GAZA

Israel's tanks roll in, the phones go dark, and a ground war begins in the most crowded place on Earth

Three weeks after October 7, Israel launched the ground invasion it had promised, cutting Gaza off from the world as its army pushed in. The civilian toll, already vast, entered a new and worse phase.

Israeli tanks and infantry pushed into the Gaza Strip on the night of October 27, opening the ground phase of a war that had already killed thousands, and did so behind a near-total communications blackout that cut the strip's 2.3 million people off from the outside world and from each other for the worst hours of the assault. The army advanced from the north, splitting the territory and encircling Gaza City, while the bombardment continued and the humanitarian catastrophe deepened: more than 9,000 Palestinians dead by the health ministry's count, a majority of them women and children, hospitals running on failing generators, and a population ordered south into an area that was itself being bombed. Aid trickling through the Rafah crossing with Egypt met a fraction of the need. Israel said its goal was to destroy Hamas and free the roughly 240 hostages still held; it rejected calls for a ceasefire as calls to leave Hamas in power.

The war had by now split the world's public into camps that could barely hear each other, with vast protests in cities across the globe every weekend, university campuses in turmoil, and governments caught between horror at the October 7 massacre and horror at the civilian death toll of the response. The United States backed Israel's right to defend itself while pressing, in increasingly public terms, for it to spare civilians and allow aid. There was no diplomatic horizon. Each side, and much of the world behind them, had settled into a certainty that admitted no doubt, and the people of Gaza were living, and dying, inside the gap between the certainties.

TECHNOLOGY

In one week, the American president and 28 nations try to get a grip on AI

A sweeping executive order in Washington, a first-of-its-kind summit at Bletchley Park, and a declaration signed by the United States and China alike. The governments have decided, all at once, to try.

Governments moved on artificial intelligence with sudden, coordinated urgency. On October 30 President Biden signed a sweeping executive order, the most significant government action on AI anywhere to date, requiring the most powerful models to be safety-tested and their results reported to the government, directing agencies to write standards on everything from bioweapons to watermarking, and invoking emergency powers to do it. Two days later, at Bletchley Park in England, the wartime home of the codebreakers who cracked Enigma, Britain convened the first international AI Safety Summit, and 28 countries plus the European Union, including, remarkably, both the United States and China, signed the Bletchley Declaration acknowledging the potential for "serious, even catastrophic" harm from frontier AI and agreeing to cooperate on studying it.

It was a fortnight of firsts, and of open questions. The declaration commits its signatories to very little beyond talking, and the executive order will be only as real as the agencies that must now implement it. But something shifted: a year after ChatGPT, the governments of the world stopped watching and started, however clumsily, to act, and they did it fast enough that the usual gap between a technology and its regulation, measured in this space in decades, was measured for once in months. Whether the speed produces rules that bite, or only declarations that reassure, is next year's story.

IN BRIEF

A crypto king convicted; a new Speaker; a massacre in Maine

Sam Bankman-Fried, the founder of the collapsed crypto exchange FTX, was convicted on November 2 on all seven counts of fraud and conspiracy, for stealing billions of dollars of customers' money; he faces decades in prison, a swift and total fall for a man who a year ago was feted as the acceptable face of crypto. The US House finally elected a Speaker, the little-known hardline conservative Mike Johnson, on October 25, ending three weeks of paralysis. And in Lewiston, Maine, a gunman killed 18 people at a bowling alley and a bar on October 25, the deadliest American shooting of the year, before killing himself after a two-day manhunt.

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The Ledger

A landmark fortnight for governance: Biden's executive order and the Bletchley Declaration are the first serious government moves anywhere. The test, as ever, is implementation, and implementation is a two-year fight in rooms with no cameras.

Data centers & power

The executive order touches it obliquely, directing attention to AI's resource use. The build-out continues; the power question remains under-covered relative to its size.

Rates

The Fed held again on November 1, and a cooling October jobs report on November 3 strengthened the case that the rate-rise cycle is finally over. Markets rallied hard on the hope of cuts next year.

Real estate

US 30-year mortgage 7.76 percent (November 2), near the two-decade peak, but yields eased late in the fortnight on the Fed's hold. Any relief is fragile and unfelt so far in the frozen market.

India tech

India's cricket team swept toward the World Cup semi-finals unbeaten, a fortnight of national high spirits, while Delhi choked under its annual winter smog, the unglamorous infrastructure failure that no summit ever quite addresses.

What we called wrong

In No. 8 we wrote that "nobody is going to pause" and that only enforceable rules would matter. Half right: nobody paused, and this fortnight the enforceable rules began. We were too cynical about how fast governments would move once they decided to. Noted, with relief.

The Back Page

Could I be any more gone

Matthew Perry was found dead in the hot tub of his Los Angeles home on October 28, at 54, and a generation that grew up on a sitcom felt something drop out of the floor. He was Chandler Bing on Friends for ten years, the one who deflected every feeling into a joke, whose comic timing, the stammer, the italicised word in the wrong place, was so precise that writers learned to leave gaps in the script for him to fill. What the audience did not know, until he told them in a raw memoir last year, was that he played much of it drunk or high or dying, that he had nearly lost his life to addiction more than once during the show's run, that the man making the world laugh about being fine was, for years, catastrophically not. He got sober, relapsed, got sober again, and spent his last years trying to help other addicts, saying he wanted that, not the show, to be the thing he was remembered for. He was very funny, which is a real and underrated gift, and he was very unwell, and he was open about both at the end in a way that took more courage than the jokes ever did. Could he be any more missed. He could not.