Indonesia and the politics of platform governance

Indonesia’s Minister of Communication and Digital Affairs, Meutya Hafid, along with several officials from government agencies, conducted an inspection of the technology company Meta’s office in South Jakarta in early March. The inspection aimed to compel the company to comply with Indonesian law. Meutya said: Sore ini kita melakukan giat sidak di kantor Meta. Ini adalah tindak lanjut Pasal 40 Undang-Undang ITE yang menyatakan pemerintah bertugas melindungi keselamatan dan kepentingan umum dari berbagai gangguan akibat misinformasi dan disinformasi. This afternoon, we conducted an inspection at Meta’s office. This is a follow-up to Article 40 of the Electronic Information and Transactions Law (UU ITE), which states that the government has the duty to protect public safety and the public interest from disruptions caused by misinformation and disinformation. She explained that the inspection was conducted because Meta was considered not fully compliant with regulations in Indonesia, particularly regarding the spread of disinformation. During the inspection, the minister also asked Meta to be transparent about its algorithms and content moderation practices.


The inspection reflects the Indonesian government’s latest attempt to assert greater control over global digital platforms. Yet experiences in many countries show that the relationship between governments and digital platforms is never entirely one-directional. In Southeast Asia, efforts by states to “tame” platforms often turn into negotiations of power between governments, global technology companies, and broader geopolitical pressures. In Indonesia, debates around disinformation and content moderation rarely move beyond ambiguous phrases such as “ attacking honor ,” “ violating propriety ,” or “ disturbing the public .” But whose honor is being attacked? What social values are being violated? And what kind of content is considered disturbing to the public? Is content criticizing the rape cases during the May 1998 riots , or criticism of nickel mining in Raja Ampat, considered “disturbing the public”? In June 2025, several public accounts on platform X received official notifications stating that their posts were “violating the law” according to the Indonesian government. These posts contained criticism of the government.


Watchdogs argue that the government, through the Ministry of Communication and Digital Affairs (Komdigi), requested that X take down critical posts from accounts such as @neohistoria_id and @perupadata. “Regulating platforms is not a problem, but the rules must be clear. Harmful content for whom?” said Masgustian from the Center for Digital Society (CFDS) at Universitas Gadjah Mada. He argues that platforms are generally willing to cooperate with governments on content moderation. However, the main issue lies in the lack of clarity in regulatory definitions. In ongoing research conducted by CFDS, discussions with government representatives show that even within government institutions, there are different definitions of terms such as “terrorism” or “harmful content.” For example, there is still no shared understanding between the definitions used by Komdigi and the National Cyber and Crypto Agency (BSSN). According to Masgustian, this lack of clarity may create new problems in the implementation of content moderation. Government efforts to regulate platforms Government efforts to regulate platforms have intensified since technology companies were required to register as Electronic System Operators (PSE) in 2020.


PSEs that fail to register may face administrative sanctions ranging from warnings and fines to access blocking by internet service providers (ISPs). According to the government , the policy aims to prevent the spread of harmful content and ensure personal data protection. Within this regulatory framework, the government has greater room to influence platform policies. For example, TikTok temporarily suspended its “ live ” feature during a national demonstration in September 2025. TikTok stated that the suspension was voluntary after being summoned by Komdigi, while the government denied issuing any direct order. Komdigi also operates a system called SAMAN . This system allows the ministry to compel social media platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, X, TikTok, and YouTube to remove content within 4–24 hours based on government orders. If platforms fail to comply, they may be issued fines of up to Indonesian Rupiah 500 million (over USD 29,000) per piece of content, or be blocked altogether.


According to Alia Yofira, a researcher at Purplecode who focuses on technology and human rights, platforms must not only comply with takedown requests but also fulfill mandatory registration requirements. If they fail to comply, they risk being blocked. “The consequence was faced by Wikimedia , their system was blocked because they refused to register,” Alia explained in an interview with Global Voices. “Blocking websites, however, can also be considered a human rights violation because it disrupts public access to information and administrative services.” Alia further explained that the concern is not only about website blocking but also about access to personal data. She described how Komdigi held private meetings with digital platforms following large-scale demonstrations in August 2025 . After those meetings, platforms disabled the “live” feature, particularly on TikTok and Instagram , although Instagram limited the restriction to users with fewer followers. “During protests, demonstrators not only documented police brutality, but also shared information about routes in and out of protest locations, closed roads, and access to first aid,” Alia said.


“But at that time, Komdigi instead asked platforms to provide data on users who were livestreaming if those users monetized their livestreams.” According to Alia, this suggests that the government’s intervention is not only about regulating disturbing content but may also limit public access to information. From media control to platform governance Government attempts to regulate digital platforms are not entirely new. As people increasingly access information through social media platforms, the state appears to be shifting its mechanisms of control toward these platforms. Previously, such control was directed primarily at traditional media. This had been the case since before the Reformasi period (1998), when the media in Indonesia was tightly regulated and controlled by the state, reflecting an authoritarian media system rather than a free public sphere. Under the Suharto regime , press freedom was constrained through political licensing, bureaucratic oversight, and administrative pressure that limited journalistic autonomy and critical reporting. Scholars note that media licensing and permit systems restricted dissent and empowered the state to sanction outlets that challenged official narratives.


Regulatory bodies such as the Press Council operated under the Department of Information, reinforcing government influence rather than protecting autonomy. However, the dynamics of government control over the media changed over time, particularly as media ownership became increasingly dominated by conglomerates whose political interests shaped media coverage. Work by researcher Merlyna Lim maps the relationship between media and politics after Reformasi. Her report , The League of Thirteen, documents how a relatively small number of conglomerates, thirteen key media groups, dominate the media landscape across television, print, radio, and online outlets. within Indonesia. Her work shows how this concentration extends economic and political power into the hands of a few powerbrokers. Media power became particularly visible during the 2014 presidential election. Tapsell describes these media owners as part of a “ media oligarchy ” that embedded their influence during electoral cycles. For example, Metro TV, owned by Surya Paloh, chairman of the NasDem Party, gave extensive and favorable coverage to then-presidential candidate Joko Widodo (Jokowi, President 2014–2024) during the 2014 presidential election. The station was widely perceived as supportive of Jokowi.


Meanwhile, TVOne, owned by Aburizal Bakrie, former chairman of the Golkar Party, was more sympathetic to Prabowo during the same contest. Government-platform relations in Southeast Asia Similar tensions between governments and digital platforms can also be observed across Southeast Asia, a region characterized by fragile electoral democracies, hybrid regimes, and long histories of state repression, violence, and impunity. In this context, the relationship between governments and digital platforms is not always one-directional. Two cases that illustrate these dynamics are Cambodia and Myanmar. In Cambodia in 2023, Prime Minister Hun Sen had a dispute with Meta. The case began when Hun Sen livestreamed on Facebook for more than an hour. During the speech, he threatened political opponents and said they could choose between “the legal system or a baton.” He also mentioned the possibility of sending “gangsters” to the homes of political opponents. The video was reported by many users because it contained threats of violence and intimidation ahead of the election. Initially, Meta did not remove the video because it was considered newsworthy .


However, the decision drew criticism from human rights activists and democracy researchers. The case was later reviewed by the Meta Oversight Board, an independent body that evaluates the company’s moderation decisions. In June 2023, the board ruled that the video violated Meta’s violence policies and recommended that Meta remove the video and suspend Hun Sen’s account for six months. The Cambodian government reacted strongly. Hun Sen deleted his Facebook account and moved to Telegram and TikTok. The government also banned Oversight Board members from entering Cambodia and accused Meta of interfering in domestic affairs. In the end, Meta removed the video but did not suspend Hun Sen’s account as recommended by the Oversight Board. Many analysts believe Meta sought to avoid escalating conflict with the Cambodian government. Facebook remains highly dominant in the country, while the government also retains the ability to restrict access to the platform. In such circumstances, both sides ultimately depend on one another. A different dynamic can be seen in the violence against the Rohingya in Myanmar, often considered one of the largest moderation failures in Meta’s history.


According to a 2018 report by the United Nations Independent International Fact-Finding Mission on Myanmar, the Myanmar military and nationalist groups used Facebook to spread anti-Rohingya propaganda, misinformation about Muslims, and hate speech that incited violence. The report concluded that Facebook played a “significant role” in spreading hatred in Myanmar. One of the main issues was the lack of Burmese-language moderation, combined with algorithms that tend to promote emotionally provocative content. Following international criticism, Meta acknowledged that it had responded too slowly. In 2021, Rohingya communities filed lawsuits against Meta in the United States and the United Kingdom seeking damages of up to USD 150 billion . The lawsuits argue that Facebook’s algorithms amplified hate speech that contributed to violence against the Rohingya. However, these cases face major legal barriers under U.S. law, particularly Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, which provides internet platforms with legal immunity for content posted by users. To date, no court has ordered Meta to pay any damages for its moderation failures.


Nevertheless, legal pressure, reputational risks, and regulatory scrutiny pushed Meta to introduce reforms, including hiring more local-language moderators, dismantling Myanmar military propaganda networks, and banning Myanmar military accounts from Facebook and Instagram. These cases show that platform decisions are often shaped by three main pressures: legal risk, regulatory risk, and reputational risk. For platforms, the decision to comply with local regulations is often determined by the balance of costs and benefits. Can the Indonesian government truly tame digital platforms? Answering this question involves more than examining domestic policy tools such as those historically used to control media before Reformasi. Unlike traditional media, which operate within national jurisdictions, digital platforms are global infrastructures that operate across borders. As a result, attempts by governments to regulate or “tame” platforms are rarely purely coercive. Instead, they often become negotiations between state authority, the interests of global technology companies, and broader geopolitical dynamics within global internet governance. The relationship between governments and digital platforms is therefore never simple. Governments can introduce regulations, summon platforms, or even threaten to block access. Yet digital platforms also possess enormous power through the technologies, algorithms, and global information infrastructure they control.


When dry season never ends

Water scarcity is not typically what comes to mind when picturing a tropical, coastal country such as Costa Rica. Yet Guanacaste, the country’s northwestern province named after the national tree, is its driest region. Adored for its black-sand beaches and arid tropical landscapes, the region could easily be mistaken for part of the Canary Islands. Costa Rica’s environmental record provides significant grounds for celebration. More than 25 percent of its territory is protected through national parks and reserves, and it has set ambitious goals to achieve 100 percent renewable electricity , supported by a long-standing public energy model. A closer inspection, however, tells a different story. Guanacaste is a tropical dry forest region where temperatures can reach up to 35 degrees Celsius during the dry season, which generally lasts from December to April. In the past, much of the region was converted into pastures for cattle ranching, leading to widespread deforestation through clearing and the use of fire to maintain grazing land.


As a result, tropical dry forests have become one of the most threatened ecosystems in the tropics. Historical marginalisation has also meant relatively limited state presence and weaker planning institutions in the region, which can make environmental regulations and zoning restrictions difficult to enforce. While forest cover has been repaired in recent decades, new pressures are always on the horizon. Real estate investors and foreign buyers now seek coastal land for speculation and second homes. Since the COVID-19 pandemic (also before, but especially since), the region has become popular with the digital nomad community, and what I ambivalently call lifestyle migrants . These are fairly well-to-do folks from wealthy countries (mostly North America) who either live full-time in the region or have a second home and spend at least part of the year in the sun. Along Guanacaste’s coastline, and in towns like Tamarindo and Nosara, up to 60 percent of houses are unoccupied for six months of the year or more; a vacancy rate born of a real estate boom that positions the region as one of the fastest-growing sites of speculation.


Beyond making housing less accessible for local residents (what developers might call “opportunity”) this has a pernicious impact on both the environment and the local economy. At the same time, the region’s historical remoteness now enhances its appeal to developers and lifestyle migrants. “Remote” beach houses, “secluded” villas, or ocean-view apartments are attractive for the exclusivity of retreat they provide, allowing residents to live apart from the pressures and routines of their home countries, even as they participate in global flows of wealth and consumption. Economically and socially detached from surrounding communities, enclave-style tourism developments take the form of gated neighbourhoods, luxury resorts, and vacation homes that operate as self-contained spaces. In Guanacaste, hillside villas and ocean-view homes embody this model. Their spatial design offers little opportunity for interaction with the local population, as many of these homes are built on hills or along the coast, away from the villages where people have traditionally lived.


While these developments create some service-sector jobs, such as gardeners, cleaners, security guards, and waitstaff, much of the profit generated by these properties ultimately flows abroad . These unequal global social relations are most obvious in the disparity of wealth between well-off foreigners living in Guanacaste and the Nicaraguan migrants whose essential labor underpins the construction and service sectors. A crisis b eneath the surface Policies aimed at attracting the ultra-wealthy and foreign investment have fueled rapid and often unregulated residential development. Although the province is geographically large, this growth has been concentrated along the coastal strip. Together, these pressures have turned access to water into the region’s most pressing environmental issue. Luxury housing developments not only change the landscape and local economy, they also strain the water system. Guanacaste has always been a dry tropical region, shaped by long droughts and seasonal variation, but climate change is intensifying these conditions , placing even greater pressure on the already dry ecosystem. These pressures have not been matched by effective water governance.


For years, public institutions have lacked reliable data on how much water coastal aquifers in Guanacaste can sustainably provide, even as thousands of wells extract unknown quantities beneath the surface. Research shows that several aquifers along the Pacific coast are already overused or contaminated by seawater , particularly in areas of intense tourism and residential development. Real estate speculation has also put coastal communities’ access to drinking water at risk. In some cases, it has enabled dubious land concessions in public coastal areas such as the Maritime Terrestrial Zone , a legally protected strip of land intended for public use, and contributed to the destruction of mangrove ecosystems to make way for large-scale developments. While large hotels and high-end housing projects often secure continued access to water, local communities increasingly face shortages and restrictions. Since 2020, Costa Rica’s constitution has formally recognised access to drinking water as a fundamental human right, yet in places like Guanacaste, communities say the rapid expansion of tourism and real estate development is testing how that right is applied in practice.


An investigation into water quality in Guanacaste’s aqueducts , published in March 2026, highlights how underinvestment in water systems has contributed to declining water quality in the region. According to the regulator of public services, ARESEP, dozens of aqueducts show signs of contamination , including faecal coliforms, often linked to ageing infrastructure and the limited technical and financial capacity of local water operators. In this context of strained infrastructure and uneven investment, water has increasingly become a strategic resource tied to tourism and real estate interests. In some communities, control over water infrastructure has shifted away from residents toward private actors, deepening fears of dispossession. The line between public provision and private control has been further blurred by the government’s reliance on private financing for water systems, reinforcing the influence of developers over local resources and fueling mistrust over who ultimately governs access to water. As it turns out, developers are not such good neighbours. Since the early 2000s, the expansion of tourism and residential development has repeatedly sparked conflicts between communities, investors, and state authorities over access to water.


Across Guanacaste, similar conflicts have emerged wherever tourism and residential development have expanded fastest. In the rural community of Sardinal, plans to divert water from an inland aquifer to supply coastal hotels and housing triggered protests after residents learned the project had advanced without their knowledge. In Potrero, a traditionally fishing-based coastal community that has become a popular tourist destination, pressure from developers and state authorities threatened the autonomy of a long-standing community-run aqueduct , raising fears that local water would be redirected toward luxury projects. In the case of the Nimboyores aquifer in Santa Cruz, government plans to exploit it (framed as a response to regional water scarcity) sparked years of community resistance , as residents argued that the real issue lay not in local shortages but in the growing demand from tourism and real estate development. More recently, the coastal community of Marbella has become another boiling point in the water wars. Real estate interests took control of the rural aqueduct while illegal wells were drilled inside residential complexes to supply second homes.


Authorities have identified large numbers of unauthorised wells in the area, intensifying concerns over aquifer depletion and salinisation. Despite judicial rulings and media investigations highlighting irregular land use and water extraction, construction has continued, and community members who oppose the projects report intimidation. In response, local residents have organised to defend their right to water against what they describe as an extractive development model that prioritises luxury housing over basic access. The pressures Guanacaste faces are not unique. A report published ahead of the 2026 UN Water Conference, Global Water Bankruptcy: Living Beyond Our Hydrological Means in the Post-Crisis Era , warns that aquifers worldwide are approaching a breaking point after decades of intensive extraction, combined with pollution and rising demand from expanding agriculture and growing cities in a warming climate. In an era marked by intense transnational mobility, the uneven distribution of rights and experiences in host communities reflects underlying dynamics of power and privilege that demand further scrutiny.


Do social security allowances empower or disempower endangered Indigenous groups in Nepal?

In Nepal, investing in social protection appears to be driven more by political will than by the country’s economic capacity. Article 43 of Nepal’s Constitution (2015) guarantees the right to social protection, including social protection allowances for senior citizens, economically disadvantaged groups, Dalits , people with disabilities, children, single women, and members of endangered castes, in accordance with the government of Nepal’s fiscal programs. Social security programs act as effective tools for enhancing human capacity and productive employment opportunities, particularly for individuals, communities, and Indigenous tribes at the bottom of the social and economic pyramid. However, an estimated 20.1 million people in Nepal remain without any form of social protection . There is an ongoing debate over whether the government should prioritize creating job opportunities and empowering low-resource communities or provide direct cash allowances to address this issue. The discourse around social security allowance can be broken down into two camps: one that sees them as supportive, and another that suggests they may unintentionally contribute to the further disempowerment of community members at the lower end of the social hierarchy.


The following interviews explore the positive implications of social security allowances for some of Nepal’s most vulnerable communities. Addressing existing challenges, strengthening local governance capacity, and ensuring inclusive program design are likely to contribute to genuine empowerment within these communities. Nepal’s social security landscape Nepal is a signatory to several international-level conventions and treaties, which obligate officials to implement social protection measures for its citizens. This includes ILO Convention No. 169 and Article 22 of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) . The International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) (UN 1966) recognizes social security as a universal human right. Similarly, the 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development (UN 2015) mentions social protection as a key means to eliminating extreme poverty and reducing multi-dimensional poverty, which are included in the UN’s 17 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). There are more than 85 social security programs in Nepal that provide some form of allowance to around 3,800,000 people. This represents approximately 13 percent of Nepal’s total population.


The Nepal government has committed to providing financial support to 10 endangered Indigenous communities, each with a population below 10,000 people. The officially recognized endangered Indigenous groups are the Bankariya, Hayu, Kisan, Kusbadhiya, Kusunda, Lepcha, Meche, Raji, Raute , and Surel. To better understand the implications of the social security system for endangered Indigenous communities in Nepal, Global Voices interviewed Santoshi Bankariya , a member of the Bankariya community via phone. She emphasized the importance of the Endangered Community Social Security Allowance, explaining how the funds allow her family to access basic education, healthcare, and other essential needs. She noted that although public education is officially free, families still face indirect costs such as school bags, uniforms, stationery, and basic utility expenses. According to her, every individual belonging to the Bankariya community is entitled to a monthly allowance of NPR 4,000 (USD 27), provided through the Ministry of Federal Affairs and General Administration. A study conducted on the Raji community in Chaukune Rural Municipality of Surkhet District highlighted raised economic and social resilience linked to social security allowances.


Community members reported using the support to start small businesses, cooperative savings programs, and cultural preservation initiatives. However, experts argue that social security allowances must be complemented by more comprehensive development programs, such as focused educational initiatives, improved healthcare services, and livelihood diversification. Achieving long-term socioeconomic progress for the Raji community will likely depend on addressing these structural challenges through inclusive and sustained policy measures. Regular cash transfers, without parallel livelihood investment, may create a risk of dependency. For example, OnlineKhabar has highlighted that some members of the Raute community are increasingly relying on government allowances rather than on traditional forest-based livelihoods. This shift weakens self-reliance and contributes to the erosion of traditional skills. In addition, field reports have shown that in some endangered communities, allowance money has contributed to increased alcohol consumption and related social challenges. Such trends point to the pressures faced by nomadic groups that are increasingly dependent on government support for survival. There is currently no comprehensive official data on the number of Indigenous Peoples enrolled in social protection programs.


Indigenous communities continue to face multiple barriers in accessing social security allowances, both in terms of coverage and adequacy. These barriers are not merely technical; they are rooted in historical injustices, structural discrimination, geographic isolation , lack of citizenship documentation among some people, exclusion from formal labor markets, gaps in reliable data, and program designs that often fail to reflect Indigenous realities. Gaps and challenges in social protection systems Nepal’s social protection landscape is characterized by a multitude of fragmented programs that do not operate cohesively. Although there are various initiatives aimed at poverty reduction, these programs often fail to meet their targeted goals. The problems are rooted in socio-economic disparities , political dynamics, and institutional weaknesses. In addition, many Indigenous people remain unaware of their entitlements under social protection schemes due to insufficient information dissemination. Political instability further disrupts the continuity of programs designed to support vulnerable communities. For instance, during my trip to vote in the national elections in Nepal , I heard villagers discussing their support for candidates from the Communist Party of Nepal (Unified Marxist–Leninist) .


Some speakers suggested that social protection benefits were primarily the result of their party’s initiatives. As a result, several villagers appeared to associate old-age allowances with the leadership of former Prime Minister Khadga Prasad Sharma Oli , noting that such benefits were frequently highlighted in his past and current election campaigns. This shows that social protection can become entangled in political narratives and become weaponized as a political tool. The situation is further complicated by a highly politicized bureaucratic environment , where political patronage may influence the allocation of resources and positions, ultimately weakening effective governance and public accountability. A way forward Social Security programs have been proven to enhance social equity and justice . Activists argue that the federal government should also be involved in the management of the distribution of this allowance , as this involves a large number of beneficiaries and the scale of budget allocations across cash-based social assistance programs. Targeted orientation programs for Indigenous groups and communities could help promote the effective and responsible use of social security allowances, enabling households to invest in ways that support long-term wellbeing.


Such initiatives may also strengthen their ability to exercise the right to self-determination, as recognized in international instruments such as Article 3 of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and Article 7 of ILO Convention No. 169 . This approach could create a meaningful opportunity to integrate Indigenous Peoples’ knowledge, priorities, and lived experiences into the design and implementation of social security programs. In doing so, it may help strengthen collective ways of life, sustain traditional knowledge systems, and support Indigenous food practices. Additionally, experts urge the Government of Nepal to continue to promote electronic payment systems for social security allowances, while also ensuring that these systems are accessible to all beneficiaries and safeguarded against duplication and misuse . Hence, there is a clear need for a balanced and empowering approach — for instance, l inking allowance with livelihood programs, such as Indigenous enterprise development , which would revitalize the traditional skills of the community. From a policy perspective, it may also be worth considering longer-term support measures, including access to land, secure housing, residential education opportunities, and fair representation in government, as complementary strategies to direct cash assistance rather than relying on cash transfers alone.


Language documentation needs community rights, consent, and recognition: Interview with Van Gujjari writer Taukeer Alam

As the majority of the world’s languages are spoken, their speakers’ knowledge is also oral. Yet, Wikipedia and most publications require written citations. The OpenSpeaks Archives , a digital language archive started in 2024, helps Wikimedians cite Indigenous oral knowledge. This project’s technical and educational infrastructure helps community-based language archivists document, transcribe, and archive their languages. It now hosts nearly 20 languages from India, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. This interview series captures the stories of some of the OpenSpeaks Archives collaborators. Subhashish Panigrahi, on behalf of Rising Voices, interviewed Taukeer Alam , an Indian conservationist and a speaker of the Van Gujjari language , via voice call. Van Gujjari is a vulnerable indigenous language spoken by the Van Gujjar , a nomadic Muslim community living mostly in the northern Indian state of Uttarakhand. The following video interview with Taukeer Alam by Subhashish Panigrahi was conducted for the documentary “ MarginalizedAadhaar ” on OpenSpeaks Archives. It is available under the Creative Commons license BY-SA 4.0 .


Rising Voices (RV): How do you see books, audio, and video for documenting your language? Taukeer Alam (TA) : Audio and video are the best mediums for documenting Van Gujjari for capturing our emotions through voice, expressions, and body language. These are very hard to capture in a book. There is another difficulty with books, especially for Indigenous languages with their own sound patterns and ways of speaking. We cannot write them fully as is: the exact way a word is pronounced, or how the sounds are released. A word in Hindi, Van Gujjari or Punjabi might be spelled the same way, but the tone, the feeling, and the rhythm can be completely different. Audio and video show these differences clearly and feel more “pure”. In a book, any reader from any region will read the word in their own way, with their own intonation. They will not understand how that particular word is spoken in our community, how high or low the tone goes, what expression accompanies it, or what emotional weight it carries.


A book is simply not as ‘alive’ as audio and video, which capture many layers of meaning beyond the words. Rising Voices (RV): For different generations in your community, what works better: books or audio/video? TA : Before many first generation learners in college like myself, there was no literacy in our community. Literacy did not exist for long as our people were restricted to migrate freely, they were relocated, or nomadic tribes were settled in new places. In such situation, written materials does not do very much — audio and video work better for all age groups as people cannot read. With literacy increasing among children, written material is beginning to matter. If the small stories, short narratives, or interview excerpts we collect from the community are turned into books, and used to educate children, it will become very valuable. It will help children's contextual understanding if the knowledge comes from their own roots. It connects their education to their lived reality. For older people, audio and video always work better, because they are not going to learn reading at this stage of life.


If I convert my interview with a 60 or 70 year old into a book and give it to a 40 year old who cannot read, the book is of no use to them. For them, it will only work in interview form, whether audio or video. So different forms are needed for different generations, but in my community, that is how I see it at the moment. RV: What do you recommend for documented material accessibility? TA : First of all, knowledge and information should be accessible, whatever form it is in. We have to identify which mediums the community already uses and then make the material available there. If they use YouTube a lot, then interviews should be available on YouTube. If they are more inclined towards reading books, then the same content should be accessible through books. Secondly, we need share the documentation with the community as quickly as possible. The sooner we go to the community, record, transcribe, translate, and share the material back, the more likely we are to preserve the quality of the knowledge.


For example, I transcribed some folk songs recently. When I tried to translate them, I realized that for some songs, we no longer know the real meaning. People are still singing them, but those who truly understood the meaning have already passed away. Now others are singing just by hearing them, without knowing the literal meaning, the emotions behind the song, why it was sung, or in what situations it was created or performed. The full knowledge behind the song is gone. So two things are vital: the material should be accessible in the language and format people use. Documentation of endangered languages should happen as early as possible. The longer we wait, the more the quality of knowledge reduces and vanishes. RV: How should a language like Van Gujjari be documented, and community documentation capacity be built? TA : Language documentation must be participatory, involving the community’s youth who represent the community’s future. They must be kept in the loop and showed the process, the methodology, what to pay attention to, and how we frame questions.


If they learn this, they can later carry on the work themselves. Secondly, the material must be accessible to the community. If it is documented but remains far away from them, then its benefit is limited. They should be able to see, hear, and use it. Third and last, we should use reasonably good-quality equipment. If we are interviewing a 70 or 80 year old, we do not know if we will ever again meet a person that old with that knowledge. The data we capture from them is very precious; it should be of good quality so that it lasts and remains useful. RV: Do you worry about community data misuse or exploitation through AI? TA : Yes, I do. I worry what will happen while publishing community knowledge, which is very deep. Before sharing it anywhere, we have to think carefully. We may document and record it with good intentions, but what happens to it later? How much right will the community retain over it? Medicinal knowledge, rituals, and other practices that are considered private or are seen as the community’s collective asset.


People have lived with them, evolved them, and learned from them over thousands of years. That fear of such unique and sensitive knowledge being marketed or abused persists. Ideally, before making such knowledge public, some kind of protection should be in place, clearly recognizing it as community knowledge. The publication should acknowledge the community’s rights, and proper consent and recognition should be needed before the content enters another domain. Then anyone using it would have to say, ‘This comes from the Van Gujjar community,’ and respect that. Even if someone does not acknowledge it, we could still claim later that we documented and published it in, say, 2024. So it is ours and we have rights over it. Others should use it only according to the permissions given by the community. So I have no objection to documentation itself; the main questions are how and where the material is stored, and how much control and rights the community retains over it. The interview with Alam resulted in “ Maari Jaban Maari Birsa ” (meaning, our language, our culture), a language documentation project at OpenSpeaks Archives in 2024.


Research reveals that EU AI rules stop at its borders with little accountability for human rights impacts abroad

The European Union (EU) presents itself as the world’s most ambitious regulator of artificial intelligence (AI). With the AI Act , the Digital Services Act , the Corporate Sustainability Due Diligence Directive (CSDDD) or the Dual-Use Regulation , Brussels has built an elaborate architecture of rules designed to ensure that technology serves human rights. What that architecture does not do is follow the technology when it crosses a border. Our research at 7amleh, the Arab Center for the Advancement of Social Media, traces what happens when it does. A system, not isolated failures What we found is not a series of isolated procurement mistakes or funding oversights. It is a pattern. A structured, largely opaque system through which European money flows into high-risk AI and surveillance technologies, which then reach governments and militaries in the West Asia and North Africa (WANA) region, including Israel, with no binding obligation to assess what those technologies will be used for, against whom, and at what human cost.


The mechanism has three main channels. The first runs through migration control. Under the EU’s main instrument for third-country cooperation, 10 percent of the financial envelope is earmarked for migration governance. In 2023 and 2024, the EU signed agreements with Egypt, Morocco, Tunisia, and Lebanon, conditioning aid on those governments’ cooperation in controlling irregular migration. What followed was the transfer of biometric identification systems, traveller screening tools, smart border gates, and maritime surveillance infrastructure. The funding is rarely direct. It is routed through member states and implementing organisations, creating layers of institutional distance that make accountability structurally difficult to establish. People in transit face detention, violence, and pushback before they can make asylum claims. The infrastructure that the EU helps build does not protect them. In many documented cases, it places them in greater danger. The second channel runs through research and innovation funding. Horizon Europe has awarded grants to Israeli companies whose technologies have been documented to have military applications. The European Defence Fund has channelled significant resources to companies with direct ownership links to Israeli weapons manufacturers.


The European Investment Fund has invested, through fund-of-funds (FoF) structures, in Israeli surveillance and spyware companies. Horizon Europe funded Xtend , which was subsequently contracted by the Israeli Ministry of Defence to supply thousands of assault drones. The European Defence Fund channeled over 15 million euros to Intracom Defense, a company 94.5 percent owned by Israel Aerospace Industries (IAI) . The European Investment Fund committed 21.2 million euros to a fund that invested in Paragon Solutions , an Israeli spyware company whose tools have been used against journalists, activists, and human rights defenders across the region. Direct exports, minimal safeguards The third channel is the most straightforward: direct commercial exports. European companies sell facial recognition systems, biometric tools, drone components, and smart city technologies to governments across WANA with no binding obligation to conduct human rights due diligence before or after the sale. On paper, many of these technologies are described as civilian. In practice, the line between civilian and military use is almost always blurred, particularly in authoritarian contexts and active conflict zones.


A facial recognition system described as an urban management solution functions as an instrument of mass surveillance in the hands of a government with no judicial oversight. A targeting system described as AI-assisted intelligence becomes something else entirely when it generates lists with documented inaccuracies and minimal human oversight in the decision chain. In Gaza , that something else has a name. High-risk AI targeting systems have been deployed in conditions that violate core principles of international humanitarian law. Approximately 67,000 deaths have been officially reported, the majority civilians. A study published in The Lancet found that life expectancy in Gaza was halved within the first year of the war. The International Court of Justice has found that Israel’s conduct involves plausible acts of genocide . And yet, in 2020, Frontex awarded 100 million euros in contracts to two Israeli companies, IAI and Elbit Systems, to operate surveillance drones over the Mediterranean. Both platforms have been actively deployed by the Israeli military in Gaza.


Europe accounted for 45 percent of Israeli arms exports in 2024, a nearly 20 percent increase from 2023, coinciding with the escalation. Political inertia despite mounting evidence In September 2025, the European Commission itself acknowledged , in response to a parliamentary question, that it had come to the conclusion that Israel is violating human rights and humanitarian law. A proposal to partially suspend Israeli entities from Horizon Europe was put forward in July 2025. As of today, it has still not been approved by the Council. Some member state governments continue to block it. This is not a knowledge problem. The evidence is not in dispute. It is a political problem, one of institutional inertia, economic interest, and the absence of binding mechanisms that would force a different outcome. The path forward is not complicated to describe, even if it is politically difficult to achieve. The AI Act must be extended to cover exports: systems that are prohibited or classified as high-risk within the EU can currently be sold freely to third countries, a fundamental gap that the regulation does not address.


Binding human rights due diligence must apply to all exports of AI and dual-use technologies, regardless of company size. The CSDDD was significantly weakened in November 2025 when the European Parliament raised the employee threshold to 5,000, exempting the vast majority of European technology companies. Migration agreements must be subject to independent, public human rights impact assessments before signature, not after. Moreover, the European Union must urgently reassess Israel’s participation in Horizon Europe, including the eligibility of Israel’s entities as beneficiaries, in light of their human rights conduct and in line with the EU’s own position, values, and legal obligations. The fundamental challenge is visibility. These funding flows, procurement decisions, and technology transfers operate largely out of public view. The further the distance between a decision made in Brussels and its consequences on the ground, the easier it is to avoid accountability. That distance is not accidental. It is a design feature. Closing it, making the connections readable, specific, and public, is what accountability requires. It is also, for the communities living under the infrastructure Europe helps build, what survival sometimes depends on.


India’s race to adopt AI sparks a deeper question: How can technology respect human rights?

India’s current AI governance framework encompasses soft guidelines, an unenacted ethics bill, and data protection rules. And together, they create a system where AI can be deployed first and questioned later, because the framework emphasises responsible AI but imposes no obligation of transparency or pre-deployment impact assessments. The rise of AI-enabled monitoring, such as facial recognition systems at railway stations and predictive policing technologies used by police across different cities, has continued largely without sufficient legal protections, raising concerns about human rights, privacy, dignity, and civil liberties. “Responsible AI” without accountability is merely an aspiration. Although the framework talks about a people-first approach, human rights must be the starting point of AI governance, not a consideration to be layered on afterwards. In February, India organised a five-day-long India AI Impact Summit 2026 in New Delhi, which brought together global leaders , Big Tech platforms, civil society actors and policymakers to explore the future of AI governance and cooperation.


The event underlined AI technology’s expanding economic and geopolitical significance as it continues to transform global economies . The summit focused on inclusive growth, ethical deployment, and AI use across sectors such as healthcare, agriculture, and education. In a statement published on February 20, Human Rights organisation Amnesty International contrasted the claims of the AI Impact Summit with how AI is being used in India. Amnesty International stressed that technologies like AI-automation and facial recognition are restricting civic space, aiding state surveillance, and disproportionately affecting the poor and the marginalised. The event itself was effectively used as a live demo of India’s expanding AI‑driven surveillance grid in Delhi. Supposedly to maintain security of the summit location, Delhi Police installed 500 security cameras at the international exhibition centre and turned central Delhi into a “digital fortress” with more than 4,000 AI‑enabled cameras deployed across the city. These cameras used facial recognition to analyse live video feeds, matching faces against police databases of “suspected individuals,” repeat protesters, and people flagged for public-order concerns, with alerts sent instantly.


The AI-driven surveillance network was coordinated through 32 control rooms, supported by facial recognition systems (FRS), real-time video analytics, and AI-enabled smart glasses used by officers on the ground. More than 20,000 personnel relied on the system to monitor crowd density, movement patterns, and potential “troublemakers” in and around the AI summit in real time. Perils of AI-enabled state surveillance In order to monitor the adoption of facial recognition technology in India, the rights-based organisation Internet Freedom Foundation (IFF) started Project Panoptic in 2020. By 2024, it created the most comprehensive public database on facial recognition technology use in India after recording more than 120 government contracts. Indian legal services non-profit SFLC.in recently published an overview of incidents relating to AI and surveillance in India that took place in 2025. The roundup highlights the usage of the technology in various domains, such as AI-driven surveillance in travel. The government-backed, AI-based facial recognition app DigiYatra , positioned as a flagship digital aviation effort, combines a passenger’s Aadhaar ID, boarding card and face biometrics to enable “seamless” paperless travel at Indian airports.


Although on paper, DigiYatra is opt‑in and “not mandatory,” IFF say s that airline passengers across India are being ambushed and pushed into enrolling. IFF further says that DigiYatra has a weak data system and a murky ecosystem — there’s no transparency around what data is stored, how, or where, or who has access. The service is run through the Digi Yatra Foundation , and around 75 percent of its shares are owned by private companies, placing it outside the ambit of t he Right to Information Act, 2015 (RTI Act) for accountability. AI-enabled CCTV surveillance is also increasingly being deployed in exam halls across India to monitor students. These technologies track gestures, cell phone use, and facial indicators such as unusual eye movements, sending rapid notifications to proctors. By 2025, such technologies had been applied to school board exams and important competitive tests in states such as Uttar Pradesh , Bihar , and Karnataka . SFLC.in says AI-driven surveillance is increasing across India, with insufficient information about oversight and data retention, or means to contest misidentification. As such, technologies become part of public infrastructure, consent is increasingly ignored, and human rights concerns receive minimal consideration.


Deployment of AI technology is impacting millions According to an investigation by Decode , a distinct investigative unit of BOOM, one of India’s leading independent digital journalism and fact-checking organisations, AI-driven facial recognition is failing to recognise women whose faces change due to pregnancy, illness or ageing, thereby denying them access to public facilities and verification. Facial recognition technology in the Poshan Tracker , a government app, failed to match their current appearance to years-old Aadhar ID photographs. India’s Integrated Child Development Services (ICDS) programme is responsible for feeding approximately 47 million pregnant women, nursing mothers and young children. In July 2025, the AI facial recognition scan for identification was introduced. By the end of 2025, almost half of the people who were supposed to receive food hadn’t gotten it, because the system simply couldn't recognise their faces. Facial recognition struggles in poor lighting , on low-end phones, and most critically, on darker skin tones . That last flaw is well-documented, yet nobody seemed to ask whether it mattered before rolling this out to some of India’s most marginalised communities.


Indian regulations on AI India does not yet have a dedicated, binding AI statute; instead, it relies on a web of existing laws such as the IT Act, intermediary rules, and data protection, plus governance guidance. The India AI Governance Guidelines introduced by the Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology of India ( MeitY ) in November 2025 adopted a non-interventionist model, emphasising responsible AI, risk‑based oversight and protection against harms, but they are non‑binding soft law. A new Artificial Intelligence (Ethics and Accountability) Bill , 2025, proposes that the government establish an Ethics Committee, mandatory ethical reviews, bias audits, restrictions on certain uses (e.g., surveillance, high‑risk employment decisions) and grievance mechanisms, signalling an explicit human‑rights‑style focus, but it has not yet been enacted. India’s Digital Personal Data Protection framework (implemented via DPDP Rules 2025) imposes consent‑centric obligations, purpose limitation and data minimisation on AI developers and deployers, indirectly protecting privacy and related rights in AI contexts. The Indian government is doubling down on intermediaries to swiftly remove AI-generated deepfakes used for defamation, impersonation, deception, or the non-consensual portrayal of sexual content on social media platforms.


However, even when platforms comply, the harm is often already done by the time such synthetic media is taken down. Current human rights approach to AI UN human rights officials are increasingly arguing that international human rights law , which should serve as the central framework for governing artificial intelligence, emphasises inclusivity, accountability, transparency, and the need to address power imbalances. This reflects a larger trend extending beyond the voluntary discussion of “ AI ethics ” into the area of legal obligations, such as restrictions and corrective measures. The UN High Commissioner for Human Rights has called for moratoriums on AI applications that violate fundamental rights, like certain forms of biometric surveillance, as well as mandatory human rights due diligence at every stage of the development and implementation of AI-enabled services. Similarly, in a joint statement from 2025, the Freedom Online Coalition urged governments to ensure business due diligence, enforce protections in high-risk situations, and require human rights impact assessments, particularly regarding risks such as political manipulation, disinformation, and profiling. Some observers have suggested a SAARC -wide regulatory framework based on the EU AI Act , with clear protections for fundamental rights and improved transparency and accountability procedures.


However, this is merely a policy recommendation rather than a proposed legally binding law. The way forward According to the Ontario government’s Principles for the Responsible Use of Artificial Intelligence , human rights obligations must be incorporated into the design of AI systems, not added on after the fact. The Council of the European Commissioner for Human Rights recommends that human rights impact assessments ought to be required before high-stakes AI systems are deployed. It should be mandatory for governments and businesses using AI in public-facing roles to reveal the systems they use, the data they train on, and the error rates. Specific legal frameworks are needed to determine when AI systems are considered legal entities for liability purposes and what obligations of care their developers and users have to those impacted by them. The problem arises when frameworks exist that cannot be implemented easily, or exclude state use of AI. MeitY’s IndiaAI Mission , a national programme approved in March 2024, aims to build a full-stack AI ecosystem in India through the initiative “Safe & Trusted AI projects”.


Eight responsible AI projects encompassing themes such as bias mitigation, ethical AI frameworks, privacy‑enhancing tools, and explainable AI and five additional projects targeting deepfake detection have been undertaken so far. On paper, MeitY’s IndiaAI initiatives align with human‑rights principles. However, rights groups argue this falls short of a true human‑rights framework because safeguards are voluntary, oversight is weak, and high‑risk state AI (surveillance, welfare automation, predictive policing) continues without binding protections or effective remedies. Human rights activists suggest that India should enact specific legislation for AI-enabled surveillance, such as policing algorithms, enforcing transparency, and enforcing oversight of surveillance systems, in order to reduce the risk of digital authoritarianism. Paula Villar was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 1992. She graduated with a degree in psychology and completed a postgraduate course in clinical psychology. Although she has been drawing since a very young age, it was only during the COVID-19 pandemic that Paula decided to change careers, devoting herself to digital art and activism. In addition, she also works with other media, such as oil paint, realistic pencil drawings and Indian ink.


Don’t ask AI, ask a peer: A collaborative series

This is a deliberate decision to highlight human creativity and diversity, which is the core idea of this series. As editors of communication platforms dedicated to safeguarding human rights and amplifying marginalised voices and narratives, we have faced a dilemma in recent years: how to deal with the growing volume of content generated by large learning models, commonly referred to as artificial intelligence, or AI, for short. On the one hand, the advance of these technologies in a highly extractive corporate model poses many risks and negative impacts — from their calamitous environmental impact to exploitation of land and resources to their use for surveillance and war , and many other violations of human rights . On the other hand, we know that tools like these can be a concrete and accessible alternative, for example, for authors from the Global South who make the generous effort of writing in non-native languages, such as English or Spanish. We are also aware that people with disabilities use AI as an assistive tool in their work.


In an effort to understand contradictions such as these and to navigate the various conversations and confusions while continuing to provide a space for our writers and readers, APC and its groundbreaking project GenderIT.org drew up a policy last year, inspired by and in consultation with Global Voices, which had also just released its own policy . In both cases, the organisations explored important questions around human voice, agency, creativity and labour, and sought a way to value this creativity while ensuring this was underpinned by relationships based on trust and transparency — without resorting to a binary approach or attempting to impose bans. Keeping this in mind, in these policies, we say: Global Voices is proud to publish writing, translation, and illustrations created by people, for people, and we expect our contributors to uphold that standard. As a diverse and grounded community, APC values content that has been produced as the result of a creative human process, which is nurtured by the lived experiences, human interactions, expertise and diversity of the people and organisations that make up the network.


As we came together to tackle this shared challenge, an idea emerged: What if we went a step further? What if, as well as affirming the value of human diversity and creativity, we demonstrated it in practice? And so the idea for a series was born: Don’t ask AI, ask a peer — a collaboration between Global Voices and APC’s platforms APC.org and GenderIT.org. The series aims to re-emphasise the importance of knowledge sharing among people, as has been done for decades: communal exchange of information and expertise based on years of lived experiences, informed by local realities, and motivated by the need to feel connected with one another. With the introduction of generative AI, this connection has increasingly been lost, as people have turned to AI-based tools for answers instead of asking elders, family, friends, coworkers and community members. This series is aimed at addressing the very human need to feel connected, to continue to be part of a community, and to feel a sense of belonging.


During our brainstorming sessions, we realised that it is important to bring back this communal form of knowledge sharing, where every person perceives the “ask” in their own way and offers a response the way they feel is important. This became our anchor to highlight the unique voice each of us carries — something that AI, with its monotonous tone, cannot replicate. So for this series, we initially developed two basic questions in the same way that one might ask AI: Why is it vital to value human creativity and connection in the age of AI? What could be done to create a human rights approach to AI? But here, these questions will be answered by authors and illustrators from different countries and with different backgrounds, each taking a distinct path. This content will be edited and translated by people. It will be imbued with human emotions, reflections and contradictions. The work will be remunerated, and the acknowledgments clear. Instead of pre-programmed responses generated by opaque algorithms designed to please users and hold their attention, different perspectives and thought-provoking ideas could spark conversations.


And human brains will each find their unique way to consider these questions. As peers, we editors have shared a common vision throughout the process of putting together this series being launched today. We have also brought different perspectives to the table, weaving them together into a patchwork quilt, much like this editorial, which was also written collaboratively. By sharing the series and its intentions now, we hope to hear from our community, reflect together, embrace dissent, identify areas of consensus, and perhaps co-create emerging questions for future rounds. Today, we extend an invitation to you to join us. Ask your peers, read what your peers have to say, share their content, and develop your own ideas and creations to be shared — alone or in collaboration with others. By doing things differently, we can realise that no future is inevitable, and no technology is compulsory or ubiquitous. Alternative ways of doing things have always existed and always will. You can follow the series throughout April on APC.org , GenderIT.org and globalvoices.org .


If you’d like to receive updates on this series and more content from the organisations via email, subscribe to APC’s newsletter here and Global Voices’ newsletter here . Ameya Nagarajan (she/her) is the managing editor for the Global Voices newsroom and the editor for Advox. Débora Prado (she/her) is the lead editor of APC.org and a journalist with a background in strategic communications, feminism and human rights. Hija Kamran (she/her) is the lead editor of GenderIT.org and an advocacy strategist within APC’s Women’s Rights Programme. The Association for Progressive Communications (APC) is a membership-based network of organisations and activists. APC.org is our main website, featuring all our news, updates, blogs, columns, and publications, with a special focus on how the internet and ICTs can be shaped for social, gender, and environmental justice. GenderIT.org is a feminist publication, hosted by APC’s Women’s Rights Programme, that offers intersectional feminist reflections and analysis on topics at the intersection of gender, sexuality and technology. Global Voices is an international, multilingual community of writers, translators, and human rights activists. Together, we leverage the power of the internet to tell stories that build understanding across borders.


There is no connection but human: Why it is vital to value human creativity in the age of AI

Since the current AI hype began after Open AI made its ChatGPT available to billions of users worldwide in November 2022 (at the time, without any existing regulation or ethical frameworks or guardrails), we have heard numerous predictions of how AI will change everything for humans : human labor would be replaced; human creativity not needed anymore; human connection would be so much better with chatbots; governments would apply strict AI algorithms that eliminate human bias in social services; we will have break-through science available in just a few years and many more. Over three years later, how has the appearance of Generative AI changed for us? It has brought unnecessary and harmful disruptions to our education system, it has given some coders some more tools to write code, and it has been used, almost without human supervision, in war . It is 2026, and AI companies still do not have profitable business models and cannot give businesses meaningful proposals on how to use their products.


Yet the AI people — CEOs, financial directors, research directors and even ethics directors — keep selling us their magical, anthropomorphising vision of their models. Please note also that most of these companies are connected to the “previous generation” of tech oligarchs: Google is developing Gemini ; Microsoft invested in both Anthropic and Open AI ; Mark Zuckerberg’s Meta has its very own Llama ; Elon Musk not only bought and crushed Twitter but also has the famously porno-oriented Grok , and Jeff Bezos is investing in not one but seven AI companies, including Perplexity AI and Dutch- based AI startup Toloka . AI narratives from tech companies are purposefully deceptive Researchers and journalists have already done some work to show the way narratives around AI are constructed , and how this shapes not only our anxiety and misperceptions of AI, but also governments’ panic around “losing in the AI race.” When OpenAI introduced ChatGPT, it was described as being “trained” on a vast “corpus” of data, using a “neural network” capable of generating “natural language.” This terminology, while technically grounded, also framed the system in human-like terms , suggesting something more than merely “artificial” intelligence.


At the same time, the system’s errors were labeled “ hallucinations ,” a term that evokes imagination or magical thinking, and also belongs to the human domain. But these are not hallucinations; these are real errors that models built on statistical probability make. And they make a lot of them: some researchers estimate models being wrong in 25–30 percent of cases. Nonetheless, the combined effect of this terminology, the surrounding hype, and Altman’s own widely publicized concerns about advanced AI, has shaped public perception in a different direction. Together, they contribute to an understanding of generative AI as something dynamic, expansive, and difficult to control, at times even framed as a potentially existential threat to humanity. Another example of humanizing chat bots comes from Anthropic Recently, Anthropic, an AI company founded by former OpenAI researchers, released a document entitled Claude’s Constitution . In it, as legal scholar Luisa Jarovsky observes , Anthropic relies heavily on anthropomorphic framing, advancing what can be read as a pretentious, controversial, and legally questionable account of the nature and social role of AI systems.


For instance, the document states: “We encourage Claude to approach its own existence with curiosity and openness, rather than trying to map it onto the lens of humans or prior conceptions of AI.” This language frames the model as a quasi-conscious entity, one capable of reflecting on and “approaching its own existence.” From a governance perspective, claims Jarovsky, Claude’s Constitution represents a concerning development . It risks subordinating human values, legal norms, and rights by attributing undue philosophical and moral status to AI systems. Finally, LLM models themselves are designed to produce text that is first-person, informal, and conversational, while synthetic voices are engineered to sound human. In addition, says Caleb Sponheim, a former computational neuroscientist, these systems produce responses filled with unnecessary pleasantries, sycophantic agreement , and anthropomorphizing language that prioritizes engagement over utility. Moreover, one of the authors of this document, Anthropic’s in-house philosopher Dr. Amanda Askell, has said that she was “ building Claude’s personality .” AI is not your friend Emily Bender , a professor of linguistics at the University of Washington, and Nanna Inie , an Assistant Professor at the IT-University of Copenhagen, state: “AI is not your friend.


Nor is it an intelligent tutor, an empathetic ear, or a helpful assistant. It can not ‘make up’ facts, and it does not make ‘mistakes.’ It does not actually answer your questions.” It does not have “creativity”, it does not “think” or “connect.” It can only repeat what it has already been “trained” on, and that was produced by humans. Generative AI does not write, design or paint: it generates statistically closest patterns; these are probabilistic automation systems , which make them fundamentally different from human cognition or creativity. Yes, they probably could be useful tools in some occupations. But in order to understand that, we have to change the language around AI models and the technology itself. Journalists and media need to stop repeating tech companies’ marketing pitches, and policymakers must stop prioritizing the imagined urgency over safety and human rights. So the answer to the question “Why is it vital to value human creativity and connection in the age of AI?” is that there is no other creativity or connection than that of humans, no matter what tech companies are trying to sell us.


Daria Dergacheva is a researcher in media and communication, her focus is platform and AI governance, digital authoritarianism and propaganda/disinformation studies. She has a background in journalism, and is currently an editor for Central and Easter Europe at Global Voices, as well as a freelance author and researcher on technology and the regions of Global Majority world. Ibrahim Kizza is a visual artist, designer, and illustrator whose work explores human connection, identity, and culture. His illustrations are defined by bold compositions, expressive colour, and a strong narrative focus, often centring Black life and lived experience. Working across editorial and digital spaces, he creates art and illustrations that balance simplicity with emotional depth, using contrast and symbolism to communicate complex ideas with clarity. For this project, Ibrahim develops a visual response to the tension between artificial and human connection, reinforcing the value of lived experience and collective creativity in an increasingly automated world. Beyond illustration, his interests span design, sport, and film, which continue to inform his visual language and storytelling.


‘Sportellino’ is an AI chatbot who helps migrants navigate the maze of Italian bureaucracy

Language and bureaucracy are the two biggest challenges for migrants arriving in Italy. The most common experience for a migrant is to stand in a waiting line, looking for information, desperate to complete papers and fill out forms — all necessities for being recognized as an asylum seeker or obtaining a residence permit. The country’s main language is Italian, while many have a basic level of English and sometimes some French or Spanish. There are more people in need than operators at migrant reception centers, and from this , an idea arose: an AI chatbot that gives step-by-step instructions and information to migrants. Creators imagined this could help ease the load for operators, too, by creating direct lines for specific needs, so people are not just asking for help at the wrong offices. That idea became reality in July 2025 with the official launch of Sportellino (literally “little help desk”), an innovative multilingual chatbot available via WhatsApp or Telegram, free of charge and working alongside migrant centers and operators. Global Voices spoke with Rebecca di Matteo, Head of Operations at Sportellino, a nonprofit , about the project and the challenges they’ve faced in helping migrants.


Global Voices (GV): What is Sportellino, and how has your chatbot helped migrants in their daily lives? Rebecca Di Matteo (RDM) : Sportellino was created within the Master’s program in Migration and Development at Sapienza University of Rome , responding to a very specific need: to simplify access to information that, for many migrants, is not immediate in their daily lives. This includes bureaucratic procedures, documents, healthcare services, guidance on rights, and administrative procedures that are often complex, fragmented, and difficult to understand, even for those with a good command of Italian. In this sense, the chatbot helps reduce confusion, misinformation, and feelings of frustration by offering clear, verified, and multilingual answers, accessible directly through messaging tools already in use every day, such as WhatsApp and Telegram. The service is free, anonymous, and available 24/7, and is based on a knowledge base built from official sources and information validated by industry professionals. To date, Sportellino is particularly effective in assisting users with practical issues related to daily life and access to rights, such as residence permits, civil registry registration, health insurance cards, choosing a GP [general practicioner], SPID (Public Digital Identity System) , employment, school, and other public services.


At the same time, the project is constantly evolving, and we are working to further improve our ability to respond to broader and more complex questions. Language and access The chatbot is currently available in English, French, Spanish, Arabic, Farsi, Pashto, Ukrainian, and other languages. According to Roma Capitale Magazine , the numbers speak for themselves: since the chatbot’s launch in July 2025, it has reached approximately 10,000 users (as of March 2026), with a peak of 2,189 new users in October 2025 alone. Accessibility is easy: just scan the QR code , and a chat opens directly on WhatsApp or Telegram. It doesn’t ask for registration or personal data — use is completely anonymous , in line with the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR) — and it’s ad-free. Sportellino does not collect any other personal information and never asks for sensitive data. They consciously chose to base this chatbot on an LLM developed by Mistral , a European company that adheres to some of the highest privacy standards in the industry. Furthermore, their server is located in Frankfurt, within the European Union, and all data is processed in full compliance with the GDPR.


GV: As Global Voices usually reports on people whose voices and experiences are rarely seen in mainstream media, can you share some firsthand examples? RDM: A concrete and particularly representative case: a Nigerian man used the Sportellino chatbot to better understand the situation of labor exploitation he was experiencing, orient himself regarding his rights, and understand what forms of protection were available to him. Subsequently, thanks to the information received, he contacted us, the Sportellino operators, directly by email. From there, we were able to guide him to a local protection network capable of offering him concrete support. The people behind the project recalled the direct impact seen by a group of migrants immediately: When we presented the prototype in a house shared by asylum seekers in the Esquilino neighborhood of Rome, seeing people's enthusiasm and surprise as they tested the trial version for the first time was truly moving. In particular, many were impressed by the fact that Sportellino could respond in Arabic, explaining in simple terms how to prepare for important appointments and where to find free support in their area.


It was a moment that made us understand, in a very concrete way, the potential of such a tool. Their team is made up of people from Italy, Morocco, Ukraine, Germany, Argentina, and Senegal. They have built a knowledge base using official regulations, enriching it with practical information gathered from cultural mediators, social workers, and professionals specialized in asylum seekers. The app also informs users about average wait times, required documents, and useful addresses, helping users better prepare for appointments. In this case, AI complements, not replaces, human support. This chatbot can be a powerful force for promoting rights, inclusion, and respect. GV: Talking about Italy, have you ever been contacted by the government to implement Sportellino in official projects? RDM: We are not currently in direct contact with the government, but we are initiating collaborations with various local organizations, including Italian municipalities, departments, Immigration Help Desks, Anti-Violence Centers (CAVs) , startups, associations, local institutions, Sapienza University of Rome, and third-sector organizations committed to facilitating access to rights and services every day. GV: So, for the foreseeable future, will your AI chatbot replace humans or not?


RDM: We envision a model in which Sportellino can cover a significant portion of FAQs from foreigners, such as the most recurring and informative ones, while another portion continues to be addressed by physical help desks and operators, who perform invaluable work in the community. In this sense, Sportellino does not replace physical help desks but can become a complementary tool: it helps lighten the burden of simpler and more repetitive requests, allowing operators to devote more time, attention, and care to more complex cases, which require personalized, in-depth human intervention. Another AI chatbot has been launched by the Italian government The Italian Ministry of Labor and Social Policies launched its own chatbot designed for the Migrant Integration Portal on March 5, 2026. The PIM chatbot is a virtual assistant based on generative AI that speaks six languages (Italian, French, English, Spanish, Arabic, and Chinese). GV: What do you think about the Ministry of Labor introducing a similar chatbot? RDM: We are aware of the introduction of similar digital tools by institutions, and we consider this, overall, a positive sign: it means that the issues of access to information and digital inclusion are becoming increasingly central.


At the same time, we believe there is an important difference: Sportellino was born from a bottom-up approach, built on the real needs of migrants and with the direct involvement of operators, legal experts, and local communities. This allows us to focus not only on information but also on understanding and support. Furthermore, from what we have observed, the institutional tools available today often have a more specialized and limited function, generally focused on ministerial services, information, and the procedures of a single institution, ministry, or entity. Therefore, while useful, they do not always offer immediate, direct interaction that spans people’s concrete needs in their daily lives. We see Sportellino above all as a first point of access. A person newly arrived in Italy can orient themselves directly via WhatsApp, understand what steps they need to take, and what mistakes they should avoid. Once they have scheduled an appointment with an agency or ministry, they can then receive more detailed guidance through a specialized system on the services of that specific agency.


Young men, masculinity and states of emergency in the Caribbean

In many communities across Trinidad and Tobago, the twin-island nation at the southernmost end of the Caribbean archipelago, the presence of the state is highly visible during periods of heightened security, especially as patrols intensify. Under state of emergency (SoE) regulations — as many regional territories have instituted from time to time, for reasons ranging from crime to COVID — search powers expand, and detention without charge becomes permissible. Caribbean leaders generally rationalise states of emergency as responses to serious threats to public safety. Their success is most often assessed in terms of crime reduction and enforcement capacity, with less attention being paid to how such measures intersect with social dynamics, which in turn shape concepts of masculinity, insecurity, and the lived experience of young men. These interventions, of course, do not occur in isolation. Rather, they unfold within communities where expectations about provision, power and respect already influence daily lives and shape how young men experience both vulnerability and power. Why are young men affected?


Across the Caribbean, young men are disproportionately affected by violent crime; in fact, they are more likely to be both victims and perpetrators, a pattern consistently highlighted in regional development research. As a result, young men are also the demographic most frequently impacted by security interventions, including those implemented under states of emergency. In Trinidad and Tobago, national research has identified young men in vulnerable communities as being particularly exposed to social exclusion and violence. The UNDP-supported report “No Time to Quit: Engaging Youth at Risk” underscores the structural challenges facing young males and their heightened vulnerability to crime and marginalisation. Structural inequalities play a central role, with limited access to stable employment, educational opportunities and social mobility continuing to shape the trajectories of many young men across the region. The International Monetary Fund (IMF) has noted that high youth unemployment and weak economic growth contribute to cycles of crime and exclusion in the Caribbean. In such contexts, insecurity cannot be separated from development challenges. It is clear that economic vulnerability and social marginalisation often overlap with exposures to violence and state enforcement.


Social expectations about masculinity are central to understanding this interplay. Research supported by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) highlights how gender norms around male identity influence behaviour and life trajectories among young men navigating inequality and limited opportunity. In many Caribbean societies, men are expected to provide for their families, assert authority and command respect. At times, when legitimate opportunities to fulfil these roles are constrained, alternative pathways — sometimes involving risk or illegality — may emerge. These pressures then shape how young men may interpret opportunity, power and belonging — and states of emergency intersect with these realities in complex ways. Typically, enhanced policing, expanded search powers and detention measures are often concentrated in communities that are already facing socioeconomic vulnerability. As a result, young men from these areas are more likely to encounter the state through enforcement, rather than through services or support. Over time, such interactions can influence perceptions of legitimacy, authority and belonging. Some young men, therefore, experience the state primarily as an instrument of control, while for others it represents protection and stability.


The outcome often depends on lived experience, and many would contend that it also depends on where they live. Similar patterns occur elsewhere in the region. In Jamaica, for instance, states of emergency have contributed to reductions in violent crime while also prompting concerns about their disproportionate impact on young men in targeted communities. Research from Brazil underscores how policing practices in marginalised urban areas can reinforce cycles of mistrust between young men and state institutions. Impact on development These dynamics underscore a critical point: far from operating in isolation, security policies often intersect with inequality, identity and access to opportunity, shaping how young men and their communities interact with the state. Understanding this relationship is essential for effective citizen security strategies. The UNDP emphasises that sustainable reductions in violence depend on addressing structural drivers such as poverty, exclusion and limited economic prospects, alongside enforcement measures. Across the Caribbean, development initiatives have sought to respond to these challenges. Programmes in countries such as Guyana and Barbados have focused on mentorship, skills development and youth engagement, recognising that long-term violence prevention depends on expanding opportunities and strengthening social inclusion rather than relying solely on policing.


The issue, therefore, is not whether or not states of emergency should exist. In contexts of acute violence, immediate responses may be necessary. The question is how they are situated within broader frameworks that address the root causes of insecurity. When emergency measures operate alongside inclusive social and economic policies, they can contribute to stability; when they operate in isolation, the impact may be limited to short-term relief. Experiences in Medellín, Colombia, demonstrate how combining targeted security interventions with investments in education, infrastructure and social programmes can contribute to opportunities and more enduring improvements in safety. An ongoing conversation In Trinidad and Tobago, as in other parts of the Caribbean, these questions remain unresolved. States of emergency may alter patterns of violence in the short term, but their broader implications depend on how they interact with the social realities that shape insecurity, including how young men understand opportunity, belonging and power. In this sense, security expands beyond mere crime control. It reflects how authority is exercised and how those experiences shape the conditions for inclusive and sustainable development over time.


On centring the human

I have a complicated relationship with the call to “centre the human” in artificial intelligence. On the surface, it seems like a humanist corrective to the growing mechanisation of life. However, the issue has a complex genealogy. For centuries, countless forms of non‑human intelligence — from animal and ecological systems to ancestral and spiritual intelligences — have been dismissed or subordinated within a hierarchy built around a narrow notion of “the human.” That notion has historically been structured by white supremacy, patriarchy, ableism and cisheteronormativity. It assumes that rational, productive, self‑contained subjectivity is the universal human standard. To centre “the human” in AI often ends up centring that particular template. My discomfort also comes from how the distinction between the natural and the artificial shapes moral boundaries around who or what gets to count as real, embodied, or alive. This distinction has long informed political and cultural forms of othering — not only towards machines or non‑humans, but also toward people whose bodies, genders or abilities are socially coded as “unnatural.” The hierarchy between natural and artificial is therefore not neutral; it is a moral framework that polices the edges of humanity itself.


When we re‑centre the human in AI, we risk reinstating this hierarchy rather than undoing it. We risk reinscribing the same epistemological borders that determine whose intelligence, creativity or agency matters. What if, instead of recentring the human, we expanded our sense of relating — recognising that intelligence, consciousness and care take multiple, entangled forms across species, systems and technological networks? This does not mean romanticising machines or erasing human experience, but rather acknowledging that we have never been separate from the artificial or the planetary in the first place. At the same time, I understand why the language of “centring the human” has gained traction. The global ecosystem of big tech has indeed overwhelmed collective life, automating cognitive, creative and affective processes that once depended on human labour and cooperation. Since at least 2022, the acceleration of planetary computation has intensified the fear of replacement — not only of jobs, but of meaning, perception and creativity itself. These concerns are real. Automation has become a political and existential force, but to respond by reaffirming the centrality of “the human” may only reproduce the exclusions that made this crisis possible.


For me, working with AI means engaging with these tensions: reclaiming technology as part of Indigenous, gender-expansive and diasporic sovereignty, while resisting the temptation to fix the human as the ultimate measure of all intelligence. At the book launch for “ All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace ” at Now Instant in Los Angeles, I was asked about my approach to AI and sovereignty. I explained that I am interested in reclaiming the technology and the data that have, for centuries, been extracted from people, especially in relation to culture-specific knowledge, memory, and forms of expression. An art critic asked whether this approach might still risk redeeming the context in which these technologies are produced. At the time, I did not feel I had a fully formed answer. The curator stepped in and spoke about how the exhibition accompanying the book brought together artists engaging queer and decolonial approaches, which helped widen the frame of the conversation. Looking back, I think the difficulty of my response had to do with the limits of dystopian thinking. Too often, conversations about AI remain trapped between denunciation and celebration, as if the only options are total refusal or uncritical embrace.


But the use of these technologies today is far more complex than that. Contemporary AI images belong to a much longer story about how pictures shape our sense of what is real. For a long time, photographs and broadcast media were treated as anchors of reality: they stabilised events, fixed them in time, and offered something like a shared reference point. Today, that stabilising function has inverted. The ease with which images can be generated, edited and circulated means they no longer ground reality; they unsettle it. AI-generated pictures, videos and voices intensify this crisis of the real. They are not merely a new style of representation but a new regime of plausibility: they do not just depict the world; they “compete” with it. The result is a strange double movement: on one hand, images are everywhere, saturating attention; on the other, trust in images as evidence erodes. We live inside a surplus of visuality and a deficit of verification. This also means that the politics of images can no longer be separated from the infrastructures that produce them.


“Data” and “content” are not abstract, frictionless entities; they are the outcome of labour, extraction and energy use. Training contemporary AI systems involves harvesting enormous amounts of cultural material artworks, voices, gestures, landscapes — often without consent — and concentrating them into statistical models that can be queried on demand. Those models live on servers that draw electricity, water and minerals from specific territories, even as the interfaces they present feel weightless and placeless. This tension becomes especially visible in the context of social media. The platforms that once promised connection have collapsed intimacy and visibility into a cycle of constant production. Now, in the age of generative AI, we are witnessing a flood of images and videos that seem to lack rigour, intention or even authorship — creations optimised not for meaning, but for engagement. The line between art and content feels increasingly thin. What circulates most widely is not necessarily what asks questions or proposes new forms, but what can be replicated, shared and consumed at scale. In this environment, creativity itself is often reduced to output — a quantifiable presence in the feed.


Yet I believe artists will continue to create regardless. Artistic practice has always adapted to technological shifts, and moments of overproduction can also provoke new forms of discernment. The proliferation of AI-generated imagery may invite more critical, embodied ways of seeing: to ask what constitutes attention, what carries intention, and how to distinguish works of imagination from the churn of content. It might even challenge us to redefine artistic rigour in ways that include collaboration with AI systems rather than rejection of them. For me, this is where possibility lives. The task is not to lament the loss of a human-centred art world, but to ask what art can become when creation is dispersed among multiple intelligences — human, machine, ecological, ancestral. Maybe what we need now is less a defence of “the human” and more an expansion of what we mean by creativity, intimacy and relation in times of planetary computation. Against this backdrop, the question of ethics in AI art and creative practice is not only about what images show, but how they come into being and are consumed.


For me, the most promising paths forward lie in two linked gestures. First, in the situated creation of datasets: instead of scraping the world indiscriminately, building smaller, intentional archives that are grounded in relationships, consent and accountability. Second, in imagining alternate forms of data consumption that do not depend on endless scale and environmental erosion. This might mean privileging models that are smaller and slower, tuned to specific communities rather than planetary markets. It might mean interfaces that invite repetition and depth instead of infinite scroll, or works that foreground their own limits rather than pretending to be exhaustive views of the world. In that sense, the crisis of the real is also an invitation. If images no longer reliably stabilise reality, they can instead become tools for negotiating it more consciously. Artists and designers working with AI are in a position to prototype what that negotiation might look like: to treat datasets as gatherings rather than mines, models as guests rather than gods, and images as occasions for relation rather than proof.


The challenge is to invent practices where the statistical logics of machine learning are bent toward care, not extraction — where the ways we make and use images are as attentive to the health of worlds as they are to the seduction of surfaces. Working with AI, I try to approach these systems not as neutral tools or adversaries, but as unstable collaborators — reflections of our histories, architectures and biases. This means engaging them critically while refusing the demand to reject them outright. For those of us whose cultures, data and knowledge have been extracted for centuries, reclaiming technology becomes a form of sovereignty, not surrender. It is a way to insist that the story of intelligence — and of art — is far from complete. Following Ruha Benjamin’s thinking, we must always make space for imagination along with dismantling systems. If we don’t dream and create the worlds we want to inhabit, we are truly doomed. Creating those worlds might be messy, but that’s the point of the task.


The Chinese lesson on the human rights approach to AI

As one of the countries most infamous for using AI for surveillance and restricting citizens’ freedom , China cannot offer a direct answer to how to develop a human rights approach to AI. Yet, its open embrace of AI technology and its ambitions for dominance in the global AI market can serve as a case study for the burgeoning relationship between the private sector and the state, the machine and society. In February 2026, a Spanish engineer, Sammy Azdoufal , found that he could take control of 7,000 smart vacuums, view real-time footage from people’s homes, and listen to the surrounding sound via the machines’ live cameras, and pinpoint the exact location of the households through their IP addresses simply by reverse engineering the connection between his newly purchased DJI Romo vacuum and his PlayStation gamepad. While the mainland Chinese company fixed the security breach in no time, the incident highlights how easily AI-powered surveillance technology could penetrate into our daily lives and the risks it poses.


Universal threats accompany AI surveillance and war technology The aforementioned smart vacuum is unavailable in the U.S. market because its manufacturer, DJI, was designated a “ Chinese military company ” in 2022 and was added to the Pentagon’s blacklist due to national security concerns. Against this backdrop, discussions about AI-powered surveillance technology and the threats that accompany it have largely been limited to China, but this technology is universal, affecting people worldwide. China is indeed a forerunner in leveraging sophisticated surveillance technologies to bolster its repressive governance, and has even exported the toolset to other authoritarian states, as has been widely documented by international media outlets . The Chinese experience, both in the so-called social management of Uyghurs in Xinjiang , China, and the nationwide COVID-19 control system , shows the world that human monitoring in the name of grid management and the application of surveillance technology — facial recognition , a social credit system , geolocation , and online data tracking — work in tandem to maintain a grassroots policing environment that successfully pre-empts possible destabilizing acts.


The Orwellian reality shows that when equipped with a powerful AI engine, the state can consolidate its power at the expense of individual freedom of assembly, expression, and movement. The global market of repressive technology Such advanced repressive technology has a market reach beyond imagination. In China, AI-powered facial recognition systems have been used to issue jaywalking and illegal parking tickets, process payments online and offline , and monitor students’ classroom performance , among others. While democratic states are skeptical of the Chinese application of AI surveillance, such views merely push them to purchase similar AI tools from non-Chinese sources. The U.K. police, for example, have recently bought the AI-powered facial recognition technology used by Israeli intelligence to identify and track Palestinian civilians passing through Gaza. The 50 AI facial recognition machines will be deployed nationwide to identify and track individuals on the U.K. police’s watchlist. In the U.S., AI technology has also been used in the massive surveillance and arrest of undocumented immigrants and the recent war against Iran . On the digital front, AI’s impact on the media and information ecosystem has been devastating.