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.

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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.

The rate of desperation by Mary Long

There are stories so horrifying that they force us to confront uncomfortable truths about the modern world. The reported kidnapping of hundreds of Iraqi Kurds by traffickers in Libya and allegations that some may have had their kidneys forcibly removed when they could not pay ransom demands, belongs firmly in that category.

If the claims are true, this is not merely a migration story. It is a story about the collapse of human dignity in the shadows of a global system that has become disturbingly accustomed to suffering.

The details are almost unbearable. Men and women fleeing hardship, instability, and uncertainty embarked on a dangerous journey toward what they hoped would be safety and opportunity in Britain. Instead, many allegedly found themselves trapped in a nightmare where human beings became commodities. The reported ransom demand was chillingly straightforward: pay $5,000 or lose a kidney.

The language of organized crime has always been ruthless, but this represents something even darker. It reflects a marketplace in which every part of a desperate person has value. If migrants cannot provide cash, their bodies become collateral.

What makes this story particularly disturbing is how plausible it sounds in today's migration landscape. Human trafficking networks have flourished across routes stretching from the Middle East and Africa to Europe. Smugglers advertise journeys with the polished confidence of travel agents. Social media platforms are filled with promises of safe passage and prosperous futures. Yet behind the marketing lies an industry built on exploitation, coercion, violence and death.

The victims in this case were not reckless adventurers. They were people driven by hope and necessity. Many migrants understand the dangers they face. They hear stories of shipwrecks, detention centers, and abuse. Yet they continue because remaining where they are feels even less tolerable. That reality should concern policymakers everywhere.

The temptation in political debates is to reduce migration to numbers. Governments count arrivals, calculate costs, and argue over quotas. But statistics can obscure the human beings at the center of the discussion. Every migrant is a person making a decision under pressure, often after exhausting every other option. When legal pathways are limited and opportunities scarce, criminal networks eagerly fill the vacuum.

This is why stories like this should alarm people regardless of their position on immigration policy. One can support stricter border controls and still be horrified by trafficking. One can favor more open migration policies and still acknowledge the dangers of uncontrolled smuggling routes. The common ground should be simple: no human being should become prey for criminal enterprises.

The alleged kidney removals also expose a broader moral failure. Organ trafficking has long existed on the fringes of the global economy, sustained by desperation on both sides of the transaction. But reports suggesting migrants may have been mutilated as punishment for poverty reveal a level of cruelty that should shock the conscience of the international community.

The tragedy of these Iraqi Kurds is not only what may have happened to them in Libya. It is that their suffering was predictable. Whenever vulnerable people are forced into the hands of criminals, exploitation follows. The details may vary. The outcome rarely does.

Their scars, if the reports are accurate, tell a story far larger than any single journey. They are reminders that when hope is forced underground, humanity often follows it there.

Screws & Chips #127 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

In a galaxy far, far away, intelligence demonstrated by screws and chips,
boldly gone where no robot has gone before!

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The gift of empty space by Jemma Norman

There are only two possibilities when a political leader steadily surrenders ground to a rival. Either it is part of a grand strategy or it is happening despite their intentions. Looking at the trajectory of Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch and the rise of Nigel Farage, the first explanation requires a degree of political sophistication that has yet to reveal itself. The second requires only observation.

For months, Badenoch has faced a dilemma that has haunted Conservative leaders ever since the Brexit referendum transformed British politics. How do you hold together a coalition that stretches from moderate conservatives in southern England to voters increasingly attracted to populist nationalism? The traditional answer was broad church politics. The modern answer increasingly has been, panic.

Farage understood something long before much of Westminster did. Political vacuums do not remain empty. If one party refuses to articulate the frustrations, fears, and cultural grievances of a segment of the electorate, another party will. Reform UK has thrived not merely because Farage is a gifted communicator but because he has been handed opportunities by opponents unable to define themselves.

Badenoch entered the leadership promising clarity and conviction. Her supporters argued that she possessed intellectual confidence and ideological coherence. Yet leadership is not measured by speeches, interviews or social media clips. It is measured by the ability to dominate political territory. On that test, the evidence is uncomfortable.

The Conservatives increasingly find themselves trapped between competing instincts. They want to sound tougher than Labour while appearing more responsible than Reform. They want to acknowledge public anger without embracing the rhetoric that fuels it. The result is often a message that satisfies nobody. Voters seeking stability look elsewhere. Voters seeking disruption look to Farage.

This does not mean Badenoch secretly wants Farage to become the dominant figure on the British right. Political leaders rarely spend years climbing mountains merely to hand the summit to someone else. The more plausible interpretation is that she underestimated how quickly political relevance can evaporate. Modern politics is brutal toward hesitation. Every uncertain message becomes a gift to a rival who appears more certain.

Farage's greatest advantage has never been policy detail. It has been simplicity. He offers a clear story about Britain, its problems, and its future. One may disagree with that story but it is unmistakably his. Badenoch, by contrast, often appears caught between defending a Conservative record many voters rejected and constructing a new identity that remains unfinished.

The irony is that Farage's rise says as much about Conservative weakness as it does about Reform's strength. Political movements rarely conquer territory that is being actively defended. They succeed when the gatekeepers stop convincing people why the territory matters.

History may ultimately judge Badenoch less harshly than current headlines do. She inherited a party exhausted by internal warfare, electoral defeat, and years of declining public trust. Those are not conditions from which quick recoveries emerge. Yet politics offers little sympathy for difficult inheritances.

Whether through miscalculation, hesitation, or simple inability to adapt, Badenoch has so far created the impression of a leader reacting to Farage rather than defining him. In politics, that distinction is everything. The politician setting the agenda owns the future. The politician responding to it usually ends up explaining the past.

The Price of Growing Old by Dai Eun Greer

Every year, World Elder Abuse Awareness Day arrives with solemn statements yet the most uncomfortable conversation is often left untouched. Elder abuse is not only a matter of individual cruelty. It can also emerge from systems designed to place financial efficiency ahead of human care.

The modern privatization of elder care has transformed one of society’s most profound responsibilities into a marketplace. In theory, competition should improve quality. In practice, the results are far less reassuring. Across many countries, aging parents and grandparents increasingly find themselves living within institutions managed according to business models that reward cost-cutting, expansion, and profitability. Care becomes a service line. Residents become occupancy rates. Human vulnerability becomes an operating expense.

This is not an indictment of every private provider. Many caregivers working in privately run facilities perform extraordinary work under difficult conditions. They deserve admiration. The problem lies elsewhere. It lies in a system that too often measures success by financial outcomes rather than human ones.

The arithmetic is brutally simple. Staffing is expensive. Time is expensive. Attention is expensive. Compassion, while impossible to quantify, often requires all three. When organizations face pressure to increase margins, reduce costs or satisfy investors, the temptation to trim staffing levels becomes nearly irresistible. The consequences are rarely dramatic enough to make headlines. They arrive quietly.

An unanswered call button.
A rushed meal.
A skipped conversation.
A resident left sitting alone for hours.

Neglect rarely announces itself with the spectacle that accompanies physical abuse. It accumulates gradually, hidden behind schedules, spreadsheets, and management reports. Its victims often lack the strength, confidence, or opportunity to speak about it. By the time families notice, the damage may already be done.

There is a particular irony in the language surrounding elder care today. Facilities advertise lifestyle experiences, wellness environments, and personalized living. The vocabulary sounds suspiciously similar to that of luxury hotels and technology companies. Aging, however, is not a consumer experience. It is a human condition. People in their eighties and nineties do not primarily need branding strategies. They need patience, safety, companionship and consistent care.

The deeper issue concerns what privatization reveals about our cultural priorities. Modern societies celebrate productivity, innovation, and economic growth. Old age represents something different. It reminds us of dependence, fragility, and mortality. These are realities many cultures would prefer not to confront. Outsourcing care to increasingly corporate systems can become a convenient way of distancing ourselves from those reminders.

World Elder Abuse Awareness Day should therefore challenge more than individual misconduct. It should challenge collective complacency. The question is not merely whether elders are being harmed. The question is whether our institutions are structured in ways that make harm easier to ignore.

A society ultimately reveals its character through the treatment of those who possess the least power. Elderly people, particularly those requiring extensive care, belong to that category. They cannot lobby effectively. They cannot dominate public debate. They depend on others to defend their interests.

That dependency places a moral burden on the rest of us. Caring for older generations should never be reduced to a balance-sheet calculation. The true measure of elder care is not profitability, occupancy, or efficiency. It is whether the final years of a human life are lived with dignity. Everything else is accounting.

Puppi & Caesar #46 #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!  

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