Opinions

Egyptian President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi surprised observers when he recently announced his intention to leave office after his third presidential term ends in April 2030.

El-Sisi had been widely suspected of moving to amend the Egyptian constitution to allow him to serve another term, or possibly indefinitely.

But speaking at a graduation ceremony at the Egyptian Military Academy, el-Sisi insisted that his departure was a settled matter and that “no one would tamper with” the constitution.

So what is behind the decision? There has been much speculation that el-Sisi may use this declaration to rally popular support for a fourth term or preempt a move by the military against him. But there is also the possibility that he is setting up the next phase of military rule in Egypt.

It is important to point out first that voluntarily leaving power is a risky proposition for any authoritarian leader.

In el-Sisi’s case, his 2030 departure would leave open the possibility that a future Egyptian government could seek to use him as a scapegoat for the country’s problems, possibly even holding him to account for alleged crimes committed during his presidency.

El-Sisi led a coup in 2013 against Egypt’s first democratically elected president, Mohamed Morsi, which was accompanied by massacres and the jailing of tens of thousands of politicians, activists, and journalists.

El-Sisi’s economic record has also been the subject of criticism, with detractors accusing him and his government of corruption, poor fiscal policy and lavish spending on vanity projects. Egypt’s debt stands at 81 percent of gross domestic product (GDP), with interest payments alone exceeding combined spending on healthcare, education, wages and subsidies. Meanwhile, the Egyptian pound has lost more than 80 percent of its value against the US dollar since 2014, while cumulative inflation exceeds 460 percent.

In this context, el-Sisi’s announcement that he plans to step down in 2030 was rather unexpected. Some have speculated that he has no intention of actually leaving office and could go back on his statement, as he has done before.

In 2013, following Morsi’s overthrow, el-Sisi denied that he would run for president.

After telling the media in 2017 that he was committed to “preserving [the constitution’s] two four-year terms and not changing it”, he helped lead the drive to amend the constitution in 2019.

A judicial source told Mada Masr last week that el-Sisi’s announcement left open the door for a “popular call” for the president to remain in office.

A second possibility is that with this move, el-Sisi may be attempting to preempt a possible military intervention, which could become more likely if the economy continues to falter.

In 2011, the military responded to popular protests against former President Hosni Mubarak by forcing him to step down.

The army could attempt to defuse public anger by presenting el-Sisi as a scapegoat, forcibly removing him from power, and replacing him with someone who can preserve a measure of stability as well as secure its vast economic interests.

In that context, a member of parliament said recently that he has heard el-Sisi say in private meetings that he would rather step down than wait for the military to force him out.

But a third and much more likely possibility deserves particular attention: el-Sisi may be preparing to leave the presidency while ensuring that Egypt’s military-dominated political system survives his departure.

It is perhaps not coincidental that during the announcement, he cited Article 200 of the constitution, which gives the armed forces an extraordinary role in Egyptian politics.

The article, amended in 2019, makes the military responsible for maintaining the country’s “democracy” and the “gains, rights and freedoms” of the Egyptian people.

According to el-Sisi, the aim of the article is “to protect the Egyptian state from any attempt to infiltrate it or allow people to take it over who cannot handle the responsibility of this country or who do not even understand the meaning of ‘state’”.

Article 200, combined with Article 234 — which requires that a president secure approval from the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces before appointing a defence minister — gives the military significant control over Egyptian political life.

El-Sisi’s vision for the selection of Egypt’s next president gives the military an outsized role. His proposal includes setting up a committee of experts to draft legislation for selecting hundreds of highly educated Egyptians to undergo specialised training at the Egyptian Military Academy.

Applicants, el-Sisi proposes, should hold doctoral degrees, be between 40 and 50 years of age, and be prepared to spend 30 months at the academy learning about the Egyptian state.

The programme would also train future ministers, governors and members of parliament.

Combined with Articles 200 and 234, this proposed mechanism seems intended to preserve the military’s dominance long after el-Sisi leaves office. It could be favourable to him as well.

A genuinely independent, civilian president could seek to investigate massacres overseen by el-Sisi, allegations of corruption, or other alleged crimes. A transition process closely managed by the military is highly unlikely to yield such a result.

The open question now is how an increasingly frustrated and critical Egyptian public will respond to a political process managed by the military that effectively wipes out the need for a popular mandate.

For now, el-Sisi and the military appear determined to shape Egypt’s political future. But the people may have the last word.

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

Almost 45 percent of Israelis had cast a ballot by mid-afternoon, but questions have been raised about possible voter suppression in Arab towns.

Almost 45 percent of Israeli voters had cast a ballot by mid-afternoon on Tuesday, according to Israel’s Central Elections Committee, marking the highest election turnout by 2pm (12:00 GMT) in 50 years.

The figure was 6 percent higher than at the same time in the last elections in 2022.

Mitchell Barak, a pollster and former aide to Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, told Al Jazeera that voter turnout “is really high and that’s good”.

“I think … it will probably pass its historic peak in ‘73 – when Israel was also involved in a huge war – so draw what conclusion from that you will,” he added.

The election is largely seen as a referendum on Netanyahu’s handling of the October 7, 2023 Hamas-led attacks and the wars that followed, the most intense period of combat for Israel since the 1973 surprise military campaign by Egypt and Syria.

“Those numbers are going to help the incumbent parties,” Barak said, “as the 3.25 percent threshold a party needs to get into the Knesset remains, the number of votes you need to meet that threshold increases dramatically.”

Israeli officials noted that several polling stations had faced exceptionally long lines, which were attributed to high voter turnout despite rainy and blustery weather in parts of the country, and a flood warning in some areas.

Arab vote

In a message more than five hours after polls opened, Netanyahu urged supporters to vote, saying turnout was high among his opponents on the left and among Palestinian citizens of Israel, about a fifth of the population.

“We need it to be high too. You all need to stream to the polls,” he said. “This is a fateful moment.”

Netanyahu had repeatedly warned supporters of the prospect of high turnout among Palestinian citizens in Israel ahead of the vote, seeking to mobilise his base under the slogan “the right or Palestine”.

Those voters were casting ballots in “unprecedented” numbers, Palestinian candidate Ahmed Tibi said.

Netanyahu and his main rival Gadi Eisenkot have ruled out partnering with Arab parties, citing a lack of shared values, although some possible scenarios envision them propping up a minority government to ensure Netanyahu is removed from office.

Meanwhile, an Israeli rights group has filed a complaint with the country’s election commission warning that widespread delays could be suppressing the vote among Israeli Palestinians.

Though delays could be a result of high voter turnout, the Association for Civil Rights in Israel (ACRI) said in its complaint to the Central Elections Committee that delays had been reported in at least 18 communities. It asked the committee to investigate “whether these delays are deliberate.”

The ACRI also reported “a large presence” of police and National Guard officers at a polling station in the Negev Desert, raising concerns that officers were using crowd control as a pretext to prevent people from entering to vote.

The Ballon d’Or is football’s most prestigious individual honour. On Monday, Bayern Munich striker Harry Kane became the first Englishman to win it since Michael Owen in 2001. But his victory also raises a fundamental question about the award: How can individual excellence be fairly assessed in a team sport?

For much of the past two decades, that question has been overshadowed by the extraordinary rivalry between Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo. From 2008 to 2017, one or the other won the Ballon d’Or every year, turning the annual award into a contest between the two superstars. Messi eventually accumulated a record eight trophies and Ronaldo five, together accounting for 13 of the 17 awards presented between 2008 and 2025.

Their rivalry generated unprecedented excitement around an award first presented in 1956, when England’s “wizard of the dribble”, Sir Stanley Matthews, became its inaugural winner. But it also pushed several important questions into the background. Has the growing commercialisation of the Ballon d’Or distracted from its purpose? Why does it overwhelmingly reward attacking players? And why does a supposedly global award remain so heavily focused on European football?

The commercialisation of the Ballon d’Or reflects the transformation of football into a global entertainment industry, in which individual players have become brands in their own right.

“The whole dynamic of the Ballon d’Or has changed because the dynamic of the sports and entertainment industry has changed with the way individual athletes are marketed,” Steve Martin, founding partner of MSQ Sport + Entertainment, formerly of M&C Saatchi, told The Athletic.

“They’ve found a way as an individual athlete or player to build their own profile and their own fanbase, as opposed to relying on their clubs. They control their own destiny, and they market themselves.”

Former Switzerland defender Ramon Vega has been more critical of this development. “The commercialisation and monetisation of this award is not taking it in the right direction,” he told the writer.

The Ballon d’Or has undoubtedly become a bigger spectacle, but the attention surrounding the award should not obscure the question of what constitutes individual excellence. And commercialisation is not its only problem. The award has also long favoured players in attack over those in other positions.

A goalkeeper’s or defender’s performance is as important as that of midfielders and strikers, in a sport where a team is supposed to be as great as the sum of its parts. Yet Russia’s Lev Yashin remains the only goalkeeper to have won the award, in 1963, while Italy’s Fabio Cannavaro was the last defender to do so, in 2006, after captaining his country to World Cup victory. Germany’s Franz Beckenbauer and Matthias Sammer were among the few other defenders to have received the honour.

“Goalkeepers and defenders are also part of the spectacle. Attackers don’t just play amongst themselves,” Cannavaro told France Football after winning the award in 2006. “If a goalkeeper has saved 15 or so matches in a year, it’s only fair to highlight him.”

But the Italian’s observations have done little to change the pervasive bias of voters for the award, as strikers and midfielders on the European club and national team stage remain the yardstick for measuring global excellence.

That focus on European football points to another longstanding weakness of the Ballon d’Or: Its failure to adequately recognise outstanding players from elsewhere in the world.

For nearly four decades after the award was established, only European players were eligible to win it. This was a great injustice to exceptional footballers from other continents, even those competing in Europe’s leading leagues. The late Diego Maradona was perhaps the most notable victim of this exclusion.

The restriction was finally lifted in 1995, allowing players of any nationality at European clubs to compete for the prize. It took another 12 years, until 2007, for the award to be opened to players competing anywhere in the world.

It could be argued that when the award began, the club and national team game outside Europe was beyond the close observation and expert knowledge of the Ballon d’Or selectors. But that argument no longer holds water. Knowledge of the global game has grown exponentially, yet recognition of excellence beyond Europe’s leading competitions remains limited.

When Liberia’s George Weah became the first non-European player to win the Ballon d’Or in 1995, following outstanding performances for Paris Saint-Germain and AC Milan, his victory was expected to open the door for exceptional players from parts of the footballing world that had long been denied recognition.

But 31 years on, the former president of Liberia remains the only person outside Europe and South America to have won it.

“When I started playing football, I never thought I would ever win the Ballon d’Or and emerge as the best player in the world. I just had a passion for the game and I worked hard. Every day. I would rather train than eat or sleep,” Weah told the writer in Monrovia.

“I am surprised that no other African player has won the award since I did so. I think there have been others that deserve to win. But it is down to those who select the winners.”

Cameroon’s Samuel Eto’o, the former Barcelona and Inter striker, now president of his country’s football federation, is one person with a right to feel aggrieved that he didn’t win the award before retiring in 2019.

“It’s difficult to understand how Samuel Eto’o never won the Ballon d’Or with the impressive career he had,” Jose Mourinho, who managed Eto’o at Inter, said in a 2019 interview with Cameroon Radio.

“He played in three Champions League finals, winning two with Barcelona and scoring in both finals. He also won one Champions League at Inter and won many league titles. He was the best striker in the world for several years, and I think he deserved a Ballon d’Or, but these are things out of our control.”

Eto’o’s omission, like Weah’s continued status as the only African winner, raises questions about how the award’s selectors and voters assess the achievements of players from outside football’s traditional European and South American powerhouses.

The Ballon d’Or already has an international voting panel, with journalists from 100 countries selecting the winner from a shortlist of 30 players. But geographical representation among voters does not necessarily translate into recognition of the world’s footballing talent.

France Football, the award’s organisers, should ensure that the process of selecting nominees and winners draws on a genuinely global understanding of the game and gives due recognition to exceptional players, regardless of nationality or where they compete.

The award must also address its other shortcomings. Football is a team sport in which goalkeepers, defenders, midfielders and strikers all contribute to success, and individual recognition should reflect that. Nor should the growing commercial appeal of the Ballon d’Or distract from the footballing achievements it was created to honour.

The Ballon d’Or should be a celebration of individual excellence across all positions and all continents, not an award dominated by football’s biggest stars and Europe’s leading competitions. Only then can it truly claim to recognise the best footballer in the world.

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

For the majority of Israelis, the general election on October 27 is a choice between Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and the forces that oppose him, led by former general Gadi Eisenkot. But for the Palestinian citizens of Israel, who make up 20 percent of the population, the upcoming polls present a different dilemma.

As the political mainstream in Israel continues to shift to the far right, Palestinian citizens face growing threats to their political and collective rights. Palestinian communities in Israel experience increased violence, while settlers are encroaching on their boundaries. The recent push to expand policing and militarisation of civilian life is another source of growing anxiety within the Palestinian population.

In this context, the anti-Netanyahu bloc does not seem to offer the prospect of policy reversal or change. Therefore, the question on many Palestinian minds is whether voting in the Israeli elections can make any difference at all.

Recolonisation of 1948 Palestine

Since the Nakba of 1948, the Palestinians who managed to remain in their homes in what was declared as territory of the new State of Israel have had a different fate than the Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza. In 1952, they were granted Israeli citizenship, and in 1966, the martial law under which they were forced to live was lifted.

Although Palestinian citizens of Israel have the right to vote and participate in politics, citizenship has not shielded them from the broader system of dispossession and attempts to reshape their Palestinian identity and national belonging.

Through land confiscation and the regulation of education and culture, the Israeli state has sought to detach Palestinians from their historical roots and collective past, promoting instead a model of the “Arab Israeli” as a citizen whose identity is separate from its Palestinian and Arab national context.

Formal citizenship has not secured substantive equality for Palestinians as they face discriminatory laws, systemic underfunding of basic services, and political and socioeconomic marginalisation.

Instead of engaging in direct violence towards Palestinian citizens – as it has done in the West Bank and Gaza – the Israeli state has instead “outsourced” brutality to criminal networks.

As a result, Palestinian communities have faced killings, shootings, bombings and arson while Israeli law enforcement has largely ignored the problem. More recently, this problem has escalated, as organised crime groups obtained advanced weapons reportedly stolen from Israeli army stockpiles or smuggled across borders. This growing militarisation of organised crime has claimed hundreds of lives.

In parallel, Israeli settlements next to Palestinian communities have expanded, accompanied by accelerated seizure of land. This process of “recolonisation” began in mixed cities, such as Jaffa and Lydd, where religious-nationalist settler groups started establishing themselves in Palestinian neighbourhoods in 2021.

Since October 2023, this process has accelerated. In August, Israel’s Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich unveiled his party’s plan to “Judaise” the Naqab and northern Israel. He proposes to add one million Jewish residents to the two regions, establishing 40 new settlements and dozens of farms, expanding existing settlements, and creating hundreds of thousands of new housing units.

The idea is to extend the model of territorial control from the occupied West Bank into the Naqab and northern Israel, where Palestinian communities are concentrated.

There are also indications that the policing of Palestinian towns and villages could increasingly fall under the National Guard, established under National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir.

The idea of creating the force was prompted by the May 2021 protests, known as the Dignity Uprising, which spread across Palestinian communities in Lydd, Haifa, Umm al-Fahm, and dozens of other towns and villages.

Ben-Gvir has advocated expanding the state’s capacity to suppress such unrest. Although the National Guard’s precise role and operational framework remain under development, its potential deployment against mass protests raises serious concerns about the right to protest and the protection of democratic freedoms.

The government has strengthened settler security squads and integrated them into a broader security framework, raising concerns about the growing role of armed civilian groups in enforcing control over Palestinian communities.

At the same time, Ben-Gvir has widened access to personal firearms, issuing 300,000 gun licences since taking office.

Together, these measures normalise civilian policing and deepen the militarisation of everyday life, reinforcing the unequal distribution of coercive power in a society structured on the dispossession and subordination of Palestinians.

The Palestinian response

Parties seeking to represent Palestinian citizens of Israel, such as the United Arab List (Ra’am), led by Mansour Abbas, have long argued that parliamentary participation and support for the anti-Netanyahu camp can help remove the far right from power and halt its settler-colonial agenda. But the party’s own track record proves this premise wrong.

Ra’am joined the coalition government formed after the elections in 2021, which excluded Netanyahu, but it failed to bring about fundamental changes in the conditions of Palestinian citizens. The coalition was fragile and often rocked by deep ideological contradictions.

In 2022, Mazen Ghnaim, a member of Ra’am, publicly acknowledged that he could not push through policies that would benefit the Palestinian population, despite his party being part of the ruling coalition and despite promises being made that such policies would be accepted. He also lamented the heavy criticism he faced whenever he was visiting Palestinian communities.

Ra’am’s experience in that coalition illustrated the challenge of sustaining Palestinian political participation in a government whose other constituent parties uphold exclusionary nationalist policies.

The problem, therefore, extends beyond Netanyahu himself: Palestinian support for the anti-Netanyahu camp cannot translate into meaningful policies that challenge the broader structures of discrimination and dispossession Palestinian citizens of Israel face.

Voting may offer a way to slow down this project, but it cannot reverse the deeper transformation taking place within Israeli society. The cultural shift towards fascism extends beyond the government and its political leadership, becoming increasingly embedded in social attitudes and everyday life.

That said, I believe another four years of far-right rule would pose an immediate threat to Palestinian communities and their rights. Therefore, I will vote in Tuesday’s election.

But Palestinians need to recognise that electoral participation must be accompanied by a more radical political response capable of confronting the structures and ideologies driving this transformation. This requires, among other things, reforming the High Follow-Up Committee for Arab Citizens of Israel and rooting it more firmly in Palestinian society through popular committees and grassroots organising.

It also demands a broader commitment to democratisation and de-Zionisation across historic Palestine, as part of a larger political project aimed at building a different future through alternative institutions, mechanisms, and forms of collective action.

Whatever the Israeli state might claim, the fate of the Palestinian citizens of Israel is tied to the fate of the rest of the Palestinian population. That is a realisation that Palestinian political leaders must finally embrace.

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

Eastern Libya spent nearly seven years denouncing the maritime memorandum Turkiye struck with its rivals based in Tripoli. Last week, it needed a single sitting of the legislature to embrace it.

On October 20, the House of Representatives (HoR) in Benghazi ratified the deal. The European Union condemned the vote, as did Greece, Israel and Egypt.

Yet the ratification was less a Turkish triumph than the final act of a sequence choreographed by Saddam Haftar, the son of Khalifa Haftar, the military commander who controls eastern Libya. The ultimate goal is the Libyan presidency.

The United States is currently trying to broker a power-sharing arrangement between Tripoli and Benghazi. Championed by Massad Boulos, US President Donald Trump’s senior adviser for Arab and African affairs, the deal could install Saddam as Libya’s president.

For that to happen, however, he needs the backing of Ankara, whose sway over western Libya gives it a decisive voice in any such settlement. The ratification of the maritime deal, therefore, is meant to secure Turkiye’s blessing.

The opening move in Saddam’s pursuit of the presidency was a palace coup: a fortnight before the vote, the HoR unseated its speaker, Aguila Saleh, who had spent 12 years in this position. It thus removed both Cairo’s principal ally in the east and the most stubborn obstacle to the memorandum’s ratification.

Yet Saleh’s ouster was never only about Egypt, and the same stone felled a second bird. As speaker and nominal supreme commander, he embodied the de jure authority from which Khalifa’s own command flows, and with a weighty tribal constituency among the Obeidat tribe, he was one of the few men capable of complicating, or even arbitrating, any transfer of power. Removing him cleared Saddam’s path to a handover already quietly under way, which the elder Haftar’s advanced age could hasten at any moment.

Saleh’s successor, Al-Salhin Abdulnabi, a fellow Obeidi, who chaired the HoR’s Libyan-Turkish friendship committee, is able to defuse the risk of tribal backlash while signalling where the chamber now takes its cues.

Whether the gambit pays off will be decided in Washington. Saddam is counting on the Trump administration’s appetite for a Libyan deal, sharpened by Turkish and Emirati lobbying and by Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s rapport with Trump.

He hopes it can prevail over the objections of Athens and Nicosia and the displeasure of Israel, which is uneasy about Ankara’s reach. This is directly pitting Trump’s transactional instinct against a longstanding US partnership with the Greek-Cypriot-Israeli axis.

The broadside against Israel may even pay a domestic dividend, allowing Saddam to pose as standing up to Israel while dispelling perceptions of a covert channel to it.

Europe, meanwhile, has sidelined itself into near-irrelevance: when Benghazi expelled the EU’s migration commissioner and three member-state ministers on arrival in July 2025, European capitals responded with something closer to grovelling than resolve.

Less than a year later, Athens was hosting Saddam, who duly sidestepped any commitment on an alternative maritime memorandum.

That deference flows from the EU’s navel-gazing fixation on migration that has reduced its Libya policy to counting the boats leaving Libya’s eastern coast for Crete. A Union that implores Saddam to police the very waters now in dispute is in no position to make him pay for redrawing them.

Abu Dhabi, for its part, has every reason to look the other way because it wants Saddam to succeed. None of Khalifa’s sons has been more faithful to the Emiratis, and seeing their most loyal client installed at the apex of the Libyan state would cap a decade of investment in the Haftar project. Whatever their past flirtation with Greece and Cyprus, a maritime line drawn in Ankara’s favour is a modest price for that outcome, though the closeness of that embrace may yet constrain him.

Egypt remains the real question mark: Cairo’s statement objected chiefly to the memorandum’s encroachment on Egypt’s exclusive economic zone and was framed almost entirely in legal terms, a sign perhaps that it is keeping its political options open.

Its relationship with Ankara has been transformed, with the two now aligned on Sudan and the Red Sea. A shared wariness of Israel’s expansionist ambitions has only drawn them closer.

Offering commercial deals could go some way towards softening Egyptian opposition. But Cairo could also lean on its rapport with Ankara to champion an alternative Haftar heir. It would not have to look far for a candidate: Saddam’s brother Khaled, the Libyan Arab Armed Forces’ chief of staff, is considerably closer to Cairo and publicly criticised the US initiative in April.

Should that happen, Saddam would have little left to bargain with, having cashed in his most valuable chip with the Turks, and the strongest card he still holds is one Abu Dhabi would never let him play.

Cutting off support for Sudan’s Rapid Support Forces would win favour in Ankara and Cairo alike, both backers of the Sudanese army, but that would jeopardise the one relationship he cannot afford to lose.

Squeezed between a patron in Abu Dhabi he dare not cross and a partner in Ankara that has already pocketed its reward, Saddam is betting that he can keep both on side long enough for Washington to see the deal through. That he is prepared to run such risks may say as much about desperation as acumen, for the alternative to an institutionalised succession is one contested, perhaps violently, by his siblings or by the constituencies left out of the new order.

History, in Libya, has a mordant sense of humour. The maritime memorandum was the price Tripoli paid for the Turkish intervention that helped halt Khalifa Haftar’s offensive at the gates of the capital and sent his forces and mercenaries into headlong retreat in 2020. Where the father tried and failed to storm Tripoli, the son now hopes to be ushered in on a red carpet woven from the very document that sealed his father’s defeat.

Should he succeed, the instrument of the Haftars’ most humiliating setback will have become the cornerstone of their dynasty. Should Washington baulk, it may instead become the epitaph of the son’s ambitions.

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

At 80, President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva has pulled off an extraordinary political victory. After losing the first round to Flavio Bolsonaro, son of former President Jair Bolsonaro, by 47 percent to 45 percent, Lula defied the odds to secure a stunning second-round victory, with 51.8 percent of the vote against Bolsonaro’s 48.2 percent.

His triumph confounded every pre-election poll and crowned a dramatic campaign revival that few had anticipated.

Lula’s victory in Latin America’s largest country does more than halt the far right’s return to power in Brazil. It breaks a succession of right-wing electoral victories across the region and deals a major blow to United States President Donald Trump’s increasingly interventionist agenda in the Western Hemisphere.

When Bolsonaro unexpectedly defeated Lula in the first round, the result sent shockwaves across Brazil and beyond. For the government, the defeat was particularly startling given its strong socioeconomic record. What followed was an extraordinary three-week political mobilisation that transformed the sluggish first-round campaign of Lula’s Workers’ Party into an existential confrontation over the future of democracy and sovereignty in Brazil.

The economic record was hardly that of a government heading for defeat. Brazil’s economy grew by a cumulative 9.2 percent between 2023 and 2025, compared with an average of just 5.6 percent among its South American neighbours. Unemployment fell from 9.3 percent in 2022 to a historic low of 5.4 percent in 2026.

Brazil also exited the United Nations Hunger Map in 2025, after having returned to it under the Bolsonaro senior administration. In the Amazon, deforestation fell to its lowest level in decades, a sharp reversal of the trend under his predecessor.

Not everything has been rosy under the Lula administration. Millions of Brazilians have remained trapped in credit-card debt, struggling with extremely high interest rates, while an explosion of online gambling has devastated the livelihoods of families. The run-off result sent a clear signal that there was social discontent.

Lula responded with unusually bold measures: a sweeping debt-relief initiative and restrictions on online betting, as well as expanded social benefits, fuel subsidies, and the transition from a six-day to a five-day working week. These policies sought to reconnect the government’s macroeconomic achievements with the everyday economic anxieties of Brazilian voters.

Bolsonaro offered a radically different vision for Brazil: sweeping spending cuts, privatisations, lower taxes and, above all, an iron-fisted response to crime and insecurity. His proposals included building five maximum-security prisons modelled on El Salvador’s notorious penitentiary system and authorising lethal force against heavily armed criminals.

Bolsonaro also pledged to pardon his father, sentenced to 27 years for plotting to overturn the 2022 election, and to grant clemency to those convicted over the January 8, 2023 assault on Brazil’s democratic institutions. For his supporters, this represented an opportunity to reverse what they considered judicial persecution. For his opponents, it threatened to rehabilitate the attempted coup and undermine judicial independence.

Lula’s campaign came back re-energised, with many young Brazilians mobilising at the grassroots level. The campaign was able to overcome even algorithmic bias by social media giants like Meta, which favoured Bolsonaro.

Ultimately, the election became a battle not only over Brazil’s democracy but also its sovereignty. Trump’s administration has intervened conspicuously in Brazilian politics throughout Lula’s term, imposing punitive tariffs, sanctioning a Supreme Court justice involved in Jair Bolsonaro’s prosecution and openly embracing his son’s candidacy.

In May, Trump received Flavio Bolsonaro in the Oval Office. Two days later, Secretary of State Marco Rubio designated Brazil’s two largest crime organisations as foreign terrorist organisations, a measure Flavio had publicly requested.

These designations carry implications extending far beyond electoral politics. They potentially open the door to US military operations on Brazilian territory under Washington’s expanding war on so-called “narcoterrorism”. The world saw how one such foreign terrorist designation enabled the US to intervene militarily in Venezuela and abduct its sitting president.

Whereas Trump seeks to draw Latin America’s largest country into Washington’s expanding system of hemispheric military dominance, Lula has defended Brazil’s strategic autonomy, insisting that cooperation against organised crime must respect national sovereignty.

He framed the election as a choice between a sovereign Brazil charting its own course and one subordinated to Washington’s geopolitical agenda. Sunday’s election result shows that the Brazilian people have made their choice.

Importantly, Lula’s victory may mark a turning point in Latin America’s rightward shift. Since Trump’s return to the White House, the right has scored a string of electoral victories in Honduras, Chile, and Bolivia, among others. But Lula’s re-election suggests that its momentum may be faltering.

The result comes just ahead of the US midterms and could deliver a significant setback to the strength of Trump’s leadership in the Americas. In Argentina, President Javier Milei — who regularly attacks Lula and threw all his weight behind Bolsonaro — has been sliding in the polls ahead of next year’s presidential election. In Chile, President Jose Antonio Kast has suffered an even more precipitous collapse in public support.

Mexico’s Claudia Sheinbaum, for her part, has likely breathed a sigh of relief. A Lula defeat would have left her increasingly isolated in a region gravitating towards Mexico’s northern neighbour. Instead, Latin America’s two most populous countries and largest economies will remain firmly on the left for the foreseeable future.

It is too early to declare the region’s rightward turn over. But Lula’s victory raises the possibility that the wave has already crested. Brazil will not be joining Trump’s Shield of the Americas, and while the “Donroe Doctrine” remains a threat, its moment of greatest ascendancy may already be behind it.

Lula’s victory is a vindication of a lifetime spent fighting for society’s most marginalised and disenfranchised. And its significance extends far beyond Brazil’s borders. For defenders of democracy, multilateralism, international law, environmental protection and the sovereignty of the Global South, it sends a powerful message: the far right’s advance is neither inevitable nor irreversible. Not in Brazil. Not anywhere.

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

Images from the violent unrest in France have travelled around the world. Smashed shop windows, destroyed property, acts of looting and raging fires have rightly caused outrage and condemnation.

There is no single explanation of the motives of the perpetrators. There are certainly opportunistic “criminal elements” who take advantage of such situations. But there is also a lot of public anger that has boiled over after it had simmered for years as living conditions have deteriorated and demands for changes have been left unanswered.

The French government has taken full advantage of these violent acts, using them to justify the overly securitised response to the protests and to avoid public scrutiny for the failure to address its own failures. The images of chaos allow those in power to pose as the defenders of a public order they have actively helped undermine.

These acts of violence, however, cannot delegitimise the reasons behind the mass mobilisation of students across France. They also must not distract from the brutal police violence that has unfolded.

Fourteen-year-old Eden suffered a fractured jaw and had teeth knocked out by a tear gas grenade fired from a police launcher. Sixteen-year-old Mael lost the sight in one eye after a suspected hit from a police rubber bullet. Fifteen-year-old Evan had a hand blown off by a police stun grenade.

By October 14, 7,950 people had been placed in police custody since the protests began in September, 85 percent of them minors. A further 2,700 were taken into custody following the October 17 protests. Yesterday, police made another 1,000 arrests.

The staggering scale of detention and the mobilisation of tens of thousands of police officers make this one of the most heavily repressed protest movements of this century.

But there is also the quieter violence of social deprivation that the students are protesting and that has largely been ignored in the public narrative.

Across France, the sense of growing impoverishment deepens year after year. Poverty rates are the highest they have been since the 1990s, with 9.8 million people living under the official poverty line. Meanwhile, 53 French billionaires own as much wealth as nearly half of the French population, according to Oxfam.

Deteriorating socioeconomic conditions have hit the French educational system hard.

In Acoua, on the island of Mayotte, the Cite du Nord secondary school was blockaded as early as August 31. Long before protests in the Paris region attracted attention, parents and staff came out in protest to demand better learning and teaching conditions.

Built for 900 pupils, this school accommodates 2,300 in cramped, poorly ventilated classrooms. Alongside staff shortages, the school also struggles with water supply failures and unsanitary conditions in toilets.

In Sevran, a suburb of Paris, pupils and teachers at Blaise-Cendrars secondary school have complained since 2024 about water leaks, mould, unusable toilets, and shortages of tables and chairs.

At Marcelin-Berthelot secondary school in Pantin, another Parisian suburb, windows no longer open at a time when heatwaves can bring temperatures as high as 40C.

At Politzer secondary school in Bagnolet, also a Parisian suburb, staff, pupils and parents learnt in late September that the water was unsafe to drink, although it had been tested in June.

These are just a few examples of a countrywide trend of an educational infrastructure that is fast deteriorating, especially in impoverished areas.

This is compounded by the erosion of the level of education pupils actually receive. According to the education ministry’s own figures, 20.2 million teaching hours were not delivered in state secondary schools in 2024–25, excluding Mayotte: almost one in 10 scheduled hours. Of these, 15 million were lost because absent teachers were not replaced.

According to French economist Lucas Chancel, since 2017, when Emmanuel Macron came to power, government spending per student has declined by 20 percent.

This is the structural violence French students are asking those in power to end. Instead of listening, the government has responded with repressive tactics and narrative spin.

In his address to the public, Macron said he understood the students, but he did not express support for them the way he did for police officers. A meeting with 20 students on Friday resulted in a promise to reform the university entrance platform – not to address the students’ key demands.

Macron has doubled down on the security “solution”, deploying 70,000 police officers and pledging to ban protests. He has accused the “far left” of seeking to “bring down the republic”.

Meanwhile, Prime Minister Sebastien Lecornu has called on the left to “choose a side”: the Republic equated with the police, or the rioters and their “violent agenda”. As if taking part in a protest amounted to an attack on the state.

Unsurprisingly, the far right is revelling in the chaos that appears to be engulfing the country, obscuring these needs by focusing on the presumed origins of people filmed committing acts of violence. Some far-right politicians have denounced the “hordes of thugs of foreign origin”, others have called for broader powers to strip people of their citizenship.

This rhetoric serves Macron’s political camp well as it allows it to present itself once again as the last defence against the far right, asking the general population to rally behind out of fear rather than because of its governance record. Voters are offered an increasingly bleak choice between those who have fuelled their anger and those seeking to turn it into racial hatred.

At this point, it is clear the government does not seem interested in genuinely addressing the demands of the students is in the cards. Doing so would mean confronting the priorities of Macron’s presidency: protecting the wealth of the few and abandoning the many.

Instead, the government will wait for the movement to exhaust itself, be weakened by fear or be discredited by unrest, until it dies out on its own.

This strategy, however, is a failed one. Even if this protest movement fizzles out, a new one will soon replace it. The French people cannot be scared into complacency forever while their living conditions continue to deteriorate.

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

For the past four-and-a-half years, the war on Europe’s doorstep has haunted policymakers. Yet they have treated it as a looming threat rather than one already eroding the very foundations on which Europe stands.

Russia’s war has devastated much of Ukraine’s south and east, even as the front lines have shifted only slowly. For Europe, however, the challenge has never been confined to the battlefield. Supporting Ukraine and constraining Russia have tested the continent’s economic resources and political unity. Now, as United States President Donald Trump seeks to force a disadvantageous settlement on Kyiv and repeatedly threatens to withdraw US support, Europe faces the prospect of shouldering even more of that burden alone.

Even if the latest crisis is averted, Europe can no longer assume that Washington will guarantee its security. It must develop the financial capacity to sustain Ukraine’s defence, the industrial strength to defend itself and the economic leverage to constrain Moscow. To meet these challenges, Europe must build a war economy.

The past four years offer lessons in how Europe can finance such an effort, but also warnings about the divisions that could undermine it. The European Union has already been at the forefront of Ukraine’s recent financing, moving from an 18.1-billion-euro ($21bn) share of the G7’s $50bn Extraordinary Revenue Acceleration (ERA) loans in 2024 to finalising a new 90-billion-euro ($100bn) loan this April, one that came without US commitment. Yet internal divisions remain over numerous issues, particularly as they pertain to constraining Russia. This month, the EU adopted its largest-ever round of sanctions listings. But while the measures added a record number of designations, they did little to broaden the scope of restricted activity and did not accelerate the phase-out of Russian energy imports, with pipeline gas imports still permitted until autumn 2027. European leaders have also expressed concern over Trump’s decision to waive new Russia-related sanctions as he seeks to grapple with the costs his foreign policy has wrought.

However, the US-Israel war on Iran has, if anything, shown that Europe’s measures against Russian hydrocarbons could have gone further. Before February, some 20 million barrels per day (bpd) of crude and oil products and roughly 110 billion cubic metres (bcm) a year of liquefied natural gas (LNG) passed through the Strait of Hormuz. By comparison, Russia exported about 6.5 million bpd of oil and products in September, and some 43bcm of LNG last year – about a third of Hormuz’s oil and two-fifths of its LNG. As the crisis continues and Trump seeks additional Russian supplies, Europe must complement its efforts to constrain Moscow with greater investment in its own security.

The first and most important step is to establish a standing framework for joint EU borrowing – not only to finance Ukraine’s continued defence, but also to fund the defence industry Europe will need to sustain its own defence and, if necessary, prevail against future threats from Russia. Crisis begets innovation, as demonstrated during the COVID-19 pandemic, when EU member states pushed past their long-held aversion to mutualised borrowing, creating the 750-billion-euro NextGenerationEU recovery fund in 2020. The EU’s contribution to the ERA loans and this year’s 90-billion-euro facility, both financed by common EU borrowing, extended that logic to wartime finance. But these remain crisis-by-crisis improvisations. Deepening fiscal and capital markets union and building a genuine fiscal-military state would provide the foundations of Europe’s power and its ability to deter and win wars.

The same logic plays out in the US today, where deep capital markets have given companies such as SpaceX, which invested heavily for years before seeing returns, the space to develop technologies such as its Starlink network that have reshaped modern warfare. The importance of this technology is now keenly felt on Ukraine’s battlefields, where Kyiv’s communications have rested on a network subject to the whims of one man, SpaceX CEO Elon Musk. Europe therefore needs the fiscal capacity to fund its own technological development and procurement.

There are understandable jitters about the existing indebtedness of European states such as France and the United Kingdom. However, Russia’s frozen sovereign assets offer a potential way to support further borrowing. Divisions remain over using these assets, with Belgium, which hosts the lion’s share at Euroclear, opposing such a move over fears of Russian legal action and damage to its position in the global financial system. The bloc must come together to share that risk, which is overblown in any case. Not all EU fiscal support needs to come in the form of direct joint debt either. Greatly expanding the EU capital markets union and creating tax-advantaged structures across the region for defence firms and technological innovators may prove even more effective.

Beyond the assets themselves, Europe must also take greater control over its continued economic linkages with Russia. That means intervening far more actively in cases such as that of Austria’s Raiffeisen Bank. In 2025, following a Russian court ruling, more than 2.1 billion euros were taken from Raiffeisen’s Russian subsidiary to compensate Rasperia, a company tied to the sanctioned oligarch Oleg Deripaska. A Vienna court’s ruling last month now paves the way for Raiffeisen to seek compensation from Rasperia’s frozen assets in the EU – using the same sanctions derogation through which Euroclear released some $3bn in 2025. It is precisely this kind of legalised dealing with Moscow that keeps threats like those levelled at Belgium credible: if the Kremlin can seize European assets and prompt the release of Russian-linked assets frozen in the EU, every expropriation becomes a bargaining chip.

Furthermore, the UK and the EU have increasingly made use of measures against circumvention that share some features with US secondary sanctions. Europe should now be more assertive in making it clear that firms helping Russia evade its sanctions risk losing access to European financial systems and markets. US firms will choose Europe over the Kremlin, even if Trump waives more sanctions.

Finally, Europe should seek to reduce US influence over its foreign and security relationships. Speaking in Qatar this week, US Ambassador to Turkiye Tom Barrack said Washington was moving away from its decades-old bargain of security for Gulf oil. Europe may not be able to offer the same level of security, but it can offer a mutually beneficial partnership that addresses both sides’ concerns. And it is Europe that is now stepping up in the Gulf, with the UK and France deploying jets, air defences and refuelling support to help Saudi Arabia against Houthi attacks. Unlike Washington, Europe can promise a deeper partnership in the future and serve as a reliable buyer of Gulf oil and gas exports in exchange for Gulf states doing more to address Europe’s security concerns about Russia through enhanced sanctions compliance and, first and foremost, ending the Kremlin’s role in OPEC plus.

Europe has the means to finance its own security. It must now find the will to borrow for it.

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

This autumn, the Supreme Court will consider a question with potentially far-reaching consequences for civil rights in the United States: Who gets to enforce them? On November 30, the justices will hear a case over whether employees of federally funded universities can sue under Title IX over alleged workplace sex discrimination. The Trump administration has urged the court to rule that they cannot, arguing that Congress never gave university employees a private right to bring such claims.

The dispute is the latest front in a broader legal push to restrict the ability of individuals and advocacy groups to take rights violations to court themselves. In June, the Supreme Court declined to hear a challenge to a federal appeals court ruling that barred Arkansas United, an immigrant advocacy organisation, from suing to enforce protections for voters who need assistance at the polls. Across a growing number of cases, Republican-led states and the Trump administration are advancing the same basic principle: Unless Congress has clearly authorised private citizens to sue, enforcement should largely be left to the government.

That may sound like an arcane legal argument, but its implications are anything but. If individuals and civil rights groups cannot go to court when laws protecting them are violated, the power to decide which rights are actually enforced increasingly rests with the very government that may be violating, ignoring or choosing not to enforce them.

A private right of action allows individuals, or groups acting on their behalf, to file lawsuits to enforce rights protected by law. These lawsuits can seek compliance with the law or compensation for past violations. Private rights of action are not automatic under US federal and state law. Congress and state legislatures sometimes explicitly authorise private lawsuits. Where they have not, courts have had to determine whether a law implicitly allows individuals or groups to sue, or whether enforcement rests solely with government authorities.

In practice, private litigation has been an essential part of enforcing rights throughout much of US history. As University of Virginia School of Law Professor George Rutherglen writes in a 2015 law review article (PDF):

“The long history of civil rights, dating back to Reconstruction, makes them quintessentially private rights, whose exercise and enforcement should depend primarily on the initiative of the individuals who bear those rights. Public enforcement no doubt remains necessary, and it has an equally long and distinguished pedigree in civil rights law, but it cannot entirely displace individual control over individual rights.”

Proponents of private rights of action, such as AARP, consider them an effective tool for vulnerable individuals and groups to protect their rights when government agencies are unwilling or unable to act. Critics, such as the US Chamber of Commerce Institute for Legal Reform, however, argue that private lawsuits can encourage frivolous litigation.

These critics, often from the political right, have attempted to restrict private litigation through legal arguments against private causes of action. An example is the 2001 Alexander v Sandoval decision, in which a Supreme Court majority led by Justice Antonin Scalia ruled that Title VI did not provide a private right of action to enforce regulations prohibiting policies or practices with a disparate impact on protected groups – discrimination that can occur without clear evidence of intent.

The legal push against private rights of action has intensified in recent years. Republican-led states have increasingly challenged the doctrine of implied private rights of action, arguing that courts should reject private suits to enforce various types of rights. The Trump administration has also adopted this stance. When the court decided a 2021 voting rights case, Justice Neil Gorsuch submitted a one-paragraph concurrence, joined by Justice Clarence Thomas, questioning whether “the Voting Rights Act of 1965 furnishes an implied cause of action,” despite that issue not being raised in the case itself.

The conservative push to restrict private rights of action has extended to a variety of areas. In June, the Supreme Court ruled against Falun Gong practitioners who accused Cisco Systems of helping the Chinese government develop surveillance technology used to facilitate their persecution, concluding that they could not pursue those aiding-and-abetting claims under the federal laws they had invoked.

One of the most consequential implications of restricting private rights of action is the threat to voting rights. In the Arkansas United case, the Eighth Circuit ruled that the immigrant advocacy organisation did not have the right to sue on behalf of non-native English speakers over the right to have language assistance in the voting booth. The ruling concerned Section 208 of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. But it extended a much broader argument already adopted by the Eighth Circuit: that private individuals and advocacy organisations cannot sue to enforce key provisions of the Voting Rights Act. The Supreme Court’s refusal in June to hear Arkansas United left that ruling in place.

This argument has also been pushed by Republican-led governments in two redistricting and vote-dilution cases: Board of Election Commissioners v NAACP in Mississippi and Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians v Howe in North Dakota. In May, the Supreme Court vacated judgments in both cases and sent them back for reconsideration in light of its ruling in Louisiana v Callais, without resolving the private-enforcement question. That decision sharply raised the bar for some racial vote-dilution claims, endangering the voting power of Black, Hispanic and Native American communities across the US. At the same time, conservative-controlled governments are attempting to deny members and advocates for these communities the right to even bring some of these cases before the courts, arguing that only the Department of Justice can initiate action over such voting rights violations.

The broader danger is that, as private rights of action are curtailed, enforcement of federal law increasingly depends on decisions made by the executive branch.

The Trump administration is now pursuing a different means of restricting private enforcement. The Clean Air Act explicitly gives private citizens the right to bring certain lawsuits, yet the Justice Department has sought to intervene and dismiss a case brought against xAI over allegations that gas turbines at its power facility in Southaven, Mississippi, are violating federal environmental law and polluting surrounding communities. The facility powers xAI’s Colossus 2 data centre in nearby Memphis. In September, the Justice Department appealed to the Fifth Circuit and sought to halt the case. The department has argued that allowing the suit to proceed would threaten national security and the US pursuit of global leadership in AI. Here, the issue is not whether Congress created a private right to sue – it did – but whether the executive branch can nevertheless step in to stop such a case when it conflicts with its priorities.

Relying solely on the Justice Department to pursue such cases at the federal level is a particularly dubious proposition under the current administration. The department has also been weaponised to target political foes of President Trump. Its Civil Rights Division has been steered away from defending the rights of racial and ethnic minorities and refocused on cases brought by white plaintiffs alleging so-called “reverse discrimination”.

The Justice Department’s current politicisation may be reversed under a future administration. But even then, the erosion of private rights of action would leave the enforcement of civil and political rights increasingly dependent on a federal agency with limited resources and subject to political direction. For example, as Democracy Docket noted in 2024, of the 216 active voting rights and redistricting cases it was tracking at the time, only five were cases brought by the Justice Department. As Professor Rutherglen noted in his article, to rely primarily on government actors to enforce rights “is to transform the nature of those rights: from private to public, from individuals to groups, from legal control by plaintiffs to political control by administrators.”

Private rights of action are now being eroded, case by case. Politicians, civil liberties advocates and organisations must challenge this trend before more avenues for enforcement are closed off. Otherwise, protections won over decades may become increasingly dependent on the willingness of government authorities to uphold them, leaving those whose rights are violated with fewer ways to seek redress.

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

On October 16, King Mohammed VI of Morocco appointed a new government headed by Prime Minister Fatima Zohra Al Mansouri. This is the first time in Moroccan history that a woman is leading the government – a precedent that was covered widely in international media.

In the Moroccan context, however, what is important is that Al Mansouri hails from the Authenticity and Modernity Party (PAM), which won the most seats in parliamentary elections in September. The party was founded by Ali Himma, a close associate and adviser to the king.

PAM, which has formed a coalition with three other parties, dominates the new government. This signals continuity rather than potential for change.

A party aligned with the monarchy

When thinking about what trajectory the new government is likely to take, it is important to consider PAM’s evolution.

The party was established in 2008 with the aim of countering the rise of political Islam in Morocco and in particular, the Justice and Development Party (PJD). The Arab Spring, which saw mass protests across the country, brought changes to the Moroccan political scene, allowing more space for political forces like the PJD and, to an extent, curbing the influence of the establishment, known as the Makhzen.

In 2011, Himma distanced himself from PAM and became an adviser to the king. Yet, the party continued to be perceived by other political groups as tied to the Makhzen.

For years, PAM carried the stigma of its origins, but it persisted in trying to gain acceptance. In the 2016 elections, it challenged the PJD and secured the second-biggest number of votes, thus establishing itself as a legitimate political force. Yet this was still not enough to enable it to lead the government.

The party subsequently reinvented itself by rejuvenating its ranks and gaining experience in public affairs through its participation in the 2021 government as a coalition partner. In the latest elections, PAM finally won.

This election victory, however, needs to be put into perspective: 62 percent of eligible voters stayed away from the polls. On election day, the authorities had to call on people to go out and vote.

Apart from the low turnout, there were suspicions of irregularities, but because in some cases the official election records were not released, observers and political parties were unable to obtain tangible evidence.

There was also the familiar phenomenon of influential figures being brought into political parties at the last minute to boost electoral prospects. For example, just two months before the election, Faouzi Laaqjea, president of the Royal Moroccan Football Federation, whose popularity stems from the achievements of Moroccan football, officially joined PAM.

To secure a majority in parliament, the party has had to form a coalition with forces which had previously questioned its legitimacy. While PAM has gained legitimacy through this alliance, the other parties and their leaders may now lose credibility.

The newly formed government has retained more than half the members of its predecessor, not to mention the so-called sovereign ministries, which fall directly within the king’s reserved powers. Some Moroccans are already asking what was the point of holding elections if the same people are brought back to govern.

Challenges ahead

The new government has an ambitious programme to respond to growing domestic pressure as the cost-of-living crisis deepens. At the first Council of Ministers meeting chaired by the king on October 17 , a 2027 Finance Bill was put forward that featured greater emphasis on addressing social issues, citizens’ purchasing power and youth inclusion.

However, this agenda is facing an unfavourable international economic and financial environment, marked by rising energy prices and increasing costs of inputs for some of Morocco’s leading sectors, including phosphate production.

The state-owned OCP Group, which is in charge of phosphate extraction and the industrial processing of phosphate derivatives and is one of Morocco’s principal sources of wealth, is now experiencing difficult times.

There are also concerns about the potential effects of El Nino, which could bring more dry weather and threaten food security in a country that just endured seven consecutive years of drought.

Tourism, another major source of revenue, could also suffer from the global slowdown in travel, rising transport costs and the uncertainties arising from tensions in the Gulf and Europe.

The circumstances are therefore far from favourable for the new government, and public opinion appears broadly sceptical.

Last but not least, this government will face an experienced and outspoken opposition, represented by both the Islamist PJD and the radical left.

Even the ministers holding the so-called sovereign portfolios face serious challenges. The foreign minister must contend with public opposition to the normalisation of relations with Israel. The interior minister has to tackle allegations of electoral manipulation.

The minister of religious affairs is facing the fallout of controversial statements concerning Morocco as a secular country and remarks about Ceuta, known in Morocco as Sebta, made during a religious ceremony. These comments were poorly received by the Spanish authorities.

The new government has an ambitious agenda, indeed, but its tenure will be shaped by difficult circumstances – both at home and abroad – that are largely out of its control.

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

Cuba is once again in the United States’s crosshairs. Washington’s operation in Venezuela at the start of the year is largely seen to have paved the way for a similar undertaking on the Caribbean island. Recent media reports have revealed US military activity nearby while US officials have repeatedly said they want “Cuba to be free”.

When and how the US may strike is still unclear. But indications are that the Cuban Revolution may be nearing its end. That is reason enough to pause and reflect on the outsized role this nation of 10 million has played on the world stage.

When thinking of the Cuban presence on the global geopolitical scene, the figure of Eshu, the most powerful spirit in Cuban Santeria comes to mind. Derived from the beliefs of the Yoruba people, Eshu is a divine messenger, the guardian of the crossroads and mediator between the past and the future.

In stories, Eshu is often portrayed as a mischievous elder, one whose antics are used to teach humility and morality. As a character, Eshu is a classic trickster, an archetype commonplace to many traditions that functions to challenge established norms, subvert power structures and reveal hidden truths.

It’s hard to imagine a more apt analogy for Cuba than Eshu, the trickster, foil to US hegemony. At its best, trickster Cuba forced an open debate on what kind of world we might aspire to and held the empire to account, at times even pushing the US towards its better angels, however begrudgingly. At its worst, it held up an uncomfortable mirror to US power.

It is a potent formula, one struck upon from the very earliest days of the revolution. In September 1960, just a year after taking Havana, Cuban leader Fidel Castro found himself visiting New York to address the United Nations General Assembly. Wary of his anti-imperialist rhetoric, a Cold War-obsessed US government put pressure on several prominent hotels to refuse service to Castro and his entourage. But the Cubans were not to be deterred. Instead, they went uptown to Harlem and found a place at the Hotel Theresa.

Photographers and TV camera people flocked there. A media sensation ensued. And Castro used the opportunity to draw comparisons between the plight of the Cuban delegation and that of Black Americans being refused service in the segregated South.

This landed like a bomb in the middle of the burgeoning civil rights movement. It was an awkward contrast, not just because of the optics but because of the location, not in the heart of Jim Crow, but in a liberal northern city, New York, the cradle of American civilisation. This was the first, but not the last time that Cuba, the trickster, would strike.

In the following years, the revolutionary government developed its programme of Cuban Internationalism, which inevitably stood as a counter to US soft power efforts in the developing world through organisations like the Peace Corps and USAID.

Cuba would send as many as  400,000 doctors, not to mention engineers, agricultural technicians and other professionals, to 164 countries across the world. This material solidarity garnered great affection for Cuba among many countries in the Global South, countries as disparate as Venezuela, South Africa and Vietnam, where characters like Castro and Che Guevara are as recognisable as national heroes like Simon Bolivar, Nelson Mandela and Ho Chi Minh. In these same countries, American leaders are remembered too, often in far less flattering terms.

Other examples of Cuba’s trickster antics abound. Perhaps most notable is the Cuban armed forces’ sound military defeat of the Bay of Pigs invasion, which, while carried out by Cuban exiles, was supported and funded directly by the CIA.

There is also the revolution’s support for the Palestinian liberation movement and the antiapartheid struggle even as the US provided diplomatic cover and military aid to Israel and the apartheid regime in South Africa.

From 1975 to 1991, more than 300,000 Cuban soldiers fought alongside forces in Angola, eventually emerging victorious in a proxy conflict with the US. Operation Carlota, as it was called, would not only liberate Angola and neighbouring Namibia, but it would precipitate the downfall of South African apartheid as well. According to former South African President Nelson Mandela, Cuba’s intervention in Angola “destroyed the myth of the invincibility of the white oppressor”.

Castro himself has carried the spirit of Eshu. The Cuban leader reportedly survived more than 600 assassination attempts and died of natural causes at the age of 90.

And there are the many ways that Cuba has defied the “third world” label so often foisted upon it by beating the US in literacy rates, infant mortality and life expectancy at various points in its revolutionary history.

But beyond all of this, there is the sheer fact of the revolution’s survival. For more than 60 years, the US has imposed a severe economic embargo against the island. The embargo – the world’s longest – has been intensified at various points, specifically after the fall of the Soviet Union as Cuba reeled from a profound economic crisis.

Despite this regime of maximum pressure from the world’s largest superpower, the revolution nevertheless persevered through the crisis of the 1990s by diversifying  and liberalising the economy and by drawing upon its well-established programme of internationalism in the Global South. Not only that, but it managed a nationwide sustainable agricultural revolution in the process, a feat for any nation, but perhaps unsurprising for Cuba, given its trickster nature.

But tricksters also work in unexpected, even contradictory ways. Despite these accomplishments, the denial of political rights and the repression of the freedoms of expression and assembly have been the Cuban Revolution’s greatest failings.

Speech is not free in Cuba. Access to information and the internet is heavily restricted, and recent popular protests have been violently extinguished.

Such dynamics have long been pointed to by detractors as evidence of Cuba’s inherent authoritarian nature. But in this regard, Cuba is not the US’s opposite, but rather its peer.

The US in 2026 is a country facing its own rash of unfreedoms: comical levels of corruption; the erosion of democratic institutions; the embrace of AI and the panopticon surveillance it enables; continual attacks on free speech, voting rights and the media; extrajudicial killings of US citizens by masked agents of the state; and an increasingly monarchical presidency. All of which is to say nothing about the spectre of the infamous detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, still home to 15 detainees from the “global war on terror”, raised once more in relation to President Donald Trump’s brutal immigration crackdown.

One cannot help but be struck by the ways that the Trump administration appears to emulate countries like Cuba or Russia or Iran that it rhetorically maligns.

But in this way, Cuba carries on in its role as the foil to American power. In its repression, it reflects the creeping authoritarian inclinations that characterise the Trump administration. Tricksters, after all, are themselves morally ambiguous. And if the greatest flaw of the US has always been that it fails consistently to live up to its most laudable ideals, then in this sense, it is no different to Cuba and its revolution.

With the US poised and ready and with the conditions in Cuba deteriorating rapidly, we may be witnessing the final days of the revolution. That begs the question: When the day comes that Eshu no longer guards the crossroads, what then? What becomes of the world when there is nothing but unquestioned empires and techno-feudal overlords? Without tricksters to confound their power, will we revert to the revanchist past or tumble into some kind of dystopian future?

If and when the revolution finally falls, there will no doubt be cheering on the streets of Miami. But there will be tears elsewhere – tears not just for the revolution, but for the alternative that it represented, however flawed. Perhaps if the US had listened more or differently, they would have heard the lesson that Eshu was trying to teach.

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

Since the start of the war, there have been several negotiation initiatives between the United States and Iran. Only one – the memorandum of understanding signed in Islamabad on June 18 – was concluded, but it collapsed within days.

While prevailing analyses tend to explain this failure through the details of the provisions, this article proceeds from a different premise: that the diplomatic stalemate between the two sides is shaped by a syndrome that has governed US-Iranian relations for years.

In international relations, psychological syndromes can arise as a result of deep crises that leave their mark on political consciousness and memory, potentially obstructing efforts at rapprochement and negotiation between countries.

In the case of Iran and the US, the syndrome is comprised of two complexes: the complex Washington developed as a result of the 1979 siege of the US embassy in Tehran and the complex Tehran developed as a result of historical US hostility and its withdrawal from the Iran nuclear deal in 2018.

The roots of the rupture between the two countries go as far back as August 1953 when US and British intelligence agencies helped overthrow the nationalist government of Mohammad Mosaddegh after it nationalised the oil industry in 1951. Since then, a perception has become entrenched in Iranian consciousness: that Washington does not accept an independent government in Tehran and it is prepared to sabotage it if it goes against its interests.

From this perspective, Washington’s decision to host Shah Reza Pahlavi, who had just been overthrown by his people, for medical treatment in October 1979 was read in revolutionary Tehran as a prelude to a second coup.

Iranian students stormed the US embassy on November 4 that year and held 52 Americans for 444 days. Diplomatic relations between the two countries were severed and have not been restored to this day.

While the incident is portrayed in the Iranian narrative as a defence of the revolution, in American consciousness, it established the image of Iran as a state that does not respect international norms, whose word cannot be relied upon and whose behaviour should not be rewarded.

That is the embassy siege complex. It is not about the incident itself so much as the informal rule it produced in US decision-making: that Iran must concede first and its concession must be verified before it receives anything in return.

The Iranian complex was shaped by this history as well, but it reached its peak in May 2018 when US President Donald Trump withdrew from the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) despite the International Atomic Energy Agency’s (IAEA’s) confirmation that Tehran was complying with it.

Just two weeks later, US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo announced 12 demands for a new deal, only four of which were related to the nuclear file. Seven of them were related to Iran’s regional behaviour in Lebanon, Palestine, Iraq, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan and the Gulf. In other words, Washington did not merely revoke an existing agreement; it also raised the ceiling of its conditions for any future agreement.

The knot then deepened in June 2025 when the US took part in the Twelve-Day War and struck the nuclear facilities at Fordow, Natanz and Isfahan at a time when a new round of indirect negotiations was scheduled in Muscat. It then reached its furthest point with Washington’s participation alongside Israel in the current war.

Accordingly, a conviction became entrenched in the Iranian consciousness that an American signature guarantees nothing, that any agreement can be overturned with a change of administration and indeed that negotiation itself may be a cover for war rather than an alternative to it.

The informal rule this has produced in Iranian decision-making is that there will be no step taken before binding guarantees and no concession before pressure is lifted.

Thus, the two complexes stand at opposite ends: The first requires Iranian action before an American quid pro quo while the second requires an American guarantee before Iranian action.

A reading of the recent negotiation initiatives shows that every US initiative bears the imprint of the embassy siege complex. The 15-point plan put forward in March demanded the dismantling of the Natanz, Isfahan and Fordow facilities; an end to uranium enrichment; the suspension of Iran’s missile programme; and the abandonment of its allies in exchange for promises to lift sanctions later.

The May draft by White House envoys Steve Witkoff and Jared Kushner linked the release of Iran’s frozen funds to the suspension of enrichment first. The American response in September also stipulated the freezing of enrichment and the entry of inspectors throughout the negotiation period.

What remains constant in the American initiatives is that Iranian action precedes the quid pro quo and verification precedes trust.

The imprint of the JCPOA withdrawal complex in the Iranian initiatives is also a constant. The five-point response in late March demanded guarantees that war would not be repeated. The 10 points put forward in April demanded a binding UN Security Council resolution shielding any agreement from being overturned. And the 14 points in May demanded a nonaggression pledge that includes Israel.

Meanwhile, the seven-day plan proposed by Tehran last month stipulated the lifting of sanctions and the US naval blockade on Iran before the opening of the Strait of Hormuz on the sixth day and the start of nuclear negotiations on the seventh. What remains constant in the Iranian initiatives is that guarantees precede action and the lifting of pressure precedes Iranian concessions.

All these initiatives were dialogue between two complexes with each side drafting its text to protect itself from a repetition of its historical experience with the other, rather than to meet the other halfway. This may explain why the gap in substance has narrowed, but the gap in trust has not.

The Islamabad memorandum represents the exception that proves the rule as it was the closest moment to a settlement because it was formulated to reassure both sides over their core concerns. To reassure Washington, it stipulated the dilution of Iran’s stockpile of enriched uranium and made the lifting of sanctions and unfreezing of funds conditional on Iranian implementation.

To reassure Tehran, it provided for an end to hostilities, respect for mutual sovereignty, a mechanism to monitor implementation and UN Security Council approval of the final agreement. Ballistic missiles were also entirely absent from the text.

But this agreement did not hold. Tehran suspended its participation in the Geneva round of talks because of the absence of a ceasefire in Lebanon, which had been a consistent demand in every Iranian initiative since March. In the Iranian reading, Washington’s inability to rein in Israel confirmed that an American signature was not enough. The JCPOA withdrawal complex immediately kicked in, and the two sides returned to square one.

By late September, the dispute appeared to have shifted definitively from substance to sequencing. Informed sources indicated that it now revolves around the order of steps rather than their content and the stated goal has become a return to an enhanced version of the June memorandum.

Here the two complexes appear in their clearest form: Washington wants the Strait of Hormuz opened and enrichment frozen first because it does not trust Iran while Tehran wants the naval blockade lifted first because it does not trust the US.

A comparison between Pompeo’s 2018 conditions and the June 2026 memorandum shows that US demands have retreated from redefining Iran’s regional role to focusing on the nuclear file and the Strait of Hormuz while Iranian demands have shifted from compensation to be paid by Washington to a conditional investment fund financed by other parties.

In other words, the substantive gap between the two sides has narrowed considerably – something that would have been unimaginable eight years ago.

However, the two complexes have not diminished; indeed, they may have deepened because of the war. Each complex feeds the other until together they have become a single syndrome, and diplomatic deadlock has turned from a passing condition into a stable structure.

Accordingly, any new formula for sequencing the steps, however precise, will remain unable to break this deadlock unless it addresses both complexes at once – something that requires a third party capable of guaranteeing both the action and the reciprocal action simultaneously.

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

On October 8, Malaysian Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim received Myanmar’s President Min Aung Hlaing in Putrajaya with a guard of honour and an official luncheon, in the military chief’s first visit since the 2021 coup. Nine days earlier, Malaysia sent 1,476 Myanmar nationals back by sea in the first phase of a plan to return 5,000 people.

Kuala Lumpur calls this pragmatic diplomacy. In reality, it lends a middle power’s credibility to the Trump administration’s retreat from international accountability, weakening the laws and institutions smaller states rely on most.

Domestic pressures

Since May, a surge of online hate speech and misinformation has targeted the Rohingya, Malaysia’s largest refugee community. By late July, at least nine Rohingya community schools had closed or faced closure orders, and more than 100 Rohingya told UNHCR that residents of their Penang village had driven them out.

The hostility ignores the facts: Malaysia’s police chief says Rohingya account for 0.02 percent of crime. Yet research by INITIATE.MY and the Center for the Study of Organized Hate found AI-generated content amplifying anti-Rohingya disinformation across Malaysia, Indonesia, India and Bangladesh, casting refugees as a threat and legitimising vigilante violence.

Electoral politics plays a part. After heavy losses in three state elections, and with a general election due by February 2028, Anwar’s coalition may see a hard line on Rohingya returns as a show of control, though voter disillusionment and right-wing rivals make any electoral gains uncertain.

Impunity goes mainstream

Malaysia is not acting alone. Mongolia hosted Vladimir Putin in 2024 despite an ICC arrest warrant, and Hungary welcomed Benjamin Netanyahu in 2025 despite another. Kuala Lumpur denies this is recognition, yet Anwar says Malaysia will work towards Myanmar’s full reintegration into ASEAN, and Min Aung Hlaing wants a seat at the bloc’s November summit in Manila. Each welcome makes the next easier and tells leaders accused of atrocities, from Netanyahu to Min Aung Hlaing, that diplomatic rehabilitation is possible without accountability.

ASEAN has tried this before. In April 2021, Min Aung Hlaing agreed to the Five-Point Consensus, then ignored it: The violence continued, the ASEAN special envoy never met Aung San Suu Kyi, and inclusive dialogue never began. The bloc’s one real lever was excluding military leaders from its summits. Myanmar Specialist, Arkar Hein, said “Welcoming him back with nothing asked in return rewards that defiance and tells Naypyidaw that time and a staged election can achieve what
compromise would otherwise require. Each handshake abroad also makes the regime less willing to offer its opponents real concessions, and convinces them that only the battlefield will decide Myanmar’s future.”

A question of consistency

Malaysia has spent decades building its credibility as a regional peacemaker, a hard-won reputation it now puts at risk. It has facilitated the Bangsamoro peace process since 2001, helping negotiate a landmark peace agreement in the southern Philippines, and has facilitated talks in southern Thailand since 2013. In November 2024, Anwar welcomed the ICC’s arrest warrants for Netanyahu and his former defence minister, saying they “should be arrested even if they are visiting other countries”. That same month, the ICC prosecutor sought an arrest warrant for Min Aung Hlaing for alleged crimes against humanity targeting the Rohingya, and an Argentinian court has since issued its own.

The Gambia’s genocide case against Myanmar at the International Court of Justice centres on the 2016-17 operations Min Aung Hlaing commanded, which killed thousands of Rohingya, included mass rapes and burned hundreds of villages, driving more than 700,000 people into Bangladesh. UN investigators called for him to face genocide charges. Malaysia is not a party to the Rome Statute and has no legal duty to arrest him. But its credibility as a peacemaker and on Palestine rests on applying one standard to everyone.

Returns without safeguards

The returns rest on assurances no independent body can verify. UNHCR says it was not involved in the returns and had no access to verify that they were voluntary, and that safe conditions do not exist. Those returned reportedly included 27 children. Though not a party to the Refugee Convention, Malaysia is bound by the customary principle of non-refoulement, and the UN Special Rapporteur on Myanmar has warned of substantial risks.

Naypyidaw says no Rohingya are involved because it does not recognise them as citizens, but other returnees also risk arbitrary detention, prosecution and forced recruitment. The military does not even control Rakhine State, where the Arakan Army holds more than 90 percent of the territory. On September 28, a day before returns began, a military air attack reportedly killed at least 50 civilians there, following more than a dozen other mass killings by the military earlier this year.

Nor can the military-backed government deliver the peace that safe return requires. Its election saw no voting in 67 of 330 townships, and when Min Aung Hlaing offered peace talks in April, the National Unity Government (NUG) and major ethnic armed groups refused. Without a ceasefire and an inclusive political process, assurances of safe return ring hollow.

Malaysia’s frustration is nonetheless legitimate. It has hosted refugees for decades with little international support, and resettlement has shrunk since the Trump administration suspended United States refugee admissions in January 2025. But failed burden-sharing cannot justify returns without safeguards.

Pressure on the court

The ICC exists so that victims of genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity can find justice when their own states fail them. That mission now faces unprecedented pressure. On October 9, hours after former ICC judge Navi Pillay won the Nobel Peace Prize, the Trump administration sanctioned the court itself. Burkina Faso, Mali, Niger, Chad and Venezuela have announced their withdrawal.

Yet middle powers can push back. Seventy-nine ICC members, including Canada, Brazil, Mexico and South Africa, backed the court after the first US sanctions in February 2025, and in May Hungary’s new government reversed its predecessor’s withdrawal. In Southeast Asia, the Philippines surrendered former President Rodrigo Duterte to The Hague, and on October 8 judges found him fit to stand trial for crimes against humanity, with proceedings due to begin on November 30.

Middle powers should say no

Middle powers like Malaysia, and blocs such as ASEAN and the European Union, cannot stop US sanctions, but they need not follow the Trump administration’s lead. As Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney told the World Economic Forum in January, middle powers “must act together, because if we’re not at the table, we’re on the menu”.

Malaysia and its neighbours should lead by saying no: No to efforts to weaken the court, no to treating Min Aung Hlaing’s presidency as a clean slate, and no to Rohingya returns into an active conflict. Malaysia should back efforts to hold him accountable if ICC judges issue a warrant, and reconsider acceding to the Rome Statute, a move it abandoned in 2019.

Saying no does not mean disengaging. Kuala Lumpur should tie Myanmar’s reintegration into ASEAN to real progress on the Five-Point Consensus, starting with an end to violence and inclusive dialogue involving the NUG and ethnic armed organisations. At home, it should pause returns until an independent body confirms they are safe and voluntary, and hold accountable those who evict, threaten or attack refugees.

Malaysia should not carry this burden alone. ASEAN partners, members of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation and donors should fund refugee registration, education and integration, and resettlement countries should restore their commitments. Governments should also hold tech platforms accountable for amplifying anti-refugee disinformation and require swift action against incitement.

For years, Malaysia has offered refuge to the Rohingya and others fleeing Myanmar when few countries would. That record gives it the standing, and the responsibility, to defend the system of international justice it has long championed.

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

Americans can rest easy – for the moment, at least. The fine folks at the Federal Bureau of Investigation have thwarted a major national security threat.

On October 9, the FBI arrested 35-year-old engineer Abdulrahman Alfozan, a Saudi citizen employed at the California-based artificial intelligence company OpenAI, the maker of the chatbot ChatGPT, and a firm that describes its mission as ensuring that “artificial general intelligence benefits all of humanity”.

A press release from the United States Department of Justice said that Alfozan was accused of installing a “surreptitious audio recording device” in an executive conference room at the OpenAI offices in San Francisco.

The statement quoted Director of National Intelligence Jay Clayton’s assessment that “this serious situation underscores why winning the global super intelligence race is a national security prerogative”. (For those who have not yet got the memo, US President Donald Trump recently decreed that the term “artificial intelligence” be changed to “super intelligence” or “SI.”)

FBI director Kash Patel concurred that “protecting American SI innovation is essential to safeguarding our nation’s economic strength and national security”, and assured everyone that the FBI would continue doing its part “to ensure our country maintains its competitive edge”.

So much for the separation of corporation and state in the world’s self-appointed greatest democracy.

The covert device was reported to have been concealed in toilet paper and attached to the back of a television monitor. The Gizmodo website has noted with amusement that, despite being cast as a “sophisticated” spying apparatus, the device in question can in fact be easily ordered online “for the low low price of $13.99”.

If convicted, Alfozan faces up to five years in jail and a fine of $250,000.

Now, some of you may still be asking what the big deal is – and why the US government is acting like it’s 1950 and the Soviets are stealing our nuclear secrets.

The spectacle becomes all the more curious when we consider that the company up in arms over the alleged attempted theft of its technology owes much of its existence – and massive valuation – to stealing stuff from people.

The day before Alfozan’s arrest, USA Today and several other newspapers sued OpenAI in a Manhattan federal court for copyright infringement and the unauthorised use of hundreds of thousands of news articles and other materials to develop ChatGPT.

And back in July, various US media outlets including the New York Times and the New York Daily News requested that a federal judge impose sanctions on OpenAI for “hiding and destroying evidence showing how ChatGPT was trained on stolen journalism”, as attorney Steven Lieberman put it.

The moral of the story, perhaps, is that when OpenAI steals things it’s to “benefit all of humanity” – but when a 35-year-old Saudi engineer does it, it’s a national security crisis.

In case we were not already bored to tears hearing about national security, US Attorney General Todd Blanche took to X on Tuesday to preach that the “theft of intellectual property involving cutting-edge super intelligence technology poses a serious threat to our national security”, necessitating continued “swift action … to protect American innovation and safeguard our nation”.

Of course, many Americans might wonder why “innovation” gets such special treatment when they themselves are so often on the receiving end of government abuse. The frequency with which US police officers murder unarmed Black people, for instance, would seem to indicate that there are far more literal threats to the nation’s security than a $14 device hidden in toilet paper.

But human security is of no interest to a corporatocracy increasingly dominated by AI, an industry that thrives on putting people out of jobs and that is deeply entwined in a number of sordid developments at home and abroad. Among them is mass surveillance, which combines AI-assisted violations of civil liberties and constitutional protections with good old police state “innovation”.

To that end, a bunch of US cops have taken advantage of new AI-powered technology, such as automated licence plate readers, to stalk their exes. Then there is the matter of the FBI and other government agencies buying up data en masse from tech companies in a bid to keep tabs, Big Brother-style, on everyone’s personal information at all times.

It makes you think twice about the sudden concern for “spying” in the Alfozan case.

As for threats to other people’s national security, OpenAI and like-minded tech companies that do business with the Pentagon have been complicit in recent US aggression – from Venezuela to Iran – as the US pursues its strategy for “Accelerating America’s Military AI Dominance” (concocted before Trump mandated the renaming of AI as SI).

Israel, too, has exploited OpenAI technology, among other US-made goodies, to conduct its contemporary apocalyptic exercises in the Middle East. Last year, the Associated Press news agency (AP) revealed that US tech giants had “quietly empowered Israel to track and kill many more alleged militants more quickly in Gaza and Lebanon through a sharp spike in artificial intelligence and computing services”.

The AP report went on to note that “the number of civilians killed has also soared, fueling fears that these tools are contributing to the deaths of innocent people”.

But while it might be news to the AP, that is unfortunately how a genocide works.

And as the US goes to war for AI dominance while the tech giants bank on a post-human world, one can’t help but feel that the toilet paper was a nice touch, indeed.

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

The attacks by the Iran-backed Houthis on Saudi Arabia have pushed the war in Yemen to a new level. The targeting of civilian infrastructure, including airports, which has killed at least a dozen people and injured hundreds, has left no room to maintain the “red lines” that previously outlined the limits of escalation.

This is a reckless gamble by the Houthis which is not in their interest. They are aware that the retaliation will be fierce, yet they continue to attack Saudi Arabia to fulfil Iran’s agenda that seeks heightened tensions before the United States midterms.

Given the motivation to escalate, the present situation has the potential to develop into two scenarios: A major region-wide operation against the Houthis or a war of attrition.

Scenario one: A united front against the Houthis

In response to the Houthi escalation, Saudi Arabia is striving to garner maximum international support while deepening its regional and international alliances. The aim is to come up with a united front capable of taking on what has become a regional threat.

Riyadh is certainly looking to its Gulf neighbours who, themselves, are impacted by the continuing conflict in the region. There is a collective realisation that everyone is in grave danger, not just Saudi Arabia.

Therefore, Gulf states – perhaps with the exception of Oman – will support Riyadh both directly and indirectly in the fighting in Yemen.

Pakistan and Turkiye are also likely to join the front, having signed with Saudi Arabia a defence agreement known as the Mecca Pact. The pact is to be ratified by the Turkish parliament in the next few days, opening the way for Turkish military deployment in support of Saudi Arabia. Meanwhile, indirect involvement by Turkiye and Pakistan, along with logistical and intelligence support, appears to be already well under way.

A US intervention is also possible, although it seems unlikely before the US midterms, as military engagements in the Middle East remain unpopular among US voters.

A region-wide coalition can help support the counteroffensive of the forces loyal to the internationally recognised Yemeni government already under way. This could give the necessary push to retake the western coastal region, including areas beyond Bab al-Mandeb and Dhubab.

Such gains could ease pressure on Red Sea shipping and potentially shift the military balance in favour of the government. The opening of additional fronts across other Yemeni cities and governorates could stretch Houthi forces, disperse their resources, and increase the likelihood of further government advances.

Retaking Sanaa could also be on the horizon. The primary obstacle delaying the Yemeni government’s recapture of the city is internal discord among the various factions within the government itself, compounded by negative external interference that exacerbates these rifts and weakens the collective effort to confront the Houthis.

Recent measures taken by the government, specifically efforts to unify its decision-making and consolidate its military operations command, have yielded noticeable progress on the ground. However, achieving the ultimate objective of retaking Sanaa requires sustained effort and focused determination.

If government forces make substantial gains, that could force the Houthis to offer concessions in exchange for a pause in fighting. They have done that before. Their purpose would not be to seek peace but to get enough breathing room to regroup and eventually go back to fighting. Negotiators should keep that in mind when approaching talks with the Houthis.

Scenario two: A war of attrition

If the Saudi-led coalition and the Yemeni government succumb to internal divisions and disagreements, this may slow progress against the Houthis. This would allow the Houthi fighters to hold on to their positions while increasing their pressure on the strategic town of Taiz and maintaining the campaign against civilian targets in Saudi Arabia.

Such a development could further complicate the conflict, increase civilian casualties and displacement, and prolong the war without producing a decisive military outcome.

This will have a significant economic impact on Saudi Arabia and complicate the implementation of its development goals, as it would have to prioritise defence spending.

The rest of the Gulf economies will also be negatively impacted because Saudi Arabia plays such a central role in the region. What is more, losing ground to the Houthis would mean that the crisis in the Strait of Hormuz would also continue, disrupting energy exports from the region.

In this scenario, there will be “no victor, no vanquished” deadlock in Yemen, but Iran would emerge as winner. A war of attrition along the Red Sea coast would provide Tehran with significant breathing room, allowing it to alleviate pressure on its own war efforts.

This would enable Iran to use the Houthi card as leverage in the intermittent negotiations it conducts with the international community, emboldening it to raise the bar regarding its conditions and demands during those talks.

This means that the only way to resolve the crisis in Yemen is decisive military action led by the Yemeni government and supported by a region-wide coalition. For that to happen, the government has to get its internal affairs and its relations with allies in order.

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

More than three years into the war between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), Sudan is desperately in need of a political settlement. The fighting has caused immense suffering, and a military solution alone cannot rebuild the state or reunify its fractured society. Under such circumstances, any effort aimed at encouraging Sudanese-Sudanese dialogue deserves serious consideration rather than outright rejection.

In August, a self-appointed committee of 19 Sudanese public figures, chaired by Ahfad University President Qasim Badri, launched an initiative to prepare the ground for national dialogue inside Sudan. Its members had earlier met SAF chief General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan and called for legal restrictions on opposition politicians to be lifted. The authorities subsequently issued a decree to drop certain politically motivated charges against Sudanese abroad returning for dialogue and grant participants temporary legal protections. These are limited but important confidence-building measures.

The initiative has nevertheless faced strong opposition. The civilian coalition Sumoud, led by former Prime Minister Abdalla Hamdok, and Ta’sis, an alliance that includes the RSF, have opposed the proposed internal dialogue. They question its independence and warn that holding talks in army-controlled areas could legitimise al-Burhan’s authority and entrench the country’s divisions. These concerns are legitimate and deserve serious attention. But the committee says it is not seeking to negotiate Sudan’s future or determine the agenda of a national dialogue. Its role is to help create the conditions for Sudanese political actors to engage one another directly. The question is whether it can fulfil that role without allowing one side of the conflict to dominate the process. Dismissing the initiative before it has had an opportunity to demonstrate its value would be premature.

The country’s political actors and civil society organisations remain deeply divided, previous mediation efforts have faltered, and the war continues to make comprehensive political engagement increasingly difficult. The committee’s initiative is an attempt to break the deadlock. Efforts to prepare for political dialogue should not be postponed until the fighting stops. Securing a ceasefire and ensuring humanitarian access are urgent priorities, but preparations for political dialogue can proceed alongside efforts to achieve them.

The committee’s members were not elected, and they do not represent every political constituency. Yet the committee’s legitimacy cannot be judged solely by how it was created. It must also be judged by whether it can help bring a broader range of political actors into a national dialogue.

Good intentions alone cannot resolve concerns about credibility. Political dialogue can succeed only if participants believe the process is fair and independent. The legitimacy required to facilitate a political opening is not necessarily the same as that required to negotiate a national settlement. But even a preparatory initiative must earn the trust of those it seeks to bring together.

The committee’s meeting with al-Burhan was a practical necessity. As army chief and head of the Sovereignty Council, he was in a position to respond to the committee’s demands for legal protections. Engaging with al-Burhan does not in itself amount to an endorsement of his authority. But if the initiative becomes too closely associated with the army, other political actors may view it as an extension of al-Burhan’s political agenda rather than an independent facilitator. The committee must therefore demonstrate that its engagement extends beyond the military authorities and that it is prepared to work with political forces that oppose them.

The initiative was launched in Khartoum, which is under army control. This raises a genuine concern about whether a process beginning in territory controlled by one side of the war can attract the confidence of political forces across the country. A national dialogue cannot be confined to one geographical or political constituency. Entire regions have experienced different realities of war, governance, displacement and insecurity. The committee must find ways to reach those living outside army-controlled areas, including Sudanese displaced by the fighting, and ensure they can participate freely and without intimidation.

Sumoud and Ta’sis’s decision to reject the initiative does not automatically invalidate the process. Their concerns deserve consideration, but outright rejection at this early stage risks closing off an opportunity for political engagement. At the same time, their absence matters. Sudan’s crisis is too deep and complex to be addressed by any single political current. The committee cannot expect every stakeholder to endorse its initiative immediately, but it must create conditions that persuade reluctant actors to participate. If it fails to do so, the initiative itself will have failed.

The African Union Commission and the Arab League have also welcomed the initiative, providing an important measure of regional support. Their endorsement lends weight to the effort to revive Sudanese-led political dialogue, although external backing cannot substitute for the confidence of Sudan’s own political forces.

The committee’s initiative should therefore be judged without excessive optimism or automatic suspicion. The legal measures announced following its engagement with al-Burhan are an encouraging first step, but the real test lies ahead. Does it help remove legal and political obstacles facing opposition actors in practice, not just on paper? Can it win the confidence of those who have rejected it? Can it ensure that Sudanese across the country’s political and geographical divides have an opportunity to participate freely?

What is clear, however, is that Sudan’s crisis will ultimately require Sudanese actors with profoundly different visions of the country’s future to sit together and engage one another politically. No committee can do that on their behalf. No external actor can do it for them. At best, a preparatory initiative can help create the conditions under which such engagement becomes possible. The concerns raised by its critics should not be dismissed, but neither should they be grounds for rejecting the initiative before it has had an opportunity to address them. Those who have rejected it should remain open to reconsidering their position if the committee demonstrates that it can build an independent and inclusive process. If it succeeds, it will have rendered an important national service.

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

Muslim governments backed the genocide case against Myanmar. They must now show that their commitment to the Rohingya goes beyond words.

The Organisation of Islamic Cooperation (OIC) has made Muslim solidarity central to how it presents itself. Nine years ago, Myanmar’s military massacred Rohingya civilians and drove hundreds of thousands from their homes. The persecution has not ended: the Rohingya remain stateless, face continuing violence and risk death while fleeing by sea. Throughout those years, the OIC has held summits and passed resolutions. Yet it has failed to protect them.

When I founded the Burma Human Rights Network 14 years ago, I believed that if we gathered evidence carefully and put it before institutions with the power to act, they would act. We have gathered testimony from survivors of massacres. We have documented the systematic destruction of Rohingya villages, the denial of their citizenship and the deliberate starvation of a people. Yet despite all this documentation, the situation facing the Rohingya has mostly grown worse. The International Court of Justice is expected to rule later this year on whether Myanmar’s actions constituted genocide.

I have sometimes asked myself whether a ruling could help stop the atrocities. The Rohingya survivors who gave evidence in The Hague relived the worst moments of their lives before international judges because they trusted that their testimony would matter. Many of them are still in Bangladesh, still in limbo, dependent on food assistance worth as little as $7 per person per month. One in every seven Rohingya who attempted sea crossings last year was reported dead or missing. They are unprotected, and governments that could do more have not done so.

People often ask me why we continue. I have never had a satisfying answer. What I know is that without a record of these atrocities, it becomes easier to deny they happened. I continue because, after hearing these accounts and seeing the evidence, I do not know how to walk away from it.

We have published evidence that governments did not want to confront, and we have called the atrocities what they are: genocide. If the court finds that Myanmar committed genocide, it would be the first time in the International Court of Justice’s 80-year history that a state has been held responsible for the crime.

I now address the OIC foreign ministers who will gather in Baghdad on October 17. The OIC backed this case, and your governments supported the effort to hold Myanmar accountable for its treatment of the Rohingya. Many Rohingya, along with many of us who work with them, took those commitments seriously. When the ruling arrives, I expect statements welcoming it and renewed promises of accountability. But another communiqué will not protect anyone. OIC governments should refuse to forcibly return Rohingya to Myanmar, protect Rohingya who reach their territory, sustain support for refugees in Bangladesh and agree on diplomatic and economic measures against those responsible for their persecution. These are choices your governments can make.

The way Rohingya are treated across the region is hard to reconcile with those commitments. Some governments that speak about the Rohingya in international meetings do not offer the same protection to those who arrive at their borders. A government cannot demand accountability from Myanmar and at the same time send people back into danger.

Bangladesh hosts 1.2 million Rohingya and has faced years of pressure to send them back. The OIC must also challenge abuses against the Rohingya by governments outside its membership. In 2025, according to testimony documented by Amnesty International, Indian authorities forced at least 40 Rohingya from a naval vessel into the Andaman Sea, leaving them to swim towards Myanmar. If the OIC says nothing when governments expose Rohingya to that kind of danger, those governments have little reason to change course.

To the Rohingya community organisations that kept working, the journalists who reported despite restrictions on access, those who helped survivors bring their testimony to international forums, and the advocates who stayed with this issue when official attention moved elsewhere, I can only say this: you did work that governments with armies and treasuries should never have left to you. The evidence you preserved is now part of the record.

The 57 governments meeting in Baghdad have repeatedly pledged solidarity with the Rohingya and supported efforts to hold Myanmar accountable for genocide. But solidarity means little if it does not translate into action. A judgment from The Hague will not protect the Rohingya by itself. What those governments do after it will show whether their support for this case has consequences beyond the courtroom.

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

More than 1,700 healthcare workers have been killed during the genocide in Gaza. Israel has detained hundreds more without charges. Doctors, nurses and paramedics who stayed to treat the wounded have themselves become casualties of this war.

When medical staff are killed, imprisoned or disappeared, it is not only they who pay the price. Patients lose the people they rely on to keep them alive.

This is something delegates who gather in Rotterdam this week for the General Assembly of the World Medical Association (WMA) must remember. The fate of their Palestinian colleagues should be put on the table, not as a debating point, but as a test of whether the world’s governing body of medical ethics still means what it says.

The WMA already recognised the seriousness of these issues last year by adopting a resolution on the protection of healthcare in conflict. That was an important step and a welcome reaffirmation of the principles of medical neutrality. The challenge now is to ensure this is followed by the commitment of every medical association to explicitly support it and to use its influence to pressure governments to act.

If the WMA Assembly needs a single face for this file, it could be the one of Dr Hussam Abu Safia, the paediatrician who was the head of Kamal Adwan Hospital, the last functioning hospital in northern Gaza until Israeli forces stormed it in December 2024.

He’s been held now for more than 22 months without charge under Israel’s Incarceration of Unlawful Combatants Law, which permits indefinite detentions. He reportedly continues to endure prolonged solitary confinement, beatings, severe weight loss and untreated pre-existing conditions. An international petition for his release has drawn the signatures of more than 970 medical professionals from 41 countries.

Alongside him stands Dr Mazen al-Rantisi, the 71-year-old family physician from Ramallah in the occupied West Bank, known as the “doctor of the poor”. He was arrested in June in a predawn raid on his home.

In addition, our longtime Doctors Without Borders (MSF) colleague, Dr Mohammed Hassan Ali Obeid, a respected 43-year-old Palestinian orthopaedic surgeon and father of three children, has been detained under the Unlawful Combatants Law in Israel for more than 600 days without charge.

Although detained health workers have been released, more than 80 remain in Israeli custody alongside at least a dozen arrested from the West Bank.

The World Health Organization (WHO) has recorded 1,000 attacks on healthcare, which have resulted in more than 1,000 deaths and 1,700 injuries in Gaza since October 7, 2023. Roughly 90 percent of Gaza’s health infrastructure has been destroyed or damaged. In August 2025, United Nations experts stated that the systematic destruction of the health system amounts to “medicide”.

In the West Bank, where no wartime emergency provides cover, the WHO also documented more than 1,000 attacks on healthcare since October 7, 2023, with 42 deaths and at least 218 injuries.

Ambulances are stopped at checkpoints and their crews taken. Medics trying to reach people injured in settler attacks have themselves been obstructed. Dialysis and oncologic patients stay home because the checkpoints make the journey to treatment impossible. Healthcare workers have been shot, detained and killed during Israeli military raids.

All of this represents Israel’s deliberate and systematic endeavour to dismantle Palestinians’ capacity to provide care. This is consistent with its clear and blatant disregard for Palestinian life.

The WMA Assembly should speak plainly about what is happening. It should call publicly for the release of detained Palestinian doctors, including Abu Safia, al-Rantisi and Obeid. It should press for independent access to those still being held. And it should back independent investigations into attacks on healthcare in Gaza and the West Bank with the findings made public regardless of where they lead.

This is an opportunity to collectively pressure fellow medical associations, political authorities and any relevant bodies to take action.

What lies before the Rotterdam assembly is a duty. One that reaffirms loudly, structurally, universally the founding proposition of the WMA: that membership carries an ethical responsibility, which does not flex with geography or alliances.

Healthcare workers are not targets. Either a white coat is worth protecting everywhere, or it is protected nowhere. The test is not simply whether we affirm these principles, but whether we uphold them when it matters most.

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

As Israel prepares to mark three years since the October 7 attacks and with less than a month to go to parliamentary elections, one topic is dominating the electoral agenda.

Media reports that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu was warned by the United Arab Emirates before the attacks have put his alleged responsibility back in the spotlight.

“Did he know?” is the question on everyone’s lips.

Listening to the accusatory choir, one might think that Israeli society finally is acknowledging the real meaning of October 7. Yet the opposite is true.

Instead of giving a platform to a reckoning, the elections function to scapegoat Netanyahu for his alleged role in facilitating Hamas’s attack while absolving Israeli society and the Zionist movement of its collective responsibility for the preceding violence and ensuing genocidal aggression.

For example, it does not insist on investigating whether the “Hannibal Directive” was deployed as part of the Israeli military response on October 7 and whether it killed Israeli citizens and how many.

It does not scrutinise subsequent Israeli military operations or whether they put the Israeli hostages in danger or how many were killed by Israeli bombs.

There is no questioning of why key Palestinian negotiators were attacked during ceasefire and hostage negotiations, including Ismail Haniyeh, Hamas’s chief negotiator, in July 2024 in Tehran and Hamas’s negotiating delegation in September 2025 in Doha.

There is no debate about why the Israeli government repeatedly rejected ceasefire proposals that could have brought the hostages back much earlier.

There is little attention paid to the fact that Netanyahu and former Defence Minister Yoav Gallant face arrest warrants from the International Criminal Court for crimes against humanity.

None of these made the cut. Why?

The answer lies in the psychological state of Israeli society. For many Israelis, October 7 became a psychological rupture, making it difficult to reconcile their sense of humanity with their complicity in the criminal reality that followed.

The problem, then, is not that Israelis are in denial or misinformed. It is that a large portion of the society is complicit in criminality and actively avoids reckoning with it.

The absence of Gaza and Palestinians more broadly from Israeli political discourse is because of their complete dehumanisation by Israeli society.

How else could one explain the absence from the election rhetoric of questions about, and subsequent accountability for, actions against the Palestinian people?

Why has the Israeli military killed at least 74,000 Palestinians, the vast majority of them civilians? Why has it carried out mass and arbitrary detentions, torture and enforced disappearances of Palestinians?

Why has it targeted journalists, medical workers and academics? Destroyed and occupied hospitals? Wiped out ancient landmarks and irreplaceable cultural heritage sites?

Why has the sadistic and often sexually deviant celebration of destruction, subjugation, ethnic cleansing and death by Israeli soldiers been allowed?

What’s more, there is also little interrogation of the consequences of bombing and invading Lebanon, killing nearly 9,000 people since October 2023. Or bombing Syria and Yemen.

These are not isolated abuses. They are symptoms of a system of theft and domination driven by greed and sustained through psychological conditioning, segregation, fear and rewards for aggression. In line with the “Wired to Steal” model, dehumanisation helps produce consent for aggression while escalation following acts of resistance leads to normalisation of further expansion and robbery.

Thus, this election is not about a reckoning with October 7 or its horrifying aftermath. It is a lens onto a fascistic settler society engaged in denial and dehumanisation of an Indigenous “other” as a means of evading and normalising its own ongoing genocidal actions. Although Netanyahu may become the scapegoat, replacing him does not address the underlying machinery of domination and may instead serve to entrench it further.

That machinery remains firmly in place. The continuity between the violence unleashed since October 7 and the longer history of Zionist colonial expansionism is striking, with no lessons learned other than how to improve and grease the machinations of genocide. Fear, victimhood and the construction of a permanently besieged “us” against a dehumanised “them” continue to produce consent for further aggression and expansion.

October 7, therefore, has become not an occasion for genuine reckoning but another means of avoiding one. Netanyahu seeks to focus responsibility for the attacks on questions of what he knew and when while leaving the much broader record of what Israel has done since largely outside the electoral debate. His opponents, meanwhile, have their own complicity and ambitions to answer for. Thus, there is little political interest in a genuine reckoning with October 7. The fixation on Netanyahu allows the wider political establishment and Israeli society to avoid confronting the system of domination in which they remain invested.

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

It is increasingly difficult to regard what is happening in the West Bank as merely a series of measures that the Israeli government justifies on security grounds or as part of counterterrorism operations. Taken together, the cumulative pattern and expanding scope of these measures point to a broader political and territorial trajectory: one aimed at reshaping the West Bank, imposing new facts on the ground, entrenching Israeli control and advancing the de facto annexation of large parts of the territory while simultaneously subjecting Palestinians to mounting pressure that, directly or indirectly, pushes them from their land.

Israeli, journalistic and research reports have documented the intensification of this trajectory through settlement expansion, land confiscation, restrictions on Palestinian movement, control over water resources and grazing areas as well as military operations and repeated internal displacement in several parts of the West Bank.

Considered individually, each of these measures may appear to be a separate issue. Viewed together, however, they reveal a more consequential development: an effort to re-engineer the geography and demography of the West Bank in ways that undermine the prospect of establishing a contiguous and viable Palestinian state.

The question, therefore, is no longer simply what is happening in the West Bank.

The more urgent question is how can Jordan, the Palestinians, the Arab world and the international community prevent this trajectory from becoming a permanent reality.

Jordan Valley at the heart of the equation

The Jordan Valley assumes exceptional importance in this context, not only because of its geographical and security significance but also because of its agricultural and economic importance and its water resources for the Palestinian people.

Reports concerning the construction of a new Israeli barrier, referred to as the “Crimson Thread”, extending roughly 480km (300 miles) from the Golan Heights to the Red Sea, warrant serious Jordanian, Arab and international scrutiny, particularly if such a project is intended to isolate the Jordan Valley and place as much as 83 percent of its total area under Israeli control.

Such a development could in effect sever the West Bank from Jordan and deprive Palestinians of one of their most important agricultural and water resources.

Borders, walls, roads and settlements cease to be merely physical infrastructure when they are combined with control over land and water. They become instruments for reshaping political and demographic geography and weakening the ability of Palestinians to remain on their land.

This is precisely where the Palestinian issue intersects directly with Jordan’s national security.

Jordan faces a different phase

Jordan cannot treat developments in the West Bank as an exclusively Palestinian matter. At its core, this is an issue of Jordanian national security, regional stability and the future of the Palestinian cause.

Any fundamental change to the geographical or demographic reality of the West Bank will inevitably carry direct consequences for Jordan because of geography, history and proximity. And if the eventual outcome is forced displacement, then, as King Abdullah II has repeatedly made clear, such a scenario would amount to a declaration of war on Jordan.

The policy required of Jordan at this stage, therefore, must be proactive: one that anticipates possible scenarios and prepares for them politically, diplomatically, economically and in security terms.

First: Protect Jordanian national unity

Jordan’s first line of defence is its national unity.

At this stage, it is essential to strengthen the concepts of citizenship and the state, consolidate full equality among Jordanians, and reject any discourse or practice that creates divisions on the basis of origin, region or roots.

The Palestinian cause must remain a national, Arab and humanitarian cause. It must not be allowed to become a source of division within Jordanian society.

Responsibility falls on both the state and society to confront hate speech and incitement, apply the law equally and fairly, and protect the national fabric from attempts to exploit regional turmoil to sow division among Jordanians.

One of the gravest outcomes Jordan must prevent is the transfer of the conflict into its own domestic sphere. Relations among Jordanians of different origins, including those of Jordanian and Palestinian heritage, must never become a vulnerable fault line through which those seeking discord, whether from within the country or from abroad, can operate.

National unity, therefore, is not merely a social value. It is an integral component of Jordan’s national security architecture.

Second: Move from diplomacy of protest to diplomacy of pressure and proportionate action

Jordan has accumulated considerable international credibility and diplomatic capital. The present phase, however, requires Jordan to expand the tools at its disposal.

It is no longer sufficient simply to condemn settlement activity, reject annexation or warn against displacement. What is needed is an Arab, Islamic and international diplomatic front capable of translating political positions into practical measures.

In coordination with Palestine and Arab and Islamic states, Jordan should work to:

• Mobilise countries that reject annexation and settlement expansion.
• Support international legal action.
• Push for concrete measures and sanctions not only against settlements but also against state policies that enable and encourage them.
• Systematically document violations.
• Use Arab political and economic relations with influential states more strategically, expanding economic cooperation with countries that adopt firm positions against the Israeli occupation while recalibrating engagement with those that remain reluctant to take clear positions towards Israeli policies.
• Build an international coalition capable of preventing the imposition of irreversible facts by force.

A comparison with Russia’s war in Ukraine is instructive. When Russia occupied large areas of Ukrainian territory, sanctions were not confined to the territories under occupation; they were imposed on Russia itself. The question, therefore, is why a different standard should apply elsewhere.

The international community does not lack resolutions or statements. What it lacks is the conversion of political will into a tangible cost for those who violate international law.

Third: Establish an Arab and Islamic fund for Palestinian resilience

If the objective is to prevent displacement and enable Palestinians to remain on their land, financial support must become a sustained strategic policy rather than seasonal assistance tied to moments of crisis.

One option would be to establish an Arab, Islamic and international fund dedicated to strengthening Palestinian resilience with a mandate to finance specific projects in the West Bank and Gaza, including:

• Protecting land threatened with confiscation.
• Supporting farmers.
• Developing water resources and irrigation networks.
• Assisting affected families.
• Financing housing projects in vulnerable areas.
• Supporting education and health services.
• Assisting municipalities and local councils.
• Providing alternative sources of income to families who have lost employment as a result of Israeli measures.

Resilience is not merely a political slogan. It is a material reality.

Every Palestinian family who remains on its land, every farmer who continues to cultivate his fields and every village that retains access to its water resources represents part of the effort to prevent displacement.

Fourth: Treat the Jordan Valley as a Jordanian national security issue

Jordan should address developments in the Jordan Valley as a permanent strategic file.

A specialised Jordanian mechanism should be established to monitor:

• Settlement expansion.
• Land confiscation.
• The construction of roads, barriers and walls.
• Demographic changes.
• Control over water resources.
• Population movements and displacement.
• Any measures that could permanently alter the status quo.

These developments should be documented through maps, satellite imagery, statistics and official records so Jordan maintains a comprehensive dossier that can be used politically and legally before the international community.

Struggles over land are not determined by force alone. They are also shaped by documentation, maps, law and the ability to present an authoritative, evidence-based account of what is happening.

Fifth: Strengthen Jordan’s national defence architecture

Strengthening Jordan’s ability to protect its security, borders and national interests is not optional.

Jordan is a country with limited resources, but it possesses significant human and institutional expertise. It can further develop an advanced national defence, civil protection and crisis-management architecture.

This could include strengthening national service and training programmes, enhancing civil defence preparedness, protecting critical infrastructure, reinforcing cybersecurity and border security, and improving disaster and emergency management.

Jordan could also draw on the extensive experience of retired military personnel through structured national programmes under the supervision of appropriate state institutions, thereby strengthening the country’s overall defensive readiness.

The strength Jordan requires is the strength of deterrence, protection and preparedness, not an impulse towards an ill-considered confrontation.

Sixth: Prevent Jordan from becoming an “alternative homeland”

This issue must remain at the centre of Jordanian strategic calculations.

Any project that directly or indirectly leads to the depopulation of the West Bank or pushes large numbers of Palestinians towards Jordan is not merely a humanitarian question. It would carry profound political, security and demographic consequences for the kingdom.

Jordan’s position, therefore, must remain unequivocal: Resolving the Palestinian question cannot come at Jordan’s expense; displacement is not a political solution; and Jordan is not an alternative homeland for the Palestinian people.

At the same time, Jordan must preserve the humanitarian and legal dimensions of its response to any forced developments, so that opposition to displacement does not translate into further suffering for civilians.

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

The school year started in occupied East Jerusalem with the news that 45,000 Palestinian children are now studying a curriculum put together by the Israeli authorities. That is more than a third of the Palestinian students in the occupied territory and almost double the number from the previous year.

Meanwhile, Christian schools started the school year with a strike, as many of their teachers who live in the occupied West Bank were not granted permits to enter the city.

For the Palestinian population of occupied East Jerusalem, this is yet another form of encroachment on their national rights by the occupation authorities. For Israel, this is a justified intervention because Palestinian textbooks produced by the Palestinian Ministry of Education and Palestinian teachers trained in Palestinian Authority (PA) institutions “teach hate”.

According to international humanitarian law, an occupying power must facilitate the normal operation of educational institutions and avoid interference in their affairs. Recently updated commentary by the International Committee of the Red Cross, the institution tasked with overseeing the application of the Geneva Convention, says an occupying power must not replace the existing education system with its own structures or impose new curricula.

Yet Israeli interference in Palestinian education is extensive and reaches well beyond occupied East Jerusalem – into the occupied West Bank and, more recently, the Gaza Strip. For years, successive Israeli governments have demanded that the United States and European governments pressure the PA to revise its textbooks by conditioning aid. Meanwhile, the devastation of Gaza’s education system has allowed NGOs funded by Western donors to introduce curriculums approved by Israel.

The Israeli argument that all this is necessary to prevent Palestinian children from learning “to hate” in school does not stand up to scrutiny.

Academic research, including a study funded by the US Department of State and prepared by both Palestinian and Israeli scholars, found that Palestinian textbooks do not promote hate and dehumanisation of Israelis.

So what is Israel actually looking to revise in Palestinian textbooks?

Studies comparing Palestinian textbooks with the Israeli-edited versions used in occupied East Jerusalem have documented the removal or alteration of references to Palestinian national symbols, such as the national flag and anthem, Palestinian sovereignty and history.

A 2025 study of primary-school textbooks found that Israeli modifications included replacing “Palestine” with “Israel” in some contexts and removing passages about the realities of occupation.

Israel wants references to the occupation, Palestinian history and self-determination erased from Palestinian textbooks not because they “teach hate”, but because they teach Palestinian children national consciousness – something Israel has fought against since its own creation, claiming “there is no such thing as a Palestinian people”.

This is why Palestinian resistance to curriculum changes in East Jerusalem should not be understood only as resistance to an Israeli textbook. For many parents, teachers and schools, the fear is that accepting the Israeli curriculum also means accepting the Israeli annexation of Jerusalem and its erasure of Palestinian identity inside it.

Removing concepts such as the occupation, the Nakba, refugees, the right of return, Palestinian sovereignty and national symbols from education materials can gradually detach Palestinian political identity from the historical narrative that gives those claims meaning.

While Israel gets to censor and shape Palestinian curriculums, there is little scrutiny by its Western allies of what Israeli curriculums teach Israeli children.

For her book Palestine in Israeli School Books, Israeli philologist Nurit Peled-Elhanan studied Israeli history and geography textbooks published in the post-Oslo years and discovered the extensive use of racist tropes and erasure of Palestinians. In the conclusion, she expressed concern that Israeli students graduate from Israeli schools and enter mandatory military service having “been taught to resent and fear” Palestinians and having no knowledge of their “life-world”.

Another more recent study of 123 textbooks used in Jewish Israeli schools by Israeli scholar Yael Teff-Seker found strong ethnocentric framing, a persistent sense of Jewish victimhood and relatively little space for Palestinian narratives. The author notes that while the concept of peace with Arab nations is described positively, the occupation is “described impartially, without judgement”, while the occupied Palestinian territory is sometimes referred to with Israeli names, for example, Judea and Samaria instead of the occupied West Bank.

A research paper coauthored by another Israeli academic, Roy Weintraub, explores how Israeli state curricula cover the Nakba, one of the central events that shapes Palestinian identity and political realities. The term is “partially present” in Israeli textbooks and teaching materials and “most teaching materials justify the actions taken by Israeli forces during the 1948 War”. The paper concludes: “Inclusion of difficult histories in the curriculum does not necessarily encourage a critical understanding of the suffering and injustices experienced.”

The issue with the curricula in Israel-Palestine is larger than education. It is about power. When one side controls land, movement, permits, budgets and institutions, and can also influence the language through which the other side describes that reality to its children, the classroom becomes another arena of the conflict itself.

The struggle over Palestinian textbooks is not only about what children should learn. It is also about who has the authority to decide what counts as legitimate history in the first place.

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

US president’s comments came after he was asked why North Korea can have nuclear weapons when Iran cannot.

United States President Donald Trump has described North Korean leader Kim Jong Un as “a friend” and played down concerns about Pyongyang’s nuclear arsenal, saying, “as long as I’m around, he’s going to be fine”.

Trump made the remarks in Washington, DC, on Tuesday after a reporter asked him why North Korea could have nuclear weapons but Iran could not.

“That’s interesting. You know why? Because you had a different president, and they could have stopped him,” he said, referring to previous US administrations.

“He happens to be a friend of mine, Kim Jong Un, he’s a friend of mine. He likes Trump, doesn’t like a lot of other people. I’m about the only person in the entire world that he likes, and I like him,” he said.

He said North Korea’s nuclear capacity was “pretty large” but “not like us”.

“You know what, as long as I’m around, he’s going to be fine,” he added. “You know why? Because he respects me and he likes me.”

South Korea’s Defence Minister Ahn Gyu-back said last week that its northern neighbour possessed between 80 and 120 nuclear warheads. The figure is significantly higher than Trump’s recent assertion that Pyongyang has 57 nuclear weapons.

Trump is seeking to re-engage with Kim and secure a win on the international stage as the US and Israel’s war on Iran enters its eighth month.

The US president launched the war along with Israel on February 28, saying Iran could not have a nuclear weapon. Iran has denied seeking a weapon, noting it had signed an agreement with world powers in 2015 that curbed its nuclear programme in exchange for sanctions relief. But Trump abandoned the agreement during his first term in 2018.

The US-Israel war on Iran has disrupted global energy supplies, raised fuel costs and hurt Trump’s popularity ahead of the November midterm elections.

Trump held summits with North Korea’s Kim in 2018 and 2019, but diplomacy broke down over US demands that Pyongyang give up its nuclear weapons. Since then, Kim has expanded his arsenal of nuclear-capable missiles and strengthened his diplomatic footprint by aligning with Russia over its war in Ukraine and tightening relations with China.

Trump had earlier said he planned to hold in-person talks with Kim before the end of the year.

But North Korea has not formally committed to such a meeting.