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

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

Among the main issues addressed by residents are flooding, lack of forest coverage, and inadequate housing. Photo by Isabela Alves/Agência Mural, used with permission.

This story, written by Isabela Alves, was originally published on October 31, 2025, on Agência Mural’s website. The edited article is republished here under a partnership agreement with Global Voices.

Not expanding landfills in poorer neighbourhoods, promoting environmental education in schools and other spaces, creating a green currency for recycling, and holding big polluters and public authorities accountable for preservation.

These are some of the proposals developed by activists from the peripheries — marginalized, poorer neighborhoods — of São Paulo, Brazil, the largest city in Latin America. They are to be taken to COP 30 (the 2025 United Nations Climate Change Conference), being held between November 10 and 21, in the city of Belém, in the northern Brazilian state of Pará.

In total, about 30 proposals appear in the “Letter from the Peripheries on Commitments for the Climate – The Atmosphere is Tense!,” signed by 50 collectives and 1,000 community leaders. As well as the proposed ideas, the document provides an analysis of the situation in these areas in the face of climate change.

“We plan to connect with people from other countries, other regions and marginalized areas of Brazil, so that together we can present a project shaped by society’s peripheries,” said Edson Pardinho, 50, coordinator of the Peripheral [Neighbourhoods’] Front for Rights, which organized the letter.

The Peripheral [Neighbourhoods’] Front for Rights came out of the collaboration of social movements during the COVID-19 pandemic, when they acted to help families by distributing food, hygiene kits, and masks. Following the pandemic, the collectives continued their work together.

In the months before the COP, the front mobilized activists to discuss climate goals in their neighbourhoods and draft their collective proposals.

“[Climatic changes] first affect the outer peripheries, and only then are they felt in the more protected areas. Those who live in peripheral neighbourhoods have been dealing with climate change for a long time,” Pardinho observed.

The letter presents ideas with the objective of guiding public policies and community practices that promote socio-environmental justice. It emphasizes the importance of strengthening public involvement in decisions concerning their territory. The suggestions include actions aimed at waste management, environmental education, decent housing, a solidarity economy, and basic sanitation.

Marginalized voices speaking about the climate

Jaison Lara is an environmental activist working on culture and the education of children and young people. Photo by Isabela Alves/Agência Mural, used with permission.

The letter highlights that the historical expansion of São Paulo’s peripheral areas was driven by the lack of urban planning. “The city’s rapid expansion was not [socioeconomically] neutral: it prioritized major economic interests, such as those of the real estate market, whose exclusionary logic relegated poorer people to dilapidated, risky areas.”

“People have developed their own technologies to make sure they survive, even with the worsening climate situation,” said Pardinho, a resident of the Dom Tomás Balduíno Settlement in Franco da Rocha, São Paulo.

Mateus Munadas, 34, is one of the founders of the Peripheral [Neighbourhoods’] Front for Rights and a resident of Itaquera district. For him, it is important that peripheral activists attend the COP, as the perspectives of those who truly feel the impacts of the climate emergency daily are never taken into account.

“There are common points of vulnerability between these marginalized neighbourhoods, and there are also many people fighting for change in these areas,” he said.

Among their proposed solutions are actions such as cleaning streams, community vegetable gardens and farms, solidarity groups during storms, environmental support networks, and community communications. In the field of education, social educators, culture collectives, and teachers are working tirelessly to raise awareness about SDOs (Sustainable Development Objectives), and warn about the environmental racism experienced in marginalized areas.

There are also other solutions, such as community reforestation, strengthening recycling cooperatives, expanding rainwater collection networks, and plans for local adaptation guided by the communities themselves, according to sources Mural spoke to. 

A place for discussion

Children and teenagers from Jardim Lucélia and Jardim Shangri-lá, from Grajaú, spoke about climate change. Photo by Isabela Alves/Agência Mural, used with permission.

The Guaraní people from the Tekoá Pyau Indigenous Village, in Jaraguá, called for the protection of Indigenous peoples, and highlighted that their survival is essential for environmental preservation.

“It is not only about the increase in temperature, but [also] the survival of human beings who cohabit wooded and forested spaces. They are directly targeted by landowners and real estate speculation,” Pardinho said.

The coordinator of Casa Ecoativa, Jaison Lara, explained that the manifesto also questions the logic behind an event historically composed mostly by older, white, and cisgender men who nevertheless speak on behalf of the diverse range of residents and territories.

“If there are only diplomatic figures [present], the [same] powerful people as always, it will likely be an empty event as it won’t take into account knowledge from the peripheries, quilombolas [settlements of residents descended from enslaved people who escaped to freedom], Indigenous and riverside dwellers,” said Lara.

In one of the meetings, Lara talked to more than 200 children. “These are the main people facing the environmental disasters that have been happening. We are leaving [them] a collapsing planet, and this isn’t their fault. There are no public policies that relate to this age group, that look at these children,” he said.

The housing issue

A key question for those living in the peripheries is the right to housing, especially in areas such as the very south of São Paulo. Here, there are houses built irregularly in the “APAs” (Environmental Protection Areas). In recent months, Greater São Paulo has seen a series of actions by authorities and judicial decisions against these occupations.

“Housing and the environment must go together,” argued Clair Helena Santos, 67, coordinator of the housing movement for Missionária-Cidade Ademar and Cecasul (Citizenship and Social Action Centre – South).

Santos joined the social movement at the age of 17 and has been selected as an activist to attend COP30. “Having housing, I understood that it is the channel for all other human rights: health, education, transport, leisure, and so many others,” she said.

Clair Helena Santos has been an activist for housing rights since the age of 17; she was selected to go to COP30. Photo by Isabela Alves/Agência Mural, used with permission.

The letter to the COP proposes an “end to evictions and violent practices against settlements and favelas,” and programs aimed at people living in at-risk areas, so that they do not find themselves with nowhere to go if anything happens to their homes.

The letter shows the main demands of communities in areas such as Cidade Ademar and Pedreira, regions hit hard by climate change, as they are near dams or sewage flows.

A recent example of environmental impact was the construction of a bridge on Alvarenga Road, which passes over the Billings Dam, one of the largest water reservoirs in São Paulo, affecting aquatic fauna and plants.

“There’s no point in the big guys staying there discussing the environment and fighting floods if the peripheries and social movements are not represented, right? For us, it’s the maxim of nothing about us, without us,” Santos observed.

Originally published on Global Voices

Screenshot from Eyoha Media’s YouTube channel, showing two hooded guests facing away from the camera during a segment on disputed online donations. Fair use.

A viral act of “kindness”

A TikTok clip began circulating, filmed inside a parked car near Bole, Addis Ababa. The camera faced inward. A man called Tamru sat in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, voice low, describing illness and daily struggle. The man behind the camera never showed his face. When Tamru finished, a hand entered the frame and pressed a folded wad of cash into his palm.

The clip first appeared on @melektegnaw_ (about 1.7 million followers), a popular TikTok handle that seemingly encourages charity. There are countless others built on the same formula: emotion as the hook, the subject as the thumbnail, a small cash handoff as “proof,” and clicks that translate into engagement and revenue.

On the recording, Tamru asked if there might be longer-term help that could put him back on his feet. The two exchanged phone numbers and a bank account. The man told him to keep praying — that the money came through prayer, and that he was merely a messenger connecting givers and the needy.

The scene hinted at transformation.

The money moved, but the promise did not

After the TikTok clip went viral, people mobilized — and so did the money. Within weeks, more than USD 1,576 (about ETB 260,000) moved through a bank account in Tamru’s name, while an estimated USD 2,120 to 2,4251 (about ETB 350,000 to 400,000) went to accounts he says were tied to associates of the masked organizer. Much of it came from members of the Ethiopian diaspora who believed they were lifting a stranger out of poverty. The funds were meant to buy Tamru a Bajaj, a three-wheeled taxi that could have put him back to work.

Instead, Tamru recalls being told over the phone by the same man who met him in person — the faceless figure in the earlier clip who filmed him handing over the wad of cash shown on TikTok to send more money for ‘tax clearance,’ ‘transport fees,’ ‘processing,’ and even ‘frozen account’ penalties. By the end, he estimates he wired USD 1,212 (about ETB 200,000) from funds deposited into his own account. Only after the promises kept shifting did he take his story public, sitting for a nearly three-hour interview on Eyoha Media, a YouTube channel with a large audience, hoping exposure might force answers.

The men behind the masks

In that interview, Tamru never mentioned @melektegnaw_, even though the clip first appeared there. Instead, he said the man behind the camera was ‘Baladeraw’ — of the TikTok channel @baladeraw — and added that when the host phoned him, he thought he recognized the voice.

Baladeraw’s “charity” brand mixes faith, emotion — and opacity. Screenshot from Baladeraw’s TikTok page. Fair use.

From my review, both channels use the same staging: hoods up, the camera fixed behind the “giver,” and slogans printed across sweatshirts — “the trustee” (ባለአደራው) and “the messenger” (መልክተኛው). They frame anonymity as religious humility. It remains unclear whether this involves two men, a coordinated group, or one operator using multiple identities.

A screenshot from @melektegnaw_  on TikTok, whose viral “charity” clips turn compassion into clicks amid growing scrutiny over how donations are handled. Fair use.

What is clear is the pattern. Both accounts follow the same template: a humanitarian persona across Facebook, YouTube, and TikTok who appears faceless, selfless, and devout. Each video traces the same emotional arc — a vulnerable subject, an anonymous “rescuer,” and a small on-camera handout — crafted to look like spontaneous charity while evading scrutiny.

Faith, optics, and profit

On Facebook and TikTok, a stream of handheld, emotional clips does most of the legitimizing. Platforms reward the optics; audiences read them as proof. A cursory look at Baladeraw turns up a Facebook page labeled “Charity Organization” and a website — trappings of credibility with little visible oversight.

That credibility converts to cash. Baladeraw reports raising more about USD 10,958.96 (more than ETB 1.5 million) through Chapa, an Ethiopian-licensed payment gateway regulated by the National Bank of Ethiopia as a “payment system operator.”

Meanwhile, both men’s TikTok presences blur personal and fundraising content. TikTok’s own rules state that fundraisers must be verified organizations — with registration, a website, and at least 1,000 followers — and, in some regions, additional tax documents. Yet these creators solicit donations as private users, outside TikTok’s verified fundraising tools, raising basic questions of compliance and transparency that the platform has not addressed.

On Facebook, Baladeraw’s “Charity Organization” page remains active, even though Meta’s policies explicitly ban charity fraud and scams. Why a masked operator with no public accounting can present as a charity remains unclear.

Anatomy of a confession that wasn’t

In a follow-up, Eyoha Media brought in both @melektegnaw_ and “Baladeraw,” hoping to settle the story. But instead of pressing for documents or receipts, the host guided Tamru toward retracting his accusations. Identities were obscured: no on-screen names or identifiers appeared; both fundraisers wore hoods, kept their backs to the camera, and only their voices were audible. No documentation was presented or reviewed. The hooded fundraisers walked away without answering how much was raised, who handled it, or whether any of it reached the beneficiary.

On his website, Baladeraw also embeds a clip from his interview with EBS, one of Ethiopia’s largest private broadcasters — hooded, facing away from the camera, his voice the only part revealed. The hosts never addressed the obvious: anonymity may be defensible when one gives their own money, but not when soliciting the public’s. Ethiopian law requires registered charities to disclose finances, keep records, and file reports. Masked fundraisers with donation links cannot claim exemption. Yet no one asked about this. The spectacle continued: the benefactor unseen, the gaze unflinching, the suffering on display.

The unmasking

In a late twist, the person behind @melektegnaw_  unmasked himself on Seifu on EBS, Ethiopia’s top late-night show, calling his work “God’s work.” He blamed impostors using look-alike accounts, said he posts beneficiaries’ own bank numbers so money goes ‘directly’ to them, and cited a 20,000 ETB (about USD 120) diversion he claims was the fault of an intermediary. He denied taking commissions, describing himself as a messenger who shares ‘verified’ cases and runs small drives like the ‘100 birr (about USD 0.60) challenge.

As in the Eyoha Media and EBS appearances, Seifu let him pass unchallenged, skipping basic questions of accountability and transparency. None of his claims were independently verified, and key issues remained unanswered: who verifies these cases, what records exist, and who is responsible when funds disappear.

The bigger story: Platforms, poverty, and profit

Ethiopia’s social media crisis is often framed around hate speech and misinformation. But scams thrive too — especially in under-served languages. In April 2023, AFP’s Ethiopia fact-check desk exposed a viral in Oromo Facebook post falsely promising “free travel to America” for two million Africans; the US Embassy confirmed it was a scam, and the link led to a job-search app, not visas.

Globally, the same pattern persists. Internal Meta documents reviewed by Reuters revealed that about 10 percent of its 2024 revenue was projected to come from ads tied to scams or banned goods. The company estimated users see 15 billion scam ads a day. In 2023, UK authorities reported that 54 percent of all payment scams involved Meta platforms.

These aren’t isolated incidents. They are symptoms of an attention economy where fraud scales faster than oversight — and where the platforms profiting from engagement have little incentive to act.

Originally published on Global Voices

Najeebullah Khitab performing. Image provided by the singer. Used with permission.

Whenever Najeebullah Khitab is remembered in Pakistan, it will be as the Afghan singer who lived in Bashir Chowk, Turkman Colony, Quetta — the capital of Balochistan province. His voice, name, and life gradually became part of the city’s fabric. Born into a family that migrated to Pakistan 46 years ago, Khitab spent his entire youth performing and living in the country that had given him a home.

This is the story of Najeebullah Khitab, a singer whose voice carries the hopes, struggles, and memories of a generation of Afghan refugees. Millions fled to Pakistan during the Soviet–Afghan war in the 1980s, seeking safety. Today, around 2.8 million Afghans still call Pakistan home, including roughly 1.3 million registered refugees. In 2023, Pakistan began sending undocumented migrants back, a stark reminder of how borders and policies can overshadow individual dreams.

Image provided by Najeebullah Khitab. Used with permission.

“I was born in Pakistan,” Khitab says quietly during a WhatsApp call, “but now I’m going back to Afghanistan — where music has no space.”

Khitab’s family, originally from Jowzjan province in northwestern Afghanistan, came to Pakistan seeking safety and stability. For decades, they found it. But in recent months, Pakistan’s government has begun a large-scale deportation drive, forcing hundreds of thousands of Afghan refugees to return to their homeland. “We packed our belongings fifteen days ago,” he says. “We’re standing outside the UNHCR’s Voluntary Repatriation Centre near Bakelite Customs, at the western entrance to Quetta, waiting for our repatriation certificate.”

That certificate, he explains, helps cover some travel expenses — but it cannot ease the emotional weight of leaving behind a life built over generations. “It’s been fifteen days, and we’re still waiting,” he says, his exhaustion tempered by quiet dignity.

For Khitab, returning to Afghanistan means losing more than a home, it means losing his passion. “When I go there, I will have to start life from zero,” he says. “But what hurts more than starting from zero is knowing there is no place for singing or music in Afghanistan anymore.”

Since the Taliban’s return to power, public music and performances have been banned under strict interpretations of Islamic law. For artists like Khitab, that ban is a blow, and it feels like suffocation. “Every nation has its own laws, and we respect that,” he says. “But banning music feels like a kind of force — a pressure on the soul.”

In Pakistan, music was his livelihood. “Singing was my only source of income,” he says. “Now, when I go back, I don’t know what I will do.” Yet, despite the hardship, he carries no anger. “Pakistan also has its reasons,” he says softly. “We are refugees, and this is their land. We understand.”

A truck carrying building materials outside the UNHCR office in Quetta. Image by the author.

Like many Afghan-born refugees, Khitabspent years trying to obtain Pakistani nationality, citing his birth and lifelong residence in the country. “I went to different courts,” he says. “I even approached the UNHCR, but I never received a positive response.”

“I wish to come back one day to perform again,” he adds. “People love my songs on both sides of the border. For a singer, love has no borders.”

He pauses, then recites softly in Pashto: “After every darkness, there will come a dawn.”

When contacted over WhatsApp, Zahir Pashtoon, a social activist working for Afghan refugees, began by explaining the background of the ongoing refugee crisis. He explained that in November 2023, Pakistan’s caretaker government announced its decision to expel Afghan refugees from the country. The process began in Karachi, the capital of Sindh province, where local authorities initiated the deportation drive.

According to Pashtoon, the repatriation plan has been implemented in three phases: first, those living in Pakistan without legal documentation were deported; second, individuals holding Afghan Citizen Cards (ACC) were sent back; and finally, the deportation of Proof of Registration (PoR) cardholders is now underway in the third phase.

According to him, conditions in Pakistan have become increasingly difficult, to the point where many refugees have chosen to leave voluntarily. He added that the UNHCR — the international agency responsible for refugees — has become largely inactive. “They continue to give hope,” he said, “but in practice, they are not providing much assistance. The financial support and funds that were once available have now stopped, and because of that, Afghan refugees are facing severe hardships.”

Truck carrying belongings of the refugees outside the UNHCR office in Quetta. Image by the author.

Discussing the issue of nationality, Pashtoon pointed out that although Khitab, the singer, was born in Pakistan, Afghan refugees born on Pakistani soil cannot claim Pakistani citizenship. He explained that when Pakistan first engaged with the United Nations on the refugee issue decades ago, it did not sign the clause obligating states to grant citizenship to refugees born within their territory. “Former Prime Minister Imran Khan once said that children of Afghan refugees born in Pakistan would be given citizenship,” Pashtoon noted, “but that promise was never fulfilled.”

Pashtoon added that refugee leaders had approached several Pakistani courts — including the Balochistan High Court, Peshawar High Court, and Islamabad High Court — seeking relief to prevent forced deportations, but all appeals were rejected. He also noted that political parties such as the Pashtunkhwa Milli Awami Party (PkMAP), the Awami National Party (ANP), and the Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam (JUI) protested and raised their voices in support of Afghan refugees, yet their efforts produced no tangible results.

Pakistan’s defense minister, Khawaja Muhammad Asif, has recently reiterated that all Afghan refugees must return to their home country, citing security and economic concerns. He stressed that their prolonged stay has created serious challenges for Pakistan’s stability. Asif stated that Pakistan is “facing a lot of problems” due to the large refugee population, claiming that several terrorist attacks have been launched from Afghan soil.

During the October 2025 border tensions between Pakistan and Afghanistan, clashes erupted and crossings were temporarily sealed, bringing the repatriation of Afghan refugees from Quetta to a standstill.

The atmosphere was heavy with uncertainty, the border was sealed, and Quetta’s district administration had begun tightening measures against Afghan refugees, urging them to leave.

Outside the UNHCR office near Baleli Customs, hundreds of Afghan families waited, their belongings bundled in cloth, their faces etched with exhaustion and hope. They waited for one thing: the border to reopen, so they could finally begin their journey home.

As the sun set over Quetta that evening, the UNHCR office stood as a silent witness to one of the region’s most human journeys — a migration shaped by memories, uncertainty, and the relentless search for belonging.

Originally published on Global Voices

‘Action COP30 Promises’; Photo by UN Climate Change – Kamran Guliyev on Flickr (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0).

The United Nations Climate Change Conference, COP 30, will be held in Belém, Brazil, from November 10 to 21. This event will continue global discussions on the climate crisis. The Caribbean, consisting of small island developing states (SIDS), has been vocal about climate justice, particularly regarding the Loss and Damage agenda. As the conference approaches, the Caribbean is adopting a wait-and-see stance on the discussions.

Meetings of the Conference of the Parties (COP) began taking place annually in response to the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC), the 1992 international treaty that preceded the 2015 Paris Agreement and its mission “to limit the temperature increase to 1.5°C above pre-industrial levels” — or, as it’s referred to in the Caribbean, “1.5 to stay alive.”

Regional nations have become increasingly sceptical about the environmental disruption these COP meetings cause, for seemingly few tangible outcomes. On the heels of continued intense and disproportionate climate impacts being experienced by SIDS — which contribute the least to global greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions — and even with COP 28 delivering promises on Loss and Damage, the reality remains that weak frameworks leave sizeable gaps between support pledges and real-life action.

It is a reality that may well have prompted the Jamaican government to take out a USD 150 million catastrophe bond as part of what the World Bank calls the island’s “well-developed disaster risk financing strategy.”

In the wake of Hurricane Melissa, AccuWeather estimates that the region will experience as much as USD 48 to 52 billion in damage. Its formula takes into account much more than insured losses, including long-term losses to the tourism sector, disruptions to business and agriculture, as well as costly infrastructural damage, evacuation, and cleanup expenses.

For island nations like Jamaica, Cuba, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, The Bahamas and Bermuda, all affected by the storm, the trauma is not simply in the moments of waiting for the storm to arrive, not knowing what it will bring. It is not even a matter of riding it out in uncertainty. The lingering damage sets in after the tempest has passed, and you take in the extent of the loss: people killed, homes destroyed, livelihoods reduced to nothing.

According to Theresa Rodriguez-Moodie, CEO of the Jamaica Environment Trust (JET), Jamaica was “reeling” from the intensity of the hurricane, telling Al Jazeera in a television interview, “These storms are becoming the norm, unfortunately, and it is fuelled by the climate crisis.”

When asked how she felt about the organisers of COP30 saying they have no plans to unveil any new measures at the conference in Belém, Rodriguez-Moodie replied, “What we need now is radical change. We need commitments. We need adaptation financing. We need Loss and Damage money […] now is not the time to pause.”

The JET CEO went on to explain that preliminary damage estimates have been coming in at USD 6-7 billion for Jamaica alone. “We cannot afford to continuously pay these kind of big bills year after year,” Rodriguez-Moodie continued, “and have the big polluters go off Scotch-free.”

Many of the large GHG emitters are not even attending the COP30 conference, with the leaders of the United States, China, India and Russia noticeably absent, but Roadriguez-Moodie was not in the least bit phased: “Even when they were at the table, we really didn't have much movement, but the fact is that we cannot have these big emitters claim leadership while they're abandoning their responsibilities, because their profits were built on our pain.”

She argued that the absence of the Big 4 from COP30 “is not neutrality; it really is cowardice.” What SIDS are asking for, she explained, is not charity: “What we're demanding is accountability — and we are not waiting for permission to survive […] we’re asking for these big polluters to pay what they owe [and] dismantle those systems that made them rich and left us vulnerable.”

The region “can’t continue to sit and wait,” she added, “but rather find creative ways to build its resilience and finance its Loss and Damage recovery.”

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

Photo of Salma Osman Abdi by Ibrahim CM. Used with permission.

This interview was supported through the African Union Media Fellowship and the International Consulting Expertise, in partnership with the European Union.

The African Union Media Fellowship (AUMF), implemented by the African Union Information and Communication Directorate and supported by the European Union, aims to change the common narratives about Africa. 

The AUMF thus underlines the necessity of elevating African voices in international discourses. It explores how storytelling can help audiences understand how migration affects individuals, families, and society as a whole — not just through numbers and policy issues but deeply human experiences.

The series of interviews produced as a result of this project aims to highlight stories from the diaspora that cover the themes of migration, culture, creative art, community activism and international cooperation. This was more than a professional assignment; it was deep into the lives and stories of Somali diasporans in two cities that are both rich in history and alive with cultural diversity.

Many of those featured through this fellowship are people whose voices seldom get heard-entrepreneurs, community leaders, artists, and students — each in different ways making their way into the challenges and opportunities of migration. Their testimony reflected not just the private tribulations and victories but also much wider themes: Struggles of identity and belonging, where tradition meets modernity.

Salma Osman Abdi is the Executive Director of the SAFWAC Foundation, an NGO dedicated to aiding dispalced communities and refugees in Egypt. She was born and raised in Mogadishu, Somalia, but moved to Cairo, Egypt, in 2006, where she currently resides. She has been a member of the SAFWAC Foundation since its inception in 2011, serving as a co-founder. In late 2022, she was appointed by the board to take on the role of Executive Director. 

Mohamed Mohamud (MM): Could you start by telling me about yourself and your background?

Salma Osman (SO): I'm Salma Osman Abdi, a Co-founder and now Executive Director of the SAFWAC Foundation. I am originally from Somalia and currently living in Cairo, Egypt. I co-founded the organization in 2011, and toward the close of 2022, our board appointed me the Executive Director. My commitment to SAFWAC all the years of its existence has been for rather deeper purposes than any other commitment outside self and family.

MM: What motivated the establishment of SAFWAC? Can you tell me more about its mission and community service?

SO: SAFWAC Foundation stands for service and care. The organization was established to ensure a better quality of life for Somali refugees in Egypt, extending its support to other vulnerable groups as well. It became officially registered with the Egyptian Ministry of Social Solidarity in 2022.

Our mission is deeply rooted in empowering those most in need: women, children, youth, and the elderly. We provide necessary services that are specifically designed for these groups. SAFWAC has become a hub for the Somali community in Egypt, and we have expanded our reach to serve other communities, including refugees from Yemen, Palestine, Ethiopia, Sudan, South Sudan, Eritrea, Iraq, and Syria.

MM: What are the main services SAFWAC provides?

SO: We concentrate our work in five priority areas:

Education and Awareness: Organized trainings with the objective of bringing the ability and capability to improve individually for both personal and professional purposes;

Psychosocial and Legal Protection: The displaced persons undergo all manner of stresses, which make life really unbearable, and we therefore try to ameliorate the situation with counselling and legal aid to ease their lives.

Cultural and Literary Services: We encourage and support cultural awareness and literacy-the means of identity preservation and integration within host communities.

Space for Creativity: Creativity is a self-expression capability, therapeutic in nature and empowering. Thus, we provide the creative space for community members to share their talents and bond with others. 

Volunteer Preparation: Similarly, SAFWAC equips volunteers to make valuable and meaningful contributions to the community.

These services create an enabling environment for growth and interconnectivity. 

MM: Your work mainly deals with Somalis in Egypt. What are the problems they face, and how does SAFWAC try to address them?

SO: The Somali community in Egypt, particularly refugees, faces many challenges: Isolation, limited access to resources, cultural barriers, and the legal and psychosocial difficulties of displacement. SAFWAC works to bridge these gaps by offering structured and accessible services that reduce isolation and provide tools for resilience.

Our programs are holistic, addressing immediate needs like legal support while also promoting long-term empowerment through education, cultural engagement, and creativity.

MM: You’ve also mentioned that SAFWAC supports other refugees, not just Somali. For what reasons would inclusivity feature so much in your mission?

SO: Well, because vulnerability and displacement knows no nationality and groupings. We happen to mostly focus on our Somali community, but indeed we take in people right from across the region. Everyone needs to have that dignity to be themselves; hence the approach of inclusiveness makes way for a united one.

MM: SAFWAC recently expanded operations into Mogadishu. What’s the focus of your work there?

SO: In Mogadishu, our efforts focus on creating community awareness and spreading the culture of reading and literature. We strongly believe that through this, we will have more literate and culturally engaged people who will help build a better and well-informed society. This branch is still in its infancy, but it is a great step for us to be able to support Somalis both in the diaspora and back home.

MM: What impact has SAFWAC had on the communities it serves?

SO: AFWAC has touched thousands of people directly and indirectly in positive ways. Through an organized and inclusive platform, we’ve alleviated isolation and supported many people through tumultuous times. We are indeed earning an exemplary status among the Somali and general refugee communities.

MM: What is your hope for SAFWAC in the future, in relation to its work in the community it serves?

SO: The overall goal is to contribute to the development of a healthy and balanced society in which the most vulnerable population can live a dignified life and enjoy their rights. We want to expand our programs, reach more people, and make sure no one feels forgotten or left behind.

For us, the work is never complete. Each success story gives us an urge to move on further. I really do think the best years of SAFWAC lie ahead, and I look forward to what we can accomplish together.

MM: If someone is interested in supporting your work or finding out more about it, what should they do?

SO: We always welcome collaboration through volunteering, partnerships, or donations. To find out more about our programs and services, I encourage people to go online and visit our site.

Originally published on Global Voices

Photo of the Buea National Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration Committee for ex-fighters of Boko Haram and armed groups in the North-West and South-West Regions, from their archives, used with permission.

This work was produced as a result of a grant provided by the Cameroon Association of English-Speaking Journalists (CAMASEJ) as part of a project funded by Open Society Foundations.

What began in 2016 as a social uprising in Cameroon’s English-speaking regions has degenerated into a profitable business: Armed groups now sustain the Anglophone crisis through a brutal system of kidnappings, extorting at least USD 7,884,000 (FCFA 4.5 billion) from civilians in 2023 alone.

It all started as a plea for financial support. A phone call from an unknown number, asking those who hailed from Cameroon’s English-speaking regions to contribute to a struggle for liberation from marginalization. That plea has curdled into a threat. The “struggle” has today transformed into a full-blown business. The “War Generals” are now the executives of this enterprise. Kidnapping is their business strategy. Ransom payments and levies are their profit. Families, teachers, principals, and farmers are the collateral damage, facing both fear and financial turmoil.

Audrey Shiynyuy, who recounts her story with quiet contempt, lost her father the first time the separatist fighters, commonly known as “Amba boys,” came. They dragged her dad into the bush and set a price on his life. Her family paid the ransom. The justification: “to support the struggle.” He later returned home, and the family dared to hope. But when the fighters came again, they didn’t ask for money. They killed him. The initial payment had not bought freedom; it had merely financed a delay. This is the central paradox of a conflict devouring its own people.

The brutal conflict between government forces and separatist fighters seeking an independent state called Ambazonia has, in nine years and counting, claimed over 6,000 lives as of 2024, according to Human Rights Watch, and displaced more than 1.1 million people, per the Norwegian Refugee Council. Widely known as the Anglophone Crisis, the conflict has its roots in the historical marginalization of Cameroon’s English-speaking minority by the French-speaking majority government.

What started as peaceful protests by lawyers and teachers in 2016 over the imposition of the French language and law system in their courts and schools escalated dramatically following a violent crackdown by government forces.

As the conflict hardened, kidnapping evolved into its most lucrative industry. A 2023 study by the Global Initiative Against Transnational Organized Crime, drawing from ACLED data, recorded nearly 450 ransom abductions in the Anglophone regions, more than double the estimated 200 in 2022. Each abduction finances the next, trapping civilians in a cycle of violence and economic despair. Recent statistics are difficult to come by due to the stigma and fear of recurrence when a kidnapping case is reported.

The human ledger

The ledger of this war economy is written in the scars and minds of survivors. Journalist Fred Vubem Toh’s entry began on the Bambui-Babanki road. It was 3 pm when three armed men emerged from the bush and surrounded him at gunpoint.

A risky motorbike ride took him deep into a remote camp. His crime, they said, was being “an agent of La Republique.” His fine: USD 20,500 [FCFA 12.5 million] or death. “I had to give five guns and each gun costs USD 4,100[(FCFA 2.5 million],” said Toh. When he pleaded poverty, the negotiations turned violent.

They started beating me with planks and machetes… The more I pleaded, it made them angry. I saw it as their excuse to take my life.

His escape was not negotiated; it was seized. On the second day, with only one guard present, Toh feigned an upset stomach. Left alone, he ran.

I started running and I leaped over a log of wood and fractured my leg without even realizing.

For three days, he crawled, hiding under tree trunks as his pursuers combed the forest. A farmer eventually helped him under the cover of darkness.

His survival is a story of fortitude, but his liberation revealed a deeper failure. Even after providing the military and the Governor’s office with a detailed map of his captivity site, he did not receive any help from the government. He says:

I am shocked that till now nothing has been done. I learnt that the boys come out to the road everyday… and kidnap people and impose a daily levy. The population suffers.

The science behind the war economy

Okha Naseri Clovis, a former “Amba boy” now disarmed and registered with the National Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration Committee (NDDRC), explains the pivot from ideology to profit. He told Global Voices:

Civilians were never our target but became due to how expensive our generals saw it was to run a war and an army. They had to resort to feed from and hurt the very people they claimed to be protecting.

He points to a single, transformative event: the kidnapping of Tunisian construction workers on the Kumba-Bakassi road some years ago. Clovis recounts:

My General at the time, General Lake, asked for USD 147,500 [FCFA 90 million] and the company paid USD 82,000 [FCFA 50 million] cash up front.  Victims are kept and tortured in a room.

Payments flow through mobile money transfers and occasionally cash, allowing the perpetrators to amass huge digital fortunes. Clovis states:

In a day they can smoke drugs worth over 5 million and buy guns from our suppliers in Nigeria. One bullet is over USD 4.10 [FCFA 1,800] … which is why when we kidnap someone, our goal is to get as much money as possible.

The cost is extracted person by person. Godwin Benyella, Principal of the secondary school GBHS Atiela, has two entries in this ledger. He says, the memory still fresh. The first was an attempted kidnapping where his son was shot.

 At 9 am in broad daylight… blood was oozing from my child’s leg.

The second time, he and his vice-principals were abducted from his office. Their salvation came from a desperate bluff.

I had an iPhone and I discovered they do not like taking an Apple gadget… I told them there is a tracker in my car which will be followed.

Spooked, the fighters hastily demanded millions. The money was sent by his wife, “bit by bit.”

Bin Joachem Meh, Director of Academic and Research at the Yaounde International Business School and an economist, describes the demands for ransom as a sophisticated economic system. He explains:

Ransom money moves through the local economy… via a multi-layered process that blends coercion with commerce.

The process begins with the liquidation of a family’s assets. The cash then enters a shadow ecosystem. A portion is immediately “cashed out” for daily needs, “injecting illicit capital directly into local markets, thereby creating a perverse form of economic stimulus under duress.” The rest is reinvested in the conflict, in weapons, logistics, and salaries, transforming victims into financiers of the violence that plagues them. The macro-effect is devastating. Meh describes “severe market distortions” and a “predatory redistribution of wealth” that forces families to sell productive assets like land, creating intergenerational poverty. Meh states:

The conclusion is inescapable. Yes, ransom payments have helped sustain or even prolong the conflict. They provide a reliable, internally-generated revenue stream… Transforming kidnapping into a profitable enterprise, makes political resolution economically disadvantageous for those who profit from the ongoing instability.

Nothing changes if nothing changes

Now a peace activist with My Kontri People Dem (MKPD), Clovis is back in school, months away from earning his Bachelor’s degree in transport and logistics. He maintains ties with the battlefield he calls “ground zero,” encouraging communities to unite, protect themselves, and chase the Amba boys out. He says:

The war has become a business which everyone benefits from.

He explains that many of today’s generals are “hardened criminals” recruited from prisons, a plan that “backfired.” Their goal is enrichment, not liberation. “When kidnappings are not bringing money, they enter the streets and catch people for a levy.” The ideological struggle has been hollowed out, replaced by the relentless pursuit of profit.

Statistics from the National Disarmament, Demobilization and Reintegration Committee (NDDRC), show that as of September 15, 2025, 373 men, 111 women and 75 children have dropped their weapons and are going through their reintegration process in the North West Region in the Bamenda centre.  In the South West region, Buea centre, 651 men, 30 women, and 23 children are now registered as ex-combatants. Governors of both regions say in media reports that efforts are being put in place to protect civilians. But many say they feel abandoned — forced to continue funding the very problem that kills them.

Global context

Cameroon’s ransom-fueled silent crisis mirrors crises unfolding in parts of Nigeria, Mali, and Haiti, where armed groups sustain themselves through kidnappings. It reflects a growing global pattern: when conflict becomes profitable, peace becomes bad business. The international community’s muted response and local fatigue have normalized this invisible economy of suffering. Yet for thousands of Cameroonians, the daily cost of survival is measured in fear, loss, and cash. In this marketplace of war, human life has become the currency, and every ransom paid buys another bullet, so until real action is taken, the cycle continues.

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

Huai Hin Lad Nai community members harvesting rice in their rotational farming land during the November 2024 harvest season. Photo and caption by Ratcha Satitsongtham. Source: Prachatai, content partner of Global Voices. Used with permission.

This article written by Anna Lawattanatrakul, with additional reporting from Ratcha Satitsongtham, was published by Prachatai, an independent news site in Thailand. An edited version has been republished by Global Voices under a content-sharing agreement

Nestled in the mountains of Chiang Rai’s Wiang Pa Pao District is Huai Hin Lad Nai village, an Indigenous Karen community that has been named Thailand’s first Indigenous way of life protection zone. The community lives on over 10,000 rai (1,600 hectares) of forest land, only 1,632 of which are utilized. Their efforts have won them several conservation awards, including the UN Forest Hero Award.

In September 2024, the community was devastated by floods and landslides, which were described as a once-in-a-lifetime disaster.

The community was subsequently accused of causing the flood. Several video clips and news reports alleged that the community’s rotational farming tradition involves deforestation. One Facebook page posted an aerial picture of the community and claimed that their practice of monocropping means that trees cannot grow on the mountain, while some academics have claimed that they were responsible for deforestation and the resulting natural disaster.

Civil society organizations said that such media reports perpetuate a negative stereotype of Indigenous communities and that they added insult to injury by spreading misinformation against a community suffering from the effects of a natural disaster.

The community is now well on its way to recovery, but debates continue about the role of traditional knowledge in disaster prevention and whether Indigenous communities should be given a larger role in disaster response.

A once-in-a-lifetime disaster

Nivate Siri, 68, one of the Huai Hin Lad Nai community leaders, said that the floods and landslides came after days of constant heavy rain, and that he has never seen such severe landslides in the village.

Experts explained that it was the kind of disaster that happens once every few centuries, according to Nivate. He noted that some of the community’s rice paddies and tea plantations were damaged in the flood, and that some families lost their pigs —a significant source of their livelihood.

Meanwhile, Chaithawat Chomti, another community member, said he was in Chiang Mai when he learned about the flood. In the weeks after, he was responsible for coordinating a command center overseeing the relief effort. The road up to Huai Hin Lad Nai was blocked. There was no running water, and phone signals were disrupted while the rain continued.

Once the community has recovered, Chaithawat said, they would have to use what they learned during the disaster and come up with a long-term monitoring system. He would also like Huai Hin Lad Nai to become a model community in disaster response and for them to share information with other communities living in high-risk areas.

Victims of the climate crisis

Climate change and the lingering effects of past logging concessions are probably responsible for the landslides, according to a research project presented at a February 2025 event organized by the Huai Hin Lad Nai community and several organizations and institutions.

Jatuporn Teanma, lecturer at Maha Sarakham University’s Faculty of Environment and Resource Studies, said that a La Niña weather pattern caused heavy rain in northern Thailand at the time of the floods. He also noted that a monsoon that should have moved into Myanmar stopped in Chiang Rai, causing continuous rain in the area.

Jatuporn also said that landslides occurred in areas previously open to logging concessions before 1989. He said that this is why the remaining trees in these areas are mostly softwoods, which are not economically valuable and less resiliant to softened soil.

The research also found that the landslides occurred in forest areas protected by the community, which were not used for farming.

The Huai Hin Lad Nai village in October 2024, while community members are cleaning up after the landslides.
Photo and caption by Ratcha Satitsongtham. Source: Prachatai, content partner of Global Voices. Used with permission.

From victims to participants

Community leader Preecha Siri, 70, explained that there are often warning signs before heavy rain. Big-headed turtles and crabs in nearby streams would move to higher ground — all of which he noticed in the days before the flood. He also said that it was unusually hot.

Since the landslides, Nivate said that community members have kept watch around the village to guard against further incidents. Following knowledge passed down among their community, they observe the activities of animals, like insects and turtles. Animals moving to higher ground means a storm is coming, Nivate said.

In additional to traditional knowledge, Siri added that the community should be utilizing technology and science to come up with a response plan. He would like information to be collected and passed from generation to generation.

But many of Thailand’s Indigenous communities are now unable to fully utilize their traditional wisdom. Prohibitive conservation laws and the public bias against Indigenous communities living in forest areas mean that they are no longer able to live according to their traditional way of life, and despite being a signatory to the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), Thailand has never officially recognized any community as Indigenous.

Suwichan Phatthanaphraiwan, a lecturer at Mae Fa Luang University’s Liberal Arts School, said that the traditional way of life of Indigenous Karen communities, from how they build their houses to farming methods and predicting the weather from animal behavior, lends itself to disaster response and relief.

Traditional houses, often single-storey and built on stilts to avoid flooding, are often seen as temporary by officials. Karen people are, therefore, denied permanent addresses and do not have access to basic infrastructure like electricity and water, leading communities to turn to modern designs so they can gain access to these necessities.

And while in the past, communities have learned from history and move from place to place to avoid disaster, they are now unable to do so. Suwichan said that conservation laws now control the communities’ way of life, and they are forced to remain in areas they know are at risk. Some no longer let their animals roam the forest, partly out of fear that they would face prosecution, which means that they have less opportunity to patrol the forest and observe the signs that would warn them that danger is coming.

All roads lead to constitutional amendments

For Songkrant Pongboonjan, a lecturer at Chiang Mai University’s Faculty of Law, the obstacle lies in Thailand’s legal system. He explained that Thai law does not recognize communal ownership, although this has always been part of the Karen culture. Resources are therefore either privately-owned or state-owned, and the state-owned ones are completely managed by the government. Thai forestry and conservation laws are written to give the government total control of forest lands and resources, and even communities that have lived on the land before laws were enacted have no right to them.

Not only are systems of communal ownership incompatible with existing legislation, but the general public also often has pre-conceived biases against Indigenous ways of life. Songkrant noted how textbooks have perpetuated the idea that Indigenous communities caused deforestation by practicing “slash-and-burn” farming when, in reality, they practice a rotational farming method where they rotate around designated plots of land, allowing the soil to recover during the rotation and reducing the risk of soil erosion.

Centralization is part of the problem, Songkrant said. Such a system, Songkrant said, is inefficient. The fact that local governments are not authorized to respond to emergent situations and have to wait for an agency in Bangkok to act means disaster response takes time. Meanwhile, as natural disasters become more extreme, it becomes more apparent that the current system cannot handle them.

Activists are asking for constitutional amendments to fix the root of the issues. The 1997 Constitution, which was said to be one of the most progressive, was repealed after Thailand’s 2006 military coup. It protected the rights of communities and individuals to participate in the management of natural resources and the environment.

As the fundamental document that serves as the basis for other legislation, Songkrant said that the Constitution should clarify that natural resources belong to every citizen, not the state.

Songkrant said that if community rights to resources are protected, then it cannot be illegal for them to utilize these resources. Noting that he does not disagree with implementing strict measures to protect uninhabited forest areas with sensitive ecosystems, Songkrant said that it would be unfair to communities already living in forest areas if they are evicted or prohibited from using their ancestral land, and there needs to be different measures for these areas.

In December 2024, the Huai Hin Lad Nai community held a traditional hand-tying ceremony to bless the community after the disaster. Photo and caption by Ratcha Satitsongtham. Source: Prachatai, content partner of Global Voices. Used with permission.

Originally published on Global Voices

Feature image by Arzu Geybullayeva, created using Canva Pro.

The October verdict in the case of 15-year-old Mattia Ahmet Minguzzi — fatally stabbed on January 24, 2025 in Istanbul — did more than shock the nation. Two teenage defendants identified as B.B. and U.B. were sentenced to 24 years each, the maximum term for minors under Turkish law, for “deliberately killing a child,” while two other accused minors were acquitted and subsequently released.

The trial, which proceeded amid intense media and public pressure, resurfaced an ongoing debate about the independence, transparency and fairness of Turkey's judicial system.

A judiciary under pressure: structure, critique and politics

Critics of the Turkish legal system highlight long-standing patterns of politicization and lack of institutional insulation from executive power. Prominent human-rights lawyer Eren Keskin argues that “the republic has never been a state governed by the rule of law.” She traces this back not only to the founding years of the republic, but to long-standing laws applied unevenly — such as in Kurdish-majority regions — where emergency decrees, anti-terror laws and sweeping executive powers replaced classical separation of powers.

Academic work supports this: an empirical study using synthetic control methods found a “severe breakdown and erosion of judicial independence” in Turkey following constitutional reforms and populist legal changes. The picture it paints is one of institutions whose formal independence exists on paper, but whose functional autonomy is compromised.

In this context, could the Minguzzi decision be viewed as less of an isolated case and more as a symptom of a legal system operating under constraint? Either way, public outrage, media visibility, and political signalling all impact the terrain in which judges and prosecutors act.

Political prosecutions and the fate of opposition justice

If the Minguzzi case shines a light on general institutional frailty, the prosecutions of prominent figures in the opposition Republican People’s Party (CHP) demonstrate how legal tools are being marshalled for political ends.

Back in March, Istanbul mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu — a central opposition figure and presumed presidential candidate — was arrested on corruption and bribery charges, triggering mass protests which, as at the time of writing, are ongoing. The court has rejected appeals for his release, raising concerns about due process. Meanwhile, the Istanbul Chief Prosecutor’s Office (CPO) launched waves of detentions and investigations targeting opposition-led municipalities and CHP party leadership.

Most recently, the CPO accused İmamoğlu of espionage. The new charges came “after a cybersecurity consultant already in custody on espionage charges agreed to cooperate with prosecutors.” Police also arrested television channel TELE1 Editor-in-Chief Merdan Yanardağ as part of the same investigation. In addition to İmamoğlu and Yanardağ, İmamoğlu’s campaign manager Necati Özkan is also being viewed as a suspect. Since March, İmamoğlu and Özkan have been in pretrial detention on corruption charges.

The CPO also alleged that Yanardağ exchanged multiple messages with a man named Hüseyin Gün, a cybersecurity consultant turned state witness who, after spending months in detention, agreed to cooperate with prosecutors by claiming they were both involved in “espionage activities” tied to İmamoğlu. The pro-government outlet Daily Sabah reported on the CPO's claims that evidence tied Yanardağ to the network, alleging that he “organized the press leg of the election process in exchange for benefits provided by Gün” and cooperated with foreign intelligence to influence 2019's municipal election. During their testimony on October 26, all three men denied the allegations. CHP Leader Özgür Özel, when naming Gün in an address to those gathered outside the courtroom that day, said the espionage accusations were fabricated.

Journalists note that had the investigations launched against opposition-led municipalities been genuine, the same investigations should apply to former leaders of municipalities once under the control of the government and managed by the members of the ruling party.

Rights at risk

Beyond politics and criminal justice, the rule of law in Turkey is being challenged on other fronts: press freedom, minority rights and legislative changes that tilt legal protections. A notable illustration is the proposed 11th Judicial Package (11. Yargı Paketi), which includes clauses that would criminalize what is termed “behavior contrary to one’s biological sex and public morality,” and impose penalties for “promoting” such behavior.

Rights groups emphasize that this not only threatens LGBTQ+ individuals’ rights, but also targets journalists covering these topics: “Journalists reporting on LGBTQ+ issues such as human rights violations, sexual health, Pride marches etc. risk criminal prosecution on the grounds of ‘promotion.’”

Kezban Konukçu, an Istanbul Member of Parliament (MP) from the Peoples’ Equality and Democracy Party (DEM Party), has submitted a parliamentary inquiry regarding anti-LGBTQ+ clauses reportedly included in the draft, calling the proposal “not merely a legal regulation but a reflection of a homophobic, transphobic, and discriminatory political climate.” Konukçu questioned the Ministry of Justice's assessment in the framework of the draft's incompatibility with international treaties such as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR), the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW), and the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR), and challenged whether it understands that such a law — if adopted — could fuel further violence and social exclusion against women and LGBTQ+ individuals, undermining rule of law and democratic values.

MP Sevda Karaca from the Labor Party (EMEP) condemned the proposed reforms at a press briefing in Ankara, describing them as “a fascist law of domination that turns personal life into a field of state punishment.” She argued the draft mirrors a proposal by the Islamist HÜDA PAR party, openly targeting LGBTQ+ existence: “This is not just about LGBTQ+ people — it’s a rehearsal of government violence against society at large. If this law passes, anyone deemed ‘unacceptable’ by the government could be criminalized. A man with long hair or a woman with short hair could go to jail for violating ‘biological sex norms.’ The state is basically declaring: ‘We will commit hate crimes.’”

A state of law in limbo

According to Article 2 of the country's Constitution, “The Republic of Türkiye is a democratic, secular and social state governed by the rule of law.” However, the disconnect between form and function is growing.

The Minguzzi verdict illustrates the judiciary operating under visible stress. The opposition prosecutions illustrate how the judiciary is being politicized. The legal reforms targeting journalists and minorities highlight how law is being reshaped to govern identities and dissent, more than tackle crime.

If the developments in the last eight months alone are indicative of the state of law in Turkey, its judiciary may be coming across as a battleground of interests rather than a fulcrum of rights. Whether that battleground gives way to institutional reform, genuine rule of law, or deeper entrenchment of political justice remains the question of the moment.

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

Image via Caracas Chronicles, used with permission.

María Corina Machado, the Venezuelan opposition politician who has been in hiding since January this year, was awarded the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize on Friday, October 10. Her award marks Venezuela’s first individual Nobel Prize in any category; she is the second Latin American woman (after Guatemala’s Rigoberta Menchú) and the 19th individual female laureate in the prize's 124-year old history.

While Machado’s political career spans three decades, the Nobel Prize recognized her leadership during the Venezuelan 2024 presidential election, when she spearheaded one of Venezuela’s most ambitious civic electoral monitoring efforts: a nationwide initiative that proved essential in documenting and verifying Nicolás Maduro’s extensive electoral fraud.

The committee said, “As the leader of the democracy movement in Venezuela, Maria Corina Machado is one of the most extraordinary examples of civilian courage in Latin America in recent times.” It added that Machado has been “a key, unifying figure in a political opposition that was once deeply divided,” but managed to find common ground when it came to advocating for free elections and representative government: “This is precisely what lies at the heart of democracy: our shared willingness to defend the principles of popular rule, even though we disagree.”

When Machado received the call at 3:00 a.m. local time, she could hardly believe the news. Her first words reflected the scale of the social organization that had emerged during the 2024 elections: “I thank you deeply, but I hope you understand this is a movement — an achievement of an entire society. I am just one person. I certainly don’t deserve it,” she told Kristian Berg Harpviken, secretary of the Nobel Committee, in a clip shared on social media.

Reactions to Machado’s win have been both supportive and critical. She continues to live in hiding following her brief and violent abduction by official security forces in January 2025, interacting with followers and journalists only through social media or video calls. Her restricted movement means she cannot freely engage with either her critics or her supporters to defend or explain herself.

A career defined by defiance; a campaign under siege

Machado is no newcomer to Venezuelan politics. A 58-year-old industrial engineer from Caracas, she first entered the public arena in 2002 through Súmate, an NGO devoted to electoral monitoring. The organization gained prominence after leading a campaign that gathered 3.2 million signatures to trigger the 2004 recall referendum against then-president Hugo Chávez.

Machado later pursued elected office, serving as an independent member of parliament from 2011 to 2014. In 2012, she founded Vente Venezuela, a center-right political movement that promotes liberal economic policies and individual freedoms. As El País noted in 2023, her political vision evokes that of Margaret Thatcher or Ronald Reagan. Today, Vente Venezuela remains unrecognized as an official party by the country’s electoral authority and has become the most severely persecuted party in Venezuela.

Her rise to full leadership of Venezuela’s opposition came in 2024, after Machado decisively won the November 2023 primary meant to unite opposition forces behind a single presidential contender. Her victory, however, was short-lived: within days, the Maduro government disqualified her from public office, so she threw her support behind former diplomat Edmundo González Urrutia, who would ultimately appear on the ballot.

During the elections campaign, Machado helped organize a vast citizen-led monitoring network comprising more than half a million volunteers — many of them women — who tracked and verified voting tallies across the country. The data collected by her teams indicated a clear victory for González Urrutia, with roughly 70 percent of the vote, in sharp contrast to the National Electoral Council’s official declaration that Nicolás Maduro had been re-elected.

When the results were announced, Machado urged peaceful nationwide demonstrations but soon went into hiding amid escalating threats from state security forces. She maintained contact only through social media.

Following the disputed vote, Maduro’s government escalated its campaign of repression. Beyond consolidating the electoral fraud, authorities targeted protests in low-income neighborhoods with unprecedented force, resulting in 25 deaths, more than 2,000 detentions, and dozens of illegal raids under Operación Tun Tun.

Over 800 political prisoners remain unjustly detained in imprisonment centers to date, many of them victims of the 2024 post-electoral repression. This number includes human rights defenders, foreigners and even minors, further confirmed by the United Nations Fact-Finding Mission on Venezuela, which has been active in the country since 2019.

A boost for Venezuelan democracy?

Machado’s political career is not without controversy. In 2014, she was one of the leaders of La Salida, a wave of anti-government protests that became one of the most violently repressed episodes in Venezuela’s recent history.

Over the years, she has also aligned herself with right-wing international figures, maintaining a long, though distant relationship with Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu, and currently backing an alliance with US President Donald Trump, whose administration has taken an aggressive stance toward Venezuela, including the deployment of warships in the Caribbean to target the so-called “Cartel de los Soles.”

Machado even thanked Trump in her speech in Spanish, then added in a post in English on X: “I dedicate the prize to the suffering people of Venezuela and to President Trump for his decisive support of our cause!”

Polarized reactions, silenced coverage

Inside Venezuela, public celebrations for the Nobel Peace Prize were muted, with local independent media covering the news in a limited fashion. According to the National Syndicate for Press Workers, journalists from major outlets who did report on the award were subsequently threatened or temporarily suspended from their positions.

International social media reaction to the prize was mixed. Supporters celebrated Machado’s leadership and her commitment to non-violent protest during the contentious July 2024 elections, whereas critics challenged the characterization of her tactics as entirely “peaceful.”

Adolfo Pérez Esquivel, the Argentinean recipient of the 1980 Nobel Peace Prize for his opposition to his country's last civil-military dictatorship (1976–1983), criticized Machado's nod towards Donald Trump:

Me preocupa que no hayas dedicado el Nobel a tu pueblo y sí al agresor de Venezuela. Creo Corina que tienes que analizar y saber dónde estás parada, si eres una pieza más del coloniaje de Estados Unidos, sometida a sus intereses de dominación, lo que nunca puede ser para el bien de tu pueblo.

I am concerned that you dedicated the Nobel to Venezuela’s aggressor, and not to your people. I believe Corina that you must analyze and know your standpoint, whether you are another piece of the United States’ colonialism, subjected to their domination interests. Something that can never bring good to your people.

Iria Puyosa, a Venezuelan Global Voices contributor and researcher, highlighted how the prize ultimately means a recognition for the long fight of fellow Venezuelans against the repression of Maduro’s rule, as well as that of his predecessor, Hugo Chávez:

Hoy, las reacciones de centenares de conocidos, amigos, colegas, compañeros de viaje, no me han dejado dudas. La gente siente que se trata de un premio a quienes han luchado durante más de 20 años por recuperar la democracia en Venezuela. Un premio para quienes no hemos cedido ante la persecución y la represión.

Today, reactions from hundreds of acquaintances, friends, colleagues, travel partners, left no doubts. People feel that it is a recognition for those who have fought for more than 20 years to recover Venezuela's democracy. A prize for those of us who have not given in to persecution and repression.

Venezuelan journalist Rafael Osío Cabrices, meanwhile, suggested that the Nobel Peace Prize has shifted the political landscape for the Maduro administration. In his view, with Machado now recognized internationally, any attempt to target her carries a higher diplomatic and political cost. At the same time, the prize exposes the limits of Maduro’s propaganda strategy, which seeks to portray him as a victim in response to Trump’s military deployments in the Caribbean.

Originally published on Global Voices

Man sitting on grass while taking photo in Kampala, Uganda. Photo by Morriz 95. Free to use via Pexels.

This article by Meagan Doll was originally published by Peace News Network on September 8, 2025. An edited version is republished on Global Voices as part of a media partnership agreement.

Against the backdrop of several protracted conflicts worldwide — such as South Sudan, Ukraine, and Gaza, among others — conflict reporting is top of mind for media professionals and peacekeepers alike. After all, journalism has long been celebrated for its ability to reveal hidden truths, hold power to account, and tell stories in the public interest. Despite these promises, however, existing research on the role of news during conflict paints a less encouraging picture. The lion’s share of work demonstrates that such reporting tends to be inflammatory and overly sensational, at times resulting in increased cynicism and negative sentiments toward marginalized groups.

Some have proposed peace journalism as an alternative reporting approach. Developed by Norwegian sociologist and peace researcher Johan Galtung, peace journalism focuses on structural causes of conflict, multiparty interactions, and opportunities for peacemaking through careful attention to word choice and broad framing narratives. Of course, such emphases are not typically communicated uniformly through journalism education nor necessarily picked up on the job.

Instead, principles of peace journalism are often delivered to media professionals through specialized trainings or workshops, many of which are hosted in and across East Africa. But what do journalists who attend these trainings get out of them, and what are the implications of this for conflict reporting?

What peace journalism means to peace journalists in East Africa

Regarding what peace journalism means to peace journalists in East Africa, the quick answer is: It depends. An interview-based study of practitioners who attended peace journalism trainings in Kenya, Rwanda, South Sudan, and Uganda revealed that journalists tended to understand peace journalism in one of two ways: the reporting focused either on communities impacted by conflict or on policies to address that conflict. These perceptions varied based on the precarity of one’s professional position. For example, entry-level journalists or reporters working in remote areas with relatively few resources were likelier to emphasize aspects of peace journalism concerned with victims of violence and reconciliation framing. In contrast, more established media professionals and those working in larger, well-resourced organizations tended to focus on policy recommendations for elite audiences, including third-party interventions.

Perceptions of peace journalism

What do these different perceptions of peace journalism mean for conflict reporting and peacekeeping?

First, it is worth acknowledging that peace journalism comprises more than a dozen popularly recognized practices, and varied interpretations should be acknowledged and perhaps expected. Stories with policy solutions and community impact both contribute to peace journalism storytelling, and one is not necessarily superior to the other. Instead, these different understandings underscore the need for training and guidelines that take journalists’ professional constraints into consideration.

The most suitable or effective conflict reporting workshops, for instance, should tailor content for the type of positions media professionals occupy, acknowledging the different realities of such work. This might entail, for example, peace journalism workshops focused on editing for supervisors who primarily oversee the work of others, whereas journalists in the field would benefit from more tangible peace journalism tools, such as safety guides or interview training. Such considerations can be expanded to include journalists’ social and cultural identities, where certain practices may take on new meaning or challenges for women or within certain religious environments.

Implications for peacekeeping more broadly

With respect to implications for peacekeeping more broadly, variability in journalists’ understandings of peace journalism underscores a fundamental truth in peace studies and conflict response: Journalism is just one piece of the puzzle.

Actors from many sectors must be committed to non-violence and justice on the long road to lasting and transformational peace. Some have critiqued peace journalism based on the misunderstanding that news media can, or should, bear responsibility for addressing conflict alone. The fluidity in journalists’ understandings of and engagement with peace journalism thus serves as a reminder that we shouldn’t essentialize peace journalism as a silver bullet solution that can bring about peace or end conflicts alone.

Journalism’s first responsibility in any society is to inform — not to engage in complex political negotiations or develop peace plans — even while the ways that media professionals report on these topics can certainly shape how audiences perceive their value and viability.

To this point, the diversity in perceptions and experiences that journalists bring to conflict reporting should not be viewed an obstacle to comprehensive or ethical peace journalism. Rather, such perspectives can be harnessed to report stories from a variety of angles and vantage points, which together aid peacekeeping forces, public officials, and multilateral organizations in imagining creative solutions toward conflict resolutions.

Taken to the extreme, for as many journalists as there are reporting on a given conflict, just as many unique stories and frames can be produced in service of avoiding the common traps of conventional war journalism. In fact, very few conflicts have been solved with single, silver-bullet solutions, so this diversity of perceptions and understandings may very well be key to solving what feel like otherwise intractable conflicts around the world.