unaffordable school fees and children leaving education prematurely. Yet these outcomes are generally described as funding gaps or failures of domestic governance, as though governments had freely decided to neglect their schools.

In reality, many governments are operating inside an international financial order that sharply restricts what they can choose.

The ⁠World Bank reports that developing countries transferred $741bn more to external creditors in principal and interest between 2022 and 2024 than they received in new financing. This was the largest net debt outflow in at least 50 years. In 2024 alone, low and middle-income countries paid a record $415bn in interest.

In other words, the financial flows are frequently moving in the opposite direction from the one suggested by the language of development assistance.

Poorer countries are commonly portrayed as beneficiaries of Western generosity. But vast amounts of public wealth are travelling from debtor countries to bondholders, commercial banks, multilateral institutions and wealthier creditor governments.

Money that could hire teachers, provide school meals or build classrooms is instead leaving the country.

This is particularly perverse because education is not simply another item of government consumption. It is an investment in a society’s future capacities. Cutting it may make debt payments easier today, but it will weaken productivity, public revenues and social resilience tomorrow.

Debt contracts are treated as binding obligations whose breach can trigger credit downgrades, capital flight, lawsuits and exclusion from financial markets. The right to education, by contrast, carries no comparable machinery of enforcement.

No ratings agency downgrades creditors when a country cannot afford enough teachers. No financial penalty is imposed on bondholders when debt service forces children out of school. Markets do not panic when classrooms collapse.

The system disciplines governments for failing creditors, not for failing children.

UNESCO has proposed expanding debt-for-education swaps. Under these arrangements, a creditor cancels or restructures part of a country’s debt in exchange for government investment in agreed educational programmes.

Such initiatives can produce tangible gains. A 2023 agreement with France helped Ivory Coast finance more than 30 schools in underserved areas. A German agreement with Egypt supported school feeding and basic services, while an earlier Spain-Peru programme funded education projects across vulnerable regions.

These programmes are worthwhile. But they are not a solution to the larger debt crisis.

Debt swaps typically cover only a small fraction of what countries owe. They are negotiated selectively, depend on creditor consent and may add new layers of external monitoring to domestic spending. Most importantly, they leave untouched the principle that creditors are entitled to repayment unless they voluntarily concede otherwise.

The question becomes how to persuade creditors to permit a little more education, rather than why the claims of creditors should take priority in the first place.

That question is especially urgent because education aid is also falling. UNESCO projects that international assistance for education could decline by as much as 30 percent between 2023 and 2027.

Debtor countries are therefore being squeezed from both sides: aid is retreating while debt payments continue.

The familiar recommendation that developing countries should mobilise more domestic resources is inadequate. Progressive taxation and reduced corruption matter. But additional revenues will not transform education systems if they are immediately diverted towards debts contracted at high interest rates, or made more expensive by currency depreciation.

Nor can the problem be solved by demanding ever more austerity. Education budgets consist largely of recurring expenditure, especially teachers’ salaries. When governments are instructed to freeze public-sector wage bills, they cannot solve teacher shortages or expand access, however often international institutions proclaim education a priority.

A more serious response would begin with large-scale debt cancellation for countries in distress, automatic suspension of payments during economic and climate emergencies, far cheaper concessional financing and a fair multilateral mechanism for restructuring sovereign debt.

At present, debt negotiations are fragmented among private creditors, bilateral lenders and international institutions. Debtor governments must bargain with powerful financial actors while trying to avoid being punished for seeking relief.

A binding United Nations framework for sovereign debt could establish shared rules, require both borrowers and lenders to act responsibly and prevent holdout creditors from obstructing restructuring. It could also make social rights central to assessments of what a country can genuinely afford to repay.

The world needs to move towards the idea that debt repayment cannot come at any human cost. A debt is not sustainable when paying it requires dismantling the institutions on which a society’s future depends.

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

The Houthi declaration that they intend to block Saudi shipping and vessels bound for Saudi ports in the Red Sea is not another act of revolutionary theatre. It is Iran’s latest attempt to test Saudi Arabia’s strategic patience through one of its most capable regional proxies. That is a dangerous gamble because Riyadh has spent nearly a decade avoiding the wider regional war that Tehran increasingly appears determined to provoke.

Saudi restraint has never reflected military weakness. It has been a deliberate strategic choice intended to preserve regional stability while enabling the kingdom to focus on its historic economic transformation. Unable to compete with Saudi Arabia’s regional trajectory through conventional means, Iran has increasingly turned to proxy warfare, maritime coercion, and economic intimidation.

The Houthis have become the principal instrument of that strategy.

By threatening shipping in both the Strait of Hormuz and Bab al-Mandeb, Tehran seeks to pressure Saudi Arabia from its eastern and western maritime gateways while raising the cost of regional stability. The objective is not military victory but economic disruption: undermining investor confidence, threatening energy exports, and projecting instability onto the Middle East’s largest economy.

That strategy carries consequences far beyond the region. Saudi Arabia remains the world’s largest crude oil exporter, OPEC’s leading producer, and the only country with sufficient spare production capacity to stabilise global energy markets during periods of crisis – as it did during the first phase of the Iran war through its 7 million barrels per day East West Pipeline. Sustained disruption of Saudi exports would ripple through international shipping, insurance markets, inflation, and the global economy.

Iran tried to prepare for the present escalation by attempting to restore the Tehran-Sana’a air bridge. The flights were never simply about reconnecting two capitals. They would have provided a direct logistical corridor through which operational planning advisers, missile specialists, drone technicians, and intelligence officers could rotate into Houthi-controlled territory. Such an air corridor would have allowed Tehran to transfer not only equipment but also operational expertise and command capability.

This explains why the Royal Saudi Air Force (RSAF) strike on Sana’a International Airport carried significance beyond denying a specific aircraft permission to land. The objective was to prevent Iran from establishing a permanent logistical architecture capable of sustaining a more sophisticated proxy campaign against Saudi Arabia’s maritime and economic interests.

It is clear Tehran’s calculations increasingly rely on outdated assumptions about Saudi military capability. The Saudi-led Joint Forces Command (JFC) bears little resemblance to the force that first entered Yemen a decade ago. Years of hard learnt lessons from past mistakes and operational experience have transformed it into an integrated coalition built around persistent intelligence, fused command-and-control, precision strikes, air missile defence, and cyber operations.

Rather than functioning as separate military combatant commands, these capabilities now operate as a single decision-making architecture capable of compressing the time between intelligence collection and operational execution.

That transformation extends beyond the Saudi armed forces alone. The Saudi-led JFC now includes more than 650,000 personnel drawn from Saudi Arabia and allied Yemeni, Pakistani, Sudanese, and limited but symbolic GCC formations operating within a unified operational framework. Its principal advantage lies not simply in numbers but in its ability to synchronise military effects across multiple domains while maintaining operational tempo and centralised escalation control.

The JFC maturity became unmistakable during RSAF’s campaign that restored control over southern Yemen in less than a week in January. Built upon an advanced command and control (C2) fused architecture that supports persistent intelligence, electronic warfare, precision targeting, and synchronised manoeuvre, has demonstrated a level of operational sequencing and command integration unseen in earlier phases of the war.

The same C2 maturity was evident during Iran’s coordinated missile and drone attacks launched from Iranian territory and allied formations in Iraq, when RSAF executed synchronised precision strikes across multiple theatres while maintaining centralised escalation control.

The broader consequences extended beyond the battlefield. Saudi operational performance helped create the conditions under which Pakistan was able to broker an unofficial ceasefire between the Saudis and Iranians while reinforcing a new deterrence equation in which further direct Iranian military pressure carried significantly greater operational and political risk. Tehran’s subsequent caution reflected not diplomacy alone but recognition that the kingdom had entered a fundamentally different stage of military maturity.

None of this means the Houthis cannot impose costs. Their missiles, drones, maritime attacks, and psychological operations remain capable of generating disruption disproportionate to their size. But disruption is fundamentally different from sustaining a prolonged confrontation against an opponent possessing overwhelming advantages in intelligence, air power, maritime control, and operational endurance.

Every escalation therefore increases the likelihood of a comprehensive Saudi response. Such a campaign would not simply target missile launchers or drone facilities. It would seek to dismantle the command-and-control networks, logistics infrastructure, communications systems, intelligence apparatus, and operational support that enable Houthi military operations.

This is why the current trajectory is so dangerous.

Saudi Arabia has consistently demonstrated that it prefers stability to confrontation because its overriding strategic priority remains economic transformation and long-term national development. But no state can indefinitely tolerate an Iranian-backed proxy threatening its economy, energy infrastructure, and maritime lifelines.

Ultimately, the Houthis are not testing Saudi military capability. Years of operational adaptation have already answered that question. They are testing Saudi Arabia’s strategic patience.

History suggests that even the greatest strategic patience has limits. If Tehran continues using the Houthis as an instrument of coercion against the kingdom, Riyadh may conclude that the costs of restraint have exceeded the costs of decisive action. If that moment arrives, the campaign that follows will bear little resemblance to the Yemen war of a decade ago. It will reflect years of coalition integration through an elaborate C6ISR architecture to be strategically prepared for such a war. Iran, and the Houthis, may then regret testing the limits of Saudi Arabia’s strategic patience.

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

Last night, Spain defeated Argentina to win the World Cup. Ordinarily, for those of us with no national connection to either country, the choice of whom to support would have been gloriously trivial. We might have chosen the team that played more beautiful football, the player we most admired or simply the side whose colours we preferred.

But these are no ordinary times.

Gaza and Palestine have changed the way many of us see the world. It has become a moral prism, refracting our judgments not only about governments and political leaders, but about institutions, universities, media, corporations and public figures. We have watched people and institutions we once respected avert their eyes from the destruction of a people. We have watched others discover elaborate vocabularies of qualification and equivocation when confronted with horrors that, in another place and against another people, they would have condemned without hesitation.

And we have remembered those who refused to look away.

That is why, last night, I was Spanish.

Of course, a football team is not a government. Spanish footballers are not responsible for the policies of Spanish Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez, any more than Lionel Messi and his teammates are responsible for the politics of Argentinian President Javier Milei.

But sport has never existed in the hermetically sealed apolitical world we sometimes pretend it inhabits. We bring ourselves to sport. We bring our histories, our identities, our sympathies and, inevitably, our moral judgements. We decide whom we want to win for reasons that often have very little to do with formations and statistics.

And so, for many people of conscience, Spain has come to represent something larger.

At a moment when much of the Western political establishment has twisted itself into moral and linguistic contortions over Gaza, Spain has stood apart. Sánchez and his government have been willing to speak with a clarity conspicuously absent from many of Spain’s Western allies. Spain recognised the State of Palestine. Sánchez has openly used the word genocide to describe what is being done in Gaza. His government has moved to entrench an arms embargo against Israel.

One need not agree with every policy of the Spanish government to recognise the significance of that position. Moral courage is measured precisely when taking a position carries a cost.

There was also something deeply moving about seeing Lamine Yamal, one of the brightest young stars in world football, waving the Palestinian flag during Barcelona’s celebrations after winning La Liga.

It was a small gesture in the vast landscape of Palestinian suffering. But symbols matter, particularly when so many powerful institutions have worked so hard to make Palestine invisible.

There was Yamal, at the summit of sporting success, surrounded by celebration, holding up the flag of a people whose suffering the world has been asked repeatedly to forget. And last night he wore the colours of Spain in a World Cup final and emerged a world champion.

On the other side stood Argentina, a magnificent footballing nation led by perhaps the greatest footballer of his generation. And here, too, Gaza intruded upon the emotions with which some of us watched. An image of Lionel Messi at the Western Wall in occupied East Jerusalem has circulated widely. It dates back to Barcelona’s 2013 visit to Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territory, years before the present catastrophe. But images have lives beyond the circumstances in which they were created, and Gaza has transformed the way many of us see them.

The contrast with Lamine Yamal is striking. There is the image of Messi at the Western Wall. And there is the image of Yamal, at one of the happiest moments of his young career, waving the Palestinian flag. Different moments, different circumstances, different intentions.

But symbols matter. For those whose view of the world has been transformed by Gaza, it is impossible not to feel the emotional force of the contrast.

And beyond Messi stands the politics of Javier Milei. Argentina’s president has made his allegiances clear. He has embraced US President Donald Trump and declared himself “the most Zionist president in the world” at precisely the historical moment when Palestinians in Gaza have endured unimaginable destruction.

Argentina’s footballers are not responsible for Milei, and its people cannot be reduced to their president. But neither can those politics be entirely erased from the emotions with which the rest of us watch.

Then there was another recent vote, far removed from Gaza but revealing in its own way. In March, the United Nations General Assembly adopted a landmark resolution confronting the historical wrongs of the transatlantic trafficking and enslavement of Africans and calling for reparatory justice. One hundred and twenty-three countries voted in favour. Fifty-two abstained. Only three countries in the entire world voted against it: the United States, Israel and Argentina.

There is something extraordinary about that alignment. On an issue concerning one of humanity’s greatest historical crimes and the continuing demand for reparatory justice, Trump’s America, Benjamin Netanyahu’s Israel and Milei’s Argentina found themselves standing together, virtually alone.

It is difficult for those of us who increasingly view the world through the prism of Gaza not to notice the pattern. The issues are different, the histories are different and the legal questions are different. But the moral instinct seems eerily familiar: when the victims of historical injustice demand recognition, accountability and redress, the same governments so often seem to find reasons to stand on the other side.

So, yes, last night I watched a football match.

I admired Messi because greatness remains greatness. I marvelled at the extraordinary history of Argentine football.

But I wanted Spain to win.

And Spain won.

Perhaps that says something about what Gaza has done to us. It has rearranged our moral geography. Countries that once felt distant can suddenly feel close because they spoke when others were silent. Governments we barely thought about can earn our respect because, at a moment of profound moral testing, they refused to avert their gaze.

And sometimes that moral geography spills into the most unexpected places.

Last night it spilled onto a football pitch.

Millions celebrated Spain’s victory because they love Spanish football, because they admire Lamine Yamal or simply because their team had won the greatest prize in the sport.

But many also celebrated out of solidarity with the Palestinian people.

A World Cup cannot deliver justice to Palestine. Spain’s victory will not feed a hungry child in Gaza, rebuild a destroyed home or bring back the dead. We should never confuse symbolism with justice.

But human beings live partly through symbols. And last night, for some of us, the red shirt of Spain carried a meaning it was never designed to bear.

When Lamine Yamal and his teammates lifted the World Cup, I celebrated with them.

Not because football can change what has happened in Gaza.

But because Gaza has changed the way I watch even a game of football.

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

On Tuesday, the Chairman of the Knesset’s Education Committee, Zvi Sukkot of the far-right Religious Zionist Party, arrived at a Palestinian school in East Jerusalem for a “surprise visit” – his second in two weeks. He did not come to evaluate pedagogy or classroom conditions or needs. Instead, he smashed the school’s entrance sign because it featured a Palestinian flag and publicly pledged to shut it down.

This storming of the school was more than just a publicity stunt meant to appeal to his political base ahead of Israel’s October 2026 elections. It was the physical embodiment of a sweeping state campaign targeting Palestinian education in unlawfully occupied and annexed East Jerusalem.

Sukkot is using his position to physically police Palestinian schools. This move comes on top of the Knesset’s aggressive legislative campaign to destroy Palestinian education in East Jerusalem that lawmakers have pushed in recent years.

One such law, passed in January 2026, bars graduates of Palestinian universities in the West Bank from working as teachers in Israel and in East Jerusalem. This law is based on racist ideology and extremist claims that graduates of these universities are inherently dangerous and morally unfit to be educators.

The motives of the law’s proponents were made clear during Knesset deliberations: advancing what several MKs called the “Israelisation” of the educational system and of the students, even at the expense of access to education. In a May 2025 Education Committee session, one Likud MK claimed that this law is needed as teachers who graduate from Palestinian universities “do not cultivate Israelisation” among their students.

The law passed despite the devastating consequences it is bound to have on the already fragile and disadvantaged Palestinian education system in East Jerusalem. This system is largely dependent on graduates of West Bank universities – who are overwhelmingly women – and it already has a serious shortage of teaching staff and classrooms.

Another law, passed in November 2024, which is widely referred to as the “Silencing Law”, gives the Israeli Ministry of Education full discretion to suspend or dismiss teachers through a fast-track administrative process. It targets speech the ministry deems to be “incitement to terrorism”, based on the ambiguous and arbitrary clauses of the Israeli Counter-Terrorism Law, which has become a catch-all mechanism to criminalise Palestinian speech.

The 2024 law also gives the ministry the right to revoke funding from schools on these same grounds, potentially leading to their closure.

Here too, the Knesset Committee’s deliberations on this law revealed an explicit targeting of the Palestinian education system in East Jerusalem and lawmakers’ views that this system is a security threat that must be dealt with. As a Likud MK said during an early 2024 Education Committee discussion on this proposed legislation: “It’s very important that they become Zionists… If I was an Arab from East Jerusalem, the first thing I would be is a Zionist. Above all”.

MK Sukkot’s pledge to shut down the school he attacked is not an idle threat. It follows the closure of six schools in East Jerusalem and its outskirts in 2025, which left 800 Palestinian children suddenly without access to formal education. These closures were the immediate result of the 2024 and 2025 anti-UNRWA laws passed by the Knesset.

The legislation and MK Sukkot’s physical vandalism of a Palestinian school demonstrate the state’s efforts to impose “Israelisation” on young Palestinian students living under occupation, and to erase any trace of Palestinian education and identity, even at the cost of trampling on every legitimate pedagogical need along the way.

Adalah – The Legal Center for Arab Minority Rights in Israel – is currently challenging all of these laws before the Israeli Supreme Court, with pending petitions against the ban on Palestinian university graduates, the “Silencing Law” targeting teachers’ political expression, and the anti-UNRWA laws.

We will continue to do all that we can to legally resist the campaign against Palestinian education. But the state’s assault on Palestinian schools will not stop until there is genuine international pressure on the Israeli government to stop its violations of nearly all the human rights of the occupied Palestinian population in East Jerusalem, including the right to education and the right to dignity.

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

John L Esposito, a prominent scholar of religion and international affairs at Georgetown University, passed away on July 15, 2026, due to complications from heart surgery.

He was a towering intellectual who published more than 55 books, mainly with Oxford University Press, which have been translated into dozens of languages. He uniquely shaped the modern study of Islam and Muslim societies during the late 20th and early 21st century, particularly in the area of Islam-West relations during key moments of friction following the 1979 Iranian revolution and 9/11.

John was born into a working-class Italian-American family in Brooklyn, New York, in 1940. His worldview was shaped by his devout Catholic mother and his father’s commitment to social justice. He aspired to become a Catholic priest and, at a young age, joined the strict Capuchin Franciscan Order. John left the seminary before ordination and opted for graduate school instead. He earned a doctorate in religious studies at Temple University under the supervision of Ismail al-Faruqi, the late Palestinian-American scholar of religion.

John’s family and friends questioned his career choice because they feared for his employability. When he entered the job market in 1974, there was only one advertised position in Islamic studies. The study of religion, particularly Islam, was absent in many institutions of higher learning, and international relations programmes at universities ignored the role of religion in global affairs.

Telling stories was one of Professor Esposito’s many passions. Reflecting on his career, he frequently joked that he owed his livelihood to two famous “radical” Muslims, one Shia and the other Sunni: Ayatollah Khomeini and Osama bin Laden.

After the 1979 Islamic revolution in Iran, interest in the relationship between Islam and politics skyrocketed in the West. The same happened after 9/11. John’s expertise was suddenly in high demand. He responded by publishing several groundbreaking books on the relationship between Islam and politics, Islam’s normative ideals, Islam-West relations, and the diverse political and social structures of Muslim societies. He was frequently quoted in the media, and governments now sought his counsel.

This story about John’s career, however, has a steep downside.

The Western interest in Islam and Muslims emerged due to threats to United States national security. This meant the ability to understand this topic in a free, unbiased and independent way was absent for most Westerners. The enveloping context that shaped the policy and public debate on Islam and Muslims was themes of political revolution, mass violence and perceived threats to global order.

John’s educational efforts were always an uphill battle. Establishment academics dominated the intellectual, policy and media debates. Bernard Lewis wrote about the alleged “Roots of Muslim Rage” at modernity that purportedly explained turmoil in the Middle East. Around the same time, Samuel Huntington advanced a popular thesis on the “Clash of Civilizations”. These views had a wide following, in part because they reinforced pre-existing Western biases about Islam and Muslims. They were further enhanced by US and Israeli national security narratives about an alleged Islamic threat in the aftermath of the Cold War.

John was an early and courageous scholar who challenged Orientalist misrepresentations of Islam and Muslims in an era of deep polarisation. His scholarship created room for understanding in lieu of prejudice, and his intellectual insights allowed a younger generation of scholars to build on and expand upon his pioneering research.

Professor Esposito advanced a new understanding of religion by criticising the dominant social science theories about political development. He astutely drew attention to a “secular bias” that informed mainstream intellectual debates in the West on the relationship between religion and politics. These modernisation theories purported to be universally applicable based on the assumption that religion was a relic of the past that no longer mattered in the modern world. In truth, these claims were ideologically biased, based on a set of specifically Western experiences.

By contrast, John interpreted the politics of the Muslim world not from a Western normative framework but rather from the Muslim world’s own experience. In other words, not from the outside in, but rather from the bottom up, from the perspective of the masses, many of whom held onto a religious identity.  In doing so, he advanced a historically grounded and sociologically compelling analysis of religious politics in the Islamic world. Critiques of the legacy of colonialism, authoritarianism and US foreign policy were central to his intellectual work.

Professor Esposito’s work on political Islam was pioneering. He wrote about the social conditions and collective aspirations that rendered political Islam appealing to diverse constituencies across the Middle East and the broader Muslim world. While most mainstream Western scholars and liberal intellectuals focused on the Islamist desire to implement “Sharia”, Esposito focused on the core aspirations that animated political Islam: dignity, justice, self-determination, and opposition to external domination. These same aspirations made political Islam a resilient and enduring force.

In reflecting on John Esposito’s legacy, I’m reminded of an observation by Edmund Burke III. Commenting on the work of the late Marshall GS Hodgson, author of The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History of a World Civilization, Burke noted that Hodgson, like Esposito, refused to view Islam as the “other”. Instead, he understood the Islamic tradition as “a venture alongside others that marked human efforts to bring about a just and moral world”.

We are unlikely to see a scholar in our lifetime again who can match John Esposito’s moral and intellectual caliber. His impact on our collective education and understanding of Islam-West relations is unique and immeasurable. Those who care about universal values rooted in international law, human rights, democracy, and cross-cultural understanding are deeply in his debt.

John Esposito is survived by his wife of 61 years, Jean Esposito, his partner and primary supporter in all his endeavours, and the enduring love of John’s life.

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

Ali al-Zaidi met US President Donald Trump in the Oval Office on Tuesday as Iraq’s prime minister. He carried the title. The power was another matter.

Eleven weeks earlier, after months of paralysis, the Shia alliance which is known as the Coordination Framework had taken just 25 minutes to choose him. That sudden consensus was forged under intense pressure from Washington DC.

The United States Treasury had frozen Iraq’s dollar lifeline, the cash shipments that fly from New Jersey to the Central Bank of Iraq. Nouri al-Maliki, a former prime minister, and the top contender to return to the premiership had to abandon his plans because of Washington’s veto.

Al-Zaidi, a 40-year-old banker with no political base, was the man left standing.His lack of an established political base is part of his usefulness. He owes his position less to Baghdad’s ballot box than to the pressure exerted by Trump’s Treasury.The banker’s own ledger is not clear.

In 2024, Iraq’s Central Bank barred al-Zaidi’s own institution, Al-Janoob Islamic Bank, from US-dollar transactions as part of a wider crackdown intended to curb illicit dollar flows to Iran. He was never charged. Neither the bank nor the man is currently sanctioned. But the file exists. Its existence could give Washington another source of leverage should al-Zaidi drag his feet.

The real power in Baghdad now sits in one man’s portfolio. Tom Barrack holds three titles at once: ambassador to Turkiye, envoy to Syria, and now envoy to Iraq. His influence rests less on diplomacy than on Washington’s financial leverage over Baghdad. Iraq’s oil revenue sits in an account at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. In April, Washington blocked a cash shipment of nearly $500m drawn from those revenues and suspended parts of its security cooperation. Oil funds roughly 90 percent of Iraq’s budget. Barrack does not need to threaten military force when the administration he represents can reach directly into the financial system on which the Iraqi state depends.

Washington’s demand that Iraq bring all armed factions under state control remains far from resolved. Shia Cleric Muqtada al-Sadr dissolved his Saraya al-Salam militia in late May. Other militias such as Asa’ib Ahl al-Haq and Kataib Imam Ali have announced steps towards handing over their weapons or placing them under fuller state control. That is real movement. But Kataib Hezbollah and Harakat al-Nujaba, the two factions most tightly bound to Tehran, have rejected full disarmament. In their own words, their weapons are not for bargaining. Washington has answered in kind. US strikes killed dozens of Iranian-backed Popular Mobilization Forces (PMF) fighters this spring; the Treasury has sanctioned seven militia commanders by name. Baghdad has set September 30 as its disarmament deadline, the same date on which the remaining US forces are expected to leave Iraq. Whether the hardest factions bend by then remains the open question that Washington has yet to answer honestly.

Even Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani’s authority has limits here, as it always has. Al-Sistani’s 2014 fatwa built the PMF’s founding myth. But his call was for men to defend Iraq under the state’s command, not to form independent militias. The hardline factions never answered to Najaf. They answer to Tehran. al-Sistani’s own representative in Karbala has also pressed publicly for exclusive state control of weapons. His influence remains significant, but it has never extended to full control over these factions, and the current standoff is making that reality harder to ignore.

The prize Washington actually wants, however, lies underground. Chevron is negotiating an expanded role in Iraq’s oil sector, while other US companies are pursuing contracts in gas, electricity and export infrastructure. Baghdad wants production up from 4.5 million barrels a day to 7 million within three years, though doing so would require a substantially larger OPEC quota. Western Iraq’s gas reserves, largely untapped, could one day elevate the country into a dominant regional energy player and exporter. This is the potential bonanza al-Zaidi is being asked to unlock in exchange for the loyalty Washington is seeking.

Kurdistan’s place in this emerging arrangement is still unclear. Barrack has called the old Baghdad-Erbil federal model outright “Balkanization”, a structure he blames for letting Iran fill the vacuum. Yet the same envoy spent much of June pressing the prime minister of the Kurdish region, Masrour Barzani, to reactivate the Kurdistan parliament and form a new cabinet, not dissolve it. Read together, these positions suggest a clear message: Washington wants a functioning, cooperative Kurdistan region, firmly inside Washington’s orbit, not an autonomous wildcard and not a vassal of Baghdad’s sectarian blocs either.

Stripped of diplomatic varnish, Washington’s vision for Iraq is this: no militias operating outside the state; no Iranian veto over Iraqi policy; no single sect running the table from Baghdad; a Western economic orientation locked in by contracts, not sentiment; American energy firms as the primary beneficiaries; and a prime minister who answers, in practice, to Tom Barrack before he answers to his own parliament. Whether Iraq is pressured towards the Abraham Accords, whether the old nationalist and Ba’athist-adjacent currents find any oxygen again, whether sectarian parties actually lose their seats at the ballot box, these remain predictions, not settled facts.

What is clear is simpler and starker. Iraq spent two decades as the ground on which Iran and America fought indirectly, through proxies and sanctions. It is now becoming something else: a state whose oil, banking system and militias are all being renegotiated at once under intense US pressure. At the centre of this transformation is a banker-premier chosen in twenty-five minutes and now expected to deliver by September 30.

The Gulf model, from Riyadh and Abu Dhabi to Manama, Kuwait, Doha and Muscat, took decades to lock in. Trump’s Washington wants to compress Iraq’s version into a single presidential term. Whether Baghdad survives that compression intact, or merely changes which capital it answers to, is the question al-Zaidi’s visit left unresolved.

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

May God have mercy on Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani, the humane emir, the brave leader, and the great father, who loved Qatar and its people. Advancing the nation, both in the present and the future, was his primary concern and highest goal; today, it occupies advanced ranks across all fields, including media.

The Al Jazeera Media Network was one of the projects launched during his reign, may God rest his soul.

One day, His Highness summoned me, and I met him at his home. He informed me that he intended to establish a television news channel to be named Al Jazeera. It would enjoy a wide margin of freedom so it would be different from what people were accustomed to seeing in the Arab media landscape.

It would be a news channel that operates according to the principles of free journalism, akin to professional international media institutions and outlets.

We began constructing the building not far from Qatar Television, and we proceeded to equip it with broadcasting and satellite communication equipment, and prepared the newsroom to receive those who would work there.

His Highness was keen on following the progress of all major projects, offering encouragement and guidance, despite his immersion in state affairs, having taken the reins of power only a few months prior at the time.

The Board of Directors was formed, and the director general of the channel was appointed. Then the steps of attracting and recruiting journalistic and technical personnel began.

Journalists and staff arrived, and the newsroom came to life. The channel’s slogan, “The Opinion and the Other Opinion”, was set and trial broadcasting commenced.

In late November 1996, the first half-hour news bulletin aired, serving as a window outside the general norm. The beginning consisted of six hours of broadcasting per day.

Signs of success emerged from the early days when journalists and the general public began talking about a new voice unlike anything the Arab world had seen before. Everyone felt joyful at the success of the idea after doubts had troubled many.

Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa used to visit the channel, but he never once interfered in any coverage or programme, as long as everything proceeded according to professional rules.

This is what strengthened everyone’s belonging to the project and cemented the conviction that it was a project for the nation, aimed at conveying the truth from the field in image and word, no matter the hardships and sacrifices.

It was not unexpected for His Highness that the channel — with its strong performance in the arena of news and talk shows, and its independent, professional editorial policy — would face opposition and pressure from both the Arab and international spheres alike.

However, Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa did not yield to this, driven by his belief in the importance of independent and free media. This served as a protective umbrella for the channel and its employees, reinforcing their spirit of belonging, deepening their faith in their message, and increasing their readiness to continue contributing.

His vision for the future of Al Jazeera also proved true. The painful targeting it endured over the years did not deter it from continuing to carry its independent message. Its impact continues to grow day by day, within its region and beyond. It changes concepts, broadens culture and awareness, and shifts media equations around the world, north and south. The network today occupies a leading position at the forefront of both the traditional media landscape and the digital sphere.

Among all the projects established by His Highness, Al Jazeera held a special place. In my final meeting with him, may God have mercy on him, his health condition did not prevent him from asking about Al Jazeera and checking on its current state and future, just as he used to do with the workers in the rest of the country’s projects.

Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani succeeded his father as emir. He too faced, during one of the most difficult periods in Qatar’s history, pressures seeking to alter the network’s approach, yet he did not accept any interference in its editorial policies, regardless of the source.

Furthermore, he does not personally intervene in its operations as long as it adheres to professional rules and ethics.

This is the story of Al Jazeera’s inception with its visionary founder, Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa, up until he passed away.

However, this article does not recount the complete history of Al Jazeera; rather, it presents merely one chapter of its tale. It is a story that will continue to be read, emulated and cited as an example of a successful enterprise that left a profound impact spanning generations, despite the hardships and challenges it endured.

Above all, these words — and many more — cannot do justice to Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa for all that he gave to his nation, his people, and his extended Qatari family. He dedicated his entire life to serving them and spearheading developmental projects across all fields. Among these is the Al Jazeera project, which is widely regarded as a success story acclaimed by the entire world and described as an exceptional media model.

May God have mercy upon Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa — the human, the father and the leader. May He grant him rest in His vast paradise and reward him with the best of rewards on behalf of us all. And may God protect the emir and wise leader, Sheikh Tamim, and protect Qatar and its people.

A version of this piece was first published on Al Jazeera Arabic. 

A US trade expert says the US, Mexico, and Canada need to hold trilateral talks to get a cross-border trade deal signed. Ex-lead US international trade negotiator Harry Broadman says the longer it takes Trump to get a trade deal with his neighbours, the weaker he looks to China.

Edward Pinto, co-director of the American Enterprise Institute Housing Center argues that the new US housing bill is unlikely to significantly ease the country’s housing crisis. He says it’s too limited to address the core issues – like restrictive local zoning. For the full segment, watch Al Jazeera’s ‘This is America’.

On Tuesday, two tankers were attacked as they transited the Strait of Hormuz via a passage in Omani waters. Gulf countries responded by sharply condemning the attacks and blaming Iran. The United States then launched attacks on Iranian territory, to which Tehran responded by striking Bahrain and Kuwait. US President Donald Trump has now said the memorandum of understanding (MoU) that Iran and the US signed is void.

This latest escalation illustrates how the Strait of Hormuz has become the central issue in the US-Israel war with Iran that began on February 28. Disagreements over the strait’s future have proven to be the hardest to resolve in the US-Iranian negotiations, as questions about Iran’s nuclear programme have been put to the side.

The disruption of traffic in the Strait of Hormuz has an immediate and costly price tag attached, for Iran, for its Gulf neighbours, and for a global economy that has spent four and a half months absorbing the largest oil supply shock in the history of the modern market.

Iran’s leverage is also its liability

For Tehran, the strait is its strongest card – one that is also incredibly costly. Since the war began, Iranian forces have mined the strait, attacked vessels and cut traffic through the passage by roughly 95 percent. This has led to what the International Energy Agency’s Fatih Birol has called “the largest supply disruption in the history of the global oil market”.

That leverage is real: about a fifth of the world’s oil and a fifth of its liquefied natural gas (LNG) normally move through Hormuz, and no amount of Gulf pipeline capacity can fully replace it.

But Iran has effectively been strangling its own lifeline along with everyone else’s. Iranian crude, once sold for $3 a barrel less than international benchmarks, is now selling at a 20 percent discount. The country’s oil exports collapsed by more than 90 percent in May as US naval enforcement squeezed its shadow fleet.

Even before the war, the World Bank projected that Iran’s economy would contract in 2026. The impact of the collapse of oil sales will be far-reaching because of the closure.

A 60-day US Treasury waiver issued on June 22, permitting Iran to sell oil at full market rates through August 21, but has now been renounced following the attacks on Tuesday.

This is the economic backdrop to Iran’s insistence on asserting joint authority over the strait and floating a system of transit fees or “service charges” for passing ships. Washington has made clear that Iran cannot charge tolls in international waters governed by the right of transit passage under the Law of the Sea.

For Tehran, the dispute is not really about toll revenue, which would be rather modest when compared to its oil income; it is about establishing precedent and sovereignty over a chokepoint that is its only real point of leverage once sanctions relief and frozen-asset release are negotiated.

The latter is itself contested: Iran wants half of an estimated $25bn in frozen assets released immediately, while the US has resisted. A separate $300bn reconstruction fund floated in the MoU has already become a political flashpoint in Washington.

The Gulf is paying for a crisis it didn’t start

For the Gulf states, the Strait of Hormuz crisis has meant improvising around geography. Saudi Arabia has redirected crude through its roughly 1,200km (746-mile) East-West pipeline to the Red Sea port of Yanbu, and the UAE has leaned on the Habshan-to-Fujairah line to the Gulf of Oman.

Together, though, these pipelines carry a fraction of what Hormuz once did, at best 7 million barrels a day of design capacity for the Saudi line and under 1.8 million for the Emirati one, against roughly 20 million barrels a day that transited the strait before the war.

Both alternatives have themselves come under attack: Iranian strikes cut the East-West pipeline’s throughput by an estimated 700,000 barrels a day in April, and drone attacks disrupted loading at Fujairah. Seaborne crude exports from Gulf states excluding Iran fell by roughly half between February and March.

Qatar, host to the talks between Iran and the US, has its own acute stake: its entire LNG export industry depends on the Strait of Hormuz, and it has been pushing the hardest for a settlement.

Oman, drawn into Iran’s sovereignty claim as co-owner of the strait’s territorial waters, is caught between commercial interest in a resolution and a legal position, as a signatory to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) that publicly rejects Iranian tolls. Iraq, highly dependent on its Gulf terminals, has quietly explored an export route north through Turkiye.

None of these workarounds are cheap, and all of them are political as well as commercial, tying Gulf capitals’ economic fortunes to a settlement between the US and Iran.

The rest of the world: Insurance bills and inflation

Beyond the region, the crisis has been transmitted mainly through two channels: price and insurance. Higher oil prices are passed on to various consumer goods down supply chains and suppress growth. According to estimates, the global economy can slow down to 2.8 percent in 2026 from 3.4 percent last year due to the closure of the strait.

Insurance for Hormuz transit, which cost roughly 0.25 percent of a vessel’s value before the war, has spiked as high as 8 percent, turning a single large tanker’s coverage into a $3m-to-$8m expense. Shipping lines including CMA CGM and Hapag-Lloyd have layered on conflict surcharges of $1,500 to $2,000 per twenty-foot equivalent unit (TEU). Washington’s own International Development Finance Corporation has had to step in as, in effect, an insurer of last resort, offering up to $40bn in reinsurance capacity to keep vessels moving.

China has absorbed the largest share of this pain: It takes close to 40 percent of its crude imports through the Strait of Hormuz and buys more than 80 percent of Iran’s oil exports outright, making it simultaneously Tehran’s most important customer and one of the war’s most exposed bystanders. Japan, which sources 70 percent of its Middle Eastern crude via the strait, has already tapped strategic reserves.

For import-dependent economies across Asia and Europe, the strait’s fate is not an abstraction of Middle East diplomacy; it shows up directly in fuel, freight and fertiliser prices.

Oil and gas dominate the headlines, but roughly 30 percent of the world’s seaborne fertiliser trade also passes through Hormuz.

The World Bank’s fertiliser price index has risen more than 12 percent in the first quarter of 2026 and has since climbed to its highest level since October 2022, driven largely by the closure. The Food and Agriculture Organization has warned that the resulting scarcity of urea and other nitrogen products will show up as lower yields through the 2026–2027 growing season, hitting import-dependent and already food-insecure countries in Africa and Asia the hardest.

Unlike an oil-price spike, which mainly stings at the pump, a fertiliser shortfall reaches into next year’s harvest, meaning an unresolved Hormuz standoff carries a slower-moving but longer tail of economic damage than crude prices alone suggest.

That is the arithmetic weighing on both sides. A deal that reopens the Strait of Hormuz without resolving who controls it risks recreating the same instability that shut it in the first place; one that concedes Iranian toll authority risks a precedent Washington and shipping nations will not accept. Until that circle is squared, the global economy is left pricing in a chokepoint that neither side can fully afford to keep closed, nor fully agree how to reopen.

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

Dr. Mukesh Kapila, former UN Humanitarian Coordinator for Sudan, warns the current crisis in El Obeid, Sudan could be even worse than what unfolded in El Fasher in 2024-2025. However, he says sustained international attention and Al Jazeera’s continued coverage could help deter the RSF.

The penalty awarded against the Senegalese national team in the final moments of their match against Belgium on Wednesday caused widespread controversy after it led to their elimination from the Round of 32 at the 2026 World Cup, in a harsh turn of events that saw the “Lions of Teranga” go from leading 2-0 to losing 3-2.

Honduran referee Said Martinez awarded a penalty kick at the end of the second period of extra time, after a VAR review, following a challenge by Senegal’s Lamine Camara on Belgian captain Youri Tielemans, with the score tied 2-2 and the match heading towards a penalty shootout.

The “Archivo VAR” platform, which specialises in analysing refereeing decisions, said that VAR intervened excessively during the match, confirming that it was Tielemans who extended his foot in front of Camara, causing the contact.

The platform added, via its account on “X,” that the incident did not warrant VAR intervention, explaining that it was the Belgian player who forced the contact entirely, and that the situation did not amount to the clear and obvious error needed to justify the referee reviewing the decision.

The decision triggered a wave of controversy on social media, with one fan writing: “This is 100% robbery. Senegal have been robbed. How is this a penalty? Belgium do not deserve to go through corruption.”

Sports content creator Sneako blamed the result on match ‘”rigging”.

“Rigged! Senegal should storm the pitch right now. Leave the pitch and go home. This is rigged!”

Another sports fan wrote: “I’m sorry, but this was never a penalty. Camara went to clear the ball, but it was Tielemans who got in his way. Senegal was robbed, and it should have been Belgium going out.”

Spanish sports journalist Manolo Lama commented: “They stole the Africa Cup of Nations from them, and now they’re stealing all the solidarity with Senegal at the World Cup too.”

Egyptian journalist Mohamed Saeed linked the incident to what happened in the 2025 Africa Cup of Nations final against Morocco, writing: “You can feel that the penalty awarded against Senegal in the final seconds was a harsh lesson and a difficult test. After the scenes from the Africa Cup of Nations final, I think that if it weren’t for the change in the rules around the withdrawal incident, this scene could have repeated itself.”

Another sports fan, Fares Ahmed, wrote that football ”teaches lessons” and the outcome brought back the memory of Senegal at the tournament in Morocco.

“They took advantage of the tournament’s vulnerable position and the host’s need to make it a success, and used that to impose their pressure,” Ahmed wrote. “Today, the scene was almost repeated against Belgium — a penalty in the final minutes, objections, and disbelief over the decision — but this time there was no threat of withdrawal, because you can’t risk penalties like that in a tournament the size of the World Cup.”

Drawing a connection between the two events, one follower wrote on “X”: “When there was a clear penalty in the Morocco final, they rebelled against the decision and tarnished the reputation of African football, just because the tournament was in Morocco. But when an unclear penalty came along that eliminated them from the World Cup, they stayed silent, because this time it was in the West.”

After the dramatic penalty was awarded, Tielemans stepped up to take it and scored successfully, netting Belgium’s third goal and capping off an unexpected comeback that eliminated the Lions of Teranga.

But back on the pitch, Senegal had the run of play for 85 minutes. The African team held a two-goal lead, and had all but secured a spot in the round of 16 at the World Cup.

Within five minutes, it crumbled and the players were feeling it.

“We were at the heart of writing the beautiful pages of the history of our football in this world,” defender Krepin Diatta said. “And we have to accept that we failed at our mission.”

Senegal midfielder Habib Diarra said. “We had a good first half, but it wasn’t enough. A match lasts 90 minutes, and we’re devastated. It’s very tough. I don’t know what to say. When you’re on the pitch, you have to give your all, and that’s not what we did. We’ve only got ourselves to blame.”

At the G7 summit in Evian-les-Bains, France, on June 17, Kenyan President William Ruto revealed that his country was nearing a critical minerals agreement with the United States. Far more significant was Kenya’s insistence that its rare earths, lithium, graphite, copper, nickel and niobium be refined and processed domestically rather than exported as raw materials. This was not simply another minerals deal; it was a signal that African governments are trying to rewrite the extractive bargain.

That demand, long voiced but rarely enforced, is beginning to reshape African resource governance. Namibia has prohibited exports of unprocessed lithium, cobalt, manganese, graphite and rare earths. Mali is constructing a 200-tonne-a-year gold refinery while requiring more local refining. Ghana will begin buying 30 percent of large-scale gold output from July 2026 to strengthen local refining and reserves. Across the continent, governments are increasingly requiring natural resources to create industries at home before generating profits abroad. The turn is not confined to critical minerals; it reflects a wider push to keep more value from natural resources at home.

Kenya’s move comes as the global race for critical minerals intensifies and Africa assumes greater strategic importance. Lithium consumption rose by almost 30 percent in 2024 as countries accelerated investment in electric vehicles, battery storage, renewable energy systems and advanced manufacturing. The International Energy Agency (IEA) projects lithium use will increase fivefold by 2040, with graphite and nickel requirements roughly doubling.

This commodity boom differs in one crucial respect: The supply of critical minerals cannot expand rapidly. New mines often take well more than a decade to move from discovery through permits and development to first production, even as global demand continues to accelerate. The IEA estimates that, under its Stated Policies Scenario, announced mining projects will leave lithium supply 40 percent short of projected demand by 2035. Countries seeking secure supplies therefore have greater incentives to invest where the minerals already exist, giving African governments more room to negotiate local value addition, technology transfer and industrial investment.

For generations, the continent’s economic role has been brutally simple: Dig, ship and buy back the finished product. The transition minerals boom offers a rare opportunity to reverse that relationship. But this will require reliable power, transport, finance and skills, not export bans alone.

Mining is only the first step. The greatest wealth is created further along the production chain, when minerals are refined, processed and assembled into products that command far higher prices than the ore that left the ground. United Nations data illustrates how rapidly export value rises along the lithium-ion supply chain. In 2022, global exports of lithium ore and brine were worth about $20bn. Battery materials generated $51bn, cell components and battery packs $106bn, and electric vehicles $135bn.

Africa’s challenge is to move further along that chain. Every additional stage completed on the continent captures more income, creates more skilled jobs and embeds more technology before a single battery reaches the market.

Refining minerals is not an end in itself. It is the first step towards building the productive capabilities that distinguish manufacturing economies from extractive ones. Around every refinery cluster, engineering companies, chemical producers, equipment manufacturers, laboratories and specialist suppliers can emerge. Taiwan’s experience offers a broader lesson: With sustained policy, skills and supplier networks, industrial capabilities built in one generation can create higher-value industries in the next.

Africa’s growing confidence reflects a profound shift in supply chain politics. In a market this concentrated, countries that combine mineral deposits with downstream ambition can negotiate stronger terms. What has changed is not simply demand, but dependency: China is the dominant refiner for 19 of the 20 strategic minerals tracked by the IEA. For copper, lithium, nickel, cobalt, graphite and rare earths, the top three refining countries control 86 percent of processed output. The continent should demand beneficiation, meaning the processing of raw materials into higher-value products before export, alongside technology transfer and industrial investment before those resources enter global supply chains.

History offers a cautionary lesson.

Gold, diamonds, copper and oil generated billions of dollars in exports across the continent, yet most resource-rich economies remained dependent on exporting raw commodities rather than manufacturing higher-value products.

The colonial economy was built around those outward flows. In what is now Zambia, copper from Nkana, Mufulira and Nchanga moved through Ndola and across the rail network to Beira, the Mozambican port that linked the Copperbelt to overseas smelters and factories. Across the Gold Coast, in present-day Ghana, cocoa from Kumasi travelled by rail to Sekondi and later Takoradi before entering Britain’s chocolate industry.

Today’s export restrictions, refining mandates and beneficiation policies seek to disrupt that flow. The prize is to capture the industries built around those minerals before they take root elsewhere.

The real wealth in Africa’s transition minerals boom will not be measured by what leaves its ports, but by what never has to. Every tonne of lithium refined, every battery precursor produced and every stage of manufacturing completed before export shifts more income, technology, investment and skilled employment onto the continent.

Research by Publish What You Pay suggests that expanding higher-value mineral processing across Africa could generate an additional $32bn in annual exports, add up to $24bn to the continent’s gross domestic product and create about 2.3 million jobs. More importantly, it would leave behind industries, technologies and expertise that outlast the minerals themselves.

Nigeria’s Dangote refinery provides Africa’s clearest demonstration of what beneficiation can achieve. Located in the Lekki Free Zone outside Lagos and built at a cost of about $20bn, the 650,000-barrel-a-day facility is Africa’s largest single-train refinery.

Since beginning production in early 2024, the refinery has helped transform Nigeria’s energy sector. For decades, the country imported much of its refined fuel, spending billions of dollars in foreign exchange. The refinery now supplies much of the domestic market while exporting petrol, diesel and jet fuel to Ghana, Cameroon, Togo, Burkina Faso and Ivory Coast.

Between February and March 2026, Nigeria’s clean petroleum exports more than doubled from about 100,000 barrels a day to 214,000 barrels, while helping anchor a new industrial ecosystem of marine infrastructure, storage terminals, petrochemical plants and fertiliser production.

Indonesia exemplifies the same principle.

After banning exports of unprocessed nickel ore on January 1, 2020, Indonesia became a leading producer and exporter of processed nickel products. The country targeted $21.3bn in foreign investment in mining and processing projects, while the value of its nickel product exports rose from less than $1bn in 2015 to nearly $20bn in 2022. New smelters, refineries, battery-material plants and electric vehicle manufacturing have expanded rapidly, though the boom has also brought environmental and labour concerns.

Africa’s transition minerals require the same strategic intent. If Zambia refines copper, Zimbabwe processes lithium, the Democratic Republic of the Congo produces battery precursors, and South Africa manufactures battery components, engineering firms will expand, chemical industries will grow, and skilled workers will find opportunities at home instead of abroad. Railways will carry higher-value products instead of raw ore, tax revenues will become more stable, and manufacturing will increasingly replace extraction as the main driver of long-term economic growth.

No African country needs to manufacture every component of an electric vehicle or every battery cell. Copper, cobalt, lithium, graphite and manganese are spread across different economies, making regional integration an economic necessity rather than a political aspiration. Shared power systems, transport corridors, research institutions, standards and integrated markets will determine whether Africa exports minerals or manufactures products.

That makes the African Continental Free Trade Area indispensable. Properly implemented, it can turn isolated mineral deposits into regional manufacturing systems by lowering trade barriers and allowing countries to specialise. Together, African economies can develop an integrated industrial base that none could achieve alone.

Africa has lived through too many extractive booms that enriched others first. Copper built industries across Europe and North America while Zambia remained dependent on raw exports. Cocoa supplied Britain’s chocolate manufacturers while Ghana captured only a fraction of the value added.

The global energy transition gives Africa its best opportunity in generations to rewrite that history.

Africa can finally mine, beneficiate and industrialise on its own terms.

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

In a recent interview with the New York Times, Vice President JD Vance denied that there was an “intense rivalry” between him and Secretary of State Marco Rubio. And yet, reports and speculations about tensions between them continue to emerge, with the Rubio camp allegedly spreading rumours that Vance was thinking about pulling out of the presidential campaign before it even starts

In response, perhaps, during the past two weeks, the vice president has stepped out of his routine public persona that usually avoids controversy to make bold statements critical of Israel. Rubio, on the other hand, has continued to hold the party line of unconditional support for Israel. While Vance has led efforts to negotiate a peace deal with Iran, which have rattled Israel, Rubio has spearheaded efforts to pressure the Lebanese government into an agreement on Israel’s terms.

By becoming the face of Republican scepticism of Israel and clashing with his likely presidential election rival Rubio, Vance appears to be charting his own way to the presidency – one that distances the vice president from what increasingly seem to be unpopular foreign policy positions.

Rubio, until recently, had been on the upswing, assigned ever-more important responsibilities by Trump. He has been a leading voice within the administration for a hawkish approach that has encompassed military action from Venezuela to Iran, outweighing the counsel of the more isolationist Vance.

When it comes to Israel, Rubio has made a point of being as public and proactive as possible in his support for that country and its prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, supporting his appeal for the US to enter the war with Iran, and even going so far as to put his name on determinations leveraging claims of national security threats to deport foreign students critical of Israel.

While the bulk of his public statements have been directed at the Netanyahu government, it is hard not to read some of Vance’s recent comments as being directly responsive to Rubio’s actions not only abroad, but at home as well.

As Vance put it, “…pro-Israel people in the United States make two critical mistakes. One, on the one hand, is not delineating between America’s interest and Israeli interests because they’re not the same. But the second is always conflating criticism of a particular government with Jew hatred, because if everything is Jew hatred, then nothing is Jew hatred.”

But, if Vance is creating space between himself and Rubio (including, apparently, by eschewing the increasingly weaponised terminology of “antisemitism”), it must also be the case that there is a political case for his doing so. That case has yet to be tested on the Republican side, where the political elites well beyond Rubio continue to move in lockstep with Israel’s Netanyahu.

But Vance, as ever, is reading the base. The same polls that show an absolute collapse of Democratic grassroots support for Israel also show an unmistakable weakening of that support in the Republican base, with one recent survey finding that 57 percent of Republicans under 50 now hold negative views of Israel.

Despite the inability of Republican elected officials to rally support behind their criticism of Israel (neither of the two most visible examples, Representatives Marjorie Taylor Greene and Thomas Massie will re-enter Congress next year), the demand signal for more frank conversation has propelled right-wing commenters like Tucker Carlson and Candace Owens to ever-greater prominence. Looking into the social media landscape, Republican questioning of the Israel relationship – particularly under the banner question of whether it represents “America First” or “Israel First,” is inescapable.

Which is not to say it will be an easy path. As sitting vice president, Vance must defer to Trump; while the latter is currently frustrated with Netanyahu, there are no guarantees that the relationship will not warm up between now and 2028 – or that if Israel elects a new leader this autumn, that that person would not be able to rebuild much of Israel’s political capital in Washington.

And similarly, if Vance’s stance on Israel helps him capture the “America First” – which is no easy task given the cohesion within that movement of the Christian Zionist camp that remains strongly pro-Israel – he may then have to contend with a Democratic competitor who seizes the Israel-sceptic mantle more credibly.

Or not. It is still early, but the favoured nominee on the Democratic side appears to be California Governor Gavin Newsom, whose few forays into commentary on Palestine and Israel have quickly been walked back to appease the pro-Israel backers of the party establishment. Indeed, the Democrats will have their own complicated, and likely ugly, battle to fight when it comes to Israel.

What does appear certain, however, is that Israel will be a wedge issue in the upcoming election – and in the wake of the failed Iran war and increasingly unpopular attacks on free speech, both greatly driven by the government of Israel or its aligned lobbies, there is an opening here that Vance, given his competition with Rubio, would have been foolish to ignore.

So is Vance’s public criticism of Israel – and pro-Israel voices within his own party genuine, or calculated? As Vance put it in his book Hillbilly Elegy, “I don’t believe in epiphanies. I don’t believe in transformative moments, as transformation is harder than a moment. I’ve seen far too many people awash in a genuine desire to change only to lose their mettle when they realised just how difficult change actually is.”

Until now, little is harder in Republican politics than to go against the prevailing dogma on Israel. And while Vance has long demonstrated what might be termed isolationist tendencies, there is no reason to think that his recent comments represent an epiphany. Rather, like any politician, he is reading the tea leaves, and sensing an opportunity on the back of a change that is filtering across American public opinion.

Vance may not be committed to driving that change. But he may be smart enough to ride it.

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

The memorandum of understanding (MoU) the United States and Iran have signed is not a peace treaty. It is not even a credible framework for one. A vocal chorus of critics has rushed to portray it as a humiliation – evidence that President Donald Trump was manoeuvred into negotiations and extracted a poor deal from a regime that outplayed him.

That reading mistakes a mirage for reality. The Trump administration entered these talks with a precise understanding of what the Iranian regime is, what it wants and what any agreement with it is actually worth. No one in that negotiating team harbours the illusion that Tehran intends to honour commitments that constrain its core ambitions. The MоU is not a peace settlement. It is a mutually understood pause – a tactical intermission chosen by both sides for reasons that have nothing to do with trust and everything to do with time.

To grasp why, one needs only consult Iran’s unbroken record. That record is not a matter of interpretation or political dispute. It is a documented history of agreements made, commitments given and obligations systematically abandoned whenever honouring them conflicted with the regime’s objectives.

The pattern is consistent enough to constitute a doctrine: Iran negotiates under pressure, signs what is necessary to relieve that pressure and resumes its course once the immediate threat has passed.

The deeply flawed 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) was the most prominent recent demonstration of this cycle. Presented as a landmark of multilateral diplomacy, it was in practice a subsidised intermission – a breathing space Iran used to consolidate resources, sustain its proxy networks and continue advancing its strategic programme. The JCPOA did not change Iranian behaviour. It funded and protected it.

The Trump administration’s “maximum pressure” campaign was a direct response to that lesson: A regime of this kind cannot be managed through diplomatic lifelines. It can only be constrained by pressure severe enough to leave it no viable alternative to compliance.

The new MoU does not signal that Iran has changed. Its calculus remains what it has always been – survival and expansion, pursued through whatever tactical posture the moment requires. When pressure mounts, Iran negotiates. When pressure eases, Iran advances. Its negotiators are, by all available evidence, prepared to offer assurances they have no intention of keeping. This is not a failure of diplomatic craftsmanship. This is simply the nature of any negotiation with a regime like Iran’s.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the Iranian nuclear programme. As a signatory to the Non-Proliferation Treaty, Iran has repeatedly committed to transparent cooperation with the International Atomic Energy Agency. It has repeatedly broken those commitments, blocking inspections, constructing clandestine enrichment facilities, destroying evidence and systematically deceiving the international community. The pattern is not one of occasional noncompliance. It is deliberate, sustained deception in pursuit of a single unwavering objective: the acquisition of a nuclear weapon.

A state genuinely committed to civilian nuclear energy has no need for a vast and enormously expensive domestic enrichment programme. Nuclear fuel can be purchased – from Russia, among others – at a fraction of the cost and without the international confrontation such a programme inevitably provokes.

Iran has chosen the far more costly and dangerous path for one reason: Enrichment is not a means to an end, but the end itself. Its rulers are committed to a nuclear weapon, and that commitment has survived changes in personnel, shifts in rhetoric and decades of pressure.

It will not be bargained away – and here lies the critical point that no amount of diplomatic optimism can paper over. Iran’s rulers are not pragmatic actors engaged in a conventional cost-benefit calculation. Their goals are theological and strategic in a way that places them beyond the reach of ordinary negotiation.

They do not govern in the interests of the Iranian people. The sanctions they have endured have devastated ordinary Iranians – driven up poverty, hollowed out the middle class, denied the population access to medicines and opportunity. None of that has moved the regime one degree from its course.

This is a regime that could, if it chose, transform its position entirely. It could make peace with its neighbours, normalise relations with the international community, shed the sanctions that have devastated its economy and dramatically improve the lives of Iranians. The price is not beyond reach: abandon the nuclear weapons programme, cease development of offensive ballistic missiles and end the sponsorship of terrorist proxies. Iran’s rulers have refused that bargain consistently and completely.

That is the essential context for understanding what the Trump administration is actually doing. It would be a serious misjudgement to read this MoU as evidence of American weakness or strategic confusion. The team that designed and executed the most effective pressure campaign against Iran in recent memory is not naive about this adversary.

Trump enters this pause knowing that Iran will not honour commitments that genuinely constrain it. He is not expecting otherwise. Neither side, in all likelihood, operates under any such illusion – which is precisely what makes the critics’ alarm about a “bad deal” somewhat beside the point.

You cannot be cheated by an agreement you never expected the other party to keep.

What this MoU represents is a mutually understood strategic pause, a breathing space both parties have chosen, for entirely different reasons, over immediate confrontation. Iran needs economic relief. A regime facing internal decay and a depleted treasury has strong incentives to buy time, replenish its resources and wait out what it calculates to be a finite window.

Tehran is acutely aware that Trump has roughly two and a half years remaining in office. From its perspective, survival through that period is itself a form of victory.

Washington’s calculus is different in kind. Keeping the Strait of Hormuz open is an immediate, non-negotiable goal – a choked strait means an energy price shock with global consequences. Beyond that, the US has its own repositioning to accomplish. Military inventories drawn down through recent operations are being restocked. Strategic options are being preserved and expanded.

A pause that enables that rebuilding, while avoiding a premature confrontation on unfavourable terms, is not a concession. It is preparation.

Trump has never wavered in his commitment to eliminating Iran as a strategic threat – not through wishful diplomacy, but through the kind of pressure that forecloses options. That commitment did not expire with the signing of this MoU. The question for Tehran is not whether American resolve exists but whether it can be outlasted. That is a wager the Iranian regime has made before and lost.

The international community will, as usual, observe from a careful distance. Many nations will urge Iran to be stopped while taking few steps to stop it, criticising US action and inaction with equal facility.

Trump understands this dynamic. It is the foundation of his approach to alliances – the insistence that partners bear proportionate burdens rather than simply drawing on American resolve while contributing little of their own.

The MoU will not resolve the Iranian problem. It was not designed to. When its terms expire or when Iran decides it has served its purpose, the nuclear programme will resume its advance, the proxies will be better resourced, and the Strait of Hormuz will once again become a flashpoint.

That outcome is not a possibility. Given Iran’s record, it is a near-certainty. The only consequential variable is whether the US and those willing to stand alongside it will be better positioned to act decisively when that moment arrives. Far from a mirage, the evidence suggests that is precisely what this administration is working to ensure.

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