A strange number has recently begun appearing online beneath videos about Jewish history, antisemitism, and the Holocaust.

Sometimes it appears just as “271K.” Other times it is accompanied by a cookie emoji, an oven, a glass of juice, or a comment about wooden doors. To most people, these posts look meaningless. But not to those of us familiar with the language of online extremism.

The number is used to claim that only 271,000 Jews were killed during the Holocaust rather than the factually accurate figure of approximately six million. It is not the product of newly discovered evidence or previously sealed archives, but rather an old falsehood repackaged for the age of algorithms, influencers, and short-form video.

Like many successful conspiracy theories, it begins with a real document before stripping away nearly all of its context.

The figure traces back to records held by the Special Registry Office in Bad Arolsen, Germany. Holocaust deniers circulated a document listing death certificates issued for prisoners held in a limited number of concentration camps. Those certificates were created only after relatives applied for them and officials found sufficient documentation to confirm an individual’s death. They were never intended to represent everyone killed during the Holocaust.

The records excluded millions of Jews murdered in extermination camps such as Auschwitz-Birkenau, Treblinka, Sobibor, and Belzec, as well as victims killed in ghettos, during mass shootings across Eastern Europe, and countless others whose deaths were never formally documented or whose records were destroyed.

The Arolsen Archives has repeatedly explained that the document records only a small fraction of those persecuted and murdered by the Nazis. Holocaust deniers nevertheless present it as though Germany—or even the Red Cross—admitted that the accepted death toll was false.

The estimate of approximately six million Jewish victims does not rest on a single document. It is the product of decades of research drawing on Nazi records, deportation lists, demographic studies, eyewitness testimony, physical evidence, and surviving archives. As the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum notes, the Holocaust is among the best-documented genocides in history.

The appeal of “271K” has never been its evidence, but that if you repeat that number enough times, some people will start believing it.

The underlying claim has circulated in extremist circles for decades. What changed around 2024 was its packaging. By reducing a complicated conspiracy theory to a single number, extremists created something that could be posted beneath thousands of videos, instantly recognized by supporters while appearing meaningless to everyone else.

Its rise has coincided with a broader resurgence of open Holocaust denial in parts of the West. Ideas once confined to neo-Nazi publications and obscure internet forums now reach millions through podcasts, livestreams, and short videos.

Dan Bilzerian, for example, told Piers Morgan in 2024 that he would bet his entire net worth that fewer than six million Jews were murdered during the Holocaust. He offered no serious historical evidence, relying instead on vague claims that the mathematics did not add up.

Nick Fuentes has taken a different approach. Rather than denying the Holocaust directly, he tells vague stories about cookies and ovens that invite audiences to draw the conclusion themselves. His followers understand the references and repeat them across memes, comment sections, and short videos.

Neither Bilzerian nor Fuentes invented Holocaust denial. What they provide is reach. They move ideas from the political fringe into ordinary online conversation.

A falsehood shared during a two-hour podcast can quickly become hundreds of short clips circulating across TikTok, Instagram, X, and Telegram, detached from any challenge or correction. By the time it reaches a teenager scrolling through videos, Holocaust denial looks like a joke, a provocative question, or forbidden knowledge that powerful people supposedly do not want discussed.

UNESCO estimates that denial or distortion appears in roughly 16 percent of Holocaust-related content on social media. On public Telegram channels, nearly half of discussions about the Holocaust contain the same forms of misinformation.

That raises another question: why rely on cookies, ovens, and coded numbers instead of simply saying what is meant?

Part of the answer is moderation.

Platforms can identify explicit phrases like “the Holocaust did not happen.” They struggle far more with a cookie emoji, a number, and an inside joke, especially when each symbol has an innocent meaning in other contexts. That ambiguity is precisely the point.

It allows users to communicate antisemitic messages while insisting they were “only joking.” It also draws in curious users. Someone unfamiliar with “271K” may search for it, only to find an online ecosystem filled with manipulated documents, edited videos, and conspiracy theories.

UNESCO-supported research has found that Holocaust deniers deliberately rely on humor, memes, and parody both to evade moderation and to make antisemitic ideas appear entertaining rather than extremist.

The cookie metaphor serves another purpose. It reduces murdered human beings to objects, stripping away their names, families, and lives until genocide becomes little more than a debate over production capacity. Dehumanization is the goal.

The trend emerged in English-speaking extremist communities, but numbers, emojis, and memes travel easily across languages. Podcast clips were subtitled into Arabic. Screenshots spread across X, TikTok, Instagram, and Telegram. Many accounts repeated the joke without ever explaining where it came from.

The war in Gaza created especially fertile ground for this kind of misinformation. Some users began touting Holocaust denial as an act of solidarity with Palestinians. Others repeated the claim because it appeared to challenge Israel or undermine the political use of Holocaust memory. Many almost certainly shared it without understanding its origins.

Research from George Washington University’s Program on Extremism documented a sharp increase in antisemitic Arabic-language content after October 7, 2023, identifying Holocaust denial as one of its recurring themes and warning that social media companies remain poorly equipped to detect coded antisemitism in Arabic.

None of this means criticism of the Israeli government is antisemitic. It is not. Nor does condemning the killing and displacement of Palestinian civilians amount to hatred of Jews.

But Holocaust denial is not criticism of Israel. Mocking Jewish victims does not advance Palestinian rights. Replacing six million murdered people with a fabricated number does nothing to save a single Palestinian life.

If anything, it weakens the Palestinian cause by allowing its critics to portray advocacy for Palestinian rights as a vehicle for antisemitism. It shifts attention away from Palestinians themselves and toward an indefensible historical falsehood.

Countering that misinformation requires more than simply labeling it false. Reliable information has to exist in the languages people actually use.

That is why Ideas Beyond Borders, through our translation program, translated Wikipedia’s article on Holocaust denial into Arabic, Persian, Dari, Kurdish, and Pashto. Those articles have since been viewed more than 100,000 times, giving readers access to reliable information where conspiracy theories often spread unchecked.

Our latest initiative, in partnership with the William Levine Family Institute for Holocaust Education at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, goes a step further. Together, we are producing videos for audiences across the Middle East and North Africa that explain not only why claims like “271K” are false, but how they are constructed and why coded language has become such an effective tool for spreading them.

Providing that information matters because a young person searching for “271K” should encounter evidence before they encounter propaganda.

Palestinians do not need the Holocaust to be false for their suffering to be real.

The killing of Palestinian civilians does not become more tragic if Jewish victims are erased from history, just as Palestinian rights are not strengthened by turning six million murdered Jews into cookies, emojis, or internet jokes.

We should be capable of recognizing both the Holocaust and the suffering of Palestinians without treating either as a threat to the other. We can oppose antisemitism, anti-Arab racism, Islamophobia, occupation, collective punishment, and the killing of civilians without abandoning historical truth or embracing antisemitism.

The moment we begin discarding evidence because it is politically inconvenient, we teach the next generation that facts matter only when they support our preferred narrative.

That is a lesson none of us should be willing to pass on.

For many people Riham Namle encountered on a recent delegation to the UK, she was the first Arab-Israeli they had ever met.

Despite Arabs making up around 20 percent of Israel’s population, misconceptions about their place in Israeli society are widespread. “I think a lot of Arabs do feel deeply Israeli,” Namle tells me.

Some audience members struggled to reconcile that reality with what they believed about Israel. “One person asked, ‘Do Arab children have permission to play with Jews because of the apartheid?’” recalls her colleague, Lee Shira Wilson.

The pair were on a fundraiser tour for the Freddie Krivine Institute (FKI) in June, which aims to bring Jewish and Arab children together through sport. Wilson is the director, and Namle is the Arab social activities coordinator.

In one venue they visited in Maidenhead—in the royal borough of Windsor—Namle says a British-Israeli woman approached her after the talk to explain that listening to her had led to a change of heart.

“She said, ‘I didn’t want to come to this because I thought Arabs were all bad people.’ She then said, ‘You changed me and how I think about the conflict.’”

Changing perceptions is central to FKI’s mission.

In 2000, Israel’s “Mr. Tennis” Freddie Krivine (a British-born businessman and philanthropist) decided the time had come to bring together young Jewish and Arab children through tennis.

With the Second Intifada in full force, it was certainly a precarious time to launch such a project. Yet over a quarter of a century on, the children continue to attend class.

One of their first tasks was to challenge misconceptions in their respective communities. Before joining the club, the Jewish children thought their Arab counterparts would be violent, says Wilson, while the Arab children thought the Jews would be “snobbish” towards them.

“Some Arab parents didn’t believe I was Muslim,” says Namle. “They asked, ‘Are you really an Arab and a Muslim?’ Because of the way I speak Hebrew fluently and with confidence.”

In Israel, Arab citizens’ limited Hebrew proficiency is considered an obstacle to their socioeconomic integration. Namle says the parents now insist that she speak with their children in Hebrew rather than Arabic to improve their language skills.

“They need to meet different people, and they don’t have other places where they get that opportunity,” she says.

Then came October 7. The attacks saw thousands of terrorists storm southern Israel, killing around 1,200 people and taking 251 hostages. Israel has since waged devastating wars in Gaza, Lebanon, and Iran. For an initiative built on trust between Arab and Jewish children, the new climate made its work immeasurably more difficult.

Yet despite the shock of October 7, a December 2023 survey suggested that the majority of Arabs felt more Israeli, and didn’t believe the Hamas-led attack was a reflection of Arab or Islamic values.

Namle says many Arab citizens feel caught between competing narratives. She recalls how a cousin went to Prague for her studies after October 7 and found the anti-Israel protests intimidating.

“She found the atmosphere scary, so she left Prague,” she says.

While it seemed there was still a willingness from the Arab population to bridge the divide, Jews were less eager.

“Jewish families are still in pain. They felt betrayed by Arab families, because so many left-wing people were killed on October 7. They were the people who helped the people of Gaza. They were friendly with Arabs,” Wilson says, referring to the kibbutzim in the Gaza Envelope, in southern Israel, whose residents previously had good relations with the Palestinians. “So, there’s this whole kind of notion [that] you can’t trust the Arabs, doesn’t matter who they are, they’re just going to stab you in the back.”

It’s tragic, she argues, because daily life in Israel demonstrates how deeply intertwined Jewish and Arab communities remain.

“When you go to hospital, 60 percent of the doctors and the nurses, they’re all from the Arab community, so if you’re going to lie back and be put to sleep and be operated on by Arab doctors, you have to have some trust somewhere. You can’t believe that all Arabs want to kill you, and this is where people are. They’re in a very painful situation right now, and we have to rebuild that hope.”

Change has to start somewhere, and it’s better to start from a young age. Around 150 children attended the program every week, says Wilson, but that has fallen to 80 in the last few months, due to the war with Iran. It has been a frightening time for all, they tell me. Namle spent a fortnight in the shelter with her three children.

“My son was having panic attacks even when he heard the sound of an ambulance siren,” she says.

Meanwhile, Wilson—also a mother-of-three—is concerned about her disabled father who uses a wheelchair.

“It feels like Russian Roulette. One of my kids said ‘I dreamt we died’,” she says. “It’s really stressful.”

For now, the majority of the children attending the program are Arab.

“Some Jewish families have said, ‘Oh wow, are people still going to your classes?’” says Wilson. “People are scared, and they don’t trust one another. The Jewish community has retreated into itself, 100 percent.”

Namle says it’s all unfortunate, adding:

“But I remember that we need to continue, because when people meet and talk to each other, all bad feelings disappear.”

To address the imbalance, FKI has begun partnering with Jewish tennis clubs and bringing Arab children to them. The sessions combine tennis, competition, and a shared meal—small but deliberate efforts to rebuild trust, Wilson explains.

Summer camp is due to begin in a fortnight, and the club will also start planning for a competition later this year.

Wilson adds: “We’re going to be running a doubles competition. Every double has to be a Jew and an Arab, to show that only through partnership can you actually win, and it’s going to be livestreamed by the Israel Tennis Association.”

The initiative receives funding from Israel’s Ministry of Culture and Sport, because “They see the long-term strategy in things like this,” says Wilson. “People don’t realize, there are politicians, and then there are people who actually run the country.”

She says some politicians, without naming names, tend to “whip up hatred and division,” but the people on the ground are trying their best to continue with life, adding:

“In Israel we have a saying: terrible politics, amazing people.”

As more time passes from October 7 and the subsequent war in Gaza, Lee Shira Wilson and Riham Namle will continue to serve up that proverbial tennis ball and hope the answers lie in their work, however difficult the climate becomes.

“At the end of the day,” says Wilson, “no one is going anywhere.”

On June 26, Gazans were supposed to take to the streets. The call had circulated for weeks under the banner of the “June 26 Revolution” and was intended to be a day of protest against Hamas’s rule, government corruption, and the devastation of war.

The message was simple: the people of Gaza wanted the right to decide their own future, free from the leadership that had once again dragged them into a devastating war with Israel.

In the end, however, the uprising failed to generate the mass mobilization its organizers had hoped for. Small demonstrations broke out in parts of Gaza, with protesters chanting slogans such as “God willing, Hamas out,” “We are not pawns,” and “We want to live.” But across much of the Strip, there was little or no visible protest.

According to Gazans and outside activists who supported the demonstrations, that silence was the result of fear.

Reports from inside Gaza described masked Hamas operatives deployed near possible gathering points, restrictions on movement around displacement camps, and phones confiscated from many residents. A resident of central Gaza told The Times of Israel that Hamas-affiliated masked men were present in Deir al-Balah to prevent people from assembling. Ynetnews quoted a local source who described the atmosphere as one of “clear pressure,” saying that every attempt at public organization was met immediately by security forces.

Hamas supporters presented the crackdown as a necessary effort to maintain public order and prevent chaos. But effectively, this amounts to crushing dissent.

Kareem Jouda, a Palestinian peace advocate from Gaza whom I interviewed earlier this year for The Dispatch, told me that Hamas’s suppression of the June 26 protests was a coordinated effort to stop the movement before it could gather momentum.

“The intimidation campaign was a two-pronged strategy,” Jouda told me. “It was executed both online and on the ground.”

On the ground, he said, Hamas relied on direct threats and pressure on the families of activists. Online, the movement was smeared as suspicious, foreign-backed, or part of an Israeli effort to weaken Gaza from within.

This accusation is one of Hamas’s most effective tools. Hamas does not need to prove that a dissident is a “collaborator.” It only needs to be frightening enough that others think twice before joining him.

In Gaza, to be accused of collaboration is a way of painting political dissenters as treasonous. This creates an immediate risk of violence.

Jouda argues that Hamas has long weaponized the fear of “external exploitation” and “civil war” to discredit any grassroots movement that challenges its rule.

“This fear is largely a manufactured narrative pushed by Hamas itself,” he said. “They consistently weaponize the threat of external exploitation or civil war to delegitimize any popular movement and cast doubt on the loyalty of the protesters.”

The June 26 movement was especially vulnerable to these tactics because some of its most visible supporters were outside Gaza. Several organizers and amplifiers had left the strip during the war or in previous years. This included activists who had previously clashed with Hamas or participated in anti-Hamas movements. Hamas-linked voices argued that those abroad had no right to speak for people who had suffered bombardment, displacement, and hunger inside Gaza.

But that argument also obscures the fact that not everyone inside Gaza can safely say what they think.

Jouda says the information environment itself is part of the repression. “There is no real, independent journalism inside Gaza,” he said. Journalists operate under severe pressure, he argued, and cannot freely report the reality on the ground without risking consequences.

That claim was echoed in reporting around the June 26 protests. Gaza-based journalists were reportedly warned not to cover the planned demonstrations. Major outlets did not prominently feature the scattered anti-Hamas protests; some instead highlighted empty intersections and declared the “failure” of the June 26 Revolution.

But the grievances driving the June 26 movement have not disappeared. Gazans are exhausted by war, Israeli military devastation, living in tents, corruption, the collapse of basic services, and Hamas’s determination to hold onto power regardless of the cost to ordinary people.

“The people are desperate to protest and make their voices heard,” Jouda said. Their outrage, he argued, is driven by all of it at once: the catastrophic reality of the war, Hamas’s insistence on holding onto power, the gambling with civilian lives, and rampant corruption inside the strip.

Even small protests are a significant step forward. Inside Gaza, to step into the street is to risk being filmed, identified, accused, beaten, detained, or having one’s family pressured afterward.

Jouda believes the intimidation might be working, but he also believes there has been a shift.

“There is naturally a degree of fear that creates a gap between private and public speech,” he said. “But the reality today is that the threshold of fear has shifted.”

The anger, he said, has grown too overwhelming to remain fully private. People are expressing fury and resentment toward Hamas more openly than before—in conversations, online, and sometimes in the streets.

The June 26 protests may have been quashed this time. They may have been smaller than organizers hoped. Hamas may have succeeded, for now, in preventing a broader eruption. But a crushed protest does not mean the end of the struggle against Hamas is forever defeated.

The more interesting question is whether this anger can become a sustained political movement.

Gaza has seen protest waves before. In 2019, the “We Want to Live” movement challenged Hamas over economic misery and repression. In March 2025, rare public demonstrations again broke out, with some Gazans chanting against Hamas and demanding an end to war.

Jouda believes the next movement will have to be broader and more coordinated if it is to survive.

“For a future movement to succeed and endure, it requires absolute, unified coordination among all segments and structures of Gazan society simultaneously,” he said.

The message, in his view, must be firm: “Hamas—or whatever remains of it—must leave.”

This asserts a basic principle Hamas has spent years denying: that the people of Gaza are not the property of the armed faction that rules them.

The June 26 movement showed that beneath the surface of fear there is a genuine, growing hunger for another future. Hamas still has enough force to intimidate people, but not enough legitimacy to force them to love their rulers. The current silence should not be mistaken for consent.

Baghdad International Airport, Iraqi Airways, and some of Iraq’s most valuable state-owned assets have long been considered untouchable. Now, according to accounts from a recent closed-door meeting of Iraq’s ruling Coordination Framework, senior political leaders are debating whether they may need to be sold or transferred as the government confronts one of its most serious financial crises in years.

While international attention remains fixed on the confrontation between Iran, Israel, and the United States, Iraq’s political leadership is trying to solve a problem that has been compounding for years. Liquidity shortages, mounting public debt, American financial pressure, and a rapidly growing workforce are forcing discussions that would have been politically unimaginable only a few years ago.

According to accounts from the meeting, senior figures in the Shiite coalition that supports Prime Minister Ali al-Zaidi spent hours debating the country’s worsening financial position ahead of the prime minister’s expected visit to Washington in July, where economic issues may prove just as consequential as security concerns.

The discussion quickly turned to Iraq’s finances.

Participants described growing concern over debts owed by the Ministry of Finance to local banks and contractors, which have reportedly surpassed 200 trillion Iraqi dinars. Liquidity shortages and mounting obligations have left policymakers searching for ways to reassure both domestic markets and international partners.

The most politically sensitive proposal involved state-owned assets.

According to participants, coalition leaders discussed transferring or selling government holdings—including Baghdad International Airport, Iraqi Airways, and prime state real estate—to strengthen the Central Bank’s position and restore confidence in Iraq’s finances.

Such proposals would be a remarkable departure for a country whose post-2003 economic model has relied heavily on state ownership, oil revenues, and an expansive public sector.

And the urgency extends beyond the government’s balance sheet.

More than one million young Iraqis enter the labor market every year, yet the state can no longer absorb them through public-sector employment. According to discussions at the meeting, unemployment could reach six million people during the current government’s term, raising fears of renewed unrest similar to the protests that swept Iraq in October 2019.

Beyond emergency measures, coalition leaders also debated longer-term structural reforms.

One proposal involved removing three zeros from the Iraqi dinar as part of a broader effort to modernize the banking system and reduce reliance on emergency financial measures.

Another called for the creation of a national development fund with capital ranging from $100 billion to $250 billion. The Central Bank would contribute roughly $10 billion, with additional financing raised through public subscription and outside investment.

Perhaps the most controversial suggestion involved easing scrutiny of contributors’ sources of wealth to encourage money from Iraq’s vast informal economy to enter the formal financial system.

Officials also discussed establishing a dedicated energy fund to expand electricity generation, improve distribution networks, strengthen provincial revenue collection, and accelerate investment in solar power through Central Bank financing programs.

Those domestic pressures have also increased Washington’s leverage.

Internal sources told Middle East Uncovered that participants expressed concern over increasingly direct American warnings that Iraq must stay out of any future confrontation between Iran and Israel and prevent Iran-aligned armed groups from dragging the country into a wider regional conflict.

Washington recently suspended the transfer of a $1 billion cash shipment intended for Iraq’s banking sector following actions by Iran-backed armed groups. Iraqi officials are now seeking to secure the release of the funds, which are considered important for maintaining liquidity in the domestic market.

The U.S. Embassy has also reportedly requested compensation for damages to its facilities, while American oil and security companies operating in the Kurdistan Region have raised similar claims.

The meeting concluded with political backing for al-Zaidi ahead of his Washington visit and a renewed rejection of any discussion of normalization with Israel. Coalition leaders also discussed curbing spending-heavy legislation and advancing a long-term state-building strategy intended to guide government policy over the next two decades.

Taken together, the discussions suggest Iraq’s political leadership increasingly recognizes that the country’s economic model is reaching its limits.

For years, Baghdad relied on oil revenues, an ever-expanding public sector, and emergency financial measures to postpone difficult reforms. Those options are no longer viable options. Policymakers are now debating privatization, monetary reform, and investment mechanisms that would once have been politically untouchable—not because they have embraced economic liberalization, but because the alternatives aren’t working.

Washington’s pressure has accelerated the conversation, but it did not create Iraq’s underlying problems. If Baghdad cannot stabilize its finances and create opportunities for its rapidly growing young population, Iraq risks losing not only its financial stability but also another generation of young people—to unemployment, emigration, and the belief that their future lies elsewhere.

At 10pm on May 7, the polls closed in 24 wards across the London borough of Ealing. In East Acton, Rabia Nasimi had spent the final day on doorsteps, canvassing local residents in her bid to become a Labour Party councilor.

The counting would take all night. After months on the campaign trail, juggling local politics with her job as a civil servant, parenting her two-year-old, and navigating a new pregnancy, exhaustion was setting in.

“The result looked close all night, and I kept telling myself it could go either way,” said the 32-year-old, who hoped to become one of the few members of the British-Afghan community to serve as an elected representative in local government.

As the clock ticked past 3am, counting was still underway. Across the country, results were coming in, indicating damaging losses for the ruling Labour Party. Then, at 4am, the announcement for East Acton came through. Nasimi had won for Labour, alongside Hitesh Tailor and Stephen Donnelly.

Tears welled in her eyes as she realized the result. “It was difficult to take in the emotion of it all. It felt quite surreal,” she said.

Nasimi was among three candidates of Afghan heritage to win seats in the May local elections, alongside Shaira Karimi and Peymana Asad, in what some see as a sign of growing political participation from a historically under-represented community.

Councils in London frequently reflect the city’s multi-cultural population, but Afghans are a relatively small and recent group in the UK, where some minority communities have roots going back more than 50 years.

The recent success of Afghan candidates may be an “important milestone” in a longer process of political integration and representation, said Dr. Parveen Akhtar, senior lecturer in politics and international relations at Aston University.

“Afghan political representation remains relatively limited compared with more established diaspora communities such as those of South Asian heritage, whose political incorporation has developed over several decades,” she said.

Several factors could be driving this shift towards increased political participation as the Afghan community grows more established in the UK.

The Taliban takeover in 2021 shocked diaspora communities, encouraging some British Afghans to pursue more active roles in grassroots activism and local politics.

Watching news footage of families camping outside the airport and people falling from planes in their desperation to escape left many reeling, said Darius Nasimi, a community campaigner and Head of Funding and Partnerships at the Afghanistan and Central Asian Association (ACAA).

“It was shocking. Everyone was speaking about the gradual withdrawal of troops, but nobody thought the Taliban would instantly come back overnight,” he said.

For Peymana Assad, learning about life under the first Taliban regime had a profound impact. She was three when her family left Afghanistan and became refugees in the UK. Growing up in Harrow, one of London’s most diverse boroughs, she has campaigned for more inclusive decision-making in local institutions and became the first person of Afghan origin elected to UK public office in 2018.

She has since been re-elected twice to continue her role as Labour councilor for Roxeth—in 2022 and 2026.

Assad’s interest in local politics began at age 11, after she saw an image of an Afghan woman kneeling in a football stadium with a Taliban soldier holding a gun to her head. “For the first time, it made me think about what it meant to be a refugee, and why I came to this country,” she told Sky News in 2021.

At the time, she had recently returned from a visit to Afghanistan, which coincided with the Taliban takeover. Her British passport was the “only difference” between her and those who weren’t saved, she said, expressing her anger at the way Afghan people have been let down by foreign governments.

The British-Afghan community has grown considerably since Kabul’s collapse, with around 41,600 people arriving from Afghanistan via official evacuation and resettlement routes. Prior to 2021, there were 116,167 people of Afghan heritage registered as living in the UK according to a national census.

The May local elections were a “big moment” that will encourage more young Afghans to pursue political office, said Darius Nasimi.

“Many young people from Afghanistan in the UK feel like they don’t have access to opportunities…to see someone elected from their country makes them feel hope,” he added.

Through his work at the ACAA, a charity founded by his father that supports refugees and migrants in the UK, Nasimi regularly speaks with many young British Afghans. Some have arrived since 2021; others were part of earlier waves—in the early 2000s, following the 2001 war in Afghanistan, and, prior to that, in the 1990s, during the first era of Taliban rule.

“My father has always encouraged us to get into politics; he wants to see us be in a position where we can make a bigger difference and represent the people of Afghanistan,” he said.

The success of the three Afghan Britons elected in May indicates mounting trust in political participation as refugee families become more settled and established in British society.

It suggests that British Afghans are overcoming traditional barriers, including limited access to political networks, underrepresentation in party structures, socio-economic challenges, and a lack of familiarity with political institutions, said Dr. Akhar.

But victory at the polls is just the beginning.

“The key question is not simply whether more Afghan-Britons are elected, but whether they are able to shape policy, influence decision-making and represent the concerns of their communities effectively,” she added.

Long days on the campaign trail while pregnant reminded Rabia Nasimi why it’s vital that public office reflects the realities of people’s lives. “It reinforced that women should not have to choose between public service and motherhood, and I was determined not to let others make those assumptions for me,” she said.

Without the voice of women like Nasimi, who balances a young family with a full-time job as Head of NHS Partnerships at the Department of Health and Social Care, and her duties as a councilor, important perspectives would be lost. “Those lived experiences shape how you connect with residents and advocate on their behalf,” she said during an interview with The London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE), where she earned an MA in Sociology in 2016.

As she begins her first term as a councilor and immerses herself in local issues, Nasimi acknowledges the significance of her position. An Afghan woman taking a seat at the council table sends a powerful message about belonging and participation for a community that has long been absent from Britain’s political institutions. “When people from Afghanistan see someone who shares their background in elected office, I hope it gives them a sense of pride and possibility,” she said. For Nasimi, winning the election feels especially pertinent at a time when women in Afghanistan face severe restrictions on their rights and freedoms. “Seeing women from Afghanistan in public leadership can carry a powerful message,” she said.

For many British Afghans, entering politics is about more than serving their local communities. It is also a response to the country they left behind. As the Taliban has all but eliminated political space in Afghanistan, the voice of its diaspora is beginning to grow. The election of Afghan-born and Afghan-heritage representatives in Britain cannot change conditions in Afghanistan, but it offers a different vision of Afghan leadership—one rooted in participation, representation, and democratic life.

As Iran’s players left the pitch after their World Cup clash with Belgium on Sunday night, the 0-0 draw was being dissected across sports channels, social media and fan forums around the world.

For Rozita (not her real name), sitting in Tehran after months of war, blackouts, and uncertainty, it barely registered. “We really don’t care about them,” she says of Iran’s national team. “Ever since the Mahsa revolution, we don’t care about them because they’re all standing at the side of the regime.”

Rozita and I have been exchanging messages since January, during the wave of protests sparked at the end of December 2025, following the dramatic collapse of Iran’s currency.

The conversation continued through the war, amid sporadic internet connections, air raid warnings, and, more recently, a fragile ceasefire. Even now, with international delegations meeting in Switzerland in an effort to consolidate the truce and prevent a return to conflict, football remains an afterthought.

“Most of us didn’t know their names,” she says of the players. “My friends and I, we don’t know when the games will be held. We don’t care. We’re happy when they lose.”

Rozita’s view reflects a fracture that has opened up among Iranians both at home and abroad. Once a rare source of collective pride that transcended politics, Team Melli has become entangled in the bitter arguments surrounding the Islamic Republic, the Women, Life, Freedom (WLF) protests, and the future of the country itself.

That divide was visible before Iran’s opening World Cup match against New Zealand in Los Angeles. Iran’s team arrived in LA on Sunday, June 14 after taking a short flight from their training base in Mexico. At their hotel, they were met by a huge police presence and protesters waving pre-revolution flags.

At a press conference at the LA stadium, Iran’s captain, Mehdi Taremi said this experience was different compared with previous tournaments. “I have felt the tensions as soon as I arrived,” he said. That tension “undermines” the joy usually felt during the tournament and it “undermines the message of FIFA and our people, which is [that] football brings peace”, Taremi added.

The tensions followed the squad throughout their preparations. Iran’s delegation reportedly encountered visa difficulties and travel restrictions, with several members denied entry to the United States. After a 2-2 draw with New Zealand, head coach Amir Ghalenoei described his side as “the most oppressed” team at the tournament.

“He is right. Iranians are playing under draconian conditions,” says historian Dr Arash Azizi, author of What Iranians Want: Women, Life, Freedom. “Even before the tournament began, they were given a hard time and couldn’t train on their desired schedule. Not to mention, like their compatriots in Iran, many players had to live through months of war. Conversely, they’ve been given such a beautiful welcome in Tijuana and I hope it adds to a more lasting Mexican-Iranian friendship.”

The US has now eased restrictions on Iran’s World Cup team, allowing the squad to travel two days before its next match.

Yet while the team complains of political pressures, many of its critics argue that the rupture between Team Melli and sections of the Iranian public began long before the tournament.

The turning point was the death of Mahsa Amini in September 2022. The 22-year-old Kurdish woman died in the custody of Iran’s morality police after being detained for allegedly violating hijab regulations. Her death sparked the largest anti-government protests in Iran for decades.

Initially, members of the national team appeared to stand with the demonstrators. Some players, including striker Sardar Azmoun, publicly criticized the state crackdown. Before Iran’s World Cup match against England in Qatar later that year, the players declined to sing the national anthem, a gesture widely interpreted as solidarity with protesters.

But as the tournament progressed, that support appeared to fade. Whether through personal conviction, political pressure or simple self-preservation, many players adopted a lower profile. For some former supporters, that shift amounted to a betrayal.

Rozita shares with me an Instagram post from a self-described former supporter of Esteghlal, a Tehran-based team. Reflecting on the WLF movement, he writes that he is angry with the club because it had “strayed from the path and customs” associated with Nasser Hejazi, the legendary goalkeeper long admired for his independence and willingness to challenge authority.

Rozita also refers to the national squad as the “mullahs’ football team”, a label that has become increasingly common among some opponents of the regime.

Football remains Iran’s most popular sport and Team Melli continues to command enormous support. Yet for many activists, especially those shaped by the events of 2022, the national team no longer occupies a politically neutral space.

Haleh Blake, co-founder of the activist group United4Mahsa, describes herself as a lifelong football fan. Her mother used to sneak into stadiums dressed as a boy during the years when women were banned from attending matches.

“My husband is into football and we always had parties during the World Cup,” she says. “However, the last tournament was during the Women, Life, Freedom protests, where over 650 people were killed [in November], so I stopped supporting the team.

“The team is used as a political tool—it’s not just a sport.”

She also objects to FIFA’s ban on the pre-revolution flag inside the World Cup venues, adding: “That is our identity for over two thousand years.”

Dr Azizi argues that expecting footballers to become political standard-bearers is unrealistic. “Footballers will always come from a range of opinions,” he says. “It would be bizarre for Americans not to support the US team based on how many Republicans or Democrats there are in it.”

For Azizi, Team Melli remains a national institution rather than a state institution.

“Supporting Team Melli is supporting our boys, members of this nation who are playing for their country on the world stage,” he says. “It is unfortunate that some Iranians don’t support Team Melli and some even actively cheer against it. In my opinion, you should support the national team regardless of their politics.”

Azizi acknowledges that attitudes have changed since the WLF movement, but sees this as part of a broader erosion of faith in national institutions. The split is perhaps most visible within the diaspora, where political disagreements are often expressed more openly than inside Iran itself.

While anti-regime protesters dominated television coverage around the opening match in LA, Azizi notes that many supporters in the stadium also carried the pre-revolution Lion and Sun flag while cheering for the national team. Opposition to the government did not necessarily translate into opposition to the players, he says.

“There were actually very few who chanted against Team Melli,” he says. “It shows you the team is probably much more popular than some would have you believe.”

History offers plenty of precedents, Azizi explains. Exiled communities have frequently struggled with the question of whether national teams represent a people or a government. Syrians were divided over supporting their football team during the recent civil war. Cuban-Americans argued over the Cuban national baseball team when it played in Miami in 2023.

Azizi’s defence of Team Melli is shaped not only by his politics but also by a lifelong connection to Iranian football. In fact, Iran’s current manager was once his coach.

“In my teen years in Iran, I signed up for an Esteghlal football school that was run by Ghalenoei. He personally trained us every day and had a great rapport with us,” he tells me. “He was also well-read and often liked to discuss history and politics and also global football with students who had similar interests such as myself.”

Alas, Azizi seemed more suited to a life off the football pitch. “I remember [Ghalenoei] telling me ‘You should quit football and go do something to do with writing or academia’ which is what I ended up doing with my life!”

That personal connection has not prevented him from criticizing the Islamic Republic. But it does help explain why he rejects the notion that the national team belongs to the regime alone.

Echoing Azizi’s sentiments is Atbin Arian. Though a vocal opponent of the Islamic Republic, he believes fans should stand behind the national team. While he acknowledges supporting Team Melli is “rife with conflict,” he insists that it is possible for Iranians to simultaneously support the team and still be against the Islamic Republic.

He encourages fans to boo the “false” national anthem and bring the pre-revolution flags, instead of booing the players. “We have to separate the players from the regime,” he says on Instagram. “Yes this is a heavily politicized team… but the players are not at fault for the massacre that took place in January.”

Back in Tehran, Rozita’s concerns are more immediate than football. Earlier this year, during one of the most uncertain periods of the conflict, she messaged: “We are scared.”

Like many Iranians, she spends more time thinking about inflation, emigration, and political repression than football results. That reality helps explain why the World Cup carries such different meanings depending on who is watching.

For some, Team Melli remains a symbol of national pride, one of the few institutions capable of uniting Iranians across political divides. For others, the players have become inseparable from a state they believe has betrayed its own people. In this World Cup, Iran’s opponents are not only the teams lined up across the halfway line. The national side is also playing against years of accumulated anger, disappointment, and distrust.

Clearly, football still matters deeply, even when many of the people arguing about it insist that it no longer matters at all.

In the span of seventy-two hours, the Taliban turned Herat into a laboratory of fear—arresting women on the street for the shape of their veil, shooting into crowds demanding accountability, and killing a child who had innocently wandered into the wrong moment in history.

The crackdown began stealthily, as they often do under this regime: uniformed patrols fanning out through the Jebrail district with lists of violations and an expanding definition of transgression. Within days, dozens of women and girls had been detained on charges of failing to meet Taliban dress code standards. Eyewitnesses described scenes of arrests that defied even the Taliban’s own proclaimed criteria—women already wearing conservative Islamic dress, seized anyway, hauled away in vans while neighbors watched in silence or looked at the ground in shame.

The arbitrariness was the point. It always is. When a law can change at the whims of those who enforce it, it protects no one.

The Crackdown

Public outrage, suppressed but not extinguished, resurfaced on June 9. Residents of Herat gathered in protest—not with weapons or flags, but with voices and bodies in the street, the oldest and most vulnerable form of political speech. The Taliban’s response was to open fire on the crowd.

According to multiple local sources and eyewitness testimony reported by Afghanistan International, the fusillade left several protesters wounded, others detained and dragged into vehicles, and one person confirmed dead: a 12-year-old child, struck by Taliban gunfire as forces shot directly into the gathering.

A child old enough to understand injustice. Not old enough to have imagined this outcome. The Taliban did not issue a statement of regret.

They rarely do.

Documented in 72 Hours—Herat, June 2025

• Dozens of women and girls arrested for alleged dress code violations in Jebrail district

• Multiple eyewitnesses confirm detainees were already wearing conservative Islamic clothing

• Taliban forces discharge firearms into a civilian protest crowd on June 9

• Several protesters wounded; an unconfirmed number detained

• At least one civilian killed; local accounts confirm the death of a 12-year-old child

• Independent casualty verification blocked by Taliban access restrictions

The World’s Response

The timing of this tragedy unfolded against a backdrop of renewed international deliberation over engagement with the Taliban—diplomatic conversations, relief pipeline negotiations, and in some capitals, discussions about how to normalize what has proved impossible to reform.

While Afghan women were being arrested for their appearance on the streets of Herat, delegations elsewhere were preparing new political channels with the men who ordered those arrests. The juxtaposition is the permanent condition of Afghan women under Taliban rule: their suffering does not pause for diplomacy. Diplomacy, however, has repeatedly paused—and looked away—from their suffering.

The question hanging over every chancellery and UN anteroom is no longer whether the Taliban violates human rights. That is settled, documented, and beyond dispute. The question is whether the international community has decided, in practice if not in rhetoric, that those violations are a price it is willing to let Afghan women pay indefinitely in exchange for stability, counterterrorism cooperation, or the stifling of a crisis that generates uncomfortable headlines.

What Comes Next

Independent verification of the full casualty toll from June 9 is limited at this point. The Taliban have systematically restricted journalist access, intimidated local sources, and confiscated recording equipment. What reaches the outside world arrives in fragments—a voice note, a witness account relayed through a third country, or a photograph taken at personal risk.

What is known is this: Herat’s women did not provoke this crackdown. They existed. They dressed. They protested peacefully when their neighbors were taken. They were met with live ammunition. A child is dead.

The people of Herat are, again, paying the price for demanding dignity—a dignity the international community has enshrined in every charter, covenant, and declaration it has ever produced, and which it has proven, repeatedly, unwilling to defend when the cost is inconvenient.

Their voices deserve to be heard in every chamber where their fate is being decided. Not as a footnote to geopolitical calculation or a humanitarian asterisk, but as the central fact—the only fact—that matters.

If a picture can paint a thousand words, certain photographs raise more questions than answers.

Wearing a cap and military-style clothing, Mohammad Baqer Saad Dawood al-Saadi sits beside a smiling Qasem Soleimani, the Iranian general killed in 2020 by a U.S. drone strike. Soleimani was a hero among the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and its regional Shia militias. On the wall behind them appears to be an operational-style map covered in markings and annotations.

In another snap, al-Saadi and Soleimani are smiling, their arms around one another:

For American prosecutors, the photographs are part of the evidence of Iran-linked proxies operating in Europe and North America.

In May, 32-year-old al-Saadi—an Iraqi-Iranian dual national—was arrested for allegedly being the mastermind of a wave of antisemitic attacks in North America, Europe, and the UK.

Al-Saadi, who is charged with multiple terrorism-related counts, is allegedly a commander in Kata’ib Hezbollah (KH), a US-designated terrorist organization operating in Iraq with ties to Iran.

He was taken into custody before being turned over to the FBI and transported to the US, appearing in Manhattan federal court. He did not enter a plea and was detained pending trial.

“On the one hand, it should be very alarming to the people in this country that there are men around the world trying to exact this sort of terror. On the other hand, it shows the success of good law enforcement work and good police work, and working hard to protect our borders, which is what we do every single day,” acting US Attorney General Todd Blanche told Fox News.

But al-Saadi’s lawyers are arguing that it’s all politically motivated.

“Our position states that he’s a political prisoner and a prisoner of war,” al-Saadi’s attorney Andrew Dalack said after his court appearance. “He’s being punished for a perceived alleged connection with the late Qasem Soleimani.”

Al-Saadi has also been quoted as saying he was “like a son” to Soleimani. And according to a new report, he is believed to have met with Ayatollah Ali Khamenei three days before the Iranian supreme leader was killed at the start of the war with the US and Israel.

So, who exactly is al-Saadi, and how did he end up in US custody?

A profile of al-Saadi describes him as an Iraqi-linked operative with ties to IRGC-linked structures and Iraqi militia networks, situating him within a broader ecosystem of Iran-aligned proxy activity rather than as an isolated actor.

According to the authors, he appears to have grown up in a devout Shia Iraqi family that took part in the Iran-backed anti-Saddam resistance in the 1990s and 2000s.

They were expelled from Iraq before returning in 2003.

At the age of 20, al-Saadi reportedly traveled to Syria as a fighter in support of Bashar al-Assad’s regime, before returning to Iraq in 2014 to fight against the Islamic State in Diyala Governorate, in the northeast.

Images available online also show that al-Saadi traveled to Lebanon shortly after the October 7 attacks in Israel in 2023, although the extent of his activities is still unclear. Taken together, these movements place him within a pattern of regional conflicts in which Iraqi Shia militias have operated across Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon over the past decade.

CNN reported a link between KH and the group that claimed responsibility for the string of arson attacks, which targeted Jewish sites across Europe and the UK, including synagogues, schools, and ambulances.

Prosecutors allege KH has been operating under a pseudonym—Harakat Ashab al-Yamin al-Islamiya (HAYI)—to carry out the attacks. A source close to KH told CNN that some members of HAYI are Iraqi and that the two groups are connected.

Jonathan Hackett—a US Marine Corps veteran specializing in counterintelligence and the author of Iran’s Shadow Weapons: Covert Action, Intelligence Operations, and Unconventional Warfare—notes the level of operational detail alleged in the indictment. “The real-time command and control over the attacks in Europe, substantiated with videos taken from al-Saadi’s devices, shows a level of direct operational oversight that we rarely observe in unclassified cases.”

Al-Saadi’s alleged operations span multiple jurisdictions, from the Middle East to Europe and the United States. This, Hackett argues, is consistent with patterns of Iran-aligned proxy operations.

“The IRGC unit specializing in such attacks, the Quds Force, trains its surrogate forces, including Kata’ib Hezbollah and Lebanon’s Hezbollah, to operate freely from third country locations while providing a level of deniability between the Islamic Republic and the target,” says Hackett. The Quds Force, he says, has conducted similar operations for years, including the AMIA Jewish center bombing, which killed 85 people, and Israeli embassy bombings in Argentina in the early 1990s

Quds Force officers were behind the failed assassination of the Saudi Ambassador to the U.S. in 2011, as well as several attempts to kidnap and kill the Iranian dissident Masih Alinejad.

Iran has denied involvement in any attacks.

The allegations in al-Saadi’s case also focus heavily on Jewish institutions and diaspora communities.

In March, a synagogue in Liège, Belgium, was attacked with explosives. Days later, there were arson attacks on synagogues in Rotterdam and Amsterdam, followed by an attack on a Jewish school and a Bank of New York Mellon office in the same city.

The attacks continued across March and April, with incidents reported in London, Antwerp, Paris, and Munich.

On April 29, two Jewish men were stabbed in Golders Green, London. HAYI claimed responsibility, but UK counter-terrorist police dispute this and believe it was an “opportunistic” claim.

Nevertheless, the US indictment claims that a copy of a “charter” for HAYI, dated March 2026, was found on al-Saadi’s phone after his capture. It stated: “From today, we declare clearly: the United States, the Israeli Zionist regime, and anyone who cooperates with them at any level will not be secure.”

Prosecutors say al-Saadi was also recorded on a phone call on April 1, asking how much it would cost to hire someone “to carry out a bombing operation” in the US.

“I mean, we provide him with a Jewish temple, a Jewish center,” the defendant allegedly said.

He also allegedly provided photos and maps of Jewish centers in Los Angeles and Scottsdale, asking if it was possible to “set the three locations on fire at the same time”.

The targeting raises a broader question of why diaspora Jewish communities are targeted.

Hackett suggests the objective is psychological as much as operational.

“The Islamic Republic and KH are attempting to sow fear in the target communities abroad,” Hackett says.

How exactly al-Saadi came into U.S. custody is unclear.

Public reporting suggests he was detained in Turkey after allegedly attempting to recruit an undercover FBI agent he believed to be a member of a Mexican drug cartel before being transferred to FBI control.

Flight records show that a Justice Department aircraft used for international transfers traveled to Turkey in mid-May, then returned via Morocco and landed in the New York area.

However, the exact route remains opaque.

“We will never know for sure how al-Saadi arrived in U.S. custody,” Hackett says. “But the two most likely explanations are: one, Turkey’s MİT [National Intelligence Organization] handed him over to the U.S. while he transited from Iraq through Turkey, or two: he was captured by a surrogate force inside Iran and handed over through Kurdish channels to the U.S.”

The US likely went after the Iraqi “because of the volume of information they had collected on him that would be verifiable and could stand up in court,” says Hackett, adding that revealing broader intelligence would risk exposing sources and methods. On interrogation, Hackett says al-Saadi’s legal decisions may already be shaping the case’s trajectory.

Al-Saadi reportedly waived his Miranda rights, which he likely did “while being interrogated by U.S. High Value Interrogation Group interrogators,” says Hackett. “He likely did not initially intend to do so.”

What’s more, al-Saadi has been described in reporting and allegations as engaging in media and “psychological warfare” activity.

“The Islamic Republic views the information domain as a domain of warfare commensurate with the physical domains of space, land, air, and ground,” Hackett says. “The intent is to use operations like the HAYI attacks in London to spread fear and allow regime messaging to live rent-free in the minds of audiences that would otherwise be difficult to reach.”

Then there are his ties to other leaders of US-designated foreign terrorist organizations, including Esmail Qaani, successor to Qasem Soleimani.

In July 2020, al-Saadi posted to his X account an image of the US Capitol in rubble along with the faces of fallen leaders like Soleimani, with the text “our revenge for the martyred leaders is ongoing. No negotiations with the occupier.”

With all this, al-Saadi’s defense strategy—framing himself as a political prisoner or prisoner of war—is unlikely to succeed in U.S. courts, Hackett notes.

“After 9/11, the U.S. instead opted to treat similarly situated detainees as unlawful enemy combatants,” he says.

For now, the case against Mohammad Baqer Saad Dawood al-Saadi sits within a wider pattern that Western authorities link to Iran-aligned proxies operating worldwide through militias and intermediaries.

The trial will ultimately determine how much of it holds.

Standing on a stage in Tehran, donning a black headscarf and a Palestinian keffiyeh draped across her shoulders, British media personality Bushra Shaikh addresses an audience that has gathered to hear what she has to say.

“I am so sorry to see what your country is suffering because of the Epstein empire, the Zionist empire,” she tells a crowd waving Iranian flags.

“There are millions, billions of people outside of Iran who support you, who love you, that detest Donald Trump, Bibi Netanyahu, for what they are trying to do inside of your beautiful country.”

It’s clearly a pro-regime rally, where some participants are also waving the yellow Hezbollah flags—and it’s the latter that has got Ms. Shaikh into potential trouble with the British authorities.

In May, she was reported to counter-terror police after addressing the rally where several people in the crowd were holding the yellow flag of the Iran-backed Lebanese militia. It is proscribed in the UK as a terrorist organization.

It is also believed that Shaikh may have violated the National Security Act, which requires individuals to register with the UK Government if they are “directed by a foreign power to carry out political influence activities.”

But the controversy raises a more fundamental question: what, if anything, has Shaikh actually done that is unlawful?

And if not, what exactly can the British authorities do?

One area of scrutiny is whether Shaikh’s activities could fall within the scope of the UK’s Foreign Influence Registration Scheme (FIRS), introduced in July 2025 under the National Security Act.

The scheme was created to increase transparency around covert foreign influence by requiring individuals to register political influence activity carried out in the UK at the direction of foreign states or state-controlled organizations.

Home Office guidance states that registration is usually required for activities conducted in Britain, though activities undertaken abroad that have an effect in the UK may also fall within scope.

There are two tiers: a public political influence tier and an enhanced tier, which is not public. For the latter, registration is required within 10 days of formal or informal arrangements made with a “specified foreign power or entity” (namely, Iran or Russia).

Guidance specifically notes that social media content aimed at UK audiences may be covered, including material posted while overseas.

Failure to comply may result in a sentence of up to five years’ imprisonment and/or an unlimited fine.

But does Shaikh’s conduct meet the legal threshold for registration?

An investigation by Factnameh, an Iranian fact-checking organization, has alleged that Shaikh played a “highly active role in reproducing the [Iranian] government’s narrative” after taking part in two press tours this year organized by IRIB World Service, the international arm of Iran’s state broadcaster.

Fereidoon Bashar, the executive director of ASL19, which created Factnameh, said cultivating friendly journalists and public figures had been part of Iran’s strategy for some time. “There has been a long tradition of having prominent Western figures to Iran who are aligned with anti-imperialist, anti-colonial frameworks,” he said.

But since the 12-day conflict between Iran and Israel in June 2025, he said, there has been a “major shift in Iran’s communication approach.”

Factnameh identified more than a dozen participants in the tours, including a number of US journalists.

Another apologist for the Iranian regime is Calla Walsh, the co-founder of Palestine Action U.S. She was one of several handpicked delegates who were taken to Iran, where she expressed solidarity with the Islamic Republic following the 12-day war with Israel.

“It is the greatest honor of my life to be visiting the Islamic Republic of Iran right now, at this moment, while it is under genocidal siege by the United States and the Zionist entity,” said Walsh, standing at the IRGC aerospace expo, with missiles in the background.

During her two visits to the Islamic Republic, Shaikh appeared on Iran’s Press TV social channels, interviewed senior Iranian political figures, and posted material supportive of official Iranian narratives.

In one Instagram video, she described meeting the chief rabbi at Tehran’s Abrishami Synagogue, saying he “condemns Israel and affirms that the Jewish community in Iran is free to practice their religion—despite what gets told by nefarious political actors.”

In another post, alongside Iranian foreign ministry spokesman Esmaeil Baghaei, she wrote that she had been invited to Iran’s foreign ministry “to discuss possible next steps in the U.S.-Iran negotiations.”

Yet legal experts and security analysts say the threshold for action under FIRS may be considerably higher than public perception suggests.

Roger Macmillan, a security analyst and former director of Iran International, a London-based Persian-language channel, says the central question is not whether Shaikh amplified pro-Iranian messaging, but whether she was operating under the direction of the Iranian state.

“If she says she’s just echoing what she’s seeing on a press trip, there’s very little you can do,” he says.

“What makes a difference is the fact she’s on a documented state-organized trip. She’s putting opinions across at a time when internet access to ordinary Iranians is effectively nil, and she’s a regular on state-owned Press TV.”

If an individual denies being directed or paid, authorities would likely need evidence of an arrangement, instruction, payment trail or coordination to show activity was undertaken on behalf of a foreign state.

“If she has been paid, there are ways around detection,” says Macmillan, arguing informal payments or verbal understandings could leave little documentary evidence.

“This is how the Iranians operate—slightly under the parapet.”

The burden ultimately rests on the individual to declare themselves under the scheme, limiting the government’s ability to intervene unless evidence emerges.

“There are no individuals listed on there, so the question is: what does FIRS really do?” Macmillan continues. “If the government can’t actually do anything with it, it just means we know who they are.

“Does FIRS stop someone carrying out political influence on behalf of a foreign state? No. It just shows how weak FIRS is.”

He argues the scheme risks becoming transparency without the necessary deterrence, adding: “It’s great that we’ve got FIRS, but do we want political activists on behalf of a foreign country operating at this level, conducting hostile communications on behalf of foreign states from the UK? My answer is absolutely not.”

The challenge is balancing national security concerns with legal thresholds and free speech.

Supporting a foreign government narrative, however controversial, is not itself unlawful. The legal issue is whether an individual has crossed into undeclared political influence activity directed by a foreign state.

After Shaikh’s visit, a Home Office spokesperson told a British newspaper that ministers were “clear-eyed about the threats posed by Iran” and that the government would not hesitate to use powers available where activities threaten UK national security.

“This includes the Foreign Influence Registration Scheme,” the spokesperson said. “Anyone acting in the UK at the direction of the Iranian state faces a choice: register their activities or risk prosecution.”

Bushra Shaikh has denied receiving payment from any state actor and has dismissed reports about her conduct as “baseless accusations.”

In one video, she said: “I report on what I see… It is a duty upon every one of us to make sure the news we’re getting is accurate and correct.”

Whether Shaikh’s activities run afoul of the law may depend on evidence unlikely to be visible in public. But her case has already exposed a broader problem for British authorities—whether laws designed to tackle covert foreign influence are equipped for an era in which social media personalities can shape opinion for hundreds of thousands of followers while operating in the murky space between activism, journalism, and propaganda.

When the Taliban introduced a new “National Keyboard” for smartphones, it was marketed as a homegrown technology project for Afghan users. Cybersecurity experts, however, warn that the app may serve a very different purpose by expanding the regime’s ability to monitor the digital lives of ordinary citizens.

Developed through Radio Television Afghanistan (RTA), the keyboard has attracted scrutiny from digital rights advocates and security researchers. A recent analysis identified serious privacy concerns and raised fears that the software could be used for surveillance in a country where independent voices are already under intense pressure.

Sources say the project was developed jointly by the Taliban and the Islamic Republic of Iran. One Afghan cybersecurity expert described it plainly: “My phone, but under Mullah’s control.”

In a risk assessment conducted by Alex Moses from the RaazNet team at Holistic Resilience, the keyboard was flagged as a high privacy and security risk. This assessment follows the compilation of key findings in a more comprehensive Static Security Analysis Report. RaazNet said that, even though they “did not conclusively confirm deliberate spyware activity, the identified behaviors and architectural decisions create a high-risk environment for potential misuse, surveillance, or unintended exposure of sensitive user information.”

In practice, this means the Taliban could access all text typed on the National Keyboard, expanding their power to monitor dissent and quash opposition. The keyboard has a hardcoded Application Programming Interface (API) that connects with ChatGPT, possibly for translation, which risks the capture and storage of all communications.

The National Keyboard also highlights the Taliban’s growing reliance on Iran for technical support. Sources say the Islamic Republic assisted RTA in both developing and deploying the software. With decades of experience building surveillance infrastructure and restricting digital freedoms at home, Iran possesses expertise that the Taliban has historically lacked but increasingly appears eager to acquire.

​The Islamic Republic has extensive mass surveillance tools, including the National Information Network (Halal Internet), Deep Packet Inspection (DPI), a nationwide CCTV system equipped with facial recognition technology, and a citizen-reporting app called Nazer, which strictly monitors dissent. Taken together, these developments suggest increasing cooperation between the Taliban and the Islamic Republic on surveillance and information control. In Iran, a sophisticated monitoring apparatus relies in part on Chinese-made technology. The Taliban’s recent investments in surveillance infrastructure suggest it may be following a similar path.

Since returning to power in 2021, the regime’s General Directorate of Intelligence (GDI) has overseen a dramatic increase in monitoring capabilities. Taliban officials claim that between 90,000 and 100,000 CCTV cameras have been installed across Kabul alone, effectively placing much of the capital under constant observation. Under the previous leadership, that number stood at just over 800.

A BBC report documented a central monitoring station in Kabul where CCTV feeds converge and are analyzed by AI-powered systems equipped with facial recognition and license plate-reading technology. The Taliban insists these measures are necessary for national security, but critics argue they are part of a broader effort to intimidate citizens into compliance with their ideology.

Technology is only one part of the equation. According to Hasht-e Subh, the Taliban also relies on more old-school intelligence-gathering methods, deploying agents disguised as beggars and street vendors to gather information in public spaces. Together, these tactics point to an increasingly sophisticated surveillance apparatus that reaches far beyond the digital sphere.

The space for independent journalism and the free flow of information in Afghanistan is shrinking rapidly. Journalists face increasing obstacles to reporting, operating in an environment defined by surveillance, censorship, and intimidation.

The consequences are reflected in Reporters Without Borders’ 2026 World Press Freedom Index, which ranked Afghanistan 175th out of 180 countries. Only Saudi Arabia, Iran, China, and North Korea ranked lower. Before the Taliban’s return to power in 2021, Afghanistan was ranked 122nd.

Journalists who challenge the regime risk harassment, arbitrary detention, torture, imprisonment, and, in some cases, death. At the same time, sympathetic Western influencers and media personalities have been given privileged access, helping amplify Taliban narratives to audiences abroad.

As the regime tightens its grip on information, independent reporting has become both more difficult and more essential. Access to reliable information is one of the few tools available for documenting abuses and holding the Taliban accountable.

Last month, the Taliban’s newly appointed telecommunications minister ordered internet service providers to cut off household Wi-Fi access across Afghanistan, a move that drew widespread criticism from citizens and digital rights advocates. While the directive was striking, it was not unprecedented.

The Taliban has repeatedly sought to tighten its control over internet access since returning to power. Last year, supreme leader Hibatullah Akhundzada ordered a nationwide internet shutdown that lasted four days before being reversed by the prime minister. The decision exposed tensions within the Taliban leadership, with officials in Kabul effectively overruling an order issued from Kandahar.

Although internet access was ultimately restored, the episode laid bare the regime’s willingness to restrict digital communications in pursuit of greater control over the flow of information—but even the Taliban cannot fully govern a modern country through total digital isolation.

Despite worsening conditions, journalists, activists, and digital rights groups continue to find ways to document abuses and keep information moving. Organizations abroad are working to help people in authoritarian states communicate more safely, while Afghan reporters continue to risk their lives to expose the truth.

The Taliban’s growing reliance on surveillance mirrors the tactics of other authoritarian regimes, including Iran, China, and Russia. As global attention shifts elsewhere, the suffering of ordinary Afghans risks being forgotten. That makes the work of those resisting censorship, documenting abuses, and defending access to information all the more urgent.

The National Keyboard may appear to be a simple smartphone application. In reality, it represents a regime’s determination to extend its reach into every aspect of daily life, including the devices people carry in their pockets. Whether the software will succeed as a surveillance tool remains to be seen. But the trajectory is deeply troubling. As the Taliban invests heavily in technologies designed to monitor its population, those seeking to preserve privacy, free expression, and independent journalism are fighting to ensure Afghanistan does not disappear behind a digital curtain.

The ongoing war between Hezbollah and Israel has deepened despair across Lebanon, worsening an already dire economic crisis and forcing many families from their homes. As Muslims around the world celebrate Eid al-Adha, many in Lebanon are struggling to experience the joy and sense of togetherness that usually define the holiday.

Eid al-Adha, or the “Festival of Sacrifice,” commemorates Prophet Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son, Ismael, as an act of obedience to God, according to the Quran and Hadith. Observed on the 10th day of Dhul Hijjah, the final month of the Islamic lunar calendar, the holiday is traditionally centered on the sacrifice of a lamb and gatherings with family and friends. While animal sacrifice is not one of the five pillars of Islam, it remains a widely observed Sunnah rooted in the traditions of the Prophet Muhammad.

Many Muslims in Lebanon, however, are finding it difficult to uphold the practice this year. For some who have been forced to flee their homes, displacement and financial uncertainty have pushed long-held traditions out of reach, shifting the focus from celebration to meeting basic daily needs.

“Eid is not [about] joy and celebrations this year,” said Abir Fakih, a displaced woman who evacuated her home from the southern Lebanese city of Nabatieh. “Eid this year is about nostalgia and silent longing.”

Fakih is one of more than a million Lebanese who have been internally displaced in recent months. Much of the South has become uninhabitable, rendering many without access to their homes. Fakih lived north of the Litani River, a militarized frontier, where Israeli soldiers have created a buffer zone. Hezbollah attacks are launched from north of the river toward Israeli soldiers, who swiftly return fire. The back-and-forth between the two parties has created a dangerous situation for locals in the surrounding areas, including Fakih and her family.

“I evacuated my home with my family around 3 am on March 2nd,” said Fakih. “My village was bombed heavily since it was just north of the Litani River, and almost all villages behind it are fully demolished.”

She is currently renting a small studio with her family in northern Lebanon, but the uncertainty has dampened their Eid celebrations.

“We are trying to make the most out of Eid,” Fakih said. “Maybe we will go out and have a special meal, but at the end of the day, we need to create hope with the resources available.” She and her family eventually spent Eid at their studio, enjoying a home-cooked meal and calling some of their friends in the process.

Others expressed that they have yet to experience the Eid spirit at all this year. A resident from Tripoli, a Sunni-majority city in northern Lebanon, has lost her sense of joy that typically accompanies the holiday. She spoke to Middle East Uncovered on the condition of anonymity.

“One thing I noticed is the lack of Takbir [religious chants] over the speakers by many mosques,” one resident said. “I remember them being more prominent in previous Eid seasons, but maybe they [imams] are not in the mindset.”

Tripoli is far from the conflict in southern Lebanon, but it is still impacted by it. In order to avoid Israeli bombardment, thousands of families have fled southern Lebanon and Beirut’s Dahieh region toward Tripoli and other regions in the north. The city has become a hotspot for the internally displaced, but lacks sufficient resources and proper shelters. A number of those families currently occupy public schools that have been converted into shelters. Others are experiencing difficulty finding housing, especially given the heightened sectarian divide many described as escalating.

“The overall climate is that people are a bit too occupied with lots of worries to even be thinking about Eid,” said another resident. “I have overheard that many citizens might not be able to afford sacrificial lambs, and I think that some [people] are promoting a kind of presumably cheaper alternative to the practice.”

He ultimately visited a few of his relatives during Eid, but said the occasion felt casual and far from special.

Many who celebrate Eid typically buy date-stuffed pastries and sweets in addition to sacrificial lambs. According to local reports, the price of lamb now ranges from $350 to $570, depending on the breed and weight of the sheep. Some prices can be even steeper, making it difficult to purchase in a country where the average monthly income is often estimated to be below $500.

Many families traditionally buy new clothes for Eid. This year, however, soaring costs and limited availability of imported goods have put the tradition out of reach for many.

Another resident who works closely with displaced families described a similar mood. People in the shelters, she said, are consumed by uncertainty and longing for the homes they left behind—few are thinking about Eid. She, too, said she feels none of the usual Eid spirit.

“It honestly doesn’t feel like Eid, and I think that the work I do is impacting my feelings about the occasion and my psychological well-being.” She said. “I really like celebrating Eid and buying new clothes for the occasion. However, it doesn’t feel like Eid this year, and I’m not planning on buying new clothes because things are becoming more and more expensive.”

Lebanon is not the only country in the region where economic hardship has overshadowed Eid celebrations. Similar reports have emerged from Syria and Tunisia. But in Lebanon, the crisis is compounded by the war.

For some, Eid this year has become an exercise in remembrance—a longing for the homes and traditions they once knew. Others say they will only celebrate once they are able to return to homes now destroyed, abandoned, or occupied.

In the meantime, a shared meal in a shelter, a phone call to relatives, or a visit with loved ones is all that they have to preserve a sense of the holiday while they wait for more stable days ahead.

Translation for this interview was provided by . Middle East Uncovered uses pseudonyms to protect sources living in Afghanistan.

When Nadia was 14, her father told her she was getting married. A night watchman in Kandahar province, he had met a man through work—a nearly 30-year-old driver who offered 400,000 Afghanis, about $4,600, in exchange for his daughter.

“My mom was very sad; she was crying a lot,” she said. “I didn’t know what was happening, or what marriage was.”

The family had been living in crushing poverty. Nadia remembers a time when they all slept in a tent.

With this substantial lump sum, Nadia’s father was able to acquire a property through a system called qabza, in which a person pays a certain amount of money to the owner in exchange for living in the property rent-free for a set period. At the end of the term, the landlord returns the full deposit.

“My dad told me, ‘I don’t have a house or somewhere to stay. I have to marry you off.’”

Today, at 20, Nadia has two children and speaks with an ambivalence that reflects the impossible calculations many Afghan girls are forced to make.

“On the wedding day, I was afraid,” she says. “But at the same time, I was happy that my family would be better off. They would have somewhere to live.”

Afghanistan has long struggled with child marriage, forced marriage, and the practice of families selling off their daughters.

According to Girls Not Brides, 29 percent of Afghan girls marry before the age of 18 and 10 percent before the age of 15.

Since the Taliban’s takeover in 2021, poverty has worsened dramatically, pushing millions deeper into hunger and insecurity. According to Too Young To Wed, 95 percent of Afghans are not consuming enough food, which has increased the likelihood that more girls will be sold into marriage.

Meanwhile, the list of human rights violations against Afghan women and girls continues to grow.

In interviews conducted by Middle East Uncovered, three women from Kandahar described a system sustained not only by desperation but by tradition, family pressure, honor culture, misogyny, and the belief that daughters are mere assets to be transferred.

Far from a recent phenomenon, selling daughters is an old Afghan tradition. The difference now is that the Taliban has legally endorsed this practice.

Sara was sold at the age of 17 to a man twice her age to pay for her father’s medical treatment.

Her mother died when she was five, and her father had gone on to remarry a widow in her thirties. The marriage itself was transactional—her older sister, only six years old, was effectively exchanged and promised to the widow’s son.

Another custom under traditional tribal law (part of Pashtunwali) is badal, which is the exchange of pairs of blood relatives in marriages between families to resolve conflicts or to avoid paying a dowry if a family can’t afford it.

Sara’s own marriage came later, after her father became seriously ill and needed money for treatment.

“He sold me for 330,000 Afghanis ($5,600),” she says. “When they told me about it, I couldn’t eat. I was crying all the time.”

Two months after the wedding, her father died.

Her husband, 40, works shining shoes. Sara became his third wife after one wife died during childbirth, and he divorced another due to her “mental health issues.” Sara believes he married her because he wanted children and needed someone to care for his elderly mother.

“For the first few weeks, I cried every day,” she says. “My in-laws would tell me. ‘This is your destiny now.’”

Despite the beatings she gets from her husband and the abuse from her mother-in-law, Sara still thinks this is better than the life she had growing up.

“At least in my husband’s house I can eat properly,” she says. “I have some control.”

Her childhood home had been harsh, especially with the new step-mother. Sara described being sent on errands at dinnertime so food would be gone when she returned; sleeping on a cold kitchen floor in winter; and watching step-siblings receive new clothes for Eid while she wore cast-offs collected from other homes. She wasn’t even allowed to go to school, spending her days cleaning the home and looking after her step-siblings.

Her view of fathers who marry off daughters is blunt. Asked if she feels any sympathy, she replied: “This tradition treats girls as belongings of men, and that the sooner you get rid of your daughter once she hits puberty, the better off you are.”

She described intense social pressure around girls’ sexuality and family honor. If a family doesn’t get their daughter married off early, “They blame the mother or accuse the girl of having a secret relationship,” said Sara.

For Zakira, another woman from Kandahar, poverty explains only part of why this happens.

Her sister’s husband, she says, sold six of his daughters, aged around 12 and 13, to much older men in their 40s, 50s, and even 60s.

“My sister’s husband was a bricklayer, and his work was seasonal,” Zakira said. “But this was not only about money.”

Her brother-in-law regularly attended bandars—male gatherings where men disappear for days to socialize, gamble, and use drugs—and often returned having made major decisions about family life, without consulting his wife.

“When the eldest daughter was 14, he came home and told my sister he’d married her off,” Zakira said. “There were so many arguments and fights.”

While her sister opposed the decision—the couple would regularly argue and fight—she had little power to stop it.

“My dad was old. We didn’t have an older brother,” said Zakira. “No one listens to women.”

She remembers the engagement day of one of her eldest nieces, and it was horrible: “Everyone around her was crying and shouting. But she was confused. She didn’t know what a husband or marriage was.”

Another niece was married to a 45-year-old man in Karachi.

“When she came back, she cursed her father,” Zakira says. “She said, ‘He ruined my life. He married me to a grandfather.’”

Like Sara, Zakira rejects the notion that all fathers who marry off daughters are victims of circumstance.

“I’m sympathetic to fathers struggling to make ends meet,” she says. “But not my brother-in-law. He was lazy. He saw his daughters as quick cash.”

Nadia still struggles with what happened to her. Though her husband is not abusive, she wishes she had been old enough to understand what was happening.

“I should have waited until I was mature enough,” she says.

What troubles her most is how normalized the practice remains.

“Even when families aren’t poor, they still do it,” she says. “People say it is tradition or religion. They think it is shameful for girls to stay home after puberty.”

All three women describe girls too young to understand marriage being treated as though consent were irrelevant, or assumed.

Under the Taliban’s horrifying new rules, child marriage has effectively been legalized. A girl who later says she was married against her will won’t be permitted a divorce if her husband disagrees. The regulations also state that the silence of a “virgin girl” may be interpreted as consent to marriage.

It has legalized child rape.

“Silence is never consent for children who are too young to understand,” said Sara. Some mothers try to intervene quietly, the women said, hiding their daughters with relatives in desperate attempts to delay marriages. Many, however, fail.

They also described girls running away, fleeing to other provinces, and accepting permanent estrangement from families to escape forced marriages. Some, they said, resort to suicide.

According to Afghan Witness, an independent open-source investigation project, there has been a surge in female suicide rates linked to forced marriages since the Taliban takeover.

Things did improve for women and girls after the US-led invasion. In 2009, during the US occupation, Afghanistan passed the Law on the Elimination of Violence Against Women (EVAW), which guaranteed penalties for domestic violence, abuses against women, and forced child marriage. The legal age of marriage was 16 for girls and 18 for boys.

However, in places like Kandahar—the power base of the Taliban—the law wasn’t always enforced.

“If you complained to the police, the families would simply say, ‘This is a personal matter.’ At most, they would be jailed for a day or two before being bailed [out], if the police were bribed,” She explained. “Now the Taliban are 100 percent on the side of these men.”

Her fear is for the next generation of girls who have even fewer options.

“We don’t want the lives of the next generation ruined like ours,” Sara said quietly.

Nadia, meanwhile, spoke with the quiet pragmatism of someone holding two difficult truths at once—gratitude that her family escaped poverty, and grief at what it cost.

She was a child who did not understand marriage, a daughter exchanged for survival.

Now a mother herself, she simply said: “I wish I had been old enough to know what was happening.”

On May 16, just days before the Islamic holiday of Eid al-Adha, hundreds of Tunisians took to the streets of the capital to protest deteriorating economic conditions and what demonstrators describe as democratic backsliding. The demonstrations were the second major wave of protests in less than six months, following similar unrest in December 2025.

Tunisia has often been hailed as the only country to emerge from the Arab Spring protests as a democracy. However, a widening crackdown on Tunisian civil society, combined with the suspension of parliament and the ouster of then-Prime Minister Hichem Mechichi in 2021, has cast doubt on Tunisia’s democratic standing.

Many critics argue that Tunisia is slowly regressing toward authoritarianism, potentially relinquishing a decade of democratic progress achieved after the 2011 revolution. Since the Sousse suicide attack in 2015, which killed 38 people, Tunisia has been in a state of emergency. President Kais Saied extended the state of emergency for 11 months, starting in January 2026, granting the interior ministry sweeping powers, including banning public gatherings and monitoring the press.

According to a 2026 report by Human Rights Watch (HRW), arbitrary detention and politically motivated trials have become the norm. In November of 2025, HRW reported that 34 people from different backgrounds—including activists, lawyers, and political opponents—were sentenced to between five and 45 years in prison on vague terrorism and state security charges under what became known as the “Conspiracy Case 2.” The latter has been dubbed a “misuse” of the criminal justice system by Amnesty International’s deputy regional director for the Middle East and North Africa, Sara Hashash.

In 2024, four journalists were reported to have been behind bars by The Committee to Protect Journalists, the highest number since 1992. In 2023, a wave of arrests targeted at least 11 individuals, including lawyers, ministers, and former judges, whom Saied accused of “conspiring against the state and against the president.” While it is unclear whether future protests will take place, the absence of any signs of prospective reforms will likely generate more opposition. According to Reporters Without Borders, Tunisia’s press freedom ranking dropped by 11 places in 2025, to 129th out of 180 countries.

“We took [to] the streets for employment, freedom, and national dignity,” one of the protesters told Middle East Uncovered on the condition of anonymity. “[The administration’s] gap between rhetoric and reality could not be wider in today’s Tunisia,” added the protester.

President Saied rose to power in 2019, winning the election in a landslide. What was described as a “self-coup” in 2021 established Saied’s one-man rule. In July of that same year, parliament was dissolved, and its members stripped of immunity, followed by a suspension of the constitution. In June 2022, Saied ruled by decree, granting himself “absolute power” to dismiss judges, and fired 57 of them. Amnesty International described the move as a “deep blow to judicial independence.”

The 68-year-old former law professor effectively consolidated executive power and, subsequently, undermined the authority of an independent judiciary.

Saeid’s re-election in 2024 recorded the lowest voter turnout in Tunisia since 2011, with participation falling to just 28.8 percent. Despite the general public’s disillusionment with politics, Saeid still managed to amass 90.68 percent of the votes.

“What brought me out on May 16 is the hope for a better Tunisia and the refusal to stay silent,” said the protester. “I witnessed that hope in the eyes of merchants and neighborhood locals, who were chanting along as we passed by their streets during the protest.”

Protesters held signs reading, “The people are hungry and the prisons are full,” linking Tunisia’s worsening economic conditions to growing political repression. Others carried signs condemning rising poverty and soaring lamb prices ahead of Eid.

Many Muslims around the world traditionally celebrate Eid al-Adha by sacrificing a sheep and eating its meat. According to Lutfi Al Riahi, the president of the Tunisian Organization for Defense of Consumers, sheep prices have risen by 300 Tunisian dinars (roughly $100) compared to last year. According to the World Bank, poverty rates declined marginally, standing at 16.0 percent in 2025 compared to 16.6 percent in 2024.

“Sentiment is being most directly shaped by rising prices and decreasing purchasing power,” Adrienne Todd, a partner at the Tunis-based Dispatch Risk Advisory, told Middle East Uncovered. Todd believes that economic grievances will likely remain at the core of future protests. “While political issues were cited by protesters on Saturday [May 16], the overall populace is focused on economic pressures,” she added.

Over the past decade, Tunisia’s economy has been in dire straits. From 2011 to 2022, the purchasing power of the Tunisian dinar gradually depreciated, losing 52 percent of its value against the US dollar. It continued to decline from 2021 to 2024, losing 7.7 percent of its value. In the fourth quarter of 2025, the unemployment rate stood at 15.2 percent, a marginal decrease from the average of 15.66 percent over the past couple of decades.

Economic grievances were at the core of the Tunisian revolution that ousted Dictator Zine El Abidine in 2011. The anonymous protester does not believe any of the revolution’s goals have been achieved, blaming the system for failing to implement reforms and adding that many promises have been made by the administration, but never fulfilled.

In 2025, Tunisia’s public debt surpassed the 80 percent mark of its GDP, 2 years after Saied rejected an IMF bailout package worth approximately $2 billion. Saied stated that if the package were accepted and subsidies were eventually removed, it would destabilize the country. Saied’s rejection, however, has not led to sufficient progress to remedy economic woes, as the current situation seems to benefit the rich more than the poor.

Saied will likely stay in office until the end of his five-year term, where elections are set to take place in 2029. Whether or not further demonstrations will be held remains to be seen.

As Eid al-Adha begins tomorrow, many Tunisians are entering a holiday traditionally centered on sacrifice, family, charity, and communal celebration while facing mounting economic pressure and shrinking political freedoms. For many families, even the cost of buying a sheep for Eid has become unaffordable, turning what is usually a moment of joy and generosity into a reminder of financial insecurity and frustration. At the same time, growing fears over repression, arbitrary arrests, and democratic backsliding have deepened the awareness that Tunisia’s post-revolution promises remain unfulfilled.

For many protesters, the anger expressed in the streets ahead of Eid was not only about rising prices, but about the feeling that both economic dignity and political freedoms are steadily slipping away.

In the Gaza Strip, where much of the cityscape has been reduced to rubble and rows of tents for displaced families, a different kind of sound echoes through the air. Not the whistle of a projectile or the rumble of a bulldozer, but the sharp, rhythmic “thud” of boxing gloves hitting improvised pads. The sound comes from the Gaza Boxing Women club, an organization offering structure, community, and a rare sense of control to Gazan women.

Since the outbreak of the war involving Israel, the United States, and Iran, much of the world’s attention has shifted to the broader regional escalation. But Gaza is still in crisis. Despite the ceasefire that has largely held since last year, violence has continued sporadically, humanitarian conditions are dire, and access to food, medicine, and aid is severely limited.

Still, the club recently reopened its Gaza City branch. Like its southern branch, it now operates out of a temporary tent.

“In addition to the Al Mawasi branch based in a tent, we recently reopened a branch in Gaza City, also housed in a tent,” said coach Osama Ayoub, one of the trainers. What he told me painted a picture of extreme scarcity: “In recent months, I have received only two tents from UNICEF and no other help or equipment. We train to keep the spirit alive, even if the walls are gone.”

The athletes use pillows as punching bags and plastic chairs for drills. Most of the original equipment is gone.

The club’s journey began in 2020. Founded by Rima Abu Rahma, then 21, it was born out of a desire to challenge social taboos in a conservative society that views boxing as a strictly male sport. Rima chose to take up boxing as a means of self-protection, rejecting the societal notion that women must rely solely on men for their defense. She started with private sessions, but as her story spread on social media, more women joined. Initially, the group was forced to split into two separate sessions to accommodate rapid growth, eventually reaching 45 active athletes. As more women joined, the club became both a training space and a support network. When the war intensified, the physical gym was destroyed, but the community relocated to the tents of Al Mawasi, near Khan Younis.

Rima currently coordinates the club’s ongoing operations from France, after moving there from Egypt to continue her academic pursuits. From this remote vantage point, she is the project’s primary coordinator, navigating the challenges of displacement and bearing witness to the girls’ daily struggles. She traveled abroad shortly before the war to pursue a master’s degree in entrepreneurship, intending to bring back management skills to the club. “I am now homeless, waiting for the borders to open so I can go back and rebuild,” she explained. From abroad, she manages the club’s digital presence and fundraising, ensuring the project does not fade from view. While some members are still in Gaza, others have been displaced to Norway or Egypt, yet the club strives to keep everyone connected through video calls to maintain their essential support network. In addition to coach Ayoub, the project is powered by female volunteers who manage key operations, including media and communications.

The club is a vital outlet for grief. Sisters Razan and Nouran Al-Louh, just 13 and 15, were killed by sniper fire while at home with their father. Malak Musleh, 21, was killed in a bombing at a beachside café. The loss of Ali Abdellshafi, vice president of the Palestinian Boxing Federation, also left a void. “Ali taught us that boxing is not just about throwing punches in the ring; it is a lifestyle, a way of resisting,” Rima noted. For these women, every training session is a tribute to those who can no longer fight.

At the height of the famine in Gaza, the club became a support network. “During the famine, we made sure to eat together so that the girls would have at least one healthy meal a day,” says Rima. “We couldn’t control the bombings, but we could share food so we wouldn’t lose more people to starvation.” This mutual aid allowed the athletes to maintain their health and hope in the face of extreme deprivation.

The international community has not been entirely blind to their struggle. In 2025, the Gaza Boxing Women Club was honored at the WEmbrace Awards in Milan, Italy. Recognized in the International “World” category, the award highlighted the club’s role in empowering women and promoting perseverance.

Today, the club continues to train girls and women from ages 7 to 46. Participants are grouped by weight and height, allowing women of all ages to step into the sand-covered, makeshift ring. The presence of adult boxers is a formidable example for younger girls, demonstrating that they do not have to abandon their passion as they grow up or succumb to the pressures of a society that would prefer they get married and hang up their gloves.

For at least one hour a day, the club offers a brief break to women and girls who desperately need an outlet, a community, and a purpose. As Gaza City slowly rebuilds, the reopening of the club—even from inside a tent—is a small step toward something better for the community. “Our goal is to return to Gaza City to reconstruct the destroyed club,” Rima said.

Until then, the ring might just be a patch of sand, but the fight for restoration and healing continues, one punch at a time.

The recent clashes between Hezbollah and Israel, following the death of Iran’s Ali Khamenei, have rendered much of southern Lebanon uninhabitable. The fighting between the two parties continues today unabated, and Hezbollah’s latest incorporation of low-tech drones is posing a new challenge to Israel’s campaign. For the Christian minority in the south, the situation is becoming more dire by the day. But despite the uncertainty, many families are committed to staying, unwilling to relinquish their ancestral land.

“It felt like a more intense continuation of the 2024 war,” said Judith Sleiman, a Christian Lebanese Pharmacist who lives in Southern Lebanon’s Burj Al Molook, a village in the district of Marjayoun. “The moment Lebanon became involved again, memories and flashbacks from those days immediately came rushing back.” Sleiman told Middle East Uncovered.

Southern Lebanon’s Christian villages are concentrated mainly in the districts of Marjayoun, Bint Jbeil, and Hasbaiyya. Some, including Rumaysh and Ain Ebel, have grown increasingly isolated by the fighting. Others, such as Burj Al Molook, face regular bombardment.

“The constant loud sounds of daily bombings returned once again,” Sleiman said. “You would wake up to them and fall asleep hearing them, too. Even sleep no longer gave your body the rest it desperately needed.”

Sleiman’s family home in the south dates back many generations. Despite the difficulty of their current living situation, her family continues to cling to it. According to Sleiman, they rarely leave home due to safety concerns, and rely on humanitarian aid delivered to churches and distributed to local families.

“Many people urged us to leave and find safety elsewhere, but that never felt like the right choice,” Sleiman told Middle East Uncovered. “Even while living with fear and danger, leaving would have meant losing something even deeper—our villages, our olive trees, and our sacred land, the land that Jesus Christ walked on.”

Further south in the village of Rumaysh, Tony Elias, a priest at St. George church, is another member of the Christian community committed to staying. According to Elias, there are a total of 6,200 Christians in Rumaysh in addition to the 75 families from the villages of Yaroun and Quozah.

“How could I not stay in a land that has been blessed with the footsteps of Jesus?” Said Elias. “This land has been inherited to us by our forefathers, and it is our duty to preserve it for the generations to come.”

Elias says it has been particularly difficult for farmers in the south, who face difficulty accessing their land used for tobacco farming. Only some have managed to access it. Since Elias and his community live within the Israeli “yellow line”—a military buffer zone that extends 10 kilometers into southern Lebanon from the border—their movement is heavily restricted.

Outside of the neighboring villages of Ebel and Debl, Elias needs prior authorization to visit other zones. “Despite the hardship, we are still trying to live a normal life that is motivated by faith and the desire to further cement our presence in the land,” Elias said.

Since the outbreak of the conflict in early March, More than a million Lebanese have been displaced. Some southern villages have either been destroyed or occupied by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF). Many of those who have been displaced are currently housed in public schools, which have been transformed into shelters by the state of Lebanon. The shelters, however, are overflowing, leaving many without housing.

Mahdi Hallal is one of the thousands who have left the south. Prior to leaving, Hallal lived in the Shia-majority city of Nabatieh. He left with his family on March 2^nd of this year, a couple of hours after the IDF started targeting towns in the south. This was the second time they were displaced, having previously fled in September 2024.

“The most horrendous sight that my eyes ever witnessed was on the road when we were leaving,” Hallal told Middle East Uncovered. “A building that was no more than 10 feet on our left got obliterated into rubble and dust. All you could see was fire and ash, and my first thought was ‘hell’…hell was the perfect description of the whole experience.”

As the sound of warplanes and bombardment grew closer, Halal and his family said it was psychologically unbearable. Expecting their town to be targeted next, he and his family fled shortly before it was struck, roughly 30 minutes after they left. They now live in Mount Lebanon, though he says he often thinks about those who had no way to leave.

“There are thousands of people who stay in their homes under daily and continuous danger because they can’t afford to rent somewhere else.” Hallal told Middle East Uncovered. “It is less about pride in the face of the enemy, and more about not wanting to go through humiliation and the possibility of having to sleep in tents and on the streets. They prefer death over the suffering of uncertainty.”

As the war drags on, many displaced Lebanese face an uncertain future. Entire towns in the south have been damaged, emptied, or isolated by the fighting. For the Christian minority in southern Lebanon, however, leaving is about more than safety. Many see it as abandoning a generations-old connection to the land, rooted in family history and religious faith.

For them, preserving their presence in the south is nothing short of a religious calling—a deeply held belief that they belong there—and not even bombardment will uproot them from the land where Jesus once walked.

Iraq suspended online visa applications for several weeks following the kidnapping of American journalist Shelly Kittleson in March. The incident prompted Iraq to tighten security measures and triggered a noticeable escalation in diplomatic tensions with the United States amid the ongoing war with Iran, according to officials and diplomatic sources.

Kittleson was abducted in Baghdad by Iran-backed group Kata’ib Hezbollah and released after eight days, in an incident that once again underscored Iraq’s ongoing security challenges.

In response, Iraqi authorities have increased monitoring of foreign nationals and introduced precautionary measures aimed at preventing similar incidents. Security and intelligence units are now providing what officials describe as “discreet protection,” including surveillance and, in some cases, tracking foreign visitors traveling between cities.

“These measures are not meant to restrict movement but to ensure rapid response in case of threats,” one security source told Middle East Uncovered.

Iraq’s Interior Ministry denied reports that electronic visas had been suspended for foreign nationals. However, Iraqi security official Colonel Mohammed Jabbar confirmed the changes were directly linked to the kidnapping.

“The online visa system was stopped because of what happened with Shelly,” he said. “The government will continue assessing the situation until we are sure that foreigners are safe.”

He added that broader regional tensions were also a factor: “As long as the war involving Iran continues, the danger to foreigners will remain.”

In recent years, Iraq has expanded its electronic visa system for citizens of multiple countries, including the United States, the United Kingdom, Schengen Area nations, China, Japan, Russia, Australia, and Canada. However, diplomatic sources say access has become more restricted in practice following the kidnapping, with additional scrutiny applied to applications.

Relations between Washington and Baghdad have grown increasingly strained during the ongoing regional conflict with Iran, which has intensified the risk to US citizens in Iraq. In early April, the U.S. Embassy issued an alert warning Americans to leave the country amid heightened concerns over attacks from Iran-backed groups on US interests in Iraq.

Due to these developments, the U.S. State Department announced a $10 million reward for information on Haydar Muzhir Ma’lak al-Sa’idi, a key figure in the Reconstruction and Development Coalition led by Prime Minister Mohammed Shia al-Sudani.

Al-Sa’idi, known as “Haider al-Gharawi,” is the Secretary-General of Iraqi militia group Ansar Allah al-Awfiya, which Washington has accused of attacking US diplomatic facilities and military personnel.

The announcement signals a significant escalation in Washington’s posture toward armed groups operating within Iraq’s political landscape.

Further intensifying tensions, a statement from the U.S. Chargé d’Affaires sharply criticized Iraqi political actors, particularly within the Coordination Framework, accusing them of legitimizing figures Washington considers tied to militant networks.

The statement specifically referenced the invitation of “Abu Ala” to participate in political consultations over the next prime minister, describing it as evidence of “a profound misunderstanding” of U.S. concerns regarding Iraq’s trajectory. Abu Alaa al-Walaei is a key commander within the Islamic Resistance in Iraq (IRI), a network of Iran-backed militias.

It also names armed factions such as Kata’ib Hezbollah, Harakat al-Nujaba, Kataib Sayyid al-Shuhada, and Ansar Allah al-Awfiya, stating that these groups have contributed to destabilizing Iraq and pose a broader threat to regional stability.

According to the statement, the reward announcement “makes unequivocally clear” where certain political actors stand and highlights what it described as tolerance toward the financing and support of armed groups.

Washington also warned that it will continue to take action against individuals and groups responsible for attacks on U.S. personnel and interests, emphasizing that it will act “at a time and in a manner of its choosing.”

Under the leadership of President Donald Trump, the statement added, the United States will continue to take necessary steps to protect its citizens and strategic interests.

The kidnapping incident and the subsequent U.S. response may carry serious political implications for Prime Minister Sudani. Diplomatic sources indicate that growing dissatisfaction in Washington over security issues and militia influence could affect his future political prospects, although no official position has been announced.

More broadly, analysts say the developments highlight a deeper strategic question facing Iraq: whether it will position itself as a partner to the United States or drift further into alignment with armed factions that complicate its international standing and put foreign journalists at significant risk.

While Iraqi officials have not formally linked the kidnapping to broader policy shifts, the incident has clearly intensified scrutiny over Baghdad’s ability to balance security, sovereignty, and its increasingly strained foreign relations. Managing internal power dynamics while maintaining external partnerships is becoming harder—and the cost of getting it wrong is rising.

The 2019 uprising, the subsequent collapse of the currency, and the outbreak of COVID-19 shook the state of Lebanon. This trifecta of misfortunes led to major interruptions to the flow of education, especially for international students. Today, the Israeli campaign against Hezbollah has revived similar interruptions, causing institutions to adopt alternative modes of learning.

“There was this point where I seriously thought about dropping out,” said an international student from Libya under US sponsorship. The student, who spoke on condition of anonymity to Middle East Uncovered, is currently pursuing their degree at the Lebanese American University. “One week you’re focused on exams, the next you’re checking the news more than your notes.”

Lebanon’s American institutions of higher learning have long attracted foreign students. The American University of Beirut (AUB) and the Lebanese American University (LAU) carry a long history of delivering quality education. Over the years, both regional and international students have enrolled at either institution. However, the ongoing Israeli strikes have further exacerbated the instability of Lebanon, putting a strain on the delivery of education. For international students, the situation has raised serious concerns.

“The war made me think more seriously about leaving and exploring other options abroad,” added the Libyan student. “Then I realized that even leaving comes with its own uncertainty.”

Israel’s campaign against Hezbollah began after the horrific events of October 7, 2023. The subsequent US-Israeli war on Iran, which resulted in the death of Ali Khamenei in February of this year, further intensified the fighting between Hezbollah and Israel. Southern Lebanon became a hotbed for clashes between the two, leading to major destruction of the south’s infrastructure and displacing over 1 million people. The conflict culminated in the “largest coordinated wave of strikes ” in Lebanon on April 8, tormenting the city of Beirut and triggering shockwaves across the country. The truce, which would ostensibly stop the fighting, did not prevent Israel from continuing its air strikes.

To navigate this series of events, the Lebanese Ministry of Education and Higher Education (MEHE) blended in-person and online learning, hoping to cater to as many individuals as possible. However, these alternative modes of learning made the situation even more unsettling, especially for international students. “Sometimes classes shift online,” said the Libyan student. “Sometimes, you’re physically there, but mentally somewhere else.”

According to the Senior Director of International Services at LAU, Ms. Dina Abdulrahman, 10% of the student population primarily comes from the Southwest Asia and North Africa (SWANA) region. It is unclear, however, how many of these students are under US sponsorship, as Ms. Abdulrahman did not want to disclose that information.

The situation is no different at AUB. Iran’s threats to bomb American institutions in the region have raised a number of concerns for international students. “With threats of bombing the university, it became much worse, especially since I live in dorms on campus,” said an international student from the Middle East under US sponsorship. “This period was very emotionally draining, and it was difficult for me to focus and stay motivated to work on my thesis and my studies,” added the student.

According to AUB’s official website, 17% of the student body is international as of the fall of 2025. The Associate Director of the US-Middle East Partnership Initiative at AUB, Melisa Ajamian, was contacted about the number of students under US sponsorship. Middle East Uncovered did not receive a response.

“I was supposed to attend an important conference that could have helped with my future plans, but because the airspace was closed, I couldn’t travel,” said the student from the Middle East. “That made me start questioning whether Lebanon is even the best option for my education and career.”

International students in Lebanon have faced similar challenges in recent years. The Beirut port blast, “the largest non-nuclear blast in modern history”, impacted a number of international students at the time. The blast, which resulted in the death of 200 people and displaced over 200,000 individuals, caused $15 billion worth of damage.

Amer Haj Ahmad, a Syrian who graduated from LAU, was near the port when the explosion occurred. Haj Ahmad was out celebrating his graduation after enduring a challenging year that started with an uprising and ended with online learning during the pandemic. He was with fellow international students when the blast hit them. “As primitive as this may sound, we were all collectively aligned into thinking about surviving,” said Haj Ahmed to Middle East Uncovered. “The damage was nothing like anything I’ve seen with my own eyes, and it was chaotic navigating Mar Mikhail Street at the time.” He left Lebanon soon thereafter, but the events of that day are seared into his memory. He currently resides in Canada.

The academic year at both AUB and LAU is coming to an end this month, and neither has revealed a strategy for the upcoming academic year, which begins in the fall of 2026. Lebanon’s MEHE has yet to reveal what its plans are for the future of education in the country. Still, the reality on the ground remains precarious for both the students and institutions involved.

“The situation made me see my future as more uncertain and pushed me to think more about stability and security,” added the student from the Middle East at AUB. The same rhetoric was echoed by the student from Libya at LAU. “The situation made me start asking where I can actually build something stable.”

Stability is one of the primary challenges Lebanon faces, and it is unclear whether or not cessation of hostilities between Israel and Hezbollah will take place in the near future. However, interruptions to the educational delivery in Lebanon are likely to persist, impacting both domestic and international students.

Lebanon’s universities still carry academic weight, but for many international students, that is no longer enough. Repeated disruptions—economic decline, explosions, and now war—have made higher education unpredictable and, at times, untenable. As the next academic year approaches without a clear plan, students are left weighing degrees against safety. For some, the question is no longer how to study in Lebanon, but whether to stay at all.

Ruth Topper was asleep in bed when the phone rang shortly after midnight on April 19. Thinking it was a family emergency, she answered the call. Someone had tried to “firebomb” Kenton United Synagogue, of which she is the chair.

She and her husband rushed to the scene. Miraculously, only minor damage was caused to the building, and no one was injured. It could have been much worse.

Footage later posted online showed a figure in dark clothing setting a bottle of liquid on fire and throwing it through the window of the shul in north-west London.

It was enough to keep Topper awake for most of that night. “It was not easy to go to sleep after something awful had happened,” says Topper. “I was still trying to process it.”

A 17-year-old boy was subsequently arrested and charged with arson.

It’s now painfully evident that Jewish spaces are being deliberately singled out.

When two worshippers were killed outside Heaton Park synagogue in Manchester last October, the nation’s Jews feared it would not be the only terrorist attack.

Six months on, that has proven to be the case.

In March, four Jewish charity-owned ambulances were set on fire in a synagogue car park in Golders Green, an area in north London home to one of the largest Jewish communities in the country.

Across April, a pattern of intimidation and hostility toward Jewish institutions became hard to dismiss as isolated incidents. Within days, synagogues in Finchley and Kenton were targeted by arsonists. The government’s terrorism advisor is now calling the sharp rise in antisemitic attacks a “national security emergency.”

By the end of the month, even a memorial in Golders Green, honoring victims of both the Iranian regime and the October 7 attack, was targeted in a suspected arson attack. And then on April 29, two Jewish men were stabbed in Golders Green. The knifeman, Essa Suleiman, was arrested at the scene. He came to the UK from Somalia in the early 1990s.

Following the attack, the UK’s terrorism threat level was raised from “substantial” to “severe.”

Ephraim Mirvis, the Chief Rabbi, said that “words of condemnation are no longer sufficient.”

He’s right. Many British Jews will now feel that such words ring hollow if no meaningful, decisive action is taken to combat antisemitism, as well as the climate that has allowed it to fester.

Yehudis Fletcher, a mother of three in north Manchester, worries about the safety of her boys, who are visibly Jewish.

Does she ask them to hide their kippahs and tzitzis—tassels that hang out of men’s shirts—or ask them to defy and be proud of who they are? It’s something she has to now wrestle with.

“There has always been an awareness of risk,” she tells me. “Previously, we were aware of kippahs knocked off children’s heads, eggs thrown, muggings. Now, this risk is car ramming, arson, or stabbing.”

While it’s not yet clear who is behind the stabbing, other attacks in recent months against Britain’s Jews have been claimed online by one organization: Harakat Ashab al-Yamin al-Islamia (HAYI).

Meaning the “Islamic Movement of the Companions of the Right,” the group emerged publicly in March after a series of attacks on Jewish institutions in Belgium and the Netherlands.

This has raised concerns that Iran is ramping up its activation of sleeper cells and proxies recruited online to wage a campaign of retaliation against Western countries.

“It is highly likely that Iran is behind some of these attacks,” says Roger MacMillan, a counter-terrorism and security specialist. “The M.O. is always the same. Whether it’s a warning, an attack, and then a video posted online claiming responsibility for the attack. HAYI follows the same pattern as other Islamic resistance groups.”

While HAYI’s attacks have been poorly executed, their intention is also to spread fear, Macmillan adds. It’s clearly working.

The British government is now moving to proscribe the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) as a terrorist organization. Accountable only to Iran’s Supreme Leader, the IRGC has been accused of supporting militant groups and destabilizing activities across the Middle East. Iran refutes all allegations.

“I do think the IRGC ought to be proscribed,” says Ruth Topper. “There’s a lot of hate coming from abroad.”

Many Jews have also reported feeling unsafe going into central London when there were marches against the war in Gaza. Although the Stop The War Coalition insists that they are not “hate marches,” but “expressions of solidarity and support for those under attack,” Fletcher is concerned about some of the rhetoric heard at these events—phrases like “globalize the intifada,” for example.

“‘Words are violence’ is an accepted position that the Left holds. But that doesn’t apply to all words equally,” says Fletcher. “When we are violently attacked as an extension of these words, there seems to be no reflection, reflection, or responsibility.”

If the trajectory of the past six months has shown anything, it’s that each incident has been followed by another, and then another. What once seemed unthinkable is now a reality.

For many British Jews, it’s no longer the issue of “if,” but rather “when” and “where.”

And the next phone call in the middle of the night following an attack might not end with just minor damage, but something far worse.

2026 was set to be a good year for Hakam Hesham. His ride-hailing startup, Lygo, secured a $30,000 investment, supporting expansion into two new cities and the launch of a new app on Android and iPhone.

Momentum across the wider market was growing as well. The entry of major global players such as BYD, the world’s leading manufacturer of New Energy Vehicles (NEVs) and power batteries, reflected rising confidence in Iraq’s economy amid an upswing in innovation across different sectors. “Food delivery services have also been expanding, which has positively impacted smaller businesses,” Hesham said.

The startup scene was finally taking off. Despite ongoing economic challenges, new investment funds and entrepreneurial programs had emerged amid a push to diversify the economy, with organizations like Rwanga, Takween, Vim, Orange Corners, and Ideas Beyond Borders supporting aspiring entrepreneurs.

“The entrepreneurial scene in Iraq has been progressing gradually since 2021, witnessing the birth of many startups, especially in tech, and the entrance of a number of regional and international players into Iraq,” says Dr. Mohammed Al Samarrai, Co-founder of QAF Lab, an innovation hub for entrepreneurs in Mosul. “Many investors have been looking into Iraq as the next hub.”

That changed on February 28, when the US and Israel launched airstrikes on Iran and triggered a regional war. Iraq, home to dozens of Iranian-backed militias, quickly became a second front, shattering several years of security progress and returning the country to a conflict zone.

Hopes that tentative economic growth, a construction boom, and rising investor confidence were starting to shape a new Iraq fell flat in the face of familiar frustrations. Across the country, businesses ground to a halt. The closure of airports and shipping routes shuttered supply lines, and foreign financial transactions were disrupted, making it difficult to pay suppliers abroad.

For many small businesses, the impact was immediate. Limited funding and diminished capacity to absorb losses leave startups vulnerable to economic shocks, with some forced to lay off staff and scale back operations as they wait out the war. “Many startups cannot sustain themselves for more than three months without revenue…. As a result, they begin to lose their position in the market, and company valuations have been steadily declining,” Hesham said.

In the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, Naska Rifaat’s workflow has slowed amid long power outages, travel disruptions, and the fear of being hit by drone strikes if she goes to work. “The office is in an apartment, and it feels risky to be in a tall building at the moment,” she says.

After almost six years in business, Rifaat’s jewelry brand Nask has a strong reputation for quality pieces inspired by Kurdish heritage, with her latest line—a capsule collection for the Kurdish New Year Nowruz—due to launch last month. Six weeks later, her stock remains stuck at the factory.

Prior to the war with Iran, signs of economic recovery and relative internal stability were positioning Iraq as an emerging hub for startups in the region. The country has been leveraging its strategic location in the heart of the Middle East and its young, tech-savvy population to turn reconstruction needs into an opportunity for growth.

An article in The Economist last year described Baghdad as a “boomtown”, citing the surge in construction projects after years of war. Foreign investment rose in early 2026, with a $100 billion reconstruction plan that pledged improvements to infrastructure and services.

Mounting confidence in the security situation has trickled through to the startup sector, where small businesses are looking to play a part in Iraq’s growth.

Now, Al Samarrai fears the sector will be dragged back several years. “The Iraqi ecosystem is still very young, risky, and lacking the proper support from the government in terms of access to finance and an adequate infrastructure,” he said. “Some startups will be innovating their way out of this dilemma, some will pivot innovatively, but a good number will lose their compass as the business demand goes down.”

As consumer confidence ebbs, Rifaat is bracing for a 50 percent drop in sales. If transport routes, airports, and financial transfers continue to be restricted, the short-term impacts of the production drop will be difficult to reverse. For now, promotional offers can help persuade cautious shoppers to spend while she scouts for new suppliers in Turkey, where the border with Iraq remains open.

She has also been exploring European markets to offset local challenges. “I am using this slower period to focus on developing the business strategically,” she says. “Businesses that remain flexible and use this period to restructure, diversify markets, and improve their systems may come out stronger once stability returns.”‎

These strategies can help manage the situation for now, but Rifaat fears the impacts of a prolonged war. “Conflicts affect investor confidence, international partnerships, and operational stability, all of which are essential for startups to grow,” she says.

Longstanding weaknesses in the Iraqi economy threaten further instability as civilians bear the cost. Iraq is one of the most oil-dependent countries in the world, and the blockade on the Strait of Hormuz has all but halted its oil exports, which account for around 90 percent of government revenue.

Protests were already brewing over jobs and services before the war began. Now, rising food and energy prices have exacerbated the struggles faced by ordinary Iraqis, who fear the consequences of long power outages as the hot summer approaches, when temperatures regularly rise above 45 degrees celsius.

Hozan Ibrahim is using generators to supplement the energy supply and relying on customer goodwill to navigate delivery delays—measures he hopes are temporary.

Raw materials for his leather goods company, Carox Leather, come from Turkey and Europe, so he hasn’t faced supply issues like many product-based businesses, but sales are down. “There’s a decreased desire to purchase luxury items due to fears of escalating conflict,” he says.

For now, Iraq has around $97 billion in reserves to fall back on, but the Iran war has amplified an urgent need for economic reform. The startup sector has a key role to play in the country’s shift away from over reliance on oil, but with minimal government support, entrepreneurs need creative solutions to survive the setback.

Namo Hassan has focused on staying calm and accepting that, for now, it’s impossible to plan ahead. “I’m trying to focus on what I can control rather than reacting emotionally to everything happening around us. That means being more careful in planning, protecting the brand, staying close to customers and partners, and continuing to build step by step instead of making rushed decisions.”

While developing his novelty sock brand, Namosocks, he has been encouraged by the evolving entrepreneurial scene. “There is more ambition, more creativity, and more young people trying to build something of their own,” he says. The current conflict may dampen this progress, but in a country where small businesses are used to navigating barriers, he believes the ecosystem will adapt. “I think Iraqi entrepreneurs are very resilient. The scene may slow down, but I don’t think the spirit of entrepreneurship will disappear.”

If you speak with Iranians in the diaspora these days, you will notice something strange: people have started to count time differently.

Not in days or weeks, but in missed phone calls.

“How long has it been since you last spoke to your parents?”
“Two weeks.”
“Three.”
“…I don’t know anymore.”

Some parents in Iran spend money they cannot afford—money meant for groceries that are becoming more expensive by the hour—on costly phone packages to call their children abroad, only for the connection to last a few seconds. Every word carries weight. You try to hold on to each sentence while keeping your voice steady, aware the line could drop at any moment.

Others manage to scrape together enough for a single gigabyte of internet—just enough for a message, a voice note, some proof that they are still there.

It is nearing the end of April 2026, and Iran has experienced more than twelve weeks of severe internet disruption since the beginning of this year.

What is happening in Iran is often described as an “internet shutdown.” That sounds like a switch being flipped on and off. But what’s really happening is something more precise. Iran’s National Information Network (NIN), also known as Iran’s intranet system, is designed to ensure the country remains digitally connected, even if cut off from the world.

What Iranians are left with is a network that appears to be online but is not connected to anything beyond Iran’s borders. Rather than serving as public infrastructure, the internet in Iran is wielded as a tool of control.

The first shutdown phase began on January 8, during widespread anti-regime protests in which thousands of innocent civilians were massacred. Around twenty days of severe internet disruption followed.

Then came the second phase.

At the end of February, after regional escalation, connectivity was cut again—this time to near-zero levels. In some places, traffic fell to 1 or 2% of normal usage. Fifty days followed. By April, the shutdown had continued for twelve weeks of continuous or repeated blackout conditions.

This is the longest nationwide internet shutdown ever recorded. But even this description is slightly misleading.

While most Iranians remain cut off, a small segment of society is being offered something new: monitored access. Known as “Internet Pro,” it is not open or universal and requires identification, approval, and registration; it comes at a high cost and is limited, controlled, and selectively granted.

Certain groups—business elites, approved professionals, and select institutions—are granted restricted access to the global internet, while the rest are confined to the NIN. The result is a layered, class-based system where access itself becomes a privilege reserved for those willing to comply with the regime.

The NIN was not built overnight. It has been tested, refined, and honed for years. What began as an infrastructure project is now being used a political cudgel.

Every connection can be blocked and monitored, and in moments of crisis, the internet is treated less as a means of communication and more as a security risk. It is shut down not because it stops working, but because it works exactly as intended.

These shutdowns follow a clear pattern and coincide with spreading protests, escalating violence, or moments when the state needs time to regroup. Restricting access reduces visibility, which in turn limits accountability and makes violence easier to carry out.

Inside Iran, people are arrested for using satellite internet. Shops are seized, citizens detained, and equipment confiscated. Using global internet access without permission is treated as a crime threatening national security. At the same time, the regime is busy steadily producing propaganda for the outside world.

Videos of armed women framed as “empowerment,” children in staged military displays, and pink patrol vehicles filled with women saluting with weapons all project a single message: the system is intact and supported from within. But behind that performance, ordinary people cannot even send a message.

Why would a regime need to censor its citizens if it has widespread support?

While all this is happening, I sit in Germany watching a political talk show called Maybrit Illner. The topic: Iran and the Strait of Hormuz.

One of the guests is Thorsten Frei, head of the Federal Chancellery under Chancellor Friedrich Merz. He says we are dealing with a criminal regime. And then comes the sentence that drives me mad:

“Regime change cannot be organized from the outside. It must come from within the population itself.”

It sounds reasonable until you think about it. How does a population organize without communication? How do people coordinate without the internet?

Imagine how this sounds to someone inside Iran trying to speak out—stepping outside each day to armed patrols, loudspeakers, uniforms, and guns, knowing there is no internet, no way to reach others, no way to organize, and no clear sense of what is happening even a street away.

Against that reality, calls for “change from within” ring hollow. It is difficult to see how people are expected to organize under these conditions, though it is far easier to make such arguments from a studio in Germany, where they carry no immediate cost and require no action.

I started blogging in Iran a few years before the Green Movement of 2009. Back then, we used dial-up internet—the sound of connection that everyone from my generation still remembers. Slow, unstable, but revolutionary.

For the first time, we could speak beyond borders. Not just to each other, but to the world. Years before Instagram, WhatsApp, or Telegram, we wrote blogs, documented what was happening, and created a space for Iranian voices outside state control.

After being expelled from university because of my beliefs, other expelled students and I wrote letters to ministries and published them online. We documented our dadkhahi—our search for justice—through blogs.

What is taking shape in Iran is not exactly a closed system like North Korea, but something more adaptive. The internet still exists, but access is switched on or off depending on political need.

This extends beyond periodic shutdowns. War, economic strain, and digital restrictions now reinforce each other, tightening control and further isolating Iranian society from the outside world.

Within this system, satellite internet has taken on a different role. It is no longer a convenience or upgrade, but one of the few remaining ways to bypass state-controlled infrastructure. At scale, it offers a rare form of independent access.

That access, however, carries risk. Users can be arrested if caught. Equipment is costly and often obtained through informal channels. Businesses that provide access are shut down, and users can be tracked through signals, devices, and digital activity.

Even so, people continue to find ways to connect.

Because the need to be heard is stronger than the fear of the consequences.

This is the point where the international community has to decide what it actually stands for. If access to information is a fundamental right, then it cannot stop at borders where it becomes politically inconvenient. If freedom of speech matters, then it must also apply to those who are systematically cut off from speaking.

Statements are not enough. What is needed is infrastructure.

Satellite internet is a technical and political solution. It bypasses state control, restores communication, and enables people to organize, document, and speak.

Without it, calls for “change from within” are abstract and feckless. It is a demand made in full knowledge that the means to act have been deliberately taken away.

You cannot ask people to change their country while denying them the ability to communicate. If there is serious intent to support the Iranian people, expanding independent internet access should already be underway at scale. In the meantime, Iranians will continue to measure time in missed calls, cut connections, and messages that never go through.

A few seconds on the phone. A single voice note. Proof of life.

The longest internet shutdown in human history must end. The future of the Iranian people depends on it.