The “Blitz spirit” is one of Britain’s most enduring national myths – the stories we tell ourselves about who we were, and who we still believe we are today. Growing up among football fans, I heard constant nostalgic refrains about England and Germany, wartime bravery and national pride.
Blitz spirit refers to the resilience, unity and stoic determination of civilians during the German bombing raids (the Blitz) of the second world war. It has reemerged time and again, symbolising a collective pride in facing adversity with courage, humour and a “keep calm and carry on” attitude.
After the July 7 bombings in 2005, which killed 52 people and injured more than 700, I noticed how quickly the Blitz spirit reappeared. British newspapers reached into the past and pulled the myth forward.
Get your news from actual experts, straight to your inbox.Sign up to our daily newsletter to receive all The Conversation UK’s latest coverage of news and research, from politics and business to the arts and sciences.
The Independent on July 8 said, “London can take it, and it can do so because its stoicism is laced as it always has been with humour.” The Daily Mail evoked images of “London during the Blitz… with everyone dancing through the bombs”.
Tony Parsons opened his Daily Mirror column with “07/07 war on Britain: We can take it; if these murderous bastards go on for a thousand years, the people of our islands will never be cowed”, alongside an image of St Paul’s Cathedral during the Blitz.
The spirit of working-class wartime London was, ironically, even applied to bankers and City traders who “kept the economy alive” after the attacks. A July 8 Times article claimed: “A Dunkirk spirit spread through London’s financial districts as Canary Wharf and City workers vowed they would not be deterred.”
The use of river transport to evacuate workers reinforced the analogy. The Times described how “bankers and lawyers in London’s riverside Canary Wharf complex experienced their own version of the Dunkirk-style evacuations”, assisted by a “flotilla of leisure vessels and little ships”.
I was fascinated: why this story, and why now? That question became the heart of a book I published in 2015 – one that explored how a myth born in 1940 was reborn in 2005, repurposed for a very different London.
What I found was that the “Blitz spirit” wasn’t a lie, but it was a myth in the academic sense: a simplified, selective story built from the most comforting parts of the past.
Wartime Britain was not uniformly united, stoic and proud. There were deep class divides. Looting occurred. Morale was rock-bottom in many cities and communities. Evacuees weren’t always welcomed with open arms. Government censorship and transnational propaganda masked social unrest.
Understandably, these messy realities were left out of the postwar narrative. But what happens when we bring that myth into the present?
The myth of the ‘Blitz spirit’
Londoners did come together after the 7/7 bombings – there were undoubtedly examples of communities and strangers supporting each other and maintaining a sense of resilience that enabled them to continue their lives undeterred.
But it was not one single unified message. Hate crimes against British Muslim communities in the weeks after the 2005 attacks exposed cracks in the narrative of national unity.
Some used the Blitz spirit to support Tony Blair and George W. Bush, casting them as Churchillian leaders standing firm against a new fascism in the form of global terrorism. For others, the same figures represented a betrayal of British values.
They were evoked instead to shame Blair and Bush. The Express made its feelings clear when it said: “It was throw up time when Blair was compared to Churchill by some commentators. What an insult!”
The Blitz spirit also became a weapon in anti-immigration discourse. Some argued that Britain, unlike in 1940, had become a “soft touch” – compromised by EU human rights laws, welfare handouts and multiculturalism. The underlying message: today’s London could never be as brave or unified as wartime London.
Writing in The Sun, Richard Littlejohn said: “War office memo. Anyone caught fighting on the beaches will be prosecuted for hate crimes.”
An article in the Express condemning human rights laws said: “What a good thing these people weren’t running things when Hitler was doing his worst. Would the second world war have been more easily won if we had spent more time talking about freedom of speech than bombing Nazi Germany?”
Multicultural resilience
And yet, another narrative emerged – one that saw London’s multicultural identity as a strength, not a weakness. Here, the Blitz spirit wasn’t just a historical relic, but a kind of transcendental force. The city’s soul, it was said, remained resilient – passed down across generations, regardless of race, class or religion. For some, this was proof that Britain had evolved and still held fast to its best values.
A letter to the Daily Mirror (July 17) invoked the Blitz spirit through a cross-cultural lens: “Colour, creed and cultures forgotten, black helping white and vice versa… We stood firm in the Blitz and we’ll do so again, going about our business as usual.”
The Sunday Times quoted Michael Portillo, who framed London’s resilience as multicultural continuity: “Fewer than half the names of those killed on the 7th look Anglo-Saxon… Today’s Londoners come in all colours and from every cultural background. Yet they have inherited the city’s historic attitudes of nonchalance, bloody-mindedness and defiance.”
The Blitz spirit, as my research revealed, is not a single story. It is a narrative tool used for many different – often opposing – purposes. It can bring people together, or be used to divide. It can inspire pride, or be weaponised in fear.
National myths don’t just reflect who we were – they shape who we think we are. They’re never neutral. They’re always curated, always contested. If we want to be genuinely proud of our country – and we should – then we also have to be honest about the stories we cling to. We must ask: what’s left out, and who decides?
Darren Kelsey does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
_Salmonella_ causes salmonellosis — an infection that typically results in vomiting and diarrhoea.Lightspring/ Shutterstock
Salmonella cases in England are the highest they’ve been in a decade, according to recent UK Health Security Agency (UKHSA) data. There was a 17% increase in cases observed from 2023 to 2024 – culminating in 10,388 detected infections last year. Children and older adults accounted for around a fifth of cases.
Although the number of infections caused by foodborne diseases such as Salmonella had broadly decreased over the last 25 years, this recent spike suggests a broader issue is at play. A concurrent increase in Campylobacter cases points to a possible common cause that would affect risk of both foodborne pathogens – such as changes in consumer behaviour or food supply chains.
While the UK maintains a high standard of food safety, any increase in the incidence of pathogens such as Salmonella warrants serious attention.
Salmonella is a species of bacteria that is one of the most common causes of foodborne illnesses globally. The bacteria causes salmonellosis – an infection that typically causes vomiting and diarrhoea.
Most cases of salmonellosis don’t require medical intervention. But approximately one in 50 cases results in more serious blood infections. Fortunately, fatalities from Salmonella infections in the UK are extremely rare – occurring in approximately 0.2% of all reported infections.
Salmonella infections are typically contracted from contaminated foods. But a key challenge in controlling Salmonella in the food supply chain lies in the diverse range of foods it can contaminate.
Salmonella is zoonotic, meaning it’s present in animals, including livestock. This allows it to enter the food chain and subsequently cause human disease. This occurs despite substantial efforts within the livestock industry to prevent it from happening – including through regular testing and high welfare practices.
Salmonella can be present on many retail food products – including raw meat, eggs, unpasteurised milk, vegetables and dried foods (such as nuts and spices). When present, it’s typically at very low contamination levels. This means it doesn’t pose a threat to you if the product is stored and cooked properly.
Vegetables and leafy greens can also become contaminated with Salmonella through cross-contamination, which may occur from contaminated irrigation water on farms, during processing or during storage at home. As vegetables are often consumed raw, preventing cross-contamination is particularly critical.
Spike in cases
It’s premature to draw definitive conclusions regarding the causes of this recent increase in Salmonella cases. But the recent UKHSA report suggests the increase is probably due to many factors.
Never prepare raw meat next to vegetables you intend to eat without cooking, as cross-contamination can lead to Salmonella. kathrinerajalingam/ Shutterstock
One contributing factor is that diagnostic testing has increased. This means we’re better at detecting cases. This can be viewed as a positive, as robust surveillance is integral to maintaining a safe food supply.
The UKHSA also suggests that changes in the food supply chain and the way people are cooking and storing their food due to the cost of living crisis could also be influential factors.
To better understand why Salmonella cases have spiked, it will be important for researchers to conduct more detailed examinations of the specific Salmonella strains responsible for the infections. While Salmonella is commonly perceived as a singular bacterial pathogen, there are actually numerous strains (serotypes).
DNA sequencing can tell us which of the hundreds of Salmonella serotypes are responsible for human infections. Two serotypes, Salmonella enteritidis and Salmonella Typhimurium, account for most infections in England.
Although the UKHSA reported an increase in both serotypes in 2024, the data suggests that Salmonella enteritidis has played a more significant role in the observed increase. This particular serotype is predominantly associated with egg contamination.
Salmonella enteritidis is now relatively rare in UK poultry flocks thanks to vaccination and surveillance programmes that were introduced in the 1980s and 1990s. So the important question here is where these additional S enteritidis infections are originating.
Although the numbers may seem alarming, what the UKHSA has reported is actually a relatively moderate increase in Salmonella cases. There’s no reason for UK consumers to be alarmed. Still, this data underscores the importance of thoroughly investigating the underlying causes to prevent this short-term increase from evolving into a longer-term trend.
Staying safe
The most effective way of lowering your risk of Salmonella involves adherence to the “4 Cs” of food hygiene:
1. Cleaning
Thoroughly wash hands before and after handling any foods – especially raw meat. It’s also essential to keep workspaces, knives and utensils clean before, during and after preparing your meal.
2. Cooking
The bacteria that causes Salmonella infections can be inactivated when cooked at the right temperature. In general, foods should be cooked to an internal temperature above 65°C – which should be maintained for at least ten minutes. When re-heating food, it should reach 70°C or above for two minutes to kill any bacteria that have grown since it was first cooked.
3. Chilling
Raw foods – especially meat and dairy – should always be stored below 5°C as this inhibits Salmonella growth. Leftovers should be cooled quickly and also stored at 5°C or lower.
4. Cross-contamination
To prevent Salmonella passing from raw foods to those that are already prepared or can be eaten raw (such as vegetables and fruit), it’s important to wash hands and clean surfaces after handling raw meat, and to use different chopping boards for ready-to-eat foods and raw meat.
Most Salmonella infections are mild and will go away in a few days on their own. But taking the right steps when storing and preparing your meals can significantly lower your risk of contracting it.
Rob Kingsley receives funding from the Biotechnology and Biological Sciences Research Council (BBSRC), Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation
Conservatives have won two important battles in their decades-long campaign against Planned Parenthood, a network of affiliated clinics that are the largest provider of reproductive health services in the U.S.
One of these victories was a U.S. Supreme Court ruling handed down on June 26, 2025. The other is a provision in the multitrilion-dollar tax-and-spending package President Donald Trump has made his top legislative priority. Both follow the same strategy: depriving Planned Parenthood – and all other providers of abortion care – from getting reimbursed by Medicaid, the government health insurance program that mainly covers low-income adults and children, as well as people with disabilities.
I see in both the legislation and the court’s ruling a culmination of a strategy to defund Planned Parenthood that was in full swing by 2007, toward the end of the George W. Bush administration. This campaign hinges on a strategy of insisting that federal and state dollars are supporting abortion care when they do not.
One of the bill’s provisions will make it impossible for patients with Medicaid coverage to get any health care services at clinics like Planned Parenthood.
The provision will last only for a year.
The House approved the same version of the package that the Senate had passed a week after the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that states cannot be sued by patients if they make it impossible for Planned Parenthood clinics to be reimbursed by Medicaid.
The case, Medina v. Planned Parenthood South Atlantic, arose when a South Carolina woman wanted to get gynecological care at her local Planned Parenthood clinic. The rationale South Carolina Gov. Henry McMaster gave for the state’s policy was that Planned Parenthood is an abortion provider.
South Carolina Gov. Henry McMaster stands outside the Supreme Court building in Washington in April 2025 and speaks about his state’s legal dispute regarding Medicaid funding for health care at Planned Parenthood clinics. Kayla Bartkowski/Getty Images
Medicaid and abortion
To be clear, neither the legal dispute nor the provision in the legislative package had anything to do with the use of federal or state dollars to fund abortion.
Although Planned Parenthood offers abortion where and when it is legal, this provision and the court’s decision concern Medicaid reimbursement for all other services. Abortion care is not covered by Medicaid under federal law except in cases of rape, incest or a threat to the pregnant patient’s life.
Medicaid patients instead have relied on their plan at Planned Parenthood clinics when they get annual exams, prenatal care, mental health support, birth control, treatment for sexually transmitted infections, cervical cancer screenings and fertility referrals.
None of those services will be covered by Medicaid for a year. Patients will have to find another health care provider – as long as one is available.
While that provision is in effect, Medicaid won’t be allowed to reimburse Planned Parenthood for any services, mirroring what states just won the right to do in the Supreme Court ruling – but at the national level.
Although the bill blocks Medicaid funding for Planned Parenthood for only 12 months, the ruling lets states exclude any provider from its Medicaid program because they also provide abortions.
In other words, people who rely on Medicaid funding will lose access to all of those essential services not just at Planned Parenthood but potentially at any other providers that also offer abortion care.
Abortion-rights demonstrators holds a sign in front of the Supreme Court building in Washington as the Medina v. Planned Parenthood South Atlantic case is heard on April 2, 2025. Tom Williams/CQ-Roll Call via Getty Images
U.S. Rep. Mike Pence introduced the first federal legislation aimed at “defunding” Planned Parenthood in 2007. It failed to muster enough support in Congress to become law. States such as Texas then started down that path.
The first national legislative success came in 2015. Both houses of Congress passed a budget reconciliation measure with a provision to defund Planned Parenthood that year, but President Barack Obama vetoed it. Republicans had threatened to shut down the government over those demands. A year later, the GOP included a call to defund Planned Parenthood in its presidential campaign platform.
Before Obama left office, his administration passed a rule in December 2016 protecting federal funds for family planning for health care facilities that also provided abortion. The Trump administration rolled back that rule in 2017.
The Trump administration relied on an argument that any support for a health care provider that offers patients abortion services, no matter how segregated the sources of funding, is tantamount to subsidizing abortion.
What to expect next
Nationally, 16 million women of reproductive age rely on Medicaid, and 1 in 5 women will visit a Planned Parenthood clinic for health care at least once in their lives. Those clinics depend on Medicaid reimbursement to offer an array of reproductive health care services, such as prenatal care, that are not tied to abortion.
If Planned Parenthood clinics can’t bill Medicaid for those services, many will close. Planned Parenthood estimates that it could see almost 200 closures – 90% of them in states where abortion is legal. That means over 1 million low-income people risk losing access to their health care provider.
And once clinics close, they may never reopen, U.S. Sen. Patty Murray, a Washington Democrat, recently predicted.
Should the number of Planned Parenthood clinics plummet, it will threaten access to contraceptives, which are all the more important in preventing unwanted pregnancies for people living in states that have banned abortion. Researchers have repeatedly found that unwanted pregnancies, when people are denied access to abortion services, are correlated with increased debt, missed educational and employment opportunities, mental health problems, and diminished care for a family’s older children.
In addition, pregnant patients and new parents may have more limited options for prenatal and postnatal care. That could cause the country’s already-high rates of maternal and infant mortality to increase.
Rachel Rebouché does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Source: The Conversation – UK – By Jennifer Mathers, Senior Lecturer in International Politics, Aberystwyth University
In some parts of Russia, schoolgirls who become pregnant are being paid more than 100,000 roubles (nearly £900) for giving birth and raising their babies.
This new measure, introduced in the past few months across ten regions, is part of Russia’s new demographic strategy, widening the policy adopted in March 2025 which only applied to adult women. It is designed to address the dramatic decline in the country’s birthrate.
Paying teenage girls to have babies while they are still in school is controversial in Russia. According to a recent survey by the Russian Public Opinion Research Centre, 43% of Russians approve of the policy, while 40% are opposed to it. But it indicates the high priority that the state places on increasing the number of children being born.
Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin, regards a large population as one of the markers of a flourishing great power, along with control over a vast (and growing) territory and a powerful military. Paradoxically, though, his efforts to increase the physical size of Russia by attacking Ukraine and illegally annexing its territory have also been disastrous in terms of shrinking Russia’s population.
The number of Russian soldiers killed in the war has reached 250,000 by some estimates, while the war sparked an exodus of hundreds of thousands of some of the most highly educated Russians. Many of them are young men fleeing military service who could have been fathers to the next generation of Russian citizens.
But while Russia’s demographic situation is extreme, declining birth rates are now a global trend. It is estimated that by 2050 more than three quarters of the world’s countries will have such low fertility rates that they will not be able to sustain their populations.
It’s not only Russia
Putin is not the only world leader to introduce policies designed to encourage women to have more babies. Viktor Orban’s government in Hungary is offering a range of incentives, such as generous tax breaks and subsidised mortgages, to those who have three or more children.
Poland makes a monthly payment of 500 złoty (£101) per child to families with two or more children. But there’s some evidence this has not prompted higher-income Polish women to have more children, as they might have to sacrifice higher earnings and career advancement to have another child.
In the United States, Donald Trump is proposing to pay women US$5,000 (£3,682) to have a baby, tied to a wider Maga movement push, supported by Elon Musk and others, to encourage women to have larger families.
Reversing demographic trends is complex, because the reasons that individuals and couples have for becoming parents are also complex. Personal preferences and aspirations, beliefs about their ability to provide for children, as well as societal norms and cultural and religious values all play a part in these decisions.
As a result, the impact of “pronatalist” policies has been mixed. No country has found an easy way to reverse declining birth rates.
One country seeking to address population decline with policies, other than encouraging women to have more babies is Spain, which now allows an easier pathway to citizenship for migrants, including those who entered the country illegally. Madrid’s embrace of immigrants is being credited for its current economic boom.
The US is seeing a pronatalist movement become more vocal.
Looking for particular types of families
But governments that adopt pronatalist policies tend to be concerned, not simply with increasing the total number of people living and working in their countries, but with encouraging certain kinds of people to reproduce. In other words, there is often an ideological dimension to these practices.
Incentives for pregnancy, childbirth and large families are typically targeted at those whom the state regards as its most desirable citizens. These people may be desirable citizens due to their race, ethnicity, language, religion, sexual orientation or some other identity or combination of identities.
For instance, the Spanish bid to increase the population by increasing immigration offers mostly Spanish speakers from Catholic countries in Latin America jobs while opportunities to remain in, or move to, the country does appear to be extended to migrants from Africa. Meanwhile, Hungary’s incentives to families are only available to heterosexual couples who earn high incomes.
Elon Musk believes people need to have more children.
The success or failure of governments and societies that promote pronatalism hinges on their ability to persuade people – and especially women – to embrace parenthood. Along with financial incentives and other tangible rewards for having babies, some states offer praise and recognition for the mothers of large families.
Putin’s reintroduction of the Stalin-era motherhood medal for women with ten or more children is one example. Sometimes the recognition comes from society, such as the current American fascination with “trad wives” – women who become social media influencers by turning their backs on careers in favour of raising large numbers of children and living socially conservative lifestyles.
The mirror image of this celebration of motherhood is the implicit or explicit criticism of women who delay childbirth or reject it altogether. Russia’s parliament passed a law in 2024 to ban the promotion of childlessness, or “child-free propaganda”. This legislation joins other measures such as restrictions on abortions in private clinics, together with public condemnation of women who choose to study at university and pursue careers rather than prioritise marriage and child-rearing.
The world’s most prosperous states would be embracing immigration if pronatalist policies were driven solely by the need to ensure a sufficient workforce to support the economy and society. Instead, these attempts are often bound up with efforts to restrict or dictate the choices that citizens – and especially women – make about their personal lives, and to create a population dominated by the types of the people they favour.
Jennifer Mathers does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
The demise of one of Hong Kong’s last major pro-democracy parties, the League of Social Democrats, is the latest blow to the city’s crumbling democratic credentials.
The league is the third major opposition party to disband this year. The announcement coincides with the fifth anniversary this week of the national security law, which was imposed by Beijing to suppress pro-democracy activity.
The loss of this grassroots party, historically populated by bold and colourful characters, vividly illustrates the dying of the light in once-sparkling Hong Kong.
The city is now greyed and labouring under a repressive internal security regime that has crushed civil society’s freedoms and democratic ambitions.
Authoritarian crackdown
The world witnessed Hong Kong at its brightest during the 2014 Umbrella Movement, when hundreds of thousands of pro-democracy protesters camped out on city streets for several months.
We also saw the brutal sequel in 2019, when paramilitarised police sought to put down further civil unrest and protesters fought back.
Since then, “lawfare” has been the preferred strategy of China’s national government and its Hong Kong satellite. The new approach has included a vast security apparatus and aggressive prosecutions.
When Beijing intervened in July 2020, it was nominally about national security. In reality, the new law was designed and used to bring Hongkongers to heel.
Civil freedoms were further curtailed by a home-grown security law, introduced last year to fill the gaps.
International standards such as the Johannesburg Principles, endorsed by the United Nations, require national security laws to be compatible with democratic principles, not to be used to eliminate democratic activity.
Prison or exile
The League of Social Democrats occupied the populist left of the pro-democracy spectrum. It stood apart from contemporaries such as the Democratic Party and the Civic Party, which were dominated by professionals and elites, and have since been disbanded.
The League was most notably represented by the likes of “Long Hair” Leung Kwok-hung– known for his Che Guevara t-shirts and banana-throwing – and broadcaster and journalism academic Raymond Wong Yuk-man, also known as “Mad Dog”.
Despite their rambunctious styles, these men had real political credentials and were repeatedly elected to legislative office. But Leung is now imprisoned for subversion, while Wong has left for Taiwan.
Leung Kwok-hung was sentenced to subversion under the national security law. Edwin Kwok/Shutterstock
Party leaders such as Jimmy Sham Tsz-kit and Figo Chan Ho-wun were also prominent within the Civil Human Rights Front. It was responsible for the annual July 1 protest march that attracted hundreds of thousands of people every year. The front is yet another pro-democracy organisation that has dissolved.
Sham and Chan have been jailed for subversion and unlawful assembly under the colonial-era Public Order Ordinance, which has been used to prosecute hundreds of activists.
Zero tolerance
The demise of these diverse organisations are not natural occurrences, but the result of a deliberate authoritarian programme.
Under China, Hong Kong’s political system has been half democratic at best. But it now resembles something from the darkest days of colonialism, with pre-approved candidates, appointed legislators and zero tolerance for critical voices.
Activists and watchdogs are stymied by the national security law. It criminalises – among other things – engagement and lobbying with international organisations and foreign governments.
Then there are the millions of ordinary Hongkongers whose dreams of a liberal and self-governing region under mainland China’s umbrella – as promised in the lead up to the 1997 handover – have been shattered.
But countless ex-protesters remain in the city, where it is impermissible to speak critically of power, and where mandatory patriotic education may ensure new generations will never even think to speak up.
Much blame lies with the British, who failed to institute democratic elections until the last gasp of their rule in Hong Kong. This was despite the colony tolerating liberalism and habit-forming democratic activity over a longer period.
Now China, after almost three decades in charge, has responded to democratic challenges by defaulting to authoritarian control. Hong Kong can only be grateful it has been spared a Tiananmen-style incident. Nor has it experienced the full genocidal extent of the so-called “peripheries playbook” Beijing has used in Tibet and Xinjiang.
Turmoil and authoritarian swings in the United States and elsewhere give China an opportunity to present as a voice of reason on the international stage.
But we should not forget its commitment to repressive politics at home, nor what its support of belligerent regimes such as Putin’s Russia might mean for Taiwan, the region and the world.
Above all, we should not forget the people, in Hong Kong and elsewhere, who made it their life’s work to achieve democracy only to be rewarded with prison or exile.
Brendan Clift does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
The Congressional Budget Office estimates that 7.8 million Americans across the U.S. would lose their coverage through Medicaid – the public program that provides health insurance to low-income families and individuals – under the One Big Beautiful Bill Act making its way through Congress.
They wouldn’t be able to get coverage in the Affordable Care Act Marketplaces after losing Medicaid. Premiums and out-of-pocket costs are likely to be too high for those making less than 100% to 138% of the federal poverty level who do not qualify for health insurance marketplace subsidies. Funding for this program is also under threat.
And despite being employed, they also wouldn’t be able to get health insurance through their employers because it is either too expensive or not offered to them. Researchers estimate that coverage losses would lead to thousands of medically preventable deaths across the country because people would be unable to access health care without insurance.
A few years ago, Michigan was slated to institute Medicaid work requirements, but the courts blocked the implementation of that policy in 2020. It would have cost upward of US$70 million due to software upgrades, staff training, and outreach to Michigan residents enrolled in the Medicaid program, according to the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services.
Had it gone into effect, 100,000 state residents were expected to lose coverage within the first year.
Over 80% of managers and professionals have employer-sponsored health coverage, but only 50% to 70% of blue-collar workers in service jobs, farming, construction, manufacturing and transportation can say the same.
There are some legal requirements mandating employers to provide health insurance to their employees, but the reality of low-wage work means many do not fall under these legal protections.
For example, employers are allowed to incorporate a waiting period of up to 90 days before health coverage begins. The legal requirement also applies only to full-time workers. Health coverage can thus remain out of reach for seasonal and temporary workers, part-time employees and gig workers.
To make matters worse, layoffs are more common for low-wage workers, leaving them with limited options for health insurance during job transitions. And many employers have increasingly shed low-wage staff, such as drivers and cleaning staff, from their employment rolls and contracted that work out. Known as the fissuring of the workplace, it allows employers of predominately high-income employees to continue offering generous benefits while leaving no such commitment to low-wage workers employed as contractors.
Medicaid fills in gaps
Low-income workers without access to employer-sponsored insurance had virtually no options for health insurance in the years before key parts of the Affordable Care Act went into effect in 2014.
Premiums and cost sharing in Medicaid are minimal compared with employer-sponsored insurance, making it a more realistic and accessible option for low-income workers. And because Medicaid is not tied directly to employment, it can promote job mobility, allowing workers to maintain coverage within or between jobs without having to go through the bureaucratic complexity of certifying work.
Of course, Medicaid has its own shortcomings. Payment rates to providers are low relative to other insurers, access to doctors can be limited, and the program varies significantly by state. But these weaknesses stem largely from underfunding and political hostility – not from any intrinsic flaw in the model. If anything, Medicaid’s success in covering low-income workers and containing per-enrollee costs points to its potential as a broader foundation for health coverage.
Sumit Agarwal does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Valerie L. Myers, Organizational Psychologist and Lecturer in Management and Organizations, University of Michigan
Ask someone what a calling is, and they’ll probably say something like “doing work you love.” But as a management professor who has spent two decades researching the history and impact of calling, I’ve found it’s much more than personal fulfillment.
The concept of calling has deep roots. In the 1500s, theologian Martin Luther asserted that any legitimate work – not just work in ministry – could have sacred significance and social value, and could therefore be considered a calling. In this early form, calling wasn’t merely a vocation or passion; it was a way of living and working that built character, competence and social trust.
That’s because calling is an ethical system – a set of thoughts and actions aimed at producing “good work” that is both morally grounded and quality-focused. As such, it’s not just a feel-good idea.
Today, we know that calling can strengthen social trust by reinforcing its key elements: confidence in product quality, stable institutions, adherence to rules and laws, and relationships.
Social trust is crucial for capitalism and vibrant democracies. And when those systems weaken, as they are now, it’s calling – not cunning or charisma – that can help repair them.
Although calling’s original meaning has faded, I contend that it’s worth reviving. That robust spirit of work still has practical value today, especially since social trust has been declining for decades.
History’s warning lights are flashing
We’ve been here before – in the late 19th century, when the U.S. entered its first Gilded Age. Innovation surged, but so did corruption and inequality as lax regulations enabled tycoons to accumulate extraordinary wealth. Rapid social change sparked conflict. Meanwhile, rising authoritarianism, shifting national alliances and economic jolts unsettled the world. Sound familiar?
Today, in the U.S., trust in institutions has reached an all-time low, while measures of corruption and inequality are up. Meanwhile, American workers are increasingly disengaged at work, a problem that costs US$438 billion annually. America’s fractured and flawed democracy ranks 28th globally, having fallen 11 slots in less than 15 years.
These aren’t just economic or political failures – they’re signs of a moral breakdown.
Over a century ago, sociologist Max Weber warned that if capitalism lost its moral footing, it would cannibalize itself. He predicted the rise of “specialists without spirit,” people who are technically brilliant but ethically empty. The result: resurgence of a cruel, callous form of capitalism called moral menace.
Moral menaces and moral muses
Some leaders act as moral menaces, which law professor James Q. Whitman describes as an efficient but exploitative form of capitalism. Moral menaces extract value and treat people callously, which erodes trust that sustains markets and society. In contrast, others are what I call “moral muses” – leaders who are examples of a calling in action. They’re not saints or celebrities, but people who combine skill, care and moral courage to build trust and transform systems from within. President Franklin Roosevelt and Yvonne Chouinard are two examples.
When President Franklin D. Roosevelt was inaugurated in 1933, amid the Great Depression, an aide told Roosevelt if he was successful, he’d become America’s greatest president. Roosevelt replied, “If I fail, I shall be the last one.” He succeeded by restoring trust. Through New Deal policies, Roosevelt enhanced institutional trust, which stabilized democracy and helped rescue capitalism from its excesses. Today, the U.S. remains highly innovative, competitive and wealthy, in part because of moral muses like Roosevelt.
Or take Yvon Chouinard, the founder of clothing label Patagonia, who built a billion-dollar company while building trust around a moral mission. He urged customers not to buy more gear, but instead to repair their old products to curb consumer waste. Chouinard filed over 70 lawsuits to protect public land, and he gave away his company to climate-change nonprofits in 2022, declaring, “Earth is now our only shareholder.” Relatedly, Patagonia’s employee turnover is far lower than the industry standard, reporting shows. Why? Because people trust leaders who live their values.
History shows that such leaders aren’t born; they are trained.
MBAs and the calling to leadership
For 15 years, I’ve taught an MBA module named “The Calling to Leadership.” Students study moral muses like Roosevelt and Chouinard – not for their fame, but for how they live their callings to cultivate talent and trust, and transform systems.
Students learn to identify moral injuries that lead to disengagement, identify trust gaps, reflect on their own moral core, and practice ethical decision-making. They also engage in reflective practices that sharpen their ethical judgment, which is essential to creating moral markets.
As Lynn Forester de Rothschild, the founder of the Council for Inclusive Capitalism, put it: “At its best, the basis of capitalism is a dual moral and market imperative.”
Democracy and capitalism won’t be strengthened by charisma, cunning or exploitative ambition, but by people who answer a deeper calling to do “good work”: work that builds trust and strengthens the social fabric. History shows that real progress has often been guided by the slumbering ideals of calling. In this age of disengagement and distrust, those ideals aren’t just worth reviving – they’re essential.
In my view, calling isn’t a luxury; it’s a leadership imperative. To fulfill yours, don’t ask, “Is this my dream job?” Ask, “Will my actions build trust?” If not, change course. If yes, keep going. That’s how to heal institutions and improve systems, and how ordinary people can become the quiet force behind meaningful, lasting transformation.
Valerie L. Myers does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Source: The Conversation – UK – By King-Ho Leung, Lecturer in Theology, Philosophy and the Arts, King’s College London
Speaking to Myspace as an upcoming artist in 2013, Lana Dey Rey said that the “vision of making [her] life a work of art” was what inspired her to create her music video for her breakthrough single, Video Games (2011).
The self-made video, featuring old movies clips and webcam footage of Del Rey singing, went viral. It eventually led her to sign with a major record label. For many, the video conveyed a sense of authenticity. However, upon discovering that “Lana Del Rey” was a pseudonym (her real name is Elizabeth Grant), some fans began to have doubts. Perhaps this self-made video was just another calculated marketing scheme?
The question of Del Rey’s authenticity has puzzled many throughout her career. Consider, for instance, the controversial Judah Smith Interlude from her latest album, Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd? (2023). Both fans and critics – including her sizeable LGBTQ+ fanbase – were surprised and troubled by her decision to feature the megachurch pastor Judith Smith, who’s been accused of homophobia.
However, the meaning of Del Rey’s inclusion of Smith’s sermon soundclips, layered under a recording of Del Rey giggling, is unclear. Is this meant to mock Smith, or even Christianity itself? Or is it an authentic expression of Del Rey’s own spirituality? After all, she repeatedly makes references to her “pastor” in the same album’s opening track The Grants, about her family in real life.
Looking for something good? Cut through the noise with a carefully curated selection of the latest releases, live events and exhibitions, straight to your inbox every fortnight, on Fridays. Sign up here.
Before she became a singer-songwriter, Del Rey gained her philosophy degree at Fordham University. It was the mid-2000s, when the eminent existentialism scholar Merold Westphal would have been on staff, so she probably studied theories of authenticity by existentialists such as Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–80) and Martin Heidegger (1889–1976). Heidegger spoke of human existence as a “being-towards-death”. Or as Del Rey sings in the title track of her first major-label album, “you and I, we were born to die”.
In Heidegger’s view, to pretend that we are not all bound to die is to deny the kind of finite beings which we are: it is to disown ourselves and exist inauthentically. Conversely, to exist authentically is to accept our own mortality and embrace the way we exist as finite beings.
The music video for Video Games.
In this understanding, to exist authentically does not mean the expression of some underlying “true self” or “human nature”. Rather, it is to accept the conditions of life in which we find ourselves.
‘An obsession for freedom’
For existentialist philosophers, such conditions include not only mortality but also freedom – a theme particularly emphasised by Sartre.
As Sartre says in his 1946 lecture Existentialism Is a Humanism, existentialism holds that “there is no human nature, because there is no God to have a conception of it … Man is nothing else but that which he makes of himself”.
With no creator God or pre-established human nature to determine human destiny or purpose, Sartre teaches that human beings are “condemned to freedom”. We are free beings who are always acting freely – whether we acknowledge that we are free or not. To pretend that we are not free is to be inauthentic.
Sartre suggests embracing our freedom means living life in a manner “comparable to the construction of a work of art”. In his view, in both art and life, we cannot decide in advance what actions ought to be taken: “No one can tell what the painting of tomorrow will be like; one cannot judge a painting until it is done.”
Likewise, we cannot judge whether or not a life is well-lived until it is finished. We must not predetermine how someone should live according to some pre-established criterion of “human nature”.
Instead, we can only assess someone’s life by considering whether they accept that they are free, with the freedom and responsibility to create meaning for their existence by living life as a work of art.
Both freedom and making life a work of art are recurring themes in Del Rey’s discography. They are brought together perhaps most memorably in her much-loved monologue in the music video for Ride (2012):
On the open road, we had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore, to make our lives into a work of art: Live fast, die young, be wild, and have fun. I believe in the country America used to be. I believe in the person I want to become. I believe in the freedom of the open road.
Del Rey is someone Elizabeth Grant became. As though echoing Sartre’s comparison between making art and living life, in her 2012 song Gods & Monsters, she sings of herself “posing like a real singer – cause life imitates art”.
For Del Rey, being a public-facing “real singer” involves some kind of image-cultivation or even self-cultivation. Not unlike how her music video for Video Games is “self-made”, the very identity of Lana Del Rey is also “self-made”. The image of Lana is a work of art made by the artist, Del Rey herself.
Ride by Lana Del Rey.
To be an “authentic” or “real” singer is to accept that the persona of a public figure is always inevitably curated. To combine Sartre’s slogan and Del Rey’s lyrics, the real singer is always “condemned to posing”. To pretend otherwise is to disown what it is to be a “real singer” and to act inauthentically.
If it is true that, as Del Rey sings, “life imitates art”, to render life as a work of art is the most authentic thing that a person can do. Because to live life as a work of art is nothing other than authentically accepting life as it is, something that itself “imitates art”. As she sings in Get Free (2017), this is Del Rey’s commitment, her modern manifesto.
King-Ho Leung does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
In 1962, poet and Auschwitz survivor Yehiel Dinur took the stand in Jerusalem in the trial of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann. Dinur was a much-anticipated witness, bearing the audience’s hope this man, a poet, would be able to explain – to capture and to transmit – the experience of Auschwitz, and of the Holocaust; that he could speak the unspeakable. Prosecutor Gideon Hausner hoped such a witness might “do justice to the six million personal tragedies”.
Dinur used the name Katzetnik 135633 in his writings, also translated as “Prisoner 135663”. On the stand, he said: “I believe wholeheartedly that I have to continue to bear this name until the world awakens.”
Awakening, understanding, empathy and change are the sentiments many survivors hope for, or ask for, during and after periods of trauma. The 20th century saw many of those pleas. The 21st century has done no better at honouring the promise, captured in the title of the 1984 Argentinian commission report on forced disappearances, Nunca Mas: never again. No matter how many such pleas appear before the courts, before the aggressors, before those in solidarity, the horrors of war, torture, starvation and genocide seem to happen again – and again.
Three recent books from the region where war was been raging since the Hamas attacks on Israel on October 7 2023, and the ensuing war on Gaza, are part of these pleas.
Review: Eyes on Gaza – Plestia Alaqad (Macmillan), Letters from Gaza – edited by Mohammed Al-Zaqzooq & Mahmoud Alshaer (Penguin), Gates of Gaza – Amir Tibon (Scribe)
Eyes on Gaza is an on-the-ground account of the death and destruction of the first 45 days of the war by now 23-year-old Palestinian journalist Plestia Alaqad, who moved to Melbourne with her family in November 2023. Letters from Gaza is a collection of 50 stories, poems and fragments from Palestinian writers enduring the past 20 months. And Gates of Gaza is the story of Israeli journalist Amir Tibon, a resident of Nahal Oz, one of the border kibbutz attacked by Hamas on October 7.
Plestia Alaqad. Plestia
These are all first-person testimonies of experiences of being under attack, though those attacks differ. We might say they fit into the genre adopted in truth commissions, such as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa: a response to the nation’s years of living under the apartheid laws, discarded when Nelson Mandela took power in 1994.
The commission was one effort to heal from this past. But, like the Eichmann trial, it needed stories to explain the histories of violence, and it needed the pain to be voiced to explain its impacts on communities, families and relationships.
The use of people’s narratives to “bear witness” to the complex layers of legally sanctioned and militarily executed pain, loss and the traumas they can produce, is sometimes effective in helping audiences understand them. The Bringing Them Home Report in 1997 used this form to explain the incidence and impacts of the forced removal of Indigenous children by the Australian state. It was effective as one form of creating a shared reality for all in Australia, who then understood the term “stolen generations” and the pain, loss and genocidal intent to which this phrase refers.
More recently, the Yoorrook Justice Commission in Victoria, Australia’s first formal truth-telling inquiry into historic and ongoing systemic injustices perpetrated against First Nations Peoples by colonisation, has also brought histories of loss, dispossession and abuse to light, using stories. Stories can make sense of the impact incurred through the intertwined web of policies, statistics, discrimination and quotidian violence at the hands of the state.
The work of testimony
The narratives in these books written since October 7 2023 are part of this genre of testimony or storytelling. But at least two of these books are not attempting to explain the past. They might be described better as pleas to stop what the International Court of Justice has called “a plausible genocide” happening in the present.
They are, in one reading, wishes for the world to understand the experience of pain, rage, loss, fear, distress and defeat that accompanies destruction and unbearable loss. A wish for the world to hear, or perhaps feel, the words on the page – and make the pain stop.
They wish the world would “awaken” to what is happening right now.
The dynamic of awakening is the stock in trade of truth commissions. One party testifies or speaks to an experience, and the audience wakes up to what has been happening. As a result, they either change or facilitate change. The truth, captured as testimony, is supposed to set people free. Not just the speaker, but the community of speakers weighed down by history – or by the struggles of the past or the present.
In legal forms the reason to speak is clear. The reason to speak in literature, biographies and works of nonfiction is less clear. What does the author want from us, the readers? But perhaps more importantly, what can we offer?
She wants the genocide to stop. She wants a free Palestine. She wants her home and her life back. The stories in this book show readers outside Gaza some of the life and death of those first six and a half weeks.
Her last entry before she leaves Gaza for Egypt – and then Australia – is dated Day 45. During those 45 days, she puts on a press helmet and jacket, which both give her protection and weigh her down. And then she speaks: to cameras, to followers, to anyone who will listen. Her social media feeds documenting the war gained worldwide attention, her Instagram following rising from around 3,700 to 4.1 million today.
There are too many deaths to be witnessed – by her and the reader. She describes genocide as an understatement for what is occurring in Gaza: “we lose more people than our hearts can handle”. She has seen so much death, heard so many screams. By day 30,
all you can hear is a voice crying for help from under the rubble. You turn your back and walk away, because there’s nothing you can do to help.
But Plestia’s project is more than documenting death. She is careful to show many aspects of life in Gaza. She shows how Palestinians retain relationships, family and pets. How a young boy just needs his “pot plant” from his destroyed house, under skies filled with drones and bombs. This is a plea for the genocide to stop, but it is also a celebration of being Palestinian. It is an homage to life in Gaza.
It is also a plea to see Palestinians as more than numbers – and more than how they are depicted by Israel.
“The world,” she says, “sometimes treats us like terrorists, trying to justify its complacency in allowing us to be massacred. And we know the perception, we read the propaganda just like everyone else. But the reality is that we’re the opposite.”
She describes gentle moments of love and care between her fellow journalists and the people they interview. The children they bring sweets for, the “bird lady” who renames her tortoise “Plestia” after her. Both Plestia the tortoise and the “bird lady” are now living in a tent. She speaks of the doctors who work tirelessly.
In the midst of brutal amputations and unimaginable burns, she recounts the care of a doctor giving cream for a skin rash that has tormented her, diagnosed as a product of her anxiety. Anxiety seems a gentle diagnosis for symptoms produced by witnessing and documenting such brutality.
Anxiety over her helplessness, perhaps, over the lack of sleep, of nourishing food: dwindling even in those first 45 days. Anxiety seems like a Western preoccupation, from this writing distance. What Plestia experiences seems more like layers of embodied distress. Her empathy allows her to feel, perhaps too much. Empathy can be an enemy.
Around page 100, she begins to deteriorate. “It’s funny how genocide changes a person,” she writes, describing herself as “Genocide Plestia”. She’s devastated, exhausted. She has lost hope. The journal entries are shorter, more repetitive.
They recite her helplessness with what Jacqueline Rose, co-director of the Birkbeck Institute for the Humanities, has called the “repetitive thud of referentiality”.
You feel Plestia’s effort to try to speak with some life in the pages, to use writing as a therapeutic tool. You wish it for her, but she has trouble summoning the energy, the life, any hope. As she poignantly quips: “Fake it till you make it doesn’t work during a Genocide”. What is there to say in such relentless days of loss?
You want Plestia to get up, you want a happy ending, for a conclusion to the painful story, but the problem is time. The reader’s time, the reality of time since she wrote her book.
Day 45, her last day in Gaza, is Monday November 20 2023. I read this book in June 2025, 646 days later – and it hasn’t stopped. When Plestia leaves Gaza and finally arrives here in Melbourne, the conditions she describes have been ongoing for more than 20 months. A recently released survey by the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research estimates almost 84,000 people died in Gaza between October 2023 and early January 2025, as a result of the war. And that was six months ago.
50 letters from Gaza
The numbers are a way of reducing the experience of grief, devastation, loss (and the viewer’s guilt) to simple digits. Digits have no face and no sound. This is helpful to viewers, but it does not do justice to the 84,000, as Gideon Hausner knew well. No one awakens by hearing the numbers. But they matter.
In Letters from Gaza, psychologist Ahmed Mortaja fears becoming a news story, “a dull number … I don’t want my name and my family name to be reduced to mere numbers, whether odd or even”.
This book, a fragmented collection of 50 poems, stories and accounts, is devoted to giving life to those numbers. To animating the loss, so readers can apply their own imaginations, so we can understand the incomprehensible. It is a collection of fragments of lives since October 7 2023, squeezed into expressive pages. There is no “letter” more than six pages long. They are backed up against each other, permeating one another.
Each letter tells a different story and the same story. Each finds a detail that has no language: flowers in a girl’s hair, dreams of careers that will perhaps never be, the sounds of explosions. They are stories of the impossible search for bread, the longing for a bed and a pillow. And, as in Plestia’s account, they evoke the relentless buzz of the drones in the sky in Gaza: everywhere, all day, every day since October 7 2023. Like tinnitus, like torture.
The book begins with an effort to give names to numbers. On the first page, in the publisher’s note, we read that two of the authors, Sara al-Assar and Basma al-Hor, cannot be contacted. Because of communication lines and constant displacements, the details “may not reflect their current location or circumstances”. Authors may have died or been further displaced. Communication towers are destroyed. Tents are moved as people are moved on. Tents are destroyed.
In Plestia’s accounts, there are displacements to safe zones that then become unsafe, so they move again and again – until the only choice is tents, often without food or blankets. She describes seeing 33,000 people in a displacement shelter, this number increasing daily. Just as numbers are not people, tents are not homes. In Letters from Gaza, the displaced tents are character, metaphor and reality.
The stories are different, as are the deaths and losses within them, but these painful accounts help explain each other. The personal stories help animate words like displacement, refugee camp, genocide, so they do not fall into the pile of legal terms disconnected from names.
But after the United Nations declarations in the opening pages, we hear no more of law – and little of justice. As Palestinian human rights lawyer and founder of the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights, Raji Sourani said: Gaza is in danger of becoming “the graveyard of international law”. What is left are stories. The short stories, poems and brief accounts are packaged so they do not ask too much of the reader – just enough to provoke tears, and perhaps donations. Many readers will feel some of the helplessness in these pages.
There are stories of hunger; the loss of grandmothers and children. I cried many times reading this book, but the next story would quickly arrive and sometimes bring relief. There is something sad, but ordinary, about details like a cat who finds a tent too hot. Unlike Plestia’s clear analysis and summation of the genocide in Gaza, the politics of this book are comparably quiet. Not absent, but quiet. The word genocide is mentioned four times, “Holocaust” only once. (I counted.)
In Letters from Gaza, no one says Israel, only “the occupiers”. Husam Maarouf writes, “we no longer want anything from you […] Only to die in safety.” His entry is dated March 1 2024; he may well be dead. Batool Abu Akleen makes simple requests of the reader (or perhaps of God): “I want a grave, I don’t want my corpse to rot in the open road.” But the book seems to intentionally not accuse. We are told:
this is not a book about war. It is a book about human souls that strive to avoid being hunted down by war. It is about how innocents are forced to learn how to survive when everything around them is about killing, destruction and death.
But the accusation is there. How could it not be? Against Israel as occupier and aggressor – and the reader as bystander.
Accusation sometimes comes embedded in questions. “Is one person’s pain greater than another’s?” asks Gaza poet and teacher Doha Kahlout. This question resonates with one inscribed on the Holocaust Memorial Tree in Hungary: “Whose agony is greater than mine?”
When comparing agony, only one can live
Jewish author, philosopher and psychoanalyst Jessica Benjamin, writing on Palestine and Israeli peace struggles, cautions against pitting stories from Israel and Palestine against each other, such that “only one can live”. Only one story, one narrative, one version of pain and loss.
Holding multiple stories of suffering in mind is very difficult: for the survivor, for the listener and even for the psychoanalyst. Many survivors suffer symptoms of trauma that reduce the world to interpretation through their experience of its painful histories.
In Eyes of Gaza, writing from Melbourne, Plestia shows a moment of this:
On the train home, I see a lady with a suitcase, and the first thing that I think of is displacement, imagining how everyone in Gaza carries their whole life in their bag […] Then the announcement: Next Stop […] And I’m snapped back into reality.
In this moment, the suitcase is only read through the lens of the past. It’s what is described colloquially as living in the past – a type of banal flashback, often a symptom of trauma. But when pain colonises bodies and narratives, recognising the pain of others is difficult to see. It may be impossible to see the experiences of the other’s world through any other lens than one’s own pain. Whose agony is greater than mine? is a competitive statement, not a question.
In the war of greater pain, an Israeli child in fear may be read against a Palestinian child enduring the loss of their limbs and their whole family. Only one (story) can live.
To hold two competing stories of pain, loss and agony in mind requires a feat of mental health endurance few are capable of: the Nelson Mandelas of this world. Working in the field of transitional justice, I have met a few.
Most have experienced great loss and know there is no comparison at the level of agony. They resist “the repetitive thud of referentiality” because it drowns out conversation, annihilating curiosity and empathy alike. They know all stories must have their time.
In October 2023, “liberal” London Jewish journalist and filmmaker Michael Segalov, once a “staunch defender of Israel”, tried to hold competing stories. He wrote about seeing Israel–Palestine through the lens of “fear and trauma – of the Shoah, of the Nakba, of generations now born into perpetual fear”.
Early Jewish settlers were not “imperial soldiers”, but “a persecuted population failed by global governments pre and post Holocaust”, he points out. But by 1948, the year after the UN resolution that called for Palestine to be divided into Arab and Jewish states, “more than 750,000 Palestinians were made refugees, 15,000 killed”.
“While these lands might well feel a Jewish ancestral home,” he wrote, “within living memory, it was shared with another people: the majority.” In 1922, in the first census carried out under the British Mandate, the population of Palestine was 763,550: 89% were Arabs and 11% Jewish.
As Palestinian psychiatrist Eyad El Sarraj stressed while talking with Jessica Benjamin during peace negotiations, we must “stand simultaneously for the recognition of all injuries, while at the same time being clear that one side was coming from the position of Occupied and less powerful, the other Occupying and dominating”. Stories matter, politics matters.
And some stories take more time than others – some stories are given more time than others. This is a matter of politics and practicality.
Surviving the October 7 attacks
Israeli journalist Amir Tibon and his family survived the October 7 attack on Kibbutz Nahal Oz, on the Gaza border; they are now internal refugees in northern Israel. He and his partner settled in Nahal Oz and raised a family. On the morning of October 7, they heard the sounds of the attack and raced to their safe room, spending the next five hours in there trying to keep their children – Galia, 3 years old and Carmel, aged 19 months – quiet.
Amir Tibon and his family survived the Oct 7 attack on Kibbutz Nahal Oz, on the Gaza border. Scribe
In discussing Tibon’s book, Gates of Gaza: a story of betrayal, survival and hope in Israel’s borderlands, I risk comparison and competition. Sometimes stories speak to each other, even when they speak to the silences. I resisted this one’s proximity to the above stories. But that is also to resist reality. It is to resist the importance of difference. All experience is valuable, but sometimes comparison reveals inequality.
Plestia knows this well. The survivor guilt of which she writes is part of the hierarchy experienced by all survivors of mass violence. That she and her family survived, that she migrated, is to feel guilt for escaping the fate of those who have been starved, tortured, obliterated.
Yehiel Dinur spoke from this position of guilt on the stand in 1962, saying he was speaking for those who died in Auschwitz. In the face of others’ death, all survivors struggle with justification. Competition is one form of this: Whose agony is greater than mine?
Tibon was a resident of Nahal Oz, having moved there with his partner because of its beauty, nine years before October 7. He describes it as having “a strong, left-wing, liberal political leaning”, and says residents of the border areas are “some of the strongest advocates of Israeli–Palestinian peace”. He writes that the kibbutz movement has, “for decades”, been in favour of “a compromise that would allow Jews and Arabs to share this land, with agreed-upon borders – borders that, of course, would have to be protected”.
In the 300-plus pages, Tibon describes the morning of October 7 in detail. The fear of his children and his partner as they stayed quiet in a safe room for some five hours. The sounds of shootings and desperation as he read pleas and accounts from other residents on the community’s WhatsApp group as the attacks unfolded.
The narrative of that morning is interspersed with accounts from people who survived in his community: his parents, some of those who attended the Nova music festival, and Israeli Defense Force (IDF) soldiers. The narrative moves between that morning and a history of the kibbutz, framed in a history of Israel’s political lurching between right and left – and back again – over the 87 years since its recognition as a nation state by the UN.
In one reading, this is a history book of 87 years – not just an account of five hours. It is a particular history.
The narrative of those five hours is intense, peppered with stories of his parents racing from Tel Aviv to the kibbutz. Tibon’s father is a crucial figure in this narrative. A retired IDF general with “more than three decades” in the military, including combat experience, he seemingly has the capacity to assess situations and navigate a war zone with skill. It is his father who finally knocks on the “safe room” door in the afternoon (about halfway through the book). Tibon reports hearing “a strong bang and a familiar voice” from inside.
The father, we could say, is the embodiment of Tibon’s feelings for – and belief in – a strong, kind Israel. An army general, protective husband and grandfather (in Hebrew, Saba), he is longed for by Tibon’s young children, who “loved their grandparents”, particularly his father, “who pampered and spoiled them at every opportunity”. This grandfather’s presence at the safe-room door allows the family to re-enter the safety of Israel.
If the father is Israel, the sleeping children are its citizens. Carmel and Galia slept through much of the conflict, barely awakened by gunshots. They were rushed to the safe room the moment the shots were heard.
Once you know the stories from Letters of Gaza, it is hard not to compare this to the waking of Mohammed Al Zaqzooq’s three boys – Baraa, Jawad and Basil – to the sound of “Huge missiles in large numbers making terrifying sounds” and the need to flee. Not least, because Amir’s children were barely awakened by shots outside. Their safe room kept the noise muffled and the danger at bay. This is not to say their fear won’t impact on their actions later. Transgenerational trauma has a way of influencing the future.
Mohammed’s children moved quickly, within half an hour, to a refugee camp. At the time of writing, they remain there. His story is five pages long. Amir’s is 300-plus. Amir, an author and award-winning diplomatic correspondent for Haaretz, Israel’s liberal paper of record, has access to a computer, electricity and the security required to think, research and write.
But why does he write this book? In the acknowledgements, he describes himself as needing to be encouraged, unsure of the worth of telling the story of his five hours in the safe room. But he describes much more than five hours.
His book is a story of Israel – and particularly, of its informal settlements. In the early 1950s, he writes, 20 young soldiers – ten men and ten women – were taken by bus to this site to settle it. Nahal Oz is so close to Gaza, it has “agricultural lands which literally touch the border fence”. The kibbutzim functioned as a kind of human border, with increased populations: the 20 broke into couples, then families. Within a few years, they had a small farming community, with a person devoted to security.
Empty land?
This is not a story of military invasion and colonisation, however. It is a story of settlement on land represented as empty. We know this story well in Australia. In this context, it can be a plea for a recognition of innocence.
As Amir tells it, there were no Palestinians in the place before: no one was removed or relocated. Only in passing does he mention the Bedouin who passed through the area before.
In Australia, Irene Watson and Aileen Moreton-Robinson have, in different ways, explained lands do not need to be sites of permanent agriculture to be crucial to the survival of some groups or nations. Borders and settlements can disturb land, law and life regardless of whether houses are demolished or not.
The beauty of Nahal Oz, Amir writes, was due to its access to water and its site on fertile land, where trees provided shelter and probably food. Its loss was likely no small thing to people who required sustenance and shelter as they moved through. After the settlement, they no longer could.
After Israel set up its border there, only Israelis could pass through without being subject to the checkpoints that are well documented sites of humiliation and arbitrary punishment for Palestinians.
By 1997, the walls went up near Nahal Oz. But the walls to shield Nahal Oz from Gaza – and particularly from its people – were not enough. Amir describes the elaborate and extensive tunnels used by Palestinian soldiers to enter Israel (he calls them “terrorists” and “suicide bombers”).
The tunnels became the problem of Palestinian attacks on Israeli settlers. To deal with this problem, the concrete walls were built, reaching 160 metres underground, preventing any permeation. Then, on October 7, the walls could not provide security. Then, there was only the safe room.
The safe room is an obvious metaphor in this book. It is Israel under attack. One of these rooms has been built into every house in the kibbutz, so families can be safe from the mortar attacks from Gaza – a regular occurrence since the 1987 Intifada.
Plestia tells us that the materials for a safe room are not allowed to be brought into Gaza. There are no safe rooms there. Tibon doesn’t mention this; maybe he doesn’t even know this fact, which is its own symptom of the political and social environment in Israel.
He does describe “the unimaginable destruction that Israel has unleashed on Gaza in the aftermath” of the October 7 attacks. He is critical of this “destruction”, though he does not use the term genocide. (There are those who wait for the International Court of Justice to decide if it was more than “plausible” – and there are those who cannot wait.)
Tibon is critical of Israel’s right wing, which cultivates war. He wants peace. But peace here is its own violence.
Like the rhetoric of reconciliation in South Africa, calls for peace can do violence to historical experiences of injustice. There, reconciliation discourse has been criticised, along with its apolitical leanings. Reconciliation in South Africa has largely meant people subject to historical injustices must reconcile themselves to their losses and their reality.
A story attributed to Father Mxolisi Mapanbani, of Tom and Bernard and the bicycle, has been used many times to critique “reconciliation” rhetoric in South Africa. It is helpful here.
Tom and Bernard are friends and live opposite each other. One day, Tom stole Bernard’s bicycle. Every day, Bernard saw Tom cycling to school on it. After some time, Tom went up to Bernard and said, “Let us reconcile and put the past behind us.” Bernard said, “Okay, let’s reconcile – what about the bicycle?” “Oh no,” said Tom, “I’m not talking about the bicycle, I’m talking about reconciliation.”
In the Australian context, after Kevin Rudd’s apology to the stolen generations in 2008, human rights and social justice campaigner Tom Calma described this form of reconciliation as the “unfinished business of justice”.
The apology might have offered some form of acknowledgement, and gone some way toward creating a shared reality on the injustices of the past, but while justice remains unfinished, many are not at peace.
Amir wants peace. He doesn’t want to live in a safe house – but he wants his house and his family to live securely in Nahal Oz. He wants Palestinians to be at peace with this reality.
The word “peace”, like “reconciliation”, does a lot of work to present Tibon on the side of “the good”. Just like, in Letters From Gaza, the relative lack of the word “genocide” keeps the accusation at bay and politics in the background – and it keeps its calls for recognition of suffering at the fore. In this book about “human souls”, the editors call for a recognition of shared humanity.
Tibon is careful not to group “terrorists” under that name – though he uses a Hebrew word that means exactly that. (Mehablim, he calls the people who attacked Nahal Oz.) Why? Though he writes in English and undoubtably spoke Hebrew throughout the siege, why does he speak of the Palestinian attackers as Mehablim?
The answer might be found in the fact no Palestinian name, beyond former Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat, appears in these pages. He has interviewed many people, but none of them are Palestinian. Their narrative remains outside his text.
We must find the humanity of the Palestinians in other stories.
If the safe room is a metaphor for Israel, the tent – as described in so many of the stories in Letters from Gaza, and in Plestia’s account of those 45 days – is a metaphor for the lives of Palestinians in Israel, and perhaps the world’s eyes.
A tent is permeable, fragile, disposable. Bodies within it are subject to displacement, starvation, genocide. Every house in Tibon’s kibbutz has a safe room. There have been at least seven bombings of tent camps in Gaza. How can you not do the maths?
Stories, awakening and halting the bombs
Stories demand people are not reduced to mathematics. They place the reader in the scene and plead for identification and understanding. Writing on the Eichmann trial, Holocaust historian and legal scholar Lawrence Douglas describes “the words of the survivors that built a bridge from the accused to the world of ashes”.
Afrikaaner journalist and poet Antje Krog writes, on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa, “In all the stories a landscape is created.”
But this landscape, if it is to have any effect, must be mapped across previous perceptions. For that, it must do damage to the secure world – the pre-existing imaginative landscape – of the reader or of the listener.
Moral philosopher Rai Gaita describes remorse as “a dying to the world”: a little death is required of the listener or reader who is implicated as a bystander, encountering the suffering of others. A death of complacency. A small disintegration that may mean our own peaceful worlds are no longer tenable.
This is why stories, particularly, are mobilised in truth commissions. They animate the impossible numbers – the dry policies and repetitive loss – with scenes of humanity. Testimony – personal stories – link the words (genocide, massacre, terror) to an imagination of a scene, a person, a child or a parent. To people we can identify or empathise with.
Like the two worlds connected in Ahmed Mortaja’s poem, Hubb and Harb, In Letters from Gaza:
tonight I will fall asleep telling myself that the noise outside is fireworks, a celebration and nothing more.
That the frightened screams of children are the gleeful terror of suspense before something long-awaited, like Eid.
Tonight, I will fall asleep scrolling through the photos on my phone, telling myself that my evening with friends wasn’t that great – really, I was bored – so now I’m skimming through memories to pass the time.
If empathy were all it took to halt the counting of the 646 days in Gaza, then Letters from Gaza and Eyes on Gaza would achieve their aim. But empathy rarely produces political change.
Stories – the 50 voices in Letters from Gaza, accounts like Plestia’s – make us cry, perhaps make us donate, but they do not halt the bombs. This, and more, might be what Yehiel Dinur meant when he asked for the world to “awaken”, that it change, that it stop what Tibon calls “the unimaginable destruction”.
Until then, Dinur pledged to remain Katzetnik 135633. Until then, we will likely only know “Genocide Plestia”: “it’s funny how genocide changes a person”.
Juliet Rogers does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Speedballing – the practice of combining a stimulant like cocaine or methamphetamine with an opioid such as heroin or fentanyl – has evolved from a niche subculture to a widespread public health crisis. The practice stems from the early 1900s when World War I soldiers were often treated with a combination of cocaine and morphine.
As these dangerous combinations of drugs increasingly flood the market, I see an urgent need and opportunity for a new approach to prevention and treatment.
Why speedballing?
Dating back to the 1970s, the term speedballing originally referred to the combination of heroin and cocaine. Combining stimulants and opioids – the former’s “rush” with the latter’s calming effect – creates a dangerous physiological conflict.
According to the National Institute on Drug Abuse, stimulant-involved overdose fatalities increased markedly from more than 12,000 annually in 2015 to greater than 57,000 in 2022, a 375% increase. Notably, approximately 70% of stimulant-related overdose deaths in 2022 also involved fentanyl or other synthetic opioids, reflecting the rising prevalence of polysubstance involvement in overdose mortality.
The rise in speedballing is part of a broader trend of polysubstance use in the U.S. Since 2010, overdoses involving both stimulants and fentanyl have increased 50-fold, now accounting for approximately 35,000 deaths annually.
The conflicting effects of stimulants and opioids can also exacerbate mental health issues. Users may experience heightened anxiety, depression and paranoia. The combination can also impair cognitive functions, leading to confusion and poor decision-making.
Speedballing can also lead to severe cardiovascular problems, including hypertension, heart attack and stroke. The strain on the heart and blood vessels from the stimulant, combined with the depressant effects of the opioid, increases the risk of these life-threatening conditions.
Addressing the crisis
Increasing awareness about the dangers of speedballing is crucial. I believe that educational campaigns can inform the public about the risks of combining stimulants and opioids and the potential for unintentional fentanyl exposure.
Implementing harm reduction strategies by public health officials, community organizations and health care providers, such as providing fentanyl test strips and naloxone – a medication that reverses opioid overdoses – can save lives.
These measures allow individuals to test their drugs for the presence of fentanyl and have immediate access to overdose-reversing medication. Implementing these strategies widely is crucial to reducing overdose deaths and improving community health outcomes.
Andrew Yockey does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
_(53765476960)_(cropped).jpg){kind=link}