‘They showed me their weapons’ Recounting what happened that evening in Haitian Creole, Marie Rose said: Li te vè 7 è nan aswè li te fe nwa paske pat gen kouran elektrik, mwen tap mache ak de pitit mwen yo, gen de gason ki rele m, avèk yon vwa awogan. Mwen pa deside vin kote yo paske yo parèt sispèk, epi yo deplase vin anfas mwen, yo leve mayo yo epi yo montre m zam yo. Yo egzije m rantre nan yon koridò (koulwa) epi yo mande m pou mwen kouche atè a. Mwen refize, yo frape m nan vizaj ak kalòt. Se lè sa a mwen obeyi epi yo vyole m. It was around 7 p.m., and I was walking home with two of my children. There was no power, so it was extremely dark. Two men arrogantly called me over, but I stayed back. They looked suspicious. They then stood directly in front of me, lifting their shirts to show me their weapons. They demanded that I go into an alleyway and lie down on the ground. When I refused, they slapped my face. It was at this point that I followed their orders, and they raped me.


The children stood outside the alleyway, crying as their mother came out. In the days that followed, she received medical attention and follow-up care, but the experience never left her: Mwen te vle touye tèt mwen, paske chak fwa mwen rete, imaj sa yo monte nan lespri m. Mwen te vle fini ak mwen. Mwen pa fè sa se pou avni pitit mwen yo, mwen pa vle kite yo nan men lòt moun, paske yo pa gen papa. Whenever these images came to mind, I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to end it all. And while I didn’t act on it, it was because of my children’s futures. As they don’t have a father, I don’t want to leave them in the hands of others. The August 17 invasion The August 17, 2023 invasion of Carrefour-Feuilles, headed by Renel Destina (aka “Ti Lapli” — “Little Rain”), leader of the Gran Ravine gang and member of the criminal G9 federation led by Chérizier, was well orchestrated. On August 18 , in the aftermath of the attack, Radio France International (RFI) reported that thousands of residents had fled the blazing neighbourhood.


Gangs set houses on fire, looted businesses, and destroyed vehicles . Schools, hospitals, and residential buildings were systematically razed. According to quarterly reports from the United Nations Integrated Office in Haiti ( BINUH ) and the International Organization for Migration (IOM), dozens were left dead and injured in Carrefour- Feuilles alone. In such an environment, sexual assaults are commonplace. Organisations like the National Human Rights Defense Network (RNDDH) independently document and cross-reference instances of the gang rape of women, girls, and sometimes men, which is routinely used as a weapon. Seeking shelter in the ruins: A four-kilometre trek Forced to flee with her neighbours, Marie Rose walked about four kilometres (about two-and-a-half miles) to reach the Port-au-Prince administrative centre. She and her children sought refuge inside the Rex Theatre, an abandoned cinema in Champ de Mars near the National Palace , an area severely damaged during the 2010 earthquake : Lè nou te rive andan li te sal anpil chaje fatra, zèb pouse tout kote, men nou mete ansanm nou fè netwayaj, se la nou bati abri pou nou rete.


Once inside, it was very dirty, full of trash and debris, and covered with weeds. However, together, we cleaned up and built shelters to stay in. The shelters are makeshift, made from scrap metal, carpets, and plastic sheeting. When the sun beats down, the air becomes unbreathable, and when it rains, mud and water flood the living spaces. Odours linger, and the heat is suffocating. There is also no security within the camp, as the gang-controlled territory begins just a few hundred metres away: Mwen pa soti san bezwen, si mwen soti se pou mwen regle yon bagay ak pou pitit mwen yo, paske anpil fwa gen afwontman fòs polis yo ak gang yo, sa rive konn gen katouch ki frape mi deyò kan. I only go out when absolutely necessary. As there are often clashes between the gangs and the police, I only go out to run errands, or for my children. Stray bullets have already hit the camp’s exterior walls . Surviving in the camp Although international organisations sometimes provide direct aid, it remains infrequent; far more frequent are other forms of abuse.


Réseau National de Défense des Droits Humains (RNDDH) and other human rights organisations have widely reported that the camp’s internal management committee often extorts women and girls, demanding sexual favors in exchange for food and hygiene kits . Despite everything, Marie Rose has successfully restarted her small business, selling bread, cookies, patties, juice, and cigarettes on the neighbourhood’s streets. Since her husband died in a road accident in 2021, she has been the sole provider for her two daughters, aged 13 and 15, and son, aged 17: Mwen rekòmanse ak ti biznis mwen an ak sipò zanmi ke mwen gen lontan mwen byen ak yo, se yo ki ede m, epi kote mwen te konn achte an gwo avan sitiyasyon an te vin dejenere yo vann mwen ak kredi, se konsa mwen reprann ti komès la. I restarted my small business with the support of my longtime friends. Also, because the wholesalers where I used to buy in bulk, before things spiraled, let me buy on credit, I could start over. A country under gang control Marie Rose’s ordeal isn’t unique.


According to United Nations figures published in June 2026, it is an everyday reality for more than 1.5 million internally displaced persons (IDPs) in Haiti. Families have to survive in temporary overcrowded locations, public schools, abandoned administrative buildings and vacant land, all while being exposed to heat, floods, disease, and violence. In the Artibonite department, gangs continue to hound farmers, burning down houses and destroying crops. In Port-au-Prince, kidnappings, gang rapes, extortion, and arson attacks are also ongoing. Rival gangs regularly clash over territory control, making citizens the hostages of their wars. Faced with the current situation, the government remains largely unresponsive. Although Haitian National Police (HNP) and the Armed Forces of Haiti (FAd'H) have continued their efforts to regain control of downtown Port-au-Prince, they have made little progress. Community self-defence groups and vigilante brigades have launched a grassroots resistance movement , sometimes in collaboration with law enforcement, but they lack the means required to reverse the balance of power. Internationally, a new mission, the Gang Suppression Force (GSF), has been deployed to replace the Kenya-led Multinational Security Support (MSS) mission. However, Haitians remain highly sceptical given that the previous mission failed to achieve tangible results.


Fortress Europe: the new pact on migration and asylum will further deteriorate chances for LGBTQ+ refugees

There are no specific statistics on LGBTQ+ refugees from Russia applying for asylum in the European Union. However, even before the EU’s new set of laws on migration and asylum came into force in June 2026, the rate of acceptance was very low. According to Novaya Gazeta Europe, of the 8,000 asylum claims made by Russian refugees in 2024, Germany’s Federal Office for Migration and Refugees (BAMF) granted just 414, rejected 3,652, and put another 4,000 on hold pending the provision of further information, a 19 percent decrease from 2023. Russia has passed three laws aimed at curtailing the rights of queer people. In 2022, it expanded the 2013 law banning “LGBT propaganda”; publicly speaking about queer people became illegal (the first iteration of the law mentioned prohibiting LGBTQ+ propaganda to children). The very next year, Russian lawmakers banned gender transition, cutting trans people off from medical care. At the time, experts warned that the law would lead to a rise in suicides ; support groups have reported a sharp increase in requests for psychological, legal and practical help.


Finally, at the beginning of 2024, the non-existent “international LGBT movement” was recognized as an extremist organization in Russia, making it no longer safe for queer people to live openly in the country. The move effectively puts LGBTQ+ rights work at risk of criminal prosecution. The first criminal case for “LGBT extremism” is currently being heard in Orenburg : several people face up to ten years in prison simply for working at a local gay club. Many activists have been forced to leave Russia , fearing charges that can carry long jail terms. Now, the new Pact on Migration and Asylum, a set of regulations changing the rules for asylum seekers across Europe, aims to ensure that more cases are handled directly at external borders and airports, before people are admitted into EU territory. It will allow for faster rejections and returns, and tighten controls on movement within the European Union. For human rights defenders, this means that protecting people will become significantly more difficult, as applicants will be confined to border zones. In addition, the regulations introduce the concept of so-called “safe third countries,” meaning states outside of the EU through which an asylum seeker entered the Union, and where they could have applied for international protection.


In other words, if a migrant could have sought asylum in such a country, EU Member States may refuse to examine the application and send the person back to that country. This list of so-called “safe” countries of origin, which includes Bangladesh, Colombia, Egypt, India, Kosovo, Morocco and Tunisia, has already been approved by Parliament. EU accession candidate countries like Albania, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Georgia, Moldova, Montenegro, North Macedonia, Serbia, Türkiye and Ukraine are generally included, subject to some exceptions (e.g. for armed conflict). However, there is also a provision for EU countries to create safe third country lists that take other criteria, such as bilateral agreements, into account. Such bilateral agreements currently exist with Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. A lawyer working with the NGO SK SOS , which helps LGBTQ+ people escape from North Caucasus countries, says that the main risk of the legislation lies in this as-yet-unannounced list of “safe third countries.” If Russian citizens pass through these countries, they may be placed in an accelerated review procedure and could even be denied refugee status.


It will therefore become more difficult for applicants to enter EU countries and apply there for international protection. Accelerated review timelines also imply quicker refusals at an early stage, which are likely to become more frequent. The same lawyer strongly advises asylum seekers to have reliable evidence of persecution in their home country and a clear explanation of why that “third country” through which they entered cannot be considered safe for them. Stephen Phillips, a postdoctoral researcher at Åbo Akademi University’s Institute for Human Rights in Finland, told Global Voices in an email interview with Global Voices that because Russia is not on the EU safe country of origin list, Russian applicants continue to receive an individual assessment. However, Russia is now subject to the new rule allowing accelerated procedures for asylum applications from countries where the EU-wide protection recognition rate is 20 percent or lower. “Faster processing and border procedures can make it harder to prepare a case,” he explains, “but this does not mean automatic refusal. A big risk is that vulnerable applicants may find it more difficult to present complex claims.


There may not be the opportunity to provide additional arguments and evidence, and the quality of decision making may suffer with faster asylum procedures.” Phillips adds that an important consideration is that EU asylum law has, for many years, recognised persecution based on sexual orientation, gender identity, and membership of a particular social group. Russia has extensively documented anti-LGBTQ+ legislation and persecution, which he says “remains highly relevant in assessing an individual asylum claim.” While the legal basis on which LGBTQ+ Russians can qualify for asylum remains unchanged Phillips notes that “the quality of evidence, legal representation, and the ability to present a claim effectively may become even more important under the accelerated procedures.” Even if certain countries make it to the so-called “safe third countries” list, LGBTQ+ refugees might not find them safe. Kazakhstan, for example, adopted anti-LGBTQ+ “propaganda” laws in 2025; Uzbekistan’s article 120 of the Criminal Code criminalises male same-sex sexual conduct. In Georgia, a law from 2024 restricts LGBTQ+ expression, assembly, family recognition, gender-affirming care, and public depictions, and in Armenia , there are records of harassment, threats, family pressure, circulation of intimate videos, and institutional hostility.


Malaysian government replaces the term ‘LGBT’ with ‘deviant culture’

A Malaysian official said the government will stop using the term “LGBT” and instead will replace it with “ budaya songsang, ” which means “deviant culture” in Malay, reflecting the intensified discrimination faced by LGBTQ+ members in the country. During a Parliament session in February, Deputy Minister in the Prime Minister’s Office (Religious Affairs) Marhamah Rosli said that discontinuing the use of the term will influence online algorithms and thus prevent the “normalization” of LGBTQ+ culture. “The more we utter, write, or state it (the term LGBT), the more ‘pop-out’ content related to it will appear. Without realizing it, we are promoting the culture unknowingly,” she said. Despite having a Muslim-majority population, Malaysia is known for its moderate approach in implementing Islamic laws. However, in recent years, Muslim hardliners have been aggressive in pushing for the strict enforcement and integration of Islamic teachings in governance. This has resulted in frequent attacks targeting the LGBTQ+ community. Justice for Sisters reported that in 2025 alone, around 307 LGBTQ+ individuals were arrested under both federal and state laws.


An Amnesty International report showed that between 2020 and May 2025, 13 publications with LGBTQ+ themes or content were banned . It also noted that nearly 48 percent of LGBTQ+ respondents reported having to tone down or self-censor their views due to safety and security concerns. A wellness program for LGBTQ+ members was forced to cancel the activity in January after it was reported to the police and authorities for allegedly promoting “deviant sexual behavior.” During the same month, the Selangor Sultan imposed a ban on all “LGBTQ+ activities.” In a statement, Justice for Sisters criticized the decision to replace the LGBTQ+ term and called it a “dangerous escalation of state-sponsored misinformation and hostility towards LGBT people.” The term budaya songsang dehumanizes LGBT people, fuels misinformation, and reinforces the dangerous belief that LGBT people should be ‘corrected.’ It contributes directly to violence, discrimination, and violations of dignity and equality under Articles 5 and 8 of the Federal Constitution. Amnesty International Malaysia’s campaigner Qistina Johari warned that the new term could legitimize and amplify hate and discrimination directed towards the LGBTQ+ community.


We strongly condemn this appalling decision by the government. When public officials label LGBTI people as ‘deviant,’ they are not upholding morality — they are legitimizing hate and discrimination against a highly vulnerable group. Words from those in power carry weight and real-world consequences. In an article written for East Asia Forum, Vilashini Somiah, a senior lecturer in the Gender Studies Program of the Universiti Malaya, noted that the government’s Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim could be seeking to “placate conservative Islamist coalition partners ahead of the general election.” His government is navigating a complex environment in which securing its political base may outweigh human rights commitments. Ethno-religious pressure has pushed his fragile coalition away from reform, and scapegoating the queer community carries little electoral cost and can be deployed as diversion or as demonstration of moral authority. Anwar, a former leader of the opposition, rose to power by proposing a reform agenda, but critics have expressed dismay over his failure to fulfill his campaign promises. Posting on social media, X user Elsie Low pointed out the distorted focus on policing identity rather than combating corruption in the bureaucracy.


So Malaysia is officially replacing ‘LGBT’ with ‘deviant culture’ to ‘prevent normalization.’ Funny how we don’t see that same energy for corruption. When did bribery become part of our ‘standard’ culture while identity becomes ‘deviant’? Channel News Asia interviewed Mitch Yusof of SEED , a group for the transgender community, about how they are adjusting to the heightened surveillance and threats coming from the government and its conservative supporters. We’re more thoughtful in how we say things … from how we describe programs publicly to the language we use on social media and how sensitive information is shared. It helps us stay in control and avoid unnecessary risk. There is a stronger internal emphasis on risk awareness among staff and community members, so that everyone understands the landscape we are operating in. Despite the concerns raised by human rights groups, authorities continued to conduct raids targeting the LGBTQ+ community. In May, police detained 51 men in a Kuala Lumpur hotel raid for allegedly participating in a “drug-fuelled gay party.”


Digital surveillance is breaking activist mental health

When experts discuss how modern digital surveillance erodes civic space, human rights and freedoms, the conversations almost always drift into vague conclusions and confusing legal jargon. We spend our time arguing over privacy, technical details like encryption settings, or the abstract limits of government control power. But I am presenting a new report and Global Study to invite us all to look at an entirely different, deeply human ledger of harm: the profound crisis of mental health and psychological trauma that is currently sweeping through civil society and the global activist community. For a long time, we have been told that government surveillance is like a sharp scalpel: a precise tool used against dangerous actors. The truth is that digital surveillance has been transformed into a massive, society-wide, permanent ecosystem of suspicion that affects, or can potentially affect, everyone. Unlike the old days when policing was limited and localized, today’s digital tracking is remote, largely invisible and never stops. In many countries it follows activists, civil society actors, journalists and human rights defenders into their homes using a long range of tools, including smartphone spyware.


This allows outsiders to map their family connections and monitor their private communications, wrecking not only their public work, but also affecting deeply even their more intimate relationships. The psychological toll of operating within this invisible trap is devastating. After analysing data across 84 countries and territories, I found out that the worst damage of digital repression isn't just that it paralyzes organizations or makes people afraid to engage with others — the de-socialization effect — it also causes deep psychological trauma. Activists are struggling with clinical depression, emotional exhaustion, chronic burnout, and severe mental health challenges, including Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), directly caused by state-backed digital surveillance. Living under constant surveillance is to exist in a permanent state of hypervigilance. Activists report checking their phones with intense anxiety, over-analyzing simple everyday technology glitches, and constantly looking over their shoulders on the street. This state of paranoia eventually colonizes the routine of civil society and activists until they don’t even notice their anxiousness, fracturing physical, emotional, and social life.


This isn’t an accidental side effect of digital surveillance; it is a carefully designed mechanism of pre-emptive deterrence. When governments weaponize uncertainty, a person’s mind becomes its own prison. Worse still is the deep social isolation surveillance creates. Trust, which is the vital fuel of collective action and solidarity, completely evaporates. When Pegasus or other spyware infects an activist or an organization, the victim becomes a social pariah and is treated like someone with a contagious disease. Colleagues stop texting them out of fear of collateral surveillance. Close relationships and intimate partnerships deteriorate. Activists face the heartbreaking choice of either continuing their public work or cutting ties with their aging parents and/or young children to shield them from retaliatory monitoring and doxxing. This systematic breaking of ties leaves human rights defenders profoundly alone. The impact on vulnerable groups, like youth, is even deeper. The self-censorship forced upon Gen Z activists, for example, creates a mental fatigue that is ultimately more toxic and mentally draining than the online hatred or physical harassment they face in public.


This emotional damage is so widespread that a new industry focused on therapy has emerged within the activism world, explicitly dedicated to helping victims of digital surveillance survive and overcome the psychological ghosts left behind when their private lives are stolen. When severe medical conditions like PTSD become an everyday danger and standard occupational hazard, for activism, the global system and human rights framework have fundamentally broken down. If international bodies continue to evaluate surveillance through a narrow, strictly legal lens focused only on privacy, they chronically underestimate the compound harm of these systems. Digital surveillance does much more than steal data. It inflicts deep human wounds; it stops people from safely developing and expressing their identities, breeds trauma that can last for generations, and fractures the human mind. Until we weigh real emotional costs like depression, burnout, and fear right alongside legal frameworks, we will continue to look away as the mental well-being of our bravest change-makers and rights defenders is quietly demolished in the digital darkness.


Selling identities: The commercialization of Mayan culture

The government and the private sector in Mexico frequently reference the identities and symbols of Mayan communities to promote tourism in the country. The Riviera Maya , the tourist corridor managed by the government of the state of Quintana Roo on the Yucatán Peninsula, is perhaps the best-known example. The Mayan archaeological sites in the region are among the key attractions that the tourism industry, both national and international, highlights when promoting its services. The Tren Maya , the railway line connecting southeastern Mexico, is an iconic project. Still under construction, it was inaugurated by former President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (National Regeneration Movement, or MORENA) in December 2013 with the opening of its first sections. The initiative has been publicized as an effort that “celebrates the resurgence of the great Maya nation,” immersing visitors in the heart of southeastern Mexico. Connecting the states of Chiapas, Tabasco, Campeche, Yucatán, and Quintana Roo, the train, according to its official website , features a design inspired by Mayan culture, “in the colors and textures of regional art.”


The Travesía Sagrada (Sacred Journey), an annual event organized and celebrated by the tourism consortium Grupo Xcaret, which the Quintana Roo Tourism Secretariat promoted as a “unique experience that revives the ancient Mayan ritual by crossing the Caribbean Sea in canoes, in honor of the goddess Ixchel” in 2025, is another example of these references to symbols and identities when promoting tourist services. Narrative: The Mayan culture is a marketing tool; it is a trademark In March 2024, Grupo Xcaret shared a statement reporting on a meeting with the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo, in which both parties addressed the “use, protection, and development of Mayan cultural heritage” within the framework of the Federal Law for the Protection of the Cultural Heritage of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican Peoples and Communities : … Grupo Xcaret will continue to provide suitable spaces for cultural bearers (inheritors and transmitters of traditions, knowledge, and living heritage) to share their cultural expressions with dignity, fostering a vision of prosperity and shared value.


This will always be done with absolute adherence to ethics and their self-determination, and through prior, free, and informed consent in accordance with their customs and traditions, giving credit to the bearers and providing fair compensation agreed upon by both parties. Grupo Xcaret will support projects for the research, preservation, protection, promotion, enhancement, revitalization, dissemination, and transmission of the Living Heritage that the Ceremonial Centers choose to share, including, but not limited to, Mayapaax music, the training of prayer leaders, traditional ceremonies, patron saint festivals, and the transmission of traditional medicine. This will be done while respecting the self-determination of each Ceremonial Center. The agreement acknowledges the “lack of implementation” of the transitional rules of the Federal Law for the Protection of the Cultural Heritage of Indigenous and Afro-Mexican Peoples and Communities, while seeking consent for the Xcaret Group to continue using Mayan symbols and identities across its various facilities. One of them is Xcaret Park , a theme park that offers shows such as the Travesía Sagrada.


With this agreement — which, according to reports , involved a compensation of 15 million Mexican pesos (just over USD 857,000) — the Xcaret Group, together with the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo, shares a narrative that gives commercial value to Mayan symbols and identities, turning them, in their story, into a transactional element. For more than 30 years, as mentioned in the 2024 document, Grupo Xcaret has used Mayan symbols and identities in its commercial strategies, implicitly stating that these symbols and identities constitute a trademark. The context surrounding the narrative The agreement between Grupo Xcaret and the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo follows the latter’s 2022 complaint to the National Copyright Institute (Indautor) against the tourism consortium for appropriating Mayan cultural heritage. The case was elevated to the Supreme Court of Justice of the Nation (SCJN), which, after an appeal referencing the 2024 agreement between the parties, ruled in March 2026 that Grupo Xcaret must remove advertising content that used elements of Mayan cultural heritage.


According to the SCJN press release , “tangible and intangible cultural heritage belongs collectively to Indigenous peoples and communities, and therefore its protection is a matter of public order and social interest.” In April 2026, the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo expressed its discontent with the SCJN ruling, accused the court of denying them a hearing to defend the actions of the Xcaret Group, and reaffirmed the agreement reached in 2024. The Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo is an Indigenous representative body, established by the state of Quintana Roo in 1998. According to an article by Hilda Landrove Torres in the online magazine Maya América , it has been surrounded by conflict and political pressure. The institution was created during the administration of Mario Ernesto Villanueva Madrid (then a member of the Institutional Revolutionary Party, or PRI), who prioritized the development of tourism in the Riviera Maya . Critics of Villanueva Madrid’s governorship argue that he orchestrated unions to his advantage, including the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo, to ensure the growth of the state’s tourism industry.


Villanueva Madrid’s term ended in 1999, and he was imprisoned years later for alleged ties to drug trafficking, charges he maintains stem from his refusal to support the business interests of former President Ernesto Zedillo ’s family (also linked to the PRI) in the Riviera Maya. The positioning of the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo as being representative of the community was pushed in 2016 by the then governor-elect Carlos Joaquín González (currently Mexico's ambassador to Canada), who represented the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD). According to the council’s proponents, its legitimacy emanates from its members, the Mayan generals and priests who represent each of the five ceremonial centers located in the state of Quintana Roo. The council is currently led by Simón Caamal Coh, who in April 2026 denied having received 15 million Mexican pesos as part of the agreement with Grupo Xcaret, which was made public in March 2024.


The National Institute for the Development of Indigenous Peoples (INPI) recognizes a separate group of representatives of the Mayan community in Quintana Roo, who have expressed their disagreement with the actions of the Great Mayan Council of Quintana Roo and are requesting an audit of the 15 million Mexican pesos allegedly granted by the Xcaret Group. Mayan communities are nowadays settled across a vast geographical area encompassing Guatemala, Belize, western El Salvador, and Honduras, as well as the Mexican states of Chiapas, Tabasco, Campeche, Yucatán, and Quintana Roo. Given its status as a cultural region, this territory transcends national and state borders and therefore cannot be defined solely by them. Each Mayan community has its distinct language, worldview, and traditions. Due to funding challenges, our Civic Media Observatory research continues on hiatus, and we are currently working at minimum capacity. Please help us maintain these narrative insights in a nutshell by donating to Global Voices, and reach out if interested in building partnerships to conduct our Civic Media Observatory research.


Fighting Western imports: The justification of the anti-LGBTQ+ agenda in Africa

Between June 3 and 6, 2026, the Ghanaian Parliament hosted the 4th African Inter-Parliamentary Conference on Family, Sovereignty and Values in Accra, Ghana, where representatives and lawmakers from 20 countries gathered to defend traditional values, strengthen national sovereignty, and resist what attendees considered external ideological pressure. In previous years, the meetings took place in Uganda , hosted by the State House and the Parliament of Uganda. The conference is set with the mission of “eliminating all forms of modern colonialism and ideological imposition from the continent.” In the 2025 gathering, Uganda’s First Lady and Minister of Education and Sports Janet Kataaha Museveni warned that “too often, aid is not offered freely,” tying it to what she describes as conditions that threaten to redefine African societies according to foreign standards, eroding the region’s values and sovereignty. According to the Parliament of Ghana, a major milestone was achieved during the 2026 convention, when the African Charter on the Protection of the Family, Sovereignty, and Religious and Cultural Values was unanimously adopted.


Legislators who attended the event are now advocating for the African Union to consider and endorse the document in advance of its February 2027 Assembly. Narrative: ‘Gender ideology ’ is a Western imposition that must be stopped Article 1 of the African Charter on the Protection of the Family, Sovereignty, and Religious and Cultural Values draft sets out definitions of several key legal, social, moral, and political concepts. With regard to “Gender ideology,” the charter provides the following definition: ‘Gender ideology’ refers to a set of beliefs and theories that separate the concept of gender from biological sex, asserting that a person’s gender identity is subjective and self-determined, and can exists on a spectrum and that a person can be male, female, neither, or somewhere in between. Gender ideology blurs distinctions between male and female, positioning gender as a social construct that can be fluid and changed rather than a fixed biological reality. Gender ideology forms the basis of an activist movement to redefine sex, gender and gender roles in ways that undermine African cultural and religious values and the African family itself.


Moreover, gender ideology is most often advanced through international and regional policy instruments as well as through sex education or general youth initiatives both in and out of schools without parental or local consent. Gender ideology activists promote laws, regulations, policies, programs, educational curricula, medical services, and social frameworks that normalize multiple gender identities and expressions beyond the male/female distinction traditionally recognized by most African cultures, religions, and legal systems. In the context of children, adherence to gender ideology can lead to gender confusion and harmful medical interventions that can render children infertile for life. Such interventions include the administration of dangerous puberty blockers, toxic cross-sex hormones, breast removal, and genital-mutilating surgeries. In several sections of the charter, foreign influence is identified as a major threat to the preservation of African Religious and Cultural Values. In Article 5, it is even argued that African countries should refrain from endorsing or implementing gender ideology or other externally derived concepts of sexuality and gender rights that are inconsistent with African cultural values, traditions, and Africa’s interpretation of fundamental human rights as established through longstanding treaty commitments in their originally negotiated form.


The narrative is also asserted beyond the Charter and the African Inter-Parliamentary Conference on Family, Sovereignty and Values. In an Instagram post , Africa Is Powerful , a handle sharing “viral and relevant trending African news” on several social media platforms, celebrates the recent criminalization of homosexuality in Niger . The caption of the post praises how the “new Nigerien penal code explicitly represses same-sex relationships and ‘unnatural acts’” while claiming it protects “traditional African values and family structures against foreign-imposed ideologies.” The context surrounding the narrative The African Charter on the Protection of the Family, Sovereignty, and Religious and Cultural Values has been severely criticized by human rights advocates. The Initiative for Strategic Litigation in Africa (ISLA) published a detailed report analyzing each article of the charter. It argues that, if adopted in its current form, the charter would mark a regressive shift in African human rights law, potentially weakening established protections under key instruments such as the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights, the Maputo Protocol , and the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child .


At the 4th African Inter-Parliamentary Conference on Family, Sovereignty and Values, South African representatives rejected the charter, arguing it was inconsistent with their constitution. Mozambique also abstained, citing logistical challenges for the implementation. The 2026 convention was held a week after Ghana’s Parliament passed what has been described as one of Africa’s most restrictive anti-LGBTQ+ bills . If enacted, the legislation would make identifying as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, or queer punishable by up to three years in prison and would also criminalize the promotion of LGBTQ+ identities and related activities. The annual African Inter-Parliamentary Conference on Family, Sovereignty and Values, which began in 2023, is reportedly linked to a US-based organization, Family Watch International , led by Sharon Slater , who has been involved in training African politicians on how to campaign against sex education and LGBTQ+ rights. The organization denies any direct ties to the conference and claims that new reports about its work are false. It states that it has never been involved in promoting anti LGBTQ+ regulation.


The copy of the charter referred to in this story comes from the Family Watch official web page . Family Watch International explains that it has worked in Uganda since the early 2000s on programs like abstinence-based HIV prevention and orphan care, and later focused on opposing what it calls “comprehensive sexuality education” (CSE), which it claims is inappropriate or harmful for children. Henk Jan van Schothorst of Christian Council International in the Netherlands is also said to be one of the big promoters of the conference and creator of the charter. The charter has been discussed and highlighted in international Catholic media, including The Catholic Herald , which presents Africa as an increasingly significant center of global Catholicism, characterized by strong ecclesiastical influence and rapidly growing numbers of faithful and clergy — a very positive aspect according to the author. The article notes that many African bishops are perceived as strongly aligned with traditional teachings on marriage and sexuality, a stance that is often reflected in the region’s reservations toward certain contemporary human rights frameworks.


Critics of the claim that queerness is “unAfrican” argue that this perspective stems in part from the enduring effects of colonial trauma, as well as the continued influence of Judeo-Christian belief systems. Aileen Waitaaga Kimuhu, writing for Democracy in Africa , outlines evidence suggesting that, before European colonization, many pre-colonial African societies held more fluid and permissive understandings of sexual expression and gender identity. According to Amnesty International , in 2024, consensual same-sex sexual activity remained illegal in 31 countries in Africa, even though this conflicts with recognized African Union principles and international human rights standards. A 2024 briefing from the organization looking at 12 countries of the region reports an escalation of anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment and the weaponization of the law. Some organizations report a new wave of anti-LGBTQ+ laws in Africa, with only about 20 that do not currently criminalize same-sex relations. In addition to Niger and Ghana’s most recent regulations, a stricter anti-LGBTQ+ law that increases prison sentences was approved by Senegal’s president in early 2026.


Haiti’s ‘Grenadiers’ bring hope and joyful moments at World Cup 2026

Haiti has not played in the final phase of a FIFA World Cup since 1974. For 52 years, the national football team , known as “Les Grenadiers” (The Grenadiers), could never get past the Concacaf qualifying rounds — until now. Haiti’s national team has made a “historic return” to this year’s World Cup, having topped Group C during the third round of Concacaf qualifiers. Group C is a tough one, with heavyweights like Brazil, which has won the coveted trophy on five occasions, and Morocco, considered one of Africa’s most successful national football teams. Haiti currently stands at the bottom of the group, right behind Scotland. Even after the long wait to see their national team perform on the world football stage, Haitians have maintained an endless love for “ the beautiful game .” You can see football played everywhere in Haiti: in schools, in the streets, in backyards, on open fields, and in narrow corridors. Wherever there is a small open space, practically everyone — from children to adults — are playing. Football is truly the country’s national sport. When gangs trump goals Yet, Haiti does not have many modern sports facilities.


The few structures that existed are no longer useable because they are controlled by armed groups; some have been completely destroyed. The FIFA Goal Center in the municipality of Croix-des-Bouquets, for example, was the main training academy for youth football. The 400 Mawozo gang , led by Wilson Joseph (more commonly referred to as “Lanmò San Jou” — “Death Knows No Days”), took control of the area and according to various reports , several buildings on the FIFA Goal Center compound were set on fire. Even the Sylvio Cator National Stadium in Port-au-Prince, the historic home of Haitian football, was not off limits for the gangs, which seized and damaged the facility in 2024. The Haitian Football Federation (FHF) confirmed that the stadium had been damaged, and that materials and equipment were stolen from the site. The Olympic Center, located in the Croix-des-Missions area, is also trapped in a zone controlled by groups like Chyen Mechan and Canaan-based gangs , leaving sport as one of the sectors hardest hit from the violence. With things so difficult, the FHF, led by Monique André , has tried to support the team as much as possible.


Because they could not play at home, the Grenadiers had to host all their “home” qualifying matches in Curaçao, another Caribbean island nation that qualified for this year’s World Cup. Many were surprised by the success of the Haitian team, which predominantly comprises players living abroad and those with dual nationality, including star forwards Duckens Nazon , Wilson Isidor , Frantzdy Pierrot ; midfielder Jean Ricner Bellegarde ; goalkeeper Johny Placide , and defender Ricardo Adé . The only player coming directly from the local league is Wédensky Pierre , who plays for Violette Athletic Club . Local football competitions have completely stopped because of insecurity, though the league managed to organise a special short tournament aimed at keeping clubs and players active. A significant anniversary It is fitting that during one of the hardest times in Haiti's history, on November 18, 2025, The Grenadiers officially qualified for the 2026 World Cup. The date is especially important because it marks the anniversary of the Battle of Vertières in 1803 , the final battle of the Haitian Revolution that won the country its independence.


Haitians all over the world celebrated . Back at home, the whole country was filled with excitement: Rara walking bands filled the streets in the evenings as people from all neighbourhoods and social groups celebrated together. For one local fan, Marc, it was an unforgettable moment: Jodi a mwen plis pase kontan, mwen jwenn fyète m ankò kòm ayisyen, mwen santi m ap vibre. Sa k pase a se plis pase yon senp kalifikasyon pou yon konpetisyon foutbòl […] se yon mesaj pou lemonn antye pou n di Ayiti pa rezime ak vyolans gang, salte ak mizè. Se yon pèp ki rich ki gen anpil bèl bagay li ka pwouve. Today I am more than happy, I found my pride again as a Haitian, I feel myself vibrating. What happened is more than a simple qualification for a football competition […] it is a message for the whole world to say that Haiti is not reduced to gang violence, dirt and misery […] a rich people who have many beautiful things they can prove.


Right after Haiti’s qualification, team vice-captain Ricardo Adé, who plays professionally in Ecuador, sent a direct message to both the gangs and the government: “Ouvè peyi a” — “Open the country.” He repeated this request on social media and in interviews, pointing out that gangs continue to block the main roads connecting the capital to the north and south of the country. Communities come together As World Cup 2026 continues, people across Haiti have been enjoying the matches with great excitement: from the poorest working-class area to richer residential communities, neighbourhoods are decorated; public buses, private cars, and motorcycle taxis proudly fly the Haitian flag; street sellers sell thousands of team jerseys; and colourful banners adorn public squares across the country. To help everyone watch the games, the Haitian government, through the Ministry of the Interior, provided big screen televisions to local and regional authorities, which allowed people in remote villages to gather in city halls, neighbourhood centres, and even some camps for displaced people, to watch the matches together. Yet, the harsh reality the country faces remains unchanged.


Even as Haitians watch the World Cup, armed gangs continue to attack local communities like Cité Soleil, where a wave of violence that began in May has been forcing thousands of residents to leave their homes . A challenging ‘Round of 32’ The Grenadiers’ first round playoff group, often called the “group of death,” has not been kind to them. Their first match took place on Saturday June 13, in New Jersey, where the Haitian diaspora in the United States came out in their numbers to support the team as it faced Scotland. The Grenadiers lost the match 1-0. In every city and state the team has since visited, local Haitian communities have come together to welcome the players, cheer them on, and show support. At the team’s match against Brazil in Boston, Massachusetts on June 19 — which The Grenadiers lost 3-0 — Haiti’s return to the world football stage became a source of pride and a break from daily political worries. Thousands of fans traveled across states to fill stadiums and show their love, bringing people together in a strong and meaningful way.


Despite this strong support, by their third match, the team knew it would be eliminated in the first round. Still, the players gave their all in their final game against Morocco, scoring two goals in a hard 4-2 loss. Back home in Haiti, fan zones were full of people cheering until the end. On social media, fans expressed deep thanks to the players for their courage. Nadia, a Haitian woman living in the Dominican Republic, said: Mwen fyè de pakou grenadye nou yo; sa fè 52 zan depi nou pat janm patisipe nan yon koup dimond foutbòl, men gras ak yo nou reviv moman istorik sa a, malgre nou pa rive kalifye pou dezyèm tou konpetisyon an, se sa nou tout te espere men domaj sa pa rive fèt, men patisipasyon Ayiti nan mondyal sa a, fè laprès entènasyonal chanje naratif la sou nou, paske depi yo pale de Haiti nan laprès entènasyonal yo souvan dekri vyolans gang, enstabilite politik ak mizè, ak grenadye yo lemonn antye dekouvri yon lòt aspè de Ayiti, mwen pa gen mo pou mwen remèsye grenadye nou yo; mwen fyè de yo.


I am proud of the journey of our Grenadiers; it has been 52 years since we last participated in a football World Cup, but thanks to them we relived this historic moment. Even though we didn’t manage to qualify for the second round of the competition, which is what we all hoped for but unfortunately didn’t happen, Haiti’s participation in this World Cup made the international press change the narrative about us. Because whenever they talk about Haiti in the international press they often describe gang violence, political instability and misery, but with the Grenadiers the whole world discovered another aspect of Haiti. I have no words to thank our Grenadiers; I am proud of them. The Grenadiers’ World Cup may be finished, but they achieved something important: they brought a moment of happiness and unity to a country going through a difficult situation, and showed the world Haiti’s resilience.


Gender-bending in Balkan history and folklore: Sworn virgins, ritual roles and women warriors in drag

In contemporary Balkan discourse, under the influence of global culture wars, tradition is often presented as something fixed, simple and strictly patriarchal. Yet the region’s history, folklore and popular memory contain more complicated examples: women who became socially recognized as men, queer or gender-nonconforming men with visible ritual roles, and female heroes who temporarily crossed into male identity in order to fight for their community. These examples should not be romanticized as proof that Balkan societies were secretly egalitarian. Most of them existed within patriarchal systems, as a sort of “exception that proves the rule,” reconfirming the “traditional” female role as obedient daughter who should grow into mother and housewife. What they do show is that the past (or at least people’s imagination) wasn’t as rigid as today’s defenders of “traditional values” often claim. Sworn virgins One of the best-known examples is the Balkan sworn virgin , known in Albanian as burrnesha or virgjinesha , and in South Slavic contexts as virdžina . In the highland parts of northern Albania, Montenegro, Kosovo and the wider Dinaric highlands, a daughter in a family without a suitable male heir would assume the social role of a man .


This usually meant a vow of celibacy, masculine clothing and behavior, and public recognition as head of household. The practice was not modern emancipation. It was often a patriarchal solution to a patriarchal problem: if inheritance, honor and household authority were organized through men, society allowed a daughter to “become” a social man when no biological man was available. The sworn virgin would gain the responsibility of running the family, alongside freedoms denied to other women, such as wearing men’s clothing and publicly socializing with men while smoking and drinking tea. However, all this came at the cost of celibacy, with no chance of marriage, sexual expression or motherhood. A 2022 BBC article concludes that “only a dozen ‘sworn virgins’ are left in the world, as an ancient Balkan tradition where women live as men dies out.” Men in non-traditional, effeminate roles A different example appears in Aleksandar Manić’s 2005 documentary “ Šutka Book of Records ,” which presents several colorful portraits of extraordinary inhabitants of Šuto Orizari , the majority ethnic Roma municipality in the Macedonian capital of Skopje.


The film follows local eccentric champions, including, as the synopsis puts it , “the local homosexual in his colourful wardrobe” who is “no less respected” than other distinctive local figures. According to a subplot beginning at 45:55 in the video , two openly gay men who display a flamboyant, gesture-filled speaking style, are engaged by families of young boys about to undergo the Muslim ritual of circumcision. The men are considered the best decorators and prop masters for the event, which includes the sourcing of a special bed. This example needs careful handling. While Roma and Muslim communities or Balkan societies in general are not free of homophobia, the scene complicates stereotypes. In a community often described from the outside via narratives of poverty or negative conservative stereotypes, the film shows a more layered social world, where a queer figure can be visible, valued and woven into society’s ritual and religious life. Women warriors, in drag The third and richest set of examples comes from folklore. In a recent text for the Macedonian feminist platform Meduza, Leni Frčkoska revisits Macedonian folk tales through the motifs of “shift of sex” and the “woman-warrior.” The title of the text, which can be translated as “The Hero was a Girl!


A Feminist Re-reading of the Motifs of Sex Change and the Woman Warrior in Macedonian Folklore,” is an abridged version of her PhD thesis . Frčkoska notes that folklore tends to reproduce conservative and patriarchal lessons, but also contains subversive female figures that disturb those lessons from within. The woman-warrior motif is often related to gender-bending. In these stories, the protagonist is a girl from a family with no sons. She disguises herself as a man, enters the male-coded world of battle, proves herself as a hero, and usually returns to her previous female role once the danger has passed. Frčkoska summarizes that, in several Macedonian variants, the period of being masked as a male soldier ends after victory, and the youngest daughter returns to her earlier female role. Quoting a detail from a Macedonian folk tale collected by Marko Cepenkov in the mid-19th century, Frčkoska says that it displays this pattern. After the battle, the heroine loosens her hair, opens her robe to show her breasts, and tells the prince: Дејгиди синче царево, горска еребица в раце ти дошла и не си успеал да ја ватиш за в кафез да ја клајш.


Јас девојче си бев и девојче сум си, види ми косите, види ми ‘и боските и седи ми си со здравје. Alas, son of the emperor, you had a partridge [free bird] in your hand and you allowed it to fly away, instead of putting her in a cage. I was a girl, and I am a girl: look at my hair, look at my breasts – and now farewell…” Public nudity was and still is a taboo according to Balkan patriarchal mores, so the line is not merely a bodily revelation; it’s a narrative reversal. The “male warrior” has already succeeded; only then does the story reveal that the hero was a woman all along. The body becomes the sign that reclassifies the fighter, but only after courage has been proven. The Macedonian folk song “Kruševo aber pristigna” (“A call came to Kruševo”) offers a popular version of the same gender-bending logic. The song tells a fictional story of a call that came to the town of Kruševo for families to send their grown sons as komiti (guerilla fighters) to village of Smilevo , famous as a hotbed of anti-Ottoman revolutionary activity.


A man called Stojan has no sons; he has only his daughter, Todorka. Instead of accepting this as the end of the family’s public duty, Todorka asks her father to equip her so she can go as a komita . Wearing a man’s disquise, Todorka joins the fighters so convincingly that, as the song says, “no one recognized Todorka as a girl.” In this instance, the gender-bending is more precise than simple cross-dressing. The song shows a temporary bending of the rules that decides who may fight as opposed to staying at home in a nurturing — and essentially helpless — female role, who may represent the family, and who may enter national heroic memory. The song remains popular today, having been revived by contemporary performers, including Macedonian pop-folk star Stojne Nikolova . Her modern interpretation, seen in the video clip below, celebrates Todorka as a patriotic heroine without necessarily naming the gender politics of the story. Yet, those politics are there: a daughter steps into the empty place reserved for a son, defending her father’s honor.


The motif also has echoes in historical biographies from the region, across a spectrum of disguise, warriorhood and later, patriotic memory. Sirma Vojvoda (1776–1864), a female hajduk (a mix of rebel, brigand and freedom fighter) from the Debar region, is probably the closest historical parallel to Todorka. She is remembered as a leader of highland fighters battling Ottoman oppression. A breast-related detail also entered her folk memory: according to a footnote in the song about her collected by the Miladinov Brothers , the men in her band recognized she was a woman only when the buttons on her chest were torn. She remained their leader after her demasking. Čučuk Stana (1795–1849/50) belongs to a related, but slightly different tradition. Connected with the Serbian uprisings and remembered in Serbian epic poetry, she was not primarily a “secret male identity” figure. Rather, her story shows a woman entering the “male world” of hajduks, armed resistance and heroic reputation. Accounts of her youth also say that she and her sisters wore men’s clothes outside the home because they had no adult brother to protect them.


Milunka Savić (1890/1892–1973) brings the motif into documented 20th century military history. During the Balkan Wars , she joined the Serbian army by cutting her hair, putting on men’s clothes and presenting herself as a man, reportedly in place of her brother. After her gender was discovered, she remained in combat and later became one of the most decorated women soldiers of World War I. These historical figures help illustrate that female warriors in drag were not just a fairy-tale fantasy. In different forms, women in Balkan history crossed into roles reserved for men — secretly or visibly, temporarily or permanently — as heroines who remain in the memory of subsequent generations. Although contemporary readers may relate, examples of gender-bending in the Balkans don’t fit neatly into modern identity categories such as transgender, gay, lesbian or non-binary. They do, however, challenge the dogma that gender diversity is foreign to the Balkans, or that tradition is limited to binary models of masculinity and femininity. Nothing is ever simple in the Balkans, including its patriarchal past and present.


I learned the feeling of statelessness in my Uyghur homeland

I was born as the Chinese Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) was coming to an end. My childhood coincided with the early years of what was later celebrated as the era of Reform and Opening Up (1976–1989). Unlike my parents, I did not experience the chaos and violence of the Cultural Revolution. Instead, I grew up during a relatively stable period. Together with my parents, brothers, and sisters, I enjoyed what I still remember as a happy childhood. I can still vividly recall my first day of primary school. To celebrate the occasion, my father bought me a bright red schoolbag, a white blouse, white socks, and a pair of shiny red shoes. That morning, I felt like the happiest child in the world. Life seemed simple then. On weekends, my parents would take us on outings, or we would visit my grandmother. School was filled with activities and celebrations. Every Children’s Day brought performances, games, and excitement. Looking back now, those memories still feel warm and peaceful.


Yet many years later, I came to realize that even during those seemingly calm years, the foundations of a different reality were already being laid. One day, a teacher explained Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution and told us that human beings had evolved from monkeys. Like every curious child, I rushed home and eagerly shared this new knowledge with my father. “Dad, my teacher says we came from monkeys.” My father paused for a moment before smiling. “Maybe your teacher came from a monkey,” he replied. “We were created by Allah. Never forget that.” At the time, I did not understand why he responded that way. Years later, I realized that my father was trying to protect far more than a religious belief. He was trying to protect an identity. ‘Their goal was never to make Uyghur lives better’ As I grew older, I became increasingly curious about who I was. I began reading history and asking questions.


Gradually, I came to understand that my culture, the Uyghurs , possessed a language, culture, and historical memory distinct from those of the Han majority, which make up 91 percent of China’s population. More importantly, I began to sense that the society around me was not quite as equal as it appeared. My father was the first person who taught me that I belonged to a people whose story could not simply be folded into the story of China. He was the first person who planted the word “Uyghur” deep in my heart. One day, we were discussing China’s economic reforms. Like many young people at the time, I knew little about politics. What I heard repeatedly was that life had improved after Deng Xiaoping’s reforms . So I asked him: “During Mao’s time, there was the Cultural Revolution, and people suffered greatly. Now, Deng Xiaoping has introduced reforms, and life is getting better. Doesn’t that make Deng a good leader?” My father laughed softly. Then he said something that would take me decades to understand.


“Child, whether it is Mao Zedong or Deng Xiaoping, it makes little difference for the Uyghurs. Their goal was never to make Uyghur lives better.” At the time, I found his answer puzzling. Only years later did I begin to understand what he meant. As I entered adulthood, I increasingly noticed patterns that had seemed invisible when I was younger. Opportunities did not always appear to be distributed equally. Admission to better schools often depended on more than academic performance. Finding a respectable job often depended on more than qualifications. Many Uyghurs felt that important opportunities were becoming harder to reach, while others appeared to move ahead more easily. Years later, when I read the writings of the imprisoned Uyghur scholar Ilham Tohti , I was struck by how closely his observations reflected realities many ordinary Uyghurs had long experienced. He wrote about employment inequality, barriers to social mobility, and the growing marginalization of Uyghur language and culture. Reading his words, I often felt that he was describing the frustrations that many of us had quietly carried for years.


At the time, however, these concerns remained largely beneath the surface. People complained privately. They rarely spoke openly. And despite growing frustrations, daily life continued. Uyghurs and Han Chinese lived in the same cities, studied in the same schools, worked in the same offices, and shared the same public spaces. The tensions existed. But so did ordinary human relationships. Then came July 5, 2009 . Only days earlier, reports had spread among Uyghurs about the killing of Uyghur migrant workers in Shaoguan , Guangdong Province (June 25–26, 2009). The official silence that followed deepened public anger and grief. I happened to be traveling for work when the Shaoguan incident occurred. When I returned to Urumqi on July 4, I could sense that the city was uneasy. Yet I could not have imagined what would happen the next day. On the afternoon of July 5, I met several friends near the Grand Bazaar. We had gathered simply to celebrate my return. Before our food even arrived, people began rushing out into the streets. We followed them outside. The scene was chaotic.


People were running in every direction. Some were crying. Others looked terrified. A young woman ran past us shouting, “They opened fire!” Moments later, a university student told us that demonstrators protesting the Shaoguan killings had been met with gunfire. Whether every rumor was true or not hardly mattered at that moment. Fear spread faster than facts. Smoke rose in the distance. Panic spread through the streets. Nobody seemed to know what would happen next. My friends and I eventually made our way home through side streets. That night, the electricity went out. Gunshots echoed through the darkness. Families called one another in tears. Parents searched desperately for their children. Rumors spread that more violence was coming. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to feel vulnerable in the city where I was born. Yet the deepest impact of July 2009 did not come from that night alone. It came from what followed. A lasting impact The most profound change after July 2009 was not the increase in security measures in the region. It was the transformation of human relationships.


Tensions between Uyghurs and Han Chinese had existed long before July 2009. Many Uyghurs were already concerned about demographic change, unequal opportunities, and the gradual erosion of their cultural space. These frustrations were real. But despite them, life continued through countless ordinary relationships. People worked together. They studied together. They lived next door to one another. Friendships, professional relationships, and neighborly ties still existed. After July 2009, something changed. What had previously remained beneath the surface became openly visible. The tragedy not only produced fear. It also produced mistrust. The change was not immediate. No one woke up the next morning and announced that trust had disappeared. Instead, it faded quietly. One conversation at a time. One friendship at a time. One silence at a time. People who had worked together for years suddenly became more careful around each other. Conversations that once felt natural became awkward. Subjects that could once be discussed openly were avoided. Sometimes nobody said anything at all. The silence itself said enough. An invisible wall had appeared. And everyone knew it was there. Some friendships disappeared.


Some colleagues stopped speaking openly to one another. Some neighbors who had once shared meals and celebrations began looking at one another differently. For many people, the most painful realization was not that ethnic tensions existed. It was discovering how quickly those tensions could overwhelm relationships that had once seemed genuine. A homeland is not defined only by territory; it is also defined by relationships. When those relationships begin to unravel, the sense of belonging begins to unravel as well. Then came the years after 2017. [Editorial note: The Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region Regulation on De-extremification was enacted on March 29, 2017.] By then, many of the fears and anxieties that Uyghurs had quietly discussed for years no longer felt hypothetical. Large numbers of Uyghurs disappeared into detention facilities and prisons . Intellectuals, writers, professors, religious figures, businesspeople, artists, and ordinary citizens were swept into a campaign unlike anything the region had experienced before. For many Uyghurs, it seemed as though an entire society had suddenly become suspect. Almost everyone knew someone who had disappeared. A relative. A former classmate. A colleague. A neighbor.


A teacher. A friend. The uncertainty itself became a source of fear. At the same time, the space for Uyghur language, culture, and religious life continued to shrink. Many mosques disappeared from city landscapes. Uyghur-language education became increasingly restricted. Books vanished from bookstores and libraries. Public expressions of cultural and religious identity became more difficult. Families were separated. Friendships were interrupted. Entire communities were transformed. Looking back, I often think about how these developments affected my understanding of statelessness. They did not create that feeling. By then, the feeling already existed. I had first encountered it years earlier — in the inequalities I observed growing up, in the tensions that surrounded daily life, and in the painful divisions that emerged after July 2009. What happened after 2017 did not teach me what statelessness was. It confirmed what I had already begun to understand. That statelessness is not always about crossing borders. It can also emerge when people begin to feel that their language, culture, memories, and future no longer have an equal place in the homeland they have always known.


The distance between a person and their homeland is not measured only in kilometers. Sometimes it is measured in belonging. And for many Uyghurs, that distance had never felt greater. Slowly, I began to understand something that had never occurred to me as a child. Citizenship and belonging are not the same thing. A person can possess a passport and still feel politically invisible. A person can carry an identity card and still feel increasingly disconnected from the society around them. That is the form of statelessness I learned. Not the statelessness of missing documents. Not the statelessness of crossing borders. But the statelessness of remaining on one’s ancestral land while gradually losing the feeling of belonging to it. Many people assume that Uyghurs first experienced statelessness when they left their homeland and entered exile. My experience was different. I learned the feeling of statelessness long before I crossed any border. I learned it when I watched the distance between myself and my homeland grow wider year after year. I learned it when relationships that once seemed natural became strained by mistrust.


I learned it when belonging itself began to feel uncertain. My father is no longer alive today. He passed away before he could witness many of the changes that would later transform our homeland. Yet I often find myself returning to those conversations we had when I was a child. At first, I thought he was teaching me about religion. Later, I thought he was teaching me about politics. Only much later did I understand that he was teaching me about belonging. Decades later, I finally understood what he was trying to tell me. Citizenship and belonging are not the same thing. Statelessness is not always the absence of a country. Sometimes it is the slow erosion of belonging. It happens when a people begin to feel that their language, their culture, their memories, and even their future no longer have an equal place in the land they call home. Many people assume I learned that lesson in exile. The truth is more painful. I learned it in my own homeland.


Online visibility becomes currency for young Cameroonians

In Cameroon, having an online presence has become a real economic opportunity for many young people. Between university studies, part-time jobs, and social media content creation, they successfully juggle multiple activities to diversify their income sources. Ring light, check. Microphone, check. Camera, ready to shoot. Every morning, 25-year-old Emily Bougem goes through her equipment one final time before recording content for her online audience. For the past four years, this has been part of her daily routine. But Bougem has two occupations. As a university student, she is expected to be on campus by 7:30 a.m. Yet her days often begin much earlier. At exactly 3:30 a.m., her alarm rings, marking the start of what she calls “a class before a class.” Inside the four walls of her small studio in the Damas neighborhood of Yaounde, she carefully reviews videos recorded the previous day. Editing comes next. Through her online brand, EmiBougs services , she shares tutorials and productivity tips, particularly on Microsoft Office tools and digital logistics, as well as voiceovers For Bougem, content creation is more than a hobby.


She told Global Voices: The job market is saturated. If I ever want a chance at securing a stable job, I have to make myself known. I need connections. But more importantly, I need money. What other option do I have besides making use of platforms like LinkedIn, Facebook and Instagram? All it takes is data and a little courage. Her reasoning reflects a growing trend among young Cameroonians. In a country where formal employment opportunities remain limited , social media platforms are increasingly viewed as investments rather than distractions. The country’s more than 12 million internet users and nearly 6 million social media users illustrate the expanding role of digital platforms in everyday life. For many young Cameroonians, online visibility has become an economic asset . One of them is 28-year-old Florent Marius Ngah, better known online as “ Dylan Comedy .” A content creator and comedian, he began posting videos in 2020 simply for entertainment. He explains to Global Voices: At first, it was not professional at all. I was just creating content for fun.


Things changed around 2022 when I started earning money from it. That is when I began to take it seriously. Today, Marius Ngah considers social media an important part of his professional life. Although he acknowledges that content creation alone rarely provides a stable income in Cameroon, online visibility has created opportunities that would otherwise have remained inaccessible. He says: What brings income are partnerships, advertising and collaborations. If you are not visible, your content cannot reach people and those opportunities do not come. For him, visibility weighs more than popularity. It has allowed him to meet influential personalities, build professional relationships and access spaces he never imagined entering. I have met people I never thought I would sit with. Some of them have become very close friends. The rise of content creators, influencers, and digital entrepreneurs illustrates a broader transformation of youth employment in Cameroon. Traditional job hunting is gradually being complemented, and sometimes replaced , by digital networking, personal branding, and content monetization. Facebook remains by far the dominant social media platform in Cameroon .


It accounted for approximately 86 percent of social media traffic in April 2026, making it the country’s primary platform for communication, entertainment, information sharing and business promotion. However, widespread use does not necessarily translate into professional use. While Facebook dominates everyday social media activity, platforms such as LinkedIn are increasingly attracting young people seeking internships, employment opportunities, and professional visibility. This distinction emerged from an informal WhatsApp survey conducted in May 2026 among 30 students at the University of Yaounde I, in Cameroon. Although the survey was not intended to be representative of all Cameroonian students, it provides insight into the professional networking habits of this particular group. Among the respondents, 27 identified LinkedIn as their preferred platform for internships, jobs, and professional opportunities, while three selected WhatsApp. None cited Facebook, Instagram, or X as their main platform for career-related opportunities. The findings suggest that although Facebook remains the country’s most widely used social network , LinkedIn may increasingly be viewed by some university students as a dedicated space for professional networking and career development.


The rise of cyberbullying and digital fraud Nevertheless, the same platforms that create professional opportunities can also expose them to vulnerability. The dangers of sharing personal information online are always present. Dylan Comedy says: Nothing in life comes easy. If I want something, I have to take risks. These risks range from identity theft and account hacking to cyberbullying and online scams. Ndjakomo, now 23 years old, remembers the day her Instagram account was compromised, two years ago: The person who hacked my account used my identity to ask my followers for financial assistance. I was too young to know how to handle the situation. Bidias, another victim, fell into what appeared to be a professional trap. I received an email that looked like a response to a job application. I clicked on the link and before I understood what was happening, all the accounts connected to my email address had been hacked. LinkedIn, Facebook, everything. Their experiences are far from isolated. Cyberbullying and digital fraud have become growing concerns worldwide.


According to a UNICEF survey conducted among young people across 30 countries, one in three young people reported having experienced online bullying, while nearly three-quarters identified social media platforms as the most common spaces where such incidents occur. In Cameroon, authorities have introduced measures to improve cybersecurity and digital literacy. The Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications regularly promotes safer internet practices through awareness campaigns and digital education initiatives. The country has also taken steps to strengthen the protection of personal data through Law No. 2024/017 , adopted in 2024. The legislation establishes rules governing the collection, storage, and use of personal data and seeks to provide greater protection for citizens against the misuse of their information in the digital space. Yet experts argue that legislation alone cannot eliminate online threats. The rapid expansion of digital connectivity means that new opportunities are often accompanied by new vulnerabilities. Cybersecurity specialists and digital rights advocates maintain that while legal and institutional frameworks are essential, continuous public awareness and education remain key to reducing online risks . Michel Boris Affah Ebengue is a 29-year-old industrial engineer.


He is also the founder of Futura Tutoring , an educational agency based in Yaounde, Cameroon. Futura Tutoring specializes in academic guidance and examination preparation. As a young entrepreneur who regularly recruits staff, he believes that social media has become an important gateway to professional opportunities, but warns against equating visibility with employability. He says: Social media can open doors, but it is skills, qualifications and the ability to create value that allow people to walk through them. For him, social media is an invaluable professional tool. But it is something that should complement, rather than replace, competence. He concludes: Online platforms are an excellent tool, but they can never replace training and the continuous development of skills. LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok and X have transformed the way young people connect, search for employment and build professional identities. Visibility has become a form of capital. One that can open doors, attract opportunities, and generate income. Yet the same visibility that offers hope also demands exposure. For these young Cameroonians, the pursuit of opportunity now means navigating a digital world where every click can create a connection or a risk.


Beyond the binary: Global traditions of gender fluidity

Too often, gender fluidity is thought of as a “new” or even “Western” phenomenon. However, the reality is that countless cultures around the world have traditions and histories beyond the gender binary. Many precolonial cultures recognized multiple genders, including two-spirit people in Indigenous groups in North America and First Nations groups , and Torres Strait Islander peoples in modern-day Australia, who celebrated brotherboys, sistergirls, and other gender-diverse identities. Many Pacific Islander communities also have gender variations, including the fiafifine in Niue, the fakaleiti in Tonga, the vaka sa lewa lewa in Fiji, the whakawahine in New Zealand, the rae rae in Tahiti, and the mahu in Hawaii. In Africa, historians have identified rich histories of LGBTQ+ identities. This fluidity is also present in folktales, religions, and myths worldwide, which feature complex, gender-diverse characters, from genderless creators and androgynous fertility deities to legendary figures who defy the gender binary or switch genders altogether. And in many cases, this fluidity isn’t incidental but a core tenet of the mythology itself.


However, with the spread of European colonialism and monotheistic religions, many of these myths were erased or flattened into binary gendered beings that fit into Western Christian ideologies. As one scholar notes , “their gendered worldview didn’t easily map onto the societies they encountered.” G ender diversity was sidelined, and gender diverse people were forced to go underground and hide their identities. It’s important to note that gender diversity never disappeared — rather, people lost the opportunity to openly express themselves in fear of being persecuted or stigmatized. While representation has ebbed and flowed in various cultures throughout history, gender diversity has remained visible in some religious and cultural myths. In this collaborative article, Global Voices dives into non-binary gender representation traditions from around the world, spanning China, South Asia, Africa, the Caribbean, and more. Mythological roots in Hinduism The theological foundation for gender variance is most powerfully articulated in ancient Hindu texts and epics. The most well-known gender fluid Hindu God is the Ardhanarishvara (The Half-Female Lord), which represents the composite androgynous (masculine and feminine) form of the Hindu deity Shiva and his consort, the goddess Parvati .


Ardhanarishvara is depicted as a single figure divided down the middle: Shiva on the right and Parvati on the left. The name means “ the Lord who is half woman .” This deity symbolizes the unity and balance of the masculine and feminine energies, Purusha and Prakriti , representing the ultimate reality that transcends binary gender. It is a philosophical cornerstone for understanding gender as a spectrum. Gender fluidity is also commonly found in numerous Hindu epics. In the Hindu epic “ Ramayana ,” on the very first day of his 14-year exile from Ayodhya, lord Rama asks his devotees — “men and women” to return to the city; those who stayed and waited for him are later blessed and identified with the origins of the hijra (a third gender) community who are still found in South Asia today. In the Hindu epic “ Mahabharata ,” in the thirteenth year of exile, the central character, the warrior Arjuna, disguises himself as Brihannala, “a eunuch teacher of music and dance,” to Princess Uttarā , which many modern writers frame as a third-gender or gender-crossing role.


The god Vishnu also transforms into the enchantress Mohini, his only female avatar and a central figure for thinking about gender fluidity and divine embodiment. A third gender, known as “Third Nature” ( Tritiya Prakriti ), is also recognized in ancient Hindu legal and medical texts (like the Kama Sutra and Sushruta Samhita) that explicitly refer to a third sex, describing individuals who are born with the characteristics of both sexes or who are attracted to their own sex, framing these identities as a natural part of human existence. Fluidity in Chinese Buddhism Buddhism also has a tradition of gender fluidity in its mythology. Guanshiyin Bodhisattva (觀世音菩薩) or Guanyin in short, meaning “the Bodhisattva (living Buddha) who perceives sounds of the world,” is a gender-fluid deity and one of the most beloved divine entities in Chinese Buddhism, Taoism, and other folk religions. The original form of Guanyin is Avalokitesvara , a Bodhisattva associated with compassion. In early Buddhist Sutras (holy books), Avalokitesvara is depicted as “a valiant man” (in the Avatamak Sutra) or “a virtuous man” (in the Karuṇāpuṇḍarīka-sūtram).


However, according to the Lotus Sutra, a Bodhisattva does not have a fixed gender, and Avalokitesvara appears in the living world to enlighten sentient beings in thirty-two different forms — from a Buddha or a Brahma king to a woman, a girl, or even a non-human form. Sutras about Guanyin Avalokitesvara were first translated into Chinese during the Han Dynasty; its sculptures appeared in China, in particular along the Silk Road, around the North and South Dynasties. The early sculptures, often in the form of “Lotus-Guanyin” (持蓮觀音), retained masculine features, including flat chests and sometimes mustaches. During the Tang Dynasty (618–907 CE), as China’s only female monarch Wu Zetian (624–705 CE) declared herself the reincarnation of the Maitreya Buddha , the image of Guanyin, often in the forms of “Eleven-Faces Guanyin” (十一面) and “Thousand Arms Guanyi” (千手觀音), became more androgynous, with female facial features and bodies. This cemented the belief that the compassionate goddess would always listen to and respond to believers’ requests (有求必應).


By the Song Dynasty (960–1279 CE), Guanyin took on an obvious female form, with the image of “Water-Moon Guanyin” (水月觀音) akin to the Chinese painting style and the grassroots worship of “the Child-giving Guanyin” (送子觀音) among female believers. During the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644), the epic Chinese novel, “Journey to the West,” (西游记) further consolidated Guanyin’s iconography as the maternal goddess of mercy, as the deity, in her “South-sea” or “Cross-sea Guanyin” (南海 / 渡觀音) female image, directs the pilgrimage by taming the Monkey King, recruiting the virtuous monk Tang Sanzang and all of his bodyguards and helping the pilgrims solve many of the challenges along the journey. Today, statues of “South-Sea Guangyin” are frequently seen along China’s coasts. Precolumbian gender fluidity in Peru and Ecuador [Translated by Ameya Nagarajan] The first Europeans to arrive on the coast of present-day Ecuador encountered a figure who did not fit their binary gender categories. Colonial chronicles describe the “ enchaquirados ” — young people who, according to these accounts, were designated from an early age to perform ritual roles, dressed as women, and engaged in ceremonial relationships with members of the Huancavilca elite.


Written from a perspective deeply shaped by 16th-century European morality, these accounts are among the most frequently cited historical records of alternative understandings of gender in pre-Hispanic Ecuadorian societies. Far from remaining confined to archives, the story of the enchaquirados has come back to life in contemporary Ecuador. Research by scholars such as anthropologist Hugo Benavides has prompted a critical re-examination of this episode, while in Engabao — a fishing community in Guayas province — an LGBTQ+ collective adopted the name “Los Enchaquirados” to reclaim a history that had long been rendered invisible. This experience was captured in the documentary “La playa de los enchaquirados” (The Beach of the Enchaquirados), which links the pre-Hispanic past with current discussions on identity, memory, and diversity. Hundreds of kilometers to the south, in the heart of the Andean world, colonial sources also recorded figures who defy gender categories understood through Western parameters. Among them are the “ quariwarmi ,” figures associated with ceremonial practices of the Inca world — particularly in territories that are now part of Peru .


Their name combines the Quechua words “qari” (man) and “warmi” (woman), and various studies describe them as ritual specialists linked to spaces where the distinction between the masculine and the feminine did not necessarily adhere to a rigid or exclusionary logic. Interpretations regarding the quariwarmi remain a subject of debate, yet their presence in historical sources has led researchers to re-examine how Andean societies conceived of gender before colonization. Some authors argue that these figures should be understood within a broader framework of complementarity and balance among various social and spiritual principles. Beyond academic discourse, the quariwarmi have become a significant reference point for understanding the diversity of human experiences documented in the pre-Hispanic Andean world. Human transformers and gender fluidity in Yorùbá cosmology Long before the modern term “gender bending” became commonplace, the ancient Yorùbá of West Africa had special beings believed to move between masculinity and femininity. These beings were called òrìṣà . One of the most beloved òrìṣà is Ọbàtálá, who is regarded as a creator deity in Yoruba mythology.


Ọbàtálá is often interpreted as embodying both masculine and feminine qualities and is associated with the creation of humans through the molding of the fetus in clay, both physically in the womb and spiritually. Because this creative force extends across male and female reproductive existence, Ọbàtálá is often viewed as transcending rigid gender boundaries. Another òrìṣà frequently described through transformation is Èṣù Ọ̀dàrà. Èṣù , which has been commonly mistranslated as Devil/Satan by Christian missionaries, represents duality and change. Everything has an opposite, and these dual spaces are occupied by Èṣù. Because of this role, Èṣù may be interpreted as male or female, tall or short, good (àdó aṣure) or bad (àdó aṣubí). Within the esoteric corpus of Ifá (the scripture of the Yoruba religion and divination system), there is a story in which Èṣù transformed into a woman. It is said that a man named Ṣàkòtó, seeking good fortune, made sacrificial offerings, and Èṣù transformed into a female form to test the man’s character. Beyond physical transformation, there are female òrìṣà whose identities challenge expectations of femininity.


Ọya, wife of Ṣàngó and the òrìṣà of the River Niger (odò Ọya), embodies transition and movement. Associated with storms and powerful winds. Ọya is also portrayed as possessing qualities traditionally associated with men: Authority, courage, and participation in warfare. Her fierceness is linked to the buffalo, whose horns serve as her totem and symbol of force. Ọ̀ṣun is the òrìṣà of fertility , beauty, intelligence, diplomacy, and political power. In the creation narratives, Olódùmarè, the genderless Supreme Being, sent sixteen emissaries to establish order on earth, and Ọ̀ṣun was the only female among them. The men excluded her from decision-making, which led to a failed earthly mission. They returned to Olódùmarè to complain, and they were told that progress required negotiating with the woman they had ignored. In the end, Ọ̀ṣun emerged as a force of authority whose wisdom restored balance. All said and done, Yorùbá sacred traditions preserve narratives of òrìṣà who exhibit transformation, fluidity, and boundary-crossing in different forms, and their memory continues to live in the minds of Yorùbá people across the world.


A Carnival character that crosses gender lines One of Trinidad and Tobago’s most beloved traditional masquerade characters is the Dame Lorraine , who has been part of Carnival expression for centuries. Even today, the character’s comical performances, which were rooted in parodying the French planter class, are well received by spectators. Easily identified by her hefty bosom and exaggeratedly ample buttocks, Dame Lorraine was historically played by men crossdressing. Since the whole point was less about convincingly portraying a woman and more about mocking colonial oppressors, men were suited to the role in various ways. Apart from the fact that 18th- and 19th-century masquerade and public performance traditions around Carnival tended to be male-dominated, their physicality and exaggerated movements often heightened the comedy through caricature. A 2021 article at Folklife suggested that the practice of men portraying female characters “may have been inspired by the Gẹlẹdẹ masquerade in West African Yoruba societies, which venerate the role and power of women in society.” Trinidadian dancer and cultural commentator Sonja Dumas, however, stressed that “ the original Dame Lorraine was a performance by groups of recently emancipated African people , and it wasn’t a singular character or a band of people in the same costume.


It was a satirical performance of the colonial period — yet another gesture of resistance on the part of the Africans.” Dumas surmised that the fact that Dame Lorraines were originally played by men was “yet another manifestation of carnivalesque inversion.” Interestingly, anthropologist Daniel J. Crowley posited that “women also played the Dame Lorraine back in the Jamette Carnival day,” and that perhaps both the men and women of the time could have opted to dress as the opposite gender. The Dame even has her own theme song , typically played whenever the character performs: Nowadays, more women than men dress up as Dames Lorraine. The costume consists of an ankle-length dress with wrist-length sleeves, often with frills and other embellishments. The Dames usually carry a fan and parasol, or sport an ornately decorated wide-brimmed hat. Her movements, though, are what make this character truly special. She dances in a manner that is at once humorous, suggestive, and rebellious, with her substantial lady parts taking center stage in a tantalizingly satirical sway.


Carnival has always been a space for cutting social commentary, and characters like Dame Lorraine embody clever ways to challenge authority and give voice to self-expression. Women warriors defying traditional gender roles Kyrgyz folklore is rich with stories of warrior women defying traditional gender roles, which remain popular today across communities worldwide. The two most famous tales belong to Kyz Saikal (Saikal the Maiden) and Janyl Myrza (Janyl the Warrior). Kyz Saikal is one of the characters found in the epic of “Manas,” the most famous and important folktale in Kyrgyzstan. In the epic, Kyz Saikal is described as a fierce and skillful warrior from the Noighut tribe. The two most famous versions of the epic, told by manaschy (Manas tellers) Sagymbay Orozbakov and Sayakbay Karalayev, mention her beauty, strength, skills, and courage, stating she “carried a sword, spear, and shield.” In Orozbakov’s version, she challenges Manas, the main hero and warrior, to a jousting duel with spears, promising to give up her life, freedom, and a horse should she lose and asking for peace and freedom for her people should she win.


She injures Manas, who is saved by one of his trusted companions named Chubak, whose interference violates the rules of jousting. In Karalayev’s version, Manas and Kyz Saikal compete twice, each winning one duel. After Manas wins in the end, he asks for her hand in marriage, which Kyz Saikal declines, offering to be his wife in the afterlife instead, since Manas already had a wife. In 2016, the BBC included Kyz Saikal in its list of 100 influential and inspirational women around the world and created a brief documentary about her . Rivaling Kyz Saikal’s legendary status and perhaps even overshadowing it is the legend of Janyl Myrza, known as a fierce warrior, excellent rider, and deadly markswoman. Her story is laid ou t in the eponymous poem written by Tenti Adysheva based on existing oral legends. As a long-awaited only child in her family, Janyl Myrza was brought up by her father to serve as a leader of her Noighut tribe. According to legends, she successfully defended her people against the Kalmyk invaders .


Her life takes a tragic turn after she kills a warrior named Tulku and his companions after they attack her village and steal herds of horses for declining Tulku’s offer to get married. Tulku’s tribesmen avenge his death by kidnapping Janyl Myrza and marrying her off to an elder named Kalmatay. Defiant, she eventually escapes from the marriage, threatening to shoot down anyone who dares chase after her. Her life ends in her native village in Kakshaal, where she finds desolation upon her return. Just like Kyz Saikal, Janyl Myrza takes on duties traditionally reserved for men while also actively charting her own fate, refusing to be a bystander. Both stories exemplify women breaking gender barriers and social norms within Kyrgyz society. In addition to these examples, there are hundreds across geography and time . While there have historically been systemic efforts to eliminate gender diversity — with some still continuing today — the fact that it perseveres is a testament to its status as a timeless and undeniable part of the human experience.


What the ending of the U.S.’ Temporary Protection Status could mean for Haiti

The United States Supreme Court has allowed the Temporary Protected Status (TPS) programme for Haitians to come to an end, placing about 350,000 Haitians at risk of deportation. In June 2024, the Biden administration extended TPS for Haitians by 18 months, moving the end date to August 3, 2025. When President Donald Trump began his second term, then Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem decided to stop the programme, saying the country “no longer qualified” for TPS. The programme was due to end on February 3, 2026, but just two days prior, Judge Ana Reyes of the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia issued an order to block the cancellation. Several immigrant rights groups filed lawsuits against the government to protect the programme. The Washington, D.C. court order temporarily stopped the cancellation and gave the Haitian community relief, as the deadline was moved to July 1, 2026. Then, on June 25, 2026, the Supreme Court voted 6–3 in favour of the U.S. government, giving it final approval to end the Haitian TPS programme as planned. The decision also applies to Syrian nationals currently living in the United States under this temporary protection.


According to the California-based migrant rights organisation Haitian Bridge Alliance , Josiane, a Haitian woman who came to the United States in 2021, said she had to leave her country after armed gangs targeted her because of her husband’s political activity. Her husband fled to the Dominican Republic, but gangs still set fire to their home, forcing her to run away for her own safety. The U.S. TPS programme, which Josiane got in 2022, allowed her to work legally, support her family, and pay her bills and taxes. “The termination of TPS is synonymous with the end of my life,” she said. “Every time I hear people talk about deportation, I have heart palpitations because of my extreme hopelessness.” Pierre (a pseudonym), another Haitian TPS beneficiary, has been living in the United States for over 20 years. He told Global Voices via WhatsApp that the Supreme Court’s decision has crushed him: Depi lè mwen aprann desizyon Kou Siprèm nan, mwen santi yon veritab dezolasyon. Mwen pa gen enèji pou mwen fè anyen ankò. Anplis, mwen gen pitit ki fèt nan peyi a. Mwen poze tèt mwen anpil kesyon: kisa mwen pral fè, epi kijan yo pral viv si mwen pa avèk yo?


Tout bagay sa yo ap toumante lespri mwen. Epi sa mwen pral fè lè kat travay mwen koupe? Kijan mwen pral peye bòdwo mwen epi pran swen fanmi mwen? Sa ki pi grav la, mwen gen anpil fanmi ann Ayiti ki sou kont mwen. Se mwen kap ede yo. I feel completely devastated. I don’t have the energy to do anything anymore. Also, I have children who were born in this country. I keep asking myself many questions: what will I do, and how will they live if I am not with them? All these things are troubling my mind. And what will I do when my work permit is cut off? How will I pay my bills and take care of my family? What makes it worse is that I have many family members in Haiti who depend on me. I am the one helping them. On June 25, 2026, the executive director of Haitian Bridge Alliance, Guerline Jozef , noted , “The Supreme Court’s 6–3 ruling in Mullin v. Doe […] is a devastating endorsement of state-sanctioned cruelty.


At a moment when Haiti remains gripped by armed violence, political instability, displacement, and a profound humanitarian crisis, the Supreme Court has given the administration a green light to treat hundreds of thousands of Haitian families as disposable.” The mayor of North Miami, Dr Alix Desulme, also expressed deep concern , stressing that the decision places hundreds of thousands of Haitians in a state of great uncertainty regarding their future, even as their home country continues to grapple with a severe security and humanitarian crisis . He promised to continue supporting the community during this difficult period and encouraged affected families to contact attorneys and reputable immigrant rights organisations to determine the legal options available to them. The Trump administration has made the fight against illegal immigration a top priority, overturning various measures that his predecessor had put in place, including the U.S. Customs and Border Protection’s mobile app CBP One , and the Humanitarian Parole Program , which was implemented in January 2023 and allowed Haitians, Cubans, Venezuelans, and Nicaraguans to enter the United States legally for two years.