Ghada Abdulfattah

The correspondent’s father inspects the rubble that was once their family home, destroyed during an Israeli military offensive, in Deir al-Balah, central Gaza Strip, Sept. 2, 2024.

The impact of the Israel-Hamas war in the Gaza Strip is deeply personal for those living it on the ground, including the Monitor’s correspondents, for whom the intersection of their real lives and news events of just the last few days is a devastating reminder.

Friday Ghada Abdulfattah returned to her neighborhood in the Gaza town of Deir al-Balah after an Israeli military operation left her family home no more than a teetering pile of rubble.

Just weeks ago the house and compound were home to dozens of people in a sprawling, interconnected family. They are all now homeless, rejoining the ranks of the estimated 85% of Gaza residents who have been displaced since Oct. 7.

Saturday night Dina Kraft learned Hersh Goldberg-Polin was one of six Israeli hostages whose bodies had been found in a tunnel under Rafah by Israeli soldiers earlier that day. An autopsy indicated they had been executed by Hamas shortly before.

Hersh, whom Dina had met just a week before he was seriously wounded and kidnapped almost 11 months ago, had heeded the message his parents hoped he heard, to “stay strong, survive.” Their advocacy, especially in the United States where Hersh was born, made him the most recognized of the hostages internationally.

“There is a surplus of agony on all sides of the tragic conflict in the Middle East,” his father, Jon Polin, told the Democratic National Convention just 13 days ago. “And in a competition of pain, there are no winners.”

Ghada and Dina recount the last days’ events as they experienced them.

Ghada returns home to Deir al-Balah

Two weeks after the Israeli military ordered us from our home in Deir al-Balah, its declaration last Thursday allowing some residents to return prompted mixed feelings.

Many were cautiously happy; I was wary.

My father was the first to check on our house. When he returned, he admitted, “We might have to tear it all down.”

On Friday, I accompanied him back to our neighborhood to see the damage myself, taking a donkey cart from our relative’s house nearly 2 miles away.

In the cart, passengers shouted curses at both Hamas and Israel. One man recounted how his relative was killed in Israel’s offensive on Deir al-Balah. He had risked his life to check on his home and paid the ultimate price.

Our neighborhood spoke one word: apocalypse. Houses completely destroyed, partially ruined, or burned, tank shells littering the ground. Buildings that had stood for generations had crumbled.

My street, once lined with olive groves and palm trees, where I would bring my friends to escape the congestion of Gaza City, was now charred and littered with sandy mounds. I can still smell the dust and debris filling the air, an oppressive haze. 

Then we reached our house – what was left of it. The five-story house was once home to 27 people: my parents and me, my siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephews. The Israeli military had reduced my family’s farm to a twisted mass of metal, splintered trees, and broken concrete, gaping with holes.

Abdel Kareem Hana/AP

Palestinians inspect their homes after they were destroyed by Israeli shelling in eastern Deir al-Balah, Aug. 29, 2024.

As I stood there, a wave of disbelief washed over me. It felt surreal, like a scene from a movie – my home, the place I had laughed, cried, and built my life, was dissolving into rubble.

Fear gripped me tightly. Then came the grief. I thought of all the memories held within those walls – the birthday parties, my brother’s dabke folk dances, quiet evenings, and shared meals. It was as if a piece of my soul was being torn to pieces. I felt hollow, like an important part of me had vanished in an instant.

Anger surged next. It felt so unjust, so senseless. In that moment, I felt utterly alone, surrounded by the ruins of my past.

At the onset of the war, our home was struck by numerous artillery shells, damaging the water tanks, the stairs, my niece’s room, and our kitchen. Each time it was hit, we returned, cleaned what we could, and tried to make our home liveable.

But now, I am officially homeless. Given our reconstruction methods, lack of machinery, and Israel’s strict limits on construction material entering Gaza, it may take years, even decades, to rebuild.

This was not the first time war had hit home. In 2014, I lost my family home to that year’s Israel-Hamas war; to replace it, we had built this new house here in the Mahata neighborhood on the outskirts of Deir al-Balah. Almost everyone in our family pitched in.

Now that house, too, is gone. My father’s beloved olive groves are gone. The palm trees, orange trees, grapevines are gone. My room, my awards, my belongings are gone. But others have lost more.

One neighbor who went to check on his house during the Israeli military operation was killed. I watched his siblings sifting through debris, searching for a room to stay in. His mother lamented to me, “How can I return to my house with my son no longer here?”

How can one grieve over mere stones and trees when faced with the larger tragedy of victims – the deceased, the shattered families, the charred bodies of children? Yet as a human with emotions, I also mourn the lost years of effort, the life I had built.

Like hundreds of thousands of other Palestinians in Gaza, if the war ends, we will be homeless. How many times will we have to restart our lives from scratch? Who will compensate us for these lost years?

Since Friday, my father has gone to the ruins of our home every day at 6 a.m. It’s a quiet ritual, one that feels heavy with unspoken emotions. I can see it in his eyes – the shock still lingers, like a ghost haunting us. We all move through our days in a silenced daze, each of us trapped in our own thoughts. We work in silence; we eat in silence. I know if I would speak, I would start crying.

Dina attends a funeral in Jerusalem

The funeral Monday for Hersh Goldberg-Polin was starting soon, and I was still on the bus packed with dozens heading there too. Cars as far as the eye could see were crawling through monster traffic to reach the hilltop Jerusalem cemetery.

Glancing nervously again at the time, I decided if I was going to get there it was going to be by foot. I joined a stream of others hurrying to say farewell to Hersh.

I marveled at the diversity of the crowd: peace activists, ultra-Orthodox, teenage soccer fans, dignitaries.

Most did not know Hersh but felt they did. They knew him through stories his parents told about their curious bright light of a son, as they crisscrossed the globe turning over every stone they thought might help save his and other hostages’ lives.

Gil Cohen-Magen/AP

Jonathan Polin (center left) and Rachel Goldberg-Polin (center right), parents of Israeli American hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin, attend their son's funeral in Jerusalem, Sept. 2, 2024, flanked by their two daughters. The bodies of Hersh and five other hostages were recovered from a Hamas tunnel in Gaza Aug. 31.

Hersh’s father is a college friend, and our families were fortunate to have had a holiday meal together just a week before Hersh was abducted.

It was one of those rare nights when the younger generation did not bolt from the table after dessert but lingered to continue a deep conversation about which figures in the world, past or present, we would want to meet.

Hersh’s first response was the Dalai Lama. He also regaled us with stories of his recent Europe trip hitchhiking to music festivals and his plans to travel the world. His energy was electric, his appetite for life so palpable and infectious it put us on a collective high. All the way home and the following day, we kept returning to the subject of Hersh and how much we liked him.

The night of Oct. 7, as we were trying to comprehend reports of abductions and massacres, my son, who had bonded with Hersh over their shared love of Israeli soccer, showed me a TikTok post about someone missing. “Isn’t this Hersh?” he asked. I nodded mutely and then went into the bathroom to cry.

I was in tears again this past Saturday night as I left a protest calling for the Netanyahu government to finally agree to a hostage release deal. I had just received word, then still unofficial, that six hostages had been found dead.

At the top of the list was Hersh’s name. I prayed it was all a terrible mistake. I barely slept and awoke to the nightmare confirmation: It was true. And not only true, but Hersh and the five other young Israelis – whose stories of survival underground for 11 months we will now never know – had been alive just hours before their bodies were found.

This has made their deaths even more gutting. This double senselessness of first the horror of the kidnapping and then of the failure to free them. Sentiment that the government has betrayed the hostages spiked after the killing of Hersh and those with him, and is what drove an estimated half a million Israelis into the streets Sunday and thousands since, including a general strike Monday.

“May he rest in revolution” reads a popular meme in Hersh’s memory.

Gil Cohen-Magen/Reuters

Mourners attend the funeral of slain U.S. Israeli hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin, whose body was recovered with five others in Gaza, at Givat Shaul cemetery in Jerusalem, Sept. 2, 2024. The six were among 251 hostages seized in Hamas' Oct. 7 attack, which triggered the ongoing war between Israel and Hamas.

In her graveside eulogy, Rachel Goldberg-Polin, whose humanity, certainty her son would return, and ability to put words to the agony of her emotions have awed so many, said, “Hersh, for all of these months I have been in such torment worrying about you every millisecond of everyday.

“It was such a specific type of misery that I have never experienced before. I tried hard to suppress the ‘missing you’ part. Because that, I was convinced, would break me. So I spent 330 days terrified, scared, worrying, and frightened. It closed my throat and made my soul throb. ...

“You charmed everyone you ever talked to, old or young. You promoted justice and peace in a way only a young, pure, wide-eyed idealist, can,” she said. “OK, sweet boy, go now on your journey, I hope it’s as good as the trips you dreamed about, because finally, my sweet sweet boy, finally, finally, finally, finally you are free!”

After I waited my turn to put a stone of remembrance on Hersh’s grave, I hitched a ride, and three others piled in after me. Five strangers in the car: me; the driver, whose son went to elementary school with Hersh; a fan of Hersh’s beloved Hapoel Jerusalem soccer team; a young woman whose friend is Hersh’s cousin; and a man from the central city of Rehovot who felt too pained not to come.

We spoke about how unbearable everything currently feels and what might bring change. The conversation continued among two of us walking toward the train station. We agreed Hersh would have loved seeing us connecting, and we admired the tangerine-violet sunset together.

We took a selfie to remember the moment.

Markus Schreiber/AP

Björn Höcke, top candidate of the far-right Alternative for Germany party, or AfD, campaigns on Aug. 13 for state elections.

For the surging far right in Germany, a Syrian asylum-seeker’s brutal knife attack that killed three and wounded eight others could not have been better timed.

It’s election season, and the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) jumped on the Aug. 23 incident, riding the party’s anti-immigration platform to victory on Sunday. The party won 33% of the vote in one east German state election – the first state win for the extreme right since World War II – and a second-place finish with about 30% in another.

The AfD is unlikely to be able to form a regional government; its more moderate rivals will boycott the extremist group when it comes to building ruling coalitions. But across Europe, radical right-wingers – from authoritarian-minded populists to out-and-out Nazis – are wielding increasing influence on mainstream parties.

It’s a new world in Europe. The head of Germany’s conservative Christian Democratic Union now dubs his country’s traditionally welcoming migration policy “naive.” French centrists are calling for more law and order, and Norwegian conservatives have discussed keeping refugees in camps abroad, rather than offering them shelter in Norway.

Once-extremist points of view are being normalized, says Cécile Alduy, a French professor and author who examines nationhood and identity. “The danger is that we are starting to have governments that don’t have the stigma of the label ‘far right’ but get people used to thinking that depriving people of rights because of their origins or skin color is ok,” she wrote in an email interview.

The mainstream drifts rightward

In France last week, a migrant from Cape Verde ran over and killed a gendarme. The man still held a license despite nearly a dozen traffic violations, a fact that sparked outrage.

France’s domestic affairs minister trumpeted the law-and-order language of the far right. “Policemen and gendarmes are being killed, and indeed the courts should be much firmer against those who use their vehicle … as a weapon,” said Gérald Darmanin.

Thomas Padilla/AP/File

Opponents of France’s immigration law protest with banners that read, “Freedom, equality, fraternity” and “No to the immigration law” at Trocadéro plaza in Paris.

Mr. Darmanin has promoted an immigration law taken in part from the far-right National Rally’s platform; the resulting policy was so extreme that France’s highest court judged it unconstitutional. In July, President Emmanuel Macron criticized what he called a “totally immigrationist” policy proposal from the opposition, using a radical-right buzzword from the 1990s.

This rightward shift away from the middle ground in France reflects “partly pressure from the far right, and partly belief among the conservatives that the best way to defeat the far right is to borrow from them,” says Jean-Yves Camus, a French political scientist and expert in nationalist movements.

German centrists – despite a decades-long mission to ensure a movement like Nazism never again takes root in society – have not been immune to this rightward momentum either.

After the Syrian man’s knife attack two weeks ago, German conservative leader Friedrich Merz declared a “turning point” and demanded an end to migration from Syria and Afghanistan, which would likely be illegal under European Union and German law.

Sweden, with a long history of liberal immigration policies and a huge welfare state, proudly agreed to take in more than 160,000 refugees in 2015. By 2021, the “Moderate Party” was forging a proposal with populists to tighten borders, reduce numbers of asylum-seekers, and restrict welfare benefits for immigrants, among other policies long championed by the far right.

“They’ve moved in an immigration-restrictive direction, typical in many countries where the far right are not allowed into coalitions but have influence anyway,” says Katrine Fangen, a sociologist at the University of Oslo who specializes in extremism.

If radicalism is creeping into the mainstream, the fact is that it profited from an opening that centrist parties themselves created by their decades-long failure to address real problems that people are now getting radicalized about, says Jan Techau, a German political scientist and director for Europe at the Eurasia Group.

Those issues include immigration and homeland security. “And because there’s still little movement to tackle this issue, the rhetoric will get harsher, and people start to embrace the rhetoric and it becomes normal,” says Mr. Techau.

The right sometimes gets it wrong

Political outcomes could unfold in a variety of ways.

In the Netherlands, the far right won the most parliamentary seats in last year’s election. But party leader Geert Wilders has been unable to form a government – in the face of concerted opposition – despite having given up his ambition to become prime minister and having ditched some of his most dramatic policies, such as banning mosques and leaving the EU.

Peter Dejong/AP

Hundreds of people joined a gathering to protest the Dutch election victory of Geert Wilders’ far-right Party for Freedom in November 2023.

In France, on the other hand, the prospect that Marine Le Pen might win presidential elections in 2027 is no longer outlandish. “It’s a reality,” says Dr. Camus, the French political scientist. “Ten years ago, it was totally beyond the pale. It was science fiction.”

Yet, in some countries, conservative parties that were radicalized by the immigration issue and rode into government over the last decade, have since suffered setbacks.

British Conservative party leaders had referred to illegal migration as an “invasion” and framed Brexit as a way to “take back control” of borders. The party was swept from office in July.

In Poland, during the 2015 migrant crisis that happened to coincide with national elections, conservative politicians accused migrants of carrying parasites and warned that Muslim migrants would undermine Poland’s Christian identity. That helped them win the election, but they were voted out of office in 2023.

Germany’s Nazi past might hold the far right at bay in special ways, say analysts. For one, mainstream parties have put a “firewall” around forming coalitions with the far right.

But when centrists feel pressure from the far right, and adopt the rhetoric, says Hajo Funke, a German political scientist at the Free University in Berlin, “it does restrict the liberal atmosphere. It’s polarizing, and reduces this atmosphere of acknowledging one another, of empathy towards the problems of others. It’s a big danger.”

In the sleepy town of Taitung on Taiwan’s southeastern coast, lush mountains drop steeply into a narrow valley dotted with pineapple groves before giving way to the Pacific Ocean.

The lull of waves and chirps of insects in the fragrant, tropical woods along the coast create a sense of dreamy detachment, even under the scorching sun. Shaded by a makeshift awning, a peddler sells fresh coconuts to people strolling along the rocky beach as stray dogs roam the wind-swept, seaside road.

Suddenly, the calm is shattered. Low-flying Taiwan air force F-16s roar overhead and then hurtle seaward. Their thundering engines taper to a distant crinkling hiss.

These American-made F-16s may be scrambling to respond to what has become near daily incursions by China’s People’s Liberation Army. Or their pilots could be on a training mission. But as China continues to display its military presence, the air defense maneuvers above this enchanting part of Taiwan are an inescapable reminder of the superpower just across the Taiwan Strait.

“China is surrounding us now!” says a man whose surname is Tang, a local environmental worker taking a break from inspecting oceanfront palm trees. “The past two days we can see the naval ships,” he says, referring to large-scale sea and air operations being conducted by the Chinese military. “They are so close – only 20 nautical miles away!”

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

Residents stroll on a beach in Taitung, Taiwan.

China has vowed to retake Taiwan for decades

In Taiwan, a self-governing, democratic island of 23 million people just 80 miles off China’s coast, a palpable sense of change is in the air. 

China’s communist-led government has never ruled Taiwan, but has claimed the island for decades and has vowed to retake it – by force, if necessary. The threat of a Chinese military invasion or blockade long seemed remote, as Beijing prioritized diplomatic pressure to try to isolate Taiwan internationally and economic incentives to attract the island to unify peacefully.

Yet rather than drawing closer, China and Taiwan have increasingly diverged. 

Over the past 40 years, Taiwan has emerged as a vibrant, diverse democracy with a strong identity, less willing to unify with the mainland and eager to chart its own course. 

China, meanwhile, has grown into an economic and military powerhouse, with a hard-line nationalist leadership more determined than ever to unite Taiwan with the “motherland.” The gap has grown starker under Chinese leader Xi Jinping and Taiwan’s new President Lai Ching-te, inaugurated in May. 

Chiang Ying-ying/AP

An F-16 fighter jet takes off during the annual Han Kuang military exercises in Hualien County in eastern Taiwan. These jets often train over Taitung and scramble in response to incursions by China’s military.

Now, as the People’s Liberation Army ramps up operations around the island, the threat of conflict feels more real to Taiwanese, polls show. So do the dangers of China’s mounting political and economic coercion. 

Taiwan’s people emphatically prefer peace. They also treasure their freedom, autonomy, and way of life. But if Beijing decides to attack the island, they would be forced to choose.

“The decision whether to fight depends on the mainland,” says Mr. Tang, who withheld his first name to protect his identity. “It’s their choice,” he says, stressing Taiwan would never pick a fight with China. “How can a small ant go attack a big cockroach?”

On Taiwan’s rugged and sparsely populated east coast, Mr. Tang, a native of Taitung, emphasizes that he and other residents relish their independence and self-sufficiency. “Easterners just want to live our lives without interference,” he says. “If you don’t fight me, I won’t fight you.”

And if China does invade? “I can’t think about it too much,” he says. “If I dwell on it, it will be hard to get through the day.”

Only 1% of Taiwanese people favor unification with China

Aeles Lrawbalrate runs her hand over the smooth wooden images of her ancestors, carved into the outer wall of her village elementary school.

A member of Taiwan’s Indigenous Rukai Tribe, she relates the history these carvings tell. Not long ago, her tribespeople were forbidden to speak their own language. Uttering even a word at school brought stern punishment, she recalls over a bowl of herbal broth in her traditional bamboo home in the hills outside Taitung. “They hung a wooden plank around your neck that said, ‘She speaks Rukai.’”

Now in her 60s, Ms. Lrawbalrate is not only free to speak her native tongue and legally use her Rukai name, but also well along in her doctorate in the study of Rukai food and ecology. A guest of honor at the elementary school’s graduation this year, she inspires local Rukai youth to explore their roots.

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

“They hung a wooden plank around your neck that said, ‘She speaks Rukai,’” recalls Aeles Lrawbalrate, a member of an Indigenous tribe in Taiwan, on how the Taiwanese Nationalist government used to suppress the Rukai language and culture.

Ms. Lrawbalrate’s personal liberation traces Taiwan’s emergence from authoritarian repression to become one of the world’s freest democracies, which has allowed the island’s distinct and varied groups to thrive.

This cultural renaissance has widened the gap between Taiwan and China. As Taiwanese have come into their own – politically, economically, and culturally – interest in unification with China has evaporated.

Taiwanese today overwhelmingly prefer maintaining the status quo of an autonomous Taiwan interacting with China on an equal footing. Only 1% favor immediate unification with China. President Lai articulated this view in his inaugural address, saying that Taiwan and China “are not subordinate to each other.”

Meanwhile, the Taiwanese identity has flourished. Two-thirds of Taiwan’s population now sees itself as purely Taiwanese, up from one-fifth 30 years ago. Only 2% identifies as purely Chinese, down from 25% in 1992.

This makes Taiwan unusual, since 95% of the population is ethnically Han Chinese, notes Simona Grano, senior fellow at the Asia Society’s Center for China Analysis in New York. “It’s quite a unique situation in that time of arrival on the island dictates identity.”

A complicated history, from Dutch colonists to Chiang Kai-shek 

Taiwan has a complicated history. Over the centuries, wave after wave of immigrants and colonizers landed here, each making a mark. Ms. Lrawbalrate’s Indigenous ancestors arrived 6,000 years ago during the Neolithic period, and they now compose about 2% of the population.

In the 1600s, Dutch colonists brought in laborers from China’s Fujian province. More Chinese came from Guangdong province in the 18th and 19th centuries. Japan colonized Taiwan for 50 years, from 1895 to 1945, imposing its language and systems of governance throughout the island.

In the late 1940s, Chiang Kai-shek, leader of China’s Nationalist Party, or Kuomintang, retreated to Taiwan with an estimated 1million mainland Chinese soldiers and followers. They had just lost the Chinese Civil War to the communist forces of Mao Zedong. Still, Mr. Chiang claimed that he was the legitimate leader of all of China, and he vowed to unify both sides of the Taiwan Strait.

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

A view of Taipei, Taiwan, is seen from a mountain north of the city.

To consolidate his power in Taiwan, Mr. Chiang imposed martial law, crushing dissent and executing thousands of people during decades of oppression known as the “white terror.” 

Mr. Chiang also waged a “Sinification campaign” to force the population to speak standard Chinese, or Mandarin. He banned speaking Taiwanese or any other languages in public. This included traditional literature and folk songs.

Such policies created a rift that persists today between the descendants of Taiwanese who had lived on the island for generations and those of the mainland-born Chinese who arrived with Mr. Chiang. The new arrivals established themselves as the dominant, privileged ruling class.

It wasn’t until 1986 that a popular movement pressing for human rights, political freedom, and revival of the Taiwanese identity was able to establish the opposition Democratic Progressive Party.

A year later, the old regime lifted martial law and relaxed curbs on the media and free speech. Taiwan held its first direct presidential elections in 1996, and Democratic Progressives steadily gained support. Dr. Lai’s victory in January this year gave the nearly 40-year-old party an unprecedented third consecutive presidential term.

“Go Taiwan! Go democracy!” Indigenous resistance endures. 

Today, Ms. Lrawbalrate sees Taiwan through the lens of centuries of tribal efforts to survive one colonizer after another – from the Dutch to the Japanese to the Chinese. “China says, ‘This is mine,’” she says. “We don’t agree. ... We will fight.” Finally free to delve into her Rukai heritage and relearn her native language, Ms. Lrawbalrate seeks above all to strengthen her people.

Politically, she supports the Democratic Progressives and rejects what she considers the more pro-China stance of the Nationalist Party. She and others worry about recent trips Nationalist senior officials made to China, including former President Ma Ying-jeou. He met with Mr. Xi and emphasized their peoples’ common bloodline, culture, and identity.

In a clear shift, Ms. Lrawbalrate says younger tribespeople are now challenging the Nationalist Party’s traditional stronghold in Taitung, as well as in other Indigenous regions.“The [Kuomintang] workers brainwashed the Indigenous elders,” she says. But “the younger people ... are rather independent” and willing to “fight to not suffer oppression from another land.”

The night before, scores of protesters, including young tribespeople, chanted slogans on a Taitung street corner, denouncing what they called an antidemocratic bill backed by the Kuomintang that would curtail Dr. Lai’s powers. Many said they feared China was behind it, and that Taiwan must urgently resist or risk becoming “another Hong Kong,” referring to China’s crackdown on political freedoms there.

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

Demonstrators carrying signs protest perceived undemocratic, pro-China policies in Taipei.

“Go Taiwan! Go democracy!” they chanted, one wearing a T-shirt that said, “Taiwan is not part of China.” Another protester shouted “Fight!” in his tribal language, as police forming a barricade looked on.

Eger Mapaliu, a local Peinan tribal member in his mid-30s, says everyone his age identifies as Taiwanese, not Chinese. Many support the Democratic Progressive’s liberal democratic agenda, convinced that if Beijing took over, repression would return. “China now is Taiwan of 50 years ago,” Mr. Mapaliu says. “We don’t want to go back.”

China’s disinformation attacks on Taiwan often boomerang

With a keen eye on the weather, Hsi K’unwan scans the horizon early one morning from a quiet harbor at the northern tip of Taiwan, weighing whether to get in his skiff and fish.

It’s overcast and rainy, with hints of a storm, so he decides to stay on land.

Fishing has been the way of life for Mr. Hsi and most families here in Jinshan. The town is the starting point of the “fish road,” an old footpath from here to the mountains and on to the markets in Taipei.

Yet Mr. Hsi and other fishers gathered outside a corner tackle shop say they are finding fewer and fewer fish in their nets.

China’s fishing fleets are encroaching into their waters, leaving them with little to catch, they say. “They have lots of big boats – they catch our fish and take them away,” says Hsi Chengch’eng, who’s been fishing sardines. “Now they are crossing the median line,” says the other Mr. Hsi, referring to an informal line down the middle of the Taiwan Strait that for decades each side respected to reduce the risk of conflict. “When our coast guard goes out, the Chinese boats sometimes ignore them,” he says.

“We love Taiwan,” Mr. Hsi adds. “We don’t want to be undemocratic like the mainland. We want a free Taiwan, free speech, a free life.”

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

“We love Taiwan. We don’t want to be undemocratic like the mainland. We want a free Taiwan, free speech, a free life,” says Hsi K’unwan, a Taiwanese fisher in Jinshan, Taiwan, standing near his small fishing boat in Jinshan harbor.

China has responded harshly to Taiwan’s rising self-determination. The growing number of incursions by its large fleets of fishing vessels is just one way Beijing is stepping up military, economic, and political pressure on the small island.

China’s leaders have refused to engage in talks with the Democratic Progressive government since it took power in 2016. They have also intensified what they call punitive measures aimed at Dr. Lai. Beijing calls the new president a “stubborn separatist.” It also recently approved the death sentence for “Taiwan independence diehards” under its Anti-Secession Law.

Around Taiwan’s coast and outlying islands, China has stepped up “gray zone” incursions of its warplanes and ships in order to probe Taiwan’s defenses and display its might.

Such strategies, which include the detention of Taiwanese fishers by China’s coast guard, are in part psychological, says Julia Famularo, postdoctoral fellow in Taiwan studies at Harvard University. This cognitive warfare “sends a signal that Taiwan’s coast guard is incapable of conducting effective patrols,” she says.

More often than not, Beijing’s pressure tactics are undermining the goal of unification by driving Taiwanese further away, according to surveys and experts. “[China’s] policies are backfiring big-time,” says Dr. Grano at the Asia Society. “Coercion, threats, and intimidation do not fare well, especially with the younger people.” China’s import bans on key Taiwan products, for example, have led Taiwan’s farmers to diversify and seek other markets.

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

Fishers bring in a haul of sardines near the fishing town of Jinshan, Taiwan.

A robust fact-checking movement debunks lies and rumors

In Taitung County, fruit farmer Chang Chien was hit hard three years ago when China banned imports of atemoya, a sweet, heart-shaped fruit he grows. “It was unreasonable and political,” says Mr. Chang, resting on a stool near his orchard after a morning of hand-pollinating fruit. In response, he’s diversifying to other crops and increasing exports to other Asian markets.

Mr. Chang doubts China will invade, given the risks for Beijing. But if the worst happens, he plans to take his farming skills abroad. “I could go to Japan, Vietnam, or New Zealand – wherever needs farmers,” he says.

In the political and media realm, China’s aggressive disinformation attacks on Taiwan often boomerang. They have spurred a robust fact-checking movement its backers hope will strengthen Taiwan’s democracy. A network of fast-paced and innovative fact-checking organizations has sprung up to debunk lies and damaging rumors.

“China will conduct information operations in a very subtle and sophisticated way now,” says Summer Chen, senior strategic consultant at Doublethink Lab, a Taipei organization focused on disinformation. In 2018, Ms. Chen helped spearhead the first organization that monitors false information in the Chinese-speaking world.

Still, China’s relentless disinformation can have an impact. Doublethink identified more than 10,000 pieces of suspicious information linked to Chinese state media or fake social media accounts in the three months leading up to Taiwan’s January elections. Timed with China’s military drills, this was intended to scare Taiwanese about the prospect of war.

Doublethink encourages those upset by inflammatory information online to talk with their “trust circle” before sharing information, and to report dubious postings to fact-checkers. The network pools data and uses chatbots to respond to fabrications “as quickly as can be,” says Ms. Chen.

“China will conduct ‘information warfare’ along with military action,” says Ms. Chen. “How do we do defense? The most important thing is everyone, every citizen in Taiwan, must have information resilience.” 

Jolted by China’s actions in Hong Kong, Taiwan ramps up defense 

Last July, Tsai Tsung-lin pulled on his army uniform and boots, and with a Taiwanese flag waving from his rucksack, he set off from his home in the western city of Taichung.

He embarked on a marathon march around the entire island. His mission on the nearly 700-mile trek was to inspire other Taiwanese to join the military. There has been a serious shortage of recruits. Many units only have 60% to 70% of the soldiers they need.

“We need Taiwan’s people to recognize China is a threat. We are extremely low on personnel,” says Mr. Tsai, a former soldier. “The pressure is great,” he says over tea at Taipei’s Liberty Square.

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

“We need Taiwan’s people to recognize China is a threat,” says Tsai Tsung-lin, a former Taiwanese soldier, standing in Liberty Square in Taipei, Taiwan. Mr. Tsai made a nearly 700-mile trek around Taiwan last year to encourage people to join the military.

Taiwan’s public was jolted by China’s crushing of dissent in Hong Kong in 2020. Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine has also stirred anxiety. These world events have only strengthened people’s growing resolve to bolster Taiwan’s defenses, experts say.

“The Russian invasion [of Ukraine] changed people’s thinking,” says Chieh Chung, associate researcher of national security at the National Policy Foundation in Taipei. “They started to discuss the possibility of a [Chinese] military invasion.”

Seizing on the rising public concerns, former President Tsai Ing-wen pushed through an increase in Taiwan’s mandatory conscription period for males from four months to one year. “We can fix the shortage,” but it will take time, says Mr. Chieh.

Facing a massive military buildup by China, Taiwan’s armed forces are also shifting to nimbler, more asymmetric strategies that aim to use large numbers of inexpensive weapons such as mines, precision missiles, and portable air defense systems.

“People are hungry for training” 

Yet this kind of military readiness is not enough for a prolonged conflict, as the Ukraine war shows, say Taiwan defense experts. Taiwan should prepare to mobilize an enduring, coordinated response by the military, first responders, and civil society as a whole, says Ying-yu Lin, assistant professor at Tamkang University Taiwan, who calls this “all-out defense.” 

But the government lacks the resources to do this, he says. Recognizing such gaps, a grassroots civil defense movement has sprung up in Taiwan in recent years.

“We are forging that connective tissue” vital for any crisis, whether war or natural disaster, says Enoch Wu, executive director of Forward Alliance, which he founded in 2020. His organization uses full-time firefighters and paramedics to teach lifesaving skills to schools, churches, and community groups. It also holds trainings for police precincts, the island’s civil defense corps and coast guard, and civilian conscripts. It has trained 15,000 people so far, he says.

“People are hungry for training,” says Mr. Wu, a former Taiwan special forces soldier. This kind of training also forms bonds of trust that help keep democracy resilient, he says. But he, too, adds, “We are pressed for time.”

In an upstairs assembly room at New Taipei City’s Tucheng Police Precinct, his organization is training a dozen officers as they run through mock mass casualty drills, practicing the tying of tourniquets and other first-aid techniques.

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

Taiwanese police officers undergo emergency first-aid training and mass casualty drills taught by a civil defense group at Tucheng Police Precinct in New Taipei City.

“These two civilians are wounded!” a Forward Alliance instructor shouts at two police officers just arriving at the scene.

It’s the first such training for officers Godsbe Chen and Lin Chih-yuan, who do not routinely carry first-aid gear. Both have felt frustrated at their inability to help injured people during their patrols.

“I once saw a young man dying in front of me. So I really do think this kind of training is needed in our job,” says Officer Chen. Police armed with such skills can help more people survive a disaster, he says. Officer Lin adds, “Now, I have a way to save people, myself or my colleagues.”

Taiwanese consider their options as China ramps up military exercises

Joey Chen, pastor of Grace Church in Taipei, was visiting the Penghu Islands in the Taiwan Strait in August 2022, when then-U.S. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi visited Taiwan.

Her visit prompted a vigorous response from China’s leaders as they launched massive live-fire military exercises around the island. “I was looking for the nearest escape routes,” recalls Mr. Chen. “Where would we hide in the hotel, if the soldiers came?” 

Ann Scott Tyson/The Christian Science Monitor

“I’m used to freedom and democracy. As a grand country, China should let us live peacefully,” says Lin Ching-yi (center), a retired hairstylist and mother in Taipei, Taiwan.

The military show of force ended after a week, but it left a lasting impression on Mr. Chen. He’s now considering offering emergency preparedness training for members of his congregation. Taiwan today feels “too peaceful,” says Mr. Chen. It’s “like the calm before the storm.”

When asked in a 2022 survey what people in Taiwan would do if war broke out with China, about a third responded they’d be passive. They’d flee, hide, surrender, or just let “nature take its course,” many reported.

“I would wave a white flag,” says Yang Chong-i, who grew up in the rice-farming county of Yilan and now helps care for his older mother there.

But nearly half of those responding indicated they’d resist. They’d join the army, back the government, and defend their homes. Faith in Taiwan’s leaders and in the United States is a key factor underlying this will to fight, research shows.

If China attacks, “I want to be at the front line ... to protect our country,” says Liang Yi-ying, a nonprofit worker in Taipei attending an emergency training class by the Kuma Academy, a civil defense group. “We are strong enough to defend [Taiwan],” she says.

Either way, as China maneuvers around them, Taiwan’s people are responding not with panic – but with a calm awareness.

Many, like Lin Ching-yi, a retired hairstylist and mother, have taken mundane, day-to-day steps to prepare. She has made a go bag that contains rag bandages, spare clothes, and a raincoat. She has also stored away water and food.

“I’m used to freedom and democracy,” says Ms. Lin. “As a grand country, China should let us live peacefully.”

Jacquelyn Martin/AP

Democratic presidential nominee Vice President Kamala Harris talks as she visits SandFly Bar-B-Q in Savannah, Georgia, Aug. 28, 2024.

At this vital stage in the 2024 campaign, the path to the U.S. presidency for Kamala Harris runs through places like Dottie’s Market, a trendy Savannah spot with baked goods, luxury food items, and braided sweetgrass baskets for sale. 

On a late August bus tour to connect with voters, the vice president spoke to a rally of thousands and in a nationally televised interview. But she also tested her skill reaching voters on a more intimate scale.

We had a front-row view, as the Monitor provided the print reporter for the traveling press pool – tasked with sending regular updates to the wider press corps – on this journey through southern Georgia. It’s a region that for decades has rarely been on the campaign-stop list for Democratic presidential nominees.

“Where is your cookbook?” Ms. Harris asked one of Dottie’s patrons, who has written a recipe book. “I’m gonna find it.”

A known foodie, the vice president leaned over the counter to speak with a woman introduced as “Auntie Dorothy,” who mentioned Ms. Harris’ recent order at a fishery in Chicago. A Windy City native, the woman told Ms. Harris she should’ve gotten the scallops. “Auntie, I needed to see you before that trip,” the VP responded, laughing.

On this two-day tour, Ms. Harris’ visits revolved around either food or young people, with whom she seems at ease, whether leaning over to chat with a child at a restaurant, taking a phone handed to her to talk to someone’s daughter, or telling a roomful of students she’s proud of them. When she entered the marching band practice room at Liberty County High School in Hinesville, Georgia, musicians, cheerleaders, and football players erupted in audible gasps followed by cheers and applause. 

Questions about Ms. Harris’ ease at mingling with the public – “retail politics” – have swirled around her campaign since she became the Democratic nominee. While questions about President Joe Biden’s energy and ability to campaign intensified before he dropped out, the president clearly loves the glad-handing aspect of politics, lingering and chatting with crowds. 

Jacquelyn Martin/AP

Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris talks with the daughter of a supporter on the phone as she makes a stop at a volunteer appreciation event at The Gray in downtown Savannah, Georgia, Aug. 29, 2024.

Ms. Harris’ energy is youthful in comparison, and her rallies take on a different flavor, held in arenas that have often been packed with upward of 10,000 people. Indeed, just five weeks since President Biden dropped out of the race and endorsed Ms. Harris on July 21, the Harris campaign is still enjoying a honeymoon phase following the Democratic National Convention.

Packed into vans, the press trailed Ms. Harris’ bus in the motorcade as she stopped at a school, a barbecue joint, and a handful of other Savannah restaurants, many of them Black-owned, to greet voters and thank volunteers. These visits, where Ms. Harris chatted with students, business owners, and patrons, were unscripted – no teleprompter or notes in hand.

Democrats see a path to winning Georgia

The campaign’s choice to head to Georgia on its first big postconvention trip signals that advisers think the state is in play for Ms. Harris. In 2020, Mr. Biden won the battleground state by less than a quarter of a percentage point, or fewer than 12,000 votes. Ms. Harris now has a slight lead in the state over Republican nominee Donald Trump, according to recent polling.

When she landed in the Peach State (ready in “campaign casual,” sporting her signature black Converse sneakers), Ms. Harris was greeted on the tarmac by students from Savannah State University, the oldest public historically Black college in the state. 

From there, Ms. Harris’ bus, bright blue with a red stripe, stars, and the words “Harris Walz” and “A new way forward,” headed to a high school nearly an hour outside the city, past small, one-story homes and trees draped in Spanish moss. Ultimately, the bus headed to a full-scale campaign rally.

Tonya Sherman, a training director who came to the Savannah rally, says she finds Ms. Harris to be relatable. “She has a story like any regular person,” says Ms. Sherman. “That makes me trust her.”

And the vice president is not too scripted, says Ms. Sherman, adding that Ms. Harris lays out evidence and presents a case, true to her background as a prosecutor. Besides, the momentum of the campaign and the diverse crowd at the rally are propelling what is at the core of the Harris campaign, she adds. 

“Right now, she is speaking through us,” she says.  

Patrik Jonsson/The Christian Science Monitor

Savannah residents Tonya Sherman (left) and Stephanie Davis support Vice President Kamala Harris at her rally at Enmarket Arena in Savannah, Georgia, Aug. 29, 2024. Ms. Sherman says she finds Ms. Harris relatable, and “that makes me trust her.”

A recent Wall Street Journal poll found that 84% of voters say they have enough information about Ms. Harris’ policy positions and career to form a firm opinion. 

Harris tacks toward the center in her first TV interview

Ms. Harris’ televised appearance, hosted by CNN in a Savannah café, drew more viewers to the network’s 9 p.m. programming than anything since Mr. Biden’s inauguration. The backdrop: hovering uncertainty about a candidate who didn’t sit for an interview until Thursday, Aug. 29, some 39 days after launching her campaign.

Though it was a joint interview alongside the vice presidential nominee, Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz, Ms. Harris spoke for most of the 27 minutes. Both were measured in their answers and stuck to the center, a rebuttal to the Trump campaign’s attacks on the two as far-left figures. Ms. Harris spoke about middle-class economics and consensus-building, including the need to “find a common place of understanding of where we can actually solve problems.” When asked if she would consider appointing a Republican to her Cabinet, the vice president said yes. 

Elizabeth Frantz/Reuters

The campaign bus carrying Kamala Harris and running mate Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz is seen as they visit Savannah, Georgia, Aug. 28, 2024.

She stuck with Mr. Biden on Middle East policy, saying she wouldn’t change U.S. policy toward Israel, including with regard to supplying arms, adding, “We have to get a deal done” to end the war in Gaza.

And the vice president continues to avoid identity politics. When CNN’s Dana Bash asked for her reaction to former President Trump’s recent attacks on her racial identity, she said, “Same old, tired playbook. Next question, please.” Then she laughed. Ms. Harris has not emphasized the historic nature of her run as the first woman of color to be a major party nominee for president. 

“I am running because I believe that I am the best person to do this job at this moment for all Americans, regardless of race and gender,” she said. 

The campaign’s aim: activating, not flipping, voters

In an election expected to be decided by razor-thin margins, turnout is key, and the Harris campaign is focused on activating voters, not on flipping Trump voters. Over recent decades, Black voters have grown the most as a share of the electorate in Georgia. Ms. Harris carries 8 in 10 Black voters in the state, according to recent polling; that’s significantly more than Mr. Biden before he dropped out, but still below the support he won in the 2020 vote.

Ms. Harris seemed to be focused on a big-tent approach during the Georgia tour, highlighting economic issues and striking a welcoming tone to a wide range of voters. “Amen,” someone yelled at the packed Savannah rally when Ms. Harris said people shouldn’t have to abandon their faith to oppose abortion bans.

“Let’s not pay too much attention to the polls, because we are running as the underdog,” she called to the crowd. She wrapped up with what’s become a signature line: “When we fight, we win!”

Sophie Hills wrote this story after traveling to Savannah as part of the vice president’s press pool. Patrik Jonsson also reported in Savannah, attending the Harris rally.

Across Michigan’s wild and sparsely populated Upper Peninsula, gas stations and grocery stores are difficult to come by. Lighthouses, however, are everywhere.

The largest and deepest of the Great Lakes, Lake Superior is also the world’s largest lake by surface area. After French explorers reached the Great Lakes region in the early 1600s, word traveled back to Europe about a “great northern sea” – the uppermost lake that soon earned the name Lake Superior. Europeans and early American Colonists began using it for fur trading and, later, to transport mined copper and iron.

In the second half of the 19th century, lighthouses were erected along Lake Superior’s coast to help guide ships through the notoriously rough waters. Still, wrecks were common in the lake’s southeastern region approaching Whitefish Point. 

Amid intense fog and winter storms, many ships would try to hug the coastline, paying attention to each lighthouse’s specific flashing-light pattern. But as ships reached the eastern edge of the lake, where it narrowed into the Soo Locks dividing Lake Superior from Lake Huron, many collided with one another. The Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum at Whitefish Point chronicles historic sinkings, including that of the Edmund Fitzgerald in 1975, the last and largest ship to go down in the lake.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

TOWERING GIANT: The Au Sable Light Station stands on Au Sable Point, Michigan. Built in 1874, the lighthouse was continuously staffed until the Coast Guard left in 1958.

Today, technological advances have made Lake Superior’s lighthouses less critical. The Coast Guard has retired many of them; others are privately owned. “If you have to use a lighthouse’s light now, you’re in trouble,” says Hilary Billman, director of the Marquette Maritime Museum.

But these beacons, where lighthouse keepers and their families lived for decades to guide sailors, are popular tourist attractions.

Shipwrecks remain preserved in Superior’s cold waters – luring divers from far and wide to explore the lake’s floor. Visitors also climb many of the towers’ narrow spiral staircases to find a giant, dormant light. In Marquette’s tower, the howling wind rattles so violently that the structure sways. The Upper Peninsula’s lighthouses might be artifacts of history, but from their catwalks the same sight remains centuries later: a seemingly endless blue horizon. 

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

ROUND AND ROUND: A wrought-iron staircase leads up the tower at the Au Sable Light Station. After reaching the top, visitors duck through a trapdoor to enter the lighthouse dome.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

WELL-LIT PATH: Teens walk on the bridge connecting the Marquette Harbor Lighthouse with the building that once housed its fog signal.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

SUPERIOR VIEW: Lake Superior is seen from the Marquette Harbor Lighthouse in Marquette, Michigan. Coast Guard members and their families lived there until 1998, before the property was leased to the Marquette Maritime Museum.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

POINTS OF INTEREST: The Whitefish Point Light Station stands in the community of Paradise in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The site is home to the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum, which chronicles historic sinkings.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

LET THERE BE LIGHT: A Fresnel lens sits atop the tower of the Au Sable Light Station. The resulting beam could once be seen 17 miles out on Lake Superior.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

BEACON STREET: A park ranger gives a tour of the Au Sable Light Station, including the attached residence built for two lighthouse keepers and their families.

Alfredo Sosa/Staff

SHINE ON: The Point Iroquois Lighthouse in Brimley, Michigan, was built in 1855 and operated for 107 years. The brick structure was added in 1870.

For more visual storytelling that captures communities, traditions, and cultures around the globe, visit The World in Pictures.

Reuters

Polish Prime Minister Donald Tusk speaks in Gdansk, Poland, Sept. 1.

In most democracies, journalists and others try to pressure elected officials to admit their failings. In Poland, a prime minister who has been in power only nine months has ordered his Cabinet ministers to do just that. He asked them to “examine their conscience” and report on “things that are not going well.”

Confessions, of course, are best done voluntarily, yet Prime Minister Donald Tusk has tapped in to an aspect of Polish religious culture that sees confession as a healing moment, an opportunity to let go of sin. He seeks to reach citizens who did not vote for his party in elections last October as well as his own supporters made unhappy by the slow pace of reforms. Only a small number of 100 reforms promised by Mr. Tusk have been implemented.

“No government should feel impunity,” Mr. Tusk wrote on Aug. 31. “Every government must be held accountable for abuses, not as a form of revenge, but within the framework of the law.” A government “not held accountable is a government that becomes corrupt,” he stated.

The “great universal confession,” as Mr. Tusk called it, will require ministers to organize meetings “with communities who have some cause for concern or who, perhaps, have lost some trust or faith in our determination.” He wants officials to mix meekness and courage by listening to voter complaints and to not sugarcoat their work.

He is also aware of the need for fairness in holding all politicians to account. His government, run by a coalition of parties, is currently probing alleged abuses committed by the former ruling Law and Justice (PiS) party during its eight years in power.

Mr. Tusk was also motivated by Poland’s recent history in overthrowing dictatorial rule. He issued his order on the 44th anniversary of an agreement that led to the Solidarity trade union under Lech Wałęsa and later the fall of a communist regime. He wants his government to “pass the solidarity test,” or meet people’s expectations of holding authorities accountable. The truth can be difficult, he acknowledged, but transparency in government intentions, reasons, and decisions is necessary for trust.

The question for Mr. Tusk is whether voters will be forgiving if they perceive a genuine humility and penitence. Remorse can evoke such grace, which may then free a minister from recommitting faulty work. All that would then provide what Mr. Tusk ultimately seeks: for Poles “to act together for the common good.”