As early as the 1880s, there was evidence that smoking tobacco damaged your lungs. But it took almost 100 years to definitively show that smoking causes lung cancer.
So, what about vapes?
Until now, most research that has looked at the cancer risk for people using vapes, also known as electronic or e-cigarettes, has mainly focused on their role as a gateway to smoking tobacco. This is because we know people who vape are more likely than non-smokers to take up smoking.
But whether they cause cancer by themselves has been unclear. There are still no long-term studies. But now a comprehensive review of the evidence I conducted with colleagues, published today, has found vaping likely causes oral and lung cancers.
What we looked at and what we found
Given there is no long-term research on whether vaping directly causes cancer, we had to look for effects on the body that we know are linked to cancer.
We identified all peer-reviewed research published between 2017 and mid-2025 that looked at health impacts of vapes considered indicative of potential cancer causation.
The aerosol that vapers inhale contains a complex range of chemicals, including nicotine and its byproducts, and vapourised metals. This aerosol demonstrates almost all of the ten “key characteristics of carcinogens” identified by the World Health Organization.
Blood and urine analyses from vapers confirmed they had absorbed chemicals from e-cigarette chemicals that we know are linked to cancer. These studies revealed nicotine and its breakdown products present in their bodies, including carcinogenic (cancer-causing) metals from the heating element and organic compounds from vapourising e-liquids.
There is no doubt vaping alters tissues in the mouth and lungs. We found evidence of mutations in DNA from the mouth and lungs in those who vaped, which is further evidence of carcinogen exposure.
There was also evidence of changes to cancer biomarkers in the lung and mouth tissue of vapers. Cancer biomarkers are changes in cell or molecular structure that precede a tumour developing. Some of these can be observed under a microscope, such as inflammation, while others such as oxidative stress are detected by molecular analysis.
We also examined experiments on mice which found the aerosols in vapes caused lung cancer, as well as cases reported by dentists who thought that oral cancers in certain individual patients (who didn’t smoke) were caused by them vaping.
Our review did also examine studies that had addressed the possibility vaping may cause cancer. However none of these covered the wide range of evidence we had assessed.
What this means
The evidence shows nicotine-based vapes are likely to cause oral and lung cancer. We just don’t yet know how many cases it will cause.
But in the evidence we looked at, there was rising concern, and a significant shift in the conclusions that had been drawn.
Between 2017 and 2019, researchers tended to say there wasn’t enough evidence to conclude that vapes cause cancer. This included papers that typically looked at cancer biomarkers and carcinogenic mechanisms.
By 2024 and 2025, almost without exception, authors were expressing concern. They noted that the idea vaping has a lower cancer risk than smoking could no longer be supported, given the evidence we now have.
Our study, which looks at cancer caused by vapes in their own right, marks a new approach to what we know about the link between cancer and vaping.
What we still don’t know
We still don’t have direct evidence that there are more cancer cases than expected among people who vape.
The fact it took 100 years to demonstrate that smoking causes cancer indicates it will take decades to make a similar case for vaping. And it will be challenging, because definitive proof will depend on a population of people who only vape, not people who smoke and vape.
So we need large and carefully planned studies, which will then allow us to monitor and detect cancer early, and precisely determine if it is caused by – or worsened by – vaping. Lives can be saved by these means, but only if this research is funded and started now.
Bernard Stewart 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.
Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Paul S.C.Taçon, Chair in Rock Art Research and Director of the Place, Evolution and Rock Art Heritage Unit (PERAHU), Griffith University
Extinct animals have long fascinated people around the world – from dinosaurs, to giant kangaroos, to enormous flightless birds and almost unimaginable sea creatures.
But one of the most intriguing is the Tasmanian tiger, also known as the thylacine (Thylacinus cynocephalus).
These large dog-like animals with stripes on their backs once roamed throughout the Australian mainland. But when Europeans colonisers arrived, thylacines were only found in Tasmania, hence the name Tasmanian tiger.
Our team of researchers has been documenting depictions of thylacines and other creatures at rock art sites in Arnhem Land, Northern Territory, for decades.
Today, we publish new research on rock art in north-west Arnhem Land, including 14 rock paintings of thylacines and two of Tasmanian devils. A few of these paintings were previously known but not described, while others were identified by our team over the past three years.
Besides rock art, we also examined recent paintings on bark, paper and canvas – as well as information from Aboriginal elders. Our findings emphasise how thylacines are still important to Arnhem Land Aboriginal communities today.
Memories of a curious creature
Scientists studying fossil remains suggest the thylacine became extinct on the Australian mainland about 3,000 years ago. The Tasmanian devil disappeared from the continent about the same time. Dingoes, humans and ancient climate change have been implicated in their demise.
The last known thylacine in Tasmania died in Hobart’s Beaumaris Zoo in 1936, but reports of tiger sightings in rugged, remote parts continued. Recent research suggests the thylacine may have persisted in Tasmania until the 1980s.
In the mid-1800s, Aboriginal people in Tasmania told settlers many things about thylacines, including that they had a powerful swimming ability, much like domestic dogs.
In the 1900s, rock paintings and engravings of thylacines were recorded at various locations on mainland Australia, especially in the north of the continent. Arnhem Land is particularly rich in images of this curious creature.
While making a digital tracing of a rock painting, co-author Joey Nganjmirra identifies the subject as a thylacine.
Paintings in red, white and yellow
Our research focuses on rock paintings from Awunbarna (Mount Borradaile) and Injalak Hill (near Gunbalanya), east of the East Alligator River that separates Arnhem Land from Kakadu National Park.
Since 2018, we have been working with local Aboriginal community members to record hundreds of rock art sites in each location – some of which include thylacine paintings.
North-west Arnhem Land is well known for its rich galleries of rock paintings. These have been made over at least the past 15,000 years and feature unique styles and subject matter. Our new findings add to the region’s cultural and scientific importance.
The thylacine and devil paintings we examined were made in various Aboriginal art styles. They were usually made with red and sometimes yellow ochre in various styles. The oldest were made about 15,000 years ago, while others were made at various times since.
Two of the paintings were made using white pipe clay (kaolin) with red ochre.
One red and yellow thylacine painting had fine white cross-hatching added to its body within the past few hundred years.
The white pigment does not last long and easily flakes off. It is coarse and sits on the rock surface rather than penetrating and staining the way red ochre does. Most paintings with white are less than 1,000 years old.
This suggests some depictions of the two extinct species are more recent than we might have expected.
Rock art depictions of thylacines are much more numerous and widespread across mainland Australia than Tasmanian devils. Including our new findings, only 25 Tasmanian devil images have been documented – versus more than 160 thylacine depictions.
Thylacines may have survived much longer in pockets of northern Australia than Tasmanian devils, but were likely also more culturally important.
At three rock art sites we recorded pairs of thylacines. Some Aboriginal elders we worked with had stories about Ngalyod (Rainbow Serpents) having two thylacines as pets that would swim in rock pools where Ngalyod resided.
The tails of the thylacines are shown in a few different positions – and some thylacines are depicted with teeth.
These variations don’t seem to be linked to the style or age of the work. It’s more likely they relate to different ways paintings were used to pass on information about the animal.
Stories passed down through generations
Contemporary artists in western Arnhem Land have long been inspired by these paintings and related stories. Today, they continue to portray the thylacine across various forms of media. They also have a name for thylacines: Djankerrk.
The thylacine lives on in western Arnhem Land, not as a living animal or a ghost from the past, but as a creature that still has present day relevance. Our new research, conducted in collaboration with community members, contributes towards our understanding of what makes the thylacine so meaningful.
Paul S.C.Taçon receives funding from the Australian Research Council.
Andrea Jalandoni receives funding from the Australian Research Council.
Sally K. May receives funding from the Australian Research Council.
Joey Nganjmirra 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.
Have you ever been drifting off to sleep when suddenly you hear what sounds like a gunshot, a door slamming, or an explosion inside your head? You jolt awake, heart pounding, sit upright in bed, but the room is silent.
Despite the alarming name, it’s not dangerous, not painful, and not a sign something is wrong with the brain.
What is it?
Exploding head syndrome is a type of sleep disorder known as a parasomnia.
Parasomnias are unusual experiences that occur while sleeping or during transitions between sleep and wakefulness.
In exploding head syndrome, a person “hears” a sudden noise that seem to originate from deep inside the head. It’s a sensory perception generated by the brain rather than an external sound.
It typically occurs when drifting in or out of sleep, most commonly when a person is drowsy and about to fall asleep.
People commonly describe a sudden bang or loud metallic noise, gunshots, an explosion, crashing waves, buzzing electricity, a door slamming, or fireworks.
Exploding head syndrome can be intensely frightening. The loud noise may be accompanied by other sensations, including a brief stab of pain in the head (though it’s normally painless), flashes of light, out-of-body sensations, or the sensation of electricity coursing through the body.
The episode only lasts for a split second or a few seconds, and typically disappears completely once the person wakes up. Some people experience only a single episode, while others may have occasional episodes or brief clusters before the condition settles.
Because the experience is so sudden and unusual, many fear they’ve had a stroke or seizure, or that something catastrophic has happened. Others interpret it as a supernatural or ominous event.
The distress is caused not by pain, but by confusion and the body’s alarm response. The brain is partially awake, disoriented, and briefly activates the fight-or-flight system.
What causes it?
We don’t know the exact cause, but researchers have proposed several theories.
Because episodes occur during the transition into and out of sleep, they may be related to the same processes that produce what are known as hypnagogic hallucinations (vivid sensory experiences you can get while falling asleep).
As we fall asleep, different parts of the brain gradually switch off in a coordinated sequence.
In exploding head syndrome, that process may be linked to the shutting down of neural systems that inhibit auditory sensory processing. Your brain may end up interpreting this as a loud sound.
A related theory proposes a brief reduction in activity of the brainstem, particularly the reticular activating system (which is involved in regulating transitions between wakefulness and sleep).
Exploding head syndrome typically does not involve pain, and is therefore different from headaches and migraines.
The syndrome’s distinct features also makes epilepsy an unlikely explanation for most people.
How common is it?
Exploding head syndrome is more common than you may think.
It occurs in at least 10% of the population, and around 30% of people will experience it at least once in their lifetime.
It can occur at any age, often after the age of 50. It may be slightly more common in women, but we don’t know why.
Exploding head syndrome is more likely in people who have other sleep disturbances, such as insomnia or sleep paralysis.
Once people are reassured the condition is not harmful and not a sign of brain damage or serious disease, episodes may become less frightening and frequent.
Medications are considered if episodes are frequent and very distressing but there haven’t been any large clinical trials that can guide treatment. Some sufferers have benefited from medications such as such as clomipramine but the evidence is limited, and more research is needed.
More commonly, treatment consists of reassurance and improving sleep habits. Some people report that addressing sleep problems such as insomnia, reducing tiredness and practising mindfulness and breathing techniques can help.
Generally harmless
In 1619 French philosopher René Descartes described having three dreams he regarded as a sign of divine revelation. In one, he heard a loud sound and saw a bright flash of light when he woke up. Some researchers have suggested what he was really experiencing was exploding head syndrome.
Despite its dramatic name, exploding head syndrome is harmless. For many people, the most effective intervention is understanding what it is – and knowing that it is not dangerous.
Although it is generally harmless, you should seek medical advice if episodes occur frequently, impact on your quality of life or are causing distress. Consult a doctor if they are painful, or associated with seizures, prolonged confusion, loss of consciousness or severe headache.
Flavie Waters 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.
Source: The Conversation – USA – By John Femiani, Associate Professor of Computer Science and Software Engineering, Miami University
Iranian forces have used small speedboats to lay mines in the Strait of Hormuz.Tasnim News Agency, CC BY
U.S. intelligence officials have assessed that Iranian forces have deployed a small number of mines in the Strait of Hormuz, a critical choke point for global shipping, according to reports. The move gives the Iranians a means, along with missiles and drones, of threatening ships.
As a computer scientist who researches how to detect mines, I have been researching how artificial intelligence techniques, such as machine learning, can help navies detect modern sea mines. Here’s what I’ve learned about how the mines work and how they can be neutralized.
Types of mines
The mines most people picture, like those seen in films such as “Godzilla Minus One,” are floating spheres tethered to the seabed, with small protrusions called Hertz horns that trigger the mine when it makes contact with a ship. These are called moored mines.
In the film, characters use a small wooden boat to sweep mines without triggering them because the mines responded to a metal-hulled ship’s magnetic field. Detecting magnetic fields is characteristic of influence mines, which respond to a ship’s magnetic, acoustic or pressure signature, as opposed to simple contact mines that detonate when ships run into them.
Modern mines typically combine multiple sensing modes. Some are designed to detonate only after a certain number of ships have passed, allowing them to ignore smaller vessels or minesweeping attempts and target higher-value ships. Examples include the Iranian Maham 3, which uses both magnetic and acoustic sensors.
Not all mines float. Many modern mines instead sit on the seabed. These mines are most effective in shallow water, where ships pass closer to the seabed. Some bottom mines sit exposed on the seabed, while others are partially or completely buried in sediment. Examples include the Iranian Maham 7 and the Manta mine, a low-profile bottom mine used by Iraq during the 1991 Gulf War. These mines can be deployed by small vessels or laid from aircraft, making them relatively easy to place. They are triggered when they sense a ship passing overhead.
Many modern mines are cylindrical or torpedo-shaped, allowing them to be deployed from aircraft or submarines and descend in a controlled way before settling on the seabed. More advanced designs include so-called rising mines, which sit on the seabed and launch upward toward a target once it is detected.
Mine countermeasures
A key advantage of naval mines is not just the damage they can cause, but also the time and resources required to find and clear them. This is because it’s challenging to do so over large areas quickly and reliably.
Even the possibility of mines can disrupt shipping and force extensive and costly clearance operations. This has been demonstrated in practice: During the 1980s, Iran and Iraq deployed relatively small numbers of mines against each other in the so-called Tanker War in the Persian Gulf and Red Sea. This caused significant disruption to shipping and forced costly, time-consuming clearance operations, even when direct damage was limited.
Some countermeasures use uncrewed systems to trigger mines by mimicking the magnetic or acoustic signatures of ships, or to disable them with explosive charges. However, more targeted approaches require identifying individual mines, which motivates the need for reliable detection.
Mine hunting
Mine detection is best understood as a wide-area sonar search, which produces many contacts – essentially, anything unusual in the sonar data. Automatic target recognition algorithms then triage these contacts and classify them as either minelike objects or benign. Divers or camera systems then provide higher-confidence identification or confirmation to validate the result. This is known as a detect-classify-identify pipeline.
To collect data, an uncrewed surface vehicle – deployed from a larger ship – can tow a sonar platform at a fixed height above the seabed. The platform, called a towfish, resembles a small missile and carries multiple sensors, including port and starboard side-scan sonar. The British Royal Navy is also preparing to send this type of towed sonar array to the Persian Gulf region, according to a report.
The U.S. Navy uses this uncrewed surface vessel, which tows an underwater sonar device, to search for mines. U.S. Navy The U.S. Navy’s towed sonar array includes forward-looking sonar to detect moored mines (yellow region) and side-looking sonar to scan for mines sitting on the seabed (white region). U.S. Navy
These sonar devices use sound rather than light to form images. Unlike a photograph, a sonar image is built from one-dimensional measurements of returned sound energy as a function of distance from the sensor. As the platform moves, these slices are assembled to form a continuous image of the seabed. The center of the image corresponds to the water column directly beneath the sonar device and appears dark. The seabed appears as if illuminated from the sensor, with objects characterized by a bright highlight facing the sonar and a shadow extending away from it.
At the detection stage, researchers have developed a range of techniques to detect minelike objects in sonar imagery. Early methods segmented sonar imagery into regions that show as highlights paired with acoustic shadows. Other statistical approaches model seabeds and identify anomalies that deviate from it. Template-like matched filters are used to identify objects with known geometric characteristics.
More advanced approaches incorporate machine learning, using carefully selected features derived from texture, intensity and shadow geometry to classify objects.
More recently, researchers have applied deep learning methods directly to sonar imagery and have often shown improved performance, particularly in complex environments. But their effectiveness depends on the availability of representative training data.
Unlike the data for training many other computer vision systems, high-resolution side-scanning sonar data is particularly expensive to collect and label in large enough amounts to successfully train deep learning mine detection systems.
Perhaps, when it becomes safe to do so, navies can clear mines from the Strait of Hormuz and add to the limited supply of this data.
John Femiani receives U.S. Navy SBIR-funded research support related to underwater mine detection.
While Premier Doug Ford’s government’s framing of supervised consumption as a “failed experiment” is selective, it’s not baseless in the way that defenders of these sites sometimes imply.
By certain measures, the sites have not lived up to their potential: the program has not clearly reduced provincewide overdose deaths, and the communities that host them bear costs that defenders too often dismiss.
But “failure” requires a definition of success, and the government’s is not the only one that matters. HART hubs offer care for people on a recovery pathway, while supervised consumption sites exist for those who are not on that pathway yet or who have left it. Entirely replacing safe consumption sites with HART hubs doesn’t address the primary function these sites have served: keeping people who are not in treatment alive. By this measure, the sites are a clear success.
Success by whose measure?
Whether supervised consumption sites “succeed” depends entirely on what they’re expected to do. If we judge the sites against Health Canada’s stated goals — keeping people alive on site, connecting them to treatment, reducing infections and lessening strain on emergency services — the evidence is strong.
But the Ontario government’s claim that these programs lack population-level impact is not just rhetoric: the two largest provincial-level studies — covering British Columbia and Ontario — found no statistically significant effect on opioid mortality, emergency department visits or hospitalizations.
A systematic review also found that the studies carried high risk of bias because they didn’t account for confounding factors like housing, treatment access and drug supply composition.
A neighbourhood-level study of Toronto found a two-thirds reduction in overdose mortality within 500 metres of sites, but that finding did not replicate at larger geographic scales.
One possible explanation for this lack of effect is coverage: Ontario’s supervised consumption sites provided roughly 150 spaces accommodating up to 9,000 episodes per day, while the province may have 300,000 to 400,000 at-risk opioid users. Expecting a handful of supervised consumption sites to reduce provincewide overdose mortality is akin to stationing a single fire truck in a forest and asking why the wildfire kept burning.
Community concerns, which the Ford government often cites in arguing that safe consumption sites have failed, are similarly grounded in real experiences.
A study published in JAMA Network Open examining Toronto’s safe consumption sites found no long-term rise in overall crime, as well as fewer assaults and robberies. But the same study documented initial increases in break-and-enters near a number of sites.
Nearby residents have also described visible disorder, open drug use and discarded equipment.
Dismissing these experiences as NIMBYism or overblown only undermines the case for safe consumption sites. Advocates need to take these concerns seriously if they want the sites to survive politically.
What closures get wrong
Despite this mixed evidence, there’s little to suggest that Ontario’s plan to shift patients to the HART hubs will lead to success.
But that study’s authors have acknowledged it was inconclusive because it covered only a six-month period. And a single study of a single site closure does not constitute an evidence base for dismantling an entire network of services across a province where opioid deaths remain catastrophically high.
Supervised consumption sites are not beyond criticism: they can be better designed, better integrated and more responsive to the communities that host them. But improving them requires better policy, not selective evidence and site closures.
The $378 million committed to HART hubs could expand addiction treatment without eliminating the services that keep people alive. Adding treatment capacity does not require removing the safety net beneath it.
Daniel Eisenkraft Klein 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 missionaries helped build important institutions – schools, colleges, hospitals and medical schools – in Persia, many of which still exist.
Dr. Joseph Plumb Cochran, an American physician fluent in Persian, Turkish, Kurdish and Assyrian, founded a hospital in Urmia in 1879, as well as Iran’s first medical school. When Cochran died at Urmia in northwestern Iran in 1905, over 10,000 people attended his funeral.
This image clashes with most American stereotypes of Iran and its people, and is at odds with decades of anti-Iranian sentiment emanating from Washington.
Iran and the United States, in fact, have a deep history of mutual respect and friendship.
Joseph Plumb Cochran in his medical college at Urmia. Wikipedia
Imperial bad guys
For years, Americans have seen images of Iranians shouting “Death to America.” President Donald Trump returned the sentiment during his first term, vowing to bring Iran death and destruction. And on Feb. 28, 2026, after weeks of threats and military preparation, the U.S. and Israel attacked Iran, killing Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei; that war continues to this day.
The bad guys, at whose hands Iran suffered most, were Russia and Great Britain. Those two nations – often at the invitation of Iran’s leaders – economically exploited Persia to further their own imperial ambitions, using sustained diplomatic, military and economic pressure.
After two ill-judged wars fought against Russia – the First (1804-1813) and Second Russo-Persian Wars (1826-1828) – Persia (the name Iran was officially adopted in 1935) lost large amounts of territory to the czar.
Much later, Russia found another means of exerting control over the Persian crown, loaning millions of rubles to its rulers, like Mozaffar ed-Din Shah, who reigned from 1896-1902 and needed capital to fund his lavish lifestyle.
With the exception of the Anglo-Persian War (1856-1857), Persian relations with Great Britain were less openly hostile. But what they lacked in martial vigor was more than compensated for by economic exploitation.
So assured were Britain and Russia in their control of Persia that, in 1907, they signed the infamous Anglo-Russian Convention. That agreement divided the country – unbeknownst to its Parliament, let alone its inhabitants – into Russian, British and “neutral” spheres of influence. After it became public it provoked the outrage of ordinary Persians and the international community at large.
Cartoon from 1907 satirizing Russia and England dividing up Persia. Punch/Pushkin House
America the good
Iran’s relations with the United States were completely different.
But the presence in Iran of American missionaries and, later, invited government technocrats, was of an entirely different quality. These were Americans offering aid, with no expectation of advantage to be gained officially for the United States government.
American Presbyterian missionary efforts in Iran began in 1834 and focused on education, with 117 schools established around Urmia by 1895. Efforts were also directed at medical and social welfare. These were nongovernmental missions. The U.S. government was conspicuous by its absence in Iran and Iranian affairs.
Despite Russian attempts to block the initiative, W. Morgan Shuster, a distinguished career civil servant, was appointed by Persia in February 1911. He arrived in Tehran in May, bringing with him four other Americans.
The mission was a failure, lasting only eight months, and, unsurprisingly, was adroitly sabotaged by the combined efforts of British and Russian diplomats in Tehran.
American William Morgan Shuster, treasurer-general of Persia. Wikipedia
The country’s financial situation after the First World War was still precarious. With none of the colonialist baggage associated with the two European superpowers, America was turned to, almost as a last resort, to fix what ailed Iran. Riza Shah, father of the last shah, appointed an American, Arthur C. Millspaugh, as the administrator-general of the finances of Persia.
When Millspaugh arrived in Tehran in 1922, a newspaper editorial addressed him with these words: “You are the last doctor called to the death-bed of a sick person. If you fail, the patient will die. If you succeed, the patient will live.”
Despite his often testy relations with foreigners, Riza Shah acknowledged Millspaugh’s American Financial Mission was “the last hope of Persia.” The fact that the mission was far from an unqualified success does not detract from its importance. Nor did it diminish America’s image as an honest broker in Iranian eyes, in contrast to that of Russia and Great Britain.
Of course, not every Iranian-American interaction during this period was positive. Robert Imbrie, the American consul in Tehran, was brutally murdered in 1924, allegedly because a fanatical religious leader accused him of being a Baha’i and poisoning a well.
Students at the American Memorial School, Tabriz, 1923. shahrefarang.com
America the bad
America’s benign image in Iran was forever shattered in 1953 when the CIA, working with Great Britain, engineered a coup against Mohammad Mossadegh, the democratically elected prime minister who had nationalized the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company.
Even though the overthrow of Mossadegh damaged Iranian trust in America, the years just prior to Iranian revolution in 1979 saw the number of Iranian students in the United States steadily rise.
Over one-third of the approximately 100,000 Iranian students pursuing university degrees abroad in 1977 were in the U.S. By the time of the Islamic revolution two years later, that number had climbed to 51,310, making Iran by far the biggest single source of foreign students in America, with 17% of the total foreign student population. The next-largest contributor of foreign students, Nigeria, accounted for only 6%.
“Iranian students have been here for nearly a century … there are deep and abiding connections that reveal themselves when you look at the historical record,” researcher Steven Ditto, who wrote a report on Iranian students in the U.S., told The Washington Post in 2017.
The legacy of American goodwill, personal friendship and doing the right thing by Iran has not been completely lost, although the war now underway may make it seem as though America’s good relationship with Iran has been lost irretrievably.
Deep friendships dating back well over a century can withstand a great deal. A reservoir of goodwill and affection may lie dormant while political storms rage. Iran and America were good friends in the past, and for good reason. I believe that Americans would do well to remember that.
Daniel Thomas Potts 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.
While Premier Doug Ford’s government’s framing of supervised consumption as a “failed experiment” is selective, it’s not baseless in the way that defenders of these sites sometimes imply.
By certain measures, the sites have not lived up to their potential: the program has not clearly reduced provincewide overdose deaths, and the communities that host them bear costs that defenders too often dismiss.
But “failure” requires a definition of success, and the government’s is not the only one that matters. HART hubs offer care for people on a recovery pathway, while supervised consumption sites exist for those who are not on that pathway yet or who have left it. Entirely replacing safe consumption sites with HART hubs doesn’t address the primary function these sites have served: keeping people who are not in treatment alive. By this measure, the sites are a clear success.
Success by whose measure?
Whether supervised consumption sites “succeed” depends entirely on what they’re expected to do. If we judge the sites against Health Canada’s stated goals — keeping people alive on site, connecting them to treatment, reducing infections and lessening strain on emergency services — the evidence is strong.
But the Ontario government’s claim that these programs lack population-level impact is not just rhetoric: the two largest provincial-level studies — covering British Columbia and Ontario — found no statistically significant effect on opioid mortality, emergency department visits or hospitalizations.
A systematic review also found that the studies carried high risk of bias because they didn’t account for confounding factors like housing, treatment access and drug supply composition.
A neighbourhood-level study of Toronto found a two-thirds reduction in overdose mortality within 500 metres of sites, but that finding did not replicate at larger geographic scales.
One possible explanation for this lack of effect is coverage: Ontario’s supervised consumption sites provided roughly 150 spaces accommodating up to 9,000 episodes per day, while the province may have 300,000 to 400,000 at-risk opioid users. Expecting a handful of supervised consumption sites to reduce provincewide overdose mortality is akin to stationing a single fire truck in a forest and asking why the wildfire kept burning.
Community concerns, which the Ford government often cites in arguing that safe consumption sites have failed, are similarly grounded in real experiences.
A study published in JAMA Network Open examining Toronto’s safe consumption sites found no long-term rise in overall crime, as well as fewer assaults and robberies. But the same study documented initial increases in break-and-enters near a number of sites.
Nearby residents have also described visible disorder, open drug use and discarded equipment.
Dismissing these experiences as NIMBYism or overblown only undermines the case for safe consumption sites. Advocates need to take these concerns seriously if they want the sites to survive politically.
What closures get wrong
Despite this mixed evidence, there’s little to suggest that Ontario’s plan to shift patients to the HART hubs will lead to success.
But that study’s authors have acknowledged it was inconclusive because it covered only a six-month period. And a single study of a single site closure does not constitute an evidence base for dismantling an entire network of services across a province where opioid deaths remain catastrophically high.
Supervised consumption sites are not beyond criticism: they can be better designed, better integrated and more responsive to the communities that host them. But improving them requires better policy, not selective evidence and site closures.
The $378 million committed to HART hubs could expand addiction treatment without eliminating the services that keep people alive. Adding treatment capacity does not require removing the safety net beneath it.
Daniel Eisenkraft Klein 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.
If you live in England, you may have recently received a new food waste caddy. Councils are now required to collect your separated food waste and turn it into fuel, fertiliser or compost. So you can live happily in the knowledge that your potato peelings and stale bread will be put to good use rather than going to landfill.
But there’s a risk that the less we feel bad about wasting food, the less effort we may make to try to limit the amount we waste. This is a problem, because around 40 to 50 times more energy goes into producing, transporting and selling food than can be recovered from recycling it. To drastically cut food-related emissions we need to get serious about reducing food waste, not just recycling it.
Reducing food waste is hard. It’s difficult to know exactly how many potatoes will get eaten at Sunday lunch. Leftover potatoes in the fridge can be easily forgotten. Predicting how many bananas your children will eat before they turn too ripe during the week is tricky. And it’s difficult to persuade yourself to eat that stale crust of bread for lunch when you could get a fresh baguette on your way to work.
There are so many different things that influence our food needs and preferences.
Plan and track
How can we make it easier? Ourresearch points to two key steps that could make an important difference.
First, experiment with shorter term, more flexible meal planning. There is evidence that food planning behaviours cut waste. These include planning meals ahead of time, writing a shopping list and checking fridge and cupboard supplies before buying. But the further ahead we meal plan, the more time there is for things to change. You might get invited out to dinner, you could run out of time to cook, your child moves on from their obsession with hummus.
Introducing some flexibility could help. This may include planning for a meal of leftovers, including meals that can be adapted to accommodate different ingredients (such as stir fries or stews or something with eggs). Swapping meals around between days depending on time, inclination and number of mouths to feed also helps.
This tactic won’t be right for everyone. If you have little interest in cooking or limited time and energy, this might just all sound like too much hard work.
Another approach is to use the introduction of the food waste collection scheme as an opportunity to start tracking your waste. How many caddies do you fill each week? Could you aim for a smaller number? Is there anything that seems to lead to more waste or less?
This type of monitoring can create a feedback loop where we compare what’s actually happening with what we want to happen and use any gap between the two to decide what to do next. Feedback loops may be especially helpful for outcomes that are influenced by many different things, such as a person’s weight, a population’s life expectancy or a household’s food waste.
Experimenting with different ways to cut your food waste can prompt you to identify the habits that work best for you. For example, you may discover your kids like frozen overripe bananas in smoothies. Or that putting your leftover potatoes toward the front of the fridge means you’re less likely to forget about them.
This all assumes you’re motivated to reduce your food waste in the first place. If carbon emissions don’t bother you, you could think about the financial savings. In the UK, an estimated £17.5 billion of food is wasted every year. That’s around £1,000 a year for a household of four. These costs are certainly not small potatoes.
Katy Tapper has received funding from Zero Waste Scotland and Oviva UK Limited. She has received consulting payments via City St George’s, University of London from Zero Waste Scotland, WRAP and Scottish Government.
Christian Reynolds serves in advisory roles with the Nutrition Society, Institute of Food Science & Technology, Faculty of Public Health, and ISO/TC 34/SC 20. He has received consulting payments via City St Georges, University of London, from WRAP, Zero Waste Scotland, DEFRA, Welcome trust, and the FSA. He has undertaken pro bono advisory, speaking, and review work with various organizations . In 2020, he received €49,858 in research funding from the Alpro Foundation.
Under the proposal, an attacker is only offside if their entire body is completely ahead of the second-to-last defender. If any playable part of the attacker remains level with the defender, they are considered onside, effectively requiring visible “daylight” between the two players for a flag to be raised.
The CPL is not driving the change itself, but rather acting as a trial competition for a rule that could be adopted more widely if it proves successful.
A rule under strain
The rules governing English soccer, known as the “Laws of the Game,” are set by the International Football Association Board and were first codified in 1863, including an early version of the offside rule. Since then, there has only been two major changes, in 1925 and 1990.
That relative stability changed in the 2010s with the introduction of the video assistant referee (VAR). For the first time, an additional referee, not located on the pitch, was endowed with the authority to review and overturn decisions on goals, penalties and red cards.
Resistance to VAR has been steadily increasing in academic and public circles, leading to calls for change. Some research suggests that the offside rule is not only difficult to enforce but “systematically vulnerable to perceptual error.”
Especially in the face of major tournaments and high-pressure matches, tensions towards VAR and the offside rule have been heightened to an even greater level. The consequences of this can be seen within fan engagement and across social media.
The ‘offside trap’
For decades, the “offside trap” was a defender’s best friend. By stepping forward in unison, defenders could catch strikers out by a matter of inches, effectively killing an attack before it even started.
This allowed teams to play a “high line,” pushing the action far away from their own goal. Wenger’s proposal essentially breaks that trap, as strikers can now be almost a full body length ahead of the defence and still be onside.
Football’s new offside law explained (Tifo Football by The Athletic).
If a defender tries to catch a striker offside and fails, they are left in a foot race they’ve already lost by two metres. As a result, we expect what some have described as the “death of the high line.”
In response, teams may shift toward a “low block,” sitting much deeper and closer to their own goalkeeper. By “parking the bus” and removing the open grass behind them, defenders can negate the striker’s new head start.
The game may become higher scoring, but it will also force a more cautious, safety-first style of defending.
More clarity, or more controversy?
If the daylight rule is seen to improve clarity, increase attacking play or reduce controversy, it could be introduced more broadly in the coming years. If not, it may merely remain an experimental footnote.
However, the daylight rule is unlikely to resolve existing concerns about VAR. If anything, it may extend ongoing debates about consistency and legitimacy in offside decisions.
Questions will remain about how “daylight” is judged in practice, particularly in fast-moving situations or when bodies overlap at angles.
Pundits, journalists and professional soccer players will continue to assess whether this rule simplifies “the beautiful game” or hinders it. Public reaction on social media is also likely to remain mixed, and any discussions will shape collective views on the rule’s effectiveness.
Ultimately, the effectiveness of this new rule may come down to the subjectivity of referees. Soccer and offside calls will always come down to the mere millimetre, no matter how substantially the gap is widened.
A moment of opportunity for Canada
Beyond the technical change, the trial could matter a lot for how the CPL is regarded more broadly. It gives the Canadian league a chance to be part of an international conversation in a way smaller leagues rarely get the opportunity to do.
That alone could raise the CPL’s visibility and make Canadian domestic soccer more relevant in discussions about where the global game is headed.
In that sense, the bigger implication is about whether the CPL can use this moment to strengthen its place in the wider football world. For a league that’s still building its international profile, that kind of attention could matter just as much as what happens on the pitch.
This article was co-authored by Wai Leung, Gaetane Slootweg Allepuz and Agrim Gautam, undergraduate students at Brock University and members of the Brock University Centre for Sport Capacity Soccer Working Group.
Taylor McKee receives funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada
Michael Van Bussel 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.
When pop superstars BTS announced a temporary hiatus in 2022, it exposed a tension at the heart of their global success.
As I wrote at the time, the world’s biggest K-pop group had become entangled in South Korea’s competing priorities: cultural soft power on the one hand, and its national security obligations on the other.
Now, nearly four years later, the Netflix documentary BTS: The Return takes fans behind the scenes as they prepared for their much-anticipated comeback. Directed by Bao Nguyen, the documentary follows the group’s reunion after completing mandatory military service and the making of their new album, Arirang.
But the documentary is not the triumphant comeback narrative that fans may have been anticipating. Instead, it reveals the seven members (Jin, Suga, j-hope, RM, Jimin, V and Jung Kook) grappling with a more complicated question. What does it mean to return as global stars, as individuals reshaped by time and experience and as artists newly conscious of what it means to “represent” Korea?
The trailer for BTS: The Return.
At one level, The Return follows a familiar structure marked out by previous pop-star documentaries: studio footage, creative disagreements and moments of reflection. But early in the documentary there is a persistent sense of uncertainty.
The group’s seven members, who served in the South Korean military at different times over the preceding three years and nine months, are grappling with who they have become since leaving the limelight. The transition from military life back into music production feels abrupt and disorienting.
When the members regroup, there is also a strong sense of urgency. A comeback date is already fixed and deadlines drive an intense creative process that doesn’t always unfold as easily as they would wish.
Scenes of late-night discussions, constant revision and ongoing self-critique reinforce the idea that even at rest, the group remains in production mode. The Return shows the additional strain placed on artists who are global figures attempting evolve while newer K-pop boy bands have ascended the ranks and even topped the Billboard album charts.
The band speak openly about feeling stuck, worrying that songs fail to feel “cool”, and the difficulty of finding a sound that reflects who they are now. At one point they joke about naming a track Slump, reflecting their feeling of wanting to give up. At another, they suggest abandoning the pressure around the lead single entirely. But in each moment of doubt voiced by one member, another inevitably steps in with words of encouragement: “Come to your senses, we can do this!”
Their perspective is helped by sitting down to watch old footage of their first days as a group, performing in small venues and handing out flyers for free concerts. These scenes remind them that grit and hard work served them well on the road to global stardom and can do so again.
Representing Korea
The development of the new album in the documentary brings a central tension into focus.
The album draws on the traditional Korean folk song of the same name. It’s often described as an unofficial national anthem, associated with longing and separation. As the concept takes shape, the group are encouraged by producers to lean more explicitly into Korean cultural themes and references.
This generates both excitement and hesitation.
The band show a clear desire to showcase Korean language and identity, as they discuss writing more lyrics in Korean, arguing that authenticity has been diluted by their extensive use of English in prior work. At the same time, they are acutely aware of how these choices might be received by different audiences.
V worries that using an extended sample of Arirang in one song may be seen as “patriotic hype” by Koreans. RM reflects that naming the album after a folk song risks positioning the group as a “national team”.
While they reject the label of “global Korean heroes”, they ultimately decide to lean into their Korean heritage throughout parts of the album, acknowledging that it’s impossible to be certain about what will end up taking off among audiences.
For a group often framed as an instrument of South Korea’s soft power, these choices highlight the challenges of knowing how best to assert cultural identity and reconnect with what distinguishes them in a highly globalised industry.
K-pop operates through tightly controlled visibility, where “idols” are constantly seen but are heavily mediated for fear of tarnishing the clean image the industry seeks to project.
In this context, BTS are not just another K-pop band. Their long-running success and truly global appeal has made them leading representatives of K-pop as an industry and of a particular narrative of national success.
The documentary translates this geopolitical significance into interpersonal dynamics, where the group’s members show the need to “carry” something collectively, to display group cohesion and to meet expectations that extend far beyond music.
RM describes being part of BTS as wearing “a big, incredible crown”, the weight of which can feel overwhelming.
A reflective return
As the group return to Korea to finalise the album, the tone of the documentary shifts towards reflection. The band describe themselves as more introverted, more measured and more certain of themselves in some respects. They are also more conscious of the stakes. The Return is a negotiation between past identity, present experience and future direction.
The wrestling with their maturity and identity after an extended hiatus seems to be paying off so far. Despite RM experiencing an injury just before their live comeback concert in the historic Gwanghwamun Square in Seoul, the album received five stars from Rolling Stone Magazine and hit over 4 million sales in its first week.
BTS are back, but BTS: The Return makes clear that coming back means redefining themselves, their sound and the terms on which they carry Korea with them to the world.
Sarah A. Son 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.
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