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

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

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