The roar of the dangerous few by Jemma Norman

There was a time when Britain prided itself on quiet decency, on reasoned debate, on tolerance, on that steady, understated confidence that didn’t need to shout. But that time feels like a distant memory now. Today, the air is thick with the thundering voices of the few loud, angry, and relentless drowning out the quiet majority who still believe in fairness, openness, and the rule of law. This minority, emboldened by demagogues like Nigel Farage, has learned that in the age of outrage, volume is power. And Britain, once a nation of thoughtful moderation, now teeters on the cliff’s edge of dark populism.

Farage is not new to the game. He’s been playing it for decades, the performance of the “everyman,” pint in hand, talking about “taking back control” and “the will of the people.” It’s a script written in resentment and applause lines, not in policy or principle. What makes him so dangerous is not his intellect, which is limited but his instinct. He understands fear. He knows how to turn complex realities into simple enemies: migrants, elites, the EU, anyone different or inconvenient. His genius lies not in leadership but in manipulation, in sensing what people are angry about and making that anger his own currency.

And make no mistake this kind of populism is a moral corrosion. It eats away at empathy, civility, and truth itself. It replaces dialogue with slogans, nuance with noise. When Farage or his imitators speak of “freedom,” what they really mean is the freedom to insult, to exclude, to divide. When they invoke “the people,” they mean only a certain kind of people, angry, nostalgic, easily frightened, easily flattered. The rest are dismissed as “traitors,” “globalists,” or “woke elites.” It’s a chillingly effective linguistic trick: strip your opponents of humanity, and you no longer need to listen to them.

Britain has always been a nation of contradictions, empire and emancipation, privilege and protest, conservatism and compassion. But at its best, it found a balance. Today that balance is gone. The shouting has become the soundtrack. The Faragean right thrives on chaos, because chaos creates attention, and attention creates power. They don’t need to win the argument, only to make sure no one else can speak. The strategy is painfully familiar across the world: dominate the narrative, discredit the media, flood the airwaves with outrage.

The tragedy is that it works. Social media amplifies anger like a megaphone in a cave. The more absurd the claim, the more viral it becomes. Farage and his ilk have learned that truth is optional in modern politics; all that matters is emotional resonance. Say it loudly, say it repeatedly, and people will believe it or at least believe that “there must be something to it.” Meanwhile, those who value facts and reason sound boring, academic, elitist. In an age of noise, calmness looks like weakness.

But beneath all the shouting lies something even more dangerous: exhaustion. Millions of Britons are simply tired, tired of division, tired of politics as performance, tired of being told who to hate. And yet their fatigue is the populist’s greatest weapon. When people tune out, the loudest voices are left to rule the room. When moderates retreat, extremists advance. Silence, in this context, is not neutrality; it’s surrender.

Farage thrives on that silence. Every time decent people shrug and say “what’s the point,” he wins a little more ground. Every time lies go unchallenged, the public sphere corrodes a little further. What began as an act, the pub-room patriot railing against elites, has metastasized into a genuine movement that bends national discourse around its anger. The poison has seeped deep. You can see it in the normalization of xenophobia, in the disdain for expertise, in the casual cruelty of online mobs. It’s not that Britain has suddenly become a nation of bigots; it’s that bigotry has found its microphone.

And where is the opposition to this ugliness? Too often, muted, afraid of offending, still believing that reason alone can outlast rage. But you cannot whisper your way through a storm. You have to speak firmly, clearly, without apology. You have to name the danger for what it is: not “populism,” which sounds almost democratic, but a creeping authoritarianism wrapped in the language of patriotism. The populist does not want democracy; he wants domination. He does not want dialogue; he wants obedience.

The Britain that once exported democracy, literature, and law to the world is now flirting with the politics of menace and mockery. And it didn’t happen overnight. It happened gradually, with every joke at the expense of “do-gooders,” every headline scapegoating refugees, every politician too cowardly to call out hate for fear of losing votes. The descent into darkness never begins with a march; it begins with a shrug.

Still, not all hope is lost. The strength of Britain has never come from its loudest citizens, but from its quiet ones, those who believe in decency, in fairness, in looking out for one another. They are still here, even if their voices are drowned for now. The challenge is to make them heard again, to remind the country that compassion is not weakness, and that the true measure of patriotism is not who you exclude, but who you protect.

The noise machine will not stop. It will roar and rage and ridicule. But it cannot build; it can only destroy. The task now is for Britain to rediscover its courage not the blustering, flag-waving kind, but the quiet, stubborn kind that built a democracy worth defending.

Because if the country continues to mistake volume for vision, it will wake up one day to find that the shouting has stopped, not because the bullies were defeated, but because there is no one left who dares to speak.

And by then, Britain’s silence will not be peace. It will be the sound of something precious — its moral compass  finally breaking.

Education on life support by Dai Eun Greer

Education, once the proud heartbeat of civilization, now limps along like a wounded patient in a war hospital. We speak of innovation, progress, and global leadership, yet in too many countries, particularly in the West, schools and universities are little more than bureaucratic mausoleums. They harbour potential, yes, but it is smothered beneath layers of outdated curricula, partisan policies, and an astonishing indifference to the very purpose of learning. Education today is less a springboard into the future than a waiting room for obsolescence.

The paradox is cruel. Never in human history has knowledge been more accessible. The sum total of human thought is at our fingertips, free to anyone with a laptop or smartphone. Yet our education systems, for all their resources, seem almost allergic to adapting to the needs of the modern world. Students are taught in ways reminiscent of the Industrial Revolution, stand in line, absorb information, regurgitate it under stress and then told they are prepared for careers in a world that barely resembles the one they are being trained for. We prize memorization over critical thinking, conformity over creativity, and grades over genuine understanding.

It is tempting to blame teachers, administrators, or students themselves. But such blame is a distraction, a convenient scapegoat that hides the real disease: systemic failure. Education is hampered by policies that are often reactionary, piecemeal, and ideologically charged. One decade, the mantra is “STEM above all”; the next, “return to the classics.” Meanwhile, the world outside the classroom hurtles forward at a speed that no curriculum can match, and our children, our future, are left clutching textbooks that read like relics.

Even more alarming is the degree to which education has become a political pawn. Decisions about what is taught, how it is taught, and who gets access to it are increasingly influenced by short-term electoral cycles and cultural skirmishes rather than long-term societal needs. In some places, children are instructed to uncritically accept myths over facts, and in others, teachers are forbidden to teach the full spectrum of history, science, or literature. Education, a supposed pillar of rational thought, is bending under the weight of ideology. It is hard to imagine a civilization thriving when the very institutions that should cultivate critical citizens are themselves ensnared in dogma.

And yet, reform is not impossible, it merely requires courage, vision, and a willingness to think beyond national borders. What we need is not incremental tinkering but a serious overhaul, a global conversation about what education should look like in the twenty-first century. We need curricula that prepare students for the challenges of a globalized, technologically advanced, and socially complex world, rather than for a nostalgic notion of the past. We need to emphasize creativity, problem-solving, ethics, and empathy alongside science, mathematics, and literacy. We need education to cultivate citizens who are not just employable but capable of thinking critically, engaging meaningfully with their communities, and navigating a world of unprecedented complexity.

This is not a call for utopia; it is a call for pragmatism. Countries that cling to outdated educational paradigms are, in effect, dooming themselves to stagnation. Businesses complain that graduates lack practical skills, yet when schools attempt to teach those skills, they are accused of abandoning “true learning.” Society wants well-rounded, thoughtful citizens but punishes innovation and risk-taking in teaching. It is a contradiction that borders on absurdity and yet it is the reality we face.

Globally coordinated reform may sound ambitious, even fanciful, but consider the alternative: fragmented, parochial systems struggling to keep pace with exponential technological and societal change. A global dialogue does not mean uniformity; it means shared standards, shared understanding, and shared commitment to preparing young people for a world where the only constant is change. Education should be treated as a global public good, not a local experiment constrained by budgetary whims or political agendas.

Of course, implementation is complex. Reform must respect cultural differences while promoting universal competencies. It must support teachers with resources, training, and professional respect. It must empower students to learn, explore, and fail safely, because failure is, paradoxically, the most profound teacher of all. Most importantly, it must center the human mind and spirit over standardized testing, bureaucratic metrics, and political convenience. Education is not a ledger to balance; it is an investment in imagination, resilience, and collective intelligence.

The question is whether we have the courage to treat education with the seriousness it deserves. Will we continue to allow it to languish, a patient left unattended while society blames it for its own shortcomings? Or will we finally recognize that a civilization is only as strong as its commitment to nurturing minds capable of confronting the future? The answer will define not only our schools but the very societies that emerge from them.

The wounded patient waits. But unlike the ill in a hospital bed, it cannot be treated with palliative care alone. Education demands intervention. It demands bold, thoughtful, and globally minded reform. If we fail to answer that call, the cost will not be measured in grades or test scores but in opportunity lost, potential unrealized, and a future less capable of facing its own challenges. And that is a cost no civilization should be willing to pay.

Worming #119 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

A family of worms and all their worm friends worming in new adventures.

For more Worming, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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Defying Power with Principle: The Remarkable Rise of Zohran Mamdani by Javed Akbar

Move over, status quo – New York has a new story to tell
Zohran Mamdani’s victory marks not just a political shift,
but a cultural reckoning for a city daring to dream again.

In an age when politics is too often measured by wealth, power, and pedigree, Zohran Mamdani stands as a shining exception — a triumph of conviction over capital, of ideals over intimidation. A Muslim, an immigrant, and the son of immigrants, Mamdani defied the entrenched machinery of billionaires who once dictated the pulse of New York politics. His victory was not merely electoral; it was moral — a resounding affirmation that courage, intellect, and purpose can still triumph in the citadel of capitalism.

How did he do it? The answer lies in his foundation. His parents, both Harvard graduates – his mother, an acclaimed film maker who chose the path of visual arts, and his father, a professor at Columbia University- were scholars and visionaries in their own right, who gave him not privilege but purpose — the strength of identity and the finest gift any parent can bestow: an education that sharpened his mind and emboldened his soul. Mamdani, in turn, did not shrink from his roots. He embraced them. He stood tall as a Muslim, as an African-Asian, and as a social democrat in a system enthralled by wealth.

At just 34, Mamdani exudes discipline and composure rare in the modern political arena. His clean-cut morals and dignity in honesty have become his defining traits. There is an unyielding determination in him — the quiet conviction that a quitter never wins. What distinguishes him further is his daring nature: the courage to challenge formidable adversaries with a calm assurance and a broad, infectious smile that often unsettled his opponents more than any speech could. Even when faced with prickly questions, Mamdani’s smile disarmed hostility and reaffirmed his confidence in truth. Boldness and fearlessness are his hallmarks; grace under pressure, his enduring strength.

Mamdani’s campaign was a masterclass in message discipline and strategic foresight. It stayed ahead of the narrative, transforming skepticism into solidarity. The open secret of Mamdani’s popularity was his extraordinary inclusiveness — he embraced New Yorkers of every faith, ethnicity, and nationality, the rich and the poor alike, men and women, as fellow New Yorkers and fellow citizens. He built a multiracial, cross-class coalition that stretched from affluent professionals to the struggling working class — a broad, inclusive alliance bound not by identity politics but by shared ideals of justice, dignity, and opportunity.

When the ultra-rich poured their resources into his opponents — backed by powerful lobbies and the most formidable media apparatus — Mamdani met them not with resentment, but with resolve. His campaign spoke not the language of fear but of fairness, not of division but of dignity. His victory became a jolt to Donald Trump’s presidency, a referendum on the politics of exclusion and excess that had come to define an era.

Mamdani’s life is a reminder — and a lesson — to every parent, every young student, and every aspiring politician that greatness is not inherited; it is cultivated through discipline, purpose, and moral conviction. He has shown that decency need not be sacrificed for ambition, that integrity is not a weakness but a strength that endures. His journey stands as proof that politics, when guided by conscience, can still be a noble vocation — a sacred trust between the leader and the led. Parents must instill in their children not just the desire to succeed, but the courage to serve. And to the young minds who dream of changing the world: let Mamdani’s example be your compass. Enter politics not as a path to privilege, but as a pledge to principle; not to command, but to uplift; not to seek glory, but to restore faith — that leadership, at its truest, is an act of service to humanity.

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Javed Akbar is a freelance writer with published works in the Toronto Star and across diverse digital platforms.

The Informant part 2 - #ShortStory #fiction by Richard Stanford

Wallace worked the story for a week and with Damien Chamberlan in Montréal corroborated the details of the golf and dinner dates, the post office boxes, and the contracts – everything Lydia alleged.  Winchester gave the cue to publish. When the story broke in the Kingston Chronicle and the following day in La Presse, it landed loud.  The Prime Minister and Cabinet Ministers pleaded ignorance and ran for cover.  The Opposition party couldn’t find reporters fast enough to slam the government. 

In the executive offices of Dominion Shipbuilding all hell broke loose.  Lydia sat at her desk as a steady stream of lawyers, accountants, and vice-presidents went into Larson’s office.  There was a lot of shouting.  For two days and nights they worked the telephones, had intense meetings but never once did any of them cast an eye to Lydia.  In an odd way she felt insulted.  Did it not occur to them that her job as the executive secretary gave her access to the very material published in the newspapers?  Was she too loyal, too pretty, too stupid to figure out such a scheme?

Stocks in the company plummeted on the Montreal Stock Exchange. The executives bought them up at inflated prices in the hopes of reversing the tide.  It didn’t work. By the end of the week the stocks had lost sixty percent of their value. Finally the decision was made to sue The Chronicle and Lloyd-Craig for libel and defamation.  The legal documents were given to Lydia to deliver personally to the court registrar’s office in the courthouse on Notre-Dame Street.  It was seven o’clock when she returned home and phoned Wallace at The Chronicle.

“They’re coming for you,” she said.

“What took them so long?”

“Excuse me?”

“They were bound to fight back.  They were hardly going to say: Oh sure, we gave money to government bureaucrats and dined them and golfed them and god knows what else, all to get a perfectly legal contract on the citizens’ dime.”

“They’re suing you for libel and defamation…serious charges.”

“They’re only serious if we published lies. I’m a journalist, not a novelist so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“What’s next?

“Nothing. We have a lawyer. We’ve been through this before.”

“How many times?”

“Oh, let’s see…a few.”

Through the static of the line Lydia hears a faint voice in the background that she cannot discern. Wallace returns: “Make that several.  That’s why I’ve had Sydney Broderick, the Second, on retainer for…how long....?”

Again the voice.

“Nineteen years,” said Wallace.

“Sydney Broderick the Second? What is he, a king?”

“I wish.  If he was, we wouldn’t have to pay him. He’s our family lawyer, and by extension, The Chronicle’s. How are you doing?”

“I’m all right.  As I said, no one’s so much as looked at me except to deliver the documents to the courthouse. Imagine. Me. They have no idea.”

“Keep it that way.”

“But a lawsuit. I never thought it would come to this.”

“Politics and journalism, always a toxic mix.  But don’t worry. They have to do this otherwise they would have to admit the truth.”

 Sydney Broderick II appeared in court to represent his client, Wallace Lloyd-Craig.  Dominion’s lawyer demanded that the court order The Chronicle to retract the story.  Broderick stated that The Chronicle stood by the story and there would be no retractions.  The judge, however, did agree to issue a subpoena ordering Lloyd-Craig to appear in court the next day.

Lydia’s home telephone rang at 7AM.  Never a good morning person, she was half asleep when she answered and all she heard was hissing steam and a thousand footsteps.

“Sorry, I know it’s early,” Wallace shouted. “You know I’m in court this morning.”

“Of course, I know everything,” she said, her voice rough. “Where are you?”

“Windsor Station.”

“You have your king with you?”

“Yes,” he said with a deep sigh. “When this is done, would you like meet for a drink later?”

Lydia hesitated. She had changed her opinion of Wallace since the story was published. He had been true to his word and the article was a good one.  But this?

“Is it safe for us to been seen together?”

“I know a place. We’ll be fine.”

“All right.”

 Lydia arrived at the executive office of Dominion, in time to see Larson dashing out with his team of lawyers and barking to them: “I want you to crush that son-of-a-bitch!” After that, the office was quiet for the rest of the day.  She left at five o’clock and arrived at her apartment on Mountain Street.  The telephone rang the moment she walked in.

“Hello Miss Beecher,” came a voice in a melodious tone. “I’m Sydney Broderick, Wallace’s lawyer.”

“Oh yes, I trust things went well today.”

There was a long pause, covered by static. “Unfortunately things did not go well. Wallace is in jail.”

“What!?” Lydia, set her hand on the wall to steady herself. “Oh my heavens!”

“I’m aware that you and Wallace were to meet later. I’m afraid that will have to be postponed.”

Lydia sucked in a deep breath, let it out slow. “I…I…I…don’t understand.”

“The judge ordered Wallace to reveal the identity of his source. He refused, three times.  The judge found him in contempt of court and sentenced him to incarceration until such time as he complies.”

“But why didn’t he just reveal my name? I don’t want him in jail. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“There was always a slim possibility.”

“It’s no longer slim, is it? I’m going to the court and tell the judge myself.”

“You will do no such thing,” said Sydney sternly.  “This is not about you, Miss Beecher.  It’s about a principle: the right of a journalist to use anonymous sources and to protect the source’s identity.  If in the future someone has an important story to tell a reporter but is afraid of being exposed for fear of retribution, that story will die and the public will be denied information to which they are entitled.  Why did you do what you did? You introduced yourself under a false name. You travelled a hundred and fifty miles to ensure no one you knew saw you meeting with Wallace. You travelled to some village in the middle of nowhere to investigate surreptitiously the destinations of the cheques.  Why did you do all of that?”

Lawyers, thought Lydia.  Why are their arguments so ironclad?  But he was right. “How long will Wallace be there?”

“Hard to say.  I will tell you, I agree with the principle.  Damien Chamberlan, several other reporters and their papers are following up. It seems that the history of bribes at Dominion goes back a few years. If the papers keep the pressure up, Larson might blink. Go about your life as usual, go to your job and say nothing…Please.”

Lydia had heard that before. Say nothing.  Her parents, forever concerned with what other people thought had taught her to never express what she really felt. Polite girls are forever told to say nothing, never rock the boat. It’s the reason why ten years ago she fled her family in Winnipeg and took the train to Montréal.

“All right,” she said. “Life as usual.”

§

The cell was three feet wide by eight feet long with a smudged frieze of mold and mildew running along the walls, stained in every hue of the excremental rainbow with seepage blotches that looked as if they’d leaked from a corpse.  The jail’s range extended the length of the courthouse basement and derived no light from the half-dozen slits of grime-clouded glass that overlooked an alleyway. Wallace had been in dozens of prison cells while interviewing inmates in Kingston’s myriad penitentiaries.  During the war he had visited internment camps in the Kootenay region of British Columbia where Japanese families were incarcerated.  In Greenwood, Kaslo, Lemon Creek and Slocan City, Wallace saw hundreds of men, women, children, the elderly, and the handicapped being held in nothing more than plywood shacks. The men were forced to hard labour, working without pay on local farms or on highway construction.  Wallace was appalled not only by the harsh conditions but also that these were Canadian citizens, some second generation.  In his articles, Wallace posed the questions of what possible security risk these people could be and why, as Canadian citizens, the adults could be legally confined without having committed any crime.  The response to his articles was fierce and in some cases threatening. When rocks were hurled through the windows of The Chronicle, Winchester suspended all future articles on the internment camps and ordered Wallace home.

From the end of the range came the sounds of pacing and barking and cursing, the large holding block for the inmates-in-transit – on their way back to prison or recent collars from the street: drunks, thieves, psychotics. They had put Wallace in there in the early hours of his first night but a guard, seemingly one with some rank, placed him in this cell further away from the bedlam.

“So now I’m in solitary, with no one to talk to,” said Wallace.

“You don’t want to talk to those guys and they sure as hell don’t want to talk to you,” the guard said, introducing himself as Sergeant Pascal.

“Can you at least get me a newspaper?”

“Sure. You can read all about yourself. You’re all over the place,” said Pascal.  He came back a few minutes later and passed two newspapers through the bars. “Lisez-vousfrançais?”

“Bien sûr,” said Wallace opening the front pages of La Presse and The Montreal Star.

Pascal leaned in closer to the bars: “Reporters aren’t too popular around here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t you know? The inmates are all innocent and reporters write about them as if they’re not. See you tomorrow,” Pascal said, clicking off down the range.

None of the inmates Wallace knew back in Kingston mistrusted journalists.  For them a reporter was sometimes their only means of speaking to the outside world. As for innocence, wasn’t that universal?

In the silence, Wallace’s mind wandered to his father. He had read everything his father had done and thought over twenty years but their actual time together had been brief. Wallace had read his journals several times, even knew some parts by-heart: the search for Dunant; the Boyle revolution.  Yet Wallace could still not understand why his father did news stories that sent him away from his family.  When his father was home, he was all there: together they went to museums (more his mother’s idea who considered it akin to going to a church, one that changed denominations every week), the theatre, and of course movies, the last time to see Easy Street with Charlie Chaplin.  At night his father would read to him, Dickens and Zola, and poetry, particularly Shelley.  But when Wallace was only thirteen, he lost him altogether.  George’s final entries were virtually a death certificate: short, dull sentences from a state of delirium.  Memories were fading with time but Wallace had his father’s deepest thoughts, his boldest journeys, in writing that he could read any time. He could recite entire sentences; conjure scores of scenes his father his father experienced. Is the impulse to bear witness, to report, to foment discourse truly that demanding, that all-consuming? Wallace held close to one of his father’s entries: “I do not want to see that look on Wallace’s face again when I left Waterloo Station. Wallace removed his beret and waved it at me, his pale blue eyes wet as a waterfall.”

Wallace knew someone out there was going to blink. In the newspapers Pascal brought to him every day there were stories across the board of this unleashed scandal, of “the crime of incarcerating a journalist for doing his job”.  The government was taking it on the chin, their poll numbers were slipping down a muddy hill.  Someone will blink but it won’t be him. So it might mean a few more days in this urine-soaked rabbit hole and that would be fine because he knew his father would have done exactly the same.

§

On the ninth morning of Wallace’s incarceration, at about the same time that he was in court again refusing to divulge his source, the doors to the executive offices of Dominion Ships burst open and the Deputy Minister of Defense marched through, followed by a lawyer.

Lydia stood up at her desk, “Monsieur Castonguay, so good to see you. I’ll see if…”

“Don’t bother. This will not take long,” said Castonguay continuing straight to Larson’s office.

Larson jumped out of his chair like a spring had shot him up.  The lawyer held the door open making certain Lydia could hear everything.

Before Larson could utter a sound, Castonguay said, “I’m delivering a message from the P.M. and the Privy Council. You are to resign as CEO of Dominion by the end of the day.  If you do not, Dominion Ships will never see a military contract again.  The frigate currently under construction here will be cancelled and given to the next bidder.”

“But….”

“I’m not finished! You will also instruct your lawyers to withdraw the libel case against The Chronicle and have Mr. Lloyd-Craig released from jail also by the end of the day. I will expect a telephone call from your executive secretary confirming that you have taken these actions.  No questions.” Castonguay turned on his heels and left as he had come in. The lawyer paused at Lydia’s desk and handed her his business card. “I will await your call, Miss Beecher. And thank you for all of your help.”

Lydia took in a deep breath. Did he know? Did they know all along? And if they did, why?  Larson called her into his office and dictated his resignation.  As she typed it, she heard Larson on the telephone instructing the company lawyers to withdraw the libel case. By midday, Larson had packed his possessions into a box and was heading for the door, pausing to thank Lydia in a perfunctory tone.  She decided that for only the second time in her life she was going to stand up.

“Mr. Larson,” she said. He turned to her.  She squared her shoulders: “For seven years I’ve worked for you and in that time you have not had the foggiest idea of what it is I do here.  Maybe now you do.”

Larson stared at her. “You? I could have you charged with stealing classified documents.”

“Bribery cheques? Classified documents? You think I didn’t know where the cheques were going?”

Larson shook his head and left. Lydia telephoned the Deputy Minister’s office and confirmed that the ultimata had been carried out.  She walked to the window, its glass layered in a patina of soot.  Sealed shut, the window overlooked the shipyard but the high steel walls of the dry lock cut off the horizon and the view of the St. Lawrence River.  Long ago when the window did open Lydia had inhaled the acidic air, smelled the burning coal, and saw the crimson-hot rivets flying through the air and the showers of sparks from welding torches. And there was the noise, the relentless pounding of steel on steel. She closed the window that day and hadn’t opened it since.  She returned to her desk and typed her letter of resignation.  The telephone rang.

“Sydney Broderick here. I suspect it’s been rather exciting around your office today.”

“Yes, in more ways than one.”

“Good.  Allow me to add to the festivities. Wallace is being released shortly. What say I pick you up and we’ll swing over to the courthouse?”

As she waited for Sydney at the front doors of the administration building, the afternoon shift was punching out and the men were walking to their cars. Lydia knew many of them – engineers, welders, sheet metal workers, electricians, carpenters, riveters, who smiled and waved a good evening to her, unaware of the machinations. They would’ve read about the bribery charges in the newspapers and that would’ve made them angry. 

Lydia also knew the twelve crew members who were killed in the dry docks - right under her office window – in what they called industrial accidents: falls from scaffolding, propane explosions, errant red-hot rivets falling from the sky like shrapnel.  Lydia recalled all their names, having typed twelve letters of condolence to the families in Nova Scotia, Sorel, and Pointe St. Charles.  Lydia believed that many of the deaths were caused by the men being overworked and exhausted.  For six years they never took their holidays, they worked weekends without pay, and it showed in their burned hands, their dark leathery faces beaten by wind and smoke.  One of the foreman told her, “The boys landing in Normandy don’t take no weekends, neither do we.”

A long, black Packard pulled up at the foot of the steps. Sydney opened the passenger door and called out, “Miss Beecher, hop in.”

Sydney hit the accelerator before Lydia had closed the door.  She fell back into the seat which was fully extended away from the dashboard so as to accommodate Sydney’s long legs that nonetheless brushed up against the underside of the steering wheel. He was impeccably dressed in a suit and vest but had removed his tie and thrown it into back seat. Sydney turned on to Notre-Dame Street and drove west. Lydia looked over to the St. Lawrence and saw its muddy flow dulled grey in the sunset.

“He should be out by the time we get to the courthouse.  How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. I resigned.”

Sydney glanced at her.  He was not surprised by anything this woman might do. He said: “I could use someone like you in my office.”

“I’m not a legal secretary.”

“I wouldn’t have you doing that.  I can use a good investigator.”

“You mean a detective?”

“Oh no, I’m not Dashiell Hammett. I don’t handle murderers.  I’m talking about the kind of thing that happened around you - bribery, perfidy, pouring through documents, those sorts of things.”

“I’ll think about it. For now, I need some time to…I don’t know…do nothing.”

“I understand.  Just remember, my office is always open.”

Mount Royal came into view, its slopes in the full panoply of reds, greens, and yellows of autumn foliage. Lydia did need the time to do nothing but there was something else. She had only known Wallace for one day three months ago and except for a couple of telephone calls, they had had no other conversations. However, in this moment she had never felt such a sense of expectation, of possibility.

“Before we get there,” said Sydney, “you might want to get in the back seat and put your head down.”

“For heaven’s sake, why?”

“As soon as the reporters see you they’re going to put two and two together.”

“Let them. I’m not hiding anymore.”

When Sydney stopped the car in front of the courthouse Wallace was already outside surrounded by a flock of reporters and flashing camera bulbs. Sydney hopped out of the car and ran up the courthouse steps.  The reporters were barking questions at Wallace who was trying his best to answer them but it was obvious to all that he was tired.  He looked haggard with dark circles around his eyes and the beginnings of a very scraggly beard. When he spoke, he stammered and repeated himself. Sydney pressed his way through the crowd and took Wallace by the arm: “Okay fellas, that’s it for now,” and led him down the steps to the car.

Sgt. Pascal was standing at the sidewalk and as he passed Wallace shook his hand. “Thanks for everything,” he said.

“Just don’t mention my name in any story,” said Pascal.

“Hey, I never read any newspapers in there.”

As they approached the car one of the reporters spotted Lydia in the front seat and shouted out: “Excuse me, ma’am, are you the informant?”

Lydia stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

“She’s just a friend, Johnson,” said Wallace as he opened the door and jumped in beside Lydia.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be the writing the exclusive,” and they drove off.

Wallace looked at Lydia. “You’re a brave one. Stoic. You should be a politician.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I want to talk to a politician ever again.”

“Three cheers for that,” said Sydney. “Wallace, I booked you a room at the Laurentian. I thought you might need to freshen up before going back to Kingston.”

“I will. That and some real food. Care to join us, Lydia?”

“Yes. A good stiff drink would help, too.”

“Can’t join you, I’m afraid,” said Sydney. “The joys of fatherhood.”

Sydney stopped the car in front of the Laurentian Hotel.  Wallace stepped out, let Lydia out of the front seat and leaned back into the car. “Thanks for sticking by me, Sydney.”

“Are you kidding. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You’re a brave man. You did well.”

Sydney drove off.  Wallace turned and saw Lydia at the top of the stairs waiting at the front doors. He looked up at her, seeing the rays of twilight shining off her hair. He said, “Think of the great story we can tell people when they ask us how we met. I can open with - I just got out of jail.”

“And why would anyone ask us that question?”

“Because there’s going to be a whole lot of story to tell after that.”

“Really,” she said with a smile. “Well you’d better pick up the pace or you’re going to miss all of it.” She went through the front doors and Wallace, jumping two steps at a time, followed her inside.

END

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Part I - Part II

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© Richard Stanford – 2025

The president who said NO! By Virginia Robertson

There’s something both chilling and illuminating about the sight of a head of state being groped in broad daylight. It’s not only a violation of the body, but a stark reminder of how power and gender remain on parallel, unequal tracks, even at the highest levels of authority.

When Mexico’s President Claudia Sheinbaum was assaulted by a man during a public appearance this week, an act captured on countless cell phones, the moment spread across social media like an electric shock. The footage is brief, but unbearable in its familiarity: a man approaches her from behind, reaching toward her body with entitlement that feels both individual and systemic. She flinches, steps away, the crowd murmurs, security intervenes. Her face controlled but shaken, says what millions of women have felt: even here, even now, it doesn’t stop.

It’s worth pausing to realize what just happened. A man put his hands on the President of Mexico. The symbolism is as striking as it is grotesque. Sheinbaum is not only the first woman to lead the country, she’s a scientist, a leftist, a reformer who rose from academia to the national stage but in that split second, she became something else: every woman who has ever been touched without consent, looked at as accessible, as someone’s opportunity for a grab or a thrill.

Her decision to press charges was swift and deliberate. “If I don’t file a complaint, what will happen to other Mexican women?” she asked at a news conference. The question resonates far beyond the steps of the National Palace. It’s a political act cloaked in moral clarity, both deeply personal and fiercely public. Sheinbaum understood, instinctively, that the incident wasn’t about her alone. It was about the pattern; the way violence and harassment against women are normalized, laughed off, or forgotten.

For decades, Mexico’s women have been marching, shouting, and mourning to be heard. Feminist collectives have painted the city’s monuments purple, raised the names of murdered women in plazas, and demanded that the state stop turning a blind eye. The country’s femicide crisis is not an abstract statistic; it’s a daily bruise on its conscience. Against that backdrop, Sheinbaum’s decision to take the case to court is more than symbolic; it’s a test of Mexico’s willingness to believe that no one, not even a president, should have to accept assault as part of public life.

The easy thing for a politician would have been to dismiss it as a misunderstanding, a “moment of excitement,” as so many male leaders have done when confronted with impropriety. Sheinbaum could have smiled tightly and moved on, offering the ritual call for “respect.” Instead, she chose confrontation over composure. It was a choice that announced, in its quiet way, a new kind of authority.

Sheinbaum’s gesture is revolutionary not because she is demanding punishment, but because she is demanding recognition, that what happened to her is a crime, not an inconvenience. For too long, women in power have been expected to absorb harassment as a hazard of visibility. From catcalls on the campaign trail to threats online, every ascent into public life comes with an unwritten clause: endure it, or you’ll be dismissed as hysterical.

But here was the President of Mexico, refusing that contract.

The image of Sheinbaum stepping back from her assailant will likely become a defining moment of her presidency, not because it reveals weakness, but because it exposes strength. It’s the kind of moment that dismantles the illusion of immunity. It reminds us that authority doesn’t shield women from misogyny; it only amplifies the contradiction of a world that still measures female power in proximity to male comfort.

There’s something almost poetic, and profoundly infuriating, about the fact that the man approached her from behind. It’s the angle of ambush, of presumption. His act was not simply physical, it was performative, the assertion of a small, desperate dominance in the face of a woman who represents something new. In that instant, he stood for every fragile man who has ever felt the need to remind a woman that her body is still public property.

In her calm response, Sheinbaum turned that performance back on itself. By filing charges, she flips the script: what was intended as humiliation becomes evidence, what was supposed to be a passing moment of disrespect becomes a political reckoning.

This episode will not, of course, dismantle machismo in Mexico. The rot runs deep, in institutions, in homes, in the unspoken codes of male behaviour passed down through generations. But Sheinbaum’s decision plants a flag on moral terrain that has long been ceded to silence. If the President cannot walk safely in the capital’s heart, then no woman can. And if the President refuses to tolerate it, perhaps no woman should.

Critics will inevitably accuse her of politicizing the event, of using it to bolster her image as a feminist leader. That, too, is part of the pattern: when women seek justice, they are ambitious; when men do, they are principled. But Sheinbaum’s actions are not a branding exercise; they are a statement of continuity with the women of Mexico who have fought, at unimaginable cost, to make their pain visible.

Her presidency was always going to be historic. No one expected that history to look like this, a blurred video on a cellphone, a flinch, a question that cuts to the heart of a nation’s conscience. Yet perhaps this is the truest kind of history: the one that exposes who we are when the cameras are unkind and the world does not behave as it should.

In the end, what Sheinbaum did was deceptively simple. She said no. She said it as a woman, as a citizen, and as the President of Mexico. And by saying no, she invited the rest of the country, the world, to imagine what it might mean if that refusal echoed beyond the steps of the National Palace.

In a country where too many women are still silenced, Claudia Sheinbaum’s voice was not just that of a president. It was the voice of defiance, the kind that reminds us that power, at its best, begins with the courage to name what should never be tolerated.

Because if they can do this to the president, she asks, what will happen to all women? The answer, if we’re listening, should not be another sigh of resignation. It should be the sound of a nation standing beside her, saying: no more.

Velimir Khlebnikov: The Futurian and World Citizen by Rene Wadlow

Let Planet Earth be sovereign at last. Planet Earth alone will be our sovereign song
Velimir Khlebnikov

Velimir Khlebnikov (1895 -1922) whose birth anniversary we mark on 9 November was a shooting star of Russian culture in the years just prior to the start of the First World War. He was part of a small creative circle of poets, painters and writers who wanted to leave the old behind and to set the stage for the future such as the abstract painter Kazimir Malevich. They called themselves "The Futurians". They were interested in being avenues for the Spirit which they saw at work in peasent life and in shamans' visions but very lacking in the works of the ruling nobility and commercial elite.

As Charlotte Douglas notes in her study of Khlebnikov " To tune mankind into harmony with the universe - that was Khlebnikov's vocation. He wanted to make the Planet Earth fit for the future, to free it from the deadly gravitational pull of everyday lying and pretense, from the tyrany of petty human instincts and the slow death of comfort and complacency." (1)

Khlebnikov wrote "Old ones! You are holding back the fast advance of humanity. You are preventing the boiling locomotive of youth from crossing the mountain that lies in its path. We have broken the locks and see what your freight cars contain: tombstones for the young."

The Futurian movement as such lasted from 1911 until 1915 when its members were dispersed by the start of the World War, the 1917 revolutions and the civil war. Khlebnikov died in 1922 just as Stalin was consolidating his power. Stalin would put an end to artistic creativity.

The Futurians were concerned that Russia shold play a creative role in the world, but they were also world citizens who wanted to create a world-wide netwwork of creative scientists, artists and thinkers who would have a strong impact on world events. As Khlebnikov wrote in his manifesto To the Artists of the World "We have long been searching for a program that would act something like a lens capable of focusing the combined rays of the work of the artist and the work of the thinker toward a single point where they might join in a common task and be able to ignite even the cold essence of ice and turn it to a blazing bonfire. Such a program, the lens capable of directing together your firery courage and the cold intellect of the thinkers has now been discovered."

The appeal for such a creative, politically-relevant network was written in early 1919 when much of the world was starting to recover from World War I. However, Russia was sinking into a destructive civil war. The Futurians were dispersed to many different areas and were never able to create such a network. The vision of a new network is now a challenge that we must meet.

Notes
1) Charlotte Douglas (Ed.) The King of Time: Velimir Khlebnikov
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985)
For a fuller picture of Khlebnikov's poems see (link)
2) Rene Wadlow article in Ovi magazine: Velimir Khlebnikov : The Futurian (1895-1922), HERE!

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Rene Wadlow, President, Association of World Citizens

Puppi & Caesar #34 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

Another cartoon with a mean and know-all of a bully cat, Puppi and her intellectual, pompous companion categorically-I-know-all, Caesar the squirrel!  

For more Puppi & Caesar, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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Palestine and Arab-Muslim Leaders and Politics of Wickedness by Mahboob A. Khawaja, PhD.

Friends and Foes in Wars

Warmongers and weapon profiteers claim to be peacemakers but reality reveals reckless crimes against humanity, continuous wars, destruction of earth and human habitats and political wickedness and frauds hostile to peace and global harmony. Arab-Muslim leaders detached from reality and divided for individual survival appear delusional and defeated. In crisis, intelligent leaders opt for facts of life and when facts warrant a change, responsible leaders pursue a navigational change.

Public advisory is rare and non-existence across the Arab-Muslim governance. The overwhelming reality of war in Palestine reflects a cataclysm that afflicted the entire Arab-Muslim world. When hope is replaced by tyranny and terror, people lose sense of rational thinking and direction. The US-Israel war has broader strategic objectives to conquer the Arab world and make Israel a mini superpower of the Middle East. The oil exporting Arab leaders and masses live in a fantasy of their own imagination – a fallacy of truth telling. The US appears to be a collaborator in the alleged crimes against humanity and genocide across Gaza. The Tel Aviv billboard displays the Egyptian, Saudi, Emirate and other presidents / kings / princes standing behind Netanyahu and Trump – friends not foes of Israel. For two years, they all kept regular relationships with Israel. Spectators and onlookers they watched the planned massacres, bombing of places of worship, hospitals, planned starvation of the civilians in Gaza, yet continued their relationships with Israel as a new normal against the interest of their masses. All monsters of history claimed good intentions and righteous ambitions but inflicted horrors, deaths and destruction on fellow human beings to achieve individualistic ambitions of power and glory. If you don’t believe in the encompassing truth, just view the real “genocide pictures” presented by Editor Rosa on Transcend Media, September 8, 2025: https://www.transcend.

https://www.transcend.org/tms/2025/10/political-insanity-drives-aggressive-wars-in-palestine-and-ukraine-how-to-make-peace/

Israel and America’s Agenda of Conquest of the Arab World

Gaza and West Bank are obliterated by Israeli insanity over two years of continued war and bombardments of civilian infrastructures. The Arab-Muslim leaders had no mind, wisdom and courage to challenge Israel for its planned onslaught of Palestinian masses. They profess friendship with Netanyahu against Israeli animosity. The Arab leaders appear morally, intellectually and politically bankrupt as a scum floating on a torrent of naive puppets and discredited leaders. The American-Israeli collaborative war on Gaza and its immediate consequences made the Western world and all of its institutions shamefully redundant and void in the 21^stcentury global norms of civility, human rights, freedom, justice and safety of civilians- whereas crimes against humanity are captured in obscure impulses and indecision and deliberate inaction by the UN Security Council.

Aggressors and Enemy of Mankind Bomb the Spacious Earth

Israel so far, has dropped more than 90,000 ton of bombs on Gaza - three times more insane than what happened at Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War 2. Perhaps, the Israeli and American leaders do not believe in life and death and accountability to God for all of their actions. The Torah and Bible fully reflect on this core human responsibility and punishment to those who violate the Divine Covenants. The Earth is not a property of the US or Israel but a Divine hub of human Life, Survival and a Trust, those bombing and destroying it are mentally sick and defy the Divine Truth. It looks as if the US and Israeli leaders do not believe in life and death and accountability. The earth is a living entity and spins at 1670 km per hour and orbits the Sun at 107,000 km per hour. Imagine, if this spinning fails, what consequences could occur to the living beings on Earth. Think again, about the average distance of earth from moon is 93 million miles -the distance of Moon from Earth is currently 384,821 km equivalent to 0.002572 Astronomical Units. Earth is a “trust” to mankind for its existence, sustenance of life, survival, progress and future-making. The Earth exists and floats without any pillars in a capsule by the Will of God, so, ”Fear God Who created life and death.” Is human intelligence still intact to understand this reality? Wherever there is trust, there is accountability. The Divine Revelations (the Quran: 40: 21) offer a stern warning to conscientious leaders and nations:

Do they not travel through the earth and see

What was the End of those before them. They were even superior to them in strength

And in the traces they have left on the earth. But God did call them to account for their sins

And none had they to defend them against God.

And killing of innocent people is prohibited in the Ten Commandments (Torah):

'Thou shalt not kill' (Exod. 20:13; also Deut. 5:17). Jewish law views the shedding of innocent blood very seriously, and lists murder as one of three sins (along with idolatry and sexual immorality), that fall under the category of yehareg ve'al ya'avor - meaning "One should let himself be killed rather than violate it.

1. “Phase One of Israel’s genocidal campaign on Gaza has ended. Phase Two has begun. It will result in even higher levels of death and destruction” reports Chris Hedges.
2. “Israel Reopens the Gaza Slaughterhouse.” Chris Hedges Report: https://chrishedges.substack.com/p/israel-reopens-the-gaza-slaughterhouse?utm_source=post-email title&publication_id=778851&post_id=139349128&utm_campaign=email-post-title&isFreemail=true&r=b7lbz&utm_medium=email

The Israeli-American denial of crimes against humanity,”genocide” in Gaza, forcible expulsion of millions clearly represent ferocious conception of right and wrong and how irrational the leadership tends to be in real world affairs. Political wickedness is endemic and Western leaders appear mentally and morally dubious as they offer lip service to peace and continue to supply weapons to Israel. Public consciousness and peace activists around the globe demand accountability of Israel and the US. The Trump Peace Plan has paused the war but displacement and killing of Palestinian continues unabated. What a shame, what a disgrace to the Arab-Muslim countries and so-called leaders having armies, resources and opportunities to defend Palestine, besieged masses of Gaza and their rights, dignity, and sustainable future. Yet they all turned out to be inept puppets of the US and Israel. Please see:

https://realovi.wordpress.com/2025/10/06/the-fallacy-of-gaza-peace-plan-and-failure-of-arab-muslim-leadership-by-mahboob-a-khawaja-phd/

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Dr. Mahboob A. Khawaja specializes in international affairs-global security, peace and conflict resolution and has spent several academic years across the Russian-Ukrainian and Central Asian regions knowing the people, diverse cultures of thinking and political governance and a keen interest in Islamic-Western comparative cultures and civilizations, and author of several publications including: Global Humanity and Remaking of Peace, Security and Conflict Resolution for the 21st Century and Beyond, Barnes and Noble Press, USA, 2025 https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/global-humanity-and-remaking-of-peace-security-and-conflict-resolution-for-the-21st-century-and-beyond-mahboob-a-khawaja/1147150197 and We, The People in Search of Global Peace, Security and Conflict Resolution. Kindle Direct Publishing-Amazon, 05/2025 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F6V6CH5W

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Check Mahboob A. Khawaja, PhD. NEW eBOOK,
Wars on Humanity:
Ukraine, Palestine and the role of Global Leaders
HERE!

He's the problem, not the country by Avani Devi

For decades, analysts and journalists have treated Turkey as a geopolitical puzzle: a bridge between East and West, a linchpin in NATO, a rising regional player in the Middle East. Its strategic location, robust economy, and historical clout made it seem almost inevitable that Turkey could assume the dual role of superpower and peacekeeper in a volatile neighborhood. And yet, here we are, watching a nation of nearly 90 million stumble, not because of geography, demography, or destiny, but because of one man: Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.

It is an inconvenient truth often masked by discussions of Turkey’s “problems” in Syria, Libya, or the Eastern Mediterranean. Observers point to creeping authoritarianism, economic instability, or military overreach as if they were structural flaws embedded in the country itself. But those are symptoms. The disease is Erdoğan. His personal style of governance, his moral compromises, and his relentless pursuit of personal power have transformed a potentially stabilizing force into an unpredictable actor whose credibility is near nil.

Erdoğan’s Turkey is not struggling because the world is too complex. It is struggling because Erdoğan has made the world complex. He has spent two decades cultivating an image of strongman competence, but beneath the veneer lies a reputation for corruption, cronyism, and opportunism so well-known that even his allies approach negotiations with suspicion. Loyalty to Erdoğan is transactional, not principled; it is contingent on survival or benefit rather than shared vision or ethical alignment. The institutions that might have tempered his worst impulses—courts, legislatures, even civil service have been hollowed out or repurposed to enforce obedience.

This is not to suggest that Turkey has lost all agency. On the contrary, the country retains remarkable capacity: a dynamic economy, a young population, a strategic position at the crossroads of Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. These assets could make it a regional peacemaker, a mediator between warring factions, a broker of uneasy alliances. Yet Erdoğan has turned these tools into instruments of self-interest, often prioritizing short-term political gain over long-term stability. Foreign policy decisions are increasingly transactional, opportunistic, and unpredictable, leaving allies and rivals unsure whether Turkey will act as a partner, a spoiler, or simply a chaotic bystander.

Take Syria, for example. Once seen as a potential arena for Turkish diplomacy, the conflict has instead become a showcase for Erdoğan’s personal ambitions. Military incursions, shifting alliances, and the instrumentalization of refugees are not the work of a responsible regional power but of a leader seeking to consolidate domestic power, distract from economic woes, and shape a narrative of nationalist heroism. In Libya, the pattern repeats. Erdoğan positions Turkey as a decisive player, but the veneer of influence masks a reputation for transactional deals and a penchant for inflaming tensions when they suit his narrative.

The paradox is that Erdoğan’s personal brand of authoritarianism promising strength and vision while eroding trust and stability has rendered Turkey simultaneously powerful and impotent. Powerful, because he can make unilateral decisions that bend regional politics; impotent, because no one truly believes those decisions will be principled, sustainable, or reliable. Allies hedge. Rivals calculate. Investors hesitate. Diplomats tread lightly. Erdoğan’s Turkey is a country constantly measured against the caprice of one man’s whims, rather than against the aspirations of a nation capable of acting in its own long-term interest.

It is telling that critics often conflate Erdoğan’s failings with Turkey itself. This is an error not just of analysis but of responsibility. Turkey’s history, culture, and people are not the problem; Erdoğan is. There is a stark difference between a nation struggling to define its role on the global stage and a nation struggling because its leader has deliberately undermined the very structures that would enable credibility and influence. Erdoğan has made it impossible for Turkey to be reliably a peacemaker or a superpower because he has made himself the focal point of both admiration and suspicion. The moment you separate Erdoğan from Turkey, the picture changes. The country still has tools, talent, and a strategic position that could make it a stabilizing force. Erdoğan has simply chosen to wield them in ways that serve him, not the collective interest.

Perhaps what is most frustrating and what makes Erdoğan such a dangerous figure—is the illusion of control. He wants the world to see a confident, decisive leader steering a rising power, but in reality, his decisions often exacerbate instability. His reputation for corruption undermines diplomacy before negotiations even begin. His penchant for authoritarianism destabilizes domestic politics and alienates allies. His willingness to bend principles for political expediency makes Turkey’s promises suspect, and its potential as a regional peacemaker a mirage.

Turkey’s challenges are real, but they are surmountable. Erdoğan’s choices, on the other hand, are not just reversible, they are avoidable, had there been a different path taken. It is tempting to blame geography, history, or geopolitics, but such abstractions obscure the truth: Turkey could play a stronger, steadier, and more constructive role if not for Erdoğan himself. Until he is no longer the measure of the state, Turkey’s potential will remain hostage to the ambitions, whims, and moral compromises of a man who has turned personal power into the country’s chief liability.

The lesson is both simple and stark, the world’s eyes may be on Turkey, but the problem is Erdoğan. Not the country. Not the people. Erdoğan.

Buried truths under the sands by Eze Ogbu

There are moments in history when the world chooses silence over action when the drone of indifference drowns out the cries from places too far to see and too painful to confront. El-Fasher, a city now synonymous with despair in Sudan’s Darfur region, is one of those places. Satellite images, cold, pixelated testaments to human cruelty, now reveal what many feared but could not yet prove: mass burials. Each mound of earth represents a life erased, a community shattered, and a conscience ignored.

When the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) seized el-Fasher, it was not a victory, it was an unveiling. What we are witnessing is not simply a battle for control, but the disintegration of a nation’s soul. The RSF’s advance has left behind a trail of terror, destruction, and displacement so vast that even the satellites orbiting above cannot capture its full magnitude. Yet, these same images, grim and grainy, may one day stand as the evidence the world cannot deny.

For two years, Sudan’s civil war has unfolded with a numbing regularity. Reports of atrocities, villages razed, hospitals bombed, and civilians massacred have become background noise in a world already overwhelmed by crises. But what is happening now in el-Fasher, and in places like el-Obeid, where a drone strike targeted a funeral, killing at least forty people, is a new low in a conflict already dragging the nation toward the abyss.

The tragedy is not just in the violence, it’s in the predictability of it. We knew this would happen. The writing has been on the walls of burned-out homes and refugee camps since the first days of fighting between the Sudanese Armed Forces and the RSF. Yet, international outrage, that fleeting currency of modern diplomacy, has failed to translate into meaningful action. Statements of condemnation are plentiful; resolve is not.

What these satellite images tell us is not only about the bodies buried in Darfur’s scorched soil but also about the moral burial of global responsibility. The mass graves in el-Fasher are more than the outcome of military conquest, they are the consequence of collective failure. Nations that once declared “never again” after Rwanda, after Srebrenica, now scroll past Darfur’s devastation with weary resignation. The United Nations issues calls for investigation. Western capitals express “deep concern.” And the perpetrators, emboldened by the world’s paralysis, keep digging.

To understand Darfur today, one must recall that this is not the first time the region has been reduced to a graveyard. Twenty years ago, the same sands were soaked in blood as militias, ancestors, in many ways, of today’s RSF, carried out genocidal campaigns against non-Arab communities. The names have changed, the weapons have evolved, but the pattern of impunity remains stubbornly the same. The international community’s failure to hold the architects of past atrocities accountable has bred this new generation of killers. The ghosts of 2004 are whispering through the smoke of 2025.

The RSF’s control over el-Fasher is particularly chilling because this city was one of the last bastions of resistance in Darfur. For months, it stood as a fragile refuge for displaced families, aid workers, and those clinging to hope. Now, reports suggest its hospitals are destroyed, its water scarce, and its streets lined with bodies. The people who fled the bombs in Khartoum now find themselves trapped once again, this time in a city where the dead outnumber the living.

The recent drone strike on a funeral in el-Obeid adds another layer of horror. Funerals, in every culture, are sacred, a final moment of dignity in death. To target mourners is to declare war not just on life, but on humanity itself. Forty people, gathered to grieve, were erased in an instant. In Sudan’s war, even the act of burying the dead has become dangerous.

And so we return to those satellite images, the silent witnesses. They show long, thin scars carved into the earth, each one containing stories that will never be told. In a conflict where journalists are silenced, and access to the ground is nearly impossible, the sky has become our only reporter. Technology now plays the role that conscience once did: revealing what humans would rather not see.

But awareness without accountability is useless. What good are images if they do not move us to act? The governments that still have influence in the region, Egypt, the Gulf states, the United States, the European Union, must stop pretending that diplomatic neutrality equals moral virtue. Every delay, every cautious statement, every “call for restraint” only buys more time for killers to dig deeper graves.

There is no neutrality when civilians are being massacred. There is no balanced middle ground between those burying bodies and those being buried.

Sudan’s tragedy has always been compounded by the world’s selective empathy. When the victims are far away, when their suffering doesn’t spill into our headlines for long, we tend to move on. But we must resist that instinct now. Because el-Fasher is not just Sudan’s problem, it’s a test of whether the international community still believes in the sanctity of human life.

History will judge not just those who ordered the killings, but also those who watched the images from their screens and did nothing. The graves may lie in Darfur, but the shame is global. Every mound of earth holds not only the dead but also a question: what is the worth of human life when the world refuses to defend it?

El-Fasher’s tragedy should remind us that peace is not an abstract ideal, it is the difference between a child buried in secret and a child who lives to see another dawn. The question is whether the world still has the will to make that difference.

Because if we cannot find it now, when the evidence is right before our eyes, then we must admit a painful truth: the next time a satellite captures the outlines of another mass grave, we will already know who dug it and who allowed it to happen.