HOPE... a universal need in uncertain times. Let's pause, reflect, and recommit to shared humanity and belief in tomorrow.

United Nations Geneva

@UNGeneva

 

Today is #HopeDay — a reminder that hope, even in hardship, remains a transformative force. It can bridge divides, drive progress, and uplift the human spirit. 

 

Let's pause, reflect, and recommit to shared humanity and belief in tomorrow.

 

 https://buff.ly/OByxUdl

In a world facing growing unrest, widening social divisions, and persistent economic and environmental challenges, the global community continues to seek values that unite rather than divide. Among these, hope stands out as a deeply powerful and universally resonant force. Recognizing this, the United Nations General Assembly has designated 12 July as the International Day of Hope—a day to celebrate and promote hope as a guiding principle for individuals, communities, and nations alike.

This resolution draws upon the enduring values of the United Nations Charter and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which call for peace, dignity, tolerance, and shared progress. It builds on earlier UN initiatives—such as the International Day of Conscience—by highlighting the essential role hope plays in promoting well-being, mutual respect, social stability, and sustainable development.

The declaration of the International Day of Hope is more than symbolic—it is a global invitation to act. It calls on Member States, regional and international bodies, civil society, and individuals to cultivate environments where hope can thrive... READ MORE   https://www.un.org/en/observances/hope-day 

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"We believe that all people are born free and equal, and advocate for everyone to have the same basic human rights, regardless of their race, sex, nationality, religion or any other status."

United Nations 

United Nations

@UN

 

Every day, the UN works around the world to:  

Feed the hungry  

Vaccinate children  

Promote development  

Protect civilians  

Support displaced people  

Advance human rights 

 

& much more.  

 

https://un.org/en/essential-un

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"Attacks on critical infrastructure are not only about what is destroyed, but also about the people left without what they need to live. Even wars have limits and they must be respected." ICRC Red Cross

100 countries, 1 humanitarian mission: to promote respect for the laws of war #IHL and help people caught up in armed conflicts and violence.

ICRC

@ICRC

 

Attacks on critical infrastructure are not only about what is destroyed, but also about the people left without what they need to live. Even wars have limits and they must be respected.

 https://x.com/ICRC/status/2069356238148620376

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 https://www.icrc.org/en

On the
front line for humanity

 Since 1863, we have worked to relieve suffering and preserve human dignity during war and armed violence. We deliver life‑saving aid across front lines, strive to reconnect families, advocate for humane treatment of detainees and urge compliance with international humanitarian law to keep civilians safe, including online.

120+ Conflicts. One mission: Preserve and prioritize humanity during war 

"For ease and speed, we are degrading our ability to connect and to organise our societies. We must assert our trust in humans over machines" Nesrine Malik

 OpinionAI (artificial intelligence)

AI is devoid of meaning and humanity. That’s why its vapid voice suits this political moment

Nesrine Malik

 

Mon 1 Jun 2026 01.00 EDT

Here is a nightmare scenario for you. You are writing a book about how AI reshapes reality. You start using it as a research partner, confident that you are applying the right hygiene by not letting it actually write a sentence of the book. You think you’ll be careful, you will double check everything. And then your book comes out and it appears that it includes more than a half dozen misattributed or fake quotes. Steven Rosenbaum, the unfortunate writer, acknowledged that sometimes the output of AI was “staggeringly wrong”, but still, errors crept in.

There are others. A Commonwealth prize-winning short story became engulfed in claims that it carried the hallmarks of AI. And every time I see a story of a journalist caught out by fake AI quotes during research, I cross myself – there but for the grace of God go I. But to make sure it is not left up to grace alone, I never touch the thing. When AI results pop up as the default in a search engine, I reject them, rebuke them, as if they contained a dark sorcery that would through mere engagement creep into my synapses and take control.

This monastic, almost paranoid approach is not only because AI is a risky and unreliable research tool. It is a voice, a tone, a frequency. AI language haunts me in a million similar tinny chants from customer care to social media posts to press releases. I worry even as I write this column that it might sound like AI. That I have somehow through relentless exposure assimilated its blandness and excess. Its short declarative sentences. Its advertorial narration. Its informal mimicry of personhood. Hi there! Hope all is well. I thought you might be interested in a column about AI, an issue that is increasingly occupying thought leaders and writers. Would you like to learn more?

What are we losing in this fire? Writing is not just about rendering thoughts through words in a certain style: analysis, literary fiction, storytelling. It is about the particular alchemy of a single individual drawing on their own unique profile to construct an idea. It is about the way their brain works, the quirks they have picked up along the way, their politics, their history, their relationships, the very way they see the world. You can produce a thousand Dickenses and Rumis through AI, but you can’t create a new iconic writer. You can only draw on the chorus of styles that already exist. You can only derive, never create.

And then there is the atrophy. The loss of the ability to struggle for a word, to craft a verbal image. I could save precious minutes as a deadline approaches and ask AI to cook me up a nice line, or I could linger and conceptualise that resisting AI writing feels like trying not to inhale an airborne virus. It might not be a great simile, but it’s mine goddamit. And it helps me, in writing, to consolidate what I am thinking. Whether it’s a political text or an email, leaning on AI for everything from research to writing severs the connection between feeling and expression. It drains the colour from everything and suffocates one’s ability to channel and meet and be surprised by what is knocking about in your head. When tech becomes about reducing labour in every way, it ends up becoming an inhibitor of actual consciousness. Entirely unsurprising research shows that leaning on LLMs may reduce brain engagement.

Even more depressing is how well suited this cauterisation of the self is to the political moment, one of a glut of content and bad information. AI is rampant on social media, where accounts authoritatively post long texts on everything from the wars in the Middle East to dramatic personal experiences that didn’t happen in a sort of reality fan-fiction. And in politics, where... READ MORE  https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2026/jun/01/ai-meaning-humanity-political-moment-trust-humans-over-machines

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My Sister Najah (AY) By Mike Odetalla of Beit Hanina, Palestine

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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My Sister Najah (AY)

By Mike Odetalla

 

As a small boy growing up in our village of Beit Hanina, Palestine, I was a mischievous child with an insatiable curiosity and an irrepressible desire to roam. The hills that encircled our village were my kingdom, and escaping the watchful eyes of my family became an art form that might well have made Harry Houdini proud.

 

I was the youngest of five children—two brothers and two sisters, all much older than I was. The sibling closest to me in age was my sister Najah, who was six years older. Because of that, and perhaps because she was the most patient, my mother often entrusted her with the daunting task of watching over me whenever she left the house.

 

My mother’s instructions were simple and direct: “Keep an eye on your brother and make sure he does not leave.”

 

Najah did her best, but I was determined.

 

I would wait patiently for the slightest distraction. Then, with my homemade slingshot clutched in one hand, I would slip outside, climb over the patio, leap onto the wall that separated our home from the neighbors’, and within moments I would be scaling the steep hill that rose behind our house.

 

Those hills were my paradise.

 

There, I flew homemade kites that danced against the blue Palestinian sky. I explored ancient caves that seemed filled with mystery and adventure. I stalked birds with my slingshot, imagining myself a great hunter. To a little boy, those hills were not merely part of the landscape—they were a vast and wondrous playground where I experienced some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

 

Eventually, my mother would return home and ask Najah the inevitable question.

“Did your brother give you any trouble?”

 

Unaware that I had vanished, Najah would answer confidently, “No, he is inside playing.”

 

But when my mother stepped into the house and found it empty, she knew immediately where I had gone.

 

Turning to my sister, she would scold her and issue a command she had repeated many times before:

 

“Go find your brother. And don’t hit him.”

 

Both Najah and I understood that the first part of the order would be obeyed. The second part was open to interpretation.

 

As Najah climbed the steep hill, her anger grew with every step. Not because she hated me, but because she knew she was the one who had gotten into trouble for my latest escape. Along the way, she would inevitably break off a thin switch from a nearby tree, preparing to administer justice.

 

At the top of the hill, she always knew exactly where to find me.

 

She would seize me by the ear, scold me fiercely, and swat me on the backside with the switch, paying little heed to our mother’s instructions.

 

The truth is, her punishment never hurt very much.

 

But I had learned a strategy of my own.

 

The moment she struck me, I would let out dramatic wails and sobs as though I were suffering unbearable agony. My exaggerated cries had the desired effect. Panic would spread across Najah’s face as she imagined what our mother would do if she believed that real harm had come to me.

 

In desperation, she would quickly begin negotiations.

 

“Please stop crying,” she would plead. “I will buy you a piece of Silvana chocolate if you promise not to tell Mother.”

 

Silvana chocolate was among the finest bribes a child could receive.

 

The tears would dry almost instantly.

 

We would then descend the hill together, our secret safely preserved between us, both of us knowing that the same adventure would likely be repeated again before long.

 

As the years passed, childhood gave way to adulthood. Life carried us to different places and eventually to different states. Yet distance did nothing to diminish the bond between us. In many ways, it strengthened it.

 

Whenever we were together, our conversations inevitably drifted back to those magical days in Palestine—to the hills of Beit Hanina, my daring escapes, and the cherished Silvana chocolates that sealed our conspiracies.

 

We laughed until tears filled our eyes.

 

What I did not fully appreciate as a child was that behind Najah’s scolding, her switch, and even her exasperation, there was a love as steadfast as the hills themselves. She protected me, worried about me, and carried the burden of responsibility placed upon her by our mother.

 

She was not merely my older sister.

 

She was my guardian, my accomplice, my confidante, and eventually my closest friend.

 

Ten years ago, my beloved sister Najah returned to her Creator.

 

With her passing, I lost far more than a sister.

 

I lost a treasured part of my childhood, the keeper of our shared memories, and one of the people who loved me most deeply in this world.

 

Yet whenever I close my eyes, I can still see her climbing that hill, a switch in one hand and determination in her stride, pretending to be angry while her heart overflowed with love.

 

And somewhere in that memory, I am once again a little boy in Beit Hanina—running free beneath the Palestinian sky, with my sister always finding her way to me.

 https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10165969600031977&set=pcb.10165969600286977

Mike Hanini Odetalla with his beloved sister

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Imagine what we could have done to educate, inspire, and care for our children here instead of spending billions to bomb our children there.... Whatever there you are thinking about right now, there are [& they are] our children, too.

The Martin Luther King, Jr. Center

@TheKingCenter

Imagine. #OurChildrenEverywhere #BelovedCommunity #TheKingCenter #MLK

 https://x.com/TheKingCenter/status/2041659730578317406/photo/1

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