She added, “His initial message to me on LinkedIn contained misspelled words, was ungrammatical. What light does that shed on his polished, prize-winning story? Any? Some? None?” Some would say the light is harsh, hot, interrogative; that it unmasks a grifter. Yet, there are perfectly punctuated pieces of writing that fail to say anything valuable, and grammatically imperfect stories that can touch something deep in the hands of a competent editor. If Tutuola were attempting to start his writing career today, would a publisher take a chance, or would he be overlooked on account of his solecisms? Would he use AI as a tool if he felt it levelled the playing field? Is it even a tool? A recent Bluesky thread suggested that it wasn’t in users’ best interests to refer to LLMs as such: Terminology aside, De Matas says that using AI as a tool (as opposed to some kind of creative collaborator) allows people to transcend linguistic barriers; if that offers an advantage, then is it an advantage in expression, or imagination?


“It’s changing the rules of authorship; the nature of creation,” he confirms. “We have relied on a traditional idea of authors associated with pedigree, and what these AI systems are showing is that a lot of us can become ‘artists.’ Is this just another evolution of that? The bigger question is, where does authorship now need to evolve?” In his recent experience of judging medical residents on case reports they had to present in person, De Matas found the quality of some of the presentations did not match the level of writing. Proving human authorship, therefore, might well have less to do with the writing and more with “the connections and authenticity they bring to it.” As with every thesis hearing in history, if you can articulately defend your work, chances are you authored it. Either way, literature has gatekeepers and competitions like the Commonwealth Short Story Prize help unlock the gate. Naturally, writers must put in the effort to hone their skills and develop their voice, which is why festivals like the Bocas Lit Fest are so crucial.


Bocas has consistently offered regional writers all the support it can muster, even as its own support systems have pulled away . It’s not just writers, though; it’s readers too. If we have any hope of keeping up with AI, reading is non-negotiable. Start with books that were created before AI became a thing. They will feed discernment, expand vocabulary, nourish the spirit, spark the imagination, and make us better (albeit not wholly) equipped to separate the craft from the chatbot. Of course, we’ve probably already crossed the Rubicon. Whether Nazir did or didn’t use AI, or to what degree, the doubts cast over the integrity of the work, justified or not, have likely stymied his writing career before it even got going. He has become the AI-generated face of an issue that is already proving to be bigger than us. To repurpose a line that Bocas festival director Nicholas Laughlin wrote in an obit for V.S. Naipaul, “The moral algebra of art is difficult, and it should trouble us.” The human implications of AI’s moral algebra should disturb us even more.


Rubbish as a resource: How communities in Mozambique transform waste into climate solutions

In a context characterized by rapid urbanization, fragile waste management systems, youth unemployment, and growing climate vulnerability, artists, activists, musicians, and community entrepreneurs in Mozambique have been developing local responses to address an environmental crisis. Through recycling, art, music, and environmental education, they seek to challenge the traditional perception of rubbish and demonstrate that things which have been discarded can be transformed into tools for survival, artistic expression, social critique, and climate resistance. In cities like Maputo , solid waste has become a visible part of the urban landscape. Plastic bottles clog drainage systems during periods of heavy rain, used tires accumulate in containers and empty spaces, while informal rubbish dumps continue to grow in outlying neighborhoods, such that in the rubbish dump Helene , people live in a seemingly different world. Despite municipal efforts, waste collection and management remain insufficient in several urban areas . It is in this context that community initiatives such as Ecopoints have emerged as alternatives to simultaneously address environmental and social challenges.


Discarded tires turned into opportunities For Vania Gonçalo , an environmental activist, reusing tires began as a response to a problem seen daily on Maputo’s streets. In 2019, Gonçalo decided to create an initiative focused on the reuse of discarded tires after realizing that, while the environmental debate in Mozambique was heavily centered on plastic, tires were also a significant environmental problem. From there, Gonçalo began collecting abandoned tires in residential areas, roads, and trash containers. After collection, the materials go through washing, disinfection, and transformation processes. Tires are converted into tables, chairs, vases, houses for domestic animals, and other decorative objects. The process combines creativity, sustainability, and entrepreneurship. Depending on the type of tire, different techniques are used with fabrics, wood, ropes, sponges, paints, and other recycled materials. For Gonçalo, the project goes beyond recycling. It is also about raising awareness among young people and communities about environmental responsibility. In an interview with Global Voices, she said : Queríamos mostrar à sociedade que aquilo que é jogado fora ainda pode ser reutilizado e transformado em algo valioso e em muitos bairros, os pneus são simplesmente queimados ou abandonados. Queríamos mostrar que é possível reutilizá-los sem necessidade de maquinaria cara ou processos industriais.


We wanted to show people that things which are thrown away can still be reused and turned into something valuable, even though in many neighbourhoods tires are simply burned or abandoned. We wanted to show that it is possible to reuse them without needing expensive machinery or industrial processes. The initiative also reveals urban inequalities related to waste. In outlying neighborhoods, used tires often take on new informal uses, such as toys for children, makeshift seats, or structures for small community parks. In central areas of the city, on the other hand, they are usually treated only as waste to be managed. According to Gonçalo, reusing waste can also contribute to debates on environmental public policies. In addition to producing recycled objects, activist organizations train young people in solid waste reuse, entrepreneurship, and environmental education. She explains: Antes de criar políticas sobre pneus, precisamos de mais estudos científicos sobre os impactos ambientais desses resíduos. Mas futuramente isso pode influenciar políticas públicas de coleta e reaproveitamento. O trabalho não é apenas ambiental. Também cria oportunidades de renda. Quanto mais pessoas envolvidas na reutilização de resíduos, menos lixo teremos no meio ambiente.


Before making policies regarding tires, we need more scientific studies on the environmental impacts of this waste. But in the future this may influence public policies on collection and reuse. The work is not only environmental. It also creates income opportunities. The more people involved in reusing waste, the less will be left in the environment. Art, memory, and social critique For the Mozambican artist Mudungaze , rubbish also has political and cultural significance. Using discarded industrial materials, scrap metal, and objects found in the streets, the artist creates masks and contemporary works inspired by African cultural references and the urban dynamics of Maputo. His work combines contemporary reflections on African identity, colonialism, cultural memory, and global inequalities in an exhibition on “ African masks . ” According to Mudungaze, part of his motivation is the need to recover historically marginalized African cultural references. He explained in an interview with Global Voices: Queria trazer a identidade africana para uma arte urbana contemporânea, usando objetos que as pessoas encontram no dia a dia, num contexto em que as pessoas foram e nsinadas durante muito tempo, que muitas práticas culturais africanas foram atrasadas ou inferiores.


Hoje várias dessas ideias regressaram do Ocidente como algo moderno. I wanted to bring African identity to contemporary urban art, using objects that people encounter on a day-to-day basis, in a context where people were taught for a long time that many African cultural practices were backward or inferior. Today, many ideas have come from the West as something modern. Many of the materials used by the artist come from industrial waste, associated with large companies and imported products. Mudungaze said he tried to establish partnerships with companies to reuse discarded materials, but found little receptiveness. By taking abandoned waste and transforming it into art pieces, exhibited in galleries and cultural spaces, the artist also develops a subtle critique of urban inequality, waste management, and the elitism of art. “We don’t produce most of this waste, but we suffer its environmental consequences,” he said. This tension between urban center and suburan periphery also shapes the Mozambican art scene. Most of the galleries and cultural centres remain concentrated in central Mozambique and the capital Maputo, making access difficult for artists and audiences from other areas.


As an alternative, Mudungaze has created an independent space outside the established cultural circuits. Social media has also come to play an important role in sharing his work. He explained, “Today digital platforms allow us to show our work beyond physical galleries.” Rap, environmental activism, and digital mobilization Environmental issues are also dealt with in music. For rapper and activist Osvaldo Iko MC , hip-hop can work as a tool for raising awareness of social and environmental issues. Influenced by engaged rap and the tradition of social commentary through music, Osvaldo began incorporating environmental themes into his lyrics after observing the increase in inappropriate waste disposal in public spaces. His songs deal with issues such as plastic pollution, incorrect waste disposal, urban sanitation, and collective responsibility. According to the artist, the waste scattered around the city reveals not only environmental problems, but also social inequalities and educational gaps. “The environmental crisis is also a social and cultural problem. If people are not educated about environmental responsibility, the problem will continue.


Trash is left in public spaces, this also reflects social problems, inequalities, and failures in collective responsibility,” he explained in an interview with Global Voices. Through music, environmental campaigns, digital content production, and waste mapping initiatives, Osvaldo seeks to engage audiences often far removed from formal debates about the environment. “Music goes everywhere — in transport, to markets [and] houses, on the streets. It can help create awareness and change behaviors,” he said. Digital activism has also become an important part of his work. With the use of photographs, geolocation, and digital platforms, environmental activists have documented sites of waste accumulation and environmental problems in different parts of the country. According to Osvaldo, social media help increase the visibility of Mozambican environmental issues and connect local activists to global debates on climate change. At the same time, the rapper argued that environmental responsibility should not fall solely on local authorities. “These technologies make it possible to educate, document, and mobilize communities. There is a tendency to only blame public institutions, but environmental responsibility also belongs to citizens,” he said.


Between climate vulnerability and urban survival Mozambique remains one of the countries most vulnerable to climate change, cyclones , floods, and failures in drainage systems and environmental management, which particularly affect urban communities with poor infrastructure and limited waste management services. In cities like Maputo, Beira and Nampula , the amount of discarded solid waste is enough to block drainage channels and exacerbate flooding during periods of heavy rain. For many artists and activists, recycling and reusing waste are not only environmental or artistic initiatives. They are also strategies for survival, climate adaptation, and community resistance. Despite the lack of stable funding, institutional support, and adequate infrastructure, these initiatives continue to grow through community networks, creativity, and collective mobilization. By transforming waste into art, furniture, educational campaigns, and tools for social mobilization, Mozambican communities are demonstrating how local solutions can help address global challenges. In a country where climate change and urban inequality intersect on a daily basis, rubbish is no longer just rubbish. For many young people, artists and activists, it has become a resource, a tool of resistance, and a possibility for the future.


Ugandan activists make the case for ecofeminism

Amid 1970s environmental threats of nuclear proliferation and pollution, the origin of the term “ecofeminism” is attributed to Françoise d’Eaubonne , a French feminist and ecologist who is said to have first used it in her 1974 work “Le Feminisme ou la Mort” (Feminism or Death), which was reprinted in October 2020 by Le Passager Clandestin. D’Eaubonne argued that the oppression of women and the exploitation of nature stemmed from a system deeply rooted in patriarchal values. D’Eaubonne’s theory is fully expounded in her 1978 work “ Écologie et féminisme. Révolution ou mutation? ” (Ecology and feminism: Revolution or mutation?), where she explains that for centuries, men have controlled the fertility of both women and the earth, but global capitalism has pushed this domination to a new extreme: life itself is now at risk. As men in power fail to address the ecological and political crisis, she contends that women must reclaim control over their fertility and build an ecological, egalitarian, and self-governing society.


Ecofeminism, as a practice, was advanced beyond Europe in the 1970s as well. In 1973 , in India, women led the Chipko movement , organized to protect trees and forests from deforestation. In 1977, Kenyan activist Wangarĩ Maathai , who in 2004 became the first East and Central African woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize , founded the Green Belt Movement , a grassroots organization that, working on the intersection of ecological restoration and social justice, empowers rural women to restore ecosystems and forests through nature-based enterprises. Also explored in the 1980s and 1990s , ecofeminism is becoming increasingly relevant and urgent worldwide, writes Katie Surma in an Inside Climate News article . According to Surma, women, driven by data and lived experience, are going beyond demands for greater female representation in spaces like the United Nations climate negotiations. Instead, they are calling for the dismantling of the systems they believe drive the crisis, including patriarchy, capitalism, and extractivism — the global extraction of natural resources for export.


Narrative: Women are essential to Uganda’s climate action Grassroots movements in Uganda argue that women are among the most affected by climate disasters, yet their experiences and knowledge are not considered when addressing them. For these organizations, women have better insight into potential solutions, which is why they demand that women be involved in decision-making. Rights 4 Her , a women-led organization that supports Ugandan women through advocacy, research, and education, pushes this narrative, asserting “women lead resilient communities.” In a post on X from May 2026, the organization states that women leaving informal settlements are the hardest hit by flooding, poor drainage, and waste pollution, making heavy rains a direct threat to their safety. Attached to the post are two banners pleading for “inclusive climate decisions,” where one of the messages states, “Ecofeminism is climate justice. Include women. Listen to women. Invest in women. Build resilient cities for all.” The symbolism of the images on the banner roots women to earth, highlighting the connection between the two, while highlighting the exclusion women face.


Girls for Climate Action , a youth-led organization addressing environmental challenges by centering young women and girls’ lived experiences and pushing for fair, resilient communities that live in balance with nature, also asserts this narrative. In a post on X in October 2025, in the context of Uganda’s National Adaptation Plan (NAP) , the organization calls for “30 percent of climate finance to be set aside for women, girls, and vulnerable communities, the people who feel the impact of climate change most deeply,” highlighting that it “should fund real solutions, support women’s leadership, and strengthen the resilience of those on the frontlines of the climate crisis.” Women’s knowledge, under this narrative, is also attached to Indigenous knowledge. Under its Climate Resilient Hubs initiative, Girls for Climate Action claims that “local and Indigenous knowledge held by women and girls about the environment is centered and valued in developing effective, community-driven solutions for climate adaptation and mitigation efforts.”


Ecofeminism is likewise presented as a tool for questioning power, language, and colonial legacies, as Winfred Mugambwa, Executive Director of Rights 4 Her, states during an interview on the Center for Policy Analysis ’s The Policy Digest Podcast . Other Ugandan organizations, such as the National Association of Professional Environmentalists and the Osukuru United Women Network , also advance the ecofeminist framing. The narrative is also asserted by academics such as Sheila Christine Nakkazi, Research Analyst in the Sectoral Department at the Economic Policy Research Center. The context surrounding the narrative Feminism in Uganda, as explained by Amon Ashaba Mwiine in an article published in the “Journal Agenda: Empowering women for gender equity,” has not followed a single linear path; it has evolved through interactions among feminist theory, political conditions, and activist practice — strongly influenced by postcolonial advocacy. The colonial legacy has been at the center of the criticism and self-criticism of the feminist movement in Uganda and the region. Leading African feminist and Ugandan Sylvia Tamale argues in an interview that African liberation is only possible through a decolonial Pan-African feminist lens with the Ubuntu language at its core.


This philosophy is based on the principle that human inter-relationships and inter-dependence make humans who they are. She states when referring to the feminist movement in the region that: “Being under the grip of coloniality, we keep returning to its logic, we keep returning to its processes to solve our problems. We are fooled into thinking that it’s where it will lead us to modernity and development. So, our ways of thinking, our ways of being and doing, have been captured by Eurocentric worldviews, which actually denigrate African traditional worldviews. The Ubuntu worldview reflects Africans’ understanding of the essence of humanity. It understands very well that you cannot live well if others do not.” The Constitution of the Republic of Uganda , 1995 (amended through 2018), and the Local Governments Act , 1997 (amended through 2020), set the legal framework for women’s participation in the country’s policy decision-making, establishing a mandatory one-third of local government seats and parliamentary positions for women.


According to UN Women , 22 percent of members of local deliberative bodies, 34 percent of parliamentarians, and 30 percent of ministers are women in Uganda, which doesn’t reflect the country’s demographics, as the preliminary results of the 2024 Census show 51 percent of Uganda’s population is female. In addition to the gap in representation in political institutions, women in Uganda face high levels of gender-based violence , with recent tech-facilitated violence targeting women politicians. Child marriage is another challenge, as 43 percent of Uganda’s girls are married before 18 years old, and one in four girls aged 15–18 is pregnant or has a child, according to a 2020 report . In its National State of the Environment Report 2024 , the Ugandan government listed rapid population growth, urbanization, climate change, biodiversity loss, and resource depletion as key challenges to sustainable development. The report states that, under climate change impacts, “rising temperatures, floods, and droughts, further disrupt ecosystems’ health and agriculture,” and that “air pollution, water contamination, land degradation, and biodiversity loss are major concerns that need to be tackled.”


To address these challenges, the government of Uganda has worked and currently works with the United Nations Development Program . Critics argue that the Ugandan government’s climate policies are fundamentally contradictory, citing the East African Crude Oil Pipeline project, which they say exposes a stark gap between the government’s environmental commitments and its actions. Currently under development, the large-scale fossil fuel infrastructure project aims to move crude oil from Uganda’s Lake Albert oilfields to the Tanzanian port of Tanga for distribution to international markets. A report from Climate Rights International documents that under the Kingfisher oil development project, operated by the Chinese National Offshore Oil Company Uganda Ltd. — which is part of the East African Crude Oil Pipeline — those living near to the project “have been forcibly evicted without compensation,” “coerced into selling their land at inadequate prices,” with many reporting “threats, intimidation, and violence, including sexual violence.” Environmental activists have likewise told Human Rights Watch that “working on oil is forbidden,” explaining they have faced threats, the closing of their offices, and even detention for investigating the effects of the pipeline.


Human Rights Watch asserts that the crackdown on climate activists “has created a chilling environment that stifles free expression related to concerns about one of the most controversial fossil fuel projects in the world.” According to Freedom House’s Freedom in the World 2025 report , in Uganda, “Nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) are increasingly vulnerable to legal restrictions, burdensome registration requirements, and intimidation,” based on an extensive legal framework that includes the NGO (Amendment) Act (2024), Public Order Management Act (2013), Anti-Money Laundering Act (2013), Anti-Terrorism Act (2002), Computer Misuse (Amendment) Act (2022), and the Anti-Homosexuality Act (2023). Civil Liberties are scored 24/60 by Freedom House, with the country being classified as “not free.” Uganda held a presidential election in January 2026, where Uganda’s electoral commission declared President Yoweri Museveni the winner, securing him his seventh term. Human Rights Watch reported several irregularities in the electoral process, including authorities hindering the rights to freedom of expression and assembly.


Countless endangered species are making a comeback due to global conservation efforts

According to a sweeping 2019 report by the United Nations’ IPBES (the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services), over 1 million species are currently on the brink of extinction. This is an alarming figure, and the death of these plants, animals, and ecosystems could have grave ecological consequences up and down the food chain. Humans have caused most of this population decline as we have destroyed animals’ habitats, polluted ecosystems, fueled global warming, and hunted some species to the brink of extinction. Scientists have been warning about human-driven extinction for over 70 years , and while many have ignored these warnings, some governments, environmentalists, and communities have stepped up and taken action to revive endangered populations and implement protections for them. In this collaborative piece, Global Voices contributors from around the world share stories of successful conservation work that revived endangered populations in their own communities. These efforts span ecosystems, geography, and species, and can offer a model for future conservation work and population revival.


Wild horses return to their ancestral steppe in Central Asia The return of Przewalski’s horses from extinction in the wild to their natural habitat is a rare and inspiring success story in animal reintroduction. By the late 1960s, the world had said goodbye to these creatures, as there were none left in the wild . In contrast to the American mustangs and Australian brumbies, which are feral horses descended from domesticated animals, Przewalski’s horses are genetically and physically distinct from domestic horses, making them the only truly wild horses left in the world. Named after Russian geographer and explorer Nikolay Przewalski, who in 1878 came across an unusually large horse skull and hide during one of his expeditions in Central Asia. After inspection by the Zoological Museum of the Russian Academy of Sciences, researchers concluded that the remains belonged to a wild horse, assigning it the official name Equus przewalski.


The desire to witness and own one of these exotic animals drove many on hunting trips to present-day Mongolia, where these horses had roamed the vast Eurasian steppe for thousands of years — though Przewalski himself failed to capture one of them alive, describing them as “highly anxious” and possessing “an extraordinary sense of smell, sight, and hearing.” Those who were more successful managed to catch only foals, which were transported to Europe and sold to zoos and private collectors. Between 1897 and 1903, 88 foals were caught in Mongolia , but only 54 survived the long journey by railroad. Eventually, only 12 gave birth in captivity, becoming ancestors of around 2,000 Przewalski’s horses alive today. In the wild, hunting, habitat loss, and competition from domestic animals for grazing grounds drove them to extinction. “It’s not uncommon for humans to tame wildlife — but it’s much rarer for them to make tame animals wild,” notes Dashpurev Tserendeleg, director of the Hustai National Park in central Mongolia, where Przewalski’s horses were first reintroduced to the wild in the early 1990s.


This historic event was preceded by a decades-long breeding program by Dutch and Mongolian conservationists that started in the 1970s. The first batch of 16 takhis , as Przewalski’s horses are known in Mongolia, arrived in the Hustai National Park in 1992. As of 2026, the park’s count has risen to 450, while the total number of takhis in Mongolia has exceeded 1,000 , accounting for half of the global population . The success of the initial reintroduction program has led to the creation of two additional protected areas in Mongolia: the Great Gobi B Strictly Protected Area in the south and Khomiin Tal in the west, where around 650 takhis roam in the wild. Additionally, takhis have been reintroduced in China, Kazakhstan, and even Spain, proving international enthusiasm and commitment to build and grow sustainable wild populations for future generations. Women-led conservation efforts in South Asia Some of the world’s most impressive conservation work has occurred in South Asia, where governments and local citizens have banded together to protect endangered species.


In Nepal, a coordinated national effort between authorities, NGOs like the World Wildlife Fund, and local communities helped the country nearly triple its Bengal tiger population from just 121 individuals in 2010 to 355 by 2022, making it the first nation to meet the Global Tiger Summit’s ambitious doubling target ahead of schedule. One of the factors behind Nepal’s success is has partnered with Indigenous groups to lead conservation efforts. One example of this is the Pangolin Trail in Kathmandu’s Bagh Bhairav Community Forest, where the Small Mammals Conservation and Research Foundation built an ecotourism trail and handed it over entirely to the Indigenous Tamang community to manage. While this region was once known as a poaching hotspot, now, Indigenous women serve as citizen scientists and guardians of one of the world’s most trafficked animals, simultaneously boosting the region’s ecological profile and the local economy. Across the border in India, a different kind of conservation story is taking shape in the jungles of Assam.


At Kaziranga National Park, home to one of the world’s largest populations of one-horned rhinos, a cohort of young women from rural communities has taken up arms, literally, to defend the park against poachers and human-wildlife conflict. Known as the Van Durgas, or “ Goddesses of the Forest ,” these female forest guards patrol the park’s most vulnerable zones armed with rifles and navigating flooded terrain, charging rhinos, and nesting cobras. Their presence has had measurable results: the park recorded its last poaching case in 2021, and during the devastating July 2024 floods , the Van Durgas helped guide animals through wildlife corridors while keeping human casualties at a record low. A tenth life for big cats in Russia Rare species are almost never saved by a single program, however carefully designed. Instead, multipronged efforts are needed: education, nature reserves, scientific research, rangers, camera traps, and community support. That community involvement can take many forms, including reporting animal sightings, donating money, promoting conservation work, or simply learning to live alongside a predator.


At the beginning of the twenty-first century, only a few dozen Amur leopards remained in the wild in the Far East (Russia). Hunting them has been banned in the USSR since 1956, but that was not enough: leopards continued to die because of poaching, logging, forest fires, and a decline in food sources. Today, the situation is much better : according to camera-trap monitoring, 129 adult Amur leopards and at least 14 cubs were recorded in Primorye, Russia, in 2024. Each animal has its own pattern of spots, almost like fingerprints, so researchers can identify individual leopards with the help of camera traps and reports from local residents . There is also the Leopard Guardians program : participants become guardians of individual animals, support conservation projects, and can choose a leopard’s name. In the case of the Amur tiger, working with the people who share its habitat became a crucial part of recovery. For ecologists, the tiger is a sign of a healthy Far Eastern taiga.


But for a local resident , a tiger may not be a symbol of nature, but a threat to dogs, livestock, or people’s livelihoods. That is why simple, practical education matters: what to do if you meet a tiger, where to report a conflict, and how to protect domestic animals. In Primorye and Khabarovsk Krai , there are teams that respond to such situations, and residents may receive compensation for livestock or dogs harmed by tigers. If people have a clear way to get help, they are less likely to decide to “deal with” the predator themselves. According to the 2021–2022 census cited by the Amur Tiger Center , there were more than 750 Amur tigers in Russia, including cubs. Behind that number are not only protected areas and hunting bans, but also NGOs, donors, rehabilitation centers, cooperation from local residents, response teams, and compensation schemes. This is the part of conservation work that helps people and rare animals share the same territory without every encounter becoming a conflict.


Under the sea While much conservation work focuses on charismatic megafauna — large, popular animals that humans tend to favor, such as elephants, pandas, and tigers — aquatic ecosystems are just as, if not more important, for maintaining Earth’s biome and protecting the planet. Within the peninsulas and archipelagos of Southeast Asia, the deterioration of marine ecosystems poses one of the biggest threats to coastal livelihoods and global biodiversity. Southeast Asia’s coral reefs encompass about a third of the world’s total coral area and host roughly 76 percent of all known coral species and 37 percent of reef fish species globally, according to Asian Development Bank estimates . These reefs support keystone species, such as krill and small fish, which act as foundations for the entire marine food chain. They also act as “ blue carbon sinks ,” absorbing CO2 emissions, much like above-ground rainforests do. However, these essential ecosystems are under threat. The World Resources Institute estimates that 88–95 percent of reefs in Southeast Asia are at extreme risk of bleaching , a process in which corals expel the algae living in their tissues, indicating they are under extreme stress and near death.


This process releases massive amounts of CO2 into the atmosphere, kills the biomes that marine life, both big and small, call home, and creates a chain effect of biological collapse that will be devastating for humans and global conservation efforts. This bleaching can be caused by rising ocean temperatures, changing ocean acidity due to pollution and runoff, increasingly extreme tides, and human activities, such as excessive boat traffic or development. Some activists estimate that 90 percent of coral reefs could disappear altogether by 2050. In the face of such a problem, some conservationists are working to simultaneously revive the reefs and repopulate the species that depend on them. Environmentalists in Indonesia are leading the way in restoring coral reefs through a method known as coral gardening , in which scuba divers cultivate coral underwater and then transplant it to dead or dying reefs. Researchers in Malaysia and Singapore are exploring innovative ways to protect corals and promote growth, including 3-D printing nourishing bases to accelerate coral growth and selectively breeding corals to enhance resilience, with the aim of creating a crop that can withstand the pressures of the climate crisis.


Coastal communities are also pushing back on development projects and urging their governments to implement regulations and protections that will help efforts to revive the reef. Many Pacific Island nations, such as Palau, have implemented sweeping marine conservation efforts, including creating marine sanctuaries where fishing, development, and scuba diving are restricted or banned altogether. While there is a long way to go, coastal communities in this region have made it clear that giving up is not an option. Care about sharks? Keep them off your plate Venezuela, home to the Caribbean’s longest coastline, hosts 123 shark varieties (including rays and chimeras), according to biologist Leonardo Sánchez, head of the Center for Shark Research (CIT) , a Venezuelan non-profit. However, up to 37.5 percent of shark species worldwide are critically endangered and at risk of extinction due to overfishing, according to a 2024 report by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. This fact directly collides with Venezuelan culture, as meat from shark pups (commonly called cazón in Spanish) is one of the cornerstones of local coastal cuisine.


Making empanadas de cazón — cheap fried turnovers consisting of pastry and shark filling — is a trusted source of income for many lower-income families, especially women. Cazón meat can also be found in other coastal countries in the Americas, such as Mexico. CIT and other local organizations, such as Proyecto Tintorera , jointly raised their voices in support of sharks in April 2026 with a call to Venezuelan consumers: “Stop eating cazón.” Surprisingly, the campaign was also echoed by major local outlets and gained traction among social media users. “Cazón meat comes from juvenile, non-mature sharks (several species). They have long gestational periods with few pups and cannot be replaced after intensive fishing. Rays [also eaten in the country] should not replace their consumption, for they are very similar to sharks. They only breed every two years,” said Sánchez in a CIT post . “If they are gone, what will the people who make a living by making empanadas do?” The specialist proposes replacing meat from sharks and rays with that of other, more populous species.


Some renowned local chefs, such as Daniel Torrealba , are already following this advice and do not incorporate cazón or ray meat into their culinary offerings, as noted by El Estímulo. Torrealba explains his decision: El cazón y la raya (otra especie en peligro) están muy por encima de la cadena alimenticia en los océanos y su extinción le haría mucho daño a ese ecosistema. The cazón and the raya (another endangered species) sit very high on the ocean food chain, and their extinction would cause significant harm to that ecosystem. To date, the Venezuelan government has not commented on the CIT’s campaign. The cases of cazóns, Bengal tigers, Przewalski’s horses, and other animals referenced in this piece highlight that making true progress in conservation and repopulation isn’t just a matter of implementing top-down restrictions. Success requires education, community involvement, research, and behavioral and societal change — and these cases have demonstrated that that change is possible. These success stories are a model for community-rooted conservation that could help other countries and regions rebuild their withering ecosystems.


AI cameras are surveilling the roads in Dhaka, Bangladesh

For years, there was a familiar routine for those who broke a traffic rule in Dhaka, Bangladesh: a brief standoff with a traffic officer, a word or two of pleading, sometimes a quiet handover of cash (a bribe). Other times, drivers simply slipped past unnoticed. Those days may now be coming to an end. Since May 7, 2026, artificial intelligence (AI)-powered traffic cameras have gone live on Dhaka’s main roads. Installed by the Dhaka Metropolitan Police (DMP) at key signal crossings and intersections, these cameras run on software officially called the “ AI-Based Road Transport Act 2018 Violation Detection System .” When a driver breaks the rules, a notice lands on the vehicle owner’s phone within hours. This marks the first time Bangladesh has deployed a fully automated digital traffic enforcement system, one that files cases without any human involvement. How the AI camera system works When a vehicle runs a red light, crosses the stop line, or blocks the left lane, an AI camera automatically scans the number plate and generates a case on the spot.


The software records a few seconds of video footage, cross-references it with the Bangladesh Road Transport Authority (BRTA) database to identify the vehicle owner, and sends a prosecution notice to their address. In other words, run a red light or drive the wrong way, and the evidence, along with a formal case notice, goes straight to the vehicle owner. Those who receive notices can also view the video of their own violation online. Former head of the Police Special Branch, Golam Rasul, wrote in a Facebook post : “During the day, you might be able to talk your way out of a ticket with a traffic sergeant, put in a word, make a call, or if you’re bold enough, drop the name of some influential uncle. But this AI camera has no mind, no feelings, no mercy, and it doesn’t scare easily. It only knows two things: the rules, and your number plate.” DMP has confirmed that cameras are currently active at five major intersections, and installations are underway in additional areas.


Over 1,000 cases in 10 days, thousands more expected According to the Dhaka Metropolitan Police (DMP) , the sophisticated traffic signals and e-prosecution platform have generated around 1,000 traffic cases since their launch on May 7. DMP aims to achieve fully automated case filing within six months across Dhaka, largely removing the need for manual case filing by traffic sergeants or inspectors. Any violation of traffic or motor transport laws, anywhere in the city, will trigger an automatic case and fine. DMP has announced plans to install cameras at a minimum of 500 points across the capital within the next six months. There’s another catch worth knowing: regardless of who is driving the car when a mistake is made, the case will be filed against the vehicle’s owner. Whether you drive your own car or hand the wheel to another driver, the penalty points will be deducted from the owner’s driving license. Under BRTA rules , every driver is given 12 points under their license; once those points run out, the license gets canceled.


Mixed reactions on Facebook traffic groups The Facebook groups Traffic Alert (over 447,000 subscribers) and Dhaka Traffic Update (37,300 subscribers) have been buzzing with debate since the cameras went live. Many are genuinely pleased. Osman Gani , who works as a private driver, said: “People used to be careless about seat belts, but now that violations automatically trigger cases, everyone is forced to comply. When drivers follow the rules, the road feels a little safer.” But criticisms are also plentiful. In the Dhaka Traffic Alert group, one user named Ismail Hossain wrote : AI cameras are catching ordinary people’s cars at signals… fine. But what about local buses picking up passengers in the middle of the road? Rickshaws going the wrong way? Buses belching black smoke without fitness certificates? Transport blocking the road with no designated stops? When does the camera become ‘automatic’ for them? If there’s a law, it should apply to everyone. Catching only private cars and bikes doesn’t make a ‘smart traffic’ system.


If the biggest troublemakers on the road are ignored, people won’t question just the AI — they’ll question the entire system. Another user, Omar Faruk, raised a different concern : “Pedestrians don't follow signals either. While vehicles get a green light, pedestrians still cross, which forces cars near the front to inch forward and stop. If the camera targets those cars, why should the owner bear the blame?” On a more encouraging note, a user named BrilliantAlligator9993 shared a photo taken at 5:15 a.m. at Banglamotor and Karwan Bazar, showing drivers actually obeying traffic lights at that early hour. The caption read: “Glad to see people have actually listened and are following the traffic lights. Really want to see how DMP Traffic deals with the buses, CNGs [natural gas tankers], and auto-rickshaws.” The emergence of scammers has also alarmed people. Fraudsters have been calling vehicle owners , falsely claiming they were caught violating traffic laws, and demanding money. DMP has warned the public that no fine should ever be paid to an individual, only through official banking channels.


Another incident briefly went viral: a photo circulating online appeared to show an AI camera stolen from a 300-foot stretch of road. The X account Voice of Gen-Z posted: Some people are removing and taking away the state-of-the-art AI cameras installed across the country. This is a scene from a camera on a 300-foot road in Dhaka. The entire system has been taken away. It later turned out the camera had not been stolen at all, it had fallen and broken in strong winds. The object in question was also a traffic light, not an AI camera. Battery-powered rickshaws: The question the AI can’t answer The biggest challenge for Dhaka's AI cameras may not be drivers who disobey the rules; it may be the vehicles the system simply cannot see. Read more: How to stop battery-operated rickshaws from causing new problems on Dhaka's roads Unregistered manual and battery-powered rickshaws flood the city’s lanes and main roads in enormous numbers, operating entirely outside the law with no registration and no license plates.


The AI camera system’s entire mechanism depends on scanning plates and matching them to the BRTA database. A vehicle with no plate is, for all practical purposes, invisible to it. DMP and the government have yet to offer any clear explanation of how these vehicles will be handled under the new system. The question keeps emerging on Facebook traffic groups, and so far, it remains unanswered. Professor B M Mainul Hossain, Director of the Institute of Information Technology (IIT) at the University of Dhaka, told Global Voices via telephone: The success of this initiative will depend on a few key things: system transparency, the right to appeal, and above all, a clear policy on unregistered vehicles. AI cameras are undoubtedly an option to explore towards restoring order on Dhaka’s roads. But technology alone is not enough. What's also needed is a comprehensive reform of the entire transport management system. Dhaka’s roads are now under the watch of AI. The real question is whether that watch will be fair, and whether it will look equally at everyone.


The daughters who were raised to be everything under China’s one-child policy

Ziyu, born in 2002, still remembers the first time her mother asked whether she wanted a younger sibling. It was sometime in middle school, shortly after China loosened its birth restrictions. “I was already buried under academic pressure, emotionally dependent on my mother in the way many anxious only children are. My mother brought it up casually, half-joking: “What if we had another baby?” She answered with shocking seriousness. “You can only choose one,” she told her. “Either them or me.” Ziyu does not think she literally meant that she would rather die than accept a sibling. What stayed with her was the fear behind it. At that age, her mother’s attention felt inseparable from survival. The idea of sharing it felt catastrophic. When China ended the One-Child Policy in 2015, the shift was often described in demographic terms: declining birth rates, an aging population, and a policy adjustment to encourage more births. For women born under the policy, its impact was far more intimate. It shaped how families distributed love and resources, and how young women came to understand their place within the family.


But the fear of being replaced coexisted with another truth: for much of her childhood, Ziyu had never felt lonely. “I grew up alongside my cousin, who was more like a younger brother.” Adults constantly reminded her that she was “the older sister,” someone responsible, caring, dependable. She valued the companionship. What unsettled her was the possibility of being replaced. That tension — between emotional abundance and emotional scarcity — sits at the center of many only daughters’ experiences. Center of a household We were raised as the center of the household. Then, suddenly, we were told we might not be anymore. China’s One-Child Policy, introduced nationally in 1979, reshaped family life beyond the three decades during which it was implemented. Its most visible effects — population aging, a skewed sex ratio , and the emergence of the so-called “4-2-1’ family structure in which one child may eventually support two parents and four grandparents — have been extensively documented . Its quieter consequences are embedded in everyday relationships: it changed how families imagined responsibility. It shaped expectations about attention, sacrifice, and continuity.


For many urban girls, the policy created a generation that received levels of investment once reserved for sons : education, property, and sustained parental attention. Many of us grew up simultaneously privileged and burdened. “I was treated almost like a son,” said C. Her parents invested heavily in her education and expected her to succeed academically. “You had self-esteem. Your family believed you deserved good schools, a good career, even property.” That attention shaped opportunity. It also shaped expectations. For some women, being an only daughter meant becoming the emotional center of an extended family. X described herself as growing up “under a spotlight.” Her grandparents rotated childcare around her; relatives treated her as uniquely precious. That attention carried a weight of its own. “I didn’t want to share the love,” she said. “Maybe that reflects a flaw in how we were educated — the idea that love has a limited quantity.” Attention could feel like protection. It could also feel like surveillance. For myself, some of the most persistent forms of control appeared in small, ordinary moments.


My mother paid close attention to how I dressed, whether I kept my bangs tidy, and the condition of my skin. A new pimple could become a topic of concern. At the time, it did not register as control. It felt like care — the kind that presents itself as worry, responsibility, and wanting the best. But over time, those small interventions accumulated into something else. The weight of ‘one’ There was a constant sense of being watched, of being adjusted. Decisions that might have felt inconsequential — how I looked, what I studied, what kind of future I should pursue — were often framed as matters that involved the whole family. The boundaries between what belonged to me and what belonged to them were never clearly defined. This intensity is difficult to separate from the structure of being an only child. When all attention converges on one person, there is no space for it to disperse. Concern becomes focus. Focus becomes pressure. We are told we are valued, that we are worth investing in, and that we should become someone significant.


At the same time, we are continuously shaped, corrected, and pulled back into alignment. It is a form of closeness that can feel both protective and suffocating. We were raised inside a paradox. Many of us absorbed adult anxieties long before we fully understood them. “I already knew that resources were finite at a very young age,” X told me. “Another sibling would not simply mean another relationship. It would reshape how attention, money, and expectations were distributed.” Caregiving hovered in the background of these realizations. Earlier this year, Ziyu’s grandfather was hospitalized. Her father and uncle alternated nights at the hospital. “Watching them, I suddenly understood something I had resisted for years,” she said. “Siblings can distribute burden.” The insight was unsettling. It introduced a possibility she had long rejected: that having another sibling could ease future eldercare responsibility. At the same time, she felt resistance to the idea that children exist partly to absorb family labor. Even when not explicitly stated, that expectation remains present in many families. Only daughters grow up aware of this tension. They are encouraged to succeed and become independent.


They are also positioned as the person who will eventually step in when needed. In many families, the only daughter becomes the default plan for the future. That expectation becomes more visible as parents age. Yuning described how her parents supported her move to Beijing for better career opportunities, while also expressing a quiet hope that she would eventually return home. “They say they don’t expect me to support them upon their retirement (养老),” she said, “but emotionally they still hope you’ll come back and stay close.” The contradiction intensifies over time. Ziyu’s mother has recently begun experiencing health issues. Watching her parents care for each other has led her to think about what comes next: how she will balance work, geography, and responsibility; whether she will be able to provide care, and whether she will be alone in doing so. These questions do not have clear answers. They remain present, shaping decisions before they are even made. The legacies of the one-child policy Discussions about only daughters in China often focus on practical concerns: inheritance, property, and financial security.


Online debates frequently center on fears that family assets will shift to a husband’s family through marriage, or that parents without sons will face vulnerability in old age. Beneath these discussions lies a more complex emotional reality. For many only daughters, personal decisions are tied to the continuity of the family. Marriage becomes more than a relationship between two individuals. It carries implications about lineage, caregiving, and belonging. Some women hesitate because they anticipate unequal expectations and distributions of labor within heterosexual marriage. Many queer individuals find it difficult to share their sexual orientation with their families, aware that their choices are interpreted through the lens of family continuity. Yuning, who is bisexual, told me she has never been able to speak openly with her parents about her sexual orientation. Similar concerns surfaced in my conversations with Ziyu, who identifies as straight. “They can accept many things,” she said, “but not this.” Her mother once described same-sex relationships as something she could not emotionally process; her father avoided the topic altogether. What makes the pressure difficult to articulate is that it rarely appears as a direct demand.


Instead, it is embedded in the structure of the family itself. X, who is also bisexual, told me that her parents expressed tolerance toward LGBTQ+ people in general, but reacted very differently when the possibility involved their own daughter. “For other people, they can understand and respect it,” she said. “For me, absolutely not.” As their only child, she felt that her choices carried implications far beyond herself. Her father often reminded her that she was the only hope for carrying on the family line. The burden is never articulated as an obligation, yet it lingers beneath the surface: if one person is responsible for carrying on a lineage, then every personal decision begins to feel like a family decision. X described a former partner who had a younger brother. “She didn’t feel the same pressure as I did,” she said. “Even if she made choices her parents didn’t like, there was still someone else.” The difference was not simply about acceptance. It was about how much was at stake. “I know I should just live my own life,” she said.


“But it’s not that simple when you’re the only one.” To remain single, to leave home, to choose a partner, or to choose none at all — each of these decisions is shaped by an awareness of how it will affect the family. A world of opportunity At the same time, many only daughters recognize the opportunities the policy made possible. Without siblings competing for investment, many gained access to education, international mobility, and financial support. Some inherited property that might otherwise have been distributed differently. These advantages created space for new possibilities. They also introduced a sense of responsibility. “You grow up feeling like you have to justify their sacrifice,” X told me. That feeling persists into adulthood. Women in their twenties and thirties often describe a sense of being caught between independence and obligation. They are building their own lives while anticipating future responsibilities. They are expected to make decisions about careers, relationships, and location while keeping their families’ needs in mind. This produces a diffuse, ongoing anxiety that is difficult to name. The One-Child Policy reshaped more than population structure.


It altered how families organize care, expectation, and emotional connection. It produced a generation of women who are highly educated, closely tied to their families, and deeply aware of the responsibilities placed upon them. Many of them carry a quiet fear of being absorbed by those responsibilities. Today, as China encourages women to marry and have more children, only daughters occupy an uncertain position. They were raised as singular children. They are now navigating a social environment that increasingly emphasizes traditional family roles. Many are still trying to determine how to balance independence with responsibility, distance with closeness, and personal choice with family expectation. When I was younger, I did not think of myself as shaped by a policy. I experienced it through moments that felt personal, even accidental. But now, I often return to the question of what it means to write this story at all. The ability to reflect on these dynamics — to articulate them, to step back from them — is itself a result of the system that shaped us. That concentration of resources shaped my life.


It created possibilities, while also marking the paths that never unfolded. There were two times when my mother became pregnant again after the one-child policy loosened. Both ended in miscarriage. At the time, I understood them only as things that had happened to her. They did not feel connected to me. Only later did I begin to see those moments differently, as points where the structure of our family might have shifted. If there had been another child, especially a son, the distribution of attention, money, and expectation would have changed. The path that eventually brought me to New York — to study, to write in English, and to move across languages and contexts — would likely not have existed in the same form. The One-Child Policy is often remembered through statistics: birth rates, population decline, demographic imbalance. But for many women of my generation, its legacy lives on in quieter questions: who received the family’s resources, who inherited its expectations, and who is now expected to carry its future. We were raised as only daughters. We were also raised to be everything.


Cinemas offer a platform for stories of resistance amid shrinking civic spaces in Africa

Across Africa, civic space is shrinking. Governments are increasingly using legal frameworks, internet shutdowns, and censorship to silence dissent, restrict press freedom , and criminalize activism. Across the continent, the ability of ordinary citizens to document, resist, and speak out is under constant pressure. In this context, unconventional advocacy tools, including film, are gaining traction among human rights defenders seeking to bypass traditional gatekeepers and reach a wider audience. Can a film festival achieve what NGO reports, legal action, and protests sometimes fail to do: shift the narrative, strengthen solidarity, and hold those in power accountable? The Africa International Human Rights Film Festival (AIHRFF), now in its fifth edition, proves just that. Organized by the Human Rights Journalists Network Nigeria and scheduled for December 8–10, 2026, under the theme “Stories of Resistance,” the festival sits at an increasingly contested crossroads: storytelling and advocacy, editorial independence and institutional partnerships, between the promise of cinematic impact and the more difficult question of measurable change.


Global Voices spoke with Executive Director Kehinde Adegboyega about the goals of this year’s festival and what the organizers are still striving to achieve. Jean Sovon (JS): As we approach the fifth edition of this human rights film festival in Africa, what makes AIHRFF the right vehicle for this mission? What justifies a Nigerian journalists’ organization claiming this role rather than more established film institutions or human rights NGOs? Kehinde Adegboyega (KA) : The Africa International Human Rights Film Festival (AIHRFF) emerged from a recognition that storytelling, journalism, human rights advocacy, and civic engagement are deeply interconnected. While film institutions excel at promoting cinema and human rights organizations focus on advocacy and service delivery, AIHRFF sits at the intersection of these fields. The Human Rights Journalists Network Nigeria brings a unique perspective rooted in documentation, public accountability, freedom of expression, and access to information. Our members understand the power of narratives to influence public opinion, policy debates, and social change. AIHRFF was therefore conceived not simply as a film festival, but as a platform where filmmakers, journalists, activists, policymakers, academics, and citizens can engage in dialogue around issues that affect people’s lives.


Over four editions, the festival has demonstrated its ability to convene diverse stakeholders, foster difficult conversations, and create opportunities for learning, advocacy, and collaboration. Rather than competing with film institutions or NGOs, AIHRFF complements their work by providing a space where storytelling becomes a catalyst for civic engagement and social reflection. JS: Beyond screenings, can you cite a concrete case where a film presented at AIHRFF contributed to a measurable change? KA : AIHRFF does not claim that a single screening directly results in a policy change or legal outcome. Social and political change is usually the product of sustained efforts by many actors over time. However, the festival has consistently served as a convening platform that connects filmmakers, advocates, policymakers, journalists, and affected communities. For example, screenings on gender-based violence, digital rights, and civic freedoms have been followed by structured discussions and partnerships with advocacy organizations that have used the films as educational and mobilization tools beyond the festival. Our impact is best understood as contributing to awareness, agenda-setting, coalition-building, and public engagement.


We continue to strengthen our monitoring and evaluation framework so that future editions can better document downstream outcomes and policy influence. JS: This year’s theme is “Stories of Resistance.” Resistance against whom, exactly? Some African governments may feel directly targeted. How does AIHRFF navigate between editorial freedom and diplomatic constraints in host countries? KA : For AIHRFF, ‘Stories of Resistance’ refers broadly to the human capacity to respond to injustice, exclusion, discrimination, violence, censorship, environmental degradation, inequality, and other threats to human dignity. Resistance is not directed at any particular government, institution, or political actor. It encompasses the experiences of individuals and communities who seek peaceful and lawful ways to defend rights, preserve culture, strengthen democracy, and improve social conditions. The festival is committed to editorial independence while maintaining a constructive and inclusive approach. We encourage dialogue rather than polarization. Our objective is to create spaces where diverse perspectives can be heard and discussed responsibly, in line with international human rights principles and democratic values. JS: The festival is open to filmmakers worldwide. In practice, what proportion of selected films actually come from Africa?


Is there a risk of reproducing an outside gaze on the continent rather than genuinely amplifying African voices? KA : African voices remain at the heart of AIHRFF. While we welcome submissions from around the world because human rights challenges are global, our programming intentionally prioritizes African stories, African filmmakers, and issues affecting African communities. International films provide opportunities for comparative learning and solidarity across regions, but they do not define the festival’s identity. Our curatorial approach seeks to ensure that African perspectives are not merely represented but centered. As the festival grows, we are increasingly investing in emerging African filmmakers, youth storytellers, and underrepresented voices from across the continent. Our long-term ambition is to strengthen African storytelling ecosystems while maintaining global engagement. JS: The festival lists digital rights among its themes. Yet several African governments, including Nigeria, have practiced internet shutdowns and mass surveillance. How does the festival address violations committed by its own partner or host states? KA : AIHRFF approaches digital rights from a rights-based perspective that is independent of governments, corporations, and political interests.


The festival provides space for discussions on internet freedom, privacy, surveillance, online safety, digital inclusion, and freedom of expression regardless of where violations occur. These conversations often include civil society actors, researchers, journalists, policymakers, and technical experts. Partnerships with institutions do not determine the content of discussions or the themes selected for the festival. We believe that constructive engagement requires the ability to discuss difficult issues openly and respectfully, including challenges within our own societies. JS: Who finances AIHRFF? And how does that potential dependency guarantee, or threaten, the editorial independence of your selections? KA : AIHRFF operates through a diversified partnership model that has included support from international organizations, cultural institutions, civil society partners, foundations, and private sector actors. The festival’s editorial decisions are guided by its mission and curatorial principles rather than by the preferences of individual sponsors or partners. We deliberately seek a diversity of funding sources to reduce dependence on any single institution. Editorial independence is essential to the credibility of the festival.


Our partnerships are built around shared commitments to human rights, dialogue, creativity, and public engagement, while programming decisions remain the responsibility of the festival organizers and curatorial team. JS: What happens to these films after closing night? Is there a mechanism to keep them circulating in communities without access to cinemas, or to reach courtrooms, parliaments, and classrooms where they could actually drive change? KA : This is an important question and one we continue to develop. The festival is not intended to be a stand-alone event but part of a broader ecosystem of engagement. Beyond the festival, we seek opportunities to collaborate with schools, universities, civil society organizations, media outlets, and community groups to extend the reach of selected films. We are also exploring the development of year-round screening initiatives, educational partnerships, digital engagement campaigns, and thematic outreach activities that bring films into classrooms, community spaces, and policy discussions. Our vision is for AIHRFF to evolve from an annual festival into a sustained platform for human rights education, storytelling, and civic dialogue that remains active throughout the year.


Migrant workers in the Gulf states: They came to build cities, not to be buried in them

In March this year, life in the Gulf began to feel unusually fragile. News alerts interrupted ordinary evenings. Rumours travelled faster than reassurance. Missiles, drones, airspace closures, and political tensions suddenly became part of everyday conversations. For many families living in the region, especially migrants far away from their homelands, uncertainty settled quietly into daily life. Even simple routines changed. People stepped outside more cautiously. Parents followed the news more closely. Phone calls home became longer, softer, heavier. From our apartment window in Doha, I would often see workers gathered in small groups after long shifts. Men in faded uniforms, their faces marked by heat, dust, and exhaustion. Some sat on pavements. Some leaned silently against construction barriers. Others rested on curbs before heading back to crowded accommodations after building cities they may never truly belong to. My younger daughter, Maryam, watched them carefully. “Are they tired after working all day?” she asked. “Do they miss their families?” Then, after overhearing fragments of conversations about conflict and uncertainty, her questions deepened. “Are those workers, security officers, and food delivery boys safe outside?” I did not always have answers. But her questions stayed with me. Children notice what adults often overlook.


They see the delivery rider waiting at a traffic signal. The cleaner sweeping empty corridors in silent buildings. The security guard standing alone outside even after midnight. Their world has not yet been divided into categories of importance and invisibility. And perhaps that is why her questions unsettled me. Because behind every construction helmet, every delivery bike, every maintenance uniform in the Gulf, there is usually another story unfolding somewhere far away. That is of a mother waiting for a phone call, a wife carrying responsibilities alone, children receiving a father’s love through video calls and the whole family getting dependent on money transfers. Most migrant workers do not leave home searching for luxury. They leave searching for relief. Relief from debt. From unemployment. From hunger. From the slow suffocation of poverty. They come from villages and small towns across Asia and Africa where opportunities are scarce and survival itself demands sacrifice. They carry photographs in worn wallets and promises in tired hearts. Some dream of educating a daughter. Some hope to build a modest house. Some simply want their parents to grow old without financial fear. They come to the Gulf to build. To raise towers from sand. To lay roads like ribbons across deserts. To clean glass buildings that touch the clouds.


To deliver comfort to homes while living far away from their own. But many never imagined that they could also become victims of conflicts that were never theirs. In recent strikes across the region, many migrant workers were among those who lost their lives. Some died quietly, without headlines large enough to hold their stories. A few lines in the news. A brief mention of casualties. Then the world moved on. But somewhere far away, families did not move on. A mother collapsed hearing that the son who crossed oceans to support her would now return in a coffin. A wife stared at a silent phone, waiting for a call that would never come again. Children too young to understand geopolitics suddenly learned the meaning of permanent absence. For many migrant families, the worker is not just a breadwinner. He is the bridge holding the entire family above poverty. One salary often feeds parents, educates siblings, pays debts, supports children, and sustains entire households spread across continents. When such a worker dies, it is not one life that collapses. It is many.


And what makes the tragedy even heavier is its cruel irony. These workers came to build cities, not to be buried beneath them. They came carrying tools, not weapons. Dreams, not danger. Hope, not hatred. Yet in moments of conflict, they become the most vulnerable people under the same sky. When missiles cross borders and drones dominate headlines, powerful nations speak the language of strategy. Ordinary workers speak the language of survival. Delivery riders still ride through uncertain streets. Construction workers still climb scaffolding beneath uneasy skies. Security guards still stand through long shifts while their families back home watch frightening news coverage and wonder if their loved ones are safe. The world often speaks about war through maps, military calculations, and political speeches. But ordinary people experience conflict differently. Conflict arrives as interrupted sleep. As anxious phone calls. As mothers refreshing news feeds with trembling hands. As children asking questions adults cannot answer. As workers pretending calm while carrying invisible fear. The tragedy of modern conflict is not limited to battlefields. Its shadows travel far beyond borders. They slip quietly into kitchens, classrooms, labour camps, and family conversations.


Even places untouched by direct violence begin carrying the emotional weight of uncertainty. And in these moments, migrant workers become the most invisible witnesses of all. They build cities they may never fully belong to. They strengthen economies that may never know their names. They spend their youth constructing towers, roads, airports, malls, and stadiums while their own families continue living thousands of kilometres away. Yet when uncertainty arrives, they remain among the most exposed, economically fragile, emotionally isolated, and socially unseen. Maryam’s questions reminded me of something simple but uncomfortable: empathy often survives more naturally in children than in adults. Adults become distracted by politics, nationality, religion, and ideology. Children still see human beings first. A worker is not a nationality to them. A delivery rider is not background scenery. A security guard is not invisible. They are simply people who might be tired, lonely, worried, or afraid. Perhaps the world would look different if more of us learned to see people the way children do. Not through passports. Not through professions. Not through power. But through shared human vulnerability.


The skies above the Gulf may eventually grow quiet again. News cycles will move on. Headlines will change. But somewhere, there are homes that will never fully recover from these conflicts. Homes where children will grow up with photographs instead of fathers. Homes where old parents will continue waiting for footsteps that will never return. Homes where unfinished dreams will sit silently beside unopened suitcases. And so, this is also a tribute… To the workers who left home carrying hope in small bags and responsibility in heavy hearts. To the men who mixed concrete under burning suns, cleaned towers they could never afford to enter, delivered food while missing meals with their own families, and spent their youth building cities for others. To those who crossed seas to build lives, but returned only as memories. May they never be reduced to statistics buried beneath political headlines. May their labour be remembered with dignity. May their sacrifices be spoken of with humanity. And may the world never forget this painful truth: They came to build cities, not to be buried beneath them.


How Bangladeshi migrant recruitment networks built a quarter of a billion dollar smuggling economy

After three years of construction work in Dhaka, Ishmam, 28, from Shariatpur, Bangladesh, had accumulated about USD 6,500 in savings when the dalal (local broker) approached him with a proposition that seemed almost too good to refuse. The route appeared straightforward: Bangladesh through Saudi Arabia to Libya, then a brief Mediterranean crossing to Italian shores, where monthly earnings could exceed what he made annually. “From Bangladesh through Saudi Arabia to Libya, then from Libya attempting the boat crossing to Greece or Italy,” he recounted months later, describing what he believed would be a well-established pathway used by thousands before him. However, upon reaching Libya, reality shifted dramatically. He spent three weeks in what smugglers called a “game house” — a holding facility where some 200 migrants waited for favorable weather conditions and boat availability. The promised boat finally arrived at night, overcrowded beyond any safe margin, with nearly 150 people packed into a vessel designed for perhaps 40.


“We went with the hope of reaching Italy for a better future,” he said, remembering the moment the engine started and the Libyan coast began receding. “The boat traveled for only 20 minutes before the coast guard caught us.” Ishmam is one of many Bangladeshis who set out in pursuit of the European dream, only to discover it was far different from what smugglers had promised. After returning to Bangladesh in May 2026, he shared his experience with a research team that included the author as part of a migration research project. Another returnee’s experience revealed an even darker dimension of this system. “The migrant facilitators in Libya are Bangladeshis themselves. Billions of dollars are leaving our country and flowing to Libya into this network,” he revealed. The dalal who recruited him in Bangladesh maintained daily contact throughout the journey, not for welfare checks but to coordinate payment demands with Libyan handlers. “My dalal took USD 12,915 from me to take me successfully to a European country, and now I have returned like an offender,” he stated.


His detention lasted 23 days, a deliberate degradation designed to pressure the family to pay a ransom. These two cases shine a light on a smuggling network that has turned the Bangladesh-Libya-Italy corridor into one of the world’s most lucrative irregular migration markets. Irregular migration through the Central Mediterranean Around 15,228 Bangladeshi migrants arrived in Italy via the Central Mediterranean Route in 2022, making Bangladesh the third most-represented nationality in terms of irregular migration. This figure represented a stark increase from just 349 arrivals in 2018. Approximately 14,000 Bangladeshis reached Italy through this route in 2024. Between June 2023 and August 2025, nearly 6,000 Bangladeshi nationals were repatriated from Libya with assistance from the International Organization for Migration (IOM), a branch of the United Nations. This number grew to 8,174 by December 2025, with multiple repatriation flights carrying hundreds of migrants each month throughout 2024 and 2025. The routes for migration have proliferated and been adapted to enforcement measures.


The primary pathway flows from Bangladesh through Dubai to Egypt and finally Benghazi, though 50 percent of undocumented Bangladeshi migrants now enter Libya through Turkey. An alternative route through India and Sri Lanka is activated when the Dhaka airport authorities increase scrutiny. Other transit countries include Egypt, Jordan, Kuwait, Lebanon, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Sudan, Turkey, Tunisia, and the UAE — creating a complex network that shifts and adapts to enforcement pressures. Comparing legal and irregular migration costs The economics of this system reveal why recruitment networks find irregular migration so lucrative. In 2020, the average legal migration cost for Bangladeshi workers, including airfare, visa costs, and agent fees, was USD 3,520 for Saudi Arabia and between USD 2,420 and USD 3,230 for Oman, Qatar, and Malaysia. These costs have risen , with the average migration cost now exceeding USD 3,730, as of December 2025. A male worker now spends USD 4,035 to USD 7,265 to reach Saudi Arabia, while migration to Malaysia costs USD 2,825 to USD 4,845.


The government officially set costs at USD 1,330 for Saudi Arabia, USD 1,290 for Malaysia, USD 870 for the UAE, USD 860 for Kuwait, USD 815 for Oman, and USD 790 for Bahrain, but actual expenses run 2.5 to 2.6 times these amounts. However, the Libya-Italy corridor operates on an entirely different scale. Travel from Bangladesh to Libya alone ranges from USD 4,500 to USD 4,900, while the Mediterranean crossing and migration to Europe costs between USD 3,000 and USD 4,000 per person. Most Bangladeshis pay between USD 10,000 and USD 14,000 for the complete journey, with many ultimately spending USD 15,000 to USD 17,000 after extortion and additional costs inside Libya. In Bangladesh, brokers collect initial fees of USD 4,035 to USD 12,915 for documentation and passage. Transit facilitators in Dubai, Egypt, Kuwait, Turkey, India, or Sri Lanka coordinate group movement and collect fees for each handover. Once in Libya, airport sponsors demand payments, armed groups extract “security fees,” drivers charge for internal transport, and coastal smugglers control Mediterranean access. The game house system represents perhaps the most cynical extraction mechanism.


“The game house operates just like a jail. You can’t talk; there is no means for communication. They keep 200–300 people together. Those whose money runs out get sent back; those whose money is not finished get left behind,” explained a migrant describing these pre-departure holding facilities where families receive continuous payment demands while their relatives wait for boat departures. The ‘gold migrant’ phenomenon Bangladeshi migrants are considered “gold” within Libya’s smuggling economy because they represent the most reliable source of payment. Behind every migrant stands a family that remains deeply involved throughout the journey — negotiating with brokers in Bangladesh, arranging financing, coordinating payments during transit, and liaising with smugglers whenever problems arise. Researchers have estimated that the Bangladesh-Libya-Italy smuggling economy generates USD 160–190 million annually, using 2024’s baseline of 14,000 arrivals in Italy and applying documented price structures. This represents a lower-bound estimate, excluding those who paid but never arrived in Italy — migrants intercepted at sea, detained indefinitely in Libya, or who perished during crossing attempts. The human resale market within Libya adds another layer of exploitation.


Migrants entering legally by air are promised temporary work while waiting for their “next visa” to Italy. Upon arrival, their passports disappear under the pretext of processing paperwork. They work immediately in construction or service sectors but receive no payment. Eventually, they learn they’ve been “ sold ” to another employer or broker — demonstrating a market where migrants function as tradable assets. A a quarter of a billion dollar future? The trajectory suggests continued acceleration. Bangladeshis ranked first among asylum applicants in Italy, with 23,450 requests recorded in 2023. The trend had intensified further, with 2,589 Bangladeshis landing on Italian shores during January and February 2025 alone — double the 1,206 who arrived during the same period in 2024. So why is this shadowy, dangerous industry so successful? First, legal migration costs continue rising. The expenses for low-skilled overseas job seekers to major destinations now range from USD 3,230 to USD 8,070. It takes at least 10 months of work to recover migration costs, forcing workers to accept lower wages while limiting their ability to negotiate.


Second, Gulf countries have tightened recruitment opportunities and imposed migration restrictions, pushing would-be migrants toward alternative destinations and illegal pathways. Research published in 2024 documents how brutal working conditions, combined with restrictive government policies toward migrant workers, lead some to reroute their “Dubai Dream” to Europe. If the current growth rate of illegal migration continues — from approximately 14,000 arrivals in 2024 to an estimated 20,000 in 2025 — and if per-person costs remain between USD 10,000 and USD 17,000, the smuggling economy could reach USD 200 million to USD 340 million in gross revenue. Even accounting for interceptions, failed attempts, and returnees, a conservative projection suggests the market could exceed USD 250 million annually by 2026, cementing its position as one of the world’s largest irregular migration corridors. Unless Bangladesh establishes genuinely accessible legal migration pathways, thousands more will calculate that risking USD 12,915 for a twenty-minute boat ride represents their best chance at the life they’ve been promised.


Brazil will feature the number 24 on the pitch during World Cup 2026. And that carries a message

Brazil’s national football team will officially field a player wearing a jersey with the number 24 during the 2026 FIFA World Cup . The first time the iconic yellow-and-green jersey stepped out of the closet with the number 24 was almost four years ago, during the championship played in Qatar. Until 2022, FIFA rules allowed teams to register up to 23 players for official tournaments. But even when an extra player was allowed, or outside of strict official tournaments, the number 24 has long been avoided in Brazil. The reason lies in the cultural context around a traditional, illegal gambling game created in Rio de Janeiro in the late 19th century — the “ jogo do bicho ” (animal game). A type of lottery game, which has been outlawed since 1946, and whose leaders have been linked to criminal organizations , still has a strong hold throughout the country. The winners are chosen randomly through a raffle , with gamblers betting on numbers linked to animals. The number 24 corresponds to “veado” (deer), which in Brazil is also a sort of slang term to refer to gay people.


There are different theories as to why “veado” got this meaning among Brazilians. A story published by news outlet UOL says the origins could be from the time when the word “desviado” (diverted) was used to refer to queer people, or even from the Disney animated film “Bambi” in the 1940s. Once a derogatory term, it has been reclaimed by the LGBTQ+ community over the years. In the 2021 Copa America, this folkloric context became a public controversy. Brazil was the only one of the 10 South American teams playing without the number 24, despite having a total of 24 players. A group of activists called Arco-Íris , which means “rainbow” in Portuguese, sued the Brazilian Football Confederation (CBF) over the absence of the number, asking that the number be worn in the finals, arguing that it violated FIFA’s anti-discrimination rules. At the time, they declared: O fato da numeração da seleção brasileira pular o número 24, considerando a conotação histórico-cultural que envolta esse número de associação aos gays, deve ser entendido como uma clara ofensa à comunidade LGBTI+ e como uma atitude homofóbica.


The fact that the list of numbers in the Brazilian National Team skips number 24, considering the historical-cultural connotation around this number and its association with gay people, must be understood as a clear offense to the LGBTI+ community and as a homophobic act. CBF replied that it could no longer change the numbers already assigned to each player at that Cup because of the South American Football Confederation’s ( Conmebol’s ) rules, and the lawsuit was archived . An analysis by the newspaper Folha de S. Paulo , comparing Brazil with 11 countries, found that the number 24 was four times more likely to be used abroad than in the Brazilian football leagues. Over a year later, at the Qatar 2022 World Cup — the first where FIFA allowed 26 athletes on the roster — the country had a player listed with the number 24 for the first time in an official competition: defender Gleison Bremer, who plays for Italy’s Juventus. Asked about the number, he answered : “It’s a shirt like any other. The important thing is to be at the World Cup.”


The 24th player This time, the shirt will be worn by Roger Ibañez , a 27-year-old defender who plays for Al-Ahli in Saudi Arabia: I can’t even remember the last player to wear Brazil’s 24 shirt before Ibañez. The font didn't really help, it looks like he’s the Z4. As a “gaúcho,” someone born in Rio Grande do Sul, the southernmost state of Brazil, Ibañez is a fan of Grêmio FBPA , a club founded in 1903 in the capital Porto Alegre. The same club that became a pioneer in the 1970s, having an organized LGBTQ+ fan group, the Coligay . The name was a blend of the name of a nightclub, Coliseu, owned by a Grêmio fan, where the group would meet, and the sexual orientation of the fans. The idea came to Volmar Santos , the nightclub owner and a die-hard “gremista ” who always watched the games at the Olímpico stadium, when other fans seemed demotivated by the team’s years-long bad streak . This was in 1977, when Brazil was under military dictatorship rule (1964–1985) , which also targeted LGBTQ+ people .


Once the Coligay pack arrived at the pitch, the bleachers turned into a proper party, with music, costumes in the club’s three colors, and continuous chanting. At first, as Santos told on several occasions, remembering his Coligay days, they had to face slurs and even physical attacks — at one point, he hired security and had the members in training karate for self-defense — but once the club began to win games and titles, they were integrated as an important part of the fanbase. Santos died last January . Nowadays, Brazil has LGBTQ+ collectives within fangroups in many clubs, but it has never seen a phenomenon like the Coligay again. Grêmio and its traditional rival, Sport Club Internacional, are among the clubs without an organized queer collective. In 2020, a national collective formed by LGBTQ+ fangroups from several Brazilian clubs, the Coletivo de Torcidas Canarinhos LGBTQ+, launched the Observatory of LGBTphobia in Football , to monitor cases of discrimination. Their latest report analyzes how many teams wore the number 24 shirt in the Copinha São Paulo 2025, an under-18 competition . Out of 128 participants, only 32 teams had it.


According to the Observatory, the number represented a reduction of six teams compared to the previous year. Onã Rudá, a journalist and Canarinhos founder, says that the study of Copinha was made to show that this prejudice is instilled into kids from an early age: Por que pular o número 24? Esse é o ponto. Pula-se por causa da cultura homofóbica. A ausência dele denuncia um tipo de homofobia que está estruturada nas instituições, na cultura, na semiótica, na estética do futebol. Quando o clube passa a ter alguém que usa esse número, não significa que seja menos homofóbico, mas a ausência dele é um problema porque ela é a negação de uma identidade. Why skip the number 24? That’s the point. They skip it because of a homophobic culture. The absence of this number demonstrates a sort of homophobia that is structured within institutions, culture, semiotics, and football’s own aesthetic. When a club has someone wearing the 24, it doesn't mean that it’s suddenly less homophobic, but the absence of it is an issue because it’s the denial of an identity.


Rudá says football is one of the main social activities in the country and part of its national identity — a unique feature for people from North to South, despite regional cultural differences in a territory with continental proportions, as he told GV: O futebol tem responsabilidade social. É engraçado ouvir quem diz que futebol e política não se misturam, pessoas que assistiram a regimes como a ditadura militar, utilizarem o futebol para se promover. Então, o futebol tem uma relação com as mais variadas atividades sociais do povo brasileiro e tem um papel a cumprir: ele pode ser uma válvula provocadora de grandes mudanças — como contra LGBTfobia, questões de violência de gênero, entre outros. Football has a social responsibility. It’s funny to hear people saying football and politics can’t be mixed, people who watched regimes like the military dictatorship using football to promote themselves. So, football has a link to various social activities of the Brazilian people and a role to fulfill: it can be a valve to lead to great changes — such as against LGBTphobia, gender violence, and so on.


Kazakhstan’s stray animal reforms reignite debate over public safety and humane policies

Kazakhstan’s president, Kassym-Jomart Tokayev, signed into law the amended animal welfare regulations on May 19, shifting to a “no-return capture” model, whereby stray animals are taken to temporary holding facilities and can be euthanized if not reclaimed or adopted after the minimum holding period. Strays without owners must be held for at least five days , while animals with potential owners can be held up to 60 days before euthanasia is allowed. The law also tightens pet-owner responsibilities. Owners must now take all precautions to prevent their animals from harming people or property, and must pay damages if their pet injures someone. The new bill has sparked controversy and public backlash, renewing debates over public safety, animal welfare, and government accountability. Lawmakers versus animal welfare activists Officials and lawmakers have defended the new amendments as necessary measures to protect people from the country’s growing stray dog problem. They note that Kazakhstan’s stray dog population has been rising despite previous efforts.


For example, legislators reported that the number of captured strays grew from about 243,574 in 2022 to 276,282 by early 2026. At the same time, official statistics show that in 2025, more than 41,000 people were treated for dog bite injuries, up from about 38,800 in 2024. Critics of the amendments argue that the real problem is that the 2021 “responsible treatment” law, which sought to transition to a more humane animal welfare model, was never fully enforced. Here is a YouTube video where experts discuss the new law. Animal welfare groups (such as the KARE Foundation) maintain that the law “did not fail, it was never implemented” on the ground. They cite government figures showing that mass sterilization programs never materialized and large-scale euthanasia continued. For instance, only 58 dogs were sterilized nationwide in 2022, while over 80,000 dogs were euthanized. By 2025, of the roughly 276,000 dogs caught , only about 13 percent were sterilized, and nearly 85 percent were put down.


In practice, activists say, captured animals were often killed quickly due to overcrowded or underfunded shelters, rather than held for adoption as intended. In Almaty, the largest city and former capital, city data backs up these concerns. The municipal veterinary service reported 6,169 animal bite cases in 2025, but only 652 of those involved stray dogs. In other words, about 10 percent of bites were by strays, while most came from owned pets roaming off-leash or uncontained. Activists use this information to argue that making pet owners more accountable and expanding shelter capacity would be more effective than euthanasia. As one of the campaign’s core arguments states , killing will not solve a systemic problem, because “when cruelty is written into law, silence turns into complicity.” Conflicting data The debate over the amendments has revolved around such conflicting data. Supporters of the law point to the stubbornly high number of strays and occasional news reports of serious attacks.


For example, a widely publicized incident in June 2025 involved a 10-year-old boy who was severely injured in a dog attack by two fighting dogs in the village of Zhalpaksay in the southern Almaty region. A passerby had to shoot the dogs to save the child. Lawmakers say cases like this — and the high national bite totals — show that the current policy “has not solved the task” of reducing danger on city streets. Animal rights advocates respond that many of the cited attacks were actually by owned dogs or occurred where sterilization programs did not exist. They emphasize the audit data: nationwide, only a tiny fraction of dogs were ever neutered. According to their analysis, sterilization never reached the required 70 percent coverage, so no population decline was achieved. On the contrary, the audit shows the earlier law led to more dogs being killed , not fewer. In the activists’ narrative, the problem is “irresponsible ownership” and poor municipal follow-through.


They point to the Almaty bite figures as evidence that simply culling strays won’t fix the public safety problem. Instead, they say, authorities should properly fund shelters , foster and adoption programs, and a national dog registry to keep track of pets. What happens next? With the amendments now signed, the question is how they will work in practice. The law explicitly assigns maslikhats and akimats (local government bodies) responsibility for carrying out animal population control. It also clarifies that any decision to euthanize a dog must be approved by a veterinarian’s certificate. In effect, the new measures will come down to how each region implements them. Many animal rights groups stress the need for transparency. One civic watchdog noted that strong public oversight will be critical, since “expanded euthanasia practices” will now largely be in the hands of local officials. The public debate has highlighted deep divisions. One journalist observed that the law’s passage “provoked a massive public reaction” — over 115,000 people had publicly opposed the amendments by May 2026.


Animal welfare and humane organizations warned that the new norms “may lead to large-scale euthanasia” not only of truly homeless animals but even of pets whose owners fail to claim them. They cited data showing the previous animal protection law was largely ignored in most regions. Here is a YouTube video discussing the implications of the new law. Supporters counter that without such reforms, the stray population will only grow. In any case, many commentators see the episode as evidence of Kazakhstan’s burgeoning civic engagement: social media campaigns have forced legislators to explain the policy in unprecedented detail. At the presidential level, Tokayev has signaled a balanced approach. His office noted that while the law is intended to improve public health, it does not sanction cruelty. Tokayev has publicly urged citizens to “treat animals humanely” and vowed “zero tolerance” for abuse. Whether the formal changes will actually increase safety or mostly codify existing culling practices will depend on how strictly the new rules are applied. Many veterinarians, volunteers, and pet owners will be watching closely as the amendments take effect.


Trash and dignity: The rise of inclusive recycling projects in Latin America

Across Latin America, recycling plays a far more critical social and economic role than global averages might suggest. Despite worldwide advances in waste management, the region’s average recycling rate remains strikingly low — around four percent . Yet, within this limited formal system, an estimated two million people make a living through informal recycling, forming an essential but often invisible backbone of urban waste recovery. For many of these workers, recycling is more than an environmental practice : it’s a means of survival. Women, migrants, displaced populations, and unhoused individuals living in precarious urban conditions are among those who depend on collecting, sorting, and selling recyclable materials to sustain their daily lives. In this context, waste becomes both a resource and a lifeline. So, how do different initiatives across the region support these communities? And how can recycling-focused projects go beyond environmental benefits to foster dignity, generate income, and open pathways toward social inclusion for some of the most vulnerable people in Latin America’s cities? Eloísa Cartonera: Books made by cartoneros in Argentina Eloísa Cartonera is one of Latin America’s most distinctive independent publishing projects.