Opinions

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.