ºÚÁÏÌìÌÃ

When Israel attacked Iran last month, energy markets around the world held their breath.

Benchmark Brent crude prices, often considered a , rose from less than $70 a barrel on June 12, the day before Israel's initial attack, to a peak of $81.40 on June 23 following U.S. strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities.

Like a mother duck leading her ducklings, gastroenterologist Bashar Hamad steers dozens of white-coated trainee doctors through the dim hallways of Damascus's Al Mojtahed hospital, a crumbling symbol of Syria's devastated healthcare sector.

Blood treatment machines, many of them missing vital parts, clutter the dingy wards, where rooms lack doors and floors are covered with dirt and leaking water.

At least are excluded from the internet under a yawning digital divide that must be closed if the poorest are ever to prosper, says the world's digital inclusion advocate.

Deemah AlYahya, head of the Digital Cooperation Organization, told Context about her plans to bridge the global  connectivity gap: an uphill task when only of people in low-income countries currently have access to the internet.

Farmers are deeply rooted in their land. During droughts, this bond can turn toxic as the parched earth slowly drains life and hope from its cultivators.

I've seen this in Syria and Iraq, and I will likely see it again as climate change drives water scarcity across the Middle East.

When Bashar al-Assad ruled Syria, the farmers of al-Nashabiyah, once a hotbed of rebel opposition to the brutal president, struggled to water their crops because army officers diverted rivers and canals to their own farms.

The farmers hoped for some reprieve after Islamist rebels ended Assad's 24 years of autocratic rule in December, but a devastating drought and continued water theft mean their crops are still dying, their pears and plums withering on the branch.

Around a dozen Syrian women sat in a circle at a U.N.-funded centre in Damascus, happy to share stories about their daily struggles, but their bonding was overshadowed by fears that such meet-ups could soon end due to international aid cuts.

The community centre, funded by the United Nations' refugee agency (UNHCR), offers vital services that families cannot get elsewhere in a country scarred by war, with an economy broken by decades of mismanagement and Western sanctions.

Since Bashar al-Assad was ousted by Islamist rebels last December, more than 500,000 refugees have returned to Syria, hoping to rebuild lives upended by 13 years of civil war and financial collapse during the former president's brutal rule.

But the homecoming is bittersweet with little support available in a land scarred by war and whose economy has been broken by decades of mismanagement and Western sanctions.

Behind a ramshackle mosque in Hissa, north Lebanon, the living are making a home for themselves among the dead.

Beside mounds of garbage in the shade of towering trees, men, women and children from Syria's minority Alawite community seek shelter among the graves surrounding the half-built mosque - grateful to have escaped the sectarian violence at home but fearing for their future.

As word of President Donald Trump's pledge to lift sanctions spread, the streets of Damascus began to echo with the sound of fireworks, gunfire and car horns as Syrians celebrated the prospect of an end to decades of financial isolation.

Small shop owners dreamt of fresh stock to fill their depleted shelves and aid workers hoped they might finally tackle the blanket of rubble that smothers Syria's big cities.

Amal al-Merhi's twin 10-month-old daughters often go without milk or diapers.

She feeds them a mix of cornstarch and water because milk is too expensive. Instead of diapers, Merhi ties plastic bags around her babies' waists.

The effects of their poverty is clear, she said.