Category World News

To prioritise the release of the captives in Gaza, or to continue fighting what critics are calling Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s “forever war” – that is the question increasingly dividing Israel.

Israel’s government, laser-focused on the idea of a total victory against Hamas in Gaza, appears to be opting for the latter.

And that is only increasing the criticism Netanyahu has received since October 2023, firstly for his government’s failure to stop the October 7 attack, and then for failing to end a now 19-month war, or provide a clear vision for what the “day after” in Gaza will look like.

Netanyahu’s decision in March to unilaterally end a ceasefire instead of continuing with an agreement that would have brought home the remaining captives has widened the cracks within Israeli society, as opponents realised that the likelihood of the captives leaving Gaza alive was becoming more remote.

In recent weeks, a wave of open letter writing from within military units has emerged protesting the government’s priorities.

The discontent has also gained traction with the public. Earlier this month, thousands of Israelis gathered outside the Ministry of Defence in Tel Aviv to protest against Netanyahu’s decision to call up a further 60,000 reservists as part of his escalation against the bombed out and besieged Palestinian enclave of Gaza, where his forces have already killed more than 52,000 Palestinians, many of them women and children.

In mid-April, current and former members of the air force, considered one of Israel’s elite units, also released a letter, claiming the war served the “political and personal interests” of Netanyahu, “and not security ones”.

Prompted by the air force, similar protests came from members of the navy, elite units within the military and Israel’s foreign security agency, Mossad.

Political and personal interests 

Accusations that Netanyahu is manipulating the war for his own personal ends predate the breaking of the ceasefire.

In the minds of his critics, the longer the war continues, the longer Netanyahu feels he can defend himself against the numerous threats to his position and even his freedom.

In addition to facing trial on numerous counts of corruption dating back to 2019, he also faces calls to hold an inquiry into the government’s political failings before the October 7 attack.

Netanyahu also faces accusations that members of his office have allegedly been taking payment from Qatar – the Gulf state has previously dismissed the allegations as a “smear campaign” intended to hinder efforts to mediate an end to the conflict.

The continuation of the war allows Netanyahu to distract from those issues, while maintaining a coalition with far-right parties who have made it clear that any end to the war without total victory – which increasingly appears to include the ethnic cleansing of Gaza – would result in their departure from government, and Netanyahu’s likely fall.

And so there are questions about whether Netanyahu’s announcement of a further escalation in Gaza, including the occupation of territory and displacement of its population, will mark an end to the conflict, or simply bog Israel down in the kind of forever war that has so far been to Netanyahu’s benefit.

‘I don’t know if they’re capable of occupying the territory,” former US Special Forces commander, Colonel Seth Krummrich of international security firm Global Guardian told Al Jazeera, “Gaza is just going to soak up people, and that’s before you even think about guarding northern Israel, confronting Iran or guarding the Israeli street,” he said, warning of the potential shortfall in reservists.

“It’s also competing with a tide of growing [domestic] toxicity. When soldiers don’t return home, or don’t go, that’s going to tear at the fabric of Israeli society. It plays out at every dinner table.”

Staying at home 

Israeli media reports suggest that part of that toxicity is playing out in the number of reservists simply not showing up for duty.

The majority of those refusing service are thought to be “grey refusers”. That is, reservists with no ideological objection to the mass killings in Gaza, but rather ones exhausted by repeated tours, away from their families and jobs to support a war with no clear end.

Official numbers of reservists refusing duty are unknown. However, in mid-March, the Israeli national broadcaster, Kan, ran a report disputing official numbers, which claimed that more than 80 percent of those called up for duty had attended, suggesting that the actual figure was closer to 60 percent.

“There has been a steady increase in refusal among reservists,” a spokesperson for the organisation New Profile, which supports people refusing enlistment, said. “However, we often see sharp spikes in response to specific shifts in Israeli government policy, such as the violation of the most recent ceasefire or public statements by officials indicating that the primary objective of the military campaign is no longer the return of hostages and ‘destruction of Hamas’, as initially claimed, but rather the occupation of Gaza, and its ethnic cleansing.”

Also unaddressed is growing public discontent over the ultra-religious Haredi community, whose eight-decade exemption from military service was deemed illegal by the Supreme Court in June of last year.

Despite the shortfall in reservists reporting for duty and others having experienced repeated deployments, in April, the Supreme Court requested an explanation from Netanyahu – who relies upon Haredi support to maintain his coalition – as to why its ruling had not been fully implemented or enforced.

Throughout the war, Netanyahu’s escalations, while often resisted by the captives’ families and their allies, have been cheered on and encouraged by his allies among the far-right, many of whom claim a biblical right to the homes and land of Palestinians.

The apparent conflict between the welfare of the captives and the “total victory” promised by Netanyahu has run almost as long as the conflict itself, with each moment of division seemingly strengthening the prime minister’s position through the critical support of the ultranationalist elements of his cabinet.

Netanyahu’s position has led to conflict with politicians, including his own former Defence Minister Yoav Gallant. While Gallant wasn’t opposed to the war in principle – his active support for Netanyahu eventually led to him joining Netanyahu in facing an arrest warrant from the International Criminal Court for war crimes – his prioritisation of the captives put him at odds with the prime minister.

The divide over priorities has meant that civility between the government and the captives’ families has increasingly gone out the window, with Netanyahu generally avoiding meeting families with loved ones still captive in Gaza, and far-right politicians engaging in shouting matches with them during meetings in parliament.

Division within Israeli society was not new, Professor Yossi Mekelberg of Chatham House told Al Jazeera, “but wars and conflicts deepen them”.

“Now we have a situation where some people have served anywhere up to 400 days in the army [as reservists], while others are refusing to serve at all and exploiting their political power within the coalition to do so,” Mekelberg added.

“Elsewhere, there are ministers on the extreme right talking about ‘sacrificing’ the hostages for military gain,” something Mekelberg said many regarded as running counter to much of the founding principles of the country and the Jewish faith.

Nabatieh, Lebanon – It is a bitterly cold February morning, and Sanaa Khreiss tugs her cardigan tighter as she begins unloading her van.

The sharp bite of early spring has kept most people away from the Nabatieh souk, but not Sanaa and her husband, Youssef.

The market is quiet as the sun breaks through the grey clouds, except for a few vendors setting up.

Sanaa, who has sold at this spot for the past four years, moves with the calm precision of someone who has perfected her craft over time.

She arranges the lingerie she sells, piece by piece, carefully lining them up, each addition bringing a touch of colour and vibrancy to her stall.

The soft murmur of voices grows as more vendors arrive, helping each other set up canopies to shield their stalls from potential rain.

The task is far from easy. The wind tugs at the fabric, and some canopies still hold water from the recent rainfall. But they press on, and slowly, the white shapes pop up, and Nabatieh’s Monday Market has started.

Sanaa smiles at the occasional passer-by, her warmth never fading. She has come to know many by name and can anticipate their requests. Her voice is quiet but inviting.

“I choose the Monday Market because there’s always a lot of movement, and it’s a historic, popular spot in the south,” Sanaa tells Al Jazeera, her fingers brushing over lace and satin as she unpacks more items from the van.

In the stall next door, her husband Youssef works in silence. His movements are precise, almost meditative, but there is a hint of tension in how he arranges the containers and cookware.

Youssef has never imagined himself here; he used to be a driver for the Khiam municipality, but lost his job when the municipality ceased operations after the outbreak of the Israeli war on Lebanon in 2023, which particularly devastated Lebanon’s south, including Nabatieh, one of the region’s biggest cities.

Since then, Youssef has quietly adapted to the life of a vendor beside Sanaa.

Youssef is quiet and reserved, a stark contrast to Sanaa’s extroverted warmth. He focuses intently on his tasks, but when approached by a customer, his blue eyes shine with welcome, and his voice is friendly.

At first glance, no one would guess the weight those eyes carry – war, displacement, losing his livelihood and their home in Khiam. But at the market, it is business as usual.

The market

Shoes, toys, spices, clothing, books, food, electronics, and accessories – the Monday Market sells all that and more.

The Monday Market in Nabatieh has its roots in the late Mamluk era (1250–1517 AD) and continued to thrive under Ottoman rule. Along with the Souk of Bint Jbeil and the Khan Market in Hasbaiyya, it is one of the oldest weekly markets in south Lebanon, established as part of efforts to extend trade routes across the region.

Back then, traders moved between Palestine and Lebanon, transporting goods by mule and donkey over rough, slow roads. Nabatieh’s location made it a natural stop – a bustling centre where merchants from nearby villages would gather to buy, sell and rest before continuing their journeys. The market also sat along a wider network of internal pilgrimage routes, connecting Jerusalem to Damascus, Mecca and Najaf.

Nabatieh Mayor Khodor Kodeih recounts that merchants travelling between Palestine and Lebanon would stop at a “khan” – an inn that also served as a trading centre – on the site of the current market.

A khan typically featured a square courtyard surrounded by rooms on two levels, with open arcades. Merchants would rest, trade and display their goods there, gradually transforming the site into the bustling Monday Market.

Over time, the market has become more than just a place to buy and sell – it is a ritual that stitches together the social and economic fabric of southern Lebanon.

The area around the old khans expanded into a larger open-air souk. Israeli air strikes during the last war destroyed the original khans, but traces of the market’s past still remain. Today, the Monday Market spans three to four city blocks in central Nabatieh, surrounded by remnants of Ottoman-era architecture. While shops remain open throughout the week, the market itself is made up of temporary stalls and stands that operate only on Mondays.

Before Israel’s recent war on Lebanon, the market filled the streets, framed by Ottoman-era buildings with wooden shutters and iron balconies. Merchants packed the narrow alleys with vibrant goods, their calls for business filling the air. But on November 13, 2024, Israeli air strikes reduced the historic market to rubble. Stone arches crumbled, shopfronts burned, and what was once a bustling hub was left in ruins.

All that remains

Arriving at Sultan Square, the usual site of the old market, one is left confused. All that remains is a vast, empty space at the heart of the city.

The famous Al-Sultan sweet shop, after which the square was named, is gone. Nearby, other sweet shops – including al-Dimassi, established in 1949 and central to Nabatieh’s culinary identity and reputation – are also missing. They once sold staples of Lebanese dessert culture: baklava, nammoura, maamoul, and during Ramadan, seasonal treats like kallaj and an all-time favourite, halawet el-jibn.

Every market morning, merchants sweep the streets, using only brooms to push the debris to the sides and clear space for their stalls. Even as the wind blows rubble back towards their stand, they keep sweeping, determined to maintain a neat and orderly market.

Sanaa remembers the high-end lingerie shops that once competed with her; they’re gone too, reduced to debris amid which vendors have set up their tents as they wait for the municipality to clear the area.

There should be more vendors on that cold morning, but the rain and war have changed things.

“The good thing about rainy days,” Sanaa jokes, “is that there are fewer merchants, so customers have limited options.”

Before the war, she sold in bulk – new brides buying trousseaus, women stocking up. Now, purchases are small and careful – with homes and livelihoods lost, shopping is for necessity, not luxuries or impulse buys.

On a typical Monday, the market runs from 5am to 5pm. Merchants arrive early, making their way to their designated spots, some on the pavement, others against a backdrop of a collapsed building.

Vegetable vendors lay their produce out in large sacks and plastic crates. Normally, the market is so crowded with people that cars can’t pass and visitors have to squeeze past each other from one stall to the next.

Though profits aren’t what they used to be, Sanaa is just happy to be back. She’s kept her prices the same, hoping the market will rebound.

“This is the most important market in the south,” she says. “And we need to follow the source of our livelihood.”

‘Deep love story with the Monday market’

Next to Sanaa’s stall is Jihad Abdallah’s, where he has rigged up several racks to hang his collection of women’s sports clothes.

Yesterday’s snow is melting as the sun comes out, but Jihad keeps his hoodie up, still feeling the lingering cold.

Customers have started trickling over, but it isn’t enough to shake the frustrated, tired look on his face.

Jihad, from the border village of Bint Jbeil, spends his week travelling between different town markets in southern Lebanon to make ends meet.

He was among the first to set up in Bint Jbeil’s Thursday Market as soon as the ceasefire with Israel was announced on November 27, 2024. Jihad didn’t have many options. Bint Jbeil was the market he knew best – he memorised the rhythms, understood customer demands, and recognised how to turn profit. Still, business was slow.

“In Bint Jbeil, the market needs time to recover because many residents from nearby villages, like Blida, Aitaroun and Maroun al-Ras, haven’t returned yet,” Abdallah tells Al Jazeera.

“However, in Nabatieh, nearby towns have seen more returnees.”

Jihad was also among the first to return to the Nabatieh market, joining the very first band of merchants in clearing as much debris as they could manage.

“The Israelis want to make this land unliveable, but we’re here. We’re staying,” Jihad says. “They destroyed everything out of spite, but they can’t take our will.”

Further down the road, Abbas Sbeity has set up his stand of clothes for the day, a collection of children’s winter clothes he couldn’t sell because of the war.

“I had to empty my van to make room for mattresses for my kids to sleep on when we first escaped Qaaqaait al-Jisr [a village near Nabatieh],” he tells Al Jazeera, pointing to the van behind him, now packed with clothes.

Abbas is trying to make a profit, however small, from clothes that were meant to be sold when children returned to school last fall.

He’s been coming to the Monday Market for 30 years, a job passed down from his father, who inherited it from his grandfather.

“My grandfather used to bring me here on a mule!” he says with a nostalgic smile. For a moment, he stares off, lost in thought. His smile stays, but his voice holds a trace of sadness.

“There’s a deep love story with the Monday Market,” he adds. “But now, there’s a sadness in the air. People’s spirits are still heavy, and the destruction around us really affects their morale.”

Abbas remembers how people came not only to buy but to hang out for a weekly outing they could count on for fun, no matter the weather. Even if they didn’t buy anything, they’d enjoy the crowds or grab a bite, whether from the small shops selling manouches, shawarma, kaak or falafel sandwiches, or from a restaurant nearby, from local favourites like Al-Bohsasa to Western chains.

Many would also stop by Al-Sultan and Al-Dimassi, which were the closest to the market, to enjoy a sweet treat, a perfect way to top off their visit.

By noon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a gloomy day as the sun struggled to break through the clouds, casting a faint light over the market. People haggled over prices, searched for specific sizes, and despite the changes brought by war, the Monday Market pressed on, determined to hold on to its place.

‘We won’t let them,’ determination versus reality

At one end of the Sultan Square, near the upper right corner, a half-destroyed building still stands where vendors used to set up shop before the war. Now, produce vendors arrange their stalls beneath it as if nothing had changed. The remnants of the structure loom above them – fragments of walls hanging precariously, held together by stray wires that look ready to snap.

Yet the vendors paid no mind, too absorbed in tending to customers. The building’s arched openings and ornate details, though battered, still hinted at the city’s rich past. Its verandas, standing like silent witnesses to the souk below, bore testament to both the scars of war and a culture that refused to disappear.

At the far end of the market, by the main road leading out of Nabatieh to nearby villages, one cart stands alone, piled high with nuts and dried fruits. Its owner adds more, making the stacks look like they might spill over at any second.

Roasted corn, chickpeas, and almonds sit next to raw almonds, hazelnuts, cashews and walnuts. Dried fruits are displayed front and centre, dates and apricots taking the spotlight.

At the back of the cart, Rachid Dennawi arranges candies – gummy bears and marshmallows in all shapes and flavours. It’s his first day back at the Monday Market since the war began.

Abir Badran, a customer dressed in a dark cardigan and a long black scarf that gently frames her face, is the first to reach Rachid’s cart while he’s still setting up. Her face lights up as she leans in to examine the dates, carefully picking through them.

“Finally, you’re back!” she says, reaching for the dates – they’re bigger and better than what she can find at other places, she says.

Rachid, originally from Tripoli in Lebanon’s north, makes the three-hour journey to Nabatieh because he believes the market is livelier, has more customers.

Over time, Rachid has built a loyal clientele, and people like Abir swear by his dried fruit and nut mix.

“The people here are different,” he tells Al Jazeera, handing Abir a handful of almonds to taste. “They don’t just buy from you – they welcome you and want you to succeed.”

But Abir didn’t just come to stock up – she is there because the Monday Market has become an act of resistance.

“The Israelis want to sever our ties to this land,” Abir tells Al Jazeera. “But we won’t let them.”

While the optimism is clear, the reality on the ground is tough.

Merchants and residents are doing what they can with what they have. Some have relocated their shops or started new businesses, but some are stuck in limbo.

Mayor Kodeih estimates it will take at least two years to rebuild the market and is critical of the Lebanese government’s support.

“We will restore the market,” he says. “It won’t be the same, but we’ll bring it back.”

The mayor was injured in the Israeli strike on the municipality in mid-October, which killed 16 people; he is one of the two survivors.

It is not easy to leave the market behind – or Nabatieh.

Despite the destruction, the city hums with life: Shops are open, cafes are busy, and people lean in doorways, greeting passers-by with warm smiles and easy conversation.

The gravity of war has left its mark. The destruction is visible at every turn – a bookshop reduced to rubble, shops flattened to the ground – but it has not stripped away the city’s kindness or its sense of humour.

In front of a lot with nothing more than a gaping hole in it, a playful banner by the shop that used to stand there reads: “We’ll be back soon … we’re just redecorating.”

One of the paths out of the Sultan Square leads visitors northeast, into a quieter neighbourhood of cobbled streets, where cafes and small shops line the way. Here, people sip coffee and linger by storefronts, seemingly untouched by the devastation only steps away.

Turning back at the boundary between the two, the destruction that has decimated the market is more apparent, as is the loss to Nabatieh and southern Lebanon.

The market’s heyday will live on only in the memories of those who experienced it, younger generations will never have that same experience.

On a typical day, Mai Rupa travels through his native Shan State, in eastern Myanmar, documenting the impact of war.

A video journalist with the online news outlet Shwe Phee Myay, he travels to remote towns and villages, collecting footage and conducting interviews on stories ranging from battle updates to the situation for local civilians living in a war zone.

His job is fraught with risks. Roads are strewn with landmines and there are times when he has taken cover from aerial bombing and artillery shelling.

“I have witnessed countless people being injured and civilians dying in front of me,” Mai Rupa said.

“These heartbreaking experiences deeply affected me,” he told Al Jazeera, “at times, leading to serious emotional distress.”

Mai Rupa is one of a small number of brave, independent journalists still reporting on the ground in Myanmar, where a 2021 military coup shattered the country’s fragile transition to democracy and obliterated media freedoms.

Like his colleagues at Shwe Phee Myay – a name which refers to Shan State’s rich history of tea cultivation – Mai Rupa prefers to go by a pen name due to the risks of publicly identifying as a reporter with one of the last remaining independent media outlets still operating inside the country.

Most journalists fled Myanmar in the aftermath of the military’s takeover and the expanding civil war. Some continue their coverage by making cross-border trips from work bases in neighbouring Thailand and India.

But staff at Shwe Phee Myay – a Burmese-language outlet, with roots in Shan State’s ethnic Ta’ang community – continue reporting from on the ground, covering a region of Myanmar where several ethnic armed groups have for decades fought against the military and at times clashed with each other.

Fighting to keep the public informed

After Myanmar’s military launched a coup in February 2021, Shwe Phee Myay’s journalists faced new risks.

In March that year, two reporters with the outlet narrowly escaped arrest while covering pro-democracy protests. When soldiers and police raided their office in the Shan State capital of Lashio two months later, the entire team had already gone into hiding.

That September, the military arrested the organisation’s video reporter, Lway M Phuong, for alleged incitement and dissemination of “false news”. She served nearly two years in prison. The rest of the 10-person Shwe Phee Myay team scattered following her arrest, which came amid the Myanmar military’s wider crackdown on the media.

Spread out across northern Shan State in the east of the country, the news team initially struggled to continue their work. They chose to avoid urban areas where they might encounter the military. Every day was a struggle to continue reporting.

“We couldn’t travel on main roads, only back roads,” recounted Hlar Nyiem, an assistant editor with Shwe Phee Myay.

“Sometimes, we lost four or five work days in a week,” she said.

Despite the dangers, Shwe Phee Myay’s reporters continued with their clandestine work to keep the public informed.

When a magnitude 7.7 earthquake hit central Myanmar on March 28, killing more than 3,800 people, Shwe Phee Myay’s journalists were among the few able to document the aftermath from inside the country.

The military blocked most international media outlets from accessing earthquake-affected areas, citing difficulties with travel and accommodation, and the few local reporters still working secretly in the country took great risks to get information to the outside world.

“These journalists continue to reveal truths and make people’s voices heard that the military regime is desperate to silence,” said Thu Thu Aung, a public policy scholar at the University of Oxford who has conducted research on Myanmar’s post-coup media landscape.

On top of the civil war and threats posed by Myanmar’s military regime, Myanmar’s journalists have encountered a new threat.

In January, the administration of US President Donald Trump and his billionaire confidante Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) began dismantling the United States Agency for International Development (USAID).

USAID had allocated more than $268m towards supporting independent media and the free flow of information in more than 30 countries around the world – from Ukraine to Myanmar, according to journalism advocacy group Reporters Without Borders.

In February, The Guardian reported on the freezing of USAID funds, creating an “existential crisis” for exiled Myanmar journalists operating from the town of Mae Sot, on the country’s border with Thailand.

The situation worsened further in mid-March, when the White House declared plans for the US Agency for Global Media (USAGM) to reduce operations to the bare minimum. USAGM oversees – among others – the Voice of America and Radio Free Asia, which were both leading providers of news on Myanmar.

Last week, RFA announced it was laying off 90 percent of its staff and ceasing to produce news in the Tibetan, Burmese, Uighur and Lao languages. VOA has faced a similar situation.

Tin Tin Nyo, managing director of Burma News International, a network of 16 local, independent media organisations based inside and outside Myanmar, said the loss of the Burmese-language services provided by VOA and RFA created a “troubling information vacuum”.

Myanmar’s independent media sector also relied heavily on international assistance, which had already been dwindling, Tin Tin Nyo said.

Many local Myanmar news outlets were already “struggling to continue producing reliable information”, as a result of the USAID funding cuts brought in by Trump and executed by Musk’s DOGE, she said.

Some had laid off staff, reduced their programming or suspended operations.

“The downsizing of independent media has decreased the capacity to monitor [false] narratives, provide early warnings, and counter propaganda, ultimately weakening the pro-democracy movement,” Tin Tin Nyo said.

“When independent media fail to produce news, policymakers around the world will be unaware of the actual situation in Myanmar,” she added.

‘Constant fear of arrest or even death’

Currently, 35 journalists remain imprisoned in Myanmar, making it the world’s third-worst jailer of journalists after China and Israel, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists.

The country is ranked 169th out of 180 countries on Reporters Without Borders’ World Press Freedom Index.

“Journalists on the ground must work under the constant fear of arrest or even death,” Tin Tin Nyo said.

“The military junta treats the media and journalists as criminals, specifically targeting them to silence access to information.”

Despite the dangers, Shwe Phee Myay continues to publish news on events inside Myanmar.

With a million followers on Facebook – the digital platform where most people in Myanmar get their news – Shwe Phee Myay’s coverage has become even more critical since the military coup in 2021 and the widening civil war.

Established in 2019 in Lashio, Shwe Phee Myay was one of dozens of independent media outlets which emerged in Myanmar during a decade-long political opening, which began in 2011 with the country’s emergence from a half-century of relative international isolation under authoritarian military rule.

Pre-publication censorship ended in 2012 amid a wider set of policy reforms as the military agreed to allow greater political freedom. Journalists who had lived and worked in exile for media outlets such as the Democratic Voice of Burma, The Irrawaddy and Mizzima News began cautiously returning home.

However, the country’s nascent press freedoms came under strain during the term of Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy government, which came to power in 2016 as a result of the military’s political reforms.

Aung San Suu Kyi’s government jailed journalists and blocked independent media access to politically sensitive areas including Rakhine State, where the military committed a brutal campaign of ethnic cleansing against the Rohingya community and for which it now faces international charges of genocide.

But the situation for independent journalists dramatically worsened following the 2021 coup. As the military violently cracked down on peaceful protests against the generals seizing power, it restricted the internet, revoked media licences and arrested dozens of journalists. That violence triggered an armed uprising across Myanmar.

‘If we stop, who will continue addressing these issues?’

Shwe Phee Myay briefly considered relocating to Thailand as the situation deteriorated after the coup, but those running the news site decided to remain in the country.

“Our will was to stay on our own land,” said Mai Naw Dang, who until recently served as the editor of Burmese-to-English translations.

“Our perspective was that to gather the news and collect footage, we needed to be here.”

Their work then took on new intensity in October 2023, when an alliance of ethnic armed organisations launched a surprise attack on military outposts in Shan State near the border with China.

The offensive marked a major escalation in the Myanmar conflict; the military, which lost significant territory as a result, retaliated with air strikes, cluster munitions and shelling. Within two months, more than 500,000 people had been displaced due to the fighting.

With few outside journalists able to access northern Shan State, Shwe Phee Myay was uniquely positioned to cover the crisis.

Then in January this year, Shwe Phee Myay also received notice that USAID funds approved in November were no longer coming and it has since reduced field reporting, cancelled training and scaled back video news production.

“We’re taking risks to report on how people are impacted by the war, yet our efforts seem unrecognised,” editor-in-chief Mai Rukaw said.

“Even though we have a strong human resource base on the ground, we’re facing significant challenges in securing funding to continue our work.”

During staff meetings, Mai Rukaw has raised the possibility of shutting down Shwe Phee Myay with his colleagues.

Their response, he said, was to keep going even if the money dries up.

“We always ask ourselves: if we stop, who will continue addressing these issues?” he said.

“That question keeps us moving forward.”

Pakistan said it struck multiple Indian military bases in the early hours of Saturday, May 10, after claiming that India had launched missiles against three Pakistani bases, marking a sharp escalation in their already soaring tensions, as the neighbours edge closer to an all-out war.

Long-simmering hostilities, mostly over the disputed region of Kashmir, erupted into renewed fighting after the deadly April 22 Pahalgam attack in Indian-administered Kashmir that saw 25 tourists and a local guide killed in an armed group attack. India blamed Pakistan for the attack; Islamabad denied any role.

Since then, the nations have engaged in a series of tit-for-tat moves that began with diplomatic steps but have rapidly turned into aerial military confrontation.

As both sides escalate shelling and missile attacks and seem on the road to a full-scale battle, an unprecedented reality stares not just at the 1.6 billion people of India and Pakistan but at the world: An all-out war between them would be the first ever between two nuclear-armed nations.

“It would be stupid for either side to launch a nuclear attack on the other … It is way short of probable that nuclear weapons are used, but that does not mean it’s impossible,” Dan Smith, director of the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute, told Al Jazeera.

So, how did we get here? What are the nuclear arsenals of India and Pakistan like? And when – according to them – might they use nuclear weapons?

How tensions have spiralled since April 22

India has long accused The Resistance Front (TRF) – the armed group that initially claimed credit for the Pahalgam attack, before then distancing itself from the killings – of being a proxy for the Lashkar-e-Taiba, a Pakistan-based armed group that has repeatedly targeted India, including in the 2008 Mumbai attacks that left more than 160 people dead.

New Delhi blamed Islamabad for the Pahalgam attack. Pakistan denied any role.

India withdrew from a bilateral pact on water sharing, and both sides scaled back diplomatic missions and expelled each other’s citizens. Pakistan also threatened to walk out of other bilateral pacts, including the 1972 Simla Agreement that bound the neighbours to a ceasefire line in disputed Kashmir, known as the Line of Control (LoC).

But on May 7, India launched a wave of missile attacks against sites in Pakistan and Pakistan-administered Kashmir. It claimed it hit “terrorist infrastructure”, but Pakistan says at least 31 civilians, including two children, were killed.

On May 8, India launched drones into Pakistani airspace, reaching the country’s major cities. India claimed it was retaliating, and that Pakistan had fired missiles and drones at it. Then, for two nights in a row, cities in India and Indian-administered Kashmir reported explosions that New Delhi claimed were the result of attempted Pakistani attacks that were thwarted.

Pakistan denied sending missiles and drones into India on May 8 and May 9 – but that changed in the early hours of May 10, when Pakistan first claimed that India targeted three of its bases with missiles. Soon after, Pakistan claimed it struck at least seven Indian bases. India has not yet responded either to Pakistan’s claims that Indian bases were hit or to Islamabad’s allegation that New Delhi launched missiles at its military installations.

How many nuclear warheads do India and Pakistan have?

India first conducted nuclear tests in May 1974 before subsequent tests in May 1998, after which it declared itself a nuclear weapons state. Within days, Pakistan launched a series of six nuclear tests and officially became a nuclear-armed state, too.

Each side has since raced to build arms and nuclear stockpiles bigger than the other, a project that has cost them billions of dollars.

India is currently estimated to have more than 180 nuclear warheads. It has developed longer-range missiles and mobile land-based missiles capable of delivering them, and is working with Russia to build ship and submarine missiles, according to the Center for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS).

Pakistan’s arsenal, meanwhile, consists of more than 170 warheads. The country enjoys technological support from its regional ally, China, and its stockpile includes primarily mobile short- and medium-range ballistic missiles, with enough range to hit just inside India.

What’s India’s nuclear policy?

India’s interest in nuclear power was initially sparked and expanded under its first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, who was eager to use it to boost energy generation. However, in recent decades, the country has solidified its nuclear power status to deter its neighbours, China and Pakistan, over territorial disputes.

New Delhi’s first and only nuclear doctrine was published in 2003 and has not been formally revised. The architect of that doctrine, the late strategic analyst K Subrahmanyam, was the father of India’s current foreign minister, S Jaishankar.

Only the prime minister, as head of the political council of the Nuclear Command Authority, can authorise a nuclear strike. India’s nuclear doctrine is built around four principles:

• No First Use (NFU): This principle means that India will not be the first to launch nuclear attacks on its enemies. It will only retaliate with nuclear weapons if it is first hit in a nuclear attack. India’s doctrine says it can launch retaliation against attacks committed on Indian soil or if nuclear weapons are used against its forces on foreign territory. India also commits to not using nuclear weapons against non-nuclear states.
• Credible Minimum Deterrence: India’s nuclear posture is centred around deterrence – that is, its nuclear arsenal is meant primarily to discourage other countries from launching a nuclear attack on the country. India maintains that its nuclear arsenal is insurance against such attacks. It’s one of the reasons why New Delhi is not a signatory to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), as it maintains that all countries uniformly disarm before it does the same.
• Massive Retaliation: India’s retaliation to a first-strike from an aggressor will be calculated to inflict such destruction and damage that the enemy’s military capabilities will be annihilated.
• Exceptions for biological or chemical weapons: As an exception to NFU, India will use nuclear weapons against any state that targets the country or its military forces abroad with biological or chemical weapons, according to the doctrine.

What is Pakistan’s nuclear policy?

• Strategic Ambiguity: Pakistan has never officially released a comprehensive policy statement on its nuclear weapons use, giving it the flexibility to potentially deploy nuclear weapons at any stage of a conflict, as it has threatened to do in the past. Experts widely believe that from the outset, Islamabad’s non-transparency was strategic and meant to act as a deterrence to India’s superior conventional military strength, rather than to India’s nuclear power alone.
• The Four Triggers: However, in 2001, Lieutenant General (Retd) Khalid Ahmed Kidwai, regarded as a pivotal strategist involved in Pakistan’s nuclear policy, and an adviser to the nuclear command agency, laid out four broad “red lines” or triggers that could result in a nuclear weapon deployment. They are:

Spatial threshold – Any loss of large parts of Pakistani territory could warrant a response. This also forms the root of its conflict with India.

Military threshold – Destruction or targeting of a large number of its air or land forces could be a trigger.

Economic threshold – Actions by aggressors that might have a choking effect on Pakistan’s economy.

Political threshold – Actions that lead to political destabilisation or large-scale internal disharmony.

However, Pakistan has never spelled out just how large the loss of territory of its armed forces needs to be for these triggers to be set off.

Has India’s nuclear posture changed?

Although India’s official doctrine has remained the same, Indian politicians have in recent years implied that a more ambiguous posture regarding the No First Use policy might be in the works, presumably to match Pakistan’s stance.

In 2016, India’s then-Defence Minister Manohar Parrikar questioned if India needed to continue binding itself to NFU. In 2019, the present Defence Minister Rajnath Singh said that India had so far strictly adhered to the NFU policy, but that changing situations could affect that.

“What happens in the future depends on the circumstances,” Singh had said.

India adopting this strategy might be seen as proportional, but some experts note that strategic ambiguity is a double-edged sword.

“The lack of knowledge of an adversary’s red lines could lead to lines inadvertently being crossed, but it could also restrain a country from engaging in actions that may trigger a nuclear response,” expert Lora Saalman notes in a commentary for the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI).

Has Pakistan’s nuclear posture changed?

Pakistan has moved from an ambiguous policy of not spelling out a doctrine to a more vocal “No NFU” policy in recent years.

In May 2024, Kidwai, the nuclear command agency adviser, said during a seminar that Islamabad “does not have a No First Use policy”.

As significantly, Pakistan has, since 2011, developed a series of so-called tactical nuclear weapons. TNWs are short-range nuclear weapons designed for more contained strikes and are meant to be used on the battlefield against an opposing army without causing widespread destruction.

In 2015, then-Foreign Secretary Aizaz Chaudhry confirmed that TNWs could be used in a potential future conflict with India.