A baby at a checkpoint and the world’s shrug by Maddalena Conti

The funeral of a Palestinian baby killed by Israeli gunfire in the occupied West Bank should have been one of those moments that forced a reckoning. Instead, it risks becoming another entry in an endless ledger of deaths that briefly flicker across headlines before vanishing beneath the next news cycle.

According to the Israeli military itself, the family were “uninvolved civilians.” The military expressed “deep sorrow” and opened an investigation. Such statements have become painfully familiar. They arrive after the shots have already been fired, after the funeral prayers have already been spoken and after another family has entered a grief from which there is no return.

The facts are devastatingly simple. A baby is dead. The child was sitting in a vehicle with family members. A soldier perceived a threat and fired. The father insists the vehicle had stopped. Whatever sequence of events investigators ultimately establish, one fact cannot be investigated away: a child who posed no threat was killed.

What follows these incidents is often just as revealing as the incident itself. Public attention shifts almost immediately to procedures, military protocols, rules of engagement and competing narratives. The victim slowly disappears from the conversation. The dead become secondary to the debate surrounding their deaths.

This is one of the most troubling features of the conflict. The human being at the center of the story is gradually replaced by political arguments. A baby becomes a talking point. A funeral becomes a controversy. Mourning becomes a battleground.

The broader international response is equally difficult to ignore. Governments continue supplying weapons, ammunition and diplomatic support while expressing concern about civilian casualties. Officials issue carefully crafted statements lamenting the loss of innocent life while approving policies that ensure more weapons continue to flow into the conflict.

There is a contradiction at the heart of this posture that grows harder to defend with every civilian death. If governments genuinely believe the protection of civilians is paramount, then expressions of sorrow cannot be the only response when civilians repeatedly die. At some point, concern without consequences begins to resemble indifference.

Meanwhile, much of the media struggles with a similar problem. Individual tragedies are often treated as isolated incidents rather than symptoms of a larger reality. The result is a form of normalization. Deaths that would dominate front pages in other contexts become routine. The extraordinary becomes ordinary.

The greatest danger is not outrage. It is habituation. When the death of a child can be absorbed into the daily rhythm of conflict reporting, something profound has been lost. Not merely political urgency, but moral clarity. People stop seeing individuals and start seeing statistics. They stop asking how such events continue to happen and begin assuming they simply will.

The funeral of this baby should not disappear into that fog of resignation. It should remain uncomfortable. It should provoke questions that cannot be answered by press releases or investigations alone. How many more apologies will follow how many more funerals? How many expressions of regret will be issued before meaningful accountability emerges? How many innocent deaths must occur before the world decides that sorrow is not enough?

A baby is dead. That fact should be impossible to normalize. Yet the most damning indictment of all may be how quickly so many are prepared to move on.

Ovi History #eMagazine #20: St Joseph Mutiny

 

The St Joseph Mutiny occurred in June 1837 within the 1st West India Regiment of the British Army. The uprising began at the unit's barracks in St Joseph, Trinidad, which was then part of the British West Indies.

The mutiny was led by recently arrived Africans who had been rescued from illegal slave ships by the Royal Navy and subsequently conscripted into the West India Regiments. Between 60 and 100 soldiers participated, seizing arms and ammunition, killing an enlisted soldier, and setting fire to the officers' quarters.

The British Army and the Trinidad Militia quickly suppressed the uprising, killing twelve mutineers, while six others committed suicide to avoid capture. Three ringleaders were subsequently executed, and two more were sentenced to death, though their sentences were later commuted to penal transportation to Australia.

One of the mutiny's leaders, Daaga, became a folk hero in Trinidad and later served as an inspiration for the leaders of the Black Power Revolution in the 1970s.

For this issue of Ovi History, a historical fiction short story from Lucas Durand and a new column with reviews, starting with a book review.

So, turn the pages and ...take cover.

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With the hope that you will read and learn from the articles,
so ...do read this historic chronicle

Thanos Kalamidas

The moderation mirage by Marja Heikkinen

For years Europe’s political center has clung to a comforting theory that inviting far-right parties into government, burden them with responsibility, expose them to the compromises of power and eventually they would mellow. Governing, after all, has a way of transforming slogans into spreadsheets and outrage into administration. Reality, however, has been far less accommodating.

One after another, Europe’s far-right movements have demonstrated that participation in government does not necessarily moderate their instincts. Instead, many have become more skilled at presenting old ideas in newer packaging. The rhetoric may become smoother, the suits more expensive, the media training more polished but the underlying politics often remain remarkably familiar, suspicion of outsiders, hostility toward immigration, resentment toward supranational institutions and a persistent narrative that the nation is under siege from enemies both foreign and domestic.

The latest example is Jordan Bardella, the youthful and media-savvy face of France’s National Rally. To many observers, Bardella represents a generational shift. He speaks the language of modern politics fluently. He appears composed on television. He lacks the rough edges that once made the French far right politically untouchable. Yet the assumption that a younger messenger automatically delivers a different message has always been more wishful thinking than serious analysis.

European centrists have repeatedly mistaken style for substance. They have confused strategic rebranding with ideological evolution. A party does not cease to be nationalist because it adopts the vocabulary of democracy. It does not become less populist because its leaders learn to smile during interviews. Political movements understand that electoral success often requires cosmetic adaptation. What they rarely surrender are the core convictions that brought them prominence in the first place.

The pattern is visible across the continent. Mainstream parties have often justified cooperation with the far right by arguing that proximity to power would force realism. Instead, the opposite frequently occurs. Far-right parties gain legitimacy without abandoning their defining narratives. Their participation in government allows them to claim establishment credibility while continuing to cultivate anti-establishment grievances. It is a remarkably effective political arrangement.

The deeper problem is that many centrist leaders seem unable to accept what these movements are actually telling them. When far-right politicians speak repeatedly about cultural threats, demographic anxieties, national preference, or the alleged failures of multiculturalism, mainstream observers often search for hidden moderation beneath the surface. They assume there must be a future destination beyond the rhetoric. Yet perhaps the rhetoric is the destination.

This does not mean every voter who supports such parties is driven by prejudice. Europe’s political and economic frustrations are real. Concerns about integration, security, social cohesion, and economic uncertainty deserve serious discussion. But acknowledging those concerns is not the same thing as pretending that parties built on exclusionary narratives have somehow transcended them merely because they have become more electorally successful.

The moderation thesis survives because it is comforting. It allows centrist politicians to believe that democratic participation automatically tames political extremism. Europe’s recent experience suggests otherwise. Responsibility does not always soften radical movements. Sometimes it simply teaches them how to operate more effectively.

The lesson is increasingly difficult to ignore. The far right has changed its presentation. What it has not necessarily changed is itself.

Me My Mind & I #15: Peace Brokered #Cartoon by Patrick McWade

 

A different way to check internal and external ...thoughts!
'Me My Mind & I' is a cartoon series by Patrick McWade.
For more 'Me My Mind & I' HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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Worming #131 #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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The Inscription That Shamed An Empire: The Pulse of Life and the Poverty of Power by Javed Akbar

On June 10, 2026, reports emerged that U.S. military strikes in Iran’s Hormozgan Province damaged a water reservoir serving the coastal village of Kuhestak near the Strait of Hormuz, disrupting access to water for more than 20,000 residents.

Amid images of shattered concrete and twisted steel, one detail stood out.

Inscribed on the reservoir wall were the Persian words:

آب نبض زندگی است
با اسراف، آهنگی آن را کند نسازیم

“Water is the pulse of life, let us not diminish its rhythm through wastefulness.”

Few public messages capture the moral imagination of civilization so succinctly. In a single breath, it affirms reverence for life, restraint in consumption, stewardship of nature, and responsibility toward generations yet unborn. It speaks not of conquest or dominance, but of balance and care.

If these are the values a society chooses to engrave upon its public infrastructure, they reveal something essential about its ethical vision.

And therein lies the tragedy.

A water reservoir serves no ideology. It serves life—children, mothers, workers, the elderly, the vulnerable. When such infrastructure becomes entangled in war, the victims are never abstractions. They are ordinary people whose survival depends upon the most elemental necessity of existence.

The contrast is difficult to ignore. Nations that present themselves as custodians of human rights and the international order have repeatedly been implicated in actions that inflict profound suffering upon civilian populations far removed from the corridors of power where such decisions are made.

This contradiction is not incidental. It is historical.

From Vietnam to Iraq, from Afghanistan to Somalia and Libya, US military interventions have left behind scars that continue to trouble the conscience of the world.

In Vietnam, the My Lai massacre exposed the catastrophic consequences of dehumanization, where hundreds of unarmed civilians—including women and children—were slaughtered.

In Iraq, Abu Ghraib became a symbol of humiliation and moral collapse, while the killings at Haditha and Nisour Square deepened the perception that civilian life could be treated as expendable in the calculus of war.

In Afghanistan, a prolonged conflict marked by drone strikes and night raids claimed tens of thousands of civilian lives, including wedding parties and funerals. Independent estimates vary widely, but all confirm a devastating human toll that extends across generations. Pakistan, too, bore heavy consequences, with tens of thousands killed in the wider fallout of the “war on terror.”

The downing of Iran Air Flight 655 on July 3, 1988—killing all 290 civilians on board, including 66 children—remains one of the darkest episodes in U.S.–Iran relations. In the aftermath, then Vice President George H. W. Bush defiantly declared: “I will never apologize for the United States of America, ever. I don’t care what the facts are.” For many around the world, those words came to symbolize not strength, but unsettling indifference to the suffering of others. The refusal to acknowledge accountability at the time left a lasting imprint on global perception, reinforcing the sense that power and impunity often travel together.

On February 28, 2026, the Shajareh Tayyebeh girls’ elementary school in Minab, Iran was struck multiple times by missiles, allegedly fired by the US and Israel, killing 156 people, including 120 students aged 7 - 12 years. It was widely condemned. Investigations by The New York Times, NPR, and CBC News indicated that the United States was likely responsible for the attack.

More recent strikes on civilian infrastructure in Iran have only intensified an old and unresolved question: when the victims are geopolitically marginal, why does moral language so often grow faint, conditional, or absent altogether?

These are not isolated aberrations. They point to a deeper pattern—the recurring assumption that overwhelming power can suspend moral restraint.

At the heart of this pattern lies a quiet hierarchy of human worth: some lives are named, mourned, and universally recognised; others are reduced to numbers, classified as collateral, or absorbed into strategic necessity.

Such thinking corrodes the very principles it claims to uphold.

For the true measure of civilization is not the scale of its arsenals, nor the reach of its alliances, but the weight it assigns to a single human life—especially when that life lies beyond its borders and outside its interests.

The Persian inscription on that reservoir wall stands as a restrained yet piercing moral reminder. It rebukes the arrogance of force not with anger, but with clarity.

It tells us that greatness is not the ability to destroy, but the discipline to preserve; not domination, but stewardship; not coercion, but compassion.

Military power can shatter infrastructure and silence cities. It cannot erase the ethical truths that outlive empires.

Long after the dust settles and the headlines fade, those words remain—quiet, unyielding, and unresolved—posing a question that every great power must eventually face:

Will history remember your strength, or your moral depravity?

For power without conscience does not mark respect; it stands condemned by history and humanity alike, an indictment that time will not erase.

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Javed Akbar is a freelance writer whose opinion columns have appeared in the Toronto Star and various digital platforms

The arithmetic of openness by Gabriele Schmitt

Switzerland has once again demonstrated a trait that often confounds both admirers and critics: its remarkable ability to flirt with political disruption before ultimately choosing stability. Voters have rejected a proposal to cap the country's population at 10 million people, with roughly 55% voting against the measure and 45% supporting it. The result is neither a landslide nor a narrow escape. Instead, it reveals a nation engaged in a serious debate about growth, identity and immigration, yet still reluctant to embrace economic self-harm.

The proposal, championed by the Swiss People's Party, reflected anxieties that are hardly unique to Switzerland. Across Europe, concerns about housing shortages, strained infrastructure, environmental pressures and cultural change have fuelled increasingly sceptical attitudes toward immigration. Switzerland, despite its prosperity, is not immune to these worries. A growing population places pressure on transport networks, urban development and public services. For many voters, the appeal of a numerical limit was obvious: if growth creates challenges, why not simply stop the growth?

The problem is that economies are not spreadsheets. Modern prosperity depends on movement—of capital, ideas and, crucially, people. Switzerland's economic success has long been intertwined with its openness. Highly skilled workers, researchers, entrepreneurs and labourers from across Europe have helped sustain industries ranging from pharmaceuticals and finance to engineering and hospitality. Restricting immigration on a large scale would not merely reduce population growth; it would risk undermining the very foundations of Swiss competitiveness.

That reality explains why the proposal faced opposition not only from the government but also from business leaders and virtually every major political party outside its sponsors. They understood that the initiative carried consequences extending well beyond demographics. Most importantly, it threatened Switzerland's delicate relationship with the European Union. The country's network of agreements with the bloc, including provisions for the free movement of people, has been central to its economic model. Tampering with one pillar could have destabilised the entire structure.

Yet it would be a mistake for defenders of openness to celebrate too enthusiastically. Nearly half of participating voters supported the proposal. That is not a fringe movement speaking from the margins. It is a substantial segment of the electorate expressing genuine unease about the direction of the country. Ignoring those concerns would be politically reckless.

The lesson from the vote is not that immigration debates have been settled. Quite the opposite. Switzerland's electorate has signalled that while it values economic openness, it also expects policymakers to address the side effects of growth. Housing affordability, infrastructure investment and environmental sustainability cannot be dismissed as secondary issues. If governments fail to manage them effectively, support for more radical restrictions may grow.

For now, however, Switzerland has chosen pragmatism over symbolism. It rejected a proposal that promised certainty through a simple number while risking considerable economic and diplomatic costs. In doing so, voters acknowledged a reality that many advanced economies continue to grapple with: prosperity requires openness, even when openness creates challenges.

The mathematics of population growth may be simple. The mathematics of national success is considerably more complicated. Switzerland, at least this time, recognised the difference.

The own goal that might not coming by Kasie Hewitt

For generations football has been the world's great unifier. It is the game that requires little more than a ball, a patch of ground and a shared belief that, for ninety minutes, anything is possible. It crosses borders more easily than diplomats, speaks more languages than politicians and inspires loyalties that often last a lifetime. To millions football is entertainment. To millions more, it is something closer to faith.

That is why every World Cup carries a special responsibility. It is not merely a tournament. It is a celebration of openness, travel, cultural exchange and the idea that people from every corner of the globe can gather around a common passion.

Yet as the United States prepares to host the 2026 World Cup alongside Canada and Mexico, there are growing concerns that the event risks becoming remembered for reasons that have little to do with football itself.

The United States undoubtedly possesses the infrastructure. It has enormous stadiums, sophisticated transportation networks and a proven ability to stage major sporting spectacles. On paper, it should be the perfect host. But football is not played on paper. It is experienced by people. And people must feel welcome.

Many fans around the world have watched recent political debates in the United States with increasing unease. Immigration enforcement, border policies and rhetoric surrounding foreign visitors have created an atmosphere that some perceive as uninviting. Whether those concerns are entirely justified is almost beside the point. Perception matters. In international sport, perception can become reality.

Then there is the issue of cost. World Cups have never been cheap but there is a growing fear that ticket prices, accommodation costs and travel expenses could place the tournament beyond the reach of many ordinary supporters. Football's greatest moments have traditionally belonged to the masses. The World Cup should not become an exclusive festival for corporations, wealthy tourists and hospitality packages.

The danger is not that stadiums will be empty. American stadiums are large enough and corporate demand strong enough to ensure seats are filled. The danger is that the unique character of a World Cup could be diminished. A tournament without the vibrant presence of travelling supporters from every continent loses something essential. The songs, colours and spontaneous celebrations outside the grounds are as important to the experience as the action on the pitch.

Football's governing bodies often speak about growing the game. Growth, however, is not measured only in revenue. It is measured in accessibility, inclusion and the ability of ordinary fans to participate. If supporters feel priced out or discouraged from attending, then football risks forgetting the very people who made it the world's most popular sport.

The United States still has time to prove the sceptics wrong. A successful World Cup remains entirely possible. But success should not be judged solely by television ratings, sponsorship deals or record-breaking profits. It should be judged by whether fans from Buenos Aires, Lagos, Berlin, Tokyo and countless other cities feel genuinely welcomed.

The World Cup belongs to the world. Any host nation that forgets that simple truth risks scoring the most damaging own goal of all.

Ghostin’ #130 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

They are like neighbours we are aware of,
except we are NOT aware of and
they have absolutely nothing to do with Halloween.

For more Ghostin’, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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The shadow presidency question by Kingsley Cobb

Washington thrives on rumors, but the most persistent rumors are often the ones that reveal deeper anxieties about power. Lately, a growing number of observers have begun asking a question that would have sounded absurd not long ago: Is Vice President JD Vance quietly emerging as the administration’s dominant political force?

The speculation is fueled by perception rather than proof. Critics of President Donald Trump point to what they view as a less energetic public presence and a greater reliance on surrogates to carry political battles. Supporters dismiss such claims as partisan wishful thinking. Yet politics is often shaped as much by appearances as realities, and appearances matter.

That is why Vance’s increasingly visible role has attracted attention. When a vice president becomes one of the administration’s most aggressive public defenders and policy advocates, people naturally begin wondering where influence truly resides. Whether those suspicions are fair is almost beside the point. In Washington, perception frequently becomes its own political reality.

The recent push for federal scrutiny of Minnesota officials, including Governor Tim Walz and Attorney General Keith Ellison, illustrates the dynamic. To supporters, such moves represent a necessary effort to hold public officials accountable and confront alleged failures in oversight. To critics, they look like part of a broader strategy to nationalize political conflicts and expand executive influence. Either way, the episode reinforced the image of an administration increasingly defined by its next generation of political leadership.

Vance occupies a unique position in that story. Unlike many vice presidents who spend years carefully avoiding the spotlight, he often appears comfortable stepping directly into controversy. He communicates with the confidence of someone thinking beyond the immediate news cycle. His speeches, interviews, and public interventions frequently sound less like those of a supporting actor and more like those of a politician preparing for a larger role.

That does not mean he is secretly running the government. Washington has a long history of mistaking visibility for authority. Powerful vice presidents have existed before, and ambitious vice presidents are hardly a new phenomenon. But the questions persist because Vance increasingly projects the image of a leader whose influence extends beyond the traditional boundaries of his office.

The broader issue is not whether a handoff of power is occurring behind closed doors. There is no public evidence of that. The real issue is that many Americans appear willing to believe it could be happening. That reflects a deeper uncertainty about leadership, succession, and transparency in modern politics.

Every administration eventually faces a moment when attention shifts toward the future. Sometimes that transition happens gradually, almost invisibly, before anyone officially acknowledges it. The public begins watching the second-in-command more closely. Reporters start reading significance into every appearance. Political allies quietly adjust their calculations.

Whether that moment has truly arrived remains open to debate. But JD Vance’s growing prominence has ensured that the debate itself is no longer confined to political insiders. In a city built on influence, the perception of power can be nearly as important as power itself. And right now, that perception is becoming impossible to ignore.

 

The election that never ends by Markus Gibbons

One of the defining features of a healthy democracy is not victor, it is defeat. Winning elections is easy to celebrate; losing them is the real test of democratic character. The ability to accept the judgment of voters, absorb disappointment, regroup and compete again is what separates democratic politics from a permanent struggle for power. Increasingly, however, the Republican Party under Donald Trump appears unwilling to accept that basic principle.

A striking transformation has occurred over the past decade. Election outcomes that favor Republicans are presented as legitimate expressions of the popular will. Election outcomes that favor Democrats are routinely treated with suspicion, hostility, or outright rejection. The pattern has become so familiar that it barely surprises anyone anymore. If Republicans win, democracy has spoken. If Republicans lose, something must have gone wrong.

The danger lies not merely in claims of fraud. Every democracy experiences disputes, recounts, and allegations of irregularities. The deeper problem is the normalization of a political culture in which defeat itself becomes illegitimate. Losing is no longer viewed as evidence that voters preferred another candidate. Instead, it is portrayed as proof of conspiracy, corruption, manipulation or theft.

Trump did not invent political grievance, but he elevated it into a governing philosophy. Within that framework, responsibility rarely exists. Electoral setbacks are never the result of unpopular policies, strategic mistakes, weak candidates, demographic changes, or shifting public opinion. The explanation always comes from somewhere else. Courts are biased. Election officials are corrupt. The media is plotting. Bureaucrats are sabotaging. Democrats are cheating. The possibility that voters simply chose differently is treated as almost unthinkable.

This mindset has consequences far beyond campaign rhetoric. Democratic systems depend on shared rules and shared realities. Citizens do not have to agree on policy, ideology, or leadership. They do, however, need to agree on how power changes hands. Once a major political movement ceases to recognize electoral defeat as legitimate, every election becomes a potential constitutional crisis.

What makes the situation especially troubling is how deeply this attitude has spread throughout the Republican Party. What once might have been considered an extraordinary claim has become a routine expectation. Candidates now often prepare supporters for allegations of fraud before votes are even counted. Suspicion comes first; evidence arrives later, if at all.

The result is a politics trapped in perpetual resentment. Elections no longer settle disputes. They merely launch the next round of accusations. Trust erodes. Institutions weaken. Citizens become convinced that only victories count and that defeats are inherently suspect.

Democracy dies not only when votes are prevented from being cast. It also weakens when political leaders teach millions of people that unfavorable outcomes are impossible to accept. A republic cannot function indefinitely if one side views every loss as theft and every winner as illegitimate.

The greatest threat is not a single disputed election. It is the gradual disappearance of democratic acceptance itself. When losing becomes unthinkable, democracy becomes impossible. And when a major party can no longer distinguish between defeat and conspiracy, the election never truly ends.