Right now, decisions are being made in rooms that most of us will never have access to, and still, we are the ones expected to live with the consequences. A human rights approach means challenging that imbalance and insisting that accountability sits where power does. And maybe that also means we should be sceptical from the very beginning, not after harm has already been done, but at the point where these technologies are introduced and commercialised. It is in our interest to ask uncomfortable questions early on, like where does this come from, who built it, how does it work, and who actually benefits from it? Because without that, we end up accepting these systems as if they were inevitable, instead of seeing them for what they are: choices. And in doing so, we lose sight of the fundamental idea that the future should be built around living beings, and not optimised for machines. Hija Kamran (she/her) is the lead editor of GenderIT.org and advocacy strategist within APC’s Women’s Rights Programme. Through her policy and campaign work, she specialises in the intersection of technology, gender and human rights.


The technological transformation of Colombia's armed conflict

Artificial intelligence (AI) does not act neutrally in contexts of war. In Colombia, it is gradually gaining importance, amplifying inequalities, accelerating disinformation, and reconfiguring violence. Through five cases reported by local media, this article explores how accessible technologies are reconfiguring different dimensions of Colombia's armed conflict which, despite several peace processes, has persisted for over 60 years due to the presence of multiple non-state armed groups, illegal economies, and deep regional inequalities. More than simply a uniform adoption of artificial intelligence, a technological innovation has emerged that is transforming not only the battlefield, but also decision-making processes, local narratives, and forms of social control. Low-cost drones In several regions of Colombia, since 2024, non-state armed groups have been using modified commercial drones in rudimentary ways to attack police stations and military positions with explosives, leaving hundreds of uniformed personnel injured or killed . While these devices do not incorporate AI, their use reflects the ability of armed actors with limited resources to adapt accessible technologies and thereby change the tactical balance of power.


In more sophisticated and scale-produced systems, as seen in the war in Ukraine and in conflicts linked to Iran, drones are part of more complex military strategies. In the Colombian context, though, use of drones represents an intermediate stage — a war still conducted by humans, but approaching forms of automation that could integrate more sophisticated algorithmic tools in the future. More sophisticated anti-drone systems The transformation of the battlefield with the use of low-cost drones has forced a technological response from the state. Since 2025, the Colombian government has been creating a “ national anti-drone shield ” — a complex technological architecture that combines multiple capacities : specialized sensors capable of detecting drones and differentiating them from birds or aircraft; technologies such as micro-Doppler to identify moving objects; radio frequency systems that locate and block the signal between the drone and its operator; and both electronic and physical neutralizating mechanisms. This hybrid platform, with its combination of physical sensors, data processing algorithms, and human decision-making, is gradually redefining how threats are detected, evaluated, and responded to.


Algorithms that map risks and operations Security institutions have started to incorporate AI tools to guide operational action , based on data analysis that allows them to identify risks and anticipate threats. The Police Service Model, adopted in 2024, proposes a “ focused and differentiated ” deployment based on real-time data analysis to identify crime hotspots. This approach has also been adopted by the military. Reports by the Colombian Aerospace Force point to the use of surveillance and reconnaissance systems that integrate advanced sensors and data processing to build risk models in conflict zones, facilitating the most accurate deployment of capabilities on the ground and in the air. These systems do not operate autonomously; rather, they structure the map on which action is taken. In a context characterized by regional inequalities and limited data quality , the promise of greater efficiency in security comes with the risk of reproducing existing biases and intensifying surveillance in stigmatized areas, while others remain invisible. Manipulating narratives In 2023, local media documented the increasing use of AI to mislead people in sensitive political contexts.


During the regional elections in October, which saw local power disputes in areas affected by armed groups, artificially generated audio messages began to be shared using the voices of election candidates, to attack or benefit their campaigns. That November, videos with AI-generated avatars pretending to be doctors, long-term patients, and military personnel calling for protests against the government, were shared online. This sophisticated production of fake voices and images can alter public perception and influence security decisions, stigmatize communities, and legitimize measures of control. The social basis of algorithmic control Community groups on social media that work — in theory — to share security alerts, have been co-opted by non-state armed groups to share photographs and profiles of community leaders, accusing them of collaborating with rival groups or with the government. This tends to happen mainly in closed WhatsApp groups created by residents under pressure from armed actors, where intimidating messages and unsubstantiated accusations are being shared. On Facebook, anonymous or fake profiles amplify this content.


These digital blacklists , linked to threats, forced displacement and targeted killings, are the basis of a system of control that could be accelerated and automated by AI. These cases demonstrate how AI is gradually being introduced into the Colombian armed conflict, where accessible technologies, data analysis, and partial automation reinforce and amplify pre-existing structures of violence. They make surveillance more efficient, disinformation faster, and state intervention potentially more unequal. In this context, the risk is not only that the conflict evolves into a war dominated by autonomous systems; the most immediate danger is that these tools end up reinforcing the same regional and social disparities that have fuelled violence for decades .


Climate change: What Africa must demand at COP31 in Antalya

Just months before the 31st United Nations Climate Change Conference (COP31), in Antalya, Turkey, in November 2026, governments, financial institutions, and international organizations are at a vital stage in their preparations. Now is the best time to determine the most important issues, as there will be significantly less room for maneuver once the conference begins. The question is, what strategy, priorities, and negotiating power will Africa bring to the table at COP31? In Northern Togo, farmers no longer speak of seasons, but surprises. Rain appears unexpectedly and disappears when the seeds are planted. Harvests are failing, and families are migrating. According to the National Meteorological Agency of Togo (ANAMET) , 2024 was marred by severe droughts, resulting in significant crop losses and leaving some farmers unable to repay their loans. However, Togo isn’t alone. According to the World Meteorological Organization’s State of the Climate in Africa 2024 report , floods and landslides killed hundreds of people and displaced more than 700,000 others in Kenya, Tanzania, and Burundi between March and May 2024. Based on a global disaster database (EM-DAT), an analysis by the Indian magazine Down To Earth found that 2021–2025 was the deadliest period in Africa in 15 years.


Extreme weather events affected more than 221 million people, and disaster-related deaths more than tripled compared to the previous reporting period . Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, diplomats are negotiating legislation that will take years to have an impact on these dried-out lands. Africa must make every effort to bridge the gap between this crisis on the ground and the slow-paced negotiations when COP31 begins. Although this is the continent that emits the least greenhouse gases globally, it continues to experience the most severe consequences . With a unified voice and a finely tuned strategy, this fundamental injustice must yield precise demands. A conference under high geopolitical tension This conference will take place under unique circumstances. In January 2026, the United States, the world’s second-largest emitter, officially withdrew its signature from the 2015 Paris Agreement and announced its withdrawal from the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC), weakening the multilateral climate architecture. Yet, the last three years have been the warmest ever recorded, with current projections suggesting a 2.8 degree Celcius warming by 2100, almost double the Paris Objective.


These circumstances leave millions more people vulnerable to food insecurity, rising sea levels, vector-borne diseases, and forced displacement. While Turkey will host the conference itself, Australia will act as the President of Negotiations , an unprecedented diplomatic arrangement in COP history. For Africa, this unique architecture provides an opportunity. Australia, committed to issues affecting small island states and vulnerable countries , could be an obvious ally if this continent can build opportune alliances. Four battles Africa must fight in Antalya Africa is facing four primary challenges. Turning the New Collective Quantified Goal on Climate Finance (NCQG), adopted by leaders in November 2024, into tangible financing is its first battle. This agreement requires an annual mobilization of at least USD 1.3 billion for developing countries by 2035 , with a minimum of USD 300 billion from developed countries annually. In theory, this is a step forward, but in reality, recent history prompts caution. The previous objective of USD 100 billion per year, pledged in Copenhagen in 2009 for 2020, was achieved only in 2022, two years after the deadline, and consisted mostly of loan arrangements.


However, African countries estimated their climate needs at USD 2.8 trillion for 2020–2030, with the international community covering a USD 2.5 trillion deficit, leaving a vast gap between these pledges and real-world needs. In Antalya, Africa must demand three specific things: the NCQG’s implementation by the set deadline, a significant increase in the share of grants over loans, and the introduction of transparent and independent monitoring mechanisms. Making adaptation a budgetary priority is its second battle. Obtaining more financing will be insufficient if it continues to go where Africa needs it least. Climate financing has historically prioritized mitigation over adaptation. For seven years, 59 percent of the financing approved by the Green Climate Fund (GCF) in Africa has gone towards mitigation projects, compared to only 41 percent for adaptation. As Africa, a low emitter, needs to adapt to the effects of climate change that it didn’t cause as a matter of priority, this disparity is all the more paradoxical. At COP31, the Global Goal on Adaptation should get underway. This means that merely saying adaptation is a priority will no longer suffice.


It will be necessary to carefully evaluate the aid people actually receive and address any disparities. Africa must insist that at least 50 percent of climate financing be allocated to adaptation, in line with commitments under the Paris Agreement. Otherwise, Northern Togo’s farmers will continue to wait for rain that never comes, while climate financing funds renewable energy projects in wealthier countries. Aligning the Third Generation of Nationally Determined Contributions (NDC 3.0) with conditional financing is the third battle. Financing is ultimately fundamental to these national commitments. The new generation of Nationally Determined Contributions, submitted in 2025 for the period up to 2035, will be the focus of discussion in Antalya. They are part of the third revision cycle set out in the Paris Agreement, which requires each country to raise its climate ambitions in successive cycles. This time, the stakes are particularly high. The COP28 Global Stocktake revealed that current commitments are insufficient to keep warming below 1.5 degrees Celcius. Each country must therefore submit revised action plans that are more ambitious and effective. For African countries, this assignment is politically and technically difficult.


Presenting high ambitions without guaranteed financing to make them possible means making commitments whose fulfillment depends entirely on the will of others. Take, for example, Togo. Its revised NDC pledges a 50.57 percent reduction in emissions by 2030 , but only with international support. Without external financing, this commitment falls to 20.51 percent . This isn’t due to a lack of political will, but a structural economic reality that almost all African countries face. Demanding ambitious NDCs without guaranteed conditional financing to make them possible is like asking someone to run a marathon without shoes. In Antalya, Africa must ensure that the final decisions include an explicit and binding link between the NDCs’ level of ambition and the guaranteed corresponding conditional financing. Ambition cannot be one-sided. Having a bearing on global climate governance is Africa’s fourth battle. The last three battles can only be won if Africa plays an effective part in the decision-making. However, 2026 is a pivotal year for this continent in global climate architecture. In 2027, COP32 will take place in Ethiopia, giving the continent a COP Presidency it must prepare for now.


Now is the time to build alliances, refine common positions, and show that Africa can negotiate, not just observe. Various initiatives are already underway, demonstrating an increased awareness. In Dakar, from February 9 to 13, 2026, the African Institute for Economic Development and Planning (IDEP) and the Center of Excellence for Leadership and Management for Africa’s Development (CELMAD) have trained diplomats and senior government officials from 14 African countries in economic and climate diplomacy, specifically for COP31. Karima Bounemra Ben Soltane, Director of IDEP, emphasized: L’Afrique fait face à un paradoxe : des émissions minimales, un impact maximal. Cette formation est un investissement dans les diplomates qui transformeront notre vulnérabilité en plaidoyer. Africa is facing a paradox : the lowest emissions, yet the greatest impact. This training is an investment in diplomats who will turn our vulnerabilities into advocacy. At this event, every decision or compromise will directly affect millions of people without representatives at the negotiating table. Although Africa neither lacks legitimacy, arguments, nor data to defend an ambitious agenda at COP31, what it sometimes lacks is coordination. In Antalya, as elsewhere, Africa can no longer go empty-handed.


Educating for climate resilience: Anil Adhikari on conservation and community action in Nepal

Anil Adhikari is a Nepali conservation educator, author, and journalist dedicated to promoting grassroots environmental awareness. For more than two decades, he has developed school-based programs across Nepal, using storytelling, illustrated books, and community engagement to teach children about wildlife, forests, and ecosystems. His work connects conservation education with community resilience, helping young people understand their role in protecting natural resources in the face of the climate crisis. He is the founder of the non-profit organization Teka Samuha Nepal , which implements the Community-Based Snow Leopard Conservation Program (CBSLCP) in the Himalayas. He has also served as an editor of The Snow Leopard Magazine and received the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) Nepal Conservation Award in 2024 . Anil has authored several conservation education books that emphasize climate resilience and adaptation through storytelling and extracurricular activities.


Sangita Swechcha of Global Voices interviewed Anil Adhikari via email to learn more about his work in conservation education, his efforts to engage children and communities in environmental awareness, and the role of grassroots initiatives in building climate resilience in Nepal. Sangita Swechcha (SS): Nepal is increasingly affected by climate change — from shifting weather patterns to impacts on forests and wildlife. How do you see conservation education contributing to climate solutions at the community level? Anil Adhikari (AA): Climate change is already affecting Nepal’s protected areas and biodiversity. For example, unseasonal snowstorms in 2018–2019 across the Himalayas caused the loss of thousands of livestock and likely affected wildlife as well. This phenomenon may have led to shifts in wildlife habitats. From 2012 to 2014, during our annual snow leopard scouts’ monitoring camps in Namu pastureland (4,300 m) in the Annapurna Conservation Area (ACA), our project team — together with students, field rangers, and local stakeholders — regularly observed hundreds of blue sheep, along with clear signs of snow leopards.


However, in 2024, we found neither blue sheep nor any signs of snow leopards in the same area. Such changes may be linked to shifting weather patterns and habitat disturbance. In response, our conservation team, working with schools and local partners, promotes conservation education among students in both Himalayan and lowland regions. Through extracurricular activities, we teach the causes and impacts of climate change, preparedness, and practical adaptation measures. Students learn these topics through conservation education books that I have written. We expect them to act as messengers, sharing these ideas with their families and communities, which can support local climate solutions. However, one key challenge remains: ensuring that this knowledge is effectively transferred from students to the wider community. SS: Your work focuses on children and schools. Why is it important to engage young people early when it comes to building climate awareness and resilience? AA: Engaging young people early is important because they are part of the community today and the future caretakers of biodiversity.


When they understand the link between nature, climate, and their daily lives, they begin to value coexistence and responsible behavior. In my conservation education books, I use stories , critical thinking exercises, group work, community–school collaborative activities, and games to teach climate awareness and resilience. This approach makes learning simple, practical, and easy to remember. For example, students practice rainwater harvesting during the monsoon season, which helps provide water during dry periods. Through their clubs, they also engage in plantation activities. Students then share these ideas with their families. In this way, education spreads into the community and supports practical climate adaptation and resilience. SS: You emphasize locally led education. How can communities and local governments play a stronger role in linking conservation efforts with climate adaptation? AA: Locally led education becomes most effective when communities and local governments take ownership. In the Community based Snow Leopard Conservation Project (CBSLCP), we supported local governments in including snow leopard conservation in school curricula and textbooks. So far, two out of five local governments have adopted this content.


This helps institutionalize conservation education, making it more sustainable and locally relevant. When local governments integrate such topics into education, it creates a strong link between conservation and climate adaptation. Students learn not only about wildlife but also about changing environments and how to respond. In a book I authored for the Department of National Parks and Wildlife Conservation (DNPWC) / World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF) Nepal, I included a best-practice story on climate change adaptation, highlighting how students in the Himalaya operated simple weather stations to record daily temperatures and observe changes. They shared this information with their communities, helping farmers adjust their harvesting practices. In another book I authored for WWF Nepal, which was published and distributed to students’ environmental clubs, I included activities on reducing, reusing, and recycling waste to support climate action. This kind of locally rooted education connects knowledge with action, strengthens community awareness, and supports practical climate adaptation at the local level. SS: Through your storytelling and school programs, how do you help students understand the connection between protecting wildlife and addressing broader environmental and climate challenges?


AA: Through storytelling and school programs, we help students understand that protecting wildlife is closely connected to environmental and climate health. In our conservation education books, we introduce simple ideas, such as planting trees to maintain ecosystems. Students learn that trees absorb carbon dioxide, while forest fires release gases that contribute to climate change. In the CBSLCP project, we take students to snow leopard scouts’ monitoring camps and nature tours, where they observe habitats, prey species, and plantation efforts. With guidance from experts and field rangers, they learn how habitats have changed over time due to climate and human impacts. In addition, students participate in conservation games and storytelling sessions, which make learning engaging and memorable. This combined approach helps them see the direct link between wildlife conservation, healthy ecosystems, and climate solutions, and encourages them to take action in their own communities. SS: What are some practical changes you have seen in communities or schools that demonstrate how education can lead to real climate action? AA: In my experience, education has led to very practical climate action in communities and schools.


One example comes from a red panda conservation book used by thousands of students, which includes a real story about a red panda affected by a forest fire. In one village community, after reading this story, students became aware of the real impact of forest fires on wildlife and the climate. Schools later reported to me that, following this lesson, such practices were greatly reduced, and students themselves began discouraging forest fires in their communities. Another example is rainwater harvesting. In response to increasing drought and water scarcity, a local school began collecting rainwater to support water supply during dry periods. This initiative has improved both awareness and practical adaptation to climate change. SS: What challenges do you face in scaling this kind of locally rooted, climate-focused education across Nepal, especially in remote areas? AA: The main challenge is ensuring that what students learn is shared and practiced within the wider community. Coordination with local governments and consistently scaling the program across different regions remains another major challenge.


Before the algorithm decides: Queer storytelling as resistance in Nigeria

In 2020, not long after I released “ìfé,” a film about two women falling in love, the head of Nigeria’s National Film and Video Censors Board went on international news and said that my team and I could be arrested . It wasn’t a vague warning. It was direct and public, delivered on CNN. For many queer filmmakers in Nigeria, it confirmed something we already knew: telling our stories can come with real consequences. But there is another consequence that is less visible. Beyond censorship and risk, there is the question of what happens when these stories never enter the systems that increasingly shape how knowledge is produced. As artificial intelligence (AI) becomes more embedded in how information is organised and retrieved, visibility is no longer just about the audience; it is about data. The stories that are publicly available and widely circulated are the ones most likely to be captured in the datasets that train AI systems. What remains hidden or fragmented is far less likely to be included.


In contexts like Nigeria, where queer storytelling already exists under constraint, this creates another layer of exclusion. These stories are not only difficult to tell; they are also less likely to be reflected in the systems that will shape how queer life is understood in the future. AI systems do not distinguish between what is absent and what has been actively suppressed. They learn from available data and reproduce those patterns at scale. When queer stories are missing or underrepresented, that absence becomes part of the record. So the question is no longer only about visibility in the present. It is about whether these stories will be legible to the technologies that are already shaping cultural memory. Sometimes, the risks are immediate. In Lagos, police raided the workspace of Olutimileyin Kayode, the organiser of Pride in Lagos, after a report was filed. Not long after, he lost the space; the property owner decided it was too risky to keep them there.


When spaces like these disappear, so do the records they might have produced — records that would otherwise contribute to how queer life is documented and, increasingly, how it is learned by machine systems. Much of this work does not move through formal distribution channels. It circulates through private screenings, password-protected links, film festivals, and word of mouth. Some films are shown once and never released publicly. Others remain incomplete due to limited funding or are deliberately kept small to avoid attention. These are necessary strategies for survival. But they also mean the work remains largely invisible to the data infrastructures that feed AI systems. Distribution itself becomes a negotiation. Filmmaker Chinazaekpere Chukwu took a strategic route with her film “ Ti E Nbo ,” starting with international festivals. After screening at the African International Film Festival in 2023, it was rejected by other Nigerian festivals. It later reached audiences through a streaming partnership in Ghana and gained international recognition. Only then did Nigerian festivals begin to show interest.


Her experience reflects a broader pattern: local gatekeepers often respond to international validation before offering visibility at home. For filmmakers whose work does not travel globally, the path becomes even narrower, regardless of how important those stories are. Sometimes, the most effective interventions are quiet. The film “ìfé” portrayed love between two Nigerian women in an ordinary, everyday way — without spectacle or explanation. It did not argue for acceptance; it simply existed. Audiences responded with a kind of recognition rarely seen in local media. The film gained traction online and in the press, offering a rare moment where queer love was presented as part of everyday life. In my work with The Equality Hub , we tried to build on this through EhTv Network, a streaming platform for queer African stories outside state control. It was short-lived because of funding constraints, but it highlighted both the urgency and the difficulty of. building independent platforms for these narratives. We are now reimagining it as an archive and discovery platform.


This kind of work matters because AI systems are trained on large volumes of publicly available, digitised content. In theory, this creates a broad representation of the world. In practice, it reflects existing inequalities in what gets seen and preserved. For queer storytellers in Nigeria, many narratives never reach that level of visibility. They exist in private archives, limited screenings, or fragmented forms. What enters the public domain is often only a fraction of what exists. When AI systems are trained on incomplete records, they do not just reflect those gaps — they reinforce them. A future user asking about queer life in Nigeria may encounter a version of reality that is partial or missing key perspectives, not because these stories do not exist, but because they were never widely captured. In this way, existing forms of marginalisation are carried forward into new systems. What is missing from the dataset becomes missing from the narrative. Storytelling, then, takes on another layer of importance. In Nigeria, it has long been a way to resist social erasure.


In the context of AI, it also becomes a way to ensure these stories are documented and accessible in ways that can shape future knowledge. Seen this way, queer storytelling is not only creative work — it is also infrastructural. Each story contributes to what can be known, by whom, and increasingly, by what systems. The challenge is not only to tell these stories, but to ensure they are preserved and made visible in ways that resist both social and algorithmic erasure. AI will not recognise the difference between silence and suppression. It will only learn from what is available. And in a world where so much is filtered, what remains unseen today risks becoming what is remembered tomorrow. So the question is not whether these stories matter. It is whether they will be visible enough to shape what the future remembers.


Buea, Cameroon is facing recurring floods despite a lack of rain

Clara Efande, a resident of Buea’s Bonduma neighborhood, arrived at her Church on Thursday for her weekly fellowship meeting, but quickly changed her plans after seeing a pool of black water surrounding the building. There had been flooding in some areas in Buea , capital of the South West region , and her church in Bokwai happened to be in one of those areas. Debris-ridden water covered the area from the tarred road to the slope where the wooden church sits. The flooding was not caused by rain but a fast-moving flow of water, volcanic ash, and debris known as a lahar , which descended from Mount Fako into nearby communities on Thursday, April 2, 2026, for the third time in six years. Experts say lahars , mudflows made of volcanic material, occur because loose material on the slopes of an inactive but still changing volcano is washed down amid sudden rainfall after prolonged periods of dryness. Located on the coast of the Gulf of Guinea , Buea, capital of the South West region of Cameroon, is home to the tallest mountain in West Africa, Mount Cameroon, also known as Mount Fako.


The landscape rises to a height of 13,435 feet (4,095 meters) . The town of Buea is on the southeastern slope of Mount Cameroon, and foot paths are created yearly for the annual Mount Cameroon Race of Hope. A silent threat Since its last eruption , which occurred in the year 2000, the volcano has been silent until inhabitants of the town witnessed a black burst of water rushing down on March 24, 2020 , after a brief downpour of rain. This a ffected neighborhoods like Bonduma, Sandpit, Bokwai, Bokoko, Great Soppo, Buea Town, and Bokwango . Three years later, the March 18 lahar left two dead and four injured, directly affecting an estimated 900 people in Bova, Bokwai, and Buea Town neighborhoods, according to a 2023 report from the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. Before the population could comprehend this phenomenon, yet another one occurred in April this year. This third incident, which came with little warning, halted mobility for hours. Pascaline Mupian recounted to Global Voices: I could not return home as usual because there was flooding on my daily route.


I waited for a while but when I noticed the intensity of the situation, I sought a different way to get home. She also explained that she owns farmland, and this lahar runs just beside it, dumping bottles and other household waste, which could carry on the farmland. This increases her workload whenever she goes to the farm after a lahar because she has to start by picking up these items that destroy the soil’s fertility before continuing her farm work. Others are even less lucky and have to spend hours removing the water from their homes and doing a thorough clean-up afterward. Those residing in affected neighborhoods report witnessing a change in the lahar flow in the most recent disaster. The water moved much faster and reached farther distances, causing flooding in far-off neighborhoods like Molyko, unlike on the first two occasions. Students of Bilingual Grammar School Molyko were even forced to move in the water, which had already spread through a good portion of the school. “There was no way I could walk from the chemistry Lab back to class without entering the water,” Faahnui Ghogomu, a student in the school, told Global Voices.


Origin of lahars While many relate lahars to flash floods, experts argue that flash floods are driven by intense rainfall events that produce rapid runoff while lahars originate from loose volcanic deposits. According to experts, this pattern of lahars flowing at the start of the rainy season can be explained through interacting environmental processes, against a backdrop of a prolonged dry season. Pelagie Limunga , an environmentalist and Ph.D. research fellow from the University of Buea, told Global Voices: These early rains often generate high surface runoff because the ground is initially unable to absorb water effectively. At the same time, dry-season weathering leaves behind lose volcanic sediments on slopes and in drainage channels, which are easily carried away by rain. She refuted any indication of renewed volcanic activity, further describing lahars as “rainfall-driven remobilization of volcanic sediments rather than any form of eruptive reactivation.” Limunga Pelagie also added that vulnerable areas in Buea are “strongly shaped by topography, and how human settlement patterns interact with natural drainage systems.”


She stated that these areas are set along steep slopes and natural flow pathways descending from Mount Cameroon. They include communities like Buea Town, Bokwai, Bokoko, Great Soppo, Sandpit and Bova. Authorities’ responses Following the incident this year, the Regional Delegate of Scientific Research and Innovation for the South West, George Mafany Teke , called on residents to be calm, while describing the lahar flow as part of natural processes. He advised citizens to avoid building near waterways and to stay away from ravines during rainfall. The National Observatory on Climate Change regularly publishes a nationwide 10-day Dekadal bulletin, projecting weather forecasts as per meteorological readings. On April 1, 2026, the 10-day bulletin published on their official Facebook page predicted flooding in the South West region, but the town of Buea was not listed among the potentially affected areas, according to their forecast. However, experts hold that several early indicators, such as unusually intense rainfall, rapid rise in stream flow, active erosion along hillsides, blocked drainage channels, and sudden discharge of muddy water from upland areas, can help predict potentially hazardous flow events.


They emphasize that “community awareness of these indicators remains essential for early response.” While the community grapples with the social and environmental repercussions of these violent flows, they are uncertain of the nature or intensity of the next lahar event, as experts reveal that future occurrences are highly likely to happen, based on current environmental and socio-spatial trends like “increasing rainfall variability, which contributes to more runoff events over shorter periods,” Pelagie Limunga explained. She added that urban expansion also contributes to this phenomenon. Although hazard maps for landslides and slope risks in Buea exist, limited access, outdated data, and a lack of detailed neighborhood-level mapping mean many communities remain exposed, with risk information not fully revealing where and how people ought to build and prepare for disasters. There might be a ray of hope that lahars do not predict volcanic eruptions, but an even greater fear of the unknown lingers as vulnerable communities are not well informed, and more violent lahars are likely to occur in the coming years.


The hidden costs of Asia's data center rush

In Latin America , the data center boom has sparked widespread public debate and resistance, with some communities taking tech giants to court, successfully halting exploitative projects, and others forcing companies to redesign and evaluate their plans. Governments in the region, however slowly, are beginning to discuss implementing rules and regulations. In Asia — another international hotbed for data center development — this conversation is just beginning. From tropical data centers of Malaysia, to the coal-powered plants in Kazakhstan, and drought-affected regions of India, governments are racing to attract data center investment, with few mechanisms in place to assess the impact or limit environmental and social harm. Many of these countries have no requirement for environmental impact assessments, and regulatory frameworks, where they exist at all, are years behind the pace of construction. Communities most affected are rarely consulted. This is largely why international tech giants are turning to this region — fewer regulations and less community pushback mean an easier implementation process and better bottom line.


While companies and governments continue ahead with few guardrails, experts warn that the cost could be high. In addition to the well-documented environmental and noise pollution risks, some observers have expressed concern that the current AI boom will not last, arguing that the rapid expansion of data centers will lead to an overcapacity issue, leaving these facilities to stand as empty memorials to the hype. Rapid changes in hardware and software development also mean that some of these centers will be obsolete soon after completion, raising the risk that countries in the Global South could be stuck with outdated, expensive infrastructure with no path of recourse. As Steven Gonzalez Monserrate , ethnographic researcher of cloud infrastructures and author of the book “Cloud Ecologies,” explained in an interview with Global Voices: What you’re seeing with artificial intelligence (AI) is really scary because they’re building data centers for AI, but AI itself isn’t profitable yet. And when you approve to build the data center, it takes a couple of years to actually build it. So they’re just hoping that by then, AI becomes profitable.


But there are no signs of that happening. And so what might happen is that the data center is half built and then they abandon it, and they write it off, and it just becomes ruins. That’s very possible. In this cross-border article, Global Voices is sharing stories from several Asian countries, exploring how the data center boom is affecting citizens, how governments are grappling with the increased development, and what communities are doing about it. See how communities in Latin America are navigating the same issue here . South Asia India is in the midst of rapid data center construction and expansion. Megacities like Mumbai, Chennai, Bengaluru, and Delhi are all seeing rapid structural development as global tech giants race to plant their infrastructure in one of the world’s fastest-growing digital markets . But behind the investment headlines, a more complicated picture is emerging, one where the costs of this boom are falling disproportionately on the communities least equipped to bear them. Within India, most of the tension centers around one issue: Water.


A single 1 MW data center can consume around 26 million liters annually. When scaled up to a 30 MW facility, which is becoming the norm, over 2 million liters could be drawn from the ground every single day. Every one of India’s major data center hubs sits in an area already under severe water stress. In the Gautam Buddha Nagar district of Uttar Pradesh, where data centers have been clustered to form a digital corridor, groundwater extraction has exceeded 104 percent of sustainable levels. Residents in nearby Khora Colony are now paying INR 1,500 (USD 16.89) for just 500 liters of water delivered by tanker, after local borewells ran dry. The land and jobs picture is no less troubling. In Tarluwada, Andhra Pradesh, farmers were offered INR 2 million (USD 24,000) per acre for land that has a market value of INR 11.5 million (USD 122,200). This huge gap has instigated allegations of coercion and active legal challenges. And when the construction dust settles, the employment payoff is modest at best: Microsoft’s facility in Mekaguda is projected to create around only 180 permanent jobs.


That highlights the nature of the industry, which is highly automated and capital-intensive, raising the question of whether it is truly beneficial to local communities. All of this is unfolding inside a regulatory vacuum. India’s national data center policy , drafted in 2020, has never been finalized . There is no mandatory environmental impact assessment for approving new facilities, and data centers currently sit outside certain pollution control board requirements for their backup power systems. The investment is moving faster than the rules meant to govern it. Southeast Asia Southeast Asia has long been an international destination for data hubs, but its makeup is rapidly changing. While Singapore used to lead the way in data centers in the region, in 2019, officials implemented a moratorium on data center development in a bid to protect the city’s limited land resources, water, and economic sovereignty. After a one-year pause, officials lifted the moratorium but introduced incredibly strict regulations to prioritize “ green ” data centers. Since the AI boom, those regulations have tightened even further.


With Singapore spurning further data center development, much of those investments have been diverted to Malaysia, Thailand, and Indonesia. This move comes with its own complications, largely due to the intense heat and high humidity levels in the tropics. As Steven Gonzalez explained in an interview with Global Voices: “The interesting part about this is it’s actually a problem too, because data centers are not really designed to work well in the tropics. It's very, very, very expensive because the electricity use is way higher due to the humidity in the air. And so they have actually invented new kinds of data center construction and technology to actually run a tropical data center there. So, that’s why Malaysia is right now kind of booming for data center construction because Singapore is capped out pretty much.” Not everyone is pleased about the “innovation” coming to the region. In February 2026, community members in Johor, Malaysia, held the country’s first public protest against rapid data center expansion. Attendees cited pollution concerns and fears around water scarcity as the reason behind the demonstrations.


Indonesia is facing a similar crisis , with some arguing they have had no say in government agreements to construct data centers on community land. The centers are also raising concerns about water scarcity on the archipelago, where some islands face persistent droughts. Another question remains about whether Southeast Asia’s infrastructure can support such massive growth. A report by Wood Mackenzie, an international energy company, estimates that the energy required to power data centers is set to quadruple within Southeast Asia from 2.6 GW to 10.7 GW between 2025 and 2035. This could put a huge strain on grids and even raise prices for local communities. Central Asia Central Asian states are also ramping up the construction of new data centers to capitalize on the growing demand for computing power for digital services and AI. The regional leaders, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, are working to attract foreign and local investment and establish themselves as digital hubs, highlighting the importance of data centers for boosting economic development.


Environmental and energy concerns are seldom mentioned, given that large-scale data centers are still under construction and new to the region, and the discourse on their harm to the environment and resource depletion is absent from the mainstream public discourse. One example of this is the so-called Data Center Valley , a flagship data center cluster project by the Kazakh government, to be built in the city of Ekibastuz in the east. Promised to become a full-fledged international computing hub, the project is expected to rely on highly polluting coal for electricity generation and require 300 MW at maximum capacity. This certainly does not bode well for Ekibastuz residents who already struggle with air pollution due to nearby coal-powered industrial plants. The city is on the list of places with “elevated levels of [air] pollution.” Another mega project is the Akashi Data Center near the capital Astana, the region’s first and only Tier IV data center, expected to become the region’s largest upon completion at the end of 2026, with 4,200 racks.


The operators plan to build a dedicated gas-powered power plant with up to 1 GW capacity, an odd decision given that the rest of the country faces a mounting energy deficit and air pollution due to the heavy use of coal for energy production . In neighboring Uzbekistan, the government has teamed up with the Chinese Shanghai LinkWise Data to build a hyperscale data center for AI and high computing technologies in the northwestern Karakalpakstan region. Upon its completion, the facility will reach 300 MW capacity and become one of the largest data centers in the region. It will be powered by the Takhiatash Thermal Power Plant, which uses natural gas for electricity production, although there are plans to use hydrogen, solar, and wind energy resources in the future. The lack of discussions of the environmental impact of this project, which requires major water and energy commitments, is baffling, given Uzbekistan’s significant energy and water shortage problems. The water shortage problem is particularly salient in Karakalpakstan, which is home to the dried-up Aral Sea and acute water shortage challenges.


Considered one of the most vulnerable regions to climate change, and with rapidly growing populations and economies, the current-day issues related to water and energy shortages in Central Asia warn against the hasty construction of large-scale data centers without proper evaluation of their long-term impact. In each of the above contexts — Southeast Asia, South Asia, and Central Asia — governments are proceeding at a breakneck pace to welcome tech investment, regardless of how it may affect nearby communities. In Latin America, some communities fought back, and in some cases, won. Asia’s reckoning with the data center boom is only beginning. Whether governments here will heed those lessons, or repeat the same mistakes under the banner of development and innovation, remains to be seen. What is certain is that the cost of getting it wrong will not be borne by the tech giants building these facilities, but by the people living in their shadow.


Pakistan’s Indigenous Torwali people are fighting to save the Swat River

For the Indigenous Torwali community living in the Swat valley , in northern Pakistan, rivers are not a “resource.” They are not just “water.” They are the heartbeat of their nation, a sacred presence, the manifestation of the goddess Dara connecting them to their ancestors. But under the justification of the “electricity crisis,” in the past few years, the Pakistani government has been pushing a new wave of hydroelectric projects that are threatening this river system, along with the ecosystems and cultural systems tied to it. For the Torwalis, losing a river means losing history, livelihoods, identity, and imagination. This is why, since 2023, they have been leading a fierce resistance to save the Swat River and halt the construction of the 207 MW Madyan hydroelectric project, one of at least 18 schemes planned between Madyan and Kalam in the Swat District of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan. The project is part of the World Bank-funded Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Hydropower and Renewable Energy Development project, approved in 2021 for a total of USD 450 million.


On April 4, 2026, the movement celebrated a victory: The provincial cabinet approved its withdrawal from this project. However, it is not yet clear whether the project proponents will challenge this decision or seek equally devastating alternatives, and there have been no comments from the World Bank so far. For the Torwalis living in the valley, the struggle is not over yet. The Torwalis know well what happens when large-scale dams interrupt the free flow of their rivers. For them, the Daral Khwar Hydropower project is a lesson written in water. The project was initially funded by the Asian Development Bank, which withdrew after public pressure. The authorities, however, sought other funding sources to advance the project, making false promises and dividing communities to silence dissent. In the town of Bahrain in the Swat district of the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Pakistan, where the Daral merges with the Swat River, the local community used to describe their land as a paradise.


In the summer, children were playing in the river’s cold pools, women were collecting fresh water from its springs, and orchards were thriving along its banks. Today, though, the powerhouse controls the river’s flow like a tap, leaving long stretches of riverbed dry. Mosquitoes breed along its banks well into autumn. Sudden water releases from the tunnel with little warning, causing a drowning hazard for children. This loss has taught the Torwali a painful truth: once a river becomes a machine, everything connected to it — culture, ecology, economy, identity — unravels. With this memory still fresh, the Torwalis have formed the Save River Swat Movement ( Darya-e Swat Bachau Tehreek) to mobilize against the Madyan project. In August 2024, they submitted a formal complaint to the World Bank, demanding a review under its environmental and social safeguard policies. They have exchanged hundreds of letters with the Bank; held meetings in Peshawar, Islamabad, and online. They also informed international bodies, including UN institutions, and engaged local authorities. Meanwhile, jirgas (a gathering of elders) were held from Madyan to Kalam.


A massive demonstration took place on August 23, 2024, in the town of Bahrain; youth marched again a month later. Press conferences in Swat and Islamabad generated national attention, and even children have written petitions to the prime minister. According to international law and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples , no project can proceed without Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC). Yet, the Torwalis have complained about rushed hearings, inaccessible documents, procedural shortcuts, and bureaucratic coercion — none of which constitute real consent. And their opposition was clear from the start. Already in July 2023, when the Pakhtunkhwa Energy Development Organization (PEDO) and the provincial environmental authorities held the first “ public hearing ,” people attended in large numbers. Yet, a “No Objection Certificate” was issued, despite attendees’ protests. There have also been a series of threats and intimidation against community members opposing the project. Local authorities and government staff have threatened activists and local village officials with possible imprisonment and surveillance of their family members. Some activists were framed and accused of working against national interests.


As a result, in the affected villages, there is a climate of fear, and some are choosing to avoid voicing their concerns out of fear of being targeted. Additionally, the World Bank has failed to recognize the indigeneity of the Torwali peoples, leading to flawed impact assessments and a lack of information disclosure in the local Torwali language. As a result of the movement’s sustained efforts, in June 2025, the World Bank commissioned a new screening to determine whether the Torwali qualify as Indigenous people under its policy, an unprecedented step in this region. Almost a year later, however, it has not shared the findings with the community. But for the Torwalis, there can be no doubts about their indigeneity. Their identity is inseparable from the mountains they inhabit, the rivers they honor, the pastures they graze, and the ancestral systems they still practice. Their language — Indo-Aryan with some pre-Aryan and Gandharan elements — is shaped by their interaction with the landscape: there is a word for every cliff, rock, ravine, stream, meadow, and pass.


Even today, Torwalis living in the cities of Karachi, Hyderabad, or Rawalpindi continue to call their region watan, a word deeper than “homeland.” A proverb expresses this bond: “ tu watan ge ke bedu, watan ma wad .” It means “your body may reside elsewhere, but your heart belongs to the homeland.” Whether or not the movement to save the Swat River will ultimately prevail, this movement has already achieved something profound: it has reaffirmed that Indigenous rights and environmental justice are inseparable; that rivers have rights because communities have relationships; and that development must be accountable to those who bear its consequences. As the Pakistani poet Allama Iqbal reminds us, “A drop of dew is enough to make this soil fertile again.” The resistance of the Torwali people is that drop of dew: an act of dignity, unity, and courage in the face of imposed development. And as long as the Swat River flows, they will continue to defend it.


How Tibetans became eco-guards of Asia’s water tower

Tibetans have become frontline defenders against climate change in China’s Sanjiangyuan region, known as the “Water Tower of Asia,” after three decades of domestic and international interventions to establish a co-management model for ecological conservation. Sanjiangyuan (三江源), located in China’s western Qinghai province, is the source of the Yangtze River, the Yellow River, and the Lancang (or Mekong) River, which provide freshwater for China and the Indochina Peninsula. Approximately 90 percent of the 600,000 population that resides there are Tibetan herders. Sanjiangyuan: The water tower of Asia In the past few decades, global warming has led to the rapid melting of Himalayan glaciers and irregular rainfall, causing alternating droughts and floods. In China, the increase in precipitation has brought a warmer and wetter climate , prolonged the flood seasons, and expanded lake areas around the headwaters of the Yellow River and Yangtze River, which can lead to devastating glacial lake flood outbursts ( GLOFs ).


Meanwhile, countries including Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand, which are located along the lower stream of the Lancang/Mekong River, have faced more and more natural disasters caused by erratic water flows, including the extensive droughts between 2019 and 2021 and intense floods between 2023 and 2024. The situation eventually evolved into a diplomatic crisis as environmental groups in the lower Mekong countries accused China of restricting downstream water flows through newly constructed Chinese dams on the upper Mekong River . In response, China shifted its stance from “water sovereignty” to “water diplomacy” by providing daily hydrological data to lower Mekong River countries beginning in November 2020. The Chinese government views the water disputes with its neighboring countries less as a political disagreement and more as an issue stemming from the climate crisis, a problem the country has been working to address since the 1990s, when t he upper reaches of the Yellow River had suffered from severe droughts , causing grasslands, wetlands, and lakes to shrink, endangering wildlife in the region, and restricting water flow to downstream populations.


But the situation has improved to some extent in recent years after decades of conservation efforts. Tibetan herders’ role in ecological conservation The forerunners of Sanjiangyuan’s ecological conservation were the local Tibetan community in Suojia district, who set up five conservation areas in the latter half of the 1990s to protect endangered wildlife, including the snow leopard, Tibetan antelope, wild ass ( onager ), wild yak, and black-necked crane populations. The Tibetan herders also established a grassroots NGO in 1998, the Upper Yangtze Organization (UYO), to promote community-led conservation. Soon after, the Leadership Group for Western China Development (西部大開發領導小組) was established in the central government to push a series of infrastructure and developmental projects, including the second phase of the Tibet-Qinghai railway (2001–2006). In western China, the Qinghai provincial government incorporated the five conservation areas into the Sanjiangyuan Reserve, which covers 153,000 square kilometers of land. The State Council upgraded the park to a national-level reserve in 2003, injecting CNY 7.5 billion (approximately USD 1.2 billion) to kick-start a 10-year rescue plan to restore grasslands, address black soil, and conserve the wetlands.


A greater price, however, was paid by local Tibetan communities, as thousands of herders had to reduce grazing and some even had to relocate their settlements for conservation purposes. Between 2005 and 2009, around 50,000 Tibetan nomads were resettled from the Sanjiangyuan Reserve to “eco-villages,” and further relocations occurred thereafter as the Reserve expanded. Both the livelihood and culture of Tibetan nomads were at stake. Against this backdrop, local and international NGOs stepped in to conduct research, explore alternative income-generating models, preserve Tibetan nomadic cultures, and mobilize community members to engage in conservation work. For example, a Tibetan environmental activist group, the Snowland Great Rivers Environmental Protection Association , was established in 2001 to organize a network of more than 900 Tibetan volunteers to monitor wildlife and develop village-level sustainable development projects in Tibetan villages by facilitating multi-stakeholder dialogues and adopting a co-management approach. A handicraft cooperative, Half Light Handicraft , was established in 2013 by 13 Tibetan women in Yushu Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture to generate extra family income by hand-making handbags and shoes and lift the local economy.


Other domestic environmental groups, such as Sichuan-based Green River and Beijing-based Shan Shui Conservation Center , also moved into the region to conduct research on the ecological impacts of human activities and economic development and to carry out experimental projects, including garbage collection and recycling along the Qinghai-Tibet highway, to address new environmental challenges. In 2014, the Chinese government doubled environmental investment to USD 2.6 billion and expanded the conservation area to 395,000 square meters. Two years later, in 2016, approximately one-third of the region was included in China’s national park system pilot project. The Qinghai provincial government was eager to turn Sanjiangyuan into a showcase of “ecological civilization” under Chinese President Xi Jinping’s leadership. Drawing on the experience of Tibetan volunteer networks, local governments worked with Tibetan communities to introduce the “One household, one eco-guard”( 一戶一崗 ) system in 2016, turning 20,000 herders (the current figure) into conservation workers for the region. Under the system, the herders received an income of CNY 1,800–2,400 (approximately USD 350–450) to monitor water quality, wildlife, and forests, collect garbage, and report illegal behavior.


Tibetan women joining the climate fight However, thanks to the region’s traditional patriarchal division of labor, the “One household, one eco-guard” system generally favors the male household head, and Tibetan women are often left vulnerable and sidelined. In 2016, research conducted by the international NGO Global Environmental Institute (GEI) indicated that Tibetan girls in Sanjianyuan had fewer educational and career opportunities, as limited family income was usually allocated to their brothers, and they were delegated as caretakers for the family and the land. In Qinghai, over 70 percent of the rural labor force is women. The international environmental group then worked with local organizations to introduce gender-specific climate-action training and helped women household heads establish cooperatives to run eco-friendly small businesses. Other international organizations also stepped in to empower women in Qinghai’s plateau region and strengthen their role in fighting against the climate crisis. In 2020, UN Women began funding the Sanjiangyuan Ecological and Environmental Protection Association to establish the Sanjiangyuan Female Environmental Protection Network , which provided subsidies to enable women to participate in conservation work and encouraged them to form cooperatives to run eco-friendly businesses.


Two years later, in 2024, the Qinghai government incorporated the network into their “Women’s Action for Building Sanjiangyuan’s Ecological Civilization” ( 生态文明江源巾帼行 ), a three-year program, which encourages Tibetan women to register as eco-guards, develop their careers as conservation workers in the national park, and run cooperatives to protect both the environment and Tibetan cultures. Designated as one of the country’s first national parks in October 2021, Sanjiangyuan is often depicted as an achievement of China’s “ecological civilization.” The official success story is supported by several indicators : over the past two decades, grassland vegetation coverage has increased by 11 percent, water conservation by 6 percent, and the population of wild animals has grown, particularly the Tibetan Antelope, which has increased from less than 20,000 to over 70,000. What is often overlooked is that the Tibetan communities sacrificed their pastoral livelihoods and gave up their settlements to create the national reserves and protect Asia’s water tower. Moreover, they have pioneered the now-institutionalized community co-management model to integrate their livelihoods with conservation needs with the help of domestic and international NGOs. Today, they are still standing on the frontline, protecting Asia’s essential water sources for billions of people along the three rivers.


How nature-based solutions can help vulnerable and marginalized communities overcome climate injustice

Nepal is one of the countries most vulnerable to the impacts of the climate crisis. Across the world, this crisis is causing widespread disruption and contributing to violations of basic rights, including the right to live with dignity, both directly and indirectly. As more and more global leaders recognize climate change as one of the greatest threats to human rights , climate justice is emerging as a fundamental human right. In Nepal, climate change is impacting agriculture, biodiversity, and water and energy resources, and leading to increasingly common and severe hydrometeorological disasters, including floods, landslides, droughts, and other extreme weather events, as well as slow-onset climate change. Climate change exacerbates the difficulties already faced by Indigenous communities , including political and economic marginalization, loss of land and resources, human rights violations, discrimination, and unemployment. Most of the Indigenous communities that are dependent on natural resources are affected by this environmental catastrophe. Indigenous peoples are among the first to face the direct consequences of climate change.


Climate injustice is even more severe for women , Dalits (lower caste individuals who face societal prejudice), Indigenous women , people with disabilities , and Madhesi communities, an ethnic minority in Nepal. They are further susceptible due to preexisting vulnerabilities driven by discrimination based on socially ascribed identities such as caste, ethnicity, and indigeneity, geographic remoteness, and socioeconomic marginalization. These entangled issues continue to widen existing inequalities in Nepal. The climate crisis is also driving displacement and forcing many poor and vulnerable people, who are termed “climate refugees,” to migrate to urban areas due to floods, heat stress, drought, glacial lake outburst floods ( GLOFs ), and other extreme conditions. Yet even as the disasters worsen, those most vulnerable to the effects of the climate crisis have the least say in how resources are allocated. For example, less than one percent of global climate finance reaches Indigenous populations , even though they play a crucial role in protecting natural resources and ecosystems.


Cases of Nature-Based Solutions (NbS) Nature-based solutions (NbS) can be a self-help tool where ecosystem restoration in forests, wetlands, or mangroves can reduce disaster risks such as floods, landslides, and droughts in ways that generate both ecological and human benefits. These can be locally driven and community-based initiatives that further strengthen climate resilience, reduce dependence on imported fertilizers, and promote sustainable rural development. In practical terms, NbS are increasingly used as context-specific measures to restore degraded ecosystems, stabilize slopes, and protect riverbanks. However, NbS can address climate injustice only if they are rights-based, locally led, and socially inclusive. Nature-based solutions are considered an affordable, inclusive option for managing climate change, disaster risk, and environmental deterioration while supporting biodiversity and local livelihoods . Indigenous peoples and local communities play a vital role in climate mitigation and adaptation. One of their main roles is ecological stewardship : protecting forests, wetlands, and biodiversity. Many of these solutions already exist in practice; the Indigenous people are the original guardians of the ecosystem, who recognize the value of the forests and natural landscapes.


There are small-scale to medium-scale mitigation efforts carried out as nature-based solutions. For example, bioengineering techniques help mitigate flood impacts and safeguard vital ecosystem services like freshwater flow, soil stability, and habitat connectivity. More broadly, nature-based solutions can regulate water flow, reduce sediment loads, and strengthen ecosystem resilience through measures such as reforestation, wetland restoration, riverbank vegetation, and slope stabilization using bio-engineering techniques. Shifting cultivation , a traditional, subsistence-based farming system practiced by Indigenous communities, is also an example of an NbS that is contributing to carbon sequestration in forests and therefore plays a role in climate mitigation. NbS can also strengthen local economies through community forestry, agroforestry, and watershed restoration programs, which promote fisheries. Protecting critical water sources and farmland, restoring floodplains and wetlands can improve groundwater recharge , support fisheries, and provide habitats for wildlife. These processes enhance both ecological and economic resilience, empowering local people socially and economically through active participation in natural resource management.


Nature-based solutions (NbS) can be a new opportunity for green job creation, including roles such as forest guards, nursery workers, eco-guides, and timber processing workers. They can generate a new source of income for community forest groups, strengthen local green economies, and generate employment, especially for women and youth, for example, through compost production and sales. NbS play a crucial role in mitigating flood impacts and safeguarding vital ecosystem services like freshwater flow, soil stability, and habitat connectivity. They take different forms and contribute not only to disaster risk reduction but also to the revival of local traditions, livelihood enhancement, and broader socioeconomic development. For example, Bio-dykes are an environmentally-friendly alternative to normal flood defense structures, where “normal” means huge concrete structures that are expensive to build, damage the environment, and are catastrophic when they fail. In contrast, the bio-dykes help bind soil and prevent erosion, maintaining the river’s original flow and preventing overflow during heavy rainfall. Bio-dykes deliver economic, environmental, and social benefits. Bangladesh has another strong example of nature-based solutions (NbS).


In the face of climate change, the country’s floating gardens offer an innovative solution to the challenges faced by millions of farmers. Similarly, mangrove forests serve as a nature-based solution for coastal flood protection, helping to reduce the impact of rising sea levels. The example of Sudan also highlights the potential of NbS, particularly through bioengineering, water harvesting, and ecosystem restoration. These approaches have supported climate adaptation measures that contribute to water management and re-greening, which help communities resume farming activities . Integrated water resource management is helping communities restore the land in and beyond low-lying areas and natural water systems. Overall, these approaches aim to safeguard agricultural land, forests, and settlements from increasing risks of floods, landslides, and droughts driven by climate change. Finally, converting forest waste into compost is another effective NbS that transforms fallen leaves, dry branches, and other organic material from community forests into usable compost. This practice reduces the risk of forest fires and offers a sustainable alternative to chemical fertilizers by enhancing soil fertility, improving moisture retention, and supporting microbial activity in the soil.


Philippine typhoon survivors file historic case against oil giant

Around 103 residents from the Philippines who suffered from Super Typhoon Odette (known internationally as Rai) in December 2021 have filed a historic case against Shell PLC, a British multinational oil and gas company, in December 2025. The case marks the first civil claim linking the climate impacts of oil and gas companies to death and personal injury. In the Philippines, Typhoon Odette killed over 400 people, injured over 1,000 more, and destroyed 1.4 million homes mainly in the island provinces of Cebu and Bohol. The petitioners are seeking financial compensation for the damage they suffered under the “polluter pays” principle, aside from demanding an end to Shell’s fossil fuel expansion. The case relies on studies showing how fossil fuel emissions have exacerbated the harsh impact of climate change. It cited the report of the Philippines’ Commission on Human Rights, which noted that companies like Shell should be held legally responsible for causing harm to the climate.


The Philippines is a disaster-prone country, and its situation is made worse by climate-related extreme weather events, despite its historically small carbon emissions. Shell was notified about the plan to file the case in October 2025. The actual case was filed on December 11, 2025, at the Royal Courts of Justice in the United Kingdom, where Shell is based. Law firm Hausfeld, which drafted the complaint, said that Philippine laws were used since the destruction took place in the country. The campaign page in support of the civil case explains why Shell was singled out in the complaint. Shell acted with negligence, as they had the opportunity to mitigate climate harm, and an obligation to refrain from obfuscating climate science, but failed to do so Shell is among the world’s major emitters of all fossil fuel companies.


Alongside their emissions, Shell’s history of deliberate deception and misinformation regarding the causes and impacts of climate change — and their contribution to these — is well-documented and forms a strong basis to argue their responsibility and liability for their contribution to the damage caused by Typhoon Odette. “We are not small people” Trixy Elle, 33, a fish vendor from Batasan Island, shared her decision to join fellow typhoon survivors in filing a case against Shell: Odette took everything from me and my family. We were forced to sell our precious belongings just so we could afford to rebuild our home. We’ve done nothing to cause the climate crisis, but because companies like Shell chose profit over people, our lives have been turned upside down. In an interview with the media outlet Inquirer, she added that they are also planning to file a case against other oil companies. There are five big oil companies, right? We chose Shell, but it doesn’t mean that the four big oil companies are safe from climate accountability.


We will sue them one by one, one case at a time. In an interview with the media outlet SunStar, Pedia Fajardo of Cebu City said the poor have nowhere to go during climate disasters, making it necessary to implement urgent actions such as reducing carbon emissions. Kaming kabus ang mag-suffer… maayo man ang mga dato kay makabalhin og puy-anan, kami naa rami dira. Usa na sa among gi-complain tungod coal man gud ilang gipanggamit… mobuga baya na og dagkong aso. It is us poor who suffer the most. The wealthy can move to safer places, but people like us have nowhere else to go. Among our complaints is their use of coal which releases massive amounts of smoke. Another survivor and complainant, Annie Casquejo, said the case filing is not just meant to recoup their losses but also to prove that islanders are fighting for their future. At the very least, the possessions we spent years saving up for — our boats, our homes — could be replaced. But even if we lose, at least we did something.


We are not ‘small people.’ We are people who fight. In a statement sent to Inquirer, Shell UK dismissed the complaint. “This claim overlooks the benefits energy brings and the decades of choices made by governments, businesses, and consumers that have shaped our energy system.” Shell UK also sent a statement to the BBC disproving the basis of the complaint. This is a baseless claim, and it will not help tackle climate change or reduce emissions. The suggestion that Shell had unique knowledge about climate change is simply not true. The issue and how to tackle it has been part of public discussion and scientific research for many decades. Local and global The filing of the case is the result of years of collaboration between communities ravaged by deadly typhoons and global environmental groups. Together with local government units and Greenpeace, residents of Bilangbilangan and Batasan Islands have been working on several projects to rebuild the communities that were destroyed by Typhoon Odette. In December 2024, they installed solar panels and charging stations to strengthen their climate response capabilities.


The case filing in December 2025 highlights how local interventions can have a huge impact on the global campaign for climate justice. The case could set a precedent and inspire other islanders to sue companies responsible for massive fossil fuel emissions. This could follow the landmark ruling made by the International Court of Justice in July 2025, which stated that governments have an obligation to protect the environment from greenhouse gas emissions, and they may incur legal responsibility should they fail to fulfill or ignore this duty. In an interview with the news company ABS-CBN, Virginia Llorin of Greenpeace Philippines noted the significance of the case filed by the residents from Cebu and Bohol. “This is not a fight for them alone. This is a fight for the Filipinos who are impacted by climate change,” Llorin said. Another creative action featuring the rebuilding efforts of residents is the community art installation on Ubay Island in Cebu. Their message summed up the sentiment of communities in their collective action for climate justice: “From flooded streets and battered islands, hope is a thread we weave together.”


Who is talking about artificial intelligence in Ecuador?

A person checks their phone, types a question, and receives an answer in seconds. They do not know how it works, what data they are giving away, or who is behind that answer. But they use it anyway. Artificial intelligence is already present in school assignments, work decisions, and processes that used to take hours. It works. It integrates. It advances. In Ecuador, there is no coordinated AI policy; rather, initiatives move forward separately. Ministries, the National Assembly (Congress), regulatory agencies, and academia promote their own proposals, with different timelines and priorities. The result is that laws, strategies and regulations overlap or fail to connect, without a common direction. While AI technology becomes embedded in everyday life, decisions about its use, limits and consequences remain far removed from the people already using it. In that context, at the end of 2025 more than 60 people gathered at FLACSO Ecuador for “Artificial Intelligence and Digital Rights: Different Perspectives for the Common Good,” in an attempt to open a conversation that, until now, continues to take place in limited spaces.


The meeting was promoted by Openlab , in coordination with Futuroscon.IA and the CTS Lab at FLACSO Ecuador, with the support of a project funded by Probox . That collaboration made it possible to bring together social organizations, academia, public institutions, and other actors connected to the artificial intelligence and digital rights debate. The main panel included the participation of the Office of the Ombudsman, Derechos Digitales , Datalat , and the Ministry of Telecommunications (MINTEL). The event also included sessions that expanded the discussion from other angles: Jonathan Finlay of LaLibre noted that artificial intelligence is already influencing decisions without there yet being a clear understanding of its effects, while Article 19 ’s Martha Tudón directed the conversation toward surveillance, data use, and risks to rights in contexts without clear controls. From the CTS Lab at FLACSO , the RAM methodology — promoted by UNESCO — introduced another way of looking at the problem. The question was not what artificial intelligence can do, but whether the country is prepared to sustain it.


The tool evaluates laws, institutional capacities, rights protection, and levels of public understanding to identify whether the use of these technologies can expand without losing control over their effects. During the unconference (a methodology in which participants collectively define the discussion topics), that concern took shape through concrete cases. At the privacy table, participants mentioned the example of a public hospital worker who, due to the lack of institutional tools, entered sensitive medical data into artificial intelligence platforms from a personal account in order to organize their work. Currently, there are no clear guidelines regarding such use, nor effective controls over how that information is handled or protected. In education, the tension is expressed differently. Students resort to artificial intelligence tools to complete assignments, write papers, or form opinions without fully engaging with the content, weakening the development of independent judgment. At the same time, part of the teaching community fluctuates between prohibition and an approach focused on plagiarism, without clear tools to integrate these technologies into the learning process or encourage more critical use. In the area of inclusion and gender, participants discussed how systems are trained with data that excludes Indigenous, Afro-descendant, and community-based knowledge.


This not only reproduces those absences in decision-making, but also reinforces a dominant form of knowledge, centered on Western and scientific perspectives, that ends up displacing other ways of understanding and living reality. Regarding governance, the discussion revealed a fundamental problem; it has not yet been defined which aspect of artificial intelligence should be regulated: its use, development, investment, or automated decision-making. Layered onto that lack of clarity is another tension: adopting external models without considering the local context, or moving toward controls that may be excessive for an ecosystem still in formation. In that scenario, regulation risks becoming extensive, impractical, and difficult to apply in practice. Outside the discussion tables, that debate had already begun taking shape in the country’s National Assembly. Although spaces for discussion have been opened, they have not necessarily succeeded in bringing about broader participation. In 2024, the National Assembly received three bills , each with different approaches, including research, commercialization of artificial intelligence systems, incorporation of data protection, transparency, and copyright, and protection of children and adolescents from the use of these technologies.


Following the unification of the artificial intelligence bills, the debate has shown no visible progress in recent months, and in different spaces the possibility has begun to be mentioned that the proposal could be shelved, without there yet being a clear definition of its future. While the regulatory discussion remains stalled, actors with real capacity to influence the development and use of these technologies are beginning to gain ground. At the World Economic Forum in Davos, Ecuadorian president Daniel Noboa met with Alex Karp , CEO of Palantir, one of the most influential companies in large-scale data analysis worldwide. The company, which has worked with agencies such as the CIA, the FBI, and immigration systems in the United States, has built its capabilities on the integration of large volumes of information for security and intelligence purposes . Palantir’s opening of an office in Ecuador comes at a moment when the rules are still unclear, in a field where the same technology that makes it possible to optimize services can also enable forms of surveillance that are difficult to control.


On the other hand, on March 10, 2026, the Ecuadorian government presented the Strategy for the Promotion of the Development and Ethical and Responsible Use of Artificial Intelligence in Ecuador (EFIA-EC), promoted by the Ministry of Telecommunications and the Information Society with support from the IDB and UNESCO. The proposal outlines a four-year roadmap, structured around three axes: governance, capacity and technology, and adoption and development, with the explicit objective that artificial intelligence should not be a privilege for a few, but a tool at the service of citizens, the state, and productive development. In that context, not only have the results of the meeting, collected in a report built from the thematic discussion tables, begun circulating among participants, they have already been delivered to the Ministry of Telecommunications as the governing body, and to the Ombudsman’s Office, at a moment when these technologies are increasingly intersecting with debates on digital rights and the protection of human rights. Against the backdrop of strategy, pending regulation, and the growing adoption of these technologies, the country is moving through still unstable terrain, where development advances faster than the definitions of its limits.


The signal we cannot ignore: What the LONDA 2025 report reveals about Africa’s digital rights

Paradigm Initiative recently published the LONDA 2025 report , exposing the fragile state of digital rights across 29 African countries. While a few nations enacted progressive laws to protect user data, many governments intensified internet shutdowns, surveillance, and arrests to control online spaces. The comprehensive document highlights how digital democracy is expanding in some regions while facing severe authoritarian pushback in others. The annual report evaluates country compliance with international human rights standards using a score index. Researchers assess 12 key indicators, including internet shutdowns, digital inclusion, false news criminalization, data protection, and child online safety. They assign scores out of 60 to gauge how well governments protect the freedoms outlined in the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights (ACHPR) Declaration . A continent divided: Regional score shifts The LONDA 2025 report reveals stark contrasts in how different regions handle digital freedoms. By comparing 2024 and 2025 scores, researchers noted both significant legislative leaps and concerning democratic regressions across the continent.


In Southern Africa, Botswana emerged as a notable success story. The country jumped from a score of 28 in 2024 to 35 in 2025. Lawmakers implemented the Data Protection Act and the Access to Information Act , strengthening citizens’ privacy rights. Furthermore, Botswana maintained a perfect record of zero internet shutdowns. Namibia also made strides by rolling out its Universal Service Fund (USF), which provided 4G access to more than 9,000 citizens for the first time. However, neighboring Mozambique barely improved, rising from 23 to 24, as authorities approved regulations allowing telecommunications suspensions during perceived threats to public security. However, progress in one nation does not guarantee regional safety, as seen in Zambia. The country maintained a relatively stable digital landscape throughout 2025. Yet, early in 2026, the Zambian government suddenly forced a last-minute postponement of RightsCo n, the world’s largest gathering of human rights defenders in the digital age. In reality, this unexpected decision amounted to a complete cancellation of the massive event, catching organizers and attendees off guard less than a week before it was scheduled to begin.


Shutting the door on a monumental global event is a sudden and severe restriction of civic space . It directly contradicts any prior progress Zambia claimed to have made. Digital rights advocates are already questioning how far Zambia’s score will plummet in the upcoming 2026 review. This incident proves that a government can undo years of digital rights progress with a single political decision. West Africa presented a mixed bag of progress and backsliding. Senegal saw its score rise from 34 to 38. The ECOWAS Court of Justice issued a landmark ruling condemning the Senegalese state for its 2023 internet blackouts, establishing a vital legal precedent for digital rights. Consequently, the Senegalese government kept the internet on throughout 2025. Conversely, Togo’s score dropped from 29 to 28. During civic protests in June 2025 , Togolese authorities severely disrupted access to platforms such as WhatsApp, Facebook, and Telegram. Nigeria experienced a slight dip, moving from 36 to 35.


While the Nigerian Data Protection Commission actively enforced privacy laws , the cost of telecommunications services increased for the first time since 2013, and opaque content takedowns remained a persistent issue. The Gambia achieved moderate compliance, notably enacting a data protection law in November 2025, but it still lacks a functional USF after 15 years of promises. In North Africa, Egypt climbed from a score of 32 to 38. The government launched the second edition of its National Artificial Intelligence (AI) Strategy and adopted an open data policy. Despite this progress, existing laws still permit surveillance for indefinite periods without clear safeguards. Further south, Sudan dropped to an abysmal score of 20 from 21 in 2024. The ongoing conflict decimated connectivity , with authorities shutting down the internet during exams and armed groups seizing citizens’ electronic devices to inspect private communications. In East Africa, Kenya recorded internet throttling during a period of unrest in June and restricted Telegram during national exams.


Tanzania also plunged its citizens into a total digital blackout during its October elections, accompanied by over 1,700 arrests and restricting access to the social media platform X. The ongoing struggle against shutdowns and censorship At the continental level, the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights (ACHPR) is actively pushing back against digital repression. In 2024, the commission passed Resolution 580 , which explicitly urges states to keep the internet open and secure before, during, and after elections. Building on this, they passed Resolution 630 in 2025, which guides tech companies on maintaining information integrity and conducting transparent human rights impact assessments. Despite these clear directives, internet shutdowns remain a favored tool for several African governments facing political tension. The LONDA report documented deliberate network disruptions in multiple nations. In Cameroon, the government cut off electronic communication systems between October 23 and November 7. This disruption coincided directly with the delayed announcement of the 2025 presidential election results and severe political tension. When authorities do not shut down the internet entirely, they often use restrictive legislation to target dissenting voices.


Across the continent, governments weaponize penal codes and cybercrime laws to silence journalists and activists under the guise of combating false news. In Benin, the application of the Digital Code resulted in the arbitrary arrest of several newspaper editors and digital activists who criticized the administration. Similarly, Somalia security forces frequently targeted journalists, confiscating their electronic devices without formal charges. In Ghana, authorities continue to misapply the Electronic Communications Act to arrest and harass media professionals, even though the country repealed its criminal libel laws years ago. These actions directly violate international human rights law and create a chilling effect that forces citizens to self-censor. Surveillance, privacy, and the gender divide The digital landscape is becoming increasingly dangerous for vulnerable groups. Technology-facilitated gender-based violence (TFGBV) is a growing epidemic that most legal frameworks fail to address adequately. The report highlighted severe gendered disinformation campaigns in Benin, specifically aimed at keeping women out of politics. Attackers spread false narratives relying on misogyny to demean women leaders and discourage female political participation.


Surveillance technologies also pose a massive threat to privacy across Africa . In Zimbabwe, Lesotho, and Togo, citizens face targeted communications surveillance. In Togo, the government deployed a new cybersecurity center, creating a climate of fear and pushing journalists and youth to self-censor their online communications. Most nations lack the necessary judicial oversight to prevent intelligence agencies from abusing these monitoring tools. To bridge the digital divide, many countries established Universal Service Funds (USF) to finance connectivity in rural and low-income areas. While Botswana and Malawi actively used these funds to connect rural schools, many other nations manage their funds with zero transparency. The lack of robust USF implementation leaves marginalized communities, including people with disabilities, locked out of the digital economy. There is a glimmer of hope regarding child online safety. In 2025, Kenya issued industry guidelines for child online protection, Lesotho launched similar guidelines developed in 2024, and Tunisia adopted the National Charter for the Protection of Children Online. However, most countries still lack specific laws protecting children from cyberbullying, online grooming, and data profiling.


Artificial intelligence governance is also slowly taking root, with Kenya, Zimbabwe, and Zambia developing National AI strategies in 2025 to guide future technological integration. Amplifying the message through film Reports and data are vital for documentation, but changing hearts and minds requires compelling storytelling. To bring the struggles documented in these pages to life, Paradigm Initiative produced the short film “ Signal .” Extracted directly from the findings of the LONDA 2024 report, the movie sheds light on the hidden costs of exclusion for vulnerable and rural communities left on the margins of the digital world. It demonstrates that for these people, the most important messages are often the ones that struggle to get through. Every plot point in the film mirrors the exact realities citizens faced across the continent over the past two years. When digital democracy disappears, so does the power of the people. The LONDA 2025 report serves as a critical warning and a roadmap. While a few African nations are building inclusive, rights-respecting digital economies, too many others are constructing digital architectures of control.


Climate success stories: A pleasant surprise

When the Global Voices team first broached the idea of covering positive climate stories in May, I was apprehensive. I couldn’t imagine that there were enough positive environmental stories in the global majority for us to manage our target of 10 articles, let alone surpass it. Our Human Perspectives on AI spotlight in April exceeded all expectations, both in the number of pieces we got and the response to them, so I was even more worried. But then the pitches began to come in, and stories began to be written. Every day, I saw our tracking spreadsheet grow: communities fighting to save and restore rivers, people coming up with amazing solutions to counter specific effects, a focus on the importance of seeds and food production. Kenya , the Dominican Republic , Nepal , Mozambique , Tuvalu , Yemen , Brazil — people are fighting the good fight all over the world. Positive change is happening The story that really brought home the importance of this coverage for me was this one about the partial restoration of the Aral Sea in Central Asia.


I was in my early thirties when I first found out about the ecological devastation of the Aral Sea, and I was in shock for a few months, often telling people, “But did you know it’s GONE? We used to draw it on maps, and it’s GONE!?” So reading that it is being successfully revived was truly a moment of wonder. In a year (no, decade) of seemingly endless bad news, it felt like a gift to read about this. And it happened in a region so ignored by the news in general, with action from the state and help from a favoured villain in mainstream English news: China. That right there is the core importance of telling these stories from the global majority, for the global majority — something we hold very dear at Global Voices. The modern world, while magically connecting us, manages to isolate us. It makes sense that we are so tied to the internet and social media, because it allows us to see and hear things we simply could not offline (like Global Voices stories).


You could not read a print newspaper from Cameroon in Dhaka, but you can read it online. Yet the internet also somehow manages to isolate us in our bubbles by presenting us exclusively with what it thinks we want, and we so rarely see the communities fighting the same battles as we are in the global majority unless we actively seek them out. This is why Global Voices has committed to prioritising collaborative stories, and this one on successful conservation efforts around the world really reminded me of the many ways we are all still fighting (and winning) the fight. And it’s important to recognise that progress is being made. People are not in fact trapped on a road to inevitable doom, even — especially — in the chronically under-resourced and usually dismissed global majority. Because, as our Climate Justice Editor Sydney Allen put it in her May editorial , “It is important to share replicable, scalable examples of successful climate action because that’s the only way these strategies can be employed in other communities that need them.”


It’s an obvious thing to say, but this spotlight really brought home how important it is to come together as communities to fight our battles and hope to win them. From the Indigenous women in Bolivia organising to fight wildfires and the Indigenous Torwali people of Pakistan trying to save the Swat River , to the Filipinos filing a landmark suit against an oil company and Kenyans reclaiming their land , when people come together, they create movements much more powerful than the sum of their parts. It’s not just the people — sometimes it’s the state Another aspect that this coverage brought to my attention was that governments are not, in fact, entirely ignoring the problems of the climate crisis. Governments all across Central Asia are responding to the annual air pollution crisis (we’re still waiting for this to happen in India, where every year turns the north into a smog-filled hellscape), covered in a story from our excellent partners over at Vlast.kz . That progress in Kazakhstan is driven by the government, as are many of the steps being taken in Barbados to reshape the fishing industry , including passing legislation, implementing recovery plans, and collecting data.


The Pacific island nation of Tuvalu, which is facing the very real possibility of losing all its land to rising ocean levels, has begun to build the framework to become a “ digital nation ” — some might call this a gimmick, but it is perhaps the only way to preserve a national identity in the face of the inadequate response to this global crisis. Women front and centre It also stood out to me how many women’s groups, communities, and collectives are involved in this restorative work. Broadly speaking, women suffer the most from the ill effects of climate change. Women also tend to be entrusted with caring for and fostering community, since it is a kind of emotional, interpersonal and domestic labour. It is no surprise that women end up fighting on the frontlines of this work. In fact, French feminist and ecologist Françoise d’Eaubonne “argued that the oppression of women and the exploitation of nature stemmed from a system deeply rooted in patriarchal values.”