The evolving dynamics between immigration policies and welfare state sustainability have become a defining challenge for many European countries in recent years, and Denmark provides a particularly illustrative example. Under the leadership of Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen, Denmark has taken a distinctly pragmatic approach to this issue, navigating a complex and often contentious terrain where humanitarian concerns intersect with the need to safeguard the welfare system. Frederiksen’s government, rooted in the center-left Social Democrats, has implemented policies that, while appearing tough on migration, aim to strike a careful balance between compassion for refugees and asylum seekers and protecting the social contract that underpins Danish society. This intricate balance presents a significant intellectual challenge for policymakers and academics alike.

After months of tension, Israel launched a massive air assault on Iran’s nuclear and missile facilities, signaling an unprecedented escalation in their rivalry. The strikes, reportedly involving hundreds of sorties targeting Natanz, Fordow, and ballistic missile sites, were meant to pre-empt Tehran’s atomic ambitions and dismantle key military infrastructure. In Tehran, devastation greeted dawn: photos capture smoldering buildings and panicked civilians surveying the aftermath of the raids. From Israel’s perspective, the operation was a reluctant necessity born of distrust; for Iran, it proved that Israel’s lethal reach has grown far deeper than history.

As the sun sets over Havana, flickers of candlelight begin to appear through open windows and across apartment balconies. The city, once bustling with neon signs and the hum of old Soviet-era buses, is slowly fading into nightly darkness. Cuba, an island long burdened by economic hardship and political isolation, now finds itself entrenched in one of the worst energy crises in its modern history. Entire provinces are plunged into darkness for hours at a time, sometimes days. The blackout is not only physical but symbolic. It serves as a reminder of the grid’s decay, the nation’s limitations, and the resilience of a population that has become all too familiar with waiting, adapting, and surviving.

Norway has long been a shining example of what a country rich in renewable energy resources can achieve. The vast majority of its electricity is generated by hydropower, and for decades, this abundant clean energy has been a cornerstone of the nation’s economy, environment, and identity. The rivers and waterfalls that weave through Norway’s dramatic landscape provide a near-limitless supply of electricity, allowing the country to power its industries, homes, and, increasingly, its ambitions for a sustainable future. Yet beneath this impressive façade lies a complex web of tensions and competing interests that threaten to unravel the delicate balance between environmental responsibility, economic growth, national security, and the rights of Indigenous peoples.

The world today is not governed by a single, unified authority but by a complex, intricate web of institutions, agreements, and actors. The United Nations may claim some authority in this regard, but it often does not control power in the global system. The United Nations is a nation-state organization with many states forming their bloc. What we are left with is a fragmented global order in many cases. This sprawling system has evolved over recent decades and is increasingly fragmented. What was once a vision of a coordinated, coherent framework to manage international challenges has transformed into a mosaic of overlapping bodies, regional blocs, issue-specific coalitions, and influential non-state entities. This complexity, reflecting the evolving geopolitical landscape, technological advancement, and the growing complexity of transnational problems, presents significant opportunities and serious challenges for the international community.

Ukraine’s Constitution was born from a moment of cautious optimism, a beacon for a country emerging from the shadows of Soviet control and embarking on the uncertain path of democratic self-determination. It was a document meticulously crafted to safeguard the young nation from the turbulence that had marked much of its history. Stability was paramount. The architects of the Constitution sought to create a legal framework that would withstand political storms, prevent abrupt shifts in governance, and protect the country’s fragile institutions from manipulation during times of crisis. Yet, what the framers could not fully anticipate was the nature of the prolonged and brutal war that would engulf Ukraine starting in 2014 and escalate into a full-scale invasion in 2022. This conflict has tested the nation's resilience and, in doing so, has revealed the constitutional framework’s profound limitations. These limitations have become particularly stark regarding the impossibility of amending the Constitution under martial law.

The war in Ukraine has torn apart old alliances on the left as never before. For decades, Eastern European leftists have lived under the shadow of Soviet occupation, a reality almost invisible to many on the Western left. After February 2022, this gulf burst into the open. In the words of one Ukrainian commentator, many on the Western left have been “both loud and wrong about the invasion” while ignoring the perspectives of those “living under Putin’s sphere of influence.” Eastern European socialists and left-wing parties, steeped in the memory of Soviet tyranny, found it grotesque that some Western progressives treated Russia’s invasion through a purely anti-NATO prism.

As the United States and China ratchet up competition in Asia, Southeast Asian countries find themselves walking a delicate tightrope. ASEAN governments “now face a double balancing act: managing growing economic integration with China while contending with mounting pressure… to reduce reliance on Chinese supply chains.”

Carl Schmitt (1888–1985) was a German legal and political theorist renowned for his rejection of liberal democracy and his advocacy for authoritarianism. A conservative jurist during the Weimar Republic, he argued that in moments of existential crisis, the formal rule of law must give way to decisive action by the sovereign. Schmitt’s most famous dictum, “the sovereign is he who decides on the exception,” means that the real power in a polity lies in the ability to suspend customary law in an emergency. In his Political Theology (1922), Schmitt insisted that no legal norm can govern an absolute crisis, so a state must empower a decision-maker to restore order by any means. These ideas were closely tied to Schmitt’s self-styled vision of strong leadership. During the early 1930s, he became a supporter of Adolf Hitler’s regime, even defending Nazi “extra-judicial” violence and anti-Jewish purges from a legal standpoint. Colleagues later nicknamed him the “Crown Jurist of National Socialism” (Reichskronjurist) for the key role he played in giving intellectual cover to Nazism. Schmitt’s legacy is therefore controversial: on the one hand he developed a rigorous critique of parliamentary liberalism, but on the other, he openly advocated for a dictatorship grounded in a friend-versus-enemy politics. By the end of World War II Schmitt was discredited and briefly detained for his Nazi ties, but his writings on sovereignty and emergency powers continue to be studied, sometimes with unease, by scholars today.

Libyans are no strangers to protest. In Tripoli, thousands gathered at Martyrs’ Square to mark the anniversary of the 2011 uprising that toppled longtime ruler Muammar al-Qaddafi. That revolt ended four decades of dictatorship, but it also unleashed conflicts that have splintered the state. In theory, Libya had all the ingredients for a stable nation: a small population and vast oil wealth. However, after Gaddafi’s fall, power instead diffused into dozens of armed groups. Analysts warned early on that ‘oil-rich Libya’ could easily implode, and within months, rival militias were controlling cities and oil terminals. In fact, over 20,000 heavy weapons were looted from the regime’s stockpiles, arming new warlords across the country. The interim National Transitional Council, in 2011, declared Libya “liberated” and planned for elections. Still, those hopes quickly faded. Over the last decade, the central authority has largely collapsed, and Libya has been carved into zones of influence controlled by rival armed coalitions.

In the shadowy world of espionage, the lines between friend and foe blur, and the art of deception become a refined craft. Few recent cases illustrate this better than the revelations surrounding Russian intelligence operatives who have assumed false Brazilian identities to infiltrate Western institutions. This saga, unfolding over years and continents, offers a window into not only the lengths to which states will go to conduct covert operations but also the profound vulnerabilities that exist within global identification systems.

After World War II, Japan adopted a strict policy of pacifism. Its postwar Constitution (enacted 1947) famously renounces war and forbids the maintenance of military forces, declaring that the Japanese people “forever renounce war as a sovereign right.” In practice, this “pacifist” clause was interpreted to allow only a strictly self-defensive posture – Japan created the Self-Defense Forces (SDF) under a doctrine of “minimum necessary”  For decades, Tokyo followed a so-called Yoshida Doctrine, relying entirely on the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty for defense. It maintained a minimal force, channeling resources into economic revival instead of military might. The Constitution and Treaty were the twin pillars of Japan’s early strategy, ensuring peace under American nuclear protection even as Japan rebuilt into a global economic power.