On November 26, 2007, the Austrian National Library did something it hardly ever does: it took the Tabula Peutingeriana out of its climate-controlled display case and allowed the public to see it for a few hours. Due to its extreme fragility, the scroll was exhibited for just one day in Vienna, coinciding with its inclusion […]

Missile strikes follow a U.S. operation against Iranian launchers near the Strait of Hormuz.

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CXMT said it had spent more than a year providing information to U.S. officials in an effort to challenge the designation.

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Ginger, turmeric and cumin have been associated with possible benefits for metabolism and weight management.

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In Wilbert L. Cooper’s new memoir, The Black Shield, he tells two intertwining stories: the history of the city’s Black Shield Police Association, one of the country’s oldest Black policing organizations, and the multigenerational narrative of his own family, embedded in the police force. Both of his parents and sister are retired Black Cleveland cops, and on his mother’s side, there’s been a Cleveland cop in the family since 1950. In this book about race, policing, and power, Cooper examines the complex duality of the Black cop, what it was like for his parents to navigate an institution that was hostile to their own community, and, ultimately, what this all has meant for him.

This excerpt combines the prologue and a chapter focused on his mother’s beginnings in Cleveland’s police department. Two individuals mentioned spearheaded legal efforts in the 1970s to diversify the department: Fred Johnson, the association’s president who led a lawsuit over the department’s discriminatory hiring and promotion practices, and Jean Clayton, a policewoman and the organization’s secretary whose parallel lawsuit disbanded the segregated Women’s Bureau and integrated women into the department. Below, Cooper recounts how his mother, Gayle, walked through the door that they opened. But it was not without a struggle.

—Cheri Lucas Rowlands

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The gun was always there. I used to see it in flashes as Dad would get ready to leave the house. After he doused himself in spicy cologne and sliced a plastic comb through the waves of his jet-black Jheri curl, I would catch that 9-millimeter sliding between the small of his back and the belted waistband of his blue jeans. 

Mom had her own. She kept it in her purse. One of those big leather bags, the kind they show behind the counter at Dillard’s, with shiny metal clasps and countless compartments. Her gun would be in there with red lipstick, a double-sided compact mirror, and her bulky pager. I knew the gun was there because I sensed its heft whenever I’d have to move the bag off the kitchen table to do my homework. It felt like a bowling ball in a pillowcase.

Dad used to store his 9-millimeter above the fine china, on top of the large, baby-pink Victorian-style cabinet in our dining room. One time while he was sleeping, I climbed on top of the pink-velvet-upholstered chairs to get a good look at it through the scrollwork. When I came face-to-face with the gun, I was too intimidated to actually pick it up and play with it.

It took a few moments for me to work up the gumption to run my little fingers across the raised bumps of its grip. Then I touched the ridges of the slide and the smooth, cold, hard barrel from where bullets burst. And just that alone felt crazy to me. Even in the dusty, mundane space of the cabinet, the stock-still object pulsated with wild energy. It was like petting a tiger.

Even now, it’s overwhelming for me to imagine that all that calamitous potential to take life, to inflict pain, to inspire fear, to demand subservience, to have your way with the world, to finally be the actor instead of the one who is acted upon—was right there and it was theirs.

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I was 7 or 8 when I saw Dad shoot that gun. It must have been the summer, because I still remember the heavy outside air kissing my arms and legs, the suburban sunlight beaming on me. I see that light reverberating off the concrete, making vivid every blade of green grass in the yard and every goose-egg stone in the gravel strips. But I cannot hear the gunshot. I cannot tune in to the boom. All I sense is the fear, because it is so foreign. I’m still there. Standing in the driveway. Stuck and dumbfounded. Until Dad’s shouts break through, begging me to run inside before those crackers come back, commanding me to have Mom call the cops.

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Have you heard of Pastor Leon McCray? The man of faith who saw two White people dumping a refrigerator on his property. When McCray tried to stop them, the duo threatened him. One of the Whites ran off to grab three more racists. McCray says that’s when they all ganged up on him. That’s when they told him that his “Black life didn’t matter.” The beating didn’t stop until McCray pulled out his gun. When the police showed up at the scene, they handcuffed McCray and put him in the back of the cruiser. His assailants laughed and waved at him as he was taken off.

But at least McCray survived. You know that many of us aren’t so lucky: The police shot and killed the father Philando Castile during a traffic stop after he told them he had a firearm. The police shot and killed the father John Crawford while he was carrying a pellet rifle inside the Walmart that retailed the damn pellet rifle. Police shot Emantic F. Bradford Jr. at a shopping mall while they were responding to a call about gunshots at the mall. Witnesses say they killed Bradford as he was trying to direct shoppers to safety.

These killings now give shape and sharpness to that immense and totalizing fear I felt in the driveway as a child. That American malice is always there anytime we try to commandeer a power that wasn’t intended for us. Black people are killed or incarcerated every day for much less than what Dad did. Simply owning a gun can put a bullseye on your back. Pulling one on a White man can turn you into a hashtag.

So why did Dad want to call 911? I know that he’d tell you it was because his gun was different from Pastor Leon’s. Dad didn’t buy it at Walmart or Bass Pro alongside camouflage galoshes and fly-fishing rods. He didn’t pick it up at a gun shop with a shooting range full of targets depicting men in turbans and hip-hop gear. He didn’t procure it across state lines at a gun show with bundles of cash and no identification or background check. And he didn’t get it off the street, with scratched-out serial numbers and bodies on it.

Dad got his gun from the City of Cleveland. That’s where Mom got hers, too. Both are tools of policing, the Cooper family business. They hold up those guns and their power to use them as symbols of our freedom in a country that will not stop killing or incarcerating Black folks. When I was a child, I never questioned that contradiction. But to become my own man in the America I inherited, I realized I’d have to try to solve the paradox of my parents.

By the time the Black Shield had forced the hand of the Cleveland Police Department in 1977, Gayle had given birth to another child—a little boy named Geoffrey. Now with three kids, she was even more entrenched in a wrathful marriage and farther away from the working world. And losing her uncle Lloyd, which felt a lot like losing a father, only made her feel that much more alone. When he died, the dream of becoming a cop and the freedom the job promised died with him. 

It was at the moment that she’d almost completely resigned herself that it all came raging back. She opened up an issue of the Plain Dealer to find that people who’d taken the test with her and were lower than her on the eligibility list were being appointed to the police academy. And quickly, her despondency turned to confusion. And then her confusion turned to anger. She said to herself, “I know my number is higher than this and they’ve gone eighty past me and I’m not getting called?!” As she started to look into the issue, she found out that the city had expunged her from the eligibility list. “They were trying to lose Black folks’ stuff,” she told me. The city claimed it was because her addresses had changed and she hadn’t notified the civil service. To get back on the list, she had to go to court. “They claimed I had moved, but I owned my own home!” she said. “I told them, ‘I bought this house, I haven’t gone anywhere.’” As soon as she prevailed in her hearing, a White officer walked up to her in court. He simply said, “I’m from the academy.” He took her information. And then he said, “You will start the police academy on Monday.”

Later that same night, Fred Johnson called Gayle’s phone. It was the first time she’d ever spoken to the man. Lloyd was never big on the Shield Club, and Curtis was much closer with her younger brother, his namesake, who would join the police department five years later. Gayle didn’t have a complete idea of what the Shield Club had been up to at that point, or of how much it had shaped the situation she was walking into. Because of all the lawsuits, more than 40 percent of her classmates would be people of color and women. But the department they were entering was only 9 percent Black or Hispanic, and 2 percent women. For his part, Johnson stressed the struggle happening in the city to resist the change that Black women like Gayle represented. The academy was framed as a contentious environment controlled by people who were intent on destroying Gayle’s professional prospects and her spirit.

Despite the reforms that resulted from the Shield Club and the Women’s Law Fund cases, Gayle was still put through a series of tests, during which she could still be expunged. She had to meet with a psychiatrist, who asked her questions about her affiliations. Although this test had been revised thanks to the efforts of Fred Johnson and the Shield Club, it remained biased. As many of us conclude from a life living in this country run by White people, Gayle figured the best way to stick around was to hide herself. Her strategy was to answer every question like a White man of modest intellect.

In the 1970s, Gayle had spent a few years in the Nation of Islam. Although she never really let go of Jesus, she converted aesthetically and culturally to satisfy the whims of her second husband. She traded her hot pants for conservative flowing dresses. And instead of sweet potato pie, she started baking bean pies. When she did make a Polish Boy, she did it with beef sausage. She even traveled to Chicago once for Saviours’ Day to see the honorable Elijah Muhammad with her own eyes. But she put all that behind her when she found out that her proud Muslim husband was sleeping with a fellow “sister.” By the time she took the psych test to become a police officer, she’d gone back to straightening her hair and listening to gospel music. But some of the political knowledge she gained from the Nation, especially its perspective on America, stuck with her. She understood things differently than most—like the “riots” that happened in Hough and Glenville. She saw them as a natural reaction to the way her people had been done in this city and done in America. To her, the people who stormed the streets weren’t criminal. The crimes being committed were by the landlords renting rat-infested apartments and the Board of Education shoving kids into overcrowded schools and businesses charging a premium for rancid meat. She had a lot of ideas about these sorts of things, but none of them could feed her kids or free her from her marriage. And so she kept them to herself during her psych test.

The new hires were also required to do a complete physical examination. This was especially humiliating for Gayle. The whole ordeal was a perverse take on the idea that if women want to be in the academy, if women want to do what the men do, then they have to go through the exact same processes. For the physical exam, this meant standing around nearly nude to be ogled by their peers. “They made us stand up there in paper gowns and these guys were trying to catch glimpses at us. And they make you do stuff in the gowns so the gowns get all torn up. My breasts and everything were just hanging out,” Gayle recalled. She was so thoroughly humiliated that a fellow female in the academy came to her with some Scotch tape to try to cover her up. “They did that kind of thing because they wanted us to quit. The guys didn’t want us, their wives didn’t want us, it was terrible. They treated us like new meat, picking out which one they were going to take.” 

Fred Johnson made himself available to all the Blacks in the academy because he was prepared for the city to try to find excuses to fail them. Gayle didn’t think she’d have a problem. She was voted the vice president of the academy class and consistently scored high on all of the interstitial tests. Those high scores were attained by studying alongside her new girlfriend. But when they both got good grades on a test with similar answers, they were accused of cheating and threatened with expulsion from the academy. Fred Johnson had to step in and help them prove that they’d arrived at the same answers because they’d been preparing together.

After passing the academy, but before they could be sworn in as officers, they were also required to take a qualification test administered by the State of Ohio that evaluated their skills. Cadets could fly through the academy with high marks and still get disqualified to be a police officer. Although policewomen in Cleveland had been in the academy before the 1970s, they weren’t required to take the qualification test because officers in the women’s bureau didn’t carry guns. Anticipating that they would do whatever they could to disqualify her, Gayle prepared for the test with the desperate intensity of a woman fighting for her life. “To prepare for the running test, I used to run up and down the steps whenever I’d put the kids down for nap,” she told me. To make her qualifying time, she outran some Vietnam veterans, who threw up before they crossed the finish line. The state also required people to do a series of chin-ups and push-ups and dips that demanded upper body strength that seemed to favor the male physique, but Gayle fought her way through those. When she finally had to take her shooting test, the last phase, it was 19 degrees below zero. In 1977, Cleveland was in the midst of one of its coldest winters ever. But one of the essential rules of the academy was that it never canceled or postponed qualification tests for any reason, in an effort to help simulate what it’s like to be a police officer and have to work when everyone else gets the day off. And so Gayle stood at the outdoor range with the soft skin of her red-nailed fingers sticking to the ice-cold metal of her gun, her body involuntarily shivering, hoping the icy air didn’t tank her shot.

The first night Patrolwoman Gayle Smith reported to the Fifth District of the Cleveland Division of Police in the winter of 1977, her supervisor showed her two things: the coffee machine and the broom. It was expected that she would be the shift’s glorified janitor. But she bucked back. “I did not go through all that training to do no housekeeping. I came here to be a police officer,” she remembers saying to him, surprised by her own candor. Ridiculous as it seems now, perhaps this kind of insult by her male colleagues should have been expected. After all of the efforts by the Women’s Law Fund and Jean Clayton to break down the formal barriers in the CDP, women still constituted only 2.3 percent of the police force when Gayle started. The assholes she was working with had almost no experience working alongside women as equals and little incentive to see them as such. Gayle was basically a guinea pig. Ironically, it was because of Jean Clayton, Gayle’s initial inspiration to become a lady cop, that the women’s bureau was dissolved and lady cops ceased to exist. Although Gayle had been intent on following Clayton’s path, she found herself involved in something entirely new.

While most of the male cops were unhappy with the gender integration of the department, a lot of the women officers were displeased, too. They were especially pissed at Jean Clayton and her damn lawsuit. These were women who had no interest in being partnered with men and participating in a form of policing that oriented itself around violence and punishment. There were certainly fair criticisms of the women’s bureau, from its troubling focus on purity to the fact that its diversion efforts and empathy weren’t as equally distributed to Black suspects as they were to Whites. But I wonder if the department would be less lethal and repressive today if the men on the Cleveland Police Department had become more like the women and their women’s bureau. Instead, the women became more like the men. After the women’s bureau closed, some of its important work, such as sex crimes, was shamefully ignored or mishandled. Gayle would see this firsthand. But first she needed to get out of coffee duty.

It took some convincing, but eventually Gayle got her first assignment outside the district. After roll call, she would be taken to White City Beach, a former park on Lake Erie that in the 1940s was home to attractions like Bonavita the lion trainer, along with fishing and a yacht club. After natural disasters hurt the park and desegregation saw the City of Cleveland give up on supporting community spaces shared by both Blacks and Whites, White City Beach went the way of Euclid Beach. By the 1970s, it became a dumping ground for garbage and a place where the city parked vehicles that were towed to clear the streets for snowplows or as the result of car wrecks. That year, it was overflowing with gnarled automobiles. It had been the coldest Cleveland winter of the century, complete with “superbomb” blizzards and scores of days that were more than 20 degrees below zero. There were more than one thousand cars down there at White City Beach, but not another soul in sight.

“They dropped me off at White City Beach every night and stuck me in a shell of a car that was up on bricks and cinder blocks, with a wire heater inside of it. There was no bathroom. They’d leave me there all night and they’d come back and get me in the morning. I was just down there by myself in pitch blackness and cold. Even if I had wanted to get out, I couldn’t go nowhere. If someone had tried to steal the cars down there, there is nothing I could have done about it. It was demoralizing.”

Mom told me this in the kitchen, where I’d often heard her talk about the bad early days on the job. I’m not sure whether this was the first time I was really listening, or if she was telling it differently. Usually, her stories were never this detailed and specific. It was just “racism” and “men being nasty.” Perhaps because I was taking a real interest, she started accessing parts of the story she had often left untouched in her recounting.

There is a feeling of humiliation that stings long after an event has passed. It doesn’t just hurt because of what was done, it hurts because you feel as though you had some agency in the matter. That you let it happen. When she started telling me what it was like, I could feel her own surprise at the disregard she had endured. In the zone car with White partners, she was beneath speaking to. These were men who would greet a dog if they saw it on the street, but wouldn’t say one word to her. In this sense, despite the lawsuit and the consent decree, not much had changed on the job since the late 1950s, when White officers would “throw a shoe” to avoid being paired up with Curtis and Fred Johnson.

“When they finally had two guys take me out, they put me in the back seat where a prisoner would sit. And they didn’t let me touch the radio. They were supposed to show me some things. But instead, they got out of the car and went to eat. They just left me locked in the back of that car without saying anything. I’m just beating on the door and everything.”

It wasn’t until an old, White, Catholic officer who looked like Santa Claus decided to take Gayle under his wing that she finally got to learn a bit about real policing. The rotund veteran with snow-white hair explained to Gayle the first time she got in the car with him exactly why he was willing to teach her. It wasn’t that he was pleased about working with Blacks or with women. He simply realized the futility of resistance: “If we get rid of her, they will just send another one of them down here.”

“It was crazy to have me on the job that length of time and nobody taught me nothing except what I learned in the academy,” she remembered of her time wasted on frivolous assignments. “When he took me out, the first thing he ever told me was this: He said, ‘Okay, kid, what time is it?’ I looked for my watch. He said, ‘That is the first rule. Don’t you ever take your eye off anybody. If they ask what time it is, say you don’t know or your watch is broke. But you don’t look down.’”

It was with Santa Claus that she got to see how the men handled sex crimes now that the women’s bureau was closed. The first rape call that they ever responded to together involved a White woman. The lady had walked three doors over from where she lived to bum a cigarette from her neighbor. Before she could get back home, three men had grabbed her off the street, dragged her into a car, and took turns raping her. While Gayle was wrenched by the story, calling back to her own experiences of sexual abuse, the veteran was incredulous. “He talked to that girl so bad, I felt sorry for her,” she remembered. “He asked her, ‘What were you wearing?’ ‘Why were you out at that time of night?’ ‘What did you expect was going to happen?’ It was horrible . . . I will never forget it. That girl ended up not even filing.”

It was also alongside Santa Claus that she finally proved she could be real police, like the men. The call was a robbery at a drugstore that drew several cars to the scene. The suspect was a young Black man who managed to run out the back door. To show her tenacity, Gayle took off after him ahead of the rest of the cops, moving just as she had when she was training for the department’s entrance exam, going up and down those steps. Santa, who was heavy and plodding with bad knees, couldn’t keep up as Gayle tailed this man through an alleyway. And then from behind her, a shot rang out.

When a police shooting happens, officers come together to get their story straight. Although this was an era when it was still legal for officers in Cleveland to shoot fleeing felons, all the patrolmen made sure they agreed on what took place. After they were finished, they looked over at Gayle to see if she saw it the same way they did. Forget the police academy. The offensive rape call was a pop quiz, and this shooting was the final exam of real police shit. And Gayle passed with flying colors. “After that, I started having people to work with,” she told me. “It didn’t feel good, but I had a demon behind me.”

Browse Wilbert L. Cooper’s book-related events and appearances or buy the book today:

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Wilbert L. Cooper grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. He studied journalism at Ohio University and earned a master’s degree in publishing at New York University. He has written for outlets such as The Guardian, The New York Times, The Marshall Project, and The Wall Street Journal. His Vice documentary The Cleveland Strangler was nominated for a National Magazine Award. In 2024, he was the recipient of the Richard J. Margolis Award. The Black Shield is his first book.

For The New Yorker, Shayla Love writes about how GPS—a military technology turned daily necessity, and the subject of Katherine Dunn’s new book, Little Blue Dot: How GPS Shaped the Modern World—has changed the way we move through the world. To test her own skills, Love navigates from North Brooklyn to a park in Queens with a paper map, then sets off on an orienteering course without the trusty little blue dot, where she discovers how rusty her sense of direction really is.

Surprisingly, I still felt an urge to pull out my phone and look at my dot, to confirm what my surroundings were showing me. I started to feel that the true value of orienteering was more akin to that of reading a long book, or baking from scratch, or attending a long classical-music concert. I wasn’t necessarily tapping into my inner homing pigeon. I was practicing more general skills that get rusty when I over-rely on technology: paying attention, being patient, accepting uncertainty. We made our way to No. 7, on a “prominent tree, east side.” We didn’t find No. 6—a small blow to the ego—but my confidence soared when we found five, four, and three. The desire to check my dot faded to a low simmer.

I used to be in a friend group chat called “Tinder Spinsters,” a group of girls offering support as we navigated the tumultuous dating world. Faith Hill’s chat is named “Lonely Hearts Club,” but are these groups becoming a thing of the past? Are people even still trying? In a 2025 YouGov poll, 69 percent of single respondents said they “rarely” or “never” go on dates. Nowadays, it’s complicated. On the positive side, a relationship is no longer seen as essential for a happy life—women’s interest in men, in particular, has dimmed as their financial independence has grown. But many people would still love to find a partner; they are just finding that modern romance requires a toll “paid in energy, in sanity, in cash, in hours—and not everyone can afford it.”

The hug was the last round, though, and then real life resumed. We mingled, but the intimacy had disappeared. One man told me that he had high emotional intelligence and could tell that I did too—then he suggested that we travel together someday, handed me his business card, and walked away. I gave a few people my phone number, including one man who sent me a picture of his face the very next morning and another who texted me so much (even after a polite rebuff) that I had to block him. One date with another guy resulted, but I wasn’t interested in a second. The perception of abundance had, once again, evaporated into nothing.

Greek long jump athlete Miltos Tentoglou won gold during the European Athletics Championships in Birmingham on Tuesday night. His jumps ranged between 8.19 and 8.44, clinching his victory with 8.44, his highest score during his fourth and last attempt. 28-year-old Tentoglou added his fourth gold medal at successive European championships, securing a position as the […]

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Brussels (enr) – Local and regional leaders raised concerns that the next multiannual EU budget risks undermining investment in affordable homes needed to alleviate Europe’s deepening housing crisis.

“Europe’s housing challenge is not simply about building more housing units,” said Kata Tüttő, President of the European Committee of the Regions (CoR), an EU advisory body home to democratically elected regional and local representatives from all 27 Member States.  

At a gathering in Brussels on Thursday, they demanded the EU “move from political ambition to concrete investment and delivery,” arguing that failing to invest now will only put affordable housing further out of reach for millions of Europeans.

As negotiations over the EU’s next long-term financial framework gather pace, cities and regions fear that affordable housing could become a casualty of competing spending priorities as several EU member states seek to cut the European Commission’s proposed €2 trillion budget for ‌2028-2034.

Tüttő called on the European Investment Bank (EIB), the EU’s lending arm, to “mobilise the scale of investment” that cities and regions need to “make communities liveable” by providing essential infrastructure. She cited public transport, as well as energy and water infrastructure, as key examples.

Italian MEP Irene Tinagli, Chair of the European Parliament’s Special Committee on the Housing Crisis (HOUS), said addressing the housing crisis “requires investment, better coordination across all levels of government and a shared commitment from European institutions, Member States, regions and cities”.

The CoR and EIB on Thursday agreed on closer cooperation in key areas including social infrastructure, housing, and energy. The European Investment Bank’s president, Nadia Calviño, said “investing into resilient cities and regions, into cohesion and housing” was a strategic priority.

According to EIB figures, the world’s largest multilateral development bank provided a record €5 billion in financing for housing projects across Europe in 2025. The EIB is targeting an increase to €6 billion this year, Calviño confirmed.

The investments are a contribution to the European Commission’s Affordable Housing Plan, which was launched in December and aims to boost housing supply, mobilise public and private investment, and support Member States and regions in expanding social and affordable housing.

According to the Commission’s estimates, however, the EU needs to build 2 million homes each year to meet current demand, which amounts to an investment of approximately €153 billion per year.

This story was produced by the European Newsroom (enr) in cooperation with the European Committee of the Regions (CoR). The editorial responsibility lies with the enr.

Gdańsk/Brussels (European Newsroom) – Ukrainian cities and regions risk being left out in deciding how billions in reconstruction funds are being used unless they are given a robust role in the planning, governance and implementation of reconstruction support, a joint statement by the European Alliance of Cities and Regions for the Reconstruction of Ukraine warned. 

Meeting on the sidelines of the Ukraine Recovery Conference (URC) 2026 in Gdańsk, Poland, the alliance called for a “localisation marker” in donor planning tools and ring-fenced funding with direct local access. 

Antje Grotheer, President of the State Parliament in Bremen, Germany, and chair of the European Committee of the Regions’ (CoR) Working Group on Ukraine, argued that local and regional authorities should have a greater voice in donor discussions and reconstruction planning. She stressed that Ukraine’s decentralisation reforms have been key to maintaining resilience during the war.   

“We feel there is an increasing need for stronger coordination of support that targets municipalities and regions,” Grotheer said.  

Oleksii Riabykin, Deputy Minister for Rebuilding and Minister for Development of Communities and Territories of Ukraine, said his country is already moving from emergency reconstruction to building resilient communities. Experience gained by Ukrainian cities, towns and villages during the war can help strengthen resilience across in Europe, he said. 

EU law implementation

The joint statement released Wednesday stressed that over 70 percent of EU law is implemented at local level, but most reconstruction funding for Ukraine is still channeled through national governments, leaving municipalities to compete over the leftovers. At the URC 2026 in Gdańsk, the CoR and its alliance partners demanded a structural fix.  

The alliance also encouraged Ukrainian regions to exploit existing EU programmes and platforms. It underscored the contribution of neighbouring EU countries to both Ukraine’s military efforts and its reconstruction, arguing that they should receive targeted support.  

EU member states that share a border with Ukraine are Poland, Slovakia, Hungary and Romania. 

The alliance brings together EU and Ukrainian local and regional authorities and was co-founded by the CoR, an EU advisory body, in June 2022 following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine.  Its goal is to coordinate an effective reconstruction of Ukraine that involves local and regional authorities rather than centralising the implementation of funds to the state. 

The URC was also established after Russia’s full-scale invasion, building on the foundations of the annual Ukraine Reform Conference established in 2017 by supporters of Ukraine, including the European Union.  

The URC 2026 takes place on June 25 and 26 and focuses on the sectors most impacted by Russia’s attacks, such as energy, critical infrastructure, and logistics. The lead-up to the conference was overshadowed by escalating dispute between Warsaw and Kyiv. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky had named an army unit after Ukrainian underground fighters from World War II who are also blamed for massacres of tens of thousands of Poles and Jews in what is now western Ukraine.  In response, Poland’s right-wing conservative President Karol Nawrocki stripped Zelensky of a high Polish order of merit. 

This story was produced by the European Newsroom (enr) in cooperation with the European Committee of the Regions (CoR). The editorial responsibility lies with the enr. 

Autarquia entregou leitores de microchips às Juntas de Freguesia 

Numa primeira iniciativa pública no âmbito da sua política para o bem-estar animal, a Câmara Municipal de Loulé entregou, na passada sexta-feira, onze aparelhos de leitura de microchips às Juntas de Freguesia do concelho, com o objetivo de agilizar o processo de identificação de animais perdidos ou encontrados na via pública.

Esta entrega surge no âmbito da legislação de 2019, que estabelece que a identificação eletrónica e o registo no SIAC – Sistema de Informação de Animais de Companhia são obrigatórios para cães, gatos e furões. A aplicação do microchip e o respetivo registo permanecem como competência exclusiva dos médicos veterinários, contudo o papel das autarquias locais no terreno revela-se crucial para a eficácia do sistema.

“Todos sabemos que são frequentemente as Juntas de Freguesia e os seus colaboradores que primeiro chegam junto de um animal encontrado na via pública. Nesses momentos, ter à mão um leitor de microchip pode fazer toda a diferença: pode significar a diferença entre um animal que regressa em poucas horas a casa, junto do seu tutor, e um animal que fica, dias ou semanas, entregue à sorte”, explicou o autarca Telmo Pinto.

Ana Poeta, do Gabinete de Apoio ao Presidente responsável pelas questões para o bem-estar animal, destacou as vantagens estratégicas da identificação eletrónica. Por um lado, garante a identificação, de forma segura e permanente, do animal, aumentando significativamente as hipóteses de ser devolvido ao seu tutor caso seja encontrado. Por outro lado, permite cruzar os dados do animal com o registo do tutor de forma imediata, assim que o dispositivo é detetado pelo leitor. Tem ainda um papel importante no combate ao abandono e ao furto uma vez que permite associar legalmente o animal ao seu responsável e facilita a investigação nestes casos.

A realidade local em Loulé espelha uma crescente consciencialização dos munícipes. Graças ao incremento da identificação dos animais por parte dos tutores, registou-se um aumento significativo de devoluções com sucesso. Só no decorrer do ano de 2026, cerca de 80 animais já regressaram aos seus lares originais.

Estas situações de sucesso resultam de uma forte articulação local que envolve animais recolhidos pelo Gabinete Médico-Veterinário, alertas de munícipes, solicitações das autoridades policiais, contactos através da Linha GEO 24 e intervenções decorrentes de atropelamentos na via pública.

Além dos 11 aparelhos distribuídos, garantindo uma cobertura total do território, o plano de ação prevê um reforço operacional alargado. Serão entregues mais quatro equipamentos adicionais para equipar as forças de segurança (dois) e para os Bombeiros Sapadores de Loulé (dois), dotando os agentes de primeira linha das ferramentas necessárias para responder a estas ocorrências.

Refira-se que, neste momento, a Autarquia está a desenvolver um conjunto de iniciativas que pretendem robustecer a política municipal para o bem-estar animal.

Como pilar central deste investimento estrutural, Telmo Pinto referiu a construção do novo Centro de Bem-Estar Animal em Benafim e a criação de um Gabinete de Bem-Estar Animal dedicado em exclusivo a esta área. Para sustentar estas operações, está igualmente em curso o reforço da equipa do Gabinete Médico-Veterinário Municipal.

Entre as medidas de apoio direto, destaca-se o programa de atribuição do Cheque Veterinário, medida destinada prioritariamente a animais de famílias carenciadas previamente identificadas e a colónias de gatos sob responsabilidade direta da Autarquia.

A pensar no quotidiano dos munícipes, serão criados espaços urbanos para animais com a placa “Eu espero aqui”, equipados com bebedouro e mosquetões, permitindo deixar os animais em segurança por breves instantes. O plano integra ainda a dinamização regular de campanhas de adoção e apadrinhamento, sendo que uma delas arranca já em setembro.

No âmbito do controlo populacional, a Autarquia encontra-se a realizar o levantamento detalhado das colónias de felinos no território. Até ao final de junho, os dados registam: 142 colónias identificadas no concelho, 2170 gatos contabilizados, cerca de 100 cuidadores e cuidadoras registados e 433 gatos ainda por esterilizar.

Para gerir esta realidade, o Município aplica o programa CED (Captura–Esterilização–Devolução). Os gatos são capturados, esterilizados, identificados eletronicamente com microchip, desparasitados e devolvidos à colónia de origem. O animal mantém o seu estatuto errante, mas fica integrado num programa oficial sob monitorização sanitária. A autarquia reconhece que a lista de espera para este programa é atualmente extensa, justificando-se assim o reforço em curso das equipas médicas municipais.

O ponto alto da sensibilização pública calendarizado para este ano acontece em outubro com a iniciativa “Loulé, Amigo do Animal”, uma feira de bem-estar animal, estando as inscrições para expositores já abertas. Ao longo de todo o mês, o evento contará ainda com cursos de primeiros-socorros a animais, exposições e diversas atividades para a comunidade.