The murky new frontier of transnational repression by Thanos Kalamidas

Murray Hunter’s ordeal is not a distant legal footnote. It’s a vivid warning shot, cross-border censorship has moved from shady backroom diplomacy to open judicial cooperation and the price may be freedom itself.

Hunter, an Australian journalist based in southern Thailand, was arrested at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport on 29 September under a criminal defamation charge filed in Thailand but sparked, as he insists, by Malaysia. The crime? Four Substack essays in which he crucified the Malaysian Communications and Multimedia Commission (MCMC) for overreach, political bias, and silencing dissent. He was released on bail; his passport confiscated, and now faces a trial beginning on 22 December

Let that sink in, Hunter was NOT arrested in Malaysia. He's NOT tried in Malaysia. He was arrested in Thailand for criticizing a Malaysian regulator. This isn’t merely an attack on one man; it’s an alarming expansion of oppression across borders and a blueprint that other authoritarian-leaning governments could replicate at will.

There’s a name for this, transnational repression. Rights groups and UN observers have long sounded the alarm. Hunter himself describes this as a kind of Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation SLAPP, in other words where governments weaponize legal systems abroad to shut down critics. In his case, the MCMC filed police reports not only in Malaysia but in Thailand as well and even initiated a civil suit in a Malaysian court that ruled against him in his absence.

Consider the implications. If a communications regulator in one country can issue a complaint that leads to your arrest in another, then journalists are no longer safe in their own homes or even on their way to the airport. As Hunter bluntly put it: “if this can happen to me … anyone … could be picked off a flight and put in a lockup.”

This is more than a slippery slope. It’s a cliff. Authoritarian crackdowns might previously have been confined within national borders; now they’re globalized, conducted through legal arms that have become proxies for silencing dissent. And the worst part? The judicial systems of ostensibly democratic or semi-democratic nations are being complicit, willingly or not.

Thailand, a country itself criticized for its own press-freedom record, has criminal defamation laws that date back decades. These laws disproportionately target critics. Hunter’s case isn’t isolated; it follows a long line of defamation cases used to muzzle opposition and scrutiny. When another state uses those provisions to go after a foreigner, things cross a dangerous boundary.

Let’s be clear, defending institutions from false and malicious claims is legitimate. Accountability matters. But when “accountability” becomes a cudgel to terrorize critics in other jurisdictions, it is no longer about reputation; it’s about control.

MCMC claims it is just protecting its “institutional integrity” and that the rule of law was followed. But context matters. In April 2024, Hunter had publicly accused the commission of acting well beyond its statutory powers, abusing its position, and collaborating with political actors to stifle free speech. He also claimed that MCMC was blocking thousands of websites, including those critical of the government, and acting like a “political Gestapo.” That is not idle lobbying, it’s fearless critique. And until we have irrefutable evidence he lied maliciously, using the force of a foreign court to criminalize him raises red flags.

Even worse, his civil defamation case in Malaysia was decided in his absence, according to Hunter. That smells of a default judgment, a strategy not unfamiliar to governments that want to make examples of dissenters without giving them a fair fight. What does that say about due process? About equal application of the law? About justice?

This should terrify journalists everywhere, regardless of geography. Because if governments can pressure or co-opt foreign legal systems to penalize critics, no one is immune. Today it’s Hunter for criticizing MCMC. Tomorrow, maybe a Turkish journalist gets arrested in Germany for mocking Erdoğan or a British writer gets indicted for lampooning the Greek Prime Minister. This isn’t science fiction; it’s the next generation of censorship.

And make no mistake, ASEAN nations have long flirted with or fully embraced, crackdowns on media freedom. But this case is something different. It is not just national censorship. It is a chilling collaboration across borders, a legal cartel against dissent.

We must call this out. Human rights groups like PEN Malaysia and the Centre for Independent Journalism have already condemned the move, calling it an overreach that undermines free expression. Yet their voices may not be enough. Journalists, activists, and democratic institutions worldwide must wake up to the fact that we're entering a new era where censorship isn’t just local, it’s a transnational apparatus.

If the international community lets this pass without protest, we are essentially giving carte blanche to governments to export their authoritarian instincts. The moral and legal fight here must be louder, more coordinated, more relentless. Free speech is not a bounded territory; it cannot be confined within borders. When it is, we begin to hollow out democracy itself.

In defending Murray Hunter, we defend not just one journalist, but the principle that dissent, criticism, and accountability are not crime, no matter where they originate. Denying that principle is not just an attack on him. It’s an assault on the idea of a free press everywhere.

If we allow foreign regulators to jail journalists in other countries for writing criticism, then we will soon find ourselves in a world where no truth teller is safe, and no voice is truly free.

Check Murray Hunter's eBook HERE!:

Blood, oil, cartels and Trump’s wishing list by Mia Rodríguez

It is no secret, not anymore that the American obsession with Venezuelan oil has metastasized into full-blown desperation. Make no mistake; this is not about democracy, not about human rights, and certainly not about liberating oppressed citizens from a tyrant’s grip. This is raw, naked greed. The target? Venezuela’s black gold, the liquid treasure that sits beneath the cracks of the Orinoco. And the architect of this obsession is none other than Donald Trump yes, the man who once claimed he could “make America great again” with a wink, a tweet, and a smirk. Only now, the stakes are higher, the game bloodier, and the excuses thinner than ever.

Trump and by extension, the empire he represents, is staging the perfect theater of war. Months, if not years, of careful narrative-building have led to this moment. And what is the narrative? The drug cartels. The bogeymen. The shadows in the night. They are everywhere, supposedly spilling poison into American streets, wreaking havoc on our communities. And while the fear-mongering plays out on cable news channels and social media feeds, the real aim is as old as empire itself: control the oil fields, seize the wealth, and assert dominance over a region that has resisted foreign intervention for decades.

The brilliance, if one can call it that, of this strategy lies in its simplicity and its cruelty. Cartels are easy to demonize. They are faceless, nameless, slippery. They are the perfect scapegoats, the perfect justification for aggressive action. “We need to protect the American people,” Trump will claim, while no one bothers to ask why, if Venezuela is so riddled with criminals, he never thought to sanction them into submission properly, or why the military options are always so conveniently aligned with oil-rich regions. It’s the same script as every imperial playbook: manufacture a crisis, declare the moral imperative, and march in under the banner of righteousness.

But make no mistake the moral language is hollow. This is not about the Venezuelan people. The people of Caracas, Maracaibo, and the oil towns in between are irrelevant pawns in a game of resource extraction. History has shown us, time and again, that when the empire comes knocking; it is not for democracy lessons or humanitarian aid. It is for infrastructure, for assets, for control. Witness Iraq, witness Libya, witness every nation whose wealth could be siphoned under the guise of “freedom” and “stability.” Venezuela is just the latest entry on that long, bloody list.

Trump’s desperation is tangible. The United States is not just seeking oil; it is scrambling. Global energy markets are volatile, and domestic production cannot satisfy the appetite of an empire addicted to mobility, consumption, and endless economic expansion. Venezuela offers a shortcut, a prize so large it could temporarily mask domestic failures and global energy insecurities. But such prizes are never won without pretext. Enter the cartels, enter the moral panic, enter the spectacle of “national security threats” that conveniently line up with pipelines, drilling rigs, and extraction rights.

And let us not ignore the personal calculus. Trump’s political theater thrives on chaos. A foreign adventure, a bold act of aggression framed as protection and patriotism, could energize his base, distract from domestic crises, and, in true reality-TV fashion, dominate headlines for months. The irony is bitterly delicious: the same man who ridiculed wars, mocked military interventions, and promised “no more endless wars” is now poised to manufacture a crisis so complete, so theatrical, that even his critics would struggle to ignore the inevitability of conflict.

Of course, there is the question of execution. An invasion is never a clean affair. Venezuela is not undefended, and the Venezuelan people, hardened by decades of both internal strife and foreign meddling, are unlikely to roll over. But the empire is confident, as empires always are. Military technology, precision strikes, and overwhelming force will be deployed under the guise of protecting Americans from the menace of narcotics, while the real goal, oil fields, refineries, and strategic dominance is quietly, methodically achieved.

It is a script as old as colonial conquest: fabricate the enemy, justify the attack, seize the wealth. And yet, somehow, the spectacle of it all is mesmerizing. Millions will cheer for “safety,” millions will nod at “protection against crime,” and few will pause to realize that the blood being spilled is always someone else’s, that the resources being claimed are never meant to enrich the people under whose boots the tanks roll. Venezuela’s oil will flow, but Venezuelans will suffer, displaced, impoverished, and exploited, while the empire feasts on the spoils.

This is the essence of Trump’s strategy: theater over truth, narrative over reality, pretext over morality. And it is terrifyingly effective. Cartels become the perfect villain, the moral imperative becomes irresistible, and the appetite for empire disguises itself as national necessity. History, if we bother to look, has already written the ending: the oil will be extracted, the citizens marginalized, the world distracted by rhetoric, and the empire once again will expand its grasp, leaving devastation in its wake.

In the end, it is not about drugs, not about cartels, not about morality. It is about oil. It is about power. It is about the relentless, unapologetic drive of an empire and a leader who knows how to spin fear into consent. And if the excuse needs dusting, a little theater, a few headlines about the drug menace, so be it. The oil waits, the fields are ripe, and the empire, Trump’s empire, is hungry.

China’s exertion to rewriting the western narrative on its products by Zakir Hall

For decades, Asian-made products particularly those from China faced an unspoken but deeply rooted obstacle in Western markets, trust. Not in the sense of basic functionality; consumers willingly filled their homes with inexpensive electronics, toys, and household goods stamped “Made in China.” The issue was deeper, more emotional, almost cultural. Western buyers never truly believed that these products aspired to the same ideals of quality, reliability, and long-term value that their marketing often promised. They were tolerated, not respected.

But something remarkable is happening now. China, once content to fuel the world with low-cost manufacturing, is aggressively rewriting its global identity. Nowhere is this more evident than in the electric vehicle (EV) market, a sector that demands trust in every bolt, battery cell, and line of software. And despite tariffs, trade friction, and geopolitical suspicion at its peak, Chinese EV manufacturers are doing the unthinkable: convincing Western consumers that they can compete not only on price, but on innovation, performance, and desirability.

This shift didn’t happen overnight. For years, Western consumers associated Chinese products with phrases like “cheap knockoff” or “good enough.” Quality skepticism was practically baked into purchasing decisions. Even when products worked well, many buyers assumed their lifespan would be short, their durability questionable, and their safety standards debatable. This wasn’t always fair, but reputational biases seldom are.

Yet the global EV push altered the playing field dramatically. Electric vehicles aren’t toys or budget headphones, they are high-stakes machines that demand engineering precision, robust safety standards, and brand credibility. Consumers aren’t just buying cars; they’re buying long-term mobility, environmental consciousness, and technological sophistication. To succeed here, trust is not optional. It is the currency.

China knows this and has acted accordingly. Over the past decade, Chinese automakers invested heavily in battery research, software development, autonomous-driving capabilities, and manufacturing quality. They built massive supply-chain ecosystems and cultivated design talent to compete with the likes of Tesla, Volkswagen, and Hyundai. Crucially, they learned that trust cannot be demanded; it must be earned through transparency, performance, and consistency.

Today, Chinese EVs entering Europe and other Western markets challenge the old narrative. They arrive not as budget afterthoughts but as polished contenders, sleek, feature-rich, and aggressively priced. Their interiors rival established brands. Their range matches or exceeds Western models. Their technology is often more intuitive, more integrated, and more forward-thinking. They don’t just compete. They outperform. And that is precisely what makes the current tension so fascinating.

Western governments, worried about both economic dependence and domestic industry erosion, have responded with tariffs, regulatory hurdles, and stern warnings. Protectionism is rarely advertised as such; instead, it’s positioned as “economic security” or “fair trade.” But consumers, especially younger ones, increasingly see through these barriers. They judge a product on experience, not geopolitics. If a Chinese EV offers more for less and increasingly it does, many are willing to give it a chance.

This puts Western automakers in a uniquely uncomfortable position. For decades, they relied on brand heritage and customer loyalty as shields against global competition. They assumed the trust gap that haunted Chinese brands would persist endlessly. But trust, once broken or redirected, is difficult to reclaim. Western consumers now look at soaring car prices, declining reliability, and often disappointing software from established brands and they compare. Many don’t like what they see.

For China, the EV sector is more than an economic opportunity, it is a reputational project. Each successful model sold in Europe, each positive review, each real-world performance victory chips away at decades of Western skepticism. Chinese manufacturers know that if they win trust in the car market, they win trust everywhere.

Still, challenges remain. Geopolitical tensions are real and volatile. Western regulators are wary of data privacy implications. And brand trust, even when earned, can be fragile. One major recall or scandal could set progress back years. But there is no denying that the landscape has changed. Chinese companies are no longer chasing the West; they’re competing with it head-on. And consumers, often more pragmatic than politicians, are watching closely.

The future of global manufacturing may well hinge not on who builds the cheapest products, but on who earns and maintains the deepest trust. China is betting that its EV revolution will become the foundation of that trust and for the first time, a significant portion of the Western market seems open to the possibility.

Whether this shift will solidify or collapse under political pressure remains uncertain. But one thing is clear: the old assumption that Chinese products are destined to be second-rate in Western eyes is no longer valid. Trust is being renegotiated. And China, against all odds, is finally finding its voice in the conversation.

Berserk Alert! #076 #Cartoon by Tony Zuvela

 

Tony Zuvela and his view of the world around us in a constant berserk alert!
For more Berserk Alert! HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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fARTissimo #017 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

fARTissimo is what people do not see when they see a piece of expression
but what they project in what they think they see.

For more fARTissimo, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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Will we truly see the whole truth? By Robert Perez

On the surface, this is a rare moment of bipartisan triumph; Congress has passed a bill by a thundering 427-1 vote in the House, and carried by unanimous consent in the Senate, to force the release of Jeffrey Epstein’s investigative files. The Epstein Files Transparency Act now heads to Donald Trump’s desk, and he’s said he’ll sign it. To outsiders, it might look like a corrective to years of secrecy, a vindication of survivors, and a moment of reckoning. But beneath that veneer, one must ask: how sure are we that what emerges will really be all of it, rather than the selectively polished, politically acceptable parts?

There’s no denying the significance of this legislation. Epstein’s web of wealthy acquaintances, foreign dignitaries, and powerful officials has long fueled conspiracy theories and public distrust. Survivors have demanded transparency. And for many, passing this bill is less about political theater and more about accountability. But the danger lies in assuming that “release” equals “revelation.”

First, the law does not override every possible barrier. Redactions are still permitted to protect victims’ identities, ongoing investigations, and potentially national security interests. In other words, some files can be withheld or scrubbed. Yes, the bill prohibits suppression “on the basis of embarrassment, reputational harm, or political sensitivity,” but that doesn’t mean everything will be made public unfiltered. What happens when the redactions are justified under the cloak of “ongoing prosecutions” or “federal investigations”? The devil, as always, is in the details.

Second, Trump’s dramatic reversal deserves scrutiny. He once dismissed the Epstein scandal as a “Democrat hoax,” only to climb aboard when passage seemed inevitable. That raises a basic question: does he now embrace transparency in principle or merely in performance? Trump’s history suggests he’s more attuned to optics than to unbridled disclosure. He could sign the bill, and simultaneously direct his Department of Justice to interpret it as narrowly as possible. Or worse: grant selective access to files that reflect well on him, while resisting release of documents that cast a darker light.

Third, once these files land in the public domain, the story doesn’t end. It may just begin. Conspiracy theorists will pore over redacted or missing passages and draw wild inferences. The very act of partial disclosure may fuel more speculation than silence ever did. If entire sections are absent, or names are redacted, people will assume the worst; if documents are dated and incomplete, critics will still question what isn’t there. No matter how much is released, suspicion will thrive in the gaps.

Fourth, consider the political incentives. Trump and his allies may want the law to pass as a way to appear cooperative even magnanimous without conceding real risk. By supporting a transparency bill, he can deflect critics who accuse him of obstruction. But once signed, his administration can still influence how aggressively the DOJ complies, how quickly files are made available, how user-friendly their format is, and how redactions are justified. He doesn’t have to go all in.

All of which means that the triumph of passing this bill is more symbolic than substantive at least until the first tranche of documents surfaces. For survivors, for the public, for history, the promise of transparency is powerful. But the execution will decide whether that promise becomes a breakthrough or a smokescreen.

Moreover, in the context of Trump’s legacy, the release (or partial release) of Epstein’s files could backfire politically. While he might hope to appear untouchable, with nothing to hide, the reality may be messier. If his name or the names of his friends appear in damning correspondence, or in previously unrevealed contexts, the optics could turn sharply. Worse, if the released documents reflect poorly on others in his orbit, he may find himself entangled in a scandal he once dismissed as fiction.

And if he tries to spin it, pointing to redactions, or insisting the sensitive parts had to be kept private he risks amplifying distrust. Rather than silence being his safe space, partial disclosure could become a minefield.

In a New Yorker-esque sense, this feels like a high-stakes gamble: Trump is wagering that he can absorb the pain of modest exposure while containing the blowback. But the public and especially survivors are betting on something more profound: genuine accountability. The test will come not when he signs the bill, but when the first PDF drops, when the first memos appear, when the first flight logs are scrutinized, and when the full landscape of Epstein’s world is laid bare.

If Congress meant for this to be a true reckoning, it must not stop at a show of unity or a broad declaration of intent. Transparency is more than a gesture, it is a commitment to letting the full, inconvenient, dreadful truth emerge. If we settle instead for the version Trump and his allies allow, we risk a replay of the old scandal theater: half-exposure, selective memory, and political damage control masquerading as atonement.

In short, yes, this bill is a victory. But it may also mark the opening chapter of a very different fight, one over what is actually released, how it is released, and who controls the narrative afterward. And unless the American public and the media remain vigilant, we might find that the “files” are only partially disclosed, leaving us to wonder whether in the end, we ever truly got the full story.

The convenient conversion of Ahmed al-Sharaa by Fahad Kline

There is a particular choreography to geopolitical reinvention, a kind of diplomatic yoga that allows former enemies to clasp hands without ever acknowledging the awkward contortions required to reach one another. Few recent spectacles illustrate this better than Syrian President Ahmed al-Sharaa’s triumphant appearance in Washington, an event staged with the pomp and theatricality of a reluctant wedding, announcing Syria’s decision to join the U.S.-led coalition against ISIL. One might almost forget, in the halo of flashing cameras, that al-Sharaa once kept far warmer company with al-Qaeda than with any Western statesman. But Washington has never been a city burdened by too much memory, and al-Sharaa, to his credit, has always known the value of a good amnesia.

The Syrian leader’s sudden enthusiasm for battling ISIL feels like a comedian stepping onstage just after the punchline: he’s late, but still eager for applause. For years, his government maneuvered within a labyrinth of opportunistic alliances, tolerating extremist factions that proved useful against domestic opposition. The distinction between “enemy” and “instrument” blurred in the desert haze. Now, however, with his country fractured, his economy eviscerated, and his foreign patrons fatigued, al-Sharaa finds renewal in the gleam of the White House portico. A strategic baptism, one might call it, emerging from past associations scrubbed clean enough for a ceremonial handshake with an American president who never met a convenient contradiction he couldn’t embrace.

As for the U.S. administration, its enthusiasm for the partnership rests on a well-worn American logic: yesterday’s rogue can be today’s ally, provided he says the right things in front of the right lectern. There is something quintessentially American about welcoming a figure once steeped in alliances with al-Qaeda into a coalition to defeat ISIS, a bit like hiring an arsonist as your new fire marshal because he now insists he’s turned over a new matchbox. It is a move justified, as always, by the necessities of stability, counterterrorism, and the ever-nebulous “regional balance,” a phrase that often means doing whatever prevents the situation from turning even more chaotic than it already is.

Al-Sharaa’s pivot is not the graceful ideological conversion he claims, but a calculation drawn with the precision of a man balancing on political crutches. His alliance with al-Qaeda affiliates may once have been a marriage of convenience, but marriages of convenience have a way of lingering in the family album. Even now, as he positions himself as a steadfast opponent of extremism, one can sense the nervous shuffling behind the curtains, aides rewriting the past tense verbs in his official biography, spokespeople oscillating between denial and reinterpretation, and the diplomatic corps stitching together a narrative sturdy enough to withstand at least a couple of news cycles.

In Washington, meanwhile, the welcome felt less like an ideological endorsement and more like an impatient shrug. The foreign-policy establishment has always harbored a soft spot for a repentant autocrat. A stern lecture here, a promise of reform there, and suddenly the slate is negotiable clean. President Trump, never a guardian of moral coherence, framed the partnership as evidence of his unique ability to “bring former adversaries into the light” a phrase that should perhaps have come with an asterisk large enough to fill the Oval Office. For Trump, al-Sharaa is not a relic of a complicated past but a prop in a reassuring narrative: America leading a grand coalition, America defeating terrorism, America directing the play even as the stage buckles beneath it.

What makes this alignment particularly surreal is the shared enemy at its center. ISIL, the splinter whose rise was partly nourished by the broader instability of the Syrian conflict, becomes the convenient monster both leaders now vow to slay. It is a promise that allows al-Sharaa to rehabilitate himself in Western eyes while permitting the U.S. to claim that partnerships are justified by the magnitude of the threat. The fight against ISIL becomes the moral detergent cleansing past sins, and both nations hold the bottle.

Of course, no one seriously believes that Syria’s participation in the coalition will transform its internal dynamics. The structures of repression remain; the shattered neighborhoods, the displaced millions, the unresolved grievances all persist long after a photo op ends. What this new alignment does offer al-Sharaa is permission to present himself as indispensable once again: a leader too central to exclude, too useful to discard, too committed at least on paper, to be left out of the grand strategy against extremism.

For the U.S., the calculus is equally transactional. Stability, even the brittle kind, is more appealing than the unpredictable repercussions of abandonment. And in the scorecard of counterterrorism, having a new signature on the ledger looks better than admitting that the situation has grown too tangled to manage cleanly. Al-Sharaa’s past allegiances are treated as unfortunate footnotes, obstacles of etiquette rather than ethical concerns. He speaks the language of cooperation now, and in Washington, linguistic compliance often matters more than historical record.

The great irony, of course, is not merely that a man once entangled with al-Qaeda now joins a coalition to defeat its ideological cousin. It is that this shift is met with so little astonishment. The modern geopolitical landscape is littered with such reversals, yesterday’s enemy becoming today’s strategic asset and the world has grown accustomed to watching these moral somersaults executed with straight faces. Al-Sharaa’s reinvention is not remarkable because it is implausible, but because it is so profoundly expected.

In the end, this partnership may be remembered less for what it accomplishes and more for what it symbolizes, the triumph of expediency over consistency, the elastic nature of alliance-making, and the peculiar global tradition of allowing powerful men to rebrand themselves with nothing more than a podium and a handshake. And if al-Sharaa stands a little taller beside an American president, it is not because he has shed the shadows of his past, but because he has learned how easily those shadows can be rearranged under the bright lights of diplomacy.

Nigeria learned the hard way by Eze Ogbu

Some lessons are learned the hard way. Some are learned the absurd, blinding, national embarrassment way. And now, Nigeria, a country of nearly 230 million people, has learned one of the most ridiculous but undeniable truths of our era; never, ever, ever get in Donald Trump’s way or, God forbid, attract his attention. Because if you do, you might just find yourself the target of his self-proclaimed genius, his petulant temper, and, heaven help you, the threat of war.

Yes, war. Not diplomacy. Not measured, considered responses. Not careful negotiations. War. That’s the “solution” that the former reality-TV star, who somehow became the leader of the free world, prefers when his ego is challenged or his attention is piqued. And now, Nigeria knows. They have officially been schooled.

This isn’t about politics as usual. This isn’t about left versus right, Republican versus Democrat. This is about chaos, unpredictability, and the terrifying spectacle of a man who believes his Twitter feed is the highest seat of authority in the known universe. He does not think in terms of strategy; he thinks in terms of personal affronts, insults, and victories that fit neatly on a bumper sticker. And if Nigeria thought they could quietly navigate global affairs without getting a tweetstorm or worse, a declaration of war, they were dreaming.

Let’s be honest the world has been slowly, painfully learning that Trump does not negotiate. He does not compromise. He does not weigh consequences. He reacts, and he reacts with the fury of a child whose sandcastle was just kicked over. He weaponizes attention, turning minor slights into international crises, because in his mind, the very act of acknowledging a problem is tantamount to personal defeat. And this is what makes Nigeria’s “lesson” so painfully instructive.

It is one thing to witness this behaviour from afar, to shake one’s head and mutter about “American politics.” But it is entirely another to experience it firsthand. Imagine being Nigeria, a country with monumental challenges, economic instability, security crises, internal politics that could fuel novels and then, on top of it all, having to deal with the spectacle of a former U.S. president’s tantrums aimed squarely in your direction. Suddenly, the absurdity of global leadership becomes all too real.

Some will argue that this is exaggeration. “Trump is out of office,” they’ll say. “He can’t actually declare war.” Ah, but therein lies the subtle genius of the danger. It is not the formal mechanisms of war that are most terrifying in this context; it is the theater of war that Trump is so uniquely capable of producing. The media frenzy. The hysteria. The distraction. War doesn’t always need tanks and missiles; sometimes, all it needs is one man’s ego and a megaphone, and suddenly a country finds itself negotiating not for peace, but for the preservation of its reputation under a global spotlight.

Nigeria, to its credit, has handled much worse in its long, complex history. But this is the new era. The era of the unpredictable, of the Twitter-fueled crisis, where global stability is hostage to a man whose primary qualification for office was the ability to entertain millions. The problem is not just that Trump exists, it’s that the world is still forced to respond as if he were a serious threat, because for all his absurdity, his words carry weight. And when those words drift toward the absurdly aggressive, suddenly international relations resemble a high school playground more than a structured, accountable system of diplomacy.

Let’s be clear: this is not just Nigeria’s problem. This is everyone’s problem. Any nation that thinks it can operate under traditional assumptions of diplomacy is in for a rude awakening. There is no precedent here. There is no logic. There is only the mercurial whim of a man who thrives on chaos and who, for reasons that defy reason, remains relevant long after leaving office.

What is the takeaway? The takeaway is brutal in its simplicity: in the age of Trump, caution is no longer a virtue; it is survival. Every policy decision, every public statement, every minor affront, must be filtered through the lens of, “Will this anger him? Will this provoke a tantrum?” If Nigeria had hoped to operate in the world without this burden, it has learned, painfully, that hope is naive. The only realistic approach is calculation, avoidance, and perhaps a grim sense of humor.

And yet, there is a strange poetry in it all. The world is forced to confront the absurdity of its own systems: the colossal responsibilities of nations placed into the hands of someone who measures power in terms of attention, ego, and insult. Nigeria’s latest lesson is a mirror, reflecting not just Trump’s instability, but the fragility of global diplomacy itself when subjected to the whims of one man.

In the end, Nigeria learned the hard way. The rest of the world would be wise to pay attention. Because in this new era of attention-driven power, being out of Trump’s orbit is not just preferable, it is existential. Ignore it at your peril. Because the moment you catch his eye, the theater begins, and you, dear reader, may just find yourself a tragic, unwilling star in his ever-unfolding, ego-fueled spectacle.

Trump doesn’t negotiate. He doesn’t compromise. He declares, he insults, and he escalates. And Nigeria? Well, they’ve just had a front-row seat to the most absurd and terrifying lesson in modern geopolitics: never, ever, ever draw the eye of Donald Trump.

If Obama had said ...“Quiet, Piggy” by Kingsley Cobb

Imagine for a moment that instead of Donald Trump, it was Barack Obama standing aboard Air Force One on November 14. A Bloomberg reporter asks a follow-up about Jeffrey Epstein’s emails and Obama snaps: “Quiet. Quiet, piggy.” Let that sink in. The reaction would have been thunderous, blistering, immediate. Conservative media would have run headlines for days. The Republican Party would cry foul, demand apologies, call for resignations. Fox News would plaster the remark across every screen, playing it on loop in slow motion, cadging outrage from every corner of its cable universe.

In that alternate reality, Obama would be accused of disrespect, of bullying the free press, of calling a female journalist derogatory names. Republicans would host endless panels dissecting the “deranged dictator temperament” of a once-moderate president. The very idea of a Black man in power humiliating a reporter would be framed in grotesque caricatures, a show of arrogance, entitlement and disdain for democratic norms.

Instead, when Trump made the exact same jab, calling a reporter “piggy” mid-flight, few of those same voices raised their voices in righteous fury. There was no 24/7 outrage cycle. No stern congressional resolution condemning presidential conduct. No concerted campaign to demand accountability. Instead, some dismissed it as quirk, as theater, as just another moment in the Trump reality show.

That discrepancy reveals more than a double standard. It showcases a kind of selective moral outrage, leveraged for political convenience. When a Republican slips, it’s glossed over or excused. When a Democrat missteps, real or imagined it becomes a morality play. That’s hypocrisy masquerading as principle.

Let us consider why. For many on the right, Trump’s brand of rough-edged banter is part of his appeal. It’s woven into his identity, marketed as unfiltered authenticity. He says out loud what others might only mutter. That plaintiff disregard for decorum becomes, in their eyes, a feature, not a bug. Trump’s insults are not aberrations; they are expected, even celebrated as long as they’re delivered from their side of the aisle.

If Obama had launched into such an insult, the message would be transformed. It wouldn’t just be about the remark itself, but about ideological betrayal. He’s not supposed to act that way. He’s supposed to be composed, refined, measured. When he deviates, Republicans would instantly weaponize it: proof that he’s secretly authoritarian, emotionally unfit, or disrespectful to foundational institutions.

Meanwhile, when Trump spits out a disparaging phrase in the heat of the moment, it’s shrugged off or rationalized. It becomes part of his brand: bold, spontaneous, provocative. The media cycle may note it, but the outrage rarely sticks. Trump may even get a pass because his base often sees such episodes not as failures, but as theater, evidence that he refuses to be muzzled, even by the press.

But make no mistake: words have power. A leader lashing out at a reporter, calling her names, is not simply a rhetorical stumble; it’s an attempt to dominate, to silence, to humiliate. If we normalize that moment, we are normalizing an assault on the free press. We’re tacitly endorsing a view in which journalists are not interlocutors but adversaries, to be shamed or shut up.

And yet, in Trump’s case, the backlash often subsides without meaningful consequences. No formal reprimand, no apology foist, no steep political price. That unevenness in accountability raises a troubling question, for whom do we hold power to higher standards? The answer is stark, and it corrodes democratic norms.

There is also something deeper at play here, a kind of outrage inflation. If we only issue alarms when a Democrat misbehaves, while allowing a Republican to get away with bullying or mendacity, we cheapen the whole concept of outrage. We make it partisan. We reduce moral critique to a weapon of convenience.

A genuine defense of decency means applying the same standard across the board. It requires discomfort. It demands we call out insults and incivility, regardless of the political stripe of the speaker. It means refusing to treat verbal abuse from our own side as a charming quirk, while treating it from the other side as existential danger.

If Obama had said “Quiet, piggy,” there would be rightly be condemnation and a clamor for accountability. But if we only demand accountability from those we oppose, we betray the very principles we pretend to defend. We undermine public trust. We diminish the value of respect and restraint.

So yes, imagine that alternate world, one in which Obama utters the same words. Then ask yourself: should the verdict be any different? If not, why so hesitant when it's Trump? The real test of our commitment to principle isn’t how loudly we cheer when our side wins, but how consistently we hold every leader to the same standards of civility and decency.

Ephemera #142 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Ephemera: a word with ancient Greek roots meaning:
‘something that is produced or created that
is never meant to last or be remembered’.

For more Ephemera, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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Sudan Is Bleeding While the World Looks Away by Javed Akbar

Sudan is living through the world’s largest humanitarian collapse. More than 25 million people now depend on emergency aid. Nearly nine million have been driven from their homes. Entire cities have been pulverized—reduced to ash and absence with chilling precision. And yet, from world capitals, the silence is deafening.

In Darfur, the crisis has crossed the threshold into genocide. What began in April 2023 as a struggle for power between General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan’s Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo’s Rapid Support Forces (RSF) has mutated into a war of annihilation. The RSF—direct heirs of the Janjaweed militias—has turned its fire on non-Arab civilians in a ruthless bid to seize Darfur and its lucrative trade corridors.

The toll defies language.

Mass executions. Ethnic cleansing. Systematic sexual violence against Masalit and other non-Arab communities.

In El Fasher, the last major city not under RSF control, indiscriminate shelling has levelled neighbourhoods, hospitals and displacement camps. Satellite images show scorched villages and fresh mass graves. Human-rights observers describe nothing less than a coordinated, methodical genocide. Survivors speak of communities erased before sunrise.

In Sudan, every pledge of restraint is merely the prelude to the next atrocity.

And behind this slaughter stands a network of regional patrons who have turned a suffering nation into a profitable battleground.

The RSF’s war economy runs on gold smuggled through networks linked directly to the United Arab Emirates. Weapons and fuel flow with ease through Chad and Libya. Meanwhile, the SAF draws support from Egypt and remnants of Russia’s Wagner apparatus.

Sudan’s war is no longer internal. It is a marketplace of geopolitical ambition—a theatre where foreign states finance carnage to secure influence and extract mineral wealth.

Sanctions have targeted a few RSF commanders, but the financiers remain untouched. For years, RSF-controlled companies have dominated the Jebel Amer goldfields, moving tonnes of illicit gold through Chad and the Central African Republic to the UAE, where it is refined with minimal scrutiny. Investigations by The Sentry, Global Witness and Reuters have traced these networks to Dubai-based firms shielded by opaque corporate structures. Abu Dhabi denies complicity, yet remains the largest importer of Sudanese gold—and flight data reveals cargo shuttling between RSF airstrips and Gulf airports.

Western measures—piecemeal sanctions, calls for transparency, selective asset freezes—are toothless without enforcement. Every loophole is exploited. Every embargo breached. Civilians bleed while foreign patrons profit.

Meanwhile, the UN warns of famine. Aid groups say Sudan is collapsing faster than any country since Rwanda in 1994. Yet the world barely whispers. The images of mass graves in El Fasher should have provoked global protest, emergency sessions, and moral reckoning. Instead, Sudan has been pushed to the margins of conscience, treated as though African suffering were inevitable rather than engineered.

After two decades in human rights work, I know the fatigue that shadows global crises. Democracies are faltering. Authoritarianism is rising. Ideological battles consume attention. But Sudan will not be stabilised through indifference. Without sustained pressure, this conflict will spill across borders, destabilising an entire region and deepening a refugee crisis already among the world’s worst. When millions flee toward Europe and the Gulf, the very governments looking away today will confront the consequences tomorrow.

Most damning is the selectivity of global outrage.

Voices who thunder against Christian persecution in Nigeria fall silent as Sudanese Muslims are slaughtered.

Liberal groups who rally for Gaza under an anti-colonial banner avert their gaze as foreign powers fuel a genocide in Sudan for profit.

The moral inconsistency is breathtaking. Outrage, it seems, has become a curated performance.

And then there is the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation—an institution created to safeguard Muslim lives and dignity. Today it stands silent, paralysed, astonishingly indifferent. As Muslim communities are massacred in Darfur, the OIC issues no emergency summit, no unified denunciation, no pressure on member states who finance the bloodshed. Its inaction is not merely disappointing—it is a betrayal of its founding purpose.

The UAE, for its part, cannot hide behind denials while Sudanese gold finances mass atrocities. Its role is not peripheral; it is central. And every day it refuses transparency, accountability, or sanctions compliance, it deepens its complicity in the unraveling of a nation.

History’s ledger is unforgiving. The world failed the victims of the Holocaust, Bosnia and Rwanda. It vowed “never again,” only to abandon that vow repeatedly. Today, Sudan stands at the same precipice.

The question is no longer whether the world sees Sudan’s agony. It is whether it cares enough to act.

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