Originally published on Global Voices

Muslim women wearing burqas in the courtyard of the Shah Mosque, Isfahan, Iran. Photo by LBM1948 on Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0).

Across continents, women face the same struggle under different names. Some are told to cover their faces in the name of morality, others are told to uncover them in the name of freedom. The result is the same. A woman’s right to choose remains in the hands of men and lawmakers rather than her own.

The year 2025 began with Switzerland enforcing its nationwide ban on the burqa. Soon after, Portugal followed, and now Canada has joined the list through Quebec’s expanding secularism laws. The idea behind these bans is often framed as liberation, yet the outcome feels more like restriction. In these societies that call themselves “free,” women are once again being told what they can and cannot wear.

In Quebec, the government has recently reinforced its secularism policy with a new law that prohibits students, teachers, and even volunteers in public schools from covering their faces or wearing religious symbols. While the officials defend this move as necessary for equality and neutrality, it has become an obstacle to education and employment for Muslim women who wear the hijab or niqab. Those who once taught or took care of children are now excluded because they choose to practice their faith.

The policy has spread further into childcare. The government plans to ban religious symbols in daycares, claiming it protects young minds from religious influence. Yet many daycare directors and staff argue the move will worsen staff shortages and push out skilled workers. A teacher wearing a headscarf is not preaching a sermon. She is caring for children. The idea that her clothing threatens neutrality exposes a deeper fear of visible diversity.

Political competition in Quebec has made the issue worse. The Parti Québécois recently vowed to ban religious symbols for elementary school students if elected. The ruling Coalition Avenir Québec party also plans to restrict public prayers. Both sides are pushing minorities towards marginalization and promoting such measures in the race for secularism.

This debate has now centered on the courts. The federal government has questioned the exercise by Quebec to use the “notwithstanding clause” to shield the analysis of Bill 21. Ottawa argues that this clause, used repeatedly, weakens the Canadian Constitution and undermines minority rights. 

Legal experts remain divided. Some call this use of the clause preventive and dangerous; others say it preserves provincial independence. The coming Supreme Court decision will determine not only the limits of religious freedom but also how far governments can go in shaping private choices.

This wave of bans is not limited to Canada or Europe. In some West Asian and South Asian countries, the control works in the opposite direction. In Afghanistan, women are forced by law to wear the burqa. In Iran, they face punishment for removing the hijab. In Saudi Arabia, although some restrictions have eased, women still live under moral policing. Even in places like Syria, Jordan or Egypt, traditional pressures push women to conform. Across borders, the message is consistent. Whether it is forced covering or forced unveiling, women’s bodies remain the battleground of political and cultural agendas.

The contradiction is striking. Western democracies, while condemning religious coercion abroad, impose dress codes of their own. They argue that removing the veil helps integration, but in doing so, they push women further to the margins. A Muslim woman who chooses to wear a headscarf in Paris or Toronto should not have to defend her choice any more than someone choosing not to wear one in Tehran. The heart of freedom is the ability to decide without fear or punishment.

The argument that these bans protect equality is weak. True equality comes from opportunity, not uniformity. Excluding women from classrooms, offices, and daycares because of their dress strips them of economic independence. It also conveys a message that religion and serving the people are not compatible. The more the government controls what individuals believe, the less accommodating society becomes. As history has recorded, when one group starts to lose its freedom, it will become limited in no time.

Most Western leaders promise to champion the rights of women in other countries, yet they do not defend those of their own. The very cries about religious conservatism in West Asia are cheers of the laws, limiting religious expression in Europe and North America. This double standard exposes the political nature of the debate. Religion is not the real threat. Fear of difference is.

What is missing from these debates is the voice of women themselves. Few policymakers ask how women feel about being told what to wear, either in Kabul or in Quebec. For some, the hijab is an act of faith. For others, it is cultural or personal. The right answer is not to remove or enforce it, but to respect the choice behind it. When a woman decides for herself, that is freedom. When others decide for her, that is control.

The challenge today is to protect individual freedom without turning it into another form of dominance. Governments must stop using secularism or religion as tools for social engineering. It is not about a woman covering her face or not, but about whether she will be able to live without being judged and discriminated against.

Freedom should not depend on geography or ideology. It should mean the same in Toronto, Tehran, or Kabul. The real measure of a free society is simple. It is not how women look, but how much control they have over their own lives.

In conclusion, the struggle over the veil has become a mirror reflecting society’s fears and insecurities. Different parts of the world claim to defend with dignity, yet deny women agency in different ways. True liberation will come only when a woman’s appearance is no longer a matter of state policy or public debate. Until then, the world will continue to argue about freedom while denying it in practice.

Originally published on Global Voices

Talia Levitt, ‘50/50,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 91.4 x 121.9 x 3.0 cm (36.0 x 48.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

In her recent exhibition “24/7,” New York-based artist Talia Levitt offers a tender yet technically audacious meditation on the early months of motherhood. Conceived when the boundary between caregiving and studio life dissolved — “I was painting in bed with my daughter,” she has shared — this body of work reflects a life lived in overlapping rhythms of urgency, exhaustion, elation and tenderness. 

Levitt’s works merge lullaby-soft domestic objects with art-historical rigor: pacifiers, baby clothes and childhood jewelry boxes appear alongside fruit, flowers and candles rendered in layered “trompe-l’oeil” and textile-like pattern. Through deeply considered material decisions — scored grids, piped paint mimicking embroidery, sequins and cast acrylic embellishments — she builds visual diaries that honor labor, intimacy and attention while expanding the language of contemporary still life.

A fourth-generation New Yorker, Levitt’s roots in the city are not incidental; they inform both her sensibility and research-based projects. In “Schmatta” (Uffner Liu, 2023), she examined the history of New York’s garment industry — a lineage she connects to through family history and a longstanding interest in textile traditions. Levitt received her BFA from the Rhode Island School of Design in 2011 and her MFA from CUNY Hunter College in 2019, and attended the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture in 2019. Her grounding in drawing, paired with years immersed in New York’s contemporary art scene, shaped her evolving hybrid vocabulary of painting, craft, and illusion.

Talia Levitt, ‘Will My Daughter be a Painter Too?,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 182.9 x 152.4 x 3.0 cm (72.0 x 60.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Levitt’s practice sits in dialogue with Dutch still life, feminist pattern-and-decoration movements, and craft histories, while posing contemporary questions about perception: “To force the viewer to ask themselves, is this honest or what is honest, is this real or what is real, what am I looking at, and how do I look at it?” she notes. “24/7” will next travel to the K11 Art Foundation in Shanghai, expanding the conversation to new audiences and contexts.

Visually lush, contemplative and narratively grounded, Levitt’s paintings locate harmony within layered chaos — where everyday objects glow with symbolic charge and domesticity becomes monumental. “Motherhood has changed the way I make and the way I see,” she reflects. “My daughter is my teacher.”

In a conversation with Global Voices, Levitt discussed the emotional and material shifts that motherhood sparked, the balance of rigor and play in her trompe-l’oeil technique, the democratizing history of still life, and how caregiving and studio life shape each other in real time.

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

Talia Levitt, ‘Again!,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 182.9 x 152.4 x 3.0 cm (72.0 x 60.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Omid Memarian (OM): For “24/7,” you emerged out of early motherhood, when studio and domestic life blurred. How do you think this profound experience permanently redefined your visual language?

Talia Levitt (TL): I can’t overstate how profoundly the merging of these worlds, or motherhood as the impetus, has changed the way I make and the way I see. My reference points in terms of imagery have shifted, for example. I have different experiences now to associate with a vast range of symbols. Therefore, changes are made to what is included in the paintings. I consider more deeply who my paintings would be legible to … now that I am watching my daughter learn how to look and discover. She is most drawn to photographic imagery, which serves as a gateway for her to explore illustration and other more abstract images in her books. I get to witness this development firsthand, and it has been truly inspiring.

Because I have created an expectation in my paintings that a variety of different languages will be employed, I can broaden my use of paint and range between realism and abstraction based upon what I’ve been learning through her.  

Talia Levitt, ‘My Body is a Mountain, My Body is Nourishment,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 76.2 x 61.0 x 3.0 cm (30.0 x 24.0 x 1.2 in).

OM: Your interplay of trompe l’oeil illusion and symbolic motifs (Dutch still lifes vs. contemporary objects of childhood) dismantles hierarchies of the elevated and the everyday. Do you see this restructuring as situational or as a long-term reorientation in your practice?

TL: That’s a really interesting phrasing! I actually don’t think of one vs. the other, but rather the same genre and some similar content happening at two different time periods. Still life, even during the Golden Age of Dutch painting, was considered the lowest genre in the European academic hierarchy. Prints of and even original still-life paintings at the time were relatively affordable and accessible. This history has definitely emboldened me to bring a lot of muscle, academic skill, and some cheekiness to my work and to play with this history as well as to contemporarize motifs that were traditionally associated with trompe l’oeil. 

Artist Talia Levitt paints with her newborn resting on her shoulder — a glimpse into the intimate reality behind ‘24/7,’ the body of work shaped in the blur between caregiving and studio practice. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Could you take us through your process step by step — from scored grids to cast acrylic embellishments? What were the breakthroughs that convinced you to make this hybrid of painting, craft, and illusion your primary method?

TL: In 2019, while on residency at Skowhegan [in Maine], I was attempting to paint the screen door of my barn studio. I thought, ‘There has to be a better way of realistically rendering this screen than to paint every tiny line of a grid.” So I took my ruler and a utility knife and began scraping it out of the painting of the door behind the screen. What I discovered was that I could use the paint or absence of paint to represent something extremely convincingly, while also creating the exact physical texture and behavior of the thing I was representing in reality. This opened up a door (pun intended!) to experimenting with and thinking about paint and trompe l’oeil as a genre in ways I had never considered before. 

Step by step – first, imagery is painted directly onto the canvas with brushes. Then a grid is scored into the surface with a utility knife and ruler, and sealed with gloss medium. Then ‘stitching’ is piped out of sandwich bags, and lastly, the painting is embellished with casts, glitter, etc. It sounds very routinized, but there’s actually a lot of improvisation taking place within the described process.

Talia Levitt, ‘Emptied Out my Childhood Jewelry Box For Her and Found my Heart,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 x 40.6 x 3.0 cm (20.0 x 16.0 x 1.2 in).

OM: Narratives seem central to your work, functioning as diaristic yet universal. How do you think narrative painting — often sidelined in modernist discourse — is reinvigorated in your work, especially in light of contemporary politics and social upheaval?

TL: I need to organize my response by narrative and use of paint. Narratively, I don’t think my experiences are unique, so hopefully, if I bring as much generosity and thoughtfulness to my work as possible, viewers may be able to connect with it. Perhaps this perspective reinvigorates narrative painting, or maybe it has been a strategy adopted by painters in some regard, with every progressive generation?

Materially, I am interested in using the properties of paint to disrupt direct interpretations. To force the viewer to ask themselves, is this honest or what is honest, is this real or what is real, what am I looking at, and how do I look at it? These questions are contemporary. While not necessarily political or social, they do explore themes that I know are both pertinent and universal. 

Talia Levitt and her daughter share a moment of play — a glimpse into the life that fuels her tender, intricate paintings and the world of ‘24/7.’ Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Because of what you said, your works invite close looking — the craft detail recalls textile traditions, yet the imagery resonates immediately. How do you think about accessibility in relation to art historical precedents like feminist pattern-and-decoration movements, Dutch still life, or even folk traditions?

TL: I definitely think about the accessibility of these traditions as a history to agitate in terms of craft’s relationship to Art History (capital A) and gender. This is an interest and motive that pairs conveniently with my fixation on and fascination with pattern and labor. I’ve always been attracted to craft, whether it be mosaic, stained glass, or embroidery, because of the extraordinary time involved in making the work, its beauty, history, and applications. 

Learning about how mosaics are made, for instance, and traveling to see ancient examples of the craft employed in situ has motivated my interest in learning to mimic the craft with paint. Hopefully, this will continue to develop. 

Talia Levitt, ‘Emptied Out My Childhood Jewelry Box For Her and Found my Heart,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 x 40.6 x 3.0 cm (20.0 x 16.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: As both artist and parent, how do you navigate the lived realities of caregiving alongside studio practice? Do you see motherhood as a source of tension, of inspiration — or both?

TL: It has been a real blessing, but also quite challenging, balancing motherhood and painting.

My daughter has been an inspiration to my work in innumerable ways. She is my teacher, showing me how to see and think in a different way. I do feel a lot of guilt being away from her to paint, and that’s been tricky to navigate. I’ve often picked her up from daycare early because of this, and end up painting at night. She’s always at the forefront of my mind. Perhaps this will change over time as she ages. What I can say, though, is that while my production has admittedly decreased a bit, I think my most recent body of work, created for Victoria Miro Projects after her birth, is my strongest to date. 

Talia Levitt, ‘All at Once,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 x 40.6 x 3.0 cm (20.0 x 16.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Your phrase “life lived all at once” captures both personal intensity and contemporary chaos. Looking ahead, do you envision continuing with diaristic motifs or moving toward broader social allegories? 

TL: I love this question because it captures what's happening in the studio now — both! I'm best able to explore allegory through personal experience. ‘All at once’ actually came to me as I was trying to capture the democratic surface quality of my work, with the tirelessness of balancing home and studio —both themes in my recent show, ‘24/7.’

Originally published on Global Voices

Graffiti in the subway, underground in Vienna, Austria’s Favoriten district: ‘Solidarity not charity’ and ‘EU disarm!’ Photo by Herzi Pinki on Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0).

Author’s note: I write this piece from a place of proximity. My brother served as an ER doctor in rural, border-adjacent areas of Turkey, giving me (with consent) access to frontline realities and perspectives. I’ve seen how a missed meal can become a missed school day, which can lead to a tense night shift for someone at the ER. Through my brother’s work and my studies in international relations and politics, I’ve spoken with teachers, municipal officers, shopkeepers, and families caught between broken systems and survival. I don’t offer easy answers; I offer observed connections between food security, healthcare, education, and policy. This is a call for solidarity across borders and time, because what happens in Van or along Turkey’s margins reflects struggles everywhere. Understanding how systems fail or succeed in one place teaches us how to show up for one another in all places.

A baby’s fragile body leans against her mother’s shoulder, lips parched and cracked like the dry earth. The watered-down bottle in the bag is a desperate attempt to turn poverty into survival. The infant’s faint cry cuts deeper than any scream. With each new disaster, the growling stomachs, the paychecks sacrificed, and the buses that never arrive, the crisis escalates with brutal intensity. By the time they reach the triage desk, exhausted and depleted, they’re no longer just statistics; they’re real people bleeding into our weekend, into our lives.

Elsewhere is an illusion. We’re fooled into thinking humanitarian issues are confined to a separate world called “overseas,” and safety belongs to a different world called “home.” But the truth is, these two worlds bleed into each other. I’m not suggesting that we should only care about aid because it keeps us safe. I’m saying we need to face the reality that our world is connected. When people’s basic needs are met before crises erupt, our communities stay peaceful, not because we police more, but because fewer people are pushed into making desperate choices.

How do shocks travel? Here are three ways: First, supply chains. Drought, blockade, or harvest failure in one region shows up as price spikes in another. A bread line there becomes a grocery bill here. Second, they spread quickly through timelines and algorithms. Outrage travels faster than context. Disinformation finds people who are already tired, anxious, and angry, whether in Gaziantep or Glasgow. Third, routes of human movement. When safe, legal paths are choked off, people don’t stop moving; they move in more dangerous ways, empowering smugglers and organized crime. 

None of this is abstract if you are a teacher, a nurse, or a shopkeeper. It shows up in attendance, waiting rooms, and receipts. Investing in basic needs upfront brings a safety dividend, not surveillance. By providing school meals, we get kids back in classrooms, not on the streets. Cash support stabilizes monthly expenses, shutting out loan sharks. When municipalities work together across borders, both neighborhoods brave the cold with fewer crises. This isn’t preaching on generosity; it’s a clear-eyed look at how the system works.

So, what actually helps? Knowing that this issue exists entitles us to take action. By spreading awareness and holding leaders accountable, we can shape policy and create meaningful change. It’s not about grand gestures but rather small, collective actions: a social media post, a brief message to a representative, or a small donation to support a worthy cause. Most importantly, we must remember that the individuals affected are human beings, not just numbers. Only when they are safe can we truly experience harmony. This may not fit a catchy slogan, but it’s a doable, actual goal.

Today, with AI and surveillance on the rise, national borders gaining importance, and leaders emerging who only consider themselves, we must think of one another. We can’t afford to give away our solidarity, not even for a second. This is the time when we’re more connected than ever with people across the oceans. We have to stand together, or one day, we’ll face crises we never thought possible in our lifetime. Our dignity, humanity, values, and families are all at stake. We must shout for people’s rights globally. We are one, and we just need to remember that.

I head back to the ER, where two drowsy brothers wait. The room smells of damp ash from the stove they moved inside when the cold snap hit, and their bill skyrocketed. Oxygen revives them, clearing the haze from their eyes. A safer heater and winter assistance could have kept them safe and warm at home. When we ignore the struggles of others, preventable problems turn into costly emergencies. It’s not about panicking or feeling sorry; it’s about staying alert and spotting the connections between a late-night tweet in London, a bread line in northern Syria, and a packed triage room in eastern Turkey — connections rooted in supply chains, timelines, and policies that we can actually change.

We need clarity, not charity or fear. Solidarity, not sympathy. So, when spring arrives next year, more of us can walk the streets with serenity.

Originally published on Global Voices

Image by Liz Carrigan and Safa, with visual elements from Alessandro Cripsta, used with permission.

This article was written by Safa for the series “Digitized Divides,” originally published on tacticaltech.org. An edited version is republished by Global Voices under a partnership agreement.

Social media has been a key tool of information and connection for people who are part of traditionally marginalized communities. Young people access important communities they may not be able to access in real life, such as LGBTQ+ friendly spaces. In the words of one teen, “Throughout my entire life, I have been bullied relentlessly. However, when I’m online, I find that it is easier to make friends… […] Without it, I wouldn’t be here today.” But experts are saying that social media has been “both the best thing […] and it’s also the worst” to happen to the trans community, with hate speech and verbal abuse resulting in tragic real-life consequences. “Research to date suggests that social media experiences may be a double-edged sword for LGBTQ+ youth that can protect against or increase mental health and substance use risk.” 

In January 2025, Mark Zuckerberg announced that Meta (including Facebook and Instagram) would end their third-party fact-checking program in favor of the model of “community notes” on X (formerly Twitter). Meta’s decision included ending policies that protect LGBTQ+ users. Misinformation is an ongoing issue across social media platforms, reinforced and boosted by the design of the apps, with the most clicks and likes getting the most rewards, whether they be rewards of attention or money. Research found that “the 15% most habitual Facebook users were responsible for 37% of the false headlines shared in the study, suggesting that a relatively small number of people can have an outsized impact on the information ecosystem.”

Meta’s pledge to remove their third-party fact-checking program has raised alarm bells among journalists, human rights organizations, and researchers. The UN’s High Commissioner for Human Rights, Volker Türk, said in response: “Allowing hate speech and harmful content online has real world consequences.” Meta has been implicated in or accused of supercharging the genocide of the Rohingya in Myanmar, as well as fueling ethnic violence in Kenya, Ethiopia, and Nigeria, at least in part due to the rampant misinformation on its platform. 

“We have evidence from a variety of sources that hate speech, divisive political speech, and misinformation on Facebook … are affecting societies around the world,” said one leaked internal Facebook report from 2019. “We also have compelling evidence that our core product mechanics, such as virality, recommendations, and optimizing for engagement, are a significant part of why these types of speech flourish on the platform.” The International Fact-Checking Network responded to the end of the nine-year fact-checking program in an open letter shortly after Zuckerberg’s 2025 announcement, stating that “the decision to end Meta’s third-party fact-checking program is a step backward for those who want to see an internet that prioritizes accurate and trustworthy information.”

Unverifiable posts, disordered feeds

The algorithms behind social media platforms control which information is prioritized, repeated, and recommended to people in their feeds and search results. But even with several reports, studies, and shifting user behaviors, the companies themselves have not done much to adapt their user interface designs to catch up to the more modern ways of interaction and facilitate meaningful user fact-checking.

Even when media outlets publish corrections to false information and any unsubstantiated claims they perpetuate, it isn’t enough to reverse the damage. As described by First Draft News: “It is very, very difficult to dislodge [misinformation] from your brain.” When false information is published online or in the news and begins circulating, even if it is removed within minutes or hours, the “damage is done,” so to speak. Corrections and clarifying statements rarely get as much attention as the original piece of false information, and even if they are seen, they may not be internalized.  

Algorithms are so prevalent that, at first glance, they may seem trivial, but they are actually deeply significant. Well-known cases like the father who found out his daughter was pregnant through what was essentially an algorithm, and another father whose Facebook Year in Review “celebrated” the death of his daughter, illustrate how the creators, developers, and designers of algorithmically curated content should be considerate of worst-case scenarios. Edge cases, although rare, are significant and warrant inspection and mitigation. 

Furthering audiences down the rabbit hole, there have been a multitude of reports and studies that have found how recommendation algorithms across social media can radicalize audiences based on the content they prioritize and serve. “Moral outrage, specifically, is probably the most powerful form of content online.” A 2021 study found that TikTok’s algorithm led viewers from transphobic videos to violent far-right content, including racist, misogynistic, and ableist messaging. “Our research suggests that transphobia can be a gateway prejudice, leading to further far-right radicalization.” YouTube was also once dubbed the “radicalization engine,” and still seems to be struggling with its recommendation algorithms, such as the more recent report of YouTube Kids sending young viewers down eating disorder rabbit holes. Ahead of German elections in 2025, researchers found that social media feeds across platforms, but especially on TikTok, skewed right-wing. 

An erosion of credibility

People are increasingly looking for their information in different ways, beyond traditional news media outlets. A 2019 report found that teens were getting most of their news from social media. A 2022 article explained how many teens are using TikTok more than Google to find information. That same year, a study explored how adults under 30 trust information from social media almost as much as national news outlets. A 2023 multi-country report found that fewer than half (40 percent) of total respondents “trust news most of the time.” Researchers warned the trajectory of information disorder could result in governments steadily taking more control of information, adding “access to highly concentrated tech stacks will become an even more critical component of soft power for major powers to cement their influence.” 

Indonesia’s 2024 elections saw the use of AI-generated digital avatars take center stage, especially in capturing the attention of young voters. Former candidate and now President Prabowo Subianto used a cute digital avatar created by generative AI across social media platforms, including TikTok, and was able to completely rebrand his public image and win the presidency, distracting from accusations of major human rights abuses against him. Generative AI, including chatbots like ChatGPT, is also a key player in information disorder because of how realistic and convincing the texts and images it produces. 

Even seemingly harmless content on spam pages like “Shrimp Jesus” can result in real-world consequences, such as the erosion of trust, falling for scams, and having one’s data breached by brokers who feed that information back into systems, fueling digital influence. Furthermore, the outputs of generative AI may be highly controlled. “Automated systems have enabled governments to conduct more precise and subtle forms of online censorship,” according to a 2023 Freedom House report. “Purveyors of disinformation are employing AI-generated images, audio, and text, making the truth easier to distort and harder to discern.”

As has been echoed time and again throughout this series, technology is neither good nor bad — it depends on the purpose for which it is used. “Technology inherits the politics of its authors, but almost all technology can be harnessed in ways that transcend these frameworks.” These various use cases and comparisons can be useful when discussing specific tools and methods, but only at a superficial level — for instance, regarding digital avatars which were mentioned in this piece. 

One key example comes from Venezuela, where the media landscape is rife with AI-generated pro-government messages and people working in journalism face threats of imprisonment. In response, journalists have utilised digital avatars to help protect their identities and maintain privacy. This is, indeed, a story of resilience, but it sits within a larger and more nefarious context of power and punishment. While any individual tool can reveal both benefits and drawbacks in its use cases, zooming out and looking at the bigger picture reveals power systems and structures that put people at risk and the trade-offs of technology are simply not symmetrical. 

Two truths can exist at the same time, and the fact that technology is used for harnessing strength and is used for harming and oppressing people is significant.

Originally published on Global Voices

Screenshot of a video of Intervision 2025's winning performance from Vietnam, represented by Đức Phúc with the song ‘Phù Đổng Thiên Vương’ on Kieran Edmunds's YouTube channel. Fair use.

Song contests have become deeply politicised. From Eurovision to Intervision, nearly every international music competition, like ABU TV Song Festival or Viña del Mar International Song Festival, eventually turns into a mirror of geopolitics. Judges, audiences, even performers find themselves drawn into a game of symbols, where melody and lyrics cease to exist on their own and become a way of saying something between the lines.

In September 2025, Russia announced the revival of Intervision, which seems to be setting itself up as an alternative to Eurovision, from which Russia has been banned since the start of the full-scale war in Ukraine in 2022.

Officials from the host country insist, of course, that the revived contest is “apolitical.” Alexander Alimov, an official at Russia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, said in an interview with TASS that “Intervision was never intended as a counterweight to Eurovision, although there are certainly differences. Our contest carries no political undertones. We are seeking a unifying language based on such values as mutual respect, cultural sovereignty, and equality.”

At the same time, this independent project, described in Russian media as having its own distinct concept, happens — quite coincidentally — to look strikingly similar to Eurovision: in its name, selection of hosts, visual style, and overall design.

Below is the full broadcast of the Intervision final on YouTube:

And here is the full broadcast of the Eurovision final on YouTube:

The irony is that such contests were originally conceived as the opposite of politics. Eurovision was born in the 1950s with the idea of uniting Europe through culture, while Intervision emerged in the 1970s as the socialist bloc’s counterpart. Performers from Eastern Europe, the USSR and allied nations took part, aiming to show that the Iron Curtain did not block cultural exchange. Held in Sopot, Poland, the contest — despite limited broadcasting — became one of the most recognisable music stages in the Eastern bloc. In 1981, Intervision Sopot was cancelled because of the rise of the independent trade union movement, which was judged by other Eastern bloc communist governments to be “counter-revolutionary.”

Today, as the world once again divides into rival camps, that history feels newly relevant. The more strained the political climate, the less likely it is that music can remain untouched by it. Votes from juries and audiences are increasingly seen not as assessments of talent, but as declarations of allegiance.

Social media has amplified this effect. It’s hardly surprising that under news articles about Intervision, one finds comments like: “I watched it yesterday. It was wonderful. No nudity, everyone dressed decently. No rainbow flags.” The very fact that viewers judge ideology rather than performance shows how far the conversation has drifted from music itself.

The Carnegie Berlin Center pointed out an interesting moment during the show: when the hosts asked the singer from India what his song was about, he replied in English, “About love — whoever you love.”

In Russian, however, this was translated as: “Usually, when people talk about love, they mean the love between a man and a woman. But my song is about another kind of love — love for one’s parents.” This was seen as an attempt to avoid the kind of “vulgarity” that some Russian officials attributed to Eurovision.

There was a time, back in the last century, when Intervision gifted this part of the world with unforgettable songs and remarkable performers.

Below is a YouTube video from the 1968 Golden Clef Intervision Contest held in Karlovy Vary:

This is the Intervision Song Contest held in Sopot, Poland, in 1977:

The revived Intervision, now under active discussion, will inevitably inherit this context. It cannot exist outside politics, but it may offer a different perspective — not rivalry, but dialogue between cultures. After all, music remains the only language the world can still speak without translation.

Originally published on Global Voices

Code projected over woman. Photo by ThisIsEngineering. Free to use via Pexels.

Can the West foster a fair and democratic process for artificial intelligence (AI) governance, or will capitalist and business interests dominate? This question has polarized the Global South, particularly Africa, highlighting the digital divide and differing perspectives between the North and South. While AI’s utility is widely acknowledged, the key issue remains: Who benefits, and what purpose does it serve?

History has shown that technological advancements in the Global North have often been accompanied by exploitation in the Global South. The Industrial Revolution, sparked by innovations like the steam engine and transportation technology, is a prime example. These technologies drove progress in the North but exacerbated exploitation in the South, fostering defensiveness and skepticism towards Northern technological dominance. This legacy continues to influence the Global South’s approach to new technologies like AI. 

Furthermore, this skepticism is also rooted in historical precedents, which have shaped how nations interact with technology. Historical precedents suggest that nations’ technological strategies can be understood through two pedagogical approaches. The “Protestant pedagogy” allows nations to apply and tailor technology to their unique cultural and socio-economic contexts, driving advancement in both culture and economics. In contrast, the “Catholic pedagogy” takes an agency form, where nations can only participate through the agency of the technology’s originators. This approach has been detrimental to Africa’s development, as seen in the extractive economies established during colonization.

As noted by Acemoglu and Robinson in their 2012 book, “Why Nations Fail,” this approach has fostered a system in which resources are controlled by external agents, thereby limiting Africa’s ability to shape its own economic destiny. 

The AI divide: A growing concern

The AI divide is stark: North America and China are poised to reap the lion’s share of AI’s economic benefits, with the Global South experiencing more moderate increases due to lower adoption rates. According to the World Economic Forum, AI is forecast to contribute USD 15.7 trillion to the global economy by 2030, with the majority of benefits going to high-income nations. This disparity underscores the need for inclusive AI development and governance.

The 2nd Conference on the State of Artificial Intelligence in Africa (COSAA) 2025, a conference aimed at providing a platform to discuss AI’s transformative potential in Africa, was met with intense skepticism and uncertainty regarding artificial intelligence. A pressing question dominated the discussion: who truly benefits from AI? This concern is well-founded, given the current dynamics. For instance, Africa generates a substantial amount of data, yet only 2 percent of data centers are located on the continent, meaning the majority of the potential benefits are directed elsewhere. Furthermore, data laborers and gig drivers in Africa face significant inequalities compared to their counterparts in the Global North, highlighting the need for more equitable distribution of benefits and opportunities in the digital economy.

Given this context, it’s concerning that the United Nations General Assembly’s response to AI’s potential for economic upliftment and bridging the economic gap is inadequate. A more concrete approach would have addressed implementation gaps, brain drain, and local context limitations. Instead, the focus shifted to AI’s military applications, particularly in warfare, as highlighted by Ukrainian President Zelensky’s emphasis on AI’s potential for weaponry development. However, the question remains: on what grounds can Africa pursue AI development, given the existing power dynamics? 

Mercantilist interests often overshadow global prosperity

The digital sphere has become accustomed to prioritizing self-serving mercantilist goals over regional, national, and global development efforts. This trend persists despite AI’s potential to uplift millions out of poverty. A recent example is the controversy surrounding the African Network  Information Center (AFRINIC), a regional internet registry for Africa. 

AFRINIC was established to promote digital sovereignty and infrastructure development in Africa by allocating IP address resources across the continent. However, the acquisition of nearly 7 million IPv4 addresses from AFRINIC by Cloud Innovation — a company founded by Chinese entrepreneur Lu Heng — has raised serious concerns. Although Cloud Innovation is formally registered in the Seychelles, the majority of its operations are based in Asia, where it leases these IP addresses to companies in China, the Philippines, and Hong Kong. This situation has sparked debate around issues of representation, inclusion, and the potential disruption of Africa’s internet ecosystem.

Consolidation and control: The future of AI

The AI race has sparked concerns about the global economy’s trajectory and security,  highlighting a trend towards consolidation. For example, the former US President Joe Biden’s administration introduced the Interim  Final Rule in January 2025, which regulates advanced chip distribution for AI, categorizing countries into tiers based on access. This policy favors the Global North, with over 90 percent of Tier 1 countries enjoying unrestricted access, while the Global South, including Africa, faces limited access in Tier 2. 

Furthermore, current US President Donald Trump plans to scrap this system and engage countries directly for chip access, which may not necessarily improve the situation, as it could lead to a more fragmented and potentially unequal landscape.

Many countries in the Global South, particularly those in  Africa, despite possessing significant reserves of critical minerals used in chip manufacturing, often lack the leverage, expertise, and negotiating power to effectively bargain with the US  government and secure favorable terms, potentially limiting their economic benefits from these resources and exacerbating the problem. The discovery of petroleum in African countries like Nigeria, Angola, and Gabon illustrates this point. Despite vast oil reserves, these countries often struggle to negotiate favorable deals with multinational corporations, leading to unequal revenue sharing, limited economic benefits, and dependence on foreign expertise. 

The Global South’s readiness for AI: Challenges and concerns

The Global South faces significant challenges in adapting to AI, particularly in data collection and management. One major issue is the current state of data collection standards. The three common methods are self-production, repositories, and sites, which can be tedious and time-consuming. Moreover, maintaining a consistent approach to data collection is crucial, but integrating data from foreign sources can introduce existing biases and perpetuate structural inequalities. 

Another significant challenge is the lack of a structured data ecosystem in Africa, because of the continent’s nascent presence in the field. This raises concerns about data transferability, given the varying data policies, laws, and enforcement mechanisms across countries in the Global South, particularly in Africa. For instance, over 40 countries have enacted data protection laws, creating complexity and potential fragmentation. 

These challenges highlight the need for a more coordinated and inclusive approach to AI  development in the Global South, one that prioritizes data quality, consistency, and fairness. By addressing these issues, we can ensure that AI benefits the Global South and promotes equitable development. 

The road towards legitimacy

The West has the power to make AI a legitimate tool for human advancement by adhering to democratic values as a fundamental characteristic. This journey begins with inclusivity and participation, engaging stakeholders across regions and countries to understand unique challenges and aspirations.

This collaborative approach promotes accountability and transparency, building trust between citizens and authorities. Transparency is crucial as AI systems make decisions impacting lives, and clear explanations empower citizens to understand choices and hold authorities accountable. 

Fairness and non-discrimination are essential principles, promoting social justice and equity while respecting human rights and diversity. Human oversight and regulation are vital, with robust frameworks governing AI development and deployment. 

To realize AI’s potential, governments, regional, and international organizations must collaborate to harness its power as a force for uplift. The United Nations should prioritize restoring confidence in AI by aligning it with global initiatives like the Sustainable Development Goals and data privacy laws. 

The UN can facilitate this by collaborating with regional institutions to align goals with international standards and promote responsible AI practices. Regional organizations should work together to ensure seamless data sharing, digital law enforcement, and high standards for data collection and protection, prioritizing language and cultural integration to benefit all communities.

Originally published on Global Voices

Destruction in Gaza. Photo by Jaber Jehad Badwan on Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0).

By Masum Mahbub

A ceasefire was finally signed. Humanitarian organizations are scaling up operations to reach families facing famine after nearly two years of relentless bombardment and blockade, and the world is turning its attention to rebuilding.

But the destruction of Gaza is not only a humanitarian tragedy. It has unleashed one of the most severe environmental disasters of the 21st century. Two years of nonstop bombardment have flattened neighborhoods, poisoned the soil, and contaminated the water and air. As the world moves to rebuild, we must understand that the challenge ahead is not simply humanitarian or political.

As the head of an organization that has worked for decades at the nexus of humanitarian emergency response and climate change, I have witnessed how environmental degradation can cripple a community. However, what we are seeing in Gaza is something else entirely. It is not simply the collateral damage of war; it is the deliberate, systematic destruction of an entire environment.

This is ecocide, waged as a weapon to make the land uninhabitable and render any future for a self-sufficient Palestinian society impossible.

Systematic destruction

Over the last decade, Palestinians in Gaza were making remarkable strides in climate resilience despite a suffocating blockade. Gaza had developed one of the highest densities of rooftop solar panels in the world, a grassroots solution to a manufactured energy crisis. They were implementing plans to manage scarce water and adapt to a warming climate. These efforts were a testament to their perseverance, but Israel’s military campaign has systematically erased this progress.

These are not random acts of war. The annihilation of nearly 70 percent of Gaza’s agricultural land, the razing of ancient olive groves, the obliteration of water pipelines, and the destruction of all five wastewater treatment plants are calculated blows against the very foundations of life.

When Israeli forces pump seawater into underground tunnels, they risk the permanent saline poisoning of Gaza's only significant aquifer, the primary source of drinking water for over two million people. When bombs target rooftop solar arrays, they sever a lifeline of independent electricity for homes and hospitals.

Monumental carbon event

The environmental toll extends far beyond Gaza’s borders, creating a carbon “boot print” with global consequences. In the first 60 days alone, the conflict generated an estimated 281,000 metric tons of CO₂, more than the annual carbon footprint of over 20 of the world's most climate-vulnerable nations combined.

Over 99 percent of these emissions are attributable to Israel’s aerial and ground operations. And the climate cost will continue long after the last bomb falls.

The reconstruction of Gaza is projected to be a monumental carbon event. Rebuilding the estimated 100,000 destroyed buildings could release an additional 30 million metric tons of CO₂, on par with the annual emissions of a country like New Zealand.

The unfolding famine in Gaza is a direct consequence of this environmental warfare. Starvation is not a byproduct of the conflict; it is a tool. When you destroy farms, annihilate 70 percent of the fishing fleet, and contaminate water sources with 130,000 cubic meters of raw sewage daily, you create famine. When you litter the landscape with 37 million tons of toxic rubble and unexploded ordnance, you make the land itself a threat to its inhabitants. The air is thick with pulverized concrete, asbestos, and heavy metals. With tens of thousands of bodies decomposing under the rubble, pathogens will continue to leach into the soil and groundwater for years.

How to make Gaza liveable again?

The cost of rebuilding Gaza is therefore unlike anything we have ever faced. It goes far beyond bricks and mortar. How do you decontaminate an entire aquifer? How do you restore topsoil that has been systematically bulldozed and poisoned with white phosphorus? How do you clear millions of tons of debris laced with carcinogens?

Making Gaza livable again will require a global effort on an unprecedented scale, one focused not just on infrastructure but on deep ecological restoration.

Rebuilding Gaza will test not only our compassion but our collective conscience. The ceasefire may have silenced the bombs, but it has not ended the damage to the land, the water, or the atmosphere we all share. What happens next will show whether the world has learned anything from this catastrophe.

We can rebuild walls and roads, or we can rebuild responsibly by healing Gaza’s environment and holding accountable those responsible for this ecocide and genocide.

Originally published on Global Voices

Marc Dennis, ‘Marc Dennis, ‘He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not’ (The Transfiguration of Snow White), 2019. Oil on linen, 142 × 187 cm (56 × 74 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Last summer, during a visit to a friend’s home in Savannah, Georgia, my attention was immediately captured by what appeared to be Gerhard Richter’s iconic Betty — except that in this version, a cat was mid-leap across the composition. The work, by American artist Marc Dennis, stood out among a remarkable collection of contemporary art for its subtle strangeness and quiet provocation.

That encounter sparked my interest in Dennis’s practice. This conversation emerges from that moment of recognition, from encountering an artist who, in celebrating the act of seeing, reminds us that art’s highest calling may be to awaken wonder in the everyday.

Born in 1974 in Danvers, Massachusetts, Marc Dennis earned his BFA from Tyler School of Art and Architecture at Temple University in Philadelphia and his MFA from the University of Texas at Austin. Based in Manhattan, with a studio also in Montclair, New Jersey, Dennis has built a distinctive career that bridges classical mastery with contemporary wit. His paintings have been featured in ArtNews, Art in America, Vulture, and Whitehot Magazine of Contemporary Art, among others. In past interviews, he has spoken about how childhood memories, travel, and an early fascination with nature have shaped his artistic vision.

Marc Dennis, ‘Richter’s Cat,’ 2021. Oil on linen, 86 × 68 cm (34 × 27 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Dennis’s paintings are accessible yet intimate, inviting viewers into a dialogue between mastery and joy. In a contemporary art world often distant from public emotion, his appreciation for life, nature, animals, and laughter creates works that are at once sophisticated and deeply human. By merging masterpieces with whimsical new elements, he gives audiences a reason to pause, smile, and reimagine what art history can mean today.

In this interview with Global Voices, Dennis reflects on his latest exhibition, the evolution of his Flower Series, his approach to hyperrealism and humor, how current events shape his creativity, and his thoughts on success and the role of art in the age of AI.

Excerpt from the interview follows: 

Marc Dennis, ‘Three Jews Walk Into a Bar,’ 2023. Oil on linen, 203 × 152 cm (80 x 60 in), Photo courtesy of the artist.

Marc Dennis (MD): My intentions as an artist have almost always been to create a space in the painting for viewers to fit so that they are not just viewing the work, but they are, in a sense, active participants in the experience. I call it the “invisible foreground.” As for the canon of Western art, my work integrates Old Masters into contemporary settings to detail the relationship between classical art and the environment and climate we live in today’s world. My overall intention is to reconceptualize the past and the present together to create something new.

Marc Dennis, ‘Three Jews Walk Into a Bar,’ 2023. Oil on linen, 152 × 147 cm (60 × 58 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: My own childhood memories, just as the memories I’m building with my own kids (now teenagers), are crucial to my ongoing development as an artist. I rely heavily on my memories because they are woven into my personal fabric. I remember a ton of lessons and experiences from art school — from my wicked, intense interest in the Old Masters while many of my fellow classmates were interested only in contemporary art, to experimenting with a wide range of mediums, only to be driven to oil paints and Old Master methodologies.

I also lived in Rome as part of an abroad program through Tyler School of Art, Temple University, and was blown away at seeing so much work that struck me visually and seduced me mentally. It was an experience that drove me to understand not just the painting techniques of Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian (from my one-month stay in Venice), but also how to interpret an older narrative into newer concepts.

Marc, Dennis, ‘This Must Be the Place,’ 2025. Oil on linen, 131 × 104 cm (51.75 × 41 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: I’ve always been fascinated by animals, trees, plants, flowers, etc, basically of nature’s forms, since I was a child. I wanted to draw lots of things — from lizards and toads to plants and flowers to chipmunks to zebras — and my goal was to depict them as authentically and realistically as possible so viewers would immediately recognize and identify with my subject matter. I worked really hard on shape, form, value, tone, etc., to capture whatever I was looking at, and it naturally led me to hyperrealism as a style to express the beauty of nature accurately in my work. It still matters to me to get things right before I take liberties. After all, I’m not a photorealist and do not rely entirely on photographs as reference or inspiration, and for me, taking creative license and pushing boundaries are very important.

OM: Specifically for the “Three Jews Walk Into a Bar” series, what was your idea behind juxtaposing Hasidic figures with Manet’s “A Bar at the Folies-Bergère?” How did you conceive the compositions? How do you see the tension between the ritual/religious codes of the Hasidic figures and the secular modernity represented by Manet, and what reactions do you hope to elicit?

MD: I’ve been researching and teaching about the Holocaust for over 20 years, with a focus on artwork made by prisoners in Nazi concentration camps. During my research, the notions of Jewish humor came up from before WWII to post-Holocaust, when many Jewish people came to America and made it as stand-up comedians or comedians in Hollywood. Humor is ingrained in our DNA. And to be honest, I believe I can be funny too, well, at times, for sure! I wanted to create a body of work that was, for all intents and purposes, a deep dive into my ancestry and family tree, and humor is a big part of it.

I thought the premise or infrastructure of my idea would be the oldest joke in the world—a rabbi, priest, and Buddhist monk walk into a bar … or a rabbi, minister, and imam walk into a bar… or, well, you get it—three of whomever walk into a bar. I chose to make it three Jews since the work is about me, and I chose the most famous painting of a bar as my scene! It’s comedic gold! “Gold, Jerry, gold!” If ya know, ya know. I’d say this series of Three Jews Walk Into a Bar was “prettay, prettay, prettay good.” If ya know, ya know again.

Marc Dennis, “Giotto’s Fy,” 2024, oil on linen, 72 x 96 inches [182.88 × 243.84 cm]. Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: I respect all feedback; after all, no artist can control reactions to one’s work, but instead simply guide or hint at a specific response — and even that is a stretch. My work is wide open for interpretation, and Jerry’s reaction was authentic and actually heartfelt. He’s a mensch like me, and he doesn’t need to “like” the work; as his notion of him admitting he can’t stop thinking about it is really great and praise from a sideways perspective — a very Jewish way of seeing things in and of itself, by the way. To answer your question in a broader swath, I love praise and appreciate anyone who takes the time to stand in front of my work. In the big picture, no pun intended, it all goes back to what we learned growing up, be it from your parents or grandparents … and that is if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Just move on.

OM: Considering current events — social, political, religious, and cultural — is there anything happening now that has directly influenced your work recently? How do you see your creative process responding to or resisting those events?

MD: We’re living in increasingly controversial times, and it’s important to me as a Jewish artist to represent not only my heritage, but also my contemporary understanding of Judaism because that’s not something that I’m seeing reflected. As far as climate change goes, something I think a lot about, I am certain some of my works touch upon the steady destruction of our beautiful planet. I’m not always aware of what’s going to emerge in my work, mind you. Often, more than not, people see things that didn’t occur to me, and that is a very important and fun element in reactions to my art. I love hearing what others see and feel in my work.

Marc Dennis, ‘Ever After,’ 2025. Oil on linen, 128 × 106 cm (50.75 × 41.75 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: Success has always been relative to me at every stage of my career, even as a kid drawing birds and lizards by my pool growing up for four years in Puerto Rico. If I had a goal in mind, I’d pursue it and do my best at achieving that goal. I’ve made a lot of unsuccessful art in my life. I’ve made a lot of successful art, as well, and I am the same person today that I was as a child. I do my best in the time I’m given and feel I’ve yet to make my best work. I approach each painting determined to make it better than the last. So far, so good.

OM: The question of AI and art is increasingly urgent. How do you see advances in AI (in image generation, in tools that simulate style or composition) impacting artists who work with hyperrealism, with craftsmanship, with masterful technique?

MD: My response to this is simple, and I’ve given it little thought, but I’m fairly certain, knowing what I know of the Old Masters, if Leonardo da Vinci, Caravaggio, and Vermeer were around today, they’d be using AI. And if I’m not mistaken Vermeer and also da Vinci actually had over 300 catalog sketches in their archives of ways to build a camera obscura. In essence, technology has always been embraced by creatives! So there’s that.

Marc Dennis, ‘In Our World,’ 2024. Oil on linen, 132 × 96 cm (52 x 38 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: Hah! What a question. It’s not asking me who my favorite child is, because my kids are equally my favorite forever, but particular works of mine hit differently for me. All in all, my favorite works are the ones I’m creating in my studio, which reprise my classical themes of still lifes, floral bouquets, and art-historical references in a fresh and exciting way. These new works can be seen at the upcoming fairs: Art Basel Miami Beach and Untitled in South Beach, Miami, in December 2025, and Art Singapore in January 2026. Speaking of 2026, my newest work will also be part of two upcoming solo exhibitions: Anat Ebgi Gallery in Los Angeles, scheduled to open in February 2026 to coincide with Frieze, LA, and Harper’s Gallery, New York, scheduled to open the first week of September 2026 to coincide with The Armory Show in NYC. Mark your calendars.

Marc Dennis, ‘Where the Sun Hits the Water,’ 2021. Oil on linen, 152 × 144 cm (60 × 57 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: My credo as a painter has always been to strike the eye and seduce the mind. I don’t think too much about beauty and power; I trust my gut instinct. The medical findings regarding gut biospheres and the notion that the gut has a brain or mind of its own are accurate, at least in my view. That was meant to be kind of funny, but it is valid to a great extent since I rely a lot on my gut to guide my creative output.

OM: Your Flower Series is striking in its lushness and almost hypnotic allure. What draws you to flowers as a subject? 

MD: The universality of flowers as a connection to human moments of significance has been an ongoing interest of mine since forever, from when I first pinned a corsage on my prom date to experiencing flowers at weddings, funerals, bar and bat mitzvahs, baptisms, Valentine’s Day, birth, death, etc. — the list is endless. As an artist who has visited museums since I was an art student, I have always been drawn to “Memento Mori” and “Vanitas” paintings, and that interest only grows stronger. In my heart of hearts, I believe the world needs more flowers.

Marc Dennis, ‘Caravaggio's Cat,’ 2021. Oil on linen, 81 × 86 cm (32 x 34 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: Like I said, I can be funny, and I often infuse my paintings with my sense of humor, or as others would say, my sense of sarcasm, wit, or irony. Whatever the case, I like my sense of humor and enjoy letting it sneak in from time to time. For this particular painting, I thought of a pet cat getting in the way of Caravaggio while he was working, likely in someone’s basement, and a cat happens upon him and decides to do what cats do, and the result was my painting of the cat leaping across.

It’s a brief moment in time that brings a smile to one’s face. Something very important to me as a human. There is no greater force than love, which always comes with smiles and laughter.

Originally published on Global Voices

Two hijras in Tiruchirappali market, Tamil Nadu, India. Image via Flickr by Richard Mortel (CC BY 2.0).

Today, supposed good-faith debates around gender theory are too often recast as a moral panic around gender, specifically, around what many on the right wing pejoratively call “gender ideology.” To be clear, from the very outset, the non-duality of gender is not an ideology; it is both theory and fact.

For instance, one of US President Donald Trump’s first actions after taking office for his second presidential term was to eliminate the word “transgender” from the official lexicon of the United States federal government. This came amid his administration’s broader efforts to scrap federal DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) policies and dismantle USAID projects around the world, which have had disastrous repercussions globally. That same year, the United Kingdom Supreme Court handed down a disappointing ruling that held that under the UK’s Equality Act (2010) — the primary anti-discrimination legislation in the UK — transgender women could be excluded from single-sex spaces and services. Across Europe and Central Asia, too, transgender people are witnessing a sharp erosion of their rights and protections under the guise of “protecting traditional values.”

Thus, at a time when global backlash against transgender rights is surging, the Supreme Court of India is charting a totally different path, moving towards the  “full realisation” of equality for transgender people under the law.

A breath of fresh air

Central Wing of the Supreme Court of India. Image via Wikimedia Commons by Mohit Singh. (CC BY 3.0).

The Supreme Court of India’s recent jurisprudence on transgender rights is a breath of fresh air in an otherwise polluted, anti-transgender global climate.

More than 10 years ago, the Supreme Court of India, in NALSA v. Union of India (commonly known as the NALSA judgment), recognised the “third gender” as not only a legally distinct gender category under the law, but also endowed them with the same fundamental rights as everyone else. Then in 2019, the Indian government passed the much-contested Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019 and the accompanying Rules, 2020, to codify the principles laid down in the NALSA judgment.

Over the years, however, the on-the-ground impact of these progressive developments has remained limited, and transgender people continue to face multiple barriers in exercising their rights — including, and especially, in obtaining their official gender identification documents. Yet, amid this administrative ambiguity at home and rising anti-transgender sentiment globally, India’s constitutional courts have continued to (somewhat surprisingly) stand by the transgender community through progressive and expansive interpretations of the law.

Recent progressive developments

Most recently, on October 20, in Jane Kaushik v. Union of India, the Supreme Court of India handed down an important judgment that directed the formation of a high-level advisory committee tasked with drafting a practical policy framework to strengthen transgender rights and ensure the effective implementation of the beneficial provisions of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019.

Earlier this year, in June 2025, the Andhra Pradesh High Court issued a landmark judgment clarifying that transgender women were to be legally recognised as women under Indian law. This ruling further affirmed that transgender women in heterosexual marriages were entitled to the same legal protections as cisgender women under Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code (which criminalises cruelty, harassment, and domestic abuse by a husband or his relatives).

It is worth noting that, unlike other jurisdictions that do not explicitly recognise the third gender as a distinct gender category, India’s constitutional position also means that transgender women are legally recognised in their own right, thereby ensuring that the advancement of their interests cannot be seen as an encroachment on or undermining of the rights of their female cisgender counterparts.

A case in point is Shanavi Ponnusamy v. Ministry of Civil Aviation (2022), where a transgender woman seeking employment as a cabin crew member at Air India was forced to apply under the “female” category because no separate option existed for transgender applicants. Despite clearing all medical tests, she was ultimately denied employment. When she challenged the decision before the Supreme Court, the Court ruled in her favour. This was therefore not a case of a transgender woman attempting to unfairly “encroach upon women’s spaces,” as some right-wing activists might suggest, but rather an instance where the airline simply failed to provide a legally required, designated category or space for a transgender individual.

Several other cases also echo this progressive judicial trend, including a widely reported 2023 same-sex marriage case. While the Supreme Court declined to grant legal recognition to same-sex marriages,  it nevertheless made an exception for transgender people in heterosexual marriages and extended legal recognition to them. This marked a significant expansion from an earlier, narrower interpretation of the law, which recognised only a limited subset of such relationships under Hindu personal law alone.

What next?

While these cases collectively signal the higher judiciary’s proactive approach toward expanding the scope of transgender rights in India, there is still room for improvement. For instance, transgender people in non-heterosexual relationships cannot yet have their marriages legally recognised. Similarly, various petitions challenging certain provisions of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019, were filed before the Supreme Court years ago but are still awaiting adjudication.

That being said, these judicial developments represent a promising trajectory, particularly when viewed in the troubling and volatile global context in which they are embedded. Therefore, there is reason to remain hopeful about India’s higher judiciary and its inclination to expand, rather than restrict, the scope of transgender rights under the law. This is a trend that activists can only hope continues in the years, if not decades, to come.

Originally published on Global Voices

The Independence variant littoral combat ships USS Tulsa (LCS 16), right; USS Manchester (LCS 14), centre; and USS Independence (LCS 2), left; sail in formation in the Pacific Ocean on February 27, 2019. LCSs are reportedly one of four types of combat ships sent to the Caribbean area. Photo by U.S. Pacific Fleet on Flickr (CC BY-NC 2.0).

At the southern tip of Trinidad, the village of Icacos lies fewer than 15 kilometres (9.3 miles) from Venezuela. On a clear day, residents can see the not-too-distant shores of the South American nation. For decades, the waters between these countries have carried the ordinary rhythms of fishing and small-scale trade. Today, however, they ebb and flow along a geopolitical fault line that threatens both local livelihoods and community security.

In recent months, the government of the United States has stepped up military deployments in the southern Caribbean, including warships and special operations aircraft operating near Venezuelan waters. Meanwhile, the government of Venezuela has warned that neighbouring states such as Trinidad and Tobago may become targets if its sovereignty is perceived to have been breached. For Trinidad’s border communities, this is not an abstract foreign policy problem; it carries very real implications for citizen security, local governance and development.

Rising security pressure in coastal communities

Fishermen in villages such as Icacos and Cedros now say they are avoiding larger fishing grounds farther from shore. “The U.S. has come there and the Venezuelan military is saying they are more present, so you have to watch out. At any point in time, outside there, you could be taken out,” one fisherman told The Associated Press. Their decision reflects a fear of being caught in the crosshairs. When patrols, naval vessels and surveillance increase, small-scale fishers lose access to their traditional zones; their catches shrink, and their incomes fall. The result is a direct threat to livelihoods, which in turn undermines local resilience and increases vulnerability to crime, social stress, and instability.

Trinidad and Tobago hosts the highest per capita concentrations of Venezuelan migrants in the Caribbean, many of them having arrived by sea under precarious conditions. Increased military activity off the coast raises the risk of misidentification at sea, particularly in maritime zones where civilian and illicit activities overlap.

Smuggling of arms, drugs and fuel across the southern waters has long been a challenge for local security forces, with southern Trinidad deeply embedded in informal networks, due partly to its geographic proximity to Venezuela. Local fishermen, for example, may find themselves operating in areas also used by smugglers, making them vulnerable to operations by foreign security forces. While these operations target transnational criminal networks, in a militarised environment, the line between civilian and suspect can blur, creating tension, confusion and fear among legitimate coastal workers, where the possibility of being caught in enforcement actions becomes an everyday worry.

The development citizen security link

The intersection of rising security tension and local well-being is particularly acute in small coastal communities. When border communities face disrupted livelihoods and elevated risks, whether through reduced fishing yields or precarious migration flows, the social fabric begins to fray. Across the region, border and coastal zones have experienced challenges due to intensified global and regional security strains.

Along the Dominican-Haiti border for example, the construction of a militarised fence in 2022 and deployment of additional security forces disrupted long-standing informal trade networks and weakened social cohesion among border residents. Similarly, recent open letters from regional civil society to the current chair of CARICOM, Jamaica's Prime Minister Andrew Holness, warned that increased foreign military activity in the Caribbean Sea risked undermining livelihoods that depended on open maritime access, particularly for small-scale fisherfolk.

Beyond these geopolitical pressures, securitisation has also affected local economies through domestic enforcement measures. In Dominica’s Soufriere/Scotts Head Marine Reserve, for instance, tighter surveillance and stricter licensing within the protected area, initially intended for environmental conservation, altered traditional fishing access and generated tension between coastal communities and enforcement authorities.

Comparable patterns have also emerged internationally. In South Africa, small-scale fisherfolk in the port city of Durban were excluded from harbour access as maritime zones became securitised, eroding both livelihoods and social cohesion. Likewise, communities along the Indo-Pak and Pak-Afghan frontier have faced restricted movement, smuggling pressures and weakened local social capital as a result of prolonged militarisation and limited state investment.

The fact remains that schools, health services and local governance structures are not designed for sudden surges of strain linked to militarised dynamics. The term “citizen security” here refers to the condition of being free from the threat of violence or dispossession, tied to both objective and subjective dimensions of safety. Applied to this context and in daily life, it is centred on the ability to live, work and move freely, without fear of being pulled into external conflicts or being unfairly targeted during security operations. Therefore, the longer tensions escalate, the harder it becomes to maintain a sense of everyday security, which is essential to development and civic trust.

For the government of Trinidad and Tobago, the challenge is particularly thorny. On one hand, the state supports strengthened border control measures and international cooperation. On the other hand, it recognises that the twin-island republic does not seek direct involvement in a U.S.-Venezuela military standoff, though the risk of being drawn in is real.

At the regional level, the Caribbean Community (CARICOM) has made repeated appeals for the Caribbean to remain a zone of peace. In practice, this means that Trinidad and Tobago must navigate dual imperatives: ensuring local citizen security and development resilience, while maintaining sovereignty and avoiding becoming a proxy in a great-power contest.

The pressure on local communities is often overlooked in high-level diplomacy. While government leaders engage in formal talks about regional security, the day-to-day realities faced by residents of places like Icacos and Cedros rarely enter the conversation. Whether it’s fishermen losing access to waters they’ve relied on for generations, or families unsure of how spillover actions will affect their movements, the social costs are tangible — and without focused attention from policymakers, these populations risk becoming invisible in a security narrative they did not choose to be part of.

What could strengthen resilience?

With tensions escalating in the waters of Trinidad’s southern coast, resilience in border communities cannot be left to long-term planning alone. Immediate, coordinated action is needed to reduce risks and reinforce public safety in the face of uncertainty.

One practical step would be to establish rapid-response measures in high-risk coastal areas, particularly where civilian activity overlaps with increased security operations. Local security mechanisms could work together to define safe fishing corridors, distribute clear guidance to boat operators, and implement mobile check-ins to reduce the chance of misidentification at sea. Strengthening real-time communication between authorities and residents can also help limit fear, misinformation, and the perception that communities are being left to manage the situation on their own.

At the regional level, even where formal diplomatic alignment may be limited, Caribbean states can still engage in quiet, pragmatic coordination around shared security concerns. This could include maritime safety protocols, intelligence exchanges, and contingency planning to protect civilian lives should the security environment deteriorate further.

Behind-the-scenes collaboration may be more feasible than public statements at this stage, but it still signals that the region recognises the stakes for small, exposed communities caught near the fault lines of external conflict. By prioritising practical, citizen-focused interventions rather than waiting for diplomatic resolutions, small island developing states (SIDS) can help ensure that local populations are not left vulnerable amid heightened geopolitical tensions.

Holding the line at home

For the people of southern Trinidad, military tensions between two powerful neighbours are not a remote international issue. As the situation continues to unfold in waters that once sustained livelihoods and provided stability, the challenge now is to ensure that in responding to broader security concerns, the region does not overlook the very communities most at risk.

As any SIDS territory will know, development and security are inseparable; safeguarding one depends on protecting the other. As conditions shift, so too must the response, with urgency and attention being paid to realities on the ground. Only then can communities such as Icacos, Cedros and their neighbours maintain their stability in the face of storms brewing offshore.

Originally published on Global Voices

Feature image created using Canva Pro elements.

On Monday October 20, Melissa, then a tropical storm, was ambling across the central Caribbean. Jamaica's meteorological office had put out the requisite news release advising of a severe weather alert. Fishers should expect “deteriorating” sea conditions and residents, “periods of heavy rainfall and strong, gusty winds.” Just over a week later, as Hurricane Melissa approaches the Caribbean island, it is impossible to access the met office's website: “Too Many Requests,” the message says. “The user has sent too many requests in a given amount of time.”

Yet, I know what's happening on the ground in Jamaica thanks to the messaging service of choice in the Caribbean, WhatsApp. Ever since that initial press release, I have been regularly staying in touch with family and friends, two of whom — Emma Lewis and Candice Stewart — are cherished Global Voices contributors. Ordinarily, the messaging app is a quick and convenient means of staying in touch. Under threat of a natural disaster, it's a lifeline.

Waiting for the arrival of Melissa. Photos by Emma Lewis, used with permission.

By Tuesday October 21, we could see where things were heading. Even as Emma shared photos of an “extraordinary sunrise” against “dark clouds on the horizon,” making sure to tell us she used no filters, just her iPhone, Jamaica's parliament was in an uproar, with the opposition marching out of the sitting following a heated debate over hurricane readiness. The government subsequently had press conferences to address the national disaster preparedness roll-out plan.

Meanwhile, in sharing a colourful screenshot from WeatherNerds.org on our chat, Emma quipped, “I guess all these scribbles mean…HELP!!” By Friday, she had deemed the latest forecast from the National Hurricane Center in Florida “horrible.” Prime Minister Andrew Holness soon declared Jamaica a “threatened area,” followed by the issuing of a trade order to prevent price gouging. The order prohibits retailers from increasing the price of essential goods like food, water, medical supplies, personal care items, building materials, and emergency equipment.

On Friday October 24, with Melissa expected to “rapidly intensify,” Jamaica’s met office put the country under a hurricane warning. “Yup!” Emma mused. “Nervous now.” To which Candice replied, “I'm trying not to feed into nerves or anxiety because it'll be a wrap if I get there.”

From last year's experience with Hurricane Beryl, it was obvious that even though Emma and Candice live in the same country, their experiences of the same storm were very different. Emma lives in the capital, Kingston, which is much more urban with well established infrastructure, while Candice is further inland, in the parish of St. Catherine. After the passage of Beryl, Candice lost access to pipe-borne water for an extended period of time. In the early hours of Tuesday October 28, Candice posted, “That's it for water in the pipes.” The storm had not yet made landfall.

As with Beryl, Candice was prepared to change location quickly if needed. As Emma cautioned, “Some areas are likely to flood. Plus storm surge…” Candice reminded her, “I'm inland […] away from storm surges, but I fear that if [Melissa] stays the path of what I currently see on the Zoom Earth storm tracker, I'll be close to her centre when she passes through.” Beryl, she remembered, more or less “skirted” Jamaica. “This one….bwoooooyyy!” Of concern with Melissa is not just the size and path of the storm, but the fact that it is very slow-moving. “You might have landslides, Candice,” Emma said, concerned. “Trying not to sit on that possibility too much,” she replied. “The stress alone…”

As part of the hurricane prep, Jamaica was welcoming teams of linesmen from the United States, Canada and St. Vincent and the Grenadines to assist the Jamaica Public Service (JPS), the sole electricity provider on the island, with restoration of power in the wake of the storm. After Hurricane Beryl, certain communities — in Jamaica as well as the wider region — were left without power for months.

Saturday October 25: Melissa is upgraded to hurricane status, prompting Candice to share in the wee hours of Sunday morning, “Struggling to stay asleep. Usually when this happens, I'd hear birds outside brooding, or some insect chirping or whatever noise they make. You know, something to blend as white noise in my head…it's dead silent. I'm scared.”

Emma replied, “Our frogs are still tweeting but apart from that it’s been strangely quiet all day, not a breath of wind. But my friend Carla tells me it’s very rough, windy weather in eastern Portland.” Within an hour of that conversation, Melissa had been upgraded to a Cat 3 storm. “It’s nerve-wracking,” Emma continued. “This morning is calm in Kingston but nonstop rain since last night. Eastern parishes are getting stormy conditions.”

“Been drizzling on my side since around 6 a.m.,” Candice replied. “Not much breeze. Dark skies. Haven't slept since my last check-in. Mostly anxiety. ” Emma admitted she had “slept really badly too”: “Raining nonstop here but no breeze yet. It’s also getting darker.” The irony, as Candice noted, was that “outside just looks like one of those rainy days. The type that I live for, esp. when I'm home. However, knowing what's behind [it] all is the real pressure raiser.”

Over the next couple of days, they would share links of how the country's zookeepers were prepping the facilities to keep the animals safe, marvel at entrepreneurial Jamaicans who were using WhatsApp to offer their services for last-minute roof patching jobs, and remember the passage of Hurricane Gilbert in 1988: “It was chaotic,” Emma recalls. “People weren’t used to hurricanes then (they are now!!) I recall lining up outside the Ice Factory downtown to get a block of ice. No power or water for quite a while. We pulled through though…”

In true Caribbean style, humour also came into play — or as Jamaicans put it, “Tek serious ting mek laugh” — even as evacuation orders were being issued for certain high-risk communities. By Monday October 27, Candice informed us, “Winds have picked up significantly. It's literally howling. I suspect the power will be out soon. I'm good. Fed, cosy but alert, and also much more rested.”

“Windy down here,” Emma replied, “but we’re not howling yet. I hardly slept (again). It’s a Category Five.” Flooding soon began to besiege certain communities, with “quite a few crocodile sightings in flood waters.” Candice added, “And there's a chance that other endemic species and just animals all round will get dislocated and be all over. I don't have to be concerned about crocs, but I wouldn't be surprised if I see snakes. I [remember] post-Ivan, crabs were all over the verandah.”

Mostly, though, the messaging filled the spaces in between the waiting as Candice mused, “’51 storm Charlie – Cat 3; ’88 storm Gilbert – hit us as a Cat 3; ”25 storm Melissa – maybe Cat 5, maybe Cat 4. All 37 years apart and all had some significant impact. Once a generation . It feels kind of personal […] Two years in a row our breadbasket parish is gonna get a lashing.”

According to Emma, the country's Office of Disaster Preparedness and Emergency Management has been doing a stellar job, including regularly communicating the met office's updates on its social media channels.

In the prelude to the storm, Jamaica has already had three deaths — two caused by falling tress, and one by an electrocution incident — and 13 injuries, mostly from people falling off ladders or rooftops. All health centres have been closed, but all major hospitals on the island remain open. Additionally, out of over 800 shelters scattered across the country, about 130 have been made operational, with Candice expecting that number to increase very soon. Psychosocial support is also being provided to citizens via the country's health ministry and, as should be expected in the age of AI, fake disaster videos have been proliferating on social media as the storm bears down on the island.

By Tuesday October 28, the predicted date of landfall, Candice updated the chat: “Outside a blow weh and tumble down. The howling […] Gusts getting stronger.” Emma added, “Wind is now quite fierce in Kingston and I'm hearing a lot of strange noises outside. Have not slept at all. Now getting very heavy rain.” As at the time of publishing, Emma, who relies on solar, still had power; Candice's electricity went at 9:47 a.m. local time. “Physically I'm okay,” she reported. “Safe [but] emotionally wrecked. This wind is haunting.”

An early morning bulletin advised that conditions would “continue to deteriorate ahead of landfall,” which is expected to be sometime this afternoon. As several WhatsApp messages circulated around the region asking for prayers, Candice said, “Idk how we'll overcome. I know we will, I just don't know how.” 

Originally published on Global Voices

Illustration by Global Voices.

By Sofía (pseudonym), a member of Mi Historia, a journalistic project in Colombia made by and for teens.

I was 12 years old when my mother decided to migrate to Colombia from our home in Venezuela. I never imagined the hardships that awaited us in a country that was not our own.

I remember that before we left, my grandmother and father asked me not to go. They made comments that I thought were prejudiced against Colombians, and since I didn’t share that view, I ignored them. They also insisted that, because of the massive migration of Venezuelans to Colombia, Venezuela was deteriorating and that I would only find suffering there. But none of that mattered to me — all I wanted was to be with my mother, because she was the one I needed to be with.

On January 13, 2021, the day of the trip finally arrived. We set off for Saravena, Arauca, a border region marked by the constant movement of migrants in transit and by those who settle there.

Boat crossing the Arauca River. Photo by Douglas9704 on Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0).

At the time, I had no idea of the scale of the migration phenomenon — thousands of Venezuelans were entering and leaving Colombia. In 2021 alone, approximately 1.84 million migrated to the country. By 2025, according to the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR), 7.9 million people are expected to have left Venezuela in search of protection and a better life.

Venezuelan migration was driven by multiple factors: the economic crisis, food and medicine shortages, insecurity, lack of job and educational opportunities, and the deepening political and social crisis that had plagued the country for years. Amid all this, Colombia became one of the main destinations for those seeking better living conditions.

I remember that after crossing the Arauca River, we headed straight to Saravena. Since we didn’t know the Colombian currency, we were charged 130,000 pesos per person (about USD 33) for a car ride. Without realizing it, we had paid more than six times the actual fare, which was around 40,000 pesos (USD 10) at the time. I experienced many things alongside my mother that, at my age, I shouldn’t have had to. But those experiences shaped who I am today, someone with a past full of fear and pain.

In Colombia, my mother started working as a street vendor. She didn’t have the legal documents to do it formally, and there were no stable job opportunities. However, because of her fragile health, she couldn’t keep up with the poorly paid work. Since we didn’t have access to free healthcare, we tried to avoid taking risks. Even so, in April 2021, she had to be admitted to the intensive care unit. The anguish was twofold — her condition and the high medical costs that, as foreigners, we couldn’t afford. After many procedures, and with only me by her side, the hospital finally agreed to cover the expenses. During that time, I received help from kind people, though I also suffered discrimination. “This happens everywhere,” I kept telling myself.

When my mother was discharged from the hospital, she managed to find a formal job. However, her salary was very low — around 300,000 pesos (USD 76) per month, while the minimum monthly wage at that time was 908,000 pesos (USD 231). The 608,000 pesos (USD 155) gap felt like an abyss, and at my age, I couldn’t work to help cover the expenses.

In 2022, the Colombian government introduced the Temporary Protection Permit, which allowed migrants to access healthcare services and register with a Health Promotion Entity (EPS). My mother and I completed the paperwork, but unfortunately, her application was never approved — only mine was. In early 2023, her health deteriorated even more, and we had no choice but to return to Venezuela.

The discrimination we faced, especially my mother, was one of the hardest experiences. Xenophobia in Colombia became a growing problem amid the Venezuelan migration crisis. There have been reports of stigmatization, violence, and rejection toward migrants in different parts of the country.

Even so, I learned that not all Colombians act that way. Many people showed solidarity and genuine support. There were also efforts from authorities and organizations to combat discrimination through awareness programs, human rights advocacy, and the promotion of peaceful coexistence.

Thanks to those who extended a helping hand, our stay in Colombia wasn’t entirely bitter. From them, I learned that nationality doesn’t determine whether we’re better or worse — it’s our identity and character that truly define who we are.

Originally published on Global Voices

TikTok on an iPhone. Image by Solen Feyissa. Free to use via unsplash.

In a recent research project I undertook, I discovered that TikTok is amplifying clannism and reshaping Somali identity politics by fueling conflicts and intergroup polarization in Somali society. 

Clan identity in Somali society is rooted in the patrilineal lineage and serves as a central pillar of political organization, dispute resolution, and social belonging. In pre-colonial and post-independence Somalia, governance often occurred through “Shir” (clan assemblies). These spaces allowed for deliberation and moderation of information, particularly in conflict resolution. 

However, since the collapse of the Somali central state and the subsequent growth of the Somali diaspora, digital media platforms and other mediated communication platforms have led to the emergence of new digitalized clan interactions. Platforms, such as TikTok, have facilitated transnational identity connections that disrupted traditional clan governance mechanisms. These platforms have allowed individuals, especially younger users, to express, perform, and weaponize their clan identity through memes, livestreams, and viral commentary.

Clannism goes digital: Old identities in new spaces

Clan identity has long shaped Somali life. Clannism has historically determined politics, protection, and belonging. In traditional forums like the Shir, senior men managed disputes and decided collective matters, while young people and women were largely excluded.

TikTok has disrupted this order. Suddenly, teenagers, young men, and women — previously marginalized in clan politics — can assert their identities online. They do so by displaying clan flags, composing clan-based poems, or inserting coded language into livestreams.

One striking example is the rise of TikTok clan battles. These are battles for supremacy where influencers from different clans face off, exchanging taunts and mobilizing their followers. Donations are sent as digital coins, often framed as a matter of clan pride. What was once the domain of elders in private assemblies is now public, global, and monetized.

This digital performance of clan identity is both empowering and troubling. While it gives new visibility to excluded voices, it also strips away the restraint that elders once enforced, turning clannism into a viral spectacle.

Credible media reports show that these coins also funded conflicts in Somalia. TikTokers from Somaliland and the newly formed Northeastern State in Somalia hosted TikTok battles that donated funds to sides in the 2023 conflicts in Laasanood town, northeastern Somalia.

TikTok’s rise in Somali communities

On any evening, young Somalis from the Horn of Africa and the diaspora log into TikTok not just to watch dances or comedy skits, but to tune in to live battles. These battles, often led by male Somali TikTok influencers, are not harmless contests of wit or performance. They turn digital arenas into spaces where users hurl clan-based insults, raise funds to defend their groups, and rally support around historical rivalries. Coins flow, emotions flare, and thousands watch.

In late September, one such battle took place between two Somali influencers on TikTok.  After the live battle ended, recorded clips, edited to fit the platform’s addictive short-video format, were recirculated widely, further amplifying the feud and prolonging audience engagement. The platform has taken the world by storm with its addictive short videos, is playing an unexpected, troubling role in Somali society. Although in the beginning, digital technology platforms were celebrated as spaces for cultural pride and connection, TikTok has increasingly become a stage where centuries-old clan identities are re-enacted, sometimes with dangerous consequences.

Since the beginning of 2020, TikTok has become wildly popular across Somali communities in Somalia, Kenya, Ethiopia, Djibouti, and the diaspora. With over 3.9 million active users in Somalia alone, the app is now a staple of digital life.

Why TikTok? The platform’s design makes it easy for anyone, whether literate or not, to create and share content. TikTok’s uniquely designed For You Page (FYP) ensures that even users without followers can go viral overnight. Features such as duets, stitches, and remixes allow playful interaction, making the platform especially attractive to young people.

At first, the euphoria of digital media platforms was seen positively. TikTok was celebrated for connecting the Somali diaspora with their culture, promoting Somali music, comedy, and traditions globally. Songs like “Isii Nafta” became a global sensation. However, as the user base grew, concerns arose about what happens when clan identity — a deeply political and emotional marker in Somali society —meets TikTok’s algorithmic engine.

When online division spills offline

TikTok thrives on emotional content. The algorithm pushes videos that spark laughter, anger, or pride, emotions that make people watch longer and share more. In Somalia, this means that clan-related videos often gain traction precisely because they trigger such strong feelings. Users are acutely aware of this. Interviewees in my research noted that influencers deliberately play on clan rivalries to boost engagement. The majority of them have noted that the more anger and pride the content shows, the more viral it becomes on the platforms. 

In this way, TikTok doesn’t just reflect clannism, it actively amplifies it. Algorithms build what media scholars call algorithmic identities, shaping what users see and how they see themselves. For the Somali TikTok community, once they engage with clan content, the platform ensures that they see more of it, reinforcing digital identity around clannism.

What makes digital clannism particularly alarming is its spillover into real-world conflict. Several participants in my study recalled TikTok content that directly mobilized clans for violence. In many cases, diaspora influencers encouraged donations to fund local conflicts, blending performance with political action. Hashtags referring to clan conflicts, namely the Laasanood conflict, are very popular on the platform today.

Others spoke of how stereotypes from TikTok trickle down to schools, where children casually repeat clan jokes they have seen online. What was once taboo, openly mocking or insulting other clans, has become normalized among young people. One interviewee summed it up powerfully: 

“TikTok has torn families and relatives apart. In the past, clannish behavior was despised. Now, everybody comes out publicly with it, and the platform affords even uneducated people to join online clan battles.”

In fragile contexts like Somalia, where governance is weak and inter-clan tensions remain high, this shift is not just cultural; it is political and potentially deadly.

What needs to change?

While it’s being used to spread clannism in Somalia, TikTok also has the potential to foster unity and promote Somali culture. Many Somali creators use the platform to promote peace and cultural heritage. They share videos of beautiful Somali landscapes, traditional foods, music, and shared history, reminding followers of the bonds that transcend clan lines.

These counter-narratives demonstrate that TikTok can be harnessed for positive purposes. But they often struggle to gain visibility compared to divisive content, which is more emotionally charged and thus more algorithm-friendly.

If TikTok is to avoid fueling further division in fragile societies like Somalia, change must happen at multiple levels:

First, the platform needs culturally informed moderation teams familiar with the Somali language, humor, and symbols to catch harmful content. Across the African continent, only a few of the continent’s over 2,000 languages are actively moderated on TikTok, including Somali. However, the level of division visible on the platform in the Somali-language content raises questions about the substance and effectiveness of such moderation.

There needs to be more rigorous moderation beyond the surface level of content to also consider the connotation of words, images, and messages, which can carry subtle or harmful meanings. This includes a list of banned keywords and hashtags on the platform.

Second, youth and communities must be trained to recognize manipulation, emotional triggers, and the risks of clannist narratives online. These digital literacy skills will help reduce the online spillover and the negative effects of intergroup online polarization facilitated on the platform. 

Third, policymakers, civil society, elders, and influencers should collaborate to promote unity-focused content and challenge divisive voices. They must distance themselves from divisive figures such as hate-mongering social media influencers. 

For Somali society, TikTok is more than an entertainment app; it is a powerful force reshaping identity, politics, and community life. It amplifies clannism by rewarding emotional, divisive content, undermining traditional forms of moderation, and normalizing stereotypes among youth.

However, the platform also holds potential to promote peace, solidarity, and cultural pride. The challenge is not to abandon TikTok, but to make it safer, fairer, and more accountable.

In the end, TikTok is a mirror of society, reflecting both its fractures and its hopes. The question is: will Somalis allow it to deepen division, or will they harness it to imagine a more united future?

Originally published on Global Voices

Photo by Bauyrzhan Bismildin and assistant Alexander Leonov via Vlast.kz, used with permission.

This story by Aliya Bolatkhan (translated from Russian by Beatrice Learmouth) first appeared in vlast.kz on September 17, 2025. This edited version is being republished on Global Voices under a content partnership agreement.

Historian Aliya Bolatkhan describes how butter and kurt (a traditional dried cheese snack made from fermented sheep’s milk) are made in southern Kazakhstan. One hundred years ago, this was common practice, but it is now much rarer. In this article, we take you through a valley only accessible on horseback, where villagers preserve this forgotten practice.

The history of sheep’s milk in Kazakhstan

Up until the beginning of the 20th century, sheep’s milk was the base for all dairy products in Kazakhstan. In the late 17th century, horses and sheep dominated herds, while cows and camels accounted for just 1 percent of livestock. Even as late as 1922, an ethnographic survey found that cow’s milk represented only about 10 percent of a Kazakh family’s dairy consumption.

Cows were not seen as a valuable asset by nomadic people, as they required much more care than other animals, complicating long journeys. Plus, sheep’s milk is more nutritious than cow’s milk in terms of calories, fat, and protein.

Photo by Bauyrzhan Bismildin and assistant Alexander Leonov via vlast.kz, used with permission.

During the Russian colonization, cows became more commonplace due to closer ties with neighboring countries, resettlement policies, and shifting trade priorities. Gradually, the cow went from being the “worst type of livestock” (maldyn jamany siyr in Kazakh) to a prized possession siyr pul boldly in Kazakh).

In the Soviet era, this shift accelerated as emphasis was placed on industry, factory processing, and standardized raw material. Cow’s milk was more convenient for this system, while sheep were primarily raised for meat and wool. While Kazakhstan became famous for its production of wool and mutton by the 1960s, sheep’s milk, once the backbone of nomadic life, gradually faded into the background and out of people’s lives.

Personal reflections

Last summer, while working on an article about kurt, our team realized we had been oversimplifying our understanding of this product. Kurt is much more than just food; it embodies ideas about nourishment, the body, memory, and land.

I was most intrigued by the idea that sheep kurt was far more nutritious than cow kurt, and wanted to taste it for myself. Why, after living my whole life in Kazakhstan, had I never tried sheep kurt? Today, you can easily find kurt made with cow, camel and goat milk, but never sheep. Why do we hardly ever hear about sheep’s milk, when only a century ago it was the foundation of nomadic culture?

According to experts, in Kazakhstan, sheep’s milk is not produced on an industrial scale. Sheep are instead bred for their meat.

I set out to look for communities where sheep milking is still practiced. That search brought us to the home of two grandparents, Nesipkhan and Rozikul, who allowed us to see the process and taste the milk for ourselves.

Photo by Bauyrzhan Bismildin and assistant Alexander Leonov via vlast.kz, used with permission.

At first, we wanted to see the milking up in the mountains on the summer pasture, but the pasture is only accessible on horseback, and the climb takes as long as two hours. Instead, they suggested visiting the village, as the flock is brought down there at the end of the summer.

“That white one on the edge. Take her, her udder’s filling up,” says Rozikul.

Elzhas, the grandson, skillfully catches the sheep by the hind leg and holds it close to him. The animal struggles for a moment, then quickly calms down. It’s held firmly, but never harshly. Rozikul sits down beside it, bucket in hand, and with a faint, almost inaudible sound, milk trickles down into the metal bucket. This brief moment offers a glimpse of the pillars which encapsulate pastoral life, knowledge being passed from elder to younger, while humans and animals share the same space. It is difficult to translate these moments into words.

Photo by Bauyrzhan Bismildin and assistant Alexander Leonov via vlast.k, used with permission.

Lessons in mastery

Nesipkhan, a well-respected shepherd in the region, has been raising sheep since 1981. His family still follows the traditional seasonal pattern where sheep are taken up to the mountains to graze on the pasture in the summer, and back down to the desert in the winter.

“For thirty years, I had to fight wolves to protect the flock. But three years ago, they all disappeared,” Nesipkhan told us. This, he feels, is very metaphorical. It reflected his strong connection to his herd, a statement of authority and mastery earned over time.

Changing seasons

The milking season starts in early August, when the young lambs are separated from their mothers. Once they are separated, the milk does not stop immediately, so this is when farmers are able to milk the sheep. At first, this is every other day, then every two days, and gradually less often until, after three to four weeks, the milk dries up on its own. Doing it any other way would be “malga obal,” harmful to the animal, as people here say.

According to Rozikul, milking 250–300 sheep during this period can yield around 70kg of kurt and a couple of karyn mai, butter stored in a sheep’s stomach, each weighing roughly 5–6kg.

By the end of the lactation period, the amount of milk drops significantly. Sheep naturally produce the most milk during the first 60 days, then the yield steadily declines.

If Rozikul were to milk the sheep throughout the entire season, production levels would be far higher. However, that is not the aim of this practice. Milking is not “tradition for tradition’s sake,” but a sacred knowledge passed down through hands, gestures, and the everyday rhythm of pasture life. It is less about economic gain and more about participating in the natural cycle of caring for animals and sustaining the bond between humans and the herd.

Rozikul and Nesipkhan’s practice of herding and milking sheep seems like an exception today. A century ago, sheep’s milk was the basis of the dairy culture in Kazakhstan, but gradually this practice faded into the background.

Originally published on Global Voices

Image by Liz Carrigan and Safa, with visual elements from Alessandro Cripsta, used with permission.

This article was written by Liz Carrigan for the series ‘Digitized Divides’ originally published on tacticaltech.org. An edited version is republished by Global Voices under a partnership agreement.

Climate change has been documented by scientists in one way or another for centuries. Already in the early 1800s, French physicist Joseph Fourier argued that human-made greenhouse emissions could change the climate. Since Fourier’s initial arguments, scientists in the past 200 years have expanded upon his work as the earth’s climate condition has become more dire and urgent, but the greenhouse effect, in particular, has not been discredited. Researchers in the 2024 “State of the Climate Report” warned: “We are on the brink of an irreversible climate disaster. This is a global emergency beyond any doubt. Much of the very fabric of life on Earth is imperiled. We are stepping into a critical and unpredictable new phase of the climate crisis.”

To mitigate the escalating impacts of climate change, it is crucial to cut down on greenhouse gas emissions, and quickly. This requires a shift in energy production, moving away from fossil fuels toward sustainable energy. Lithium-ion batteries have been determined to be central to the “green energy” transformation, as they reduce emissions in both the transportation and energy industries. Mining plays a vital role in this shift to renewable energy, supplying raw materials for various technologies, from batteries for devices to electric vehicles. China is considered the undisputed leader of rare-mineral mining, a sector that has even shifted from land-based to deep-sea mining.

While the most urgent reason for transitioning to renewable energy is the survival of all species on this planet, there is also an economic dimension. In the face of increasing wars and low private-sector investment, countries like Germany have entered recession. The acceleration of the renewable energy transition is, in part, an attempt to address these economic crises. As with copper, lithium is another mineral critical to the transition away from a fossil fuel-based economy.

Extracting lithium… and land

The distinction between traditional and renewable energy sectors is not yet clear-cut. While there is significant variation among producers, mineral extraction still relies on fossil fuels, especially as deposits are found in increasingly remote and deeper locations. As Martín Arboleda highlights in “Planetary Mine,” mining continues to depend heavily on traditional energy sources, a dependency that is only expected to grow. A 2024 UN report predicts that global mining of raw materials will increase by 60 percent by 2060. To give an idea of the material requirements of electric cars, the same report suggests that the mineral requirements of electric vehicles are between 6 and 10 times those of combustion engines.

It is no coincidence that most of the world’s lithium production, except in Australia and Portugal, takes place in the countries of the global majority. Latin America has a long history of resource extraction. With over 80 percent of lithium projects and more than half of copper, zinc, and nickel projects located on Indigenous peoples’ lands, it is crucial to consider human rights in the context of the “green” transition.

Over a decade, the Business and Human Rights Resource Centre recorded more than 600 alleged human rights abuses directly linked to extracting transition materials, most of them occurring in Africa, and Central and South America. Researchers wrote that “despite its framing, the language of green transition is also being used to hide and “greenwash” intensified militarism, including on Europe’s borders, with so called critical “green” raw materials ending up servicing the needs of the booming arms and security industry.” Just like the traditional energy sector, mining renewable energy materials is not without human rights violations and environmental problems. While most people can pinpoint the social and environmental harms of fossil fuels (both at the site of extraction and at the point of combustion), there is growing concern over mining for renewable energy materials.

In northern Chile lies the Salar de Atacama, a delicate desert ecosystem that is home to unique species found nowhere else on Earth — a biodiversity hotspot. Indigenous communities, such as the Lickanantay people, have also inhabited Atacama for more than 11,000 years. Chile is the world’s second-largest lithium producer. In particular, within Atacama, the lithium extraction, with its immense demand for water, is profoundly transforming the landscape. Brine is drawn from beneath the desert alongside fresh water, placing increasing strain on the salt flats and the fragile ecosystem.

Over time, local communities have witnessed the toll this extraction has taken, with satellite images now revealing a sinking landscape. While deserts are often depicted as barren and devoid of water, it is not only essential for the survival of inhabitants and the environment but also deeply woven into the cultural and spiritual life of the Lickanantay people. “It's the richness of the culture and community spirit that's disappearing. It's not like it was before, and it'll never be like it used to be. I don't see such a bright future anymore,” said a 72-year-old member of the Indigenous community. Concerns about the sharing of natural resources even prompted Chileans to rethink their economic model, leading to a national referendum on whether this issue should be written into the constitution.

Is an immaterial tech utopia really possible?

Just as AI and other digital technologies are portrayed as immaterial, the sheer volume and scale of mining required for the renewable energy transition and its environmental impact are often minimised or overshadowed by hype and promises of sustainability, without paying attention to who benefits and who loses out. Those who own multiple gadgets and drive electric cars are a very different group of people from the communities that live (or used to live) where mines are situated.

When it comes to the finished product, the benefits of these technologies are far from equally shared. Communities living near mines often bear the brunt of pollution, environmental degradation, and the economic instability brought by boom-and-bust cycles, while end-users and proprietors enjoy the economic and environmental gains. In 2025, a dam holding acidic waste from a Chinese-owned copper mine in Zambia collapsed, with disastrous consequences. The stream, which links to a significant river providing water to five million people, was contaminated; local wildlife, including fish and birds, died. Nickel mining in Indonesia has left local communities in Bahodopi struggling to sustain themselves and fighting off widespread respiratory infections. Human Rights Watch’s declaration for COP26 highlights how lithium mining is frequently linked to environmental destruction, freshwater contamination, and the loss of livelihoods for local communities: “A truly clean, just and equitable energy economy will require […] that the move to clean energy doesn’t recreate the same systems it aims to destroy and helps to build climate change solutions that put communities, workers and the environment first.”

Similarly, in another publication by Human Rights Watch “If Electric Cars are the Future, Let’s Make Them Responsibly,” researcher Jim Wormington calls for stricter regulations to prevent human rights abuses, such as land displacement and environmental harm, in lithium-rich regions. “Car companies should be required to map and disclose the mines and refineries in their supply chain, conduct and review rigorous third-party assessments of mines and refineries’ respect for human rights and the environment, and ensure that they take corrective action to respond to abuses.”

These examples underline a troubling global trend: while resource extraction fuels technological progress and profits for distant stakeholders, the burden is disproportionately borne by those living closest to the mines.

To complicate things even further, not only does the production phase of electric cars create high emissions, but companies such as Tesla generate profits through selling carbon emissions credits. Regulatory incentives allow companies like Tesla to acquire and sell offset credits they receive but do not need. Carbon offsets are theoretically one way that you can “offset” the carbon used in one activity, (like flying) by purchasing credits to have emissions reduced somewhere else. It has been shown that many of these “climate-positive” offsetting projects have removed Indigenous people from their lands. “41 percent of Cambodia’s surface has nature reserve status, but the country boasts one of the highest deforestation rates in the world [exemplifying] how protected areas that are not community-led fail to benefit either people or nature.”

Often framed as “conservation” efforts, these initiatives frequently rely on narratives that depict certain lands as empty or “sparsely populated,” justifying their use for “green” energy projects while ignoring the existing communities, cultures, and ecosystems already present. The reality of rare-earth minerals and the means of mining for it, results in massive barren footprints that our planet may not recover from.