Residency, reality and the courage to admit Europe needs people by Nadine Moreau

There is something almost theatrical about Europe’s current demographic anxiety, governments lament shrinking workforces, economists warn of unsustainable pension systems and hospitals quietly strain under staffing shortages, yet migration policy often remains trapped in a political time warp. Against this backdrop, Spain’s move to regularize hundreds of thousands of undocumented migrants is less radical than it is honest.

Let’s be clear about what is being proposed. Granting permanent residency to migrants who have already been living in the country, contributing informally, and staying out of trouble is not an act of reckless generosity. It is a recognition of reality. These individuals are not hypothetical arrivals at the border; they are already woven, albeit invisibly, into the fabric of Spanish society. They clean homes, harvest crops, care for the elderly, and fill the kinds of jobs that aging populations increasingly depend on but native workforces often cannot or will not.

Europe’s demographic crisis is not looming; it is here. Birth rates across much of the continent are well below replacement level, and the ratio of workers to retirees is steadily declining. Without intervention, pension systems will buckle under their own weight, and public healthcare, so often cited as a cornerstone of European identity, will struggle to maintain both quality and access. The uncomfortable truth is that economic sustainability requires more workers, not fewer. And workers, in this case, are already present.

Regularization does something that restrictive policies fail to achieve: it pulls people out of the shadows and into the tax base. Undocumented migrants, by definition, operate in informal economies where exploitation is common and contributions to public systems are minimal or indirect. Legal status changes that equation. It creates accountability, encourages integration, and transforms individuals from invisible labour into recognized participants in national life.

Critics will argue that such policies risk encouraging further migration or undermining the rule of law. These concerns are not entirely unfounded, but they are often overstated. Migration flows are driven by complex global forces, conflict, climate, inequality, not solely by the promise of legal status in one country. Meanwhile, the rule of law is not weakened by adapting policy to reality; it is strengthened when laws reflect practical, enforceable conditions rather than aspirational rigidity.

There is also a deeper, more uncomfortable layer to the debate: xenophobia dressed up as economic caution. It is easier, politically, to frame migrants as a burden than to acknowledge their necessity. Yet the evidence is visible in everyday life. Who staffs the late shifts in hospitals? Who keeps agricultural sectors afloat? Who fills the gaps in elder care as populations age? The answer, increasingly, is migrants, documented or not.

Spain’s approach implicitly challenges a broader European reluctance to confront this dependency. It asks a simple question: if these individuals are already essential, why maintain the fiction that they are outsiders? Legal recognition is not just a bureaucratic adjustment; it is a social acknowledgment that belonging can be earned through presence, contribution, and adherence to the law.

Of course, regularization is not a silver bullet. It must be paired with coherent immigration systems, labour protections, and integration policies that extend beyond paperwork. But dismissing it outright ignores the scale of the challenge Europe faces. Aging societies do not have the luxury of ideological purity; they require pragmatic solutions.

The real test is whether other countries are willing to follow this kind of pragmatic lead. Europe cannot simultaneously fear demographic decline and resist the very people who can help mitigate it. At some point, the contradiction becomes untenable.

Spain’s policy may not solve everything, but it does something more important: it replaces denial with decision. In a continent caught between nostalgia and necessity, that alone is a step forward.


Earth day in the age of drones by Virginia Robertson

International Mother Earth Day arrives each year with familiar rituals: polished speeches, curated pledges, and a fleeting wave of collective concern. Governments reaffirm commitments, corporations repackage sustainability, and social media blooms with images of forests and oceans as if reverence alone could halt their decline. Yet this year, as in many before it, the dissonance is impossible to ignore. While we celebrate the Earth, we are simultaneously tearing into it with precision, with efficiency and increasingly, with distance.

Modern warfare has perfected the art of detachment. Drones hover thousands of feet above the ground, their operators continents away, their strikes measured in coordinates rather than consequences. Bombs fall not only on strategic targets but on ecosystems that took centuries to evolve. Forests burn, soil is poisoned, rivers are choked with debris and chemicals. The victims are not just human lives, though those losses are devastating enough but entire webs of life that have no voice in our conflicts and no defense against our technologies.

There is a quiet brutality in this contradiction. On one hand, we speak of biodiversity loss, climate change, and the urgent need to protect fragile ecosystems. On the other, we normalize the destruction of those very systems in the name of security, influence or retaliation. It is as though we have created two moral frameworks: one for how we treat the Earth in times of peace, and another for how we abandon it in times of conflict.

The environmental cost of war is often treated as collateral, an unfortunate but secondary concern. But that framing is dangerously outdated. When wetlands are destroyed, they do not simply “recover” once the conflict ends. When toxins seep into groundwater, they linger for generations. When animal populations are decimated, ecosystems do not neatly reset. The damage compounds, layering crisis upon crisis in a way that no Earth Day proclamation can undo.

And then there is the psychological dimension, the way distance has reshaped our relationship with destruction. A drone operator does not hear the forest crackle as it burns or see the animals scatter in terror. The interface abstracts reality into pixels and data. This technological buffer does more than protect human operators; it dulls our collective sense of responsibility. It allows us to maintain the illusion that we are careful, controlled, even ethical, while the Earth absorbs the consequences.

International Mother Earth Day, in this context, risks becoming a performance rather than a reckoning. It is easier to plant a tree than to question the systems that make such gestures feel necessary in the first place. It is easier to celebrate small victories than to confront the scale of our contradictions. But if this day is to mean anything, it must force us to look beyond symbolism and into the uncomfortable reality of how we wield power.

What would it mean to take the Earth seriously, not just as a resource or a backdrop, but as a shared foundation for all life? It would mean acknowledging that environmental destruction is not separate from human conflict; it is deeply intertwined with it. It would mean treating ecological damage as a central cost of war, not an afterthought. And it would mean resisting the seductive convenience of technologies that make destruction feel distant and therefore acceptable.

There is no neat resolution to this tension. The world is complex, and conflicts do not vanish with good intentions. But clarity is not the same as simplicity. We can recognize the necessity of security while still questioning the methods that erode the very ground beneath us, literally and figuratively.

Earth Day should not reassure us. It should unsettle us. It should remind us that our greatest innovations have not freed us from responsibility; they have expanded its reach. The question is not whether we can continue as we are, we clearly can, at least for a time. The question is what kind of world will remain when we do.

And whether, by then, there will be anything left to celebrate.


Selective fear in a nuclear age by Dag Hansen

There is something unsettling about the way the world chooses its anxieties. Not the existence of threats that part is constant but the uneven attention we grant them, the selective urgency that says more about politics than about danger. Today, nowhere is that imbalance more glaring than in the contrast between the alarm directed at Iran’s potential nuclear ambitions and the relative quiet surrounding North Korea’s very real, very advanced arsenal.

The head of the International Atomic Energy Agency has issued a stark warning: North Korea has made “very serious” advances in its nuclear weapons program. Not hypothetical advances. Not speculative ambitions. Real progress, likely including a new uranium-enrichment facility. This is not a country inching toward capability; it is one that already possesses it. Analysts believe Pyongyang holds several dozen nuclear warheads. Several dozen. That is not a threshold. That is an arsenal.

And yet, the global conversation, especially in Washington, feels oddly muted. Instead, political energy continues to swirl around Iran, a country whose nuclear trajectory, while concerning, remains constrained, monitored, and contested through diplomatic channels. The fear is framed in the future tense: what Iran might become, what it could one day possess, what it might choose to do. With North Korea, there is no need for hypothetical language. The future has already arrived.

So why the disparity? Part of the answer lies in familiarity. North Korea has long occupied a strange place in the geopolitical imagination: isolated, unpredictable, but somehow contained. Its provocations, missile tests, fiery rhetoric, have become almost ritualized. There is a dangerous comfort in routine, even when that routine involves weapons capable of catastrophic destruction.

Another part lies in political narrative. Iran fits neatly into existing frameworks of rivalry and suspicion in American foreign policy. It is woven into alliances, regional tensions, and domestic debates in a way that keeps it perpetually at the forefront. North Korea, by contrast, is geographically distant from the United States and politically inconvenient to confront. Addressing its nuclear status requires acknowledging a reality that offers no easy solutions.

Then there is the peculiar dynamic between leadership figures. The notion, sometimes joked about, sometimes hinted at, that Washington and Pyongyang share a kind of mutual understanding is not entirely baseless. Personal diplomacy, however unconventional, has replaced sustained strategic pressure at times. The optics of “getting along” have, in certain moments, overshadowed the substance of the threat itself.

But nuclear weapons are not impressed by optics. For North Korea’s neighbors, South Korea and Japan in particular, the danger is not abstract. It is immediate, measurable and growing. Every advancement in enrichment capability, every refinement in missile technology, shifts the balance of power in a region already fraught with historical tension. The margin for miscalculation narrows with each step forward.

The troubling question is not whether the international community recognizes the threat. It does. The question is whether recognition translates into action or whether it is quietly filed away beneath more politically expedient concerns.

Selective fear is a luxury the nuclear age does not afford. Prioritizing one threat over another may serve short-term political narratives, but it does little to enhance long-term security. In fact, it risks normalizing what should never be normalized, the steady expansion of a nuclear arsenal in one of the world’s most opaque regimes.

There is no strategic logic in worrying more about the weapons that might exist tomorrow than the ones that already exist today. Yet that is precisely the imbalance we are witnessing.

And imbalance, in matters of nuclear security, is rarely benign. It is, more often, the prelude to surprise.


Puppi & Caesar #43 #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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A Day of Mother Earth: Living in Harmony with Nature by Rene Wadlow

 

International Mother Earth Day on 22 April each year was established by the United Nations General Assembly in 2009.  Its aim is to promote living in harmony with Nature and to achieve a just balance among the economic, social and environmental needs of present and future generations.  The concept of living in harmony with Nature was seen by the U.N. delegates as a way "to improve the ethical basis of the relationship between humankind and our planet."

The term "Mother Earth" is an expression used in different cultures to symbolize the inseparable bonds between humans and Nature.   Pachamama is the term used in the Andean cultures of South America.  The Earth and the ecosystem is our home.  We need to care for it as a mother is supposed to care for her children and the children to show love and gratitude in return.  However, we know from all the folk tales of the evil stepmother as well as the records of psychoanalytic sessions that mother-children relations are not always relations of love, care and gratitude.  Thus to really live in harmony with Nature requires deep shifts in values and attitudes, not just "sustainable development" projects.

The United Nations began its focus on ecological issues with the preparations for the 1972 Conference in Stockholm and has continued with the 1992 Rio Declaration followed by the Rio plus 20 conference 20 years later.  However the concept of living in harmony with Nature is relatively new as a U.N. political concept. Yet it is likely to be increasingly a theme for both governmental policy making and individual action.

As Rodney Collin wrote in a letter "It is extraordinary how the key-word of harmony occurs everywhere now, comes intuitively to everyone's lips when they wish to express  what they hope for.  But I feel that we have hardly yet begun to study its real meaning. Harmony is not an emotion, an effect.  It is a whole elaborate science, which for some reason has only been fully developed in the realm of sound.  Science, psychology and even religion are barely touching it as yet."  (1)

Resolutions in the U.N. General Assembly can give a sense of direction.  They indicate that certain ideas and concepts are ready to be discussed at the level of governments.  However, a resolution is not yet a program of action or even a detailed framework for discussion.  "Living in harmony with Nature" is at that stage on the world agenda.  Since the start of the yearly observation of Mother Earth Day in 2010, there have been useful projects proposed around a yearly theme.  The 2018 theme is to reduce pollution from plastics.  The exponential growth of plastics is now a real threat by injuring marine life, littering beaches and landfills and clogging waste systems.  There is a need to reduce the single use of plastic objects by reusing and recycling plastic  objects.

However reducing pollution from plastic objects, while useful, is not yet living in harmony with Nature.  There is still efforts to be made to spell out the ethical base and the necessary shifts in attitudes and actions.

 ************************************

Notes

1) His letters have been assembled after his death by his wife into a book:
    Rodney Collin. The Theory of Conscious Harmony  (Boulder, CO: Shambhala, 1958)

 ************************************

Rene Wadlow, President, Association of World Citizens

Day of Mother Earth by Rene Wadlow

 

The United Nations General Assembly in 2009 through resolution A/RES/63/278, under the leadership of the Plurinational State of Bolivia, designated 22 April as the International Mother Earth Day. The Day recognizes a collective responsibility, set out in the 1992 Rio Declaration, to promote harmony with Nature so as to achieve a just balance among economic, social and ecological needs of the present and future generations.

In traditional Indian culture, according to texts as early as the Vedas, the Earth is home to all living species that inhabit it and must not be excluded as they all contribute to the planet's welfare and preservation.  Therefore, human beings must contribute to the web of life of which they are a part and find ways of using the elements to produce food without damaging other life forms as far as possible.

World Citizens stress that Earth is our common home and that we must protect it together.  Loss of biodiversity, desertification, and soil loss - all are signs that there must be renewed efforts to develop socio-economic patterns that are in harmony with Nature.

World Citizens highlight that the protection of Mother Earth is a task in which each of us must participate.  However, there have always been traditions that stressed that a more enlightened group of humans would come to show the way.  One tradition was among the Natives of North America.  The more enlightened were thought of as "The Rainbow Warriors" - the warrior being one who protects rather than one who goes abroad to attack others. Nicola Beechsquirrel recalls this tradition in her poem, a tribute to Mother Earth.

The Rainbow Warriors - Nicola Beechsquirrel

Come, all who ever loved our Earth
Who lived in peace amongst her creatures
Gentle, loving, caring folk
With healing hands, and wisdom in your souls.
Come, incarnate once more
Come to Earth in her greatest need.
Help us rid her of her burdens
Cleanse her of all poisons
Close up the deep sores on her sacred body
And cover it once more in soft green.
Walk amongst us again
That we may relearn ancient skills
And long-forgotten wisdom
And tread lightly upon our Mother Earth
Taking from her only what we need
Living her ways in love and joy
Treating her creatures as equals.
Teach us how to reach those who exploit her
How to open their souls to the beauty of Life
That they may destroy no longer.
Come to us, Rainbow Warriors
Share with us your wisdom
For we have great need of it.

 *************************************

Rene Wadlow, President, Association of World Citizens

Orbit of one by Gabriele Schmitt

There is something quietly unsettling about how much of humanity’s future now bends around the ambitions of a single individual. Not in the theatrical, science-fiction sense of a villain stroking a cat atop a lunar fortress, but in the far subtler reality of infrastructure, rockets, satellites, communications systems, becoming extensions of one man’s will. The modern space age, once the domain of nations and collective aspiration is increasingly a private project, shaped not by public consensus but by personal temperament.

The promise, of course, is dazzling. Reusable rockets lowering the cost of access to space. A satellite network that beams internet to the most remote corners of the planet. A long-term vision of becoming a multi-planetary species, hedging against extinction. These are not trivial achievements or trivial dreams. They speak to humanity’s oldest instinct, to explore, to survive, to transcend limits.

But ambition, when concentrated, acquires a different gravity. The infrastructure being built today is not merely technological, it is civilizational. A privately controlled satellite constellation can influence communication during wars, elections, and crises. It can decide who stays connected and who falls silent. The line between service provider and geopolitical actor becomes blurred, then erased. And unlike traditional institutions, these systems are not governed by transparent processes or democratic oversight. They are subject, ultimately, to the impulses of their architect.

That would be less concerning if the architect embodied consistency, restraint, and a respect for institutional boundaries. Instead, what we often see is volatility, a public persona that veers between visionary and provocateur, between thoughtful commentary and impulsive pronouncement. The erratic tone is not just a quirk; it raises serious questions about judgment. When decisions about global infrastructure can hinge on personal moods or ideological leanings, unpredictability becomes a structural risk.

Equally troubling are the faint but persistent echoes of authoritarian thinking that sometimes surface. Not always explicitly, not always coherently, but enough to suggest a worldview that is impatient with democratic friction and drawn to decisive, centralized control. Paired with occasional rhetoric that flirts with exclusionary or regressive ideas, it creates a dissonance: the future of humanity being shaped by someone whose vision of humanity itself may not be entirely inclusive.

History offers a cautionary pattern. Technological revolutions often begin with liberation and end with consolidation. Railroads, telegraphs, oil, the internet, each expanded human possibility while also concentrating power in new and sometimes dangerous ways. What feels different now is the speed and scale. Space, once a commons governed by treaties and shared imagination, is being rapidly privatized, not just in ownership, but in direction.

To question this trajectory is not to reject innovation or ambition. It is to insist that the systems underpinning our collective future remain accountable to more than one mind. The dream of reaching Mars should not come bundled with the quiet normalization of unilateral influence over Earth.

The real issue is not whether one individual can build extraordinary things. Clearly, he can. The issue is whether extraordinary power should ever be allowed to orbit so closely around a single, unpredictable center.


Fragility Of Notion #Poem by Jan Sand

 

No doubt there are scratchings
On dark walls of hidden caves
Where ancient fleeing slaves have crouched
In misery and fright to write
Of being here.

This here where we each reside
With reality by our side
May be cozened
By our dreams
Of what seems to be true.

But actualities are fabricated
To cohere.
What appears into
Recognizable patternings –
The sounds and sights we discern
Can burn in temporal immolation.

Information abides in marks,
Lines of rise and fall of tides
Of memories,
Traces in the sands where time
Has wash away.

Today is always here.
It awakens with the Sun
To disappear In night’s descent
When the firmamental cosmos appears
Where yesterdays have fled
At lightning speed beyond our galaxy.

It seeks the edge if time itself
Where even nothing cannot exist.

Our scratchings mark on
These walls of black infinity
Upon which knowingness can barely show.
Bats may descend in silent screams
To discern what we may be
But hey! No one knows the way,
No matter what they say.

We are defined, confined
By touch and sight
Sound and hate
Love and delight
To outline a hand on blacknesses,
Define our lacks.

#eBook The tiger in the chapel of roses by Manisha Yadav

 

It was near evening when the cloisters began to empty. The priory’s bell tolled low, heavy in the smoky air of May, and the shadows inside the stone corridors deepened like spilled ink.

Soldiers wandered among the walled gardens, laughing too loudly, sword belts clinking against armour ill-fitted to the task of war. One youth, little more than a boy, ran his blade down a hedge, shearing fresh leaves until a steward barked at him. The war was here. And it was coming for all of them.

Queen Margaret stood alone by the chapel window, watching. Her fingers, delicate and ringed, clutched at the carved stone like claws on prey. Below her, the banners of the House of Lancaster flapped in nervous rhythm. She did not blink.

“Curses on this place,” she whispered. “Even the wind stinks of treachery.”

Manisha Devi. A California mom of two whirlwind daughters, spends her days dodging Lego bricks and deciphering the intricate social dramas unfolding at the park. Fueled by caffeine and a healthy dose of cynicism, she channels her observations into witty short stories about the eccentric characters she encounters in her daily life, from the overly-enthusiastic dog walker to the woman who whispers secrets to her bonsai tree.

Ovi eBook Publishing 2026

The tiger in the chapel of roses

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2nd opinion! 26#07 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Seriously, a human hater self-centred agoraphobic in quarantine!
I think you’ll need a second opinion after this.

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The long game in black robes by Timothy Davies

There is something almost theatrical, Shakespearean even about the idea of timing one’s exit for maximum political consequence. In Washington where power is rarely surrendered without calculation, the Supreme Court has increasingly come to resemble not just a judicial body, but a stage on which legacy, ideology, and strategy are carefully choreographed. The notion that a second Trump administration might quietly anticipate, or even encourage, the timely retirements of its most reliable conservative justices is less conspiracy than it is continuity.

After all, the modern Court is already the product of deliberate engineering. What was once framed as the slow drift of constitutional interpretation now feels more like a project with milestones. The appointments of recent years were not merely about filling vacancies, they were about locking in a worldview. A judiciary that once prided itself on insulation from politics has, paradoxically, become one of its most enduring prizes.

If Justices Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito were to step down before the 2026 midterms, it would not simply be a matter of age or fatigue. It would be, unmistakably, a strategic withdrawal, an effort to ensure that their replacements are chosen under the most ideologically favorable conditions. The logic is straightforward: better to pass the torch while the Senate remains amenable than to risk the unpredictability of electoral cycles. It is the judicial equivalent of retiring at halftime while your team still leads.

Critics will argue that such maneuvering erodes the Court’s legitimacy, transforming lifetime appointments into something resembling renewable political terms. They are not wrong to worry. The image of impartial arbiters begins to blur when justices appear to time their departures with partisan precision. Yet defenders might counter that this is simply realism catching up with tradition. The Court has always been political in consequence, if not in posture. What has changed is the candor.

What makes this moment particularly striking is the long horizon. This is not about the next case or even the next term. It is about decades. A justice appointed in their forties or fifties today could plausibly shape the law well into the 2050s. In that sense, the stakes are not merely generational, they are epochal. The Constitution, interpreted through such a lens, becomes less a fixed document than a living instrument tuned by those who hold the bench at just the right moment.

There is also an irony in the rhetoric that surrounds this strategy. The language of restoration, of returning to foundational principles, sits uneasily alongside the meticulous planning required to secure those outcomes. It suggests that what is being preserved is not simply the Constitution as written, but a particular vision of it, carefully curated and fiercely protected.

Still, one cannot help but admire the discipline of the approach. In a political culture often defined by short-term thinking and reactive decision-making, this is something else entirely: patient, methodical and unapologetically ambitious. It treats the judiciary not as an afterthought, but as the central battleground.

Whether one views this as prudent stewardship or calculated opportunism likely depends on where one stands. But the broader implication is harder to dismiss. The Supreme Court, once imagined as the final check on political excess, is now deeply enmeshed in the very currents it was designed to resist. And as the next potential retirements loom, the question is no longer whether politics shapes the Court but how openly, and how far into the future, that shaping is intended to reach.


Residency, reality and the courage to admit Europe needs people by Nadine Moreau

There is something almost theatrical about Europe’s current demographic anxiety, governments lament shrinking workforces, economists warn o...