Enslaved people united to resist colonial rule Originally published on Global Voices Participants in the Bois Caïman commemoration at Hotel Roi Christophe (Cap-Haïtien). Photo courtesy Kenbe Kapow, used with permission. This post is part of Global Voices’ September 2026 Spotlight series, “ Protest in Democracy .” With this Spotlight, we seek to explore the many forms of protest, the tactics states use to delegitimize and suppress them, and the complex relationship between protest and democracy. You can support this coverage by donating here . The night of August 14, 1791, marked the beginning of a series of events that changed the world. A large group of enslaved people and rebel leaders met at Bwa Kayiman (Bois Caïman) , a historic site located in Haiti’s Northern Department, in the town of Plaine-du-Nord. Under the leadership of the houngan (Vodou priest) Dutty Boukman and manbo (priestess) Cécile Fatiman — along with key resistance leaders — the gathering brought together enslaved people from different plantations for a clandestine religious and political ceremony. They invoked the lwa and ancestral spiritual forces, seeking their protection and strength for the struggle ahead. It set in motion the first major anti-slavery movement in Saint-Domingue (which would later become Haiti), as enslaved people fought for their freedom. At that time, the island of Hispaniola was divided into two European colonies: the western part was the French colony of Saint-Domingue, and the eastern part was the Spanish colony of Santo Domingo; the modern republics did not yet exist. During this time, Saint-Domingue was one of the world’s richest sugar and coffee colonies, built on an economy that depended entirely on the slave trade. To stop this terrible human suffering, enslaved people united to resist one of the most powerful colonial empires of the 18th century. Coming together to resist The resulting uprising brought together different groups of enslaved people. The population included Creole enslaved people who were born on the island, spoke Haitian Creole, understood French, and worked as skilled workers (carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, shoemakers, or house servants); “Bossales,” enslaved people who were brought directly from Africa on a négrier (slave ship), endured the hardest labour conditions and suffered brutal physical punishments, yet held onto their African roots, languages, songs, and Vodou traditions, and domestic or “elite” enslaved people who worked in the masters’ homes as servants, cooks, bodyguards, hairdressers, wet nurses, cochers (horse-drawn carriage drivers), or commandeurs (plantation slave leaders). In this harsh environment, enslaved women often suffered sexual abuse from colonisers, which led to a mixed-race population, while plantation leaders were often forced to enforce rules with great severity. While the plantation owners tried to turn these groups against each other, the movement found strong support in les Nègres Marrons (the Maroons), who escaped the plantations and mines, and fled to the mountains to fight back. Dehumanising treatment During this period, plantation slaves made up the overwhelming majority of Saint-Domingue’s enslaved population, performing the most rigorous tasks and working relentless schedules from dawn until well into the night. When they arrived at colonial ports after weeks in the holds of slave ships travelling from Africa to the Americas, they were branded with heated irons as marks of identification and ownership. Branding also marked medical information or past flight attempts. Enslaved people were routinely beaten with whips and straps made from dried cowhide, which tore through their skin and left large, bloody wounds. Other punishments included being chained in dark basements for several days, often without food. If someone rebelled, an overseer might force another enslaved person to cut off an ear, arm, or leg as a brutal deterrent to others on the plantation. Image of Toussaint Louverture against the backdrop of the Haitian flag, created using Canva Pro elements. The most cruel punishments involved public hangings, beheadings, or torture. Recaptured fugitives faced these brutal penalties, and plantation mortality was high. When enslaved people grew too old or sick to perform hard labour, they were often abandoned and left to die, or executed by plantation owners who viewed them as burdens. In stark contrast to domestic slaves and overseers, who had access to better food, agricultural and mine slaves survived mainly on water and cassava. This, coupled with the terrible labour conditions and widespread dehumanisation, ultimately fuelled the mass collective resistance that resulted in the Bois Caïman uprising. From fight to freedom From the mountains, these rebel fighters employed guerrilla tactics. Using weapons like slingshots, knives, machetes, and arrows, they ambushed and attacked colonial soldiers, took their weapons, poisoned water sources and animals, and burned plantations and their houses. Most of the time, these attacks took place at night, while the colonists were sleeping. They also built a strong intelligence network. From house servants to drivers, enslaved people worked as spies to send information about hidden weapons to rebel commanders, using kònn lanbi (conch shells) and drums to send signals across the mountains. Vodou ceremonies helped prepare the fighters, who bathed in natural plant mixtures and used special powders for protection. Following the Bois Caïman ceremony, the anti-slavery struggle continued over 12 years through the leadership of key figures such as Toussaint Louverture , Jean-Jacques Dessalines , Henri Christophe , Alexandre Pétion , François Capois , and Jean-Pierre Boyer . Women also played a central role in sustaining this revolution, including Marie-Jeanne Lamartinière , Sanité Bélair , Catherine Flon, and Claire Heureuse. This movement ultimately led to the Battle of Vertières on November 18, 1803, where the insurgent army defeated the French colonial forces in the western part of Saint-Domingue. This victory brought an end to slavery in the former colony and resulted in the declaration of the first Black republic in the world — Haitian independence on January 1, 1804 . Later, during the unification of the island under President Boyer in 1822, slavery was also formally abolished in the eastern Spanish-speaking side. (Under President Boyer , the Haitian government occupied the eastern part of the island, formerly Santo Domingo. This occupation began on February 9, 1822, and ended 22 years later on February 27, 1844, when the eastern side declared its independence from Haiti.) Modern-day perspectives To mark the 235th anniversary of this significant historic event at Bois Caïman, on August 14, 2026, various socio-cultural, Vodou, and conference/debate events were organised across the country, including an event in Cap-Haïtien organised by Kenbe Kapow , a collective founded in 2025 by a group of young people. According to Peterson Jules, Kenbe Kapow’s secretary general, who spoke with Global Voices via a WhatsApp call, it acts as an advocacy group to demand accountability from local authorities, raise civic awareness among citizens, and encourage political engagement. In addition to political leaders, the event brought together public figures from academic, literary, and cultural sectors, and featured patriotic songs, dance performances, and discussions about the role of Bois Caïman in making Haiti the world’s first independent Black republic. Panellists also emphasised the need for national unity to address Haiti’s multi-dimensional challenges — particularly the ongoing political crisis, gang violence, and widespread public despair. Kenbe Kapow’s Communications Officer Karlin Georges Le Pont addressing the crowd. Photo courtesy of Kenbe Kapow, used with permission. In comparing historical marronage to the country’s present-day challenges, Kenbe Kapow’s Communications Officer Karlin Georges Le Pont highlighted the importance of individual and collective responsibility: Nou te genyen yon etap mawon, mawonaj kote esklav yo pou te ka soti sou difikilte dominasyon nan chan yo te pran chimen mòn, men yo pa t pran l pou yo te kapab deresponsabilize yo. Se te yon fòm rezistans ke moman an te mande, e pandan yo te nan mawon yo te reflechi sou kouman yo kapab pran libète yo. Si n ap eseye fè yon paralèl ak epòk sa yo, jodi a n ap viv nan yon epòk mawonaj kote ayisyen an mawon tèt li, ayisyen an mawon peyi l, ayisyen an mawon moun li ye a. Kontrèman ak ansyen mawon yo ki te mawon pou te kapab cherche libète, nou menm nou mawon paske nou di nou fatige, nou pap batay ankò. An nou soti nan etap mawonaj la pou nou vin nan etap kongrè a, etap ransebleman an ak tout fòs viv patriyòt nasyon an pou nou chita pou yon Ayiti miyò pou tout moun. We had a stage of marronage where the enslaved, to escape the harsh domination in the fields, took to the mountains. However, they did not do so to shirk their responsibilities; it was a form of resistance required by that time. While in marronage, they reflected on how to achieve their freedom. Drawing a parallel to today, we are living in a time of modern marronage where Haitians are hiding from themselves, their country, and their identity. Unlike the former Maroons who fled to seek freedom, we flee because we say we are tired and will no longer fight. Let us move past this stage of marronage and enter the stage of the congress — a stage of gathering all the patriotic living forces of the nation to sit together for a better Haiti for everyone. Sterline Civil speaking about the need for civic duty and action. Photo courtesy of Kenbe Kapow, used with permission. Politician and former senior state official Sterline Civil stressed the need for civic duty and action over rhetoric, noting that Haitians “must work to show that we are worthy” of the Bois Caïman heritage. “Otherwise,” she claimed, “we will never succeed and will only continue to make grand speeches.” In a similar vein, architect and local leader Wideline Pierre emphasised the need for unity and shared purpose, suggesting that if Haitians want to emerge from the current social, political, and economic situation, they “must realise that unity, konbit (collective labor), and solidarity are what define us as a people.” A new Bois Caïman? Dominique Dupuy, a former minister and Haitian ambassador to UNESCO, suggested: Se yon dezyèm Bwa Kayiman nou bezwen, se yon dezyèm chita nou bezwen, yon dezyèm gran ransebleman, yon dezyèm gwo konba nou bezwen. Se tout ayisyen nan tout orizon, patisipan yo, sa ki deyò yo, ak vwazinaj nou, zanmi nou, ak kominite nou ki ka leve jou an kò pou Ayiti, pou Ayiti zansèt yo te imajine a, pou Ayiti pitit nou yo merite a, pou yon Ayiti kote nou pap sèlman sibi jou après jou nan chèche lavi, men nan chèche lavi nou jwenn li pandan nou vivan. We need a second Bwa Kayiman, a second sit-down meeting, a second great gathering, and a second major battle. It is all Haitians from all backgrounds, those present, those abroad, along with our neighbours, friends, and community, who can make the sun rise again for Haiti — for the Haiti our ancestors imagined, for the Haiti our children deserve, and for a Haiti where we do not merely survive day after day searching for life, but where we find life while we are alive. Rekindling protest On the actual historic site, the 235th anniversary commemoration involved houngans, manbos, and others from the Artibonite department — a region severely impacted by gang violence — gathering to honour their ancestors. Participants dressed in vibrant Afro-Caribbean attire adorned with vèvè symbols and portraits of lwas. The atmosphere vibrated with the sounds of traditional instruments, including tanbou (drums), klòch (bells), and chachà (rattles). Spectators came in their numbers to the Bois Caïman grounds, where a stage and loudspeakers set the mood with traditional, rasin , and protest music. There was a shared spirit of communion through song, dance, and protest. Marching across the site, participants carried banners bearing direct messages and demands: Ayiti pou Vodou, Vodou pou Ayiti (Haiti for Vodou, Vodou for Haiti); Aba Jezi kolon (Down with the colonial Jesus); Nou mande Leta bay peyi a sekirite (We demand that the government provide security for the country); Nou mande pou Leta retire 52/100 li bay legliz nan bidjè a (We demand that the state remove the 52 percent allocated to churches from the national budget); Jezi fè nou esklav, Desalin libere nou (Jesus made us slaves, Dessalines freed us); and Viv Ewò yo (Long live the Heroes). Despite the historic epic achieved by Haiti’s founders who survived the transatlantic slave trade, defeated Napoleon Bonaparte’s army, and changed the course of history, the battle for true freedom is far from over. Two hundred and twenty-two years after achieving independence, Haiti remains a unique symbol of human freedom. Yet, the nation still suffers from poverty, chronic political instability, systemic corruption, gang violence, and foreign interference. Regardless, Haiti possesses the resources needed for its people to live with dignity as the ancestors intended, and the fight for full sovereignty, economic freedom, and social justice remains unfinished. The greatest challenge for the Haitian people to emerge from this endemic crisis is the need for a new political and economic class, alongside a new model of civil society. This new generation of leaders must have a genuine commitment to Haiti, a clear vision, and the willingness to set personal interests aside to prioritize the nation's well-being. Written by Jude Pierre Louis

A cultural boom built on unstable, undocumented work Originally published on Global Voices Band performing live at Le Backstage. Photo by Le Backstage, used with permission. It’s 7:00 p.m. on a Tuesday night. Beer mugs clatter and conversations fill the timeworn hall of an old brasserie in downtown Casablanca , Morocco. Walid Rakik, a 28-year-old musician, sits in the back booth, speaking to the house pianist. Rakik is the headliner, accompanied by a young darbouka player. For Rakik, this means a three-way split of tonight’s tips, the only form of payment they will receive. At 11:00 p.m., Rakik finishes his first set and makes the quick dash to a Spanish-themed late-night spot for his second set. Rakik’s daily reality, like that of many musicians in Casablanca, remains barely visible behind the polished façades of the city’s nightspots. A labor force of ambience, part artisan, part gig-worker, operates at the periphery of the city’s cultural landscape. For Rakik, however, live music is not his only occupation. Like many musicians in Casablanca, he fits performances around other work, treating nightlife gigs as a secondary source of income and a way to remain active professionally. As live music is folded further into Casablanca’s cultural appeal, its musicians remain in a grey zone, caught between the allure of the stage and the conditions of a fierce yet barely evolving sector. Gnawa music live at Le Backstage. Photo by Le Backstage, used with permission. Historical overview Casablanca’s nightlife took root at the onset of the 20th century, when colonial urban planning turned the city’s coastal wedge into the mythical Corniche, the city’s leisure hub. By the 1960s and ’70s, several nightclubs began popping up around Ain Diab and the city centre. Club 84, Balcon 33 and La Notte provided an early showcase of talent, hosting local musicians versed in jazz, blues and rock. As venues branched out, they formed distinct segments: hotel lounges more attuned to jazz, blues or soul; higher-end cabarets staging Tarab or Maghrebi music; with restaurants and pubs catering to a more casual clientele. Morocco’s economic liberalization at the turn of the millennium coincided with a burgeoning middle class and an emerging consumer culture, spurring new nightlife concepts. Even some of the iconic venues had to innovate to stay competitive. Around the same time, the nascent music movement inspired a generation of young musicians and established some of the new professional norms for artistic and performance work in Morocco. Live music quietly became a significant part of Casablanca’s cultural cachet. A repertoire in the hundreds The circuit’s growth hinges on musicians with extensive repertoires and enough versatility to move between scales, registers and genres on demand. A performer may be expected to master three to five sets ranging from Oriental Tarab and Moroccan Chaabi to Western music, with some eventually building repertoires numbering in the hundreds. Aymane Fattal performing. Photo courtesy of Aymane Fattal. As a synth player, Aymane Fattal is accustomed to the demands of anchoring a band. “The work itself is quite exhaustive and challenging. You have to be familiar with different keys and scales, and be able to play along even if you don’t know the particular number. A singer might request a specific song, and you have to perform it.” At the higher end, technical proficiency is only part of what venues seek. Hani Hilali, a guitarist who broke out with Moroccan reggae band Ganga Vibes before moving into live music art direction after nearly 20 years of experience, sees the core task as “creating an osmosis between the musicians.” Hilali explains: “They rehearse and perform together almost daily, so disagreements happen. What matters is a genuine bond. Technique and nuance can be taught, but not who someone is as a person.” This depends on the band’s ability to sustain different registers and diverse sets night after night. A city of aficionados Casablanca lends its cultural weight to a largely homegrown scene. Unlike Marrakech or Agadir, which rely heavily on tourists, Casablanca’s circuit built its appeal by catering to local aficionados. Chaabi and other popular genres remain most in demand, followed by Tarab, while Western styles draw different audiences. Hilali observes, “Audiences in Casablanca tend to be connoisseurs, more open and more demanding musically. Our patrons come specifically for the music.” Mehdi Harit, musician and founder and art director of restaurant and music hall, L’Octave, echoes this: “People in Casablanca are certainly more attuned to music. Customers ask specifically for the live band when making a reservation.” For decades, the closed circuit relied on word-of-mouth and known performers, with work organized through cachets — a flat-rate payment — or contracts. Over the last decade, however, it has become a significant outlet for a growing workforce of musicians beyond the studio and festival circuit. Yassir Bezzi, a Casablanca-based musician, describes the shift: “Things are much different now. Opportunities are more available, although the overall trend is that cachets have decreased. But new venues have integrated live music as the audience itself grew.” Yassir Bezzi, Atlantic Beach Chez Serge 2022. Photo courtesy of Yassir Bezzi. For Rakik, who works across different types of establishments, conditions vary sharply. “A well-known cabaret pays well and steadily but demands a lot of experience. A restaurant can pay even more for less playing time. A lesser-known cabaret or bar pays less predictably; some can actually pay quite well. That’s where you start building experience.” Precarious zone The allure of live music on a regular night out is more ingrained than before. The growing number of venues creates more opportunities for musicians, but this momentum also exposes the gaps of a precarious model as supply expands. Hilali sees rising demand eroding the form itself. Overused repertoires and formulaic sets risk flattening the live experience. “I find the actors less engaged than they used to be. There are more venues now, but very few are trying to innovate. The bare minimum and catering to trends have become more accessible.” Harit sees a parallel tension: “For some venues, the business model may not naturally align with a selective and culturally significant art direction. Creating these spaces requires making them sustainable business-wise, but that only matters if the cultural vision is preserved.” Tips, contracts and grey areas Working conditions for musicians animating Casablanca’s nightlife still border on the precarious. While venues like Le Backstage and L’Octave offer structured contracts and cachets, these remain competitive and out of reach for many. Elsewhere, compensation follows less formal arrangements, with some cabarets relying on opaque, tip-based systems. Live band at L'Octave. Photo by L'Octave, used with permission. “Tip-based payment is mainly common in the mid-tier, and its spread is relatively recent. Contracts at this level are rare; most arrangements are verbal, with cash payments,” explains Fattal. “But conditions vary, for better or worse; it ultimately depends on the manager and how well you negotiate with them.” Yassine Filali, a singer and musician with over 20 years in the field, founded the Association Jeunesse pour la Culture l'Art et l'Education (A.J.C.A.E) to help budding musicians find opportunities and apply for an Artist’s Card. The Ministry’s Artist Card offers easier administrative procedures and travel-expense reductions. The Auto-Entrepreneur status allows musicians to pay taxes, access medical insurance, and contribute to a retirement fund, but requires transparent invoicing, difficult to produce from undetermined fees and tips. “Musicians have become relatively easy to replace. The offer is growing, but demand isn’t keeping pace,” Filali says. “Some venues offer proper contracts, but in many, compensation is still largely tip-based, often with little transparency. Many artists live almost entirely off tips, with little stability or protection.” Future perspective As the number of venues and performers has grown, the sector requires changes in management and programming practices. Live Band at Le Backstage, used with permission. Le Backstage Even as structural challenges persist, the scene remains active. For Hilali, much depends on the renewed engagement of committed actors: “Cultural programming is often the first to suffer from budget cuts, but I think it should be the main appeal. You can find the best salmon fillet anywhere, but cultural programming is different. I would like to see more art directors understand that the cultural experience of an establishment is as important as the overall offer.” Casablanca’s live music circuit has sustained its economic viability through an appeal rooted mainly in local audiences. As it grows, the gap between those foundations and the way the sector operates becomes harder to ignore. More consistent frameworks, particularly around standardization, could give it the stability it currently lacks. Written by Badr Sellak

A statistic alone does not change society Originally published on Global Voices Silivri Prison in Turkey. Image from Wikimedia Commons . CC BY-SA 4.0 . This article was produced by Ahmet Kavruk from the group Gündem Hapishane in Türkiye through the Digital Spark granting scheme, as part of the Regional Support Mechanism EECA project. It was implemented by the Metamorphosis Foundation and TechSoup , in partnership with CIVICUS and under the Digital Democracy Initiative (DDI) that covers the Global South. It is being published on Global Voices as part of a content-sharing agreement. In late 2025, prisons in Türkiye became more visible than they had been in a long time. The 11th Judicial Package , a legislative reform that became law in December, was debated for days on television, in newspapers, and on social media. Sentencing regulations, claims of early release, and changes to the penal system were at the forefront of public discourse. However, as the debates intensified , another issue came to light: Many people discussing the same topic did not actually have the same information. Having worked in human rights and journalism for over a decade, I repeatedly heard similar questions from those around me during this process. There was significant confusion about who the legislation would cover, what changes it would bring about, and whether it would solve the fundamental problems in prisons. But I noticed something during this debate: prisons are only discussed when a new sentencing regulation is on the agenda, and the debates mostly revolve around well-known individuals or high-profile political cases. Meanwhile, the vast majority of this closed industry, which houses hundreds of thousands of people, remains invisible. That’s where the idea for our Substack newsletter Prison Agenda (Gündem Hapishane) came from. I wanted to create an independent publication that would contribute to discussions about prisons and prisoners’ human rights, not just in times of crisis but from a human rights perspective based on reliable, up-to-date information. I shared this idea with my colleague Tutku Sönmez , and since we both recognized the need, we decided to take action together. Turning numbers into human stories A prison in Sinop, Turkey. Image from Wikimedia Commons . CC BY 2.0 . On January 1, 2026, Tutku and I launched the Prison Agenda. Rather than producing new news, our goal was to translate information that was already publicly available but scattered, technical, and difficult to access into a language that everyone could understand. Every month, we review official statistics, parliamentary commission minutes, Council of Europe reports, EuroPris data, and academic research. We then simplify, verify, and convert these into infographics, data visualizations, and short analyses using digital design tools. We sometimes refer to this process as “rights-based translation,” as our focus is on making existing information visible and accessible rather than generating new knowledge. The unseen ‘high needs’ prisoners Türkiye currently has the largest prison population in Europe, with the number of prisoners more than doubling over the last decade. However, this figure is often presented as nothing more than a cold statistic. Our aim is to remind people that a human being stands behind every number. Take, for example, young children living in prison with their mothers, foreign nationals who cannot access justice mechanisms because they do not speak Turkish, women who cannot benefit from educational and social activities because of staff shortages, and elderly and disabled prisoners who struggle to access healthcare. These groups often do not even make it into the footnotes of official reports. Yet, from a human rights perspective, these are precisely the individuals who should be the most visible. In every piece of content we produce, we strive to reduce this invisibility, even if only slightly, by referencing international standards such as the Bangkok Rules and the Mandela Rules , which establish international baselines for prison standards and the treatment of inmates. A greater impact When we launched the project, our main goal was to create a reliable and sustainable source of information, rather than to reach a large audience. We weren’t sure how the public would respond to regular publications on prisons, a topic which typically receives limited public attention. However, the rapid growth of our subscriber base within a short time showed us that the need was far greater than we had expected. In the first six months, we have received 435 subscribers for our Turkish and English newsletters. Our newsletters began to serve as an important reference source for journalists, human rights advocates, academics and civil society workers. Over time, we have diversified our work, beginning to produce three regular publications: The News Bulletin, which summarises key developments; the Data Bulletin , which analyzes official statistics to highlight trends; and the Parliamentary Monitoring Bulletin , through which we closely track prison-related legislative activities in the Grand National Assembly of Türkiye . We also publish thematic articles focusing on vulnerable groups to mark important dates such as Pride Month, World Refugee Day, International Women’s Day and the Day of Solidarity with Victims of Torture. The challenges and future of independent publishing Needless to say, working in this field is not easy. Prisons are, by their very nature, closed-off institutions that are difficult to oversee. Access to information is limited, official data is fragmented, and bureaucratic processes are slow. Furthermore, addressing these sensitive issues in a political climate where civil society is under pressure involves managing the risk of encountering legal or technical obstacles at any time. Securing financial resources to sustain independent journalism is another challenge. Despite this, Prison Agenda taught me something important about journalism. I used to think that the fundamental role of journalism was to produce information. Today, however, I believe there is another responsibility that is just as important: Transforming complex information into information that people can actually use. Because a statistic alone does not change society. But when we can see the human stories behind that statistic, we can begin to talk about human rights violations and solutions. In the coming period, as we strengthen our Turkish-language publications, we also intend to develop our English-language newsletter further, in order to more effectively connect civil society initiatives in Türkiye with international human rights networks. No matter how physically distant prisons may be from society, the rights of those living inside them are universal. We believe that access to information is a fundamental right, not a privilege. Written by GV Central Asia and Caucasus

They may have survived the earthquake, but many were left without shelter, support, or recognition Originally published on Global Voices Without an official figure, volunteers estimate that nearly 400 people affected by the earthquake are sheltering in La Libertad Park. Photos by Jeimi Villamizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. A crack divides the residencia on 14th Street in Pereira in two. Bricks from the boarding house’s façade and pieces of its collapsed roof lie on the ground. Windows without glass and yellow caution tape across the front warn of the risk of collapse. From the outside, it is hard to understand why it is still standing — perhaps much like the way it remained standing for the past decade, thanks to people looking for a roof over their heads for less than COP 17,000 (USD 5) a day. Before the earth moved and turned it into a memory, one of the rooms on its three floors was home to Laura*, her two daughters* [*these three names have been changed to protect their privacy] and her husband. On the morning of the earthquake, Laura woke up earlier than usual, restless and counting the minutes until she could meet her daughters, Mariana (10) and Luciana (8), who had spent the night at Laura’s older son’s home. She picked up her phone, checked the time — 7:32 a.m. — and stepped into the shower. Two minutes later, a powerful jolt threw her against the wall. She tried to stay on her feet, but the movement grew stronger. She heard her husband screaming and, as the ground shook beneath her, ran out of the bathroom. The earthquake in Colombia has been the biggest one in the last decade, and has impacted more than 400,000 people across the country. Photo by Jeimi Villavizar, Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. Laura did not look back. With the earth still moving, she grabbed a towel to cover her naked body and ran to find her daughters. Around her, buildings in downtown Pereira, one of the most impacted cities , were collapsing. People were screaming. She could only imagine finding her daughters beneath the rubble. The walk from her home to where her daughters were staying takes approximately 40 minutes; Laura says she made it in 15. Carolina has a similar story. The night before, as she had every night since arriving in Pereira three months earlier, she paid COP 18,000 (USD 6) for a room without a kitchen for herself, her one-and-a-half-year-old daughter and her husband. She paid for both the room and food by selling garbage bags on the street with her daughter, while her husband works on construction sites around the city. She emerged alive from the earthquake, only to realize that her family had lost the little they had managed to build over the previous months. Photo by Jeimi Villamizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. Meanwhile, 56-year-old Félix was picking coffee on a farm about 40 minutes from Pereira when the 7.4-magnitude, 90-second earthquake struck. Afterwards, Félix returned to the boarding house in Pereira, although he had no family in the city to search for. When he arrived, he found it was destroyed. A small suitcase — his most valuable possession — which he had carried with him for the past decade as he moved from farm to farm looking for work, was buried beneath the rubble. “I paid 15,000 pesos a day for a room,” he says. “Now I have nowhere to go. I had to sleep on the street; on the ground in the park. I had never slept like that in my life.” The victims no one counted To date, the Pereira Mayor’s Office has no estimate of how many people were living in the “pay-by-the-day” residences and were affected by the earthquake. Photo by Jeimi Villamizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. Without knowing one another, Félix, Laura and Carolina became three of the 400 people sheltering in La Libertad Park, between 12th and 14th Streets in downtown Pereira, just a few blocks from their former homes. The figure is unofficial. The shelter is not one of the locations authorized by the Pereira Mayor’s Office, and volunteers have been responsible for counting the people staying there. On the night of the earthquake, just meters from the park, neighborhood residents removed rubble from a boarding house that had completely collapsed, along with a drugstore and a bakery on the ground floor. Volunteers searched for signs of life among the ruins of a building where people paid by the day for a place to sleep. Two days later, together with official rescuers, they recovered the bodies of 17 people. They were among the 111 people killed by the earthquake in Pereira. According to the Pereira Mayor’s Office, approximately 600 buildings were preliminarily identified as being at risk of collapse. Photo by Jeimi Villavizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. Laura says three of her coworkers slept there. Although she does not know their names, she has not seen them since the earthquake. She fears they were among the bodies recovered. “Nobody came to find out how many people were sleeping in the affected residences, how many people now have nowhere to live, or how many were trapped beneath the rubble,” says Edward Molina, a local volunteer. “They are invisible to the government and society. People judge them because they are sex workers, homeless, or recyclers.” Edward and other volunteers say that while they tried to cope with the disaster on their own, attention was focused on the situation two blocks away, at the Hotel Dibenni, one of the area’s most luxurious hotels and one of 66 buildings that collapsed in the capital of Risaralda. Without an official figure, volunteers estimate that around 400 people affected by the earthquake are sheltering in La Libertad Park. Photo by Jeimi Villavizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. The ground beneath a tree in the park was where Félix slept during the first week after the earthquake. Fortunately, he says, food was available thanks to volunteers who arrived from across the country, but every night frightened him. Félix, 1.70 meters (5.5 feet) tall and stocky from years of physical labor, breaks down when remembering those first days. Tears run down his face, and he does not try to stop them. “People came here giving away tents, blankets and mattresses, but they never looked at me,” he recalls. “I was sleeping on the ground, wearing the same clothes I had worn for a week, and people looked at me with disgust. Everyone thought I was a drug addict. I had never felt so despised.” Only Edward noticed him. He had spent three days clearing rubble alongside his 15-year-old son when he saw hundreds of people arriving at the park, many with nothing.“I realized that the lives that needed saving were not under the rubble. They were here,” Edward says. “No one sees them as human beings or as people who deserve help.” How do you rebuild your future when your shelter isn’t safe? 111 people died in Pereira following the August 10 earthquake. That figure is part of a total of 314 fatalities across the country. Photo by Jeimi Villavizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. Three months earlier, Carolina had been living on a farm an hour from Pereira. Five years ago, she arrived in Colombia from Caracas, Venezuela. Although she is willing to work “at anything,” she feels the earthquake changed her plans, not only in Colombia, but also in Venezuela . “I was going to return because my oldest daughter is going to give birth to her first child, but after that, there is no city I can return to,” Carolina says as she tries to find a new mattress for her tent. “My sister managed to get out, but several of my cousins are missing […] I don’t believe they are alive.” As children play in the park, the volunteer medical team advises teachers to use face masks. They say they have already recorded cases of tuberculosis, influenza and other respiratory illnesses. The crowded tents, lack of bathrooms and drinking water, and food cooked outdoors in Pereira’s rain and sun have created conditions in which diseases can spread. “This is one of Pereira’s most vulnerable populations. The shelter’s conditions have led us to find withdrawal syndromes and respiratory illnesses such as tuberculosis,” says Alejandra Gutierrez, one of three volunteer doctors at the shelter. “Conditions are especially difficult for children. The rain during the first few days made things worse, and many of them have digestive illnesses, gastroenteritis and diarrhea.” She says that although the Health Secretariat has made progress with vaccinations, volunteers are handling treatment on their own. They see up to 30 patients a day, not only from the shelter but also from the surrounding areas. Hernán Giraldo, father of Juan Felipe Giraldo, the young man from Bogotá who died following the collapse of the Dibenni Hotel in Pereira. Photo by Jeimi Villavizar. Colombia, 2026. Used with permission. Two weeks after the earthquake, the first government institutions arrived at La Libertad Park: the Ombudsman’s Office, the Directorate for Risk Management (DIGER) and the Colombian Family Welfare Institute (ICBF). Although officials from these institutions said they had been present since the first day, volunteers and survivors said they had received no official assistance until then. After the Pereira Mayor’s Office announced that not everyone staying in the park had been affected by the earthquake, The institutions’ goal was to identify the population and transfer people to official shelters. Some people, however, said they had had negative experiences when authorities tried to take them to one of the seven official shelters. Others, including Laura and Carolina, said that even without having had a bad experience during this emergency, they would not return to a shelter. Laura spent the COVID-19 pandemic in a shelter after arriving from Ecuador. She says it felt “like being in prison.” Carolina had a similar experience during her migration: “They take everything you have. You go in with nothing and you come out with nothing.” Written by Lauren Franco

‘We cannot allow our young people to become victims of an unjust war of aggression.’ Originally published on Global Voices Representatives from Korean civil society marched from the U.S. Embassy to the Blue House (the executive office and residence of the president of South Korea) in Seoul. Image provided by People's Solidarity for Participatory Democracy in its press release . Used with permission. This post is part of Global Voices’ September 2026 Spotlight series, “ Protest in Democracy .” With this Spotlight, we seek to explore the many forms of protest, the tactics states use to delegitimize and suppress them, and the complex relationship between protest and democracy. You can support this coverage by donating here . Upon Seoul confirming its plan to make a “substantive contribution,” including combat or non-combat military deployment options, to the Strait of Hormuz last week, a coalition of 601 civic groups gathered outside the U.S. Embassy on September 9, 2026, and marched towards the presidential office. The protesters were signaling their opposition to South Korea’s involvement in the Middle East conflict, arguing that the decision would undermine the country’s constitution and sovereignty. Since the United States and Israel launched their joint military action against Iran in early 2026, leading to Iran’s blockade of the Straight of Hormuz, U.S. President Donald Trump has been pressuring allies in Europe and Asia to help reopen the Strait by providing military support. As the U.S.’s November 2026 midterm elections approach, pressure to rally international support for this unpopular war is mounting, and Trump has started squeezing his allies harder . Weeks ahead of the U.S.-Japan-South Korea trilateral military drill , Trump wrote on his Truth Social account that he is scaling down U.S. involvement in the exercise due to Seoul’s reluctance to engage in the Middle East conflict. Washington also announced in early September that it would enact a “targeted, thoughtful tariff policy” on semiconductor imports , clearly targeting Seoul, as South Korea is a major hub for the global semiconductor industry. Soon after this announcement , South Korean domestic media outlets quoted a presidential office official saying Seoul was set to deploy troops to Hormuz by late 2026. While President Lee Jae-myung stressed that the plan was still under review and no final decision had been made , the Ministry of National Defense dispatched a field investigation team to assess the situation in Hormuz on September 7. An imperialist war Since President Lee Jae-myung’s announcement on September 4, Korean civil society has released an outpouring of statements and launched numerous protests. On that day, the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions issued a statement warning against any form of military deployment, arguing that if Korea were coerced into joining the “imperialist war,” it would risk the safety of Korean people and the country’s sovereignty. The Trade Unions also criticized the U.S. for trying to leverage semiconductor tariff negotiations to bargain for military backup, suggesting it was underhanded and unethical. Lee Mu-jin, Executive Committee Chair of the Seoul Candlelight Action, the civic coalition which successfully mobilized for former president Yoon Suk Yeol’s impeachment, also spoke out against the U.S. economic coercion in a public gathering on September 5th, urging officials to defend the country’s sovereignty by rejecting Trump’s demands. Many politicians and political parties issued similarly strong statements against the U.S.’s attempt to drag Seoul into the war with Iran. Both the Green Party and the Justice Party described Trump as a “warmonger,” with the latter raising the following question in a statement on X: 미국 내에서조차 트럼프의 소수 측근만이 옹호하는 이 군사작전에 왜 한국의 시민들이, 청년들이 방패막이가 되어야 하는가. 호르무즈 파병동의안은 “전쟁광 호위동의안”이다. Why should South Korean citizens and young people be used as a human shield for this military operation, while within the U.S. only a handful of Trump’s closest aides support the war? The plan to approve the dispatch of troops to the Strait of Hormuz will serve as a ‘consensus to stand by a warmonger.’ Small-scale protests were seen throughout the weekend. On September 5, People in Solidarity with Palestinians, a civic group composed of students and humanitarian workers, organized an emergency rally against the potential military deployment. “한국군 호르무즈 파병 반대한다!” “이재명 정부는 호르무즈에 한국군 파병 말라!” “No War! No Troops!” https://t.co/3AR1kVUKa2 pic.twitter.com/XmMTTqH5Ev — 팔레스타인인들과 연대하는 사람들(팔연사) (@ppl4pal_kr) September 5, 2026 “We Oppose the Deployment of Korean Troops to Hormuz!” “The Lee Jae-myung Government Must Not Deploy Korean Troops to Hormuz!” “No War! No Troops!” Numerous protests and peace actions took place on university campuses and downtown Seoul on September 7. Meanwhile, Iranian Foreign Ministry spokesman Esmaeil Baqaei wrote in Korean on X, suggesting that South Korea’s military presence in Hormuz would result in “serious consequences,” accompanied by an image reading “dangerous choices come with a price.” On September 9, a coalition of 601 civic groups, the Joint Action Against War of Aggression and Troop Deployment, organized a joint action condemning the U.S. diplomatic coercion. In a statement, the coalition described the U.S. and Israel’s attack on Iran as “an unlawful war of aggression” that violates international law and argued that military deployment to the Middle East will violate the South Korean Constitution, as, according to Article 5, the country should “renounce aggressive war.” The coalition stressed: 우리의 청년들을 부당한 침략전쟁의 희생양으로 내어줄 수는 없다. We cannot allow our young people to sacrifice and become victims of an unjust war of aggression. After stating their positions in front of the U.S. embassy, representatives from the civic coalition marched to the Blue House, the executive office and residence of the president of South Korea. The Seoul government has considered the U.S.-ROK security alliance vital to the country’s survival, as after the Korean War (1950–1953), Korea was divided into the North (backed by the Soviet Union) and the South. Hence, South Korea often stands by the U.S. During both the Vietnam War (1963–1974) and the Iraq War (2003–2008), the South Korean government backed the U.S. with military deployment. However, after the democratic transition, investigative news reports about South Korean soldiers’ involvement in the massacre of Vietnamese civilians have sparked self-reflection and a peacebuilding movement, 미안해요 베트남 (I am sorry, Vietnam), among the progressive NGO sector. Hence, under public pressure, the South Korean government took a non-combatant role during the Iraq War. Faced with U.S. coercion, South Korean civil society has adamantly opposed the country’s military involvement in the Middle East, launching numerous protests and peace campaigns since April. Now, despite the military threat coming from North Korea’s nuclear weapons and missile programs and the country’s oil supply being heavily affected by the closure of the Strait of Hormuz, various polls showed that a slight majority of South Koreans still opposed military deployment to the Middle East. As the Lee administration said that it would seek public consensus over the decision, the anti-war network will continue working to stop the country from being dragged into the Iran war. The next grand mobilization is set for September 12. Written by Oiwan Lam

Nigeria's National Peace Policy is a framework intended to bring greater coordination to conflict prevention and peacebuilding Originally published on Global Voices ACC. H. O. Idoko, Nigeria Security and Civil Defense Corps (NSCDC) representative, speaking at the National Peace Policy review in Abuja, 4-6 August, 2026. Photo by Triple Peace Africa. Used with permission. The world is spending more on war and defense than ever before. Global military expenditure reached a record USD 2.7 trillion in 2024, according to the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI) , as governments increased spending amid wars in Europe and Western Asia and growing security tensions elsewhere. Africa is part of that trend. Military expenditure on the continent rose by 8.5 percent in 2025 to USD 58.2 billion. Nigeria’s spending rose even more sharply, increasing by 55 percent to USD 2.1 billion, according to SIPRI. Yet for Nigeria, a bigger defense budget has not resolved a problem that has become increasingly dire. The country is confronting insurgency, banditry, mass kidnapping, communal violence, and rising organized crime, with the nature varying significantly from one region to another. Between July 2025 and June 2026, at least 7,825 people were abducted in 1,713 kidnapping-related incidents nationwide, and at least 1,142 people were killed. In July, President Bola Tinubu approved the recruitment of 28,000 additional soldiers and the creation of new army divisions, the latest in a series of moves to expand the country’s security forces. This situation is driving lawmakers to review the country’s National Peace Policy, a framework intended to bring greater coordination to conflict prevention and peacebuilding while addressing some of the conditions that allow violence to take root and recur. Dr. Sanda Julie, Director-General, Plateau State Peacebuilding Agency, speaking at the National Peace Policy review meeting held in Abuja, Nigeria, August 4-6, 2026. Photo by Triple Peace Africa. Used with permission. Rethinking Nigeria's approach to peace Nigeria’s first attempt at a National Peace Policy dates to 2012 , when the Institute for Peace and Conflict Resolution (IPCR) led the process and produced a draft. That policy was never formally adopted or operationalized. With a population of more than 240 million people and hundreds of ethnic and linguistic groups, Nigeria is one of the world’s most diverse societies . That diversity is in itself not a source of conflict. But political competition, disputes over land and resources, communal tensions, weak institutions and perceptions of exclusion often interact in the country, turning local grievances into violence. Through August, government agencies, peacebuilding organizations, development partners and technical experts met in Abuja and in three geopolitical zones — Kano , Enugu and Lagos — to review the old policy and shape a new one that would connect federal, state and local actors. Chris Ngwodo , director-general of Nigeria's Office for Strategic Preparedness and Resilience (OSPRE), speaking with Global Voices in Abuja, Nigeria, says the goal is to fold conflict prevention into the country’s broader security architecture and look beyond the visible violence of armed confrontation toward the conditions that produce it. “There are many forms of violence that are not overt violence,” he said, citing structural inequality, failures in the justice system, government neglect and a lack of opportunity as quieter but no less corrosive drivers of conflict. Ngwodo frames the policy around a familiar idea that peace is not merely the absence of conflict but the presence of justice. “Structural violence is invisible. Nobody can see it, but it’s present,” he said. “Subjective violence is what happens when people start fighting.” The new policy, he explained, is meant to address both by anchoring itself in restorative, retributive, and distributive justice and in equalizing opportunity. Asked whether a new policy would solve Nigeria's security problems, Ngwodo didn't hesitate: “It will not.” What the document can do, he argued, is shift the country’s position from reactive firefighting toward predictive architecture by asking not just how to respond to violence, but why certain places are predisposed to it and why it keeps coming back. “People are not fighting because they are inherently violent,” he said. The real drivers, in his account, are usually governance failures, lapses in justice administration, long-standing grievances, neglect, and limited opportunity. Since the last policy attempt, Nigeria’s peacebuilding landscape has grown considerably. OSPRE itself didn’t exist in 2012, nor did the state peace commissions that now operate across the country. The task now, Ngwodo said, is aligning that infrastructure and scaling it up. L-R: Director General, Institute of Peace and Conflict Resolution (IPCR), Dr Joseph Ochogwu, Chairman, House Committee on peacebuilding and social cohesion, Sadiq Tafida, Special Adviser to the Nigerian president on Homeland security, Maj Gen Adeyinka Famadewa (Rt), and Director-General, Office for Strategic Preparedness and Resilience, Chris Ngwodo at the National Peace Policy review stakeholders meeting in Abuja, Nigeria. Photo by Triple Peace Africa. Used with permission. Beyond the military response Nigeria has long contributed to regional peacekeeping through the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS) and via troops and diplomats deployed to Liberia, Sierra Leone, Guinea-Bissau, Sudan and Côte d’Ivoire. At home, however, the government’s response to insecurity has leaned heavily on the military. At the Abuja meeting, the presidential adviser on homeland security, Maj General Adeyinka Famadewa (Rt), said Nigeria could not “shoot its way out” of its security problem. He added that while military operations can disrupt armed groups and retake territory, they’re poorly suited to resolving the political, economic, and social conditions that let violence return once an operation winds down. A representative of Germany’s development agency, GIZ African Union Office, Chijioke Iwuamadi , made a similar case for prevention, arguing that investing in prevention and long-term peacebuilding could be more effective and less costly than repeatedly responding to crises after they erupt. Can Nigeria afford to prevent violence? Nigeria does not have a single conflict. It has many overlapping and regionally distinct ones. An insurgency in the northeast has run for more than a decade while banditry and mass kidnapping have destabilized rural communities in the northwest and elsewhere. Communal violence and organized crime follow their own logic. These fault lines interact. Religion intersects with ethnicity. Land disputes become communal conflicts. Political competition deepens existing grievances , while migration, demographic change and social media, with its capacity to spread misinformation and inflammatory narratives , add further strain. That regional variation is why the policy review followed zonal consultations in an attempt to reflect local differences while still producing something that can operate nationally. According to the Director General of the Institute of Peace and Conflict Resolution (IPCR), Joseph Ochogwu, institutionalized coordination and a clearly mapped roadmap for the implementation of peace efforts across the country’s geopolitical zones would help avoid duplication, resource wastage, institutional rivalry, and communities falling through the cracks . Can Nigeria afford to prevent violence? Nigeria is already spending heavily to respond to insecurity. Military spending rose sharply through 2025, with no inherent contradiction between building military capacity and investing in prevention. But the two operate at different points in the cycle of violence. One responds to threats, the other tries to reduce the conditions that generate them, and Nigeria has to decide how to divide its attention and resources between them. More than a decade after the first policy attempt, the country’s security landscape has changed. It faces more varied forms of insecurity, with a wider range of responses from government institutions, peace commissions, and civil society organizations. Whether that coordination can translate into fewer conflicts and prevent existing ones from returning will depend on what happens after the consultations end. Written by Adesewa Olofinko

Many young people left the September 2025 protests in Nepal with scars — both physical, emotional, and financial Originally published on Global Voices Nepal's Gen Z protests against corruption in Bharatpur, south-central Nepal. Image via Wikipedia by Himal Subedi . CC BY-SA 4.0 . This post is part of Global Voices’ September 2026 Spotlight series, “ Protest in Democracy .” With this Spotlight, we seek to explore the many forms of protest, the tactics states use to delegitimize and suppress them, and the complex relationship between protest and democracy. You can support this coverage by donating here . Nepal observed its first Gen-Z Martyrs’ Day on September 8, 2026, with a nationwide public holiday, marking exactly one year since young protesters took to the streets and caused fundamental change throughout Nepal’s social and political system. In September 2025, Nepal was gripped by nationwide protests led largely by students and members of Gen Z . The movement began with the government’s ban on social media platforms , but it quickly grew, without a leader , into a broader expression of public frustration over government corruption and inefficiency. Over several days, young Nepalis took to the streets across the country, protesting not only restrictions on online expression but also corruption, alleged misuse of public funds, and the visible wealth of political elites and their families. The protests then descended into confrontations with police officers that escalated and resulted in unlawful use of force, including severe human rights violations . Liza’s frustrations Among those caught in the violence was Liza Adhikari, 21, who was shot by an SLR bullet while standing opposite the Parliament Secretariat building. The bullet struck her from behind, tore through her body, and exited through the front, leaving behind an injury that cannot simply be stitched away. Liza Adhikari, taken on a stretcher to the National Trauma Center Hospital in Kathmandu—half an hour after she was shot. Image via Liza Adhikari. Used with permission. A final-year Bachelor of Business Administration student at Kathmandu University, Adhikari has not returned to her classes since the incident. She is left to suffer not just the physical damage but an emotional burden as well. She appealed for financial assistance through social media and visited hospitals across Nepal in search of treatment. With limited options available, she eventually traveled to India, where she recently underwent brachial plexus surgery . The brachial plexus is a network of nerves that carries signals from the spinal cord to the shoulder, arm and hand, allowing movement and sensation. In an online interview with the author from a hospital in India, Adhikari told Global Voices that the bullet had severely damaged the bones in her upper arm and doctors had told her that the veins were no longer functioning properly. Her chances of making a full recovery, she was told, remain uncertain. Yet she has not given up. Liza Adhikari, present day, in Mahakali (Sudurpaschim) province of Nepal. Image taken by her mother. Used with permission. That determination is also what brought her to the protest that day — something she now remembers with great loss and regret. The bullet has been removed, but its consequences continue to shape her health and educational path. Liza wasn’t alone on the streets that day. Shantanu’s story Shantanu Dhakal’s survival from Itahari , in the Sunsari District of Koshi Province in Nepal, is yet another example of the lasting consequences of the violence that was no longer confined to the capital. On September 8, 2025, Shantanu was in his college. Little did he know that the day of the protest would become an unexpected turning point in his life. For several days before the demonstration, he had been receiving information about the planned protest through social media. The 18-year-old, an only son born into a middle-class farming family in Morang district of eastern Nepal, joined the protest in Itahari that day. He went with confidence, carrying a banner filled with slogans he had prepared with his friends. “For the first hour, the streets were peaceful. But suddenly, after a while, crowds started marching aggressively, burning and throwing stones at public property and the Metropolitan City ward office. It lasted for two hours. Around four p.m., bullets and tear gas were fired at civilians. When the first bullet was shot, it went somewhere else; nobody knew where. But when the second bullet was fired, I didn’t realize that it was me this time,” he said in an online interview. In a matter of seconds, the protest that Shantanu had joined with confidence became a moment of survival. He regained consciousness about a minute later, after being taken to a nearby clinic where his wound was bandaged. He was then placed on a stretcher and taken to Birat Teaching Hospital. Until then, he remembers, “I had no hearing, no vision, nothing. Perhaps no sensory cells were functioning properly at that time.” Shantanu during the treatment in Biratnagar. Image via Shantanu. Used with permission. His first instinct was to run. That instinct may have saved him from further injury. The bullet entered through the left side of his jaw, fractured the bone around his teeth, and damaged the soft tissue inside his mouth before traveling towards his chest. What followed was not just emergency treatment, but the beginning of a long recovery. He initially underwent a tracheostomy and was kept on a tube to help him breathe. This was later followed by grafting as part of his treatment. For many, an injury may eventually become nothing more than a physical mark. For Shantanu, however, the scar still carries the memory of what happened that day. Even after ten months, it can bring back the trauma. Some days, it triggers regret and painful memories; on others, he learns to make adjustments and live with it. Because ultimately, life goes on. But the consequences of that day do not remain only on his skin. The injury has affected his physical movements, particularly while eating and sleeping, and its effects become even more noticeable when he works in the farm fields. His body has undergone two surgeries, although neither was considered major. Shantanu (standing in front of the PM office in Singhadurbar, Kathmandu. Image by Shantanu. Used with permission. The injury has also brought a financial burden to his family. Medicines prescribed by his surgeons are not always readily available and are expensive. Fortunately, much of his medical treatment has been covered by the Government of Nepal. Not every person who took to the streets was left with bruises on their body, while many have been marked with fear and trauma. Riya's story Riya (name changed), a police constable, also has a similar story. In an in-person interview with the author, she shared that she was on duty in Baneshwor , Kathmandu, on September 8, 2025, with some of her colleagues and friends. “The street was peaceful for the first half an hour, but suddenly it turned violent. Some of my friends were taken away by police, while I was struck by stones, severely bruising my left foot. I was taken to a nearby hospital, and my wound was bandaged,” she said. Riya getting treatment in a clinic. Image by Riya. Used with permission. But the fear continued after she left the hospital. “It was the scariest moment. Even after I returned home, that feeling did not easily go away,” she recalled. On September 8th alone, 19 people died during the protests , with hundreds more injured. But their deaths didn’t end the conversations they stood for. Abhijeet Adhikari, a lawyer and political activist, reflects on that day. Speaking to Global Voices over the phone, he said, “No principle of proportionality was followed,” fueling the public’s demand for accountability. Justice and accountability After the protests led to the installation of an interim government , numerous investigations have sought to determine responsibility and prosecution procedures . A judicial inquiry commission led by Gauri Bahadur Karki recommended the arrest of the leaders involved, including then-Prime Minister, former prime minister (K.P.) Sharma Oli , Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak , and others. However, a separate review panel in July 2026 found that the available evidence was not sufficient to hold them under criminal liability charges. Since then, even after a year, the path towards prosecution has become politically contested, and accountability still remains uncertain. Yet amid all these uncertainties, Liza, Shantanu, and Riya shared their thoughts on the impact of the protests and how the subsequent violence continues to affect them as they marked the anniversary. For Liza, those days remain intertwined with regret and the consequences of a decision she wishes she could undo. “Maybe, if I had listened to my parents that day, this wouldn’t have happened to me,” she said. For Riya, she chose not to remain trapped in the past. “Whatever happened, happened. It’s in the past,” she said. Yet, she remains uncertain about the direction in which the country is heading. While Shantanu grapples with a facial scar, he refuses to allow it to become his future. While he is slowly picking himself up as a recent high school graduate and is busy preparing to pursue an engineering degree. When you look at him, his smile says it all. Perhaps that’s the beauty of every survivor like him. Written by Susmita Aryal

Rural women in Kazakhstan work 10 to 15 hours per day, most of it uncounted and unpaid Originally published on Global Voices Ajgul Serikova, a resident of Uzunkol district of Kostanai region in northern Kazakhstan, collects as much water as she can before the taps run dry. Image via Central Asian Bureau for Analytical Reporting ( CABAR.asia ). Fair use . This article was produced by Nazgul Aidabossynova from Kazakhstan through the Digital Spark granting scheme, as part of the Regional Support Mechanism EECA project, implemented by the Metamorphosis Foundation and TechSoup , in partnership with CIVICUS and under the Digital Democracy Initiative (DDI) that covers the Global South. It is being published on Global Voices as part of a content-sharing agreement. In the village of Qyzylsay, southern Kazakhstan, the water disappears every afternoon. This is not a metaphor. By noon, the pipes literally go dry. Women wake before dawn to fill every container they own. Then they wait for the water to return. And while they wait, they carry buckets to gardens, feed livestock, take children to school, and shoulder an invisible mountain of labor that nobody counts, nobody pays for, and nobody sees. Ten women decided to change that. The problem nobody counted Qyzylsay sits in one of the hottest corners of Kazakhstan. Summers here now break records that old-timers say didn’t exist 20 years ago. According to Kazakhstan’s own data, water losses reach 40–60 percent in rural areas. Many rural areas also lack adequate sanitation infrastructure , according to research from The Borgen Project, so even when there is water, it isn’t always safe to drink. For the women of Qyzylsay, this is not a statistic. It is the silence of an empty tap at midday. In June 2026, UN Women released its landmark report “ Progress of the World’s Women 2026: Gender Equality in the Age of Climate Crisis .” It stated plainly what women in Qyzylsay already knew in their bones. You cannot build sustainable agriculture, or any sustainable future, without integrating the “care economy” into climate and agricultural planning. Rural women bear the heaviest burden of energy shortages, physical labor, and livestock care. The result is that they have almost no time to learn, to earn, or to organize. Natalia Solntseva fills a bucket to water her grandmother’s garden in Koksai, Almaty region. Central Asian Bureau for Analytical Reporting. ( CABAR.asia ). Fair use . Rural women in Kazakhstan work 10 to 15 hours per day, most of it uncounted and unpaid. In Qyzylsay, that labor includes waking at 4 a.m. on irrigation days to stand in a field for five hours watching water flow through irrigation channels. If you miss your turn to water, your garden dies. Five hours, three times a week: Forty to 60 hours a month, trapped in one of the lowest-value tasks imaginable. A phone that does more than WhatsApp My name is Nazgul, and from May to June 2026, I led four trainings for women in Qyzylsay under a project called “Digital Voice of Qyzylsay Women.” The premise was simple: Most women in this community already had smartphones. What they lacked was the knowledge that those phones could do more than send messages. We started with the basics: Reminders for livestock care, farm diaries with photographs, and training on the eGov app, which lets you request official government documents without traveling to the city. For women who had stood in queues for hours at government offices just to get a birth certificate, this was not a convenience. It was a revelation. Then we moved to water. Evidence that cannot be ignored A tap in rural Kazakhstan releasing murky, brown water. Image via Central Asian Bureau for Analytical Reporting ( CABAR.asia ). Fair use . Training 2 was called “Smart Water: When Your Garden Tells You It’s Thirsty.” We taught participants how to photograph water problems, such as dry canals, broken pipes, and contaminated sources, with automatic timestamps. We called these “Water Problem Cards.” A photo without metadata is an opinion. A photo with GPS coordinates, a date, and a description is evidence. We talked about Kazakhstan’s water rights in plain language, not legal jargon. Most of the women had never heard that access to clean water is not a favor from the local government, but a legal right. One of the participants said: “I always thought they ignored us because they could. Now I know they ignore us because we don’t have proof. So now we’ll have proof.” The number that changed everything Training 3 hit hardest. We sat together and calculated the true cost of one liter of milk — including the woman’s own time at a minimum wage rate. The room went quiet when participants realized they were subsidizing their buyers. They were running charities, not businesses. We also calculated what smart irrigation automation could return: 60 hours per month. Sixty hours that could be used for market trips, online courses, rest, or civic participation. At KZT 500 (USD 1.09) per hour, that is KZT 30,000 (USD 65.17) over one growing season — enough to pay back a shared automated pump system. By Training 4, the conversation had shifted. We were no longer talking about individual phones. We were talking about collective power. The most important outcome of these four months was not digital literacy. It was trust. The women participants who had worked alongside each other for years decided to form a cooperative. It has multiple founding purposes: to collectively address the village’s water supply crisis through documented work, organized advocacy, shared smart irrigation infrastructure, and to make women’s labor economically and civically visible. What comes next The cascade model from Training 4 is already underway: Three participants have begun teaching neighbors what they learned during our trainings. The cooperative is going to apply for a joint grant to install a shared smart well system. The project’s more long-lasting change is harder to measure. When a woman learns to calculate the value of her time, holds up a photograph and says, “This is evidence, and they must answer,” a permanent shift takes place for her individually and the community. The water in Qyzylsay still disappears every afternoon. But the women who carry it have found their voice. Nazgul Aidabossynova is a trainer and project coordinator, Digital Voice of Qyzylsay Women in South Kazakhstan, 2026. Written by GV Central Asia and Caucasus

Civil society groups are demanding a timeline for when the government will reform the restrictive legislation Originally published on Global Voices Marchers during the Bersih (change) protest in Kuala Lumpur in 2011. Photo by Hafiz Noor Shams, uploaded on Wikipedia, Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported This post is part of Global Voices’ September 2026 Spotlight series, “ Protest in Democracy .” With this Spotlight, we seek to explore the many forms of protest, the tactics states use to delegitimize and suppress them, and the complex relationship between protest and democracy. You can support this coverage by donating here . Human rights advocates are calling on the Malaysian government to amend the Peaceful Assembly Act , which contains several provisions that police and local authorities use to undermine, disrupt, and even criminalize protests and public assemblies. Despite months of promises to amend the controversial provision, the government has continually delayed reforms. The law passed in 2012 and has been weaponized by successive governments to file harassment charges against protest organizers and leaders of civil society groups. After years of condemning the law, civil society groups scored a crucial victory in 2025 when Malaysian Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim pledged to amend the more extreme sections of the law, particularly Section 11, which requires a property owner’s consent before an assembly or protest is held in a particular place. This was followed by a favorable Federal Court ruling in July 2025, which struck down Section 9(5) of the Peaceful Assembly Act as unconstitutional and invalid. Section 9(5) requires protest organizers to notify the police at least five days before a protest or rally. Failure to do this is considered an offense that authorities often invoke to threaten activists. The court ruling described the section as “a disproportionate intervention” that amounted to a prohibition rather than a restriction on guaranteed rights. The government initially sought to review the ruling, but this was dropped after a Cabinet meeting in January 2026, which meant that the court’s decision remains in effect. Despite the landmark court ruling and the government’s stated commitments, the bid to amend the law has stalled in Parliament over the past year. Police violently broke up a protest in July 2025 near the Parliament building, as demonstrators demanded reform of the “draconian legislation.” Police also tried to prevent protesters from submitting a memorandum for lawmakers against the “oppressive law.” Nalini Elumalai, senior Malaysia program officer at ARTICLE 19, a global human rights watchdog, condemned the police’s actions in a statement: Peaceful assemblies are crucial in bringing to light topics of legitimate public interest. Yet, those who call for accountability, including the reform of archaic laws that are not in line with international standards, are often repressed or silenced. Authorities continued to invoke the law to threaten protest organizers, which led the Human Rights Commission of Malaysia (SUHAKAM) to issue a reminder in February 2026 addressed to law enforcement bodies. SUHAKAM notes that the Peaceful Assembly Act (PAA) 2012 places responsibilities on the authorities, including the police, to manage assemblies in a lawful, proportionate and facilitative manner. Any enforcement action taken should be grounded in clear legal authority, respect due process, and be appropriate to the circumstances. In April 2026, Amnesty International Malaysia expressed dismay over the lack of any meaningful action to amend the law. More than a year on, there has been no substantive overhaul of the law. Instead, authorities have continued to rely on its repressive provisions, alongside the Penal Code and Minor Offences Act, to investigate and intimidate protesters. Announcements of reform alone are not enough, as people are still being arrested, investigated, and intimidated for speaking out. The government must urgently amend the Peaceful Assembly Act as it has promised, ensuring it is in line with international human rights law. Amnesty International Malaysia’s spokesperson Divya Shesshsan Balakrishnan noted that anti-corruption activists and student protesters continue to be slapped with charges for organizing protests. He added that Malaysia’s global stance on human rights is often inconsistent with its local actions. For example, she argued that though the Malaysian government has been criticizing Israel’s attacks on the Palestinian people, it also ordered the arrest of some individuals who protested Israel’s interception of the Global Sumud Flotilla. In August 2026, civil society groups urged Malaysia’s Parliament to present a clear timeline for reforming the Peaceful Assembly Act. In a press conference, Bersih advocacy officer Anas Nor’azim summed up the sentiments of human rights advocates. “The same promise continues to be repeated, but the long-awaited reform remains stuck in the study phase.” Written by Mong Palatino

Death does not erase the verdict — or the responsibility of officials who turn a convicted war criminal into a hero Originally published on Global Voices Bardhyl Jashari, executive director of Metamorphosis Foundation. Photo in a private archive, used with permission. This article by Bardhyl Jashari was first published in Albanian on portalb.mk on August 31, 2026. An edited version is republished here under a content-sharing agreement between Global Voices and the Metamorphosis Foundation . Death does not erase the verdict. When a war criminal is placed on a pedestal by government officials, it undermines the dignity of the victims, weakens the rule of law, harms the very idea of North Macedonia as a multiethnic society, and compromises the country’s European vision. In the year when North Macedonia marks 35 years of independence , we should have understood by now that a state is not built by glorifying war criminals. The death of Ratko Mladić, the former commander of the Bosnian Serb forces during the 1992–95 Bosnian War , does not change the truth about him: he was neither a war hero nor a victim of The Hague, but a war criminal sentenced to life imprisonment for genocide and other serious crimes. He died this August 27 , while serving a life sentence. In 2017, he was found guilty of genocide, crimes against humanity and war crimes, and the verdict was upheld on appeal in 2021. The charges stemmed from the genocide in Srebrenica, persecution, extermination, murder, deportation and forcible transfer, terror and unlawful attacks against civilians in Sarajevo, as well as the taking of UN personnel hostage. His crimes were monstrous, which is why he was dubbed the “ Butcher of the Balkans .” These are not merely political or emotional characterizations, and his guilt is not a matter of personal opinion. Responsibility for genocide and war crimes was established by a judgment of the International Residual Mechanism for Criminal Tribunals ( IRMCT ) at The Hague. Gravestones at the Srebrenica Genocide Memorial , commemorating 8,372 Bosniak Muslim victims of a massacre committed by Bosnian Serb forces under the command of Ratko Mladić in 1995. Photo by Michael Büker, via Wikimedia Commons ( CC BY-SA 3.0 ). That is why the way some media outlets reported his death to the public is also unacceptable. Writing that he died in The Hague, listing his illnesses and the calls for his release , while failing to clearly explain why he was there , is not neutral reporting. It creates a false biography in which the uniform and military ranks remain, while the victims and crimes disappear. Even more concerning is that the glorification was not limited to comments from citizens. The Democratic Party of Serbs in Macedonia, led by Minister of Local Self-Government Ivan Stoilković , portrayed Mladić as a general who served the army and the people, suggesting that many people would remember him “not because of The Hague.” Screenshot of Instagram post by Dalibor Kitanović, director of the state Agency for Exercising the Rights of Communities of Republic of North Macedonia, featuring convicted war criminal Ratko Mladić and WWII war criminal and Nazi collaborator Draža Mihailović, who was controversially rehabilitated in 2015 , alongside historic Serbian military leaders and text: ‘For the Honorable Cross and Golden Freedom: Generals of the Heavenly Army’, published August 28, and later deleted. Meanwhile, Dalibor Kitanović, director of the Agency for Exercising the Rights of Communities , published a photomontage placing Mladić among the “generals of the heavenly army.” These are not neutral expressions of grief. They elevate a convicted war criminal to the status of a national hero. When a regular citizen does something like this, one might say that we have a societal problem in which empathy is lacking, the crime of genocide is being minimized and relativized, and there is interethnic intolerance, hatred, and so on. But when a public official does this, it becomes an institutional and political scandal, because the message is coming from representatives of the state. It is particularly troubling that this is being done by the head of an institution whose mission, by definition, should be to ensure equal access, respect for differences, and the advancement of the rights of all communities. Macedonia is home to several ethnic and religious communities. For ethnic Bosniak citizens who live here, Srebrenica is not some distant historical event. Glorifying a man convicted of genocide against Bosniaks sends them a message that their pain and dignity matter less. This is a direct blow to interethnic trust and social cohesion, which remains fragile even without such provocations. What also needs to be emphasized is that condemning Mladić does not represent a stance against the Serbian people. On the contrary, it is a rejection of the attempt to identify an entire people with the crimes of one individual and the ideology that caused them. Criminal responsibility is individual, while respect for victims should be universal. Glorifying, denying or minimizing genocide and war crimes is not only morally unacceptable but may also constitute a criminal offence under the law. Article 407-a of the Criminal Code provides for criminal liability for publicly denying, grossly minimizing, approving of or justifying genocide, crimes against humanity and war crimes, including when this is done through information systems. Whether the specific posts meet all the elements of a criminal offence should be determined by the prosecutor’s office and the court, institutions which have an obligation to examine the case and determine whether there are grounds for criminal liability, rather than simply ignoring it. However, political and moral responsibility is a separate matter and should not have to wait for the conclusion of judicial proceedings. The resignation or dismissal of a public official can be sought as soon as their conduct is deemed incompatible with the public office they hold, regardless of whether criminal liability is subsequently established. Many political parties, including the Social Democratic Union of Macedonia ( SDSM ), Democratic Union for Integration ( DUI) , the Party of Democratic Action of Macedonia ( SDA ) and the Liberal Democratic Party ( LDP ), condemned the glorification and called for accountability. The VLEN coalition , one of the main ethnic Albanian political blocs in North Macedonia and a junior partner in the VMRO-DPMNE-led government, also reacted . However, their response should be assessed differently, because VLEN is part of the government and shares power with the political entities and officials who glorified the war criminal. Although VLEN in principle condemned the glorification of Ratko Mladić and called for “immediate accountability,” it did not mention either Dalibor Kitanović or the Agency for Exercising the Rights of Communities, which he heads. It also did not directly address the statement by the Democratic Party of Serbs in Macedonia, led by Minister Ivan Stoilković, who is VLEN’s partner in the governing coalition. A condemnation that does not clearly identify who should be held accountable remains incomplete and allows governing partners to hide behind general statements. Ruling party VMRO-DPMNE initially remained silent. On August 30, it stated that the government’s position is based on internationally established legal facts and that officials who supported Mladić should either withdraw their statements or step down from office. However, this reaction is also lukewarm: those responsible are not named, their dismissal is not called for, and the responsibility of Minister Stoilković and the party he leads, which is part of the government, is not addressed directly. In the meantime, Kitanović was effectively given the opportunity to delete or withdraw his post and continue to head the agency. But deleting a post does not erase the views expressed or the disappointment and harm they caused. On July 16, just six weeks before these events, North Macedonia officially endorsed the European Union’s declaration at the OSCE , which states that there is no place in Europe for genocide denial, revisionism, or the glorification of convicted war criminals. Understandably, the posts by some officials do not stop or obstruct North Macedonia’s EU integration process. However, tolerating such views by representatives of the government undermines the credibility of the candidate country and shows that European values are embraced in declarations, but not necessarily in practice. Macedonia cannot condemn the glorification of war criminals at international forums while tolerating the same conduct by its own officials at home. Ratko Mladić is dead. But the ideology that turns a war criminal into a hero remains alive whenever such glorification is tolerated for various party or other interests. The government must clearly show that it chooses the side of the victims, respects the law, and protects our shared future, even when this requires holding its own officials and coalition partners accountable. Without respect for the dignity of every citizen, there can be no social cohesion. Without accepting the truth, there can be no reconciliation. And a state that tolerates the glorification of war criminals cannot claim to be building a European future. Bardhyl Jashari is the executive director of Metamorphosis Foundation . Written by Bardhyl Jashari

I never thought of documenting the Indigenous Tharu folklore until my grandmother left this world. Now she is no more with us, I yearn for those priceless words of wisdom.

Some interesting stories I came across during documentation of Tharu Indigenous folklore Originally published on Global Voices A Tharu woman from Kailali District of Western Nepal with tattoos on her legs. Photo by Indu Tharu, used with permission. This post is part of Global Voices’ August 2026 Spotlight series, “ Indigenous Rights .” This series offers insight into the lives and experiences of Indigenous peoples to build connections across regions, center Indigenous experiences, and share the stories of leaders, activists, community members, and more. You can support this coverage by donating here . As a child, I used to sit with my grandmother near a borais ( a small earthen pot used to make fire) during the harsh winter days. I would listen to her stories of benevolent and malevolent characters — djinns, spirits, ghosts, witches and wizards, trees, birds and animals that had special significance in the Tharu culture and tradition. She used to sing folk songs and then explain their meaning. I never thought of documenting the Indigenous Tharu folklore until she left this world. Now that she is no more with us, I yearn for those priceless words of wisdom. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to join hands with Amrit Sufi and Subhasish Panigrahi , who have not only been documenting oral culture in India but have also inspired and helped many culture and tradition lovers document their own cultures. Documenting Indigenous folklore is time-consuming work. One needs to spend time with the communities before they are comfortable enough to open up and share their folktales, songs, phrases and idioms, not to mention their personal experiences. While documenting Tharu oral culture in eastern Nepal, I came across many interesting facts that would reveal untold facets of Indigenous stories if researched further. A tattoo has many stories to tell. A fish tattoo on the hand of Bhuti Devi from Nepal's Sunsari District. Photo by Sanjib Chaudhary, used with permission. Morangsair: A song of seasonal migration When I recorded a folk song called “Morangsair” or “Morangesari,” which is still sung in the eastern part of Nepal’s southern plains, I learned about the seasonal migration of young men from the Saptari District , in the easternmost part of Madhesh Province to Morang District of Koshi Province in eastern Nepal where it was more fertile and provided work for men wanting to earn some extra money. Sunsari District , named after the Sursair River (nowadays called “Sunsari River”), was part of the Morang District before 1962. Now, we have to cross two rivers, the Koshi River and Sunsari River, to get to Sunsari (earlier Morang) from Saptari. The journey used to be much more difficult in those times, before bridges were built. The folk song is the lament of a young woman who is pleading with her husband not to go to Morang. She talks about the dense forest, the hot climate and the Sursair River, which he would need to cross to get to Morang. However, the song doesn’t mention the Koshi River, which is the biggest river in Nepal and lies ahead of the Sunsari River on the way to Morang. In the video below, Chandrakala Chaudhary from Itahari, Sunsari District, sings “Morangsair”, also called “Morangesari”: Researching further, I learned that the current Koshi River had been flowing many kilometres east of where it is now. In the Indian part, the river has shifted almost 100 kilometres west. Also, the Ganges River is called “Sursuri” or “Sursari” in the Guru Granth Sahib , a sacred Hindu scripture. The Sursair and Koshi Rivers eventually terminate in the Ganges. Biyahi: When a river is named after a married woman Talking with a Tharu elder, Mahabir Chaudhary, in Nepal’s Saptari District, I came across an interesting fact: A river and its tributary have been named after the Tharu words for a married woman. The river has been renamed “Behai” by the Nepali-speaking administrators. However, according to Tharu elders, the river’s original name is “Biyahi,” meaning the “first wife” in Kochila Tharu or Eastern Tharu language. A tributary called “Samdahi” feeds the river. Samdahi is the word for “second wife” in Eastern Tharu. The Samdahi River and Biyahi River, after the confluence, continue flowing as the Biyahi River. Sabudana ke gachhi: The tattoo motif that tells the story of sago pearls Kashia Chaudhary from Nepal's Sunsari District with a sago palm and marigold tattoos on her lower arms. Photo by Sanjib Chaudhary, used with permission. These days, sabudana or sago found in the markets is made mainly from cassava root starch. However, traditionally sago pearls were also made from the pith of sago palms. I came to find out about this process of making sago pearls during an interview with elderly Eastern Tharu-speaking women. One of them showed a tattoo that looked like a palm tree and said that it was sabudana ke gachhi . “Gachhi” is a Tharu word for a tree. She also told me that sabudana used to be made from a palm tree. I then researched further and found that in the past they used to cut down the palm trees, scrape the starchy core from the trunk and process it further to make sago pearls. The tradition is still prevalent in some southeastern countries. There are many more stories I have heard while documenting Tharu oral culture that need to be told to a wider audience. But I still yearn to recall the stories told to me by my grandmother while sitting together by the fireside on chilly winter days. Written by Sanjib Chaudhary

The right to adequate housing is recognized under international law Originally published on Global Voices Kehinde Adegboyega, co-founder and executive director of Human Rights Journalists Network at Housing Rights conference . Photo used with permission. Across African cities, urban growth often comes at a cost that hits the poorest residents hardest: Forced evictions , informal settlements razed for redevelopment projects, and land decisions made with little or no consultation with the people who live there. In Lagos , Cape Town , and beyond , these patterns raise a question that goes beyond urban planning: Who gets to decide the future of a city, and whose knowledge counts in that decision? That question came up at the Common City Conference in Uppsala , Sweden, where scholars, activists, and grassroots organizers gathered to discuss housing, urban justice, and the right to the city. Among them was Kehinde Adegboyega , co-founder and executive director of the Human Rights Journalists Network Nigeria (HRJN), invited to present a panel on “Resisting Authoritarian Urbanism in Sub-Saharan Africa: Counter-Knowledge and the Housing Commons in Lagos and Cape Town.” The session examined how communities in Nigeria and South Africa respond to forced evictions, dispossession, and unequal urban development, and how their own knowledge, often sidelined in policy debates, can be turned into a tool for accountability rather than left as raw material for outside researchers. Global Voices spoke with Adegboyega in an in-person interview about what brought him to Uppsala, how the exchanges there connect to the realities facing displaced communities in Lagos, and what he plans to bring back to his work documenting rights violations in Nigeria. Jean Sovon (JS): You were in Sweden taking part in an international meeting focused on housing rights. What brought you to this meeting, and what are you hoping to take away from the experience? Kehinde Adegboyega (KA) : I am in Uppsala, Sweden, participating in the Common City Conference at Uppsala University, which brings together scholars, activists, researchers and grassroots organizers working on housing, urban justice, and the right to the city. I was invited as a panel organizer and presenter for a session titled ‘Resisting Authoritarian Urbanism in Sub-Saharan Africa: Counter-Knowledge and the Housing Commons in Lagos and Cape Town.’ The session brings together experiences from Nigeria and South Africa to examine how communities and civil society actors respond to displacement, dispossession and unequal urban development. For me, the conference is an opportunity to bring experiences from Nigeria into a global conversation while also learning from housing justice movements and researchers working in very different contexts. I am particularly interested in taking away practical approaches to community organizing, documentation, and knowledge production that can strengthen how we support communities facing displacement and housing insecurity in Nigeria. JS: Housing is often treated primarily as a social or economic issue. What have the discussions at the conference revealed to you about housing as a fundamental human rights issue? KA : One of the strongest lessons for me is that housing is not simply about having a physical structure over one’s head. It is connected to dignity, security, livelihood, family life, community, participation, and the ability to belong to a city. When people are forcibly evicted from their homes without meaningful consultation, adequate protection, or access to remedy, the issue goes beyond property or economics. It raises fundamental questions about human rights and the relationship between citizens and the state. The discussions here have reinforced my understanding that we need to look at housing through a broader human rights framework. The right to adequate housing is recognized in international human rights law, including Article 11 of the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, and it is closely connected to other rights. This perspective is particularly important in contexts where urban development can prioritize investment and infrastructure projects while treating low-income communities as obstacles to development. JS: In Nigeria, inequality, forced displacement, and the vulnerability of certain communities remain major challenges. What connections do you see between the discussions taking place in Sweden and the realities you encounter in Nigeria? KA: There are significant connections. Although the political, economic and urban contexts are different, we see similar questions around who has the right to the city, who gets to make decisions about urban development, and whose knowledge counts. In Lagos, for example, informal and low-income communities can face eviction, displacement, and redevelopment pressures. These communities are often described through statistics or development narratives, but their own experiences and knowledge are not always adequately represented in policy discussions. That is where the idea of counter-knowledge becomes important. Communities are not simply victims or beneficiaries of urban policy; they possess knowledge about their neighborhoods, histories, housing systems, and survival strategies. Our work in Nigeria is therefore not only about documenting violations. It is also about ensuring that communities can document, narrate, and advocate for their own experiences. Kehinde Adegboyega. Photo used with permission. JS: Has there been a particular idea, approach or experience shared during the meeting that you believe could be adapted to the Nigerian context? KA: Yes. One important idea is the use of community-generated knowledge as a tool for advocacy and policy change. Too often, research about vulnerable communities is produced externally, while communities themselves have limited control over how their experiences are documented and represented. Approaches that involve residents directly in documentation, mapping, photography, storytelling, and evidence production offer a different model. This has strong potential in Nigeria. For example, journalists, researchers, human rights organizations, and affected communities could work together to create community-owned documentation of evictions, housing conditions, access to basic services, and changes in neighborhoods. This could combine journalism, participatory research, digital tools and legal advocacy. The important principle is that technology and documentation should not simply be used to document communities, but to give communities greater capacity to document themselves and influence decisions affecting them. JS: International meetings often generate valuable conversations, but their real impact is measured by what happens afterward. What will you take back to Nigeria from this experience, and how could it strengthen your human rights work? KA: I want to take back three things: Knowledge, networks, and methodology. First, the conference has expanded my understanding of housing justice as an intersectional human rights issue. Second, it has created opportunities to connect Nigerian and African experiences with housing justice movements and researchers elsewhere. Those relationships can support future research, advocacy, and knowledge exchange. Third, I want to strengthen our approach to documentation. At the Human Rights Journalists Network Nigeria, we work with journalists and human rights defenders to document violations and amplify marginalized voices. I see an opportunity to bring housing rights more explicitly into that work. This could include stronger documentation of forced evictions and displacement, training journalists on housing rights, supporting community-led evidence gathering, and producing stories that connect individual cases to broader questions of urban governance and inequality. JS: As someone working at the intersection of journalism and human rights advocacy, how can international exchanges like this one strengthen the ability of Nigerian journalists and civil society organizations to document and defend housing rights and other fundamental rights? KA: International exchanges provide something very valuable: The ability to see local problems through comparative perspectives. A journalist covering an eviction in Lagos may initially see it as an isolated local story. But when you engage with people working on similar issues in Cape Town, Dublin, Marseille, or elsewhere, you begin to see common patterns around land, property, displacement, urban governance, and power. That comparative understanding can improve journalism. It can help journalists ask better questions: Who benefits from redevelopment? Who is being displaced? Were affected communities consulted? What alternatives were considered? What legal protections exist? Where is public money going? Whose voices are missing from the development narrative? It can also help civil society organizations build stronger evidence for advocacy and litigation, while creating connections with organizations facing similar challenges elsewhere. For me, international exchange is therefore not simply about attending conferences. It is about bringing new methods, relationships and perspectives back into local practice. JS: After these exchanges in Sweden, what is the one message or new perspective you would most like to bring back to Nigeria, and why do you believe it could make a difference for vulnerable communities? KA: The message I would bring back is simple: The people who live in our cities must have a meaningful say in how those cities are shaped. Development should not mean that communities have to surrender their homes, histories, livelihoods and social networks without meaningful participation, protection and remedy. We need to move beyond seeing vulnerable communities only as people who need to be protected. They are also knowledge holders, rights holders and active participants in shaping the future of their cities. If we can strengthen community participation, documentation and access to information, we can change the balance of power between communities and institutions making decisions about land and urban development. For me, that is the real value of housing justice: Not simply ensuring that people have houses, but ensuring that people have dignity, security, a voice, and a meaningful place in the future of the city. Written by Jean Sovon

Many sports parks are located in areas controlled by gangs, but Haitian football is not dead Originally published on Global Voices Feature image of a football in the colours of the Haitian flag, on a football field, created using Canva Pro elements. In Haiti, the sport of football creates social cohesion: despite their differences, people from all classes come together on the field. Children from wealthy families, poor backgrounds, and middle-class homes alike get the opportunity to mix by either playing for the same football team, or facing one another as opponents. The same approach informs how players are chosen for the national team ; all social categories are represented based solely on the quality of each player’s talent. Spectators have a similar experience, in that people from all walks of life cross paths to celebrate, support their teams, and share moments of victory or defeat. Naturally, the security crisis that has displaced more than a million people internally and caused thousands of deaths over the last six years has affected every sector of national life. This includes sport in general and football, in particular, since “the beautiful game” is a passion for almost all ages and social groups in Haiti. Despite the country’s lack of modern sports infrastructure, you can see people of every generation playing football everywhere: on school grounds, in the streets, on unpaved fields, in yards and corridors, and in sports parks across the country. For young people from poor and disadvantaged neighbourhoods, football offers an opportunity to join local semi-professional clubs and maybe even play at national level. Since the gang violence has escalated, however, much of the country’s main infrastructure has been damaged through looting, fire, or other means, and sports facilities have not been spared. The FIFA Goal Center in Croix-des-Bouquets, for instance, which trained stars like Melchie Dumornay (Corventina) of Olympique Lyonnais in France, Nérilia Mondésir of Seattle Reign FC in the United States, and Kethna Louis of Montpellier HSC in France, was attacked, looted, and burned by the 400 Mawozo gang led by Wilson Joseph (alias Lanmò San Jou). Likewise, the Sylvio Cator Stadium in southern Port-au-Prince, the home of Haitian national football, and the Haitian Olympic Center in Croix-des-Missions in the city's north, where many young people would train in different sports, suffered major gang attacks in February 2024 and February 2026 , respectively. The area around the Sylvio Cator Stadium is controlled by two powerful gangs, one led by Renel Destina (alias “Ti Lapli” or “Kaporal Lapli”) and the other by Johnson André (alias “Izo 5 Second”). The Olympic Center area is controlled by Claudy Célestin (alias “Chen Mechan” or “Stevenson Pierre”) of the Chen Mechan (“Mean Dog,” in English) gang in Plaine-du-Cul-de-Sac, and Jeff Larose (alias Jeff Gwo Lwa) of the Taliban gang based in Canaan. Because criminal gangs control the main roads leading to the country's Great South and Great North, the regular national championship has halted, forcing the national football league to adapt and organise a special competition so players can keep playing. Many sports parks are located in areas controlled by gangs, which makes the situation worse. Despite all this, Haitian football is not dead. On November 18, 2025, the Grenadiers qualified for the 2026 World Cup, even though no qualifying match was played in Haiti because of the gang violence. Although the national team was eliminated in the first round of the World Cup, their participation brought joy to the Haitian people. The sport continues to put smiles on people’s faces in Haiti. In this year’s Caribbean Football Union (CFU) U14 Challenge Series , which ended on August 23 in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, the Haitian U14 team won the tournament with a series of brilliant performances. Haiti's triumphant U14 football team after their victory. Photo courtesy the Caribbean Football Union (CFU), used with permission. They beat Trinidad and Tobago 4-1 and French Guiana 5-2, lost 1-0 to Puerto Rico (after already qualifying for the semifinals), defeated the host nation 6-1 in the semifinals, and beat Jamaica 4-0 in the final to become Division 1 champions. This victory marked Haiti’s third CFU U14 title, following their previous championship wins in 2021 and 2022. All three titles were secured during a time when the country was going through a crisis. To help these young players participate in the tournament, the Haitian Football Federation (FHF) organised a talent detection tournament across various regions of the island, with participation from several football academies. Young footballers were enrolled in a two-month preparation camp at the Dulaire Sports Complex/Training Center, in the municipality of Ouanaminthe and, more specifically, in the communal section of Haut-Maribahoux, a border area near Dajabón in the Dominican Republic. The young champions returned home on Monday, August 24, to a welcome reception at the diplomatic lounge of the Toussaint Louverture International Airport in Port-au-Prince, organised by the Ministry of Youth, Sports, and Civic Action (MJSAC). During the ceremony, the Minister of Sports highlighted individual performances, including Jerry Petit-Homme, who scored a goal just four or five seconds into the match against the Dominican Republic — one of the fastest goals in football history. Wensley Dumorné was named the Best Player of Division 1, and Jodley Sheeckensley Delmas was named top scorer, with seven goals. Team captain Cedric Clairemond shared a warm message with Haitian football fans, on behalf of all the players: Moun yo mèsi anpil pou lamou nou, jodi a nou chanpyon nou ba nou koup la, mwen fyè anpil paske mwen reprezante peyi'm antan ke kapitèn, sa fè de mwa n ap prepare, nou te motive pou sa, tout objektif la se te chanpyon jodi a nou fè'l, nou swete pou nou rejwi de koup la, ti grenadye yo ap vini pou nou monte pi wo. Thank you everyone so much for your love. Today we are champions and we bring you the trophy. I am very proud to represent my country as captain. We prepared for two months and were very motivated. The goal was to become champions, and today we did it. We hope you enjoy this trophy; the young Grenadiers are coming to reach even higher levels. Sports Minister Phytagore Dumas stated his commitment to supporting these young players in their education and personal growth. According to a statement from his ministry, the young Grenadiers won on the field, and it is now up to the nation to support them towards a future worthy of their talent. The Haitian Football Federation echoed this sentiment : Aktivite jodi a se te pou temwanye yo lanmou ak sipò, pou renouvle angajman nou pou kontinye batay pou leve nivo foutbòl la nan peyi a epi garanti relèv la. Objektif la pa t lòt, se mize sou jenès la jodi a pou reyalize rèv demen yo. Today’s event was to show them love and support, and to renew our commitment to keep fighting to raise the level of football in the country and secure the future. The objective was simple: invest in today’s youth to achieve tomorrow’s dreams. Haiti’s U17 national team is currently preparing at Parc Sainte-Claire in Delmas for the 20th edition of the FIFA U-17 World Cup in Qatar, training and playing friendly matches against local teams to get ready for the tournament, which takes place from November 19 to December 13. Meanwhile, the U20s narrowly missed qualification for the FIFA U-20 World Cup in Chile. On August 31, however, the same team qualified for the men’s football tournament of the 2027 Pan American Games , to be held in Lima, Peru. Haiti earned its spot as the highest-ranked Caribbean team following its performance in the recent Concacaf U-20 Championship . Yet, because of the ongoing violence, especially in the metropolitan area of Port-au-Prince, Haiti itself cannot celebrate as it would like. Even with the U14s’ great performance, the joy did not last long. On the night of August 24, fewer than 24 hours after their victory, armed gangs from the criminal group Viv Ansanm killed around 47 people and kidnapped more than 30 others , including young girls, women, and seniors in the municipality of Kenscoff , a mountain town near the capital. In spite of the challenges, good things keep happening every day in the country. You can see it in culture, art, farming projects, entrepreneurship and sport, especially in parts of the country not under gang control. Perhaps that is football’s most enduring lesson — that in spite of obstacles, you must keep moving forward. Written by Jude Pierre Louis

“The breastfeeding room was always there. But there was no-one to bring my baby to me.” Originally published on Global Voices Workers at a garment factory in Gazipur, Bangladesh. Image via Flickr by Solidarity Center. CC BY 2.0 . In April 2026, Bangladesh’s Parliament amended the country’s labour law , extending maternity benefits for eligible workers from 112 to 120 days, or approximately four months. Yet for many women in the country’s garment factories, the harder question begins when that leave ends: Who cares for their babies while they return to shifts that may last 10 to 14 hours? The pressure is not limited to garment workers. Across Bangladesh, working mothers often depend on relatives or informal care networks, while affordable, quality childcare remains limited . The International Labour Organization (ILO) has noted that Bangladesh’s traditional family-dependent care system is under pressure as patterns of work and migration change. For low-income workers with long or unpredictable hours, that gap can be especially difficult. International brands and factories increasingly point to maternity policies, breastfeeding rooms and on-site daycare facilities as signs of progress. The question is whether those facilities are adequately staffed, accessible during long shifts and genuinely usable. Morsheda, 33, originally from Narsingdi , has worked in the garment industry for 15 years and currently works at a factory in Gazipur. She was interviewed in person by Global Voices in Gazipur in July 2026 for this article. After four months of maternity leave, she returned to work while her five-month-old baby remained with the child’s paternal grandmother. Before reaching the production floor, she prepares meals, cleans the house and gets her older child ready for school. “Buyers come and talk about different policies and workers’ rights. But our duty doesn’t get any shorter. We still work at least 10 hours a day, and with overtime it becomes 13 or 14 hours,” Morsheda said. “Sometimes I worked from eight in the morning until ten at night. My body was exhausted, my breast milk leaked, but I had to clean myself and continue working.” The factory had a breastfeeding room , but access was another matter. “The breastfeeding room was always there. But there was no one to bring my baby to me.” When her older child was an infant, Morsheda’s mother briefly stayed with her and brought the baby to the factory. Later, she relied on a paid caregiver who would not make repeated journeys for breastfeeding. Her five-month-old baby now stays with the child’s paternal grandmother, who brings the infant to the factory twice a day. “I have to finish the hourly production target before I go; otherwise, the supervisor gets angry.” Morsheda said. Her experience reflects a wider childcare problem documented in urban Bangladesh, where formal options can be limited or unaffordable and families piece together care around work. For garment workers, that can mean moving children between grandmothers, paid caregivers and older children. Mina, 38, originally from Rangpur, has worked in the garment industry for around 20 years and currently works in Savar. Global Voices interviewed her by phone call in July 2026. When her child, now five, was an infant, she received 56 days of maternity leave. “When my child was younger, I brought my mother from the village. She looked after my baby for around four or five months. Later, she went back to the village. Then I kept my child with another person by paying money. When I could no longer manage the cost, I kept my child at the factory daycare. But my child became sick there, and I had to take the baby to the hospital. After that, I stopped keeping my child at the daycare.” With no reliable option left, responsibility eventually passed to her elder son. “I knew it was affecting my elder son’s studies, but I had no other option.” Mina said. Both women described factories where women make up more than half of the workforce but daycare space is limited. At Morsheda’s factory, where around 3,000 people work and nearly 2,000 are women, the daycare accommodates only about 12 or 13 children and has two caregivers. Both women also raised concerns about hygiene and the quality of care. A national industry tied to global fashion Bangladesh’s ready-made garment industry generates more than USD 36 billion in exports and employs approximately 4.5 million workers, more than 57 percent of them women . In 2024, around 40 percent of garment exports went to the European Union and another 18 percent to the United States. Garment employment has expanded women’s access to paid work, but women still shoulder most unpaid care work at home. Bangladeshi women spend more than seven times as much time on unpaid care and domestic work as men, according to a national Time Use Survey cited by the ILO. An ILO-supported study found that 54 percent of working parents viewed inadequate childcare as a major barrier to women entering or remaining in employment, while 18 percent said they had left a job because of childcare responsibilities. Bangladesh’s labour law requires establishments with 40 or more women workers to maintain suitable rooms for their children under six, with trained or experienced female caregivers and access for mothers. But that requirement does not answer the practical questions raised by Morsheda and Mina about capacity, staffing and whether mothers can use the facilities during production hours. Beyond Bangladesh The ILO estimates that the global garment industry employs around 94 million workers, nearly 60 percent of them women. The legal protections differ. Bangladesh now provides 120 days (4 months) of maternity benefits for eligible workers and requires childcare rooms in establishments with 40 or more women. Vietnam provides six months of maternity leave; women nursing a child under 12 months are entitled to 60 minutes of paid breaks each working day, and employers are required to assist with daycare or kindergarten facilities or cover part of childcare costs. Cambodia provides 90 days of maternity leave , with half wages and benefits for workers with at least one year’s seniority. During a child’s first year, mothers are entitled to one hour of paid breastfeeding time each workday, while employers with 100 or more women must operate a nursing room and a daycare centre, or in some circumstances cover childcare costs. Yet legal provision does not remove the problem of access. In Vietnam, ILO research found that women made up 74.8 percent of the textile and garment workforce, while 40 percent of workers in the sector worked more than 49 hours a week in 2023. VnExpress reported that public nurseries around industrial zones were limited, private care could be expensive and many preschools closed before factory overtime ended. In Cambodia, World Bank reporting documented similar dependence on family care. Garment worker Srun Saren left two children with her 75-year-old grandmother and expected to leave her job after a third child because adequate care was unavailable. Another worker, Kang Somaly, left garment work after failing to find care for her four-month-old baby and seven-year-old child. Across Bangladesh, Vietnam and Cambodia, women sustain garment production while families absorb much of the childcare that makes their employment possible. From responsible sourcing to meaningful support The idea that support should extend beyond maternity leave is reflected in existing labour programmes. The ILO and UNICEF’s Mothers@Work initiative for Bangladesh’s garment sector identifies seven minimum standards, including paid maternity leave, breastfeeding and childcare facilities, flexible working arrangements, health protection, medical benefits, employment protection and non-discrimination. A 2022 ILO assessment found improvements in factory maternity and breastfeeding policies, while also highlighting women leaving and re-entering employment because of childcare responsibilities. The findings shift attention from the existence of childcare facilities to how they function in practice, including whether workers can use them during long shifts and while meeting production targets. Neither Morsheda nor Mina identified the international brands sourcing from their factories, and their experiences cannot be attributed to any particular company. Their accounts illustrate how childcare responsibilities may remain outside formal factory systems, relying instead on grandmothers, paid caregivers and, in some cases, older children. Bangladesh’s extension of maternity benefits to 120 days has expanded formal maternity protection for eligible workers. However, the experiences of Morsheda and Mina, together with findings from the ILO’s Mothers@Work qualitative assessment , point to continuing childcare challenges after workers return from maternity leave. Written by Maksuda Akter