On the Horizon: Week of 28 July 2025
Signals to Watch. Patterns Taking Shape.
1. Congo’s Fragile Ceasefire Masks a Growing Insurgency
On Monday (July 28), the Islamic State Central Africa Province (ISCAP) attacked a Catholic church in the northeastern Congolese town of Komanda, killing 43 people during Sunday mass. It was one of the deadliest sectarian massacres this year, and it came just weeks after the Trump administration announced what it called a major diplomatic breakthrough: two ceasefire agreements aimed at ending armed conflict in the region and opening access to Congo’s vast reserves of cobalt, lithium, and coltan.
But the killings in Komanda are a reminder that violence has not paused—only shifted. The insurgents were not part of either agreement. ISCAP, a U.S.-designated terrorist group also known as the Allied Democratic Forces (ADF), wasn’t at the table. Nor were the informal militias that the Congolese government has increasingly relied on to counter other threats.
The two peace agreements signed this summer were pitched as critical steps toward stability. The first, signed in Washington in late June, was between the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Rwanda. It aimed to ease years of hostility, including mutual accusations of supporting armed groups on each other’s soil. The second deal, brokered in mid-July in Doha, included the DRC and M23, a rebel group backed by Rwanda that has seized territory in eastern Congo. Both agreements were backed by the Trump administration and presented as essential to securing peace and unblocking trade routes.
The Washington deal includes several concrete security obligations. Rwanda pledged to withdraw its troops from Congolese territory within 90 days, while Congo agreed to dismantle the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR), an armed group opposed to Kigali. Both sides committed to halting support for proxy fighters and to launching coordinated border patrols. These terms were presented as mutually verifiable steps—meant to signal that this was more than a symbolic accord.
On paper, the accords look promising. Rwanda’s parliament ratified the June deal last week, moving it one step closer to implementation. The terms include mutual recognition of territorial sovereignty, a halt to cross-border attacks, and plans to reintegrate fighters from armed groups. There are also pledges to open up refugee return corridors and jointly monitor any violations.
The mid-July Doha agreement set its own clock: Congo and the M23 rebels agreed to finalize a permanent peace plan by August 18. That deal is supposed to lay out timelines for withdrawal, restoration of state authority in rebel-held areas, and the return of displaced civilians. But so far, the rebels have not indicated when—or if—they’ll begin pulling back.
M23 still holds its positions. There is no evidence of disarmament or withdrawal. Security forces are overstretched. Coordination between Congo, Uganda, and peacekeeping forces remains uneven at best. And yet, ISCAP—which has no stake in any ceasefire terms—continues to carry out attacks with growing frequency; the Komanda massacre followed earlier July raids that killed villagers elsewhere in the country.
Adding further complexity, the Congolese government is leaning more heavily on informal militias such as the Wazalendo for local defense. These groups were not part of the ceasefire talks. They operate without meaningful oversight and have been accused of retaliatory violence against communities seen as sympathetic to rival factions. Their growing influence reflects a core problem: much of the region remains beyond effective state control.
Meanwhile, the United Nations peacekeeping mission in Congo, known as MONUSCO, has played little visible role in enforcing any of the new diplomatic frameworks. Many locals see the force as ineffective, and regional actors have not made its revitalization a priority.
For the Trump administration, the ceasefire effort is not just about peace. It’s part of a larger strategic goal: securing access to Congo’s rich mineral deposits. The region is one of the world’s most important sources of cobalt, lithium, and coltan—materials that power electric vehicles, smartphones, and batteries. China currently dominates the global supply chain, controlling most of the processing and much of the mining through contracts with Congolese firms. The White House sees a chance to push back against that dominance by brokering political stability and offering U.S. companies a pathway into the market.
But with violence still unfolding, that vision faces immediate risks. Humanitarian groups report new waves of displacement, especially in mining zones where militias and jihadist groups are active. Trade routes are insecure. Some mining firms are halting transport in high-risk areas, citing ambushes and extortion.
Even recent political progress has a short fuse. The agreement signed between Congo and Rwanda calls for coordinated security efforts to begin within 30 days of ratification. That countdown began last week, following Rwanda’s unanimous parliamentary approval of the deal. The next few weeks will show whether the commitments made in conference rooms translate into real changes on the ground.
This leaves the Trump administration in a precarious position. The deals were announced with fanfare, framed as evidence of effective U.S. diplomacy and a path to a new economic partnership in Africa. But the reality is still unfolding. No buffer zones have been created. No large-scale disarmament is underway. The groups responsible for many recent killings have not been contained. And for local civilians, especially in eastern Congo, there is no peace dividend in sight.
What to watch in the coming weeks is not just whether the violence continues—it almost certainly will—but whether the fragile diplomatic framework begins to unravel. If joint patrols do not begin by late August, or if a high-profile attack targets a mining convoy or civilian center, it will call into question the entire strategy—and expose just how little control any outside actor has over Congo’s most critical terrain.
2. The Nobel Peace Prize Wasn’t Built for Applause Lines
This year, the Nobel Peace Prize has attracted more public speculation than usual—and not because of a groundswell of interest in humanitarian breakthroughs or peacemaking diplomacy. The reason is Donald Trump. More specifically, what seems like a campaign by his allies—and at times, himself—to claim the prize as overdue recognition for his supposed global statesmanship.
Over the past month, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, Republican leaders, and several MAGA-aligned media figures have amplified Trump’s remarks that the Committee honor him for the Abraham Accords and recent actions in the Middle East. That includes, ironically, the bombing of Iranian nuclear facilities.
Given that nominations for the next prize cycle open in October and that public attention is higher than usual for this point in the calendar, this is a useful moment to explain how the Nobel Peace Prize process works, why Trump’s expectations are unlikely to be met, and how the Committee has historically used the prize to send signals—some subtle, others unmistakably direct—and are cautious in acknowledging nominees for same year actions.
First, the structure. Nominations for the Nobel Peace Prize open in October and close on January 31. Submissions within that window are reviewed for the following year’s award—in this case, the 2026 prize. The 2025 deliberations are already deep in progress. Since mid-February, the Norwegian Nobel Committee—a five-member body appointed by the Norwegian Parliament—has been reviewing a vetted shortlist of nominees. The Committee holds regular deliberations through the summer, narrows the field, and reaches a final decision by late September. The announcement will come on October 10.
The Committee does not disclose nominees. It does not confirm submissions. And it never explains its reasoning. The selection process is not subject to outside influence—not from parliaments, protest campaigns, or public relations surges. Its legitimacy rests on this insulation. The Trump orbit’s loud, misinformed campaign—pushing for a nomination months after the window closed and bypassing the actual mechanisms—illustrates a fundamental misunderstanding of both the process and the institution.
Though awarded in the name of peace, it has rarely crowned lasting success. More often, it reflects the Committee’s judgment about visibility, legitimacy, and moral timing. That judgment falls into several broad categories.
First is the spotlight award: the use of the prize to elevate repressed individuals or causes that would otherwise remain unseen. In 2023, the Committee honored Narges Mohammadi, an imprisoned Iranian human rights activist, as part of a broader recognition of the “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement. In 2021, journalists under siege in Russia and the Philippines were recognized—not for ending conflict, but their efforts “to safeguard freedom of expression, which is a precondition for democracy and lasting peace.”
Second is the aspirational award: a signal of encouragement for fragile diplomatic or civil efforts. The 2015 award to Tunisia’s National Dialogue Quartet came at a pivotal moment in the country’s post-Arab Spring transition. The 2009 prize to Barack Obama—controversial even at the time—reflected “hope” that a change in U.S. posture might catalyze broader multilateral progress. These awards often carried mixed results, causing some on the selection committees to make rare public remarks. Tunisia’s democratic collapse came within years. Obama himself expressed discomfort with the premature recognition.
Third is the protest or rebuke award, often issued amid unresolved conflict. In 1976, the Committee honored Mairead Corrigan and Betty Williams for their anti-violence advocacy in Northern Ireland despite continued bloodshed.
Finally, there are missteps—awards whose recipients quickly contradicted the spirit in which they were chosen. Henry Kissinger’s 1973 prize remains a textbook example: a ceasefire in Vietnam that collapsed almost immediately, prompting co-recipient Le Duc Tho to decline and two Committee members to resign. More recently, Abiy Ahmed’s 2019 award for peace with Eritrea was followed by a brutal civil war within Ethiopia. The Committee later issued a rare public rebuke, acknowledging that its hopes for peace had not been realized.
The Committee’s record isn’t perfect, but its orientation has become increasingly sober in recent years. Recognition now tends to reflect durability, moral clarity, and risk tolerance—not political theater.
That is why the most serious speculation this year concerns not Trump, but Gaza. If the Nobel Committee opts for a protest selection in 2025, it would be consistent with the “signal” function the prize has served in the past. Several figures and organizations have been nominated by credible sponsors—ranging from Francesca Albanese, the UN Special Rapporteur on human rights in the occupied territories, to Israeli-Palestinian women’s peace coalitions, to international responders such as the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA).
Such a decision would not constitute a political endorsement. It would, instead, elevate the humanitarian cost of the war and draw attention to the global normalization of blockade, famine, and siege. Like prior awards to Desmond Tutu (1984) or Liu Xiaobo (2010), it would focus on a moral emergency the international system has failed to resolve.
August is when speculation traditionally sharpens. The shortlist is already defined. Expert reviews are in. Committee deliberations are moving from broad consideration to final judgment. The process is private—but the timing is not. When political actors begin trying to influence the conversation, it’s usually because they know the decision is close. That’s why Trump’s allies are speaking now. And it’s why their remarks should be read not as bids for recognition, but as attempts to preempt criticism when the answer, once again, is no.