Sudanese paramilitary attack leaves at least 4 dead as fighting intensifies in Kordofan region
Sudan's paramilitary forces launched artillery shelling on neighborhoods in Obeid city, the capital of North Kordofan province, on Thursday night, killing at least four people and injuring others, Sudan Doctors' Network said in a statement. The group said the shelling targeted women and elderly people.
'The RSF is targeting civilians with guided artillery rockets, deliberately inflicting fatalities in the neighborhoods of El-Obeid, which ... are densely populated with displaced people and those who fled from areas under RSF control,' the group said.
The fighting in North Kordofan displaced around 700 households between July 4 and July 9, according to the latest update by the International Organization for Migration.
Obeid city was previously an RSF stronghold. The Sudanese military broke the RSF's yearlong siege in February, restoring access in the south-central region and strengthening crucial supply routes. The city is home to a major airbase and the military's 5th Infantry Division, known as Haganah.
Sudan plunged into civil war in April 2023 after simmering tensions between the army and its rival paramilitary RSF escalated to fighting in the capital Khartoum and spread across the country.
The war has killed over 40,000 people and displaced over 10 million people, according to the latest estimates by the United Nations. Many have also been pushed to the brink of famine and suffer from disease outbreaks.
The fighting has recently intensified in the Kordofan and Darfur regions. The humanitarian crisis has deepened in these areas, with civilians facing blocked access to safe roads and struggling to obtain food and medical care.
Global humanitarian aid group Mercy Corps says the Kordofan region has become the epicenter of the ongoing war as fighting continues in North, South, and West Kordofan, limiting access to food, water, medical care and safe roads.
'In Kadugli, the capital of South Kordofan, our team describes a city under siege. Roads have been cut off, supply lines have collapsed, and residents are walking miles just to search for salt or matches,' Kadry Furany, the group's Sudan country director, said in a statement.
Meanwhile, intense fighting continues in the Darfur region, where famine-stricken displacement camps are repeatedly under attack.
The conflict has exacerbated the hunger situation, with UNICEF saying Thursday that there has been a 46% increase in the number of children diagnosed with malnutrition across Darfur between January and May 2025, compared to the same period last year.
The International Criminal Court believes that war crimes and crimes against humanity are ongoing in Sudan's western Darfur region, the tribunal's deputy prosecutor Nazhat Shameem Khan told the U.N. Security Council on Thursday.
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New York Post
2 days ago
- New York Post
Rehab can keep you out of jail — but become a prison itself
Chris Koon didn't read the fine print. Sitting in the Cenikor Baton Rouge rehab center's intake office in 2015, flanked by his mom and grandmother, he signed where told. 'A lot of it read like legalese,' writes Shoshana Walter in 'Rehab: An American Scandal' (Simon & Schuster, Aug. 12). 'Incomprehensible but also innocuous, like something you might see before downloading an app on your phone.' Koon felt lucky. He wasn't going to prison. Just days earlier, he'd been arrested for meth possession. The alternative to five years in state prison? A brutal two-year Cenikor inpatient program. Koon took the deal. In signing the intake documents, he agreed to 'receive no monetary compensation' for work he did, with wages going 'directly back to the Foundation.' He signed away his right to workers' compensation if injured. He forfeited his food stamps, disability payments and any other government assistance. And he agreed to 'adopt appropriate morals and values as promoted by the program.' Koon's story isn't an outlier — it's a glimpse into what Walter calls 'America's other drug crisis.' While overdoses and opioid deaths dominate headlines, far less attention goes to the 'profit-hungry, under-regulated, and all too often deadly rehab industry,' writes Walter. Across the country, thousands of treatment programs are propped up by federal policies and rooted in a distinctly American blend of punishment and personal responsibility. People were 'lured to rehab with the promise of a cure for what ailed them,' Walter writes, 'only to repeatedly falter and fail inside a system that treated them like dollar signs.' The idea hard labor can cure someone isn't new. After the Civil War, US slavery was abolished except as punishment for a crime. That loophole became the foundation for a forced-labor system that conveyed newly freed black people into prisons and chain gangs. Over time, prison officials began marketing this arrangement as 'rehabilitation.' As Walter writes, this legacy has been repackaged for the modern drug crisis. The Affordable Care Act promised expanded treatment access through Medicaid. But the rehab industry that exploded in response was lightly regulated, profit-driven and increasingly dangerous. The result: thousands of people like Chris Koon, lured into treatment by courts, cops or family members, only to find themselves stuck in a system that looked less like therapy and more like punishment. They include women like April Lee, a black woman from Philadelphia. Despite growing up in addiction's long shadow — her mother died from AIDS when Lee was just a teenager, after years of selling sex to support a crack habit — Lee didn't start using drugs herself until after having her second child, when a doctor prescribed her Percocet for back pain. That opened the door to addiction. Child-welfare authorities eventually took her kids. Fellow users nicknamed her 'Mom' and 'Doc' for her uncanny ability to find usable veins, no matter how damaged. April Lee returned to her recovery house — as an unpaid house monitor. April Lee / ACLU She entered recovery in 2016. Every morning at 6, 18 women gathered in the dining room of one of two overcrowded houses to read from the Bible. Lee stayed 10 months. With nowhere else to go, she returned — this time as a house monitor, working without pay in exchange for a bed. 'She was still early into recovery, and she felt stressed by the intensity of the job,' Walter writes. 'On top of that, she wasn't getting a paycheck, so she couldn't save up money to leave.' 'Don't really know how to feel right now,' Lee wrote in her journal. 'The lady I work for — for free, mind you — wont me to watch over women witch mean I have to stay in every night.' She felt physically and emotionally trapped. 'I wanted to snap this morning. Miss my children so much.' Like so many others, Lee found herself stuck in the recovery-house loop — forced to work, unable to leave and earning nothing. She helped with chores, mainly cooking and cleaning. Residents' food stamps stocked the kitchen. Lee loved to cook, and she made comfort food for the house: mac and cheese, fried chicken, beef stew. But all the warmth she gave others couldn't buy her a way out. For others, like Koon, it was about more than just forced labor. During his first 30 days at Cenikor, the other patients policed each other. If one person broke a rule, the entire group might be punished with a 'fire drill' in the middle of the night. 'If anyone stepped out of line or did something wrong during the drill, they'd have to stay awake even longer,' Walter writes. Discipline was obsessive. In his first month, Koon sat in a classroom with about 30 other residents, most sent by courts like he was, reciting rules out loud, line by line. There were more than 100. 'He could get in trouble for not having a pen, not wearing a belt, for an untied shoelace, for leaving a book on the table, for his shirt coming untucked,' Walter details. Koon learned the punishment system fast. A common one was 'the verbal chair,' in which any participant could order him to sit, arms locked and knees at a 90-degree angle, and stare silently at the wall while others screamed at him. 'Go have a seat in the verbal chair. Think about having your shirt untucked,' they'd say. And Koon, like everyone else, was expected to respond, 'Thank you.' There were others. 'Mirror therapy,' where he'd stand and yell his failings at himself in the mirror. 'The dishpan,' where he'd be dressed in a neon-green shirt, scrubbing floors and dishes while loudly reciting the Cenikor philosophy, 'a paragraph-long diatribe about self-change,' Walter writes. And the dreaded 'verbal haircut,' when another resident, sometimes even a staff member, would berate him as part of his treatment. Dressed up as a therapeutic community, Koon thought instead, 'This is like a cult.' Walter believes he wasn't far off. Everyone was required to tattle. Koon had to turn in weekly at least 10 'pull-ups' — written reports detailing rule infractions committed by fellow residents. If he didn't, he could lose points and with them privileges like phone calls, family visits or permission to grow a mustache. Confrontations were public and ritualized: Residents would sit in a circle around one or two people forced to listen as everyone else denounced them. 'They took turns confronting that person, professing their faults and errors, while the person was permitted only to say 'thank you,'' Walter writes. Staff called it 'The Game.' He saw grown men cry. He heard women called bitches and sluts. He realized many employees were former participants enforcing the system that once broke them. Not everyone saw a problem. Many in the legal system embraced tough-love rehab programs, especially judges looking for alternatives to jail. One of Cenikor's biggest champions was Judge Larry Gist, who ran one of the first drug courts, in Jefferson County, Texas, in the 1990s. 'The vast majority of folks that I deal with are basically bottom-feeders,' Gist told the author. 'They've been losers since the day they were born.' Cenikor's extreme model was ideal for 'the right people,' he believed. Cenikor rewarded such loyalty, giving judges and lawmakers steak dinners served by participants and annual awards banquets, complete with gleaming, diamond-shaped trophies. Gist 'proudly displayed his' in 'his chambers, where he liked to host his happy hours with prosecutors and defense attorneys.' Koon was booted out of Cenikor after just two years, for faking a urine sample and contracting a contagious staph infection, but managed to stay sober on his own. He proposed to his childhood sweetheart, Paige, moving in with her two daughters, and finding the stability he'd been chasing for years. He went back to school to learn welding, and the daily rhythms of family life kept him grounded. 'He hasn't taken a drug recreationally for eight years,' Walter writes. Lee's path out took longer, and her recovery was, as Walter writes, 'in some ways a stroke of luck.' She left the house after landing a job at a law firm that helped women reunite with their children in foster care — a world away from the nights she'd once spent tricking at the Blue Moon Hotel but one that barely covered her bills and pushed her just over the poverty line, cutting off assistance. She earned her GED, took online college courses, regained custody of her kids and bought her own home by 2021. 'And yet many days she felt she was teetering on the edge, one crisis or unpaid bill away from making a terrible mistake,' Walter writes. That year, she returned to Kensington, where her addiction had once thrived, bringing fresh food and water to people still living on the streets. As for Cenikor, its time in the shadows ended, at least temporarily. Investigators found evidence of exploitation: residents forced to work without pay, unsafe housing conditions, staff-client relationships, even overdoses inside the facilities. The state of Texas fined Cenikor more than $1.4 million in 2019, but the agency struck a settlement, and it continued to operate. Koon and Lee don't represent everyone who's experienced addiction, treatment or recovery. But they do reflect a system that often promises far more than it delivers. 'When rehab works, it can save lives,' Walter writes. 'It can mend families and be among the most redemptive narrative arcs in a person's life.' But sometimes, rehab not only fails to help people, it actively harms them, recycling them through a gauntlet of relapse, shame and risk: 'Despite the rehab industry's many claims, there is no magical cure for addiction.'
Washington Post
4 days ago
- Washington Post
Malnourished kids arrive daily at a Gaza hospital as Netanyahu denies hunger
KHAN YOUNIS, Gaza Strip — The dead body of 2 1/2-year-old Ro'a Mashi lay on the table in Gaza's Nasser Hospital, her arms and rib cage skeletal, her eyes sunken in her skull. Doctors say she had no preexisting conditions and wasted away over months as her family struggled to find food and treatment.
Yahoo
4 days ago
- Yahoo
Malnourished kids arrive daily at a Gaza hospital as Netanyahu denies hunger
Mideast Wars Gaza Hunger KHAN YOUNIS, Gaza Strip (AP) — The dead body of 2 1/2-year-old Ro'a Mashi lay on the table in Gaza's Nasser Hospital, her arms and rib cage skeletal, her eyes sunken in her skull. Doctors say she had no preexisting conditions and wasted away over months as her family struggled to find food and treatment. Her family showed The Associated Press a photo of Ro'a's body at the hospital, and it was confirmed by the doctor who received her remains. Several days after she died, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu on Sunday told local media, 'There is no hunger. There was no hunger. There was a shortage, and there was certainly no policy of starvation.' In the face of international outcry, Netanyahu has pushed back, saying reports of starvation are 'lies' promoted by Hamas. However, U.N. spokesman Stephane Dujarric this week warned that starvation and malnutrition in Gaza are at the highest levels since the war began. The U.N. says nearly 12,000 children under 5 were found to have acute malnutrition in July — including more than 2,500 with severe malnutrition, the most dangerous level. The World Health Organization says the numbers are likely an undercount. The past two weeks, Israel has allowed around triple the amount of food into Gaza than had been entering since late May. That followed 2 1/2 months when Israel barred all food, medicine and other supplies, saying it was to pressure Hamas to release hostages taken during its 2023 attack that launched the war. The new influx has brought more food within reach for some of the population and lowered some prices in marketplaces, though it remains far more expensive than prewar levels and unaffordable for many. While better food access might help much of Gaza's population, 'it won't help the children who are severely malnourished,' said Alex DeWaal, executive director of the World Peace Foundation at Tufts University, who has worked on famine and humanitarian issues for more than 40 years. When a person is severely malnourished, vital micronutrients are depleted and bodily functions deteriorate. Simply feeding the person can cause harm, known as 'refeeding syndrome,' potentially leading to seizures, coma or death. Instead, micronutrients must first be replenished with supplements and therapeutic milk in a hospital. 'We're talking about thousands of kids who need to be in hospital if they're going to have a chance of survival,' DeWaal said. 'If this approach of increasing the food supply had been undertaken two months ago, probably many of those kids would not have gotten into this situation.' Any improvement is also threatened by a planned new Israeli offensive that Netanyahu says will capture Gaza City and the tent camps where most of the territory's population is located. That will prompt a huge new wave of displacement and disrupt food delivery, U.N. and aid officials warn. Preexisting conditions The Gaza Health Ministry says 42 children died of malnutrition-related causes since July 1, along with 129 adults. It says 106 children have died of malnutrition during the entire war. The ministry, part of the Hamas-run government, is staffed by medical professionals and its figures on casualties are seen by the U.N. and other experts as the most reliable. The Israeli military Tuesday pointed to the fact that some children who died had preexisting conditions, arguing their deaths were 'unrelated to their nutritional status.' It said a review by its experts had concluded there are 'no signs of a widespread malnutrition phenomenon' in Gaza. At his press briefing Sunday, Netanyahu spoke in front of a screen reading 'Fake Starving Children' over photos of skeletal children with preexisting conditions. He accused Hamas of starving the remaining Israeli hostages and repeated claims the militant group is diverting large amounts of aid, a claim the U.N. denies. Doctors in Gaza acknowledge that some of those dying or starving have chronic conditions, including cerebral palsy, rickets or genetic disorders, some of which make children more vulnerable to malnutrition. However, those conditions are manageable when food and proper medical treatments are available, they say. 'The worsening shortages of food led to these cases' swift deterioration,' said Dr. Yasser Abu Ghali, head of Nasser's pediatrics unit. 'Malnutrition was the main factor in their deaths.' Of 13 emaciated children whose cases the AP has seen since late July, five had no preexisting conditions — including three who died — according to doctors. Abu Ghali spoke next to the body of Jamal al-Najjar, a 5-year-old who died Tuesday of malnutrition and was born with rickets, which hinders the ability to metabolize vitamins, weakening bones. In the past months, the boy's weight fell from 16 kilograms to 7 (35 pounds to 15), said his father, Fadi al-Najjar, whose lean face showed his own hunger. Asked about Netanyahu's claim there was no hunger in Gaza, he pointed at Jamal's protruding rib cage. 'Of course there's famine,' he said. 'Does a 5-year-old child's chest normally come to look like this?' Skin and bones Dr. Ahmed al-Farra, Nasser's general director of pediatrics, said the facility receives 10-20 children with severe malnutrition a day, and the numbers are rising. On Sunday, a severely malnourished 2-year-old, Shamm Qudeih, cried in pain in her hospital bed. Her arms, legs and ribs were skeletal, her belly inflated. 'She has lost all fat and muscle,' al-Farra said. She weighed 4 kilograms (9 pounds), a third of a 2-year-old's normal weight. Doctors suspect Shamm suffers from a rare genetic condition called glycogen storage disease, which changes how the body uses and stores glycogen, a form of sugar, and can impact muscle and bone development. But they can't test for it in Gaza, al-Farra said. Normally, the condition can be managed through a high-carbohydrate diet. Her family applied a year ago for medical evacuation, joining a list of thousands the WHO says need urgent treatment abroad. For months, Israel slowed evacuations to a near standstill or halted them for long stretches. But it appears to be stepping up permissions, with more than 60 allowed to leave in the first week of August, according to the U.N. Permission for Shamm to leave Gaza finally came this week, and on Wednesday, she was heading to a hospital in Italy. A child died in her family's tent Ro'a was one of four dead children who suffered from malnutrition brought to Nasser over the course of just over two weeks, doctors say. Her mother, Fatma Mashi, said she first noticed Ro'a losing weight last year, but she thought it was because she was teething. When she took Ro'a to Nasser Hospital in October, the child was severely malnourished, according to al-Farra, who said Ro'a had no preexisting conditions. At the time, in the last months of 2024, Israel had reduced aid entry to some of the lowest levels of the war. The family was also displaced multiple times by Israeli military operations. Each move interrupted Ro'a's treatment as it took time to find a clinic to get nutritional supplements, Mashi said. The family was reduced to one meal a day — often boiled macaroni — but 'whatever she ate, it didn't change anything in her,' Mashi said. Two weeks ago, they moved into the tent camps of Muwasi on Gaza's southern coast. Ro'a's decline accelerated. "I could tell it was only a matter of two or three more days,' Mashi said in the family's tent Friday, the day after she had died. Mashi and her husband Amin both looked gaunt, their cheeks and eyes hollow. Their five surviving children – including a baby born this year -- are thin, but not nearly as emaciated as Ro'a. DeWaal said it's not unusual in famines for one family member to be far worse than others. 'Most often it will be a kid who is 18 months or 2 years' who is most vulnerable, he said, while older siblings are 'more robust.' But any number of things can set one child into a spiral of malnutrition, such as an infection or troubles after weaning. 'A very small thing can push them over.' ___ Keath reported from Cairo. AP journalists Abdel-Karim Hana and Wafaa Shurafa contributed from Deir al-Balah, Gaza Strip. Solve the daily Crossword
