Founded in Buenos Aires in 2002, during Argentina’s devastating economic crisis, the initiative emerged at a time of mass unemployment, social unrest, and growing poverty following the country’s 2001 collapse. The project works with cartoneros (people who collect and sell discarded cardboard), many of whom are unhoused or living in precarious conditions. Eloísa Cartonera buys cardboard at fair prices and employs workers to handcraft and paint books, turning recycled materials into unique works of art. Profits from sales are shared among the workers and organizers. Founded by writer Washington Cucurto , visual artist Javier Barilaro , and a group of artists and activists, the collective also promotes accessible literature by publishing both emerging and established Latin American authors, many of whom donate their rights to support the project. Each book is individually painted with colorful tempera, making no two copies alike. More than two decades later, Eloísa Cartonera has inspired over 50 similar cartonera publishing houses around the world. Amazoniko: From recyclers to urban environmental leaders in Colombia Amazoniko was born in 2017 with an idea that goes far beyond recycling.


For its founder, Daniel Rodríguez Paredes , the problem was never just the trash itself, but the loss of all the environmental, economic, and human value behind each piece of waste. “When a material ends up buried or improperly disposed of, not only is an object lost, but water, energy, human labor, and natural resources are also wasted,” he explained to Global Voices in a phone call. What began as a platform to facilitate recycling from homes ended up becoming a circular economy model that connects citizens, businesses, recyclers, and processors. In Colombia, thousands of recyclers work in informal conditions , often without contracts, social security, or recognition. Faced with this reality, Amazoniko decided to put people at the center of the system. The project seeks to understand the needs of those who sustain the recycling chain every day: from households that require environmental education to recyclers who need better working conditions and economic stability. The platform organizes collection routes, improves access to quality materials, and promotes a different narrative around the recycler, who is no longer seen as marginalized but rather as an “environmental advisor” within the communities. In addition to improving income and stability, Amazoniko promotes incentives such as digital tips and microloans linked to the recyclers’ performance.


The human impact of the project is reflected in stories like that of Cristian, Amazoniko’s first recycler. He began by cycling around the city collecting recyclable materials and helped build the system through his daily experience. Today, he is the company’s operations director and one of the most important figures in the operation. For Daniel, his story demonstrates that social inclusion is not just about connecting vulnerable people to a project, but about recognizing their abilities, opening up real opportunities for growth, and dignifying a historically stigmatized job. Venezuelan migrants recycle to survive For many Venezuelan migrants in Colombia, recycling has become an important means of survival and economic integration . Colombia hosts one of the largest populations of Venezuelan refugees and migrants in the world, with more than three million having crossed the border in recent years in search of safety, employment, and access to basic services. Faced with barriers to formal employment, many migrants turn to informal work, including collecting and selling recyclable materials. In Barranquilla’s southeastern neighborhoods, such as Brisas del Río, recycling provides a source of income for both Colombian and Venezuelan families living in vulnerable conditions.


Since 2019, the United Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), together with Pastoral Social Cáritas Barranquilla and support from the Italian Agency for Development Cooperation (AICS) , has implemented programs aimed at dignifying the work of environmental recyclers. The initiative has included training, protective equipment, and support services for recycling workers and their families. Like many informal settlements across Colombia, Brisas del Río faces significant challenges , including inadequate access to water, sanitation, transportation, healthcare, and education. In this context, recycling functions not only as a waste-management activity, but also as a pathway to livelihood, community integration, and resilience for displaced populations. Since 2022, 45 recyclers have received training and safety materials to help them carry out their work more effectively and with lower health risks. As one participant explained on the project’s website, “Recycling is our way of supporting ourselves now.” For many Venezuelan migrants, collecting recyclable materials offers a vital source of daily income in communities where poverty, informality, and limited access to public services remain widespread. In Ecuador, 70 percent of recyclers are women Recycling plays a crucial yet often undervalued and stigmatized role in society, despite being essential to the transition toward a circular economy.


People working as street waste pickers — mostly women — form the first link in the recovery chain, collecting and sorting materials that contribute directly to urban cleanliness and resource reuse. In Ecuador, around 20,000 people work as recyclers, 1,500 of them organized through the National Reclycers of Ecuador (Renarec) , which groups under its umbrella more than 50 organizations dedicated to reducing waste, and protecting street workers and recyclers against precarity. As told by UN Ecuador , The experience of Doña Blanca Lara, a recycler in Quito, illustrates this reality. After a life marked by hardship and responsibility for her family, she and her daughter rely entirely on recycling for their livelihood, earning small and variable incomes depending on the type of material collected. Despite their contribution to environmental sustainability, they face discrimination, unsafe working conditions, and limited social protection. Across Ecuador, thousands of recyclers share similar experiences, with high levels of informality and gender inequality. Although their work is essential to waste management and environmental recovery, it remains largely invisible, highlighting the need for greater recognition, institutional support, and social awareness of their economic and environmental contribution.


Gender diversity under pressure: Resistance, community, and the politics of belonging

Gender has become one of the defining political battlegrounds of our time. Across continents, debates about gender identity, bodily autonomy, sexuality, healthcare, family structures, education, sports, and public participation have moved from the margins of political discourse to its very center. Yet rather than expanding rights and protections, many governments, institutions, and powerful actors are increasingly using gender as a tool for political polarization, stigma, control , and criminalization. Today, gender-diverse people, women, LGBTQ+ communities, and other sexually marginalized groups find themselves confronting growing efforts to criminalize, censor, or restrict fundamental aspects of their lives. Access to gender-affirming healthcare is under attack globally . Gender-based violence continues at alarming rates . LGBTQ+ communities face renewed discrimination and harassment. Hard-won rights that once appeared secure are being challenged, rolled back, or reframed as threats to society itself. The consequences are visible in nearly every space we inhabit. Many LGBTQ+ people report feeling increasingly unsafe in public spaces. Professional environments remain shaped by inequalities that disproportionately affect women. Institutions across the world continue to lack meaningful protections for gender-diverse individuals.


Meanwhile, digital platforms that promised connection and empowerment have become contradictory spaces : Places where communities can organize and find solidarity, but also where harassment , misinformation, surveillance , and algorithmic censorship often flourish. The growing backlash against gender diversity is not occurring in isolation. It is closely linked to the rise of authoritarian and ultraconservative movements worldwide. Narratives once confined to specific political or religious contexts now travel rapidly across borders, becoming part of a global playbook used to oppose feminist movements, LGBTQ+ rights , comprehensive sexuality education, reproductive justice, and efforts to address gender-based violence. One of the clearest examples is the spread of the term “gender ideology.” Originally popularized by conservative religious actors , including the Vatican, in the late 1990s, the phrase has evolved into a powerful political export used to frame gender equality, sexual rights, and bodily autonomy as threats to tradition, family values, and national identity. Since entering mainstream political discourse, it has been deployed to undermine rights related to privacy, health, expression, education, and self-determination for women, girls, and LGBTQ+ people. The term has become increasingly influential in contemporary politics.


Upon taking office in January 2025, United States President Donald Trump issued an executive order entitled “Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government,” reflecting how these narratives have become embedded in state policy and public debate. At the same time, structural gender inequalities remain deeply entrenched. Despite decades of progress, women continue to face significant economic disadvantages . Research consistently shows that motherhood carries substantial financial penalties , with women’s earnings often dropping dramatically after the birth of their first child. Across many countries, women remain concentrated in lower-paying sectors, perform a disproportionate share of unpaid care work, and continue to encounter barriers to advancement despite frequently achieving higher levels of education than men. These inequalities are mirrored in media representation. Women make up more than half of the world’s population, yet their voices remain significantly underrepresented in news coverage and public discourse. The result is a public conversation about gender in which those most affected by discrimination and exclusion are often the least heard. And yet, this is not only a story of backlash. Across the world, communities continue to organize , create, and care for one another. Trans and non-binary people build support networks across borders and in exile. Intersex activists challenge invisibility and advocate for bodily autonomy.


Indigenous and local communities recover histories of pre-colonial gender diversity that colonial systems sought to erase. Artists, writers, technologists, educators, and organizers create spaces where gender-diverse people can exist safely, tell their own stories, and imagine different futures. Community-building remains one of the most powerful responses to repression. In digital spaces, grassroots networks share knowledge, resources, and solidarity. In neighborhoods and cultural spaces, people continue to build forms of care that institutions have often failed to provide. Through art, language, mutual aid, storytelling, and collective action, communities push back against narratives that seek to erase their existence. This month’s theme invites us to explore these realities in all their complexity: The challenges faced by gender-diverse communities, the political forces shaping their lives, and the creative forms of resistance emerging in response. More than ever, the voices of women, gender-diverse individuals, LGBTQ+ communities, and other sexually marginalized groups are essential to understanding our world. Their experiences reveal not only the consequences of exclusion and discrimination but also the possibilities of solidarity, resilience, and transformation. At a moment when gender is increasingly being used as a political weapon, listening to those voices is not simply an act of inclusion. It is an act of democratic necessity.


What explains the global stardom of Dimash Qudaibergen, Kazakhstan’s cultural phenomenon?

Joy is a young lady from California, wearing a traditional robe called a shapan and speaking Kazakh, a language she began learning three months earlier. This scene took place in London, leading up to the concert of Kazakh singer Dimash Qudaibergen at the OVO Arena Wembley on November 12, 2025. Dimash’s father and producer, Kanat Aitbayev, met with Joy and recorded their conversation, illustrating a striking reality: Joy had traveled across the world to hear Dimash sing live. Thousands of fans from dozens of countries follow him across continents, drawn by not only his vocal abilities but by something deeper. Today, Dimash is arguably the best-known Kazakh singer outside his homeland and has reached world fame that no other singer from Kazakhstan has even come close to reaching. This phenomenon raises a question: what lies behind Dimash’s astounding success? A musical family Born in 1994, Dimash became an internationally acclaimed singer early in his career. He is celebrated as a cultural ambassador for Kazakhstan, admired for his vocal talent.


Dimash’s story begins in Aktobe, a small city in western Kazakhstan. His parents are established figures in the region’s cultural life. His father, Kanat Aitbayev, is a songwriter, composer, and singer. His mother, Svetlana Aitbayeva, is a professional singer. Both have held public roles and received the title “ Honored Worker of Kazakhstan .” In 2014, Dimash graduated from the Zhubanov Music College. In 2018, he completed his master’s degree at the Kazakh National University of Arts. His most remarkable asset is his voice, which spans more than six octaves, moving across this range with impressive ease. This talent, supported by his parents’ professional background and network, carried him onto big stages. A pivotal opportunity arrived in 2016, when Kazakh journalist and producer Yertay Nusipzhanov invited Dimash to audition for the Chinese show “ Singer ,” a singing competition show. During the 2017 run of the show, his vocal performances brought him popularity among the Chinese audience, and the runner-up finish became a stepping stone in his career. Here is a YouTube video of Dimash performing the French song “S.O.S. d'un terrien en détresse” at Singer.


While he primarily perfoms in Kazakh, his mother tongue, he has quite the linguistic range and has reportedly performed in at least 16 languages , including English, Mandarin, Russian, French (as demonstrated above), Italian, Ukrainian, Turkish, Serbian, Kyrgyz, German, Spanish, and more. His popularity soon expanded beyond Kazakhstan and China. In 2019, he embarked on his first world tour, Arnau, performing in Kazakhstan , Russia, the US , Latvia, and Ukraine . The “Dears” Dimash’s second world tour, Stranger (2022–2025), took him across thirteen countries and was a big success. In Mexico, for instance, two shows sold out in eight minutes, driven by the support of his fans, the “Dears,” who attend Dimash’s concerts and spread his music worldwide. Here is a YouTube video with the recap of the concert in Mexico. Last year, one of the Dears from Switzerland, Esther Uhlmann , published a book in English and Kazakh about Dimash’s music. “My fans treat me with great love and respect… so I chose this word — ‘Dears’,” Dimash explains , highlighting the special connection with his audience.


Indeed, Dimash has earned the admiration of his fans through his warm and respectful attitude. He takes the time to sign autographs, pose for photos, shake hands, and hug them. One example of this was at his Barcelona concert in November 2025, when he invited a young Kazakh girl wearing traditional dress onto the stage to sing one of his songs with him . Dimash likely understands what it means for young, aspiring singers to share the stage with him and feel his encouragement. His caring nature is seen most clearly within his family. He guides his younger brother, Mansur. Since Dimash’s first world tour, Mansur has shared the stage with him, playing the guitar and dombra , the national instrument of Kazakhstan. He is just as attentive to his sister Raushan — whether supporting her restaurant Daididau or performing a song at her uzaty , a traditional pre-wedding farewell celebration. Here is a YouTube video with Dimash performing at his sister’s wedding. As Kazakh journalist Akdidar Abdimaulen observed, Dimash has cultivated the image of a “true artist,” not merely a “commercial product.”


Perhaps this is because his personal qualities — modesty, family devotion, and humaneness — resonate universally across borders and nationalities. A transcendent artist Dimash’s popularity within Kazakhstan can also be understood in light of the country’s historical experience. After more than two centuries under Tsarist and later Soviet rule , Kazakhstan gained independence in 1991 and has since continued to establish and explore its national identity. Within this ongoing process, shaped by postcolonial sentiments, Dimash’s public image remains meaningful for locals. Speaking to Euronews in 2024, he described his mission as “introducing the country’s culture and traditional music to the world.” Music, indeed, serves as a national emissary of sorts. His performance of the folk song Samaltau , portraying the hardships faced by Kazakhs conscripted into labor battalions in 1916, educates foreign listeners about this painful period in Kazakhstan’s history, interwoven with a beautiful composition and melody. At the same time, Dimash’s rapid musical ascent did not go unnoticed by Kazakhstani officials. “Dimash Kudaibergenov has become a global star, bringing our country’s culture to the world,” stated President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev , following his appearance on “Singer.”


Since then, the state has consistently recognized his work and applauded his efforts. In 2019 and 2023 , he received the highest state honors, “Honored Worker of Kazakhstan” and “People’s Artist of Kazakhstan,” respectively. At the turn of 2024, after presidential congratulations on national TV, Dimash performed the national anthem at Akorda, the presidential residence: an event widely read as an endorsement of his status at the highest level. Here is a YouTube video of Dimash performing the national anthem. However, this high-level state recognition has not prevented the singer from occasionally making carefully framed but critical political statements — commentary that is generally not welcomed in an authoritarian state. During the mass protests in Kazakhstan in January 2022, he stated on social media that “people are having a hard time.” He also called on “competent people in power” to “make appropriate decisions quickly.” Yet Dimash appears aware of the limits of political expression and does not cross established boundaries. In many respects, he adopts a restrained, almost diplomatic posture in his public statements. This approach became visible in 2022, following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.


Dimash excluded Russia from his touring schedule, despite his previously close ties with the Russian music industry. In September 2022, at a concert for the Congress of Leaders of World and Traditional Religions, he debuted “The Story of One Sky.” The lyrics are staunchly anti-war and seemingly reference John Lennon’s iconic song, “ Imagine ,” which has long been hailed as a masterful peace anthem. Here is the official music video of the song. Later, Dimash’s appointments as a Goodwill Ambassador for the International Organization for Migration at regional and global levels in 2023 and 2025, respectively, reinforce the link between his artistry and humanitarianism. Ultimately, Dimash’s rise cannot be reduced to a single explanation. Despite his extraordinary vocal capabilities, his repertoire, often drawing on traditional music and operatic styles, does not fit into conventional “pop” categorizations and may not be appealing to younger audiences. Yet his artistic identity continues to attract thousands of fans, like Joy from California and Esther from Switzerland. The answer may lie in the way Dimash engages with diverse audiences: through deep human connection and, perhaps, a wisdom beyond his years.


The rights left behind: The future of LGBTQI+ organizing in post-uprising Bangladesh

Eight Hijra and trans women casually gathered in Shahbag, Dhaka, were harassed by a group claiming to practice “ mobile journalism ” on April 3, 2026, exemplifying the unjust treatment that gender diverse people can face in Bangladesh. They were filmed without consent, asked offensive questions, sexually harassed, and, when they protested, were physically prevented from leaving the area. All eight were then arrested and taken to the Shahbag police station. They were denied access to lawyers for two days, held in inhumane conditions, and ultimately forced to pay fines and sign documents admitting wrongdoing to secure their release. No criminal activity had been alleged. The police were not bystanders. They were participants. A week later, on the evening of April 10 , the same location saw a larger mob attack. Under the banner of the “Azadi Movement,” a crowd brutally assaulted a group of people after labeling those present as “homosexual” and “transgender.” University teachers and citizens were beaten. The violence included sexual harassment of women.


A statement signed by 387 citizens — academics, journalists, lawyers, doctors, and activists — condemned both attacks and named the perpetrators: the “Azadi Movement,” backed by Bangladesh Khilafat Majlis , a conservative Islamic political party. The ruling Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP) government made no response. What happened at Shahbag is not an isolated incident. It is the result of a crisis building since August 2024, when Bangladesh’s mass uprising ended fifteen years of Awami League rule and opened a period that has proved, for the country’s LGBTQI+ community, one of the most dangerous in recent memory. A new political landscape The uprising that forced former Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina to flee was genuinely historic. It was a student-led movement that brought down an authoritarian government at enormous human cost. For LGBTQI+ activists, their hopes around the movement were complicated from the start. Many had feared extremist groups would fill the vacuum; some chose not to participate at all. Those who did believed the uprising’s anti-discrimination language extended to them. However, within days of the new government’s formation, the student leaders who had driven the uprising began posting openly anti-LGBTQI+ content on social media. Islamist groups, emboldened by the transition, intensified attacks on gender and sexual minorities.


One early documented incident was an assault on the hijra community in Chak-Andharia, Sherpur, in September 2024 . The same month, a mob led by a group of men physically assaulted a hijra individual in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. As the abovementioned Shahbag incident showed, “transgender” and “homosexual” have since become labels deployable against any designated enemy, be it political opponents, inconvenient journalists, or anyone a mob decides to target. The betrayal of the revolution During the internet blackout of July 2024 , as students faced live ammunition in the streets, Muntasir Rahman used his personal connections to arrange safe houses for student coordinators who would later become the founding leadership of the National Citizen Party (NCP) — among them Rifat Rashid, Mahin Sarker, and current MP Hannan Masud . Muntasir took a direct personal risk to keep the people who would build the new Bangladesh alive. Months later, when those same leaders formed the NCP, Rahman was appointed Joint Member Secretary. Within hours of the announcement, his identity as a gay man was exposed online , and his appointment was revoked .


The party’s senior leadership clarified that no one associated with the LGBTQI+ community held a position in the NCP. By May 2025, the party’s Chief Organizer for the Northern Region was publishing statements on his verified Facebook page describing LGBTQI+ people as “mentally ill” and “cancer to society.” The men whose lives he helped protect did not defend him. Not one. Rahman’s name appears among the 387 signatories of the civil society statement condemning the Shahbag attacks, the same document that demanded accountability from the government that had expelled him. Muntasir’s expulsion triggered something wider: posts targeting queer activists flooded social media with names and home addresses of individuals and organizations. In response, many LGBTQI+ organizations were forced to take down their websites and close community Facebook groups that had existed for years. Decades of community infrastructure were deleted. This is not simply a story about one man’s exclusion. The political formation most associated with the uprising’s democratic aspirations chose, under pressure from religious conservatives, to make its position explicit and public. Hate speech against queer communities has not merely persisted in post-uprising Bangladesh.


It has become politically mainstream . The cost of visibility On June 10, 2025, Shakil Ahmed, a final-year student at the Faculty of Fine Arts at the University of Dhaka, died by suicide in his home village of Manikganj, following months of targeted harassment. Shakil, a closeted gay man, had been falsely accused of blasphemy due to a Facebook comment he made, which he deleted shortly after posting. A college peer took a screenshot and circulated it, branding him an apostate. By early June, he was receiving direct death threats. Despite issuing a public apology, a post was circulated announcing a public “Shariah-based” trial scheduled for the following morning. He did not survive that night. Read more: The untold stories of transgender people in Bangladesh as they navigate misconceptions The government made no statement on his death. No arrests were made. Law enforcement classified it as unnatural death rather than abetment of suicide. The distinction matters because abetment demands investigation. To describe what happened to Shakil as suicide alone is to ignore the organized campaign of incitement that preceded it.


Silence from the state Exclusion in Bangladesh rarely comes through explicit legislation. It comes through institutional silence — the meeting never scheduled, the report that omits an entire community, the police station that detains victims and charges them with trafficking, while the mob waits outside. According to activists who requested anonymity, LGBTQI+ groups made repeated attempts to engage the interim government on issues affecting gender-diverse communities, including discussions around the long-pending Transgender Person Rights and Protection Bill 2023 . Those meetings were never granted. The Women’s Affairs Reform Commission, which might have offered a natural vehicle for including gender-diverse voices, released a report containing no mention of LGBTQI+ concerns. For a community already living under a colonial-era law criminalizing same-sex relations, the silence carried a clear message: this government would neither protect nor engage them. The retreat of development actors What makes this moment distinct from previous periods of hostility is what is happening alongside the politics. International readers often assume NGOs function as stable allies for LGBTQI+ communities. The reality is increasingly complicated.


Multiple activists in Bangladesh, speaking to Global Voices face-to-face on the condition of anonymity, describe a quiet but significant shift: organizations that previously maintained visible programs on gender and sexual diversity are reducing that visibility. Public advocacy has softened. Institutional language has grown more cautious. Several activists said they had lost employment when fiscal partners chose to drop the LGBTQI+ component of joint projects, not through formal termination, but through the gradual defunding of anything that could attract negative attention. The organizations themselves have not disappeared. They have simply stopped showing up. One interviewee said: We have been left alone. They will say they are with us when they see us. But they will not call us. And if we call them, they will hardly come. They fear to be seen with us publicly. The calculus is not difficult to understand. Organizations that depend on government registration and local partnerships cannot afford to be seen as politically inconvenient by an administration whose tolerance of civil society is already uncertain. The ecosystem adjusts. The space contracts. And the community that relied on that ecosystem finds itself more exposed, with fewer institutional buffers between itself and an increasingly hostile public discourse.


The funding crisis The retreat of NGOs is inseparable from a parallel collapse in international funding . In 2023, USAID partnered with Bangladeshi organizations to launch the SHOMOTA project, a five-year initiative to support trans and hijra communities across eight cities, planned to directly reach 8,700 people through 2028. When US President Donald Trump froze US foreign aid in January 2025, the project was canceled. The human cost was immediate. The Noboprobhaat Foundation in Rangpur, which provided HIV testing, job skills training, and legal support to rural LGBTQI+ people, was forced to lay off half its staff and close its offices. By late 2025, the foundation expected to halt roughly 70 percent of its activities . The crisis extends well beyond US policy. The Global Philanthropy Project estimated that at least USD 105 million in donor government aid for LGBTQI+ rights was at risk globally, with anticipated cuts from the Netherlands and Britain. Corporate sponsors worldwide also withdrew in response to the backlash against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs. The point is not simply that money is disappearing.


It is that these cuts land hardest on communities where international support was not supplementing a strong domestic base, but substituting for one. What comes next In October 2025, a 23-year-old trans activist named Sahara Chowdhury Rebil stood alone in the rain at Shahid Minar in Dhaka, on hunger strike , demanding marriage rights for LGBTQI+ people. It may have been the first such public protest in Bangladesh’s history. By the next afternoon, as hostility mounted, fellow activists persuaded her to end her fast to avoid physical attack. But before retreating, she released a 178-page Bangladeshi Queer Manifesto (linked in the QR code below), the first of its kind in a nation of 172 million people. That image of one person starving in the rain, declaring their rage in writing, is not a story of defeat. It is a story of a movement doing what movements do when institutions fail them: going back to basics. Documenting. Naming. Insisting on existing. In 2024, of 70 documented incidents of violence against LGBTQI+ people in Bangladesh, only 13 were officially recorded as criminal cases. The community documents anyway.


Because documentation, even without institutional consequence, is its own form of resistance. Read more: Xulhaz Mannan, an LGBT Activist in Bangladesh, is the Latest Victim in a String of Brutal Killings The 2016 murder of LGBTQI+ rights activist Xulhaz Mannan was a brutal warning directed at Bangladesh’s progressive civil society. Nearly a decade later, Shakil Ahmed’s death signals that the same forces remain intact, only now operating with greater coordination, technological reach, and state apathy. This crisis did not begin in 2024. The uprising accelerated it. Bangladesh’s queer movement is not facing a single enemy. It is facing a convergence: a political class performing religious credibility, an international funding architecture in freefall, an NGO sector recalibrating toward self-preservation, and a colonial-era law that still criminalizes their existence. Each force alone is manageable. Together, they are designed to exhaust. Until Bangladesh reckons with the impunity that runs beneath all of this, the movement will keep surviving in spite of the state rather than with its protection. The bitter truth here is that surviving is not the same as being free, and the July 2024 uprising did not happen merely to survive.


Palestinians are being locked out of the digital economy

For many people around the world, the digital economy is not an abstract concept but a lived reality shaping everyday life and work. At the mention of the digital economy, most people would think of entrepreneurship, innovation, and technological advancement. But for Palestinians, the question is not whether the digital economy exists, but whether they are allowed to access it at all and participate in the global economy equitably. 7amleh recently published a new report entitled “ Palestinian Accessibility to Digital Economy Platforms: Barriers, Gaps, and Adopted Policies to Overcome Them .” The report documents how Palestinians across historic Palestine face systematic barriers in accessing digital payment systems, e-commerce platforms, and remote work opportunities. The research tested around 30 major digital services by attempting account creation, verification, and use under real conditions, while also relying on semi-structured interviews and user testimonies from Palestinians navigating these systems daily. A structural exclusion The report’s findings reveal, once more, that Palestinian exclusion from the digital economy is not accidental or technical, but rather structural. This matters because the digital economy has become one of the few remaining spaces where Palestinians can attempt to overcome restrictions on movement, employment, and access imposed by decades of occupation and apartheid.


For many young Palestinians, digital work offered something rare: the possibility of connecting to the outside world without passing through a checkpoint. But even online, Palestinians encounter walls. The report examines three central pillars of the digital economy: digital payment platforms, e-commerce services, and remote work platforms. Across all three, Palestinians face layered barriers shaped by platform policies, telecommunications restrictions, financial exclusion, and broader political realities that severely restrict their participation in the global economy. Digital payments are perhaps the clearest example. Palestinians in the occupied West Bank and Gaza remain excluded from PayPal, despite years of advocacy and despite the platform operating freely for Israeli citizens, including settlers living illegally in West Bank settlements. This exclusion forces Palestinian freelancers and businesses to rely on costly intermediaries, informal transfer systems, or unstable alternatives that consume significant portions of their income. For a generation increasingly dependent on online work, being unable to access basic financial tools is devastating. A designer in Gaza may successfully secure freelance contracts through global platforms, but still struggle to receive payment safely or consistently. Access exists in theory, but meaningful participation remains blocked in practice. Unequal infrastructure Infrastructure deepens these inequalities.


Palestinians do not control their own telecommunications sector and continue to face severe restrictions on spectrum access, network development, and digital infrastructure. While Israelis benefit from advanced 4G and 5G connectivity, Palestinians in the West Bank only gained limited 3G access in recent years, while Gaza has remained restricted largely to outdated 2G infrastructure for years. The consequences are immediate: unstable internet directly undermines remote work and client relationships, while also severely disrupting communication, education, and e-commerce. In Gaza, these structural restrictions have escalated into outright destruction. A previous 7amleh report, “ The Impact of the Gaza Blockade and the Destruction of Telecommunications Infrastructure on the Digital Economy Amidst Genocide ,” documented how the deliberate targeting of telecommunications and power infrastructure since October 2023 pushed Gaza’s digital economy toward collapse. The most recent Gaza and West Bank Interim Rapid Damage and Needs Assessment , published by the EU and UN in April 2026, found that 81 percent of Gaza’s telecommunications network had been completely destroyed, 12 percent partially damaged, with only 7 percent minimally damaged. Internet traffic in Gaza dropped by more than 80 percent during October 2023 alone and has not recovered since.


A digital lifeline Yet amid genocide, famine, displacement, and blackouts, Palestinians continued trying to work. The research conducted during the famine period in July 2024, surveying over 180 digital workers in Gaza City and across the Gaza Strip, captured testimonies that remain difficult to forget. People described prioritising access to a laptop, electricity source, or internet signal over almost everything else because digital work represented their final connection to survival, dignity, and hope. Freelancers gathered in makeshift solar-powered coworking spaces to charge devices and access weak internet signals for a few hours each day. Others walked long distances searching for connectivity to submit projects or respond to clients before losing signal again. One thing must be made clear: this resilience should not be romanticized. It reflects the absence of alternatives. Before October 2023, remote work had already become a critical lifeline for Gaza’s economy. Thousands of Palestinians worked through platforms like Upwork and Fiverr in programming, design, translation, and digital marketing. The Palestinian ICT sector employed nearly 9,000 people across around 700 companies and contributed approximately 4 percent of Palestinian GDP.


For many young Palestinians facing movement restrictions and unemployment, digital labour became one of the only viable economic pathways available. But Palestinians are expected to compete in the global digital economy while being denied equal infrastructure, equal payment access, freedom of movement, and even stable electricity. The price of occupation The conversation about Palestinian digital rights often focuses on censorship and online speech. Those issues remain essential. But digital rights are also economic rights. They shape who can work, trade, build businesses, receive payments, and sustain livelihoods. As more of the world moves online, exclusion from digital platforms increasingly means exclusion from economic life itself. Technology companies cannot continue treating Palestinian exclusion as a secondary issue or an unfortunate side effect of “complex realities.” Platform policies are political when they systematically deny access to one population while enabling another living under the same geographic control. Digital infrastructure is political when an occupied population is denied sovereignty over the networks it depends on to survive. For Palestinians, digital access is ultimately about the right to participate in modern economic and public life on equal terms.


Brazil’s former First Lady juggles Christian conservatism, cracks open the far right’s gender contradictions

In Brazil, ex-President Jair Bolsonaro ’s wife, Michelle Bolsonaro , has become a potential new leader for the right-wing camp in the upcoming presidential elections in October . As their political field reshuffles to find leadership after the imprisonment of the former president for attempting to stage a coup d’état in 2023 , Michelle’s ascension to political relevance challenges core patriarchal values within Brazilian society and capitalizes on a growing influential demographic in the political landscape of the country: evangelical and conservative women. Michelle, 44, met Jair Bolsonaro, 71, in 2007, when he was a federal deputy working in Brasília, and she worked as his secretary . They were married in 2013. Michelle already had a daughter from a previous relationship and had Laura, her only child with Bolsonaro, in 2010. She was a discreet figure who was rarely seen in public at the time. Despite the advice of political consultants, she did not engage in her husband’s first presidential campaign in 2018.


Once he got elected, things shifted. At his inauguration, she broke protocol to give a speech in sign language by his side. During Bolsonaro’s presidential term, she would often travel with his ministers and appear more frequently on camera to promote charity work, leading a government program called Volunteer Homeland (Pátria Voluntária) . When the president appointed a new justice to the Supreme Court (STF), the First Lady was filmed praying and celebrating with the chosen judge, André Mendonça, who is also an evangelical pastor. And when they attended Queen Elizabeth’s funeral, her Jackie-O styled dresses made headlines as she promoted the designers on her social media. Michelle became especially popular among conservative women, often overshadowing her stepsons, children of Bolsonaro’s previous marriages. Flávio, Eduardo, Carlos, and Jair Renan, all politicians, saw their hopes of continuing the political dynasty threatened as Michelle gained in relevance. Today, Michelle has over eight million followers on Instagram . Flávio, the eldest son, a senator and potential presidential candidate, is the only one ahead of her, with 11 million .


By the 2022 presidential election, Michelle was popular enough to attract female voters to her husband’s campaign after his callous and disastrous policies during the COVID-19 pandemic — there were 711,380 deaths in Brazil, the country with the second-highest number of deaths in the world. Women’s votes had been his Achilles heel in the previous run. “Women who were at the frontlines of the pandemic, caring for their family economically, physically, and materially, became upset with the inhuman way Bolsonaro treated the victims of the pandemic,” said Lívia Reis, researcher and director of a yearly report that monitors the intersection of evangelical women, politics, and their everyday life, published by the Religion Studies Institute (ISER). “The figure of Michelle comes in to humanize the Bolsonaro figure.” During the pandemic, Bolsonaro repeatedly made fun of COVID-19 victims , spoke against vaccination, and delayed acquiring and distributing vaccines . Experts estimate that these actions could have cost 95,000 lives . Nine days before the second round of the 2022 presidential election, Michelle gave a speech at an evangelical service at the Assembleia de Deus Vitória em Cristo church in Rio de Janeiro, using her own devotion to God to excuse her husband’s actions.


The church was founded by Silas Malafaia , an evangelical leader who supported Bolsonaro’s rise to power and married the couple, and who is widely credited as essential to the solidification of bolsonarismo . “Don’t look at my husband, look at me, for I am a servant of the Lord who kneels to pray and has an understanding of the spiritual world,” Michelle said . “[Bolsonaro] is just as flawed as you and I, because only Jesus was perfect, and even He did not please everyone.” Jair Bolsonaro is not evangelical , despite using this faith to court evangelical voters. In 2016, while still a Congressman, he was baptized in the Jordan River in Israel by a pastor who was later arrested on corruption charges . According to a 2022 survey by Genial/Quaest , 50 percent of evangelicals believed Bolsonaro was evangelical, while only 16 percent correctly identified him as Roman Catholic. “[Michelle] enters the political landscape to legitimize Bolsonaro as a man chosen by God for a mission to fight for a better Brazil,” Reis said. “And Michelle is highly admired by evangelical women.”


A demographic in dispute Michelle’s increasing political visibility has cracked open the contradictions of female leadership in conservative spaces as well as the internal conflicts over gender inequality in evangelical churches. Evangelicals are the fastest-growing faith in the country. Although a little over half of the Brazilian population identifies as Catholic, according to the 2022 census , the evangelical percentage has grown from 21 percent to 26 percent since 2010. The majority of evangelicals — around 55 percent in the 2022 census — are women, a demographic that politicians can no longer ignore in the electorate. In early 2019, days after Jair Bolsonaro was sworn in , Gabriela Leite, an activist from the Black Evangelical Movement, noticed that her mother had been captured by far-right ideology. She had voted for Bolsonaro. “She was talking about ideological indoctrination in public schools,” Leite told Global Voices, referring to “ Escola Sem Partido ,” a right-wing conspiracy theory about teachers indoctrinating children into left-wing ideologies . It was such a hot topic for right-wing politicians that it was turned into law in cities and states .


“What she said made no sense because she raised a daughter who went to public school,” Gabriela said, adding that she hoped her mother would know better. Gabriela, an activist of the Black Evangelical Movement, and her mother, Márcia Leite, a retired school teacher, are both Black working-class evangelical women. Conservative women politicians such as Senator Damares Alves , Bolsonaro’s former human rights minister and an evangelical pastor herself, state deputy Ana Campagnolo , and federal deputy Chris Tonietto have become symbols of female empowerment within conservative subcultures. Since 2023, Michelle has worked as the president of the women’s sector of the Partido Liberal , her husband’s party, recruiting women into the party’s wings. She has also publicly stepped into the role of caretaker and mother , especially after Bolsonaro’s arrest. She adds political leadership to these roles as a signifier of sacrifice and power. This performative multitasking is persuasive to many evangelical women. “Michelle shows evangelical women that it’s possible to be a housewife, but you can also be powerful and a leader,” Márcia said. “Which is everything a modern woman wants. We want to have a place in society. Michelle shows us that it’s possible.”


According to researcher Jamille Bezerra, who is writing a thesis about religious women politicians and how they mediate gender in their daily work, these political figures connect with Christian women in a way the feminist movement was never able to. They make gender issues visible, while still arguing for conservative approaches to the family. Women have always been at the center of the evangelical church’s work, according to researchers and evangelical women interviewed for this article. “It’s women who open the doors of the church in the morning, and it’s women who turn the light off when the service is done,” Gabriela said. “Men are the pastors, and that’s all they are.” Michelle represents them. She recognizes gender inequality, particularly within marriage and the church, as an issue to be addressed, albeit within the limits of conservatism and the Bible . According to a 2025 poll by Datafolha , 42.7 percent of evangelical women have been victims of domestic violence. Many say their pastors have not been sympathetic when they disclose their stories, often blaming them for “not praying enough” and neglecting to instruct them to get help.


Senator Alves, though, toured churches in Brasília in 2024 , encouraging women to call the police if they are ever subjected to abuse by their partners. Michelle also encouraged women to call the police in cases of violence. “Senator Alves and Michelle are projecting that different kinds of families are possible in society, but still within the limits of heteronormativity,” Bezerra said. “[Both of them] are distinct from traditional heteronormativity themselves: Alves is not a married woman and has an adopted daughter, while Michelle’s marriage to Bolsonaro is her second marriage.” These transgressions of traditional evangelical femininity serve to humanize these figures, even as they still defend the traditional patriarchal family structure. In fact, the protection of “the traditional Brazilian family” is how Michelle and other conservative women in politics justify their work outside the home. “They say they are doing it for their kids, for the future, for the nation, things that aren’t exactly new,” Bezerra said. “It’s a typical conservative ideology to bring the protection of the nation to the forefront through the family.”


The double bind of conservative women leaders Though the men who run the conservative parties have begrudgingly accepted that their power might depend on the inclusion of women within their ranks, this shift has created visible cracks in their fascist movement. Michelle and her stepsons have publicly clashed about her involvement in party politics. “Many political analysts tell me it’s important to have the female vote, and I don’t disagree,” said Eduardo Bolsonaro, who was removed from his position as state deputy after moving to the United States, about Michelle’s rise to relevance within the Liberal Party, during an interview with Revista Piauí in September 2025 . “Michelle only talks about positive issues: church, the female vote. But my question is: doesn’t the party understand that what I do is much more important?” he added, referencing his lobbying in Trump’s White House against Lula da Silva’s government. Michelle has been included in election polls for the presidential election in October, often showing her as the most competitive candidate among the Bolsonaros to face off incumbent left-wing Lula. In September last year, when the discussion around Bolsonaro’s successor was still open, with the former president ineligible for any seats, Michelle positioned herself as a potential candidate.


“I will rise like a lioness to defend our conservative values, truth, and justice,” she said to The Telegraph in her first interview since her husband’s conviction, echoing language used by friends and family of Charlie Kirk’s to refer to hiss surviving wife Erika . “If, to fulfil God’s will, it becomes necessary to assume a political candidacy, I will be ready to do whatever He asks of me.” But in the end, the traditional family order — which Michelle unequivocally defends — won. In December, Flavio, Bolsonaro’s firstborn and a senator, officially announced his candidacy, which was supported by his father’s handwritten letter from prison. While he fights to continue his candidacy amid revelations published by The Intercept Brazil that he solicited money from a jailed banker to finance Bolsonaro’s biopic film, it’s hard to imagine a political camp that believes in women’s subjugation would allow for the rise of a “lioness” like Michelle. “Bolsonaro’s sons want to use Michelle like Bolsonaro did — as a companion, as a supporter — they’re not prepared for her to be a leader,” said Márcia Leite, adding that she will not be voting for Flavio Bolsonaro in October.


Melanesian nations vow to connect and expand marine protected areas

Papua New Guinea, Fiji, and Vanuatu have agreed to expand and connect their marine protected areas, affirming their commitment to prioritizing ocean health and the environment. This initiative was announced during the inaugural Melanesian Ocean Summit in May 2026, held in Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea. Melanesia is a subregion of the Pacific. The network of marine reserves is named the Melanesian Ocean Corridor of Reserves or MOCOR, which was conceptualized by the three Pacific nations “to forge a unified Melanesian front in ocean governance, targeting the absolute protection of our fragile marine ecosystems while empowering the cultural and economic livelihoods of our coastal communities.” MOCOR is the latest example of a Pacific response to the harsh impact of climate change. The region has historically produced low carbon emissions, yet it is enduring the extreme consequences of the climate crisis, with many of its island communities facing the threat of rising water levels and coral reef destruction.


The interconnected marine reserves will cover at least six million square kilometers, and the project is expected to become the world’s largest transboundary marine protected area. Papua New Guinea’s Western Manus Marine Protected Area would cover more than 214,000 square kilometers of ocean in the Bismarck Sea, which the government calls an area nearly the size of the United Kingdom. It represents nine percent of the country's exclusive economic zone Vanuatu said it will allot 70,000 square kilometers in the Torba National Marine Protected Area, an area the size of Ireland, for the MOCOR. It is about 10 percent of its exclusive economic zone. Fiji has pledged 15 percent of its waters to be part of the MOCOR this year and vows to expand it over the next five years. Vanuatu Prime Minister Jotham Napat underscored the value of protecting the ocean. “We are not sacrificing our ocean to save it. We are choosing protection over extraction, and the long memory of our ancestors over the short-term interests of others,” he said.


Fiji Prime Minister Sitiveni Rabuka reminded fellow Pacific leaders that the duty of caring for the seas should not be restricted by borders. This initiative represents a bold and timely step forward, recognizing that our oceans do not end at national boundaries, and that our stewardship responsibilities must therefore extend across them. MOCOR is more than a conservation initiative. It is a platform for Melanesian integration. Enric Sala of the National Geographic Explorer in Residence lauded the unveiling of the MOCOR. “With this bold new initiative, the leaders of Melanesia are committing to protect 30 percent of one of the most biodiverse and important marine environments on the planet,” he said. Meanwhile, the Pacific Network on Globalization welcomed the MOCOR and urged Pacific leaders to translate regional commitments into binding domestic legislation by considering a regional moratorium on deep-sea mining, which has divided the Pacific community since some governments indicated they will allow the exploration and extraction of deep-sea minerals, despite its potentially disastrous environmental cost.


Another highlight of the Melanesian Ocean Summit is the symbolic placing of a “message in a bottle” containing the pledge of the Pacific people. Here’s an excerpt of the pledge. To the technocrats out there, to those of you who in haste for profit of today’s generation, squandering the prospect of young Moana’s generation. Together, we stand not just as nations but as guardians. Guardians of a shared ocean that feeds our people, carries our stories, and connects every island across our Pacific Ocean. The ocean does not belong to us. We belong to the ocean. One people. One ocean. One future. Wansolwara. Melanesian nations have agreed to meet again in two years for another summit to review and broaden their commitments to protecting the ocean.


The case of Shakira Galíndez highlights a growing crisis for trans Venezuelan asylum seekers in the U.S.

When Shakira Galíndez appeared for her immigration proceeding, she was trying to comply with the U.S. legal process. Instead, she was immediately detained by ICE. Since then, the 30-year-old Venezuelan transgender woman has spent months moving through the U.S. immigration detention system while fighting to avoid deportation. Her story extends beyond herself: it includes the family and friends affected by her arbitrary detention, while underscoring the growing disparity between the protections formally guaranteed to vulnerable refugees and the conditions they frequently encounter upon arrival. For many LGBTQ+ Venezuelans, migration is often a matter of survival. Faced with discrimination , criminalization , violence, exclusion from employment, barriers to healthcare, and the absence of legal recognition of their identities , many transgender and gender-diverse Venezuelans are forced to leave their homes in search of safety and dignity. Galíndez is a 30-year-old transgender woman from Yaracuy, Venezuela.


She arrived in the United States seeking asylum after fleeing conditions that made it increasingly difficult to live safely as a trans woman in her country of origin. Like many asylum seekers, she entered a legal process designed to evaluate her claim and determine whether returning her to Venezuela would expose her to harm. She was arrested while attending an immigration hearing and subsequently transferred through multiple detention facilities. Today, she remains in immigration detention in LaSalle Detention Center and faces the possibility of deportation back to Venezuela. Her case exposes a broader contradiction at the heart of the U.S. immigration detention system. Since 2015, federal agencies have acknowledged that transgender individuals in detention face unique risks. ICE detention standards and policies influenced by the Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) recognize that housing decisions involving transgender people should be made on a case-by-case basis, with particular attention to gender identity, especially because transgender inmates reported higher levels of staff sexual misconduct in prisons (17 percent) and jails (23 percent). On paper, these protections exist .


In practice, however, advocates and human rights organizations have repeatedly documented situations in which transgender migrants remain exposed to isolation, mistreatment, inadequate healthcare, or detention conditions that fail to reflect their gender identity. Conditions worsened during Donald Trump’s second term, with reported increases in these types of violations. One of his first presidential actions was an executive order against what he termed “gender ideology extremism,” mandating federal recognition of only two sexes, placing transgender women in men’s prisons, and cutting funding of gender-affirming care for prisoners. Shakira’s experience is only part of this broader pattern. The prolonged nature of her detention, transfers between facilities, and her placement within a men’s detention environment have raised serious concerns among family, friends, and advocates working on her behalf. The reports of isolation are particularly alarming. Galíndez claims she was held in solitary confinement for more than a month before requesting to be moved into the general prison population, despite the risks this entailed.


Nearly 90 percent of incarcerated transgender people have been held in solitary confinement in prison, according to a recent study — a practice that is classified as torture by human rights experts. Regardless of the legal outcome of Galíndez’s asylum claim, these conditions illustrate how detention itself can become a source of harm for transgender migrants. For Galíndez, deportation would mean returning to a country where transgender people continue to face significant structural barriers. Venezuela currently lacks a comprehensive legal framework recognizing gender identity or protecting transgender people from discrimination. Civil society organizations have documented persistent patterns of violence , social exclusion , and barriers to accessing healthcare , employment, and legal recognition. Across the Americas, Venezuela’s political, economic, and humanitarian crisis has generated one of the largest displacement movements in the world. Within that displaced population, LGBTQ+ people often face additional layers of vulnerability. They may experience family rejection, homelessness, barriers to employment, exploitation, and targeted violence both before and during migration. This reality is particularly important when evaluating asylum claims.


In a 2020 report , ReliefWeb underscored how the displacement of LGBTQ+ Venezuelans forms one of the most complex layers of an already deep migration crisis, and that the many risks they are exposed to do not end with migration. As the report explains: Most of the [LGBTQ+ population] face or have faced situations of exploitation, abuse, and inequality, among other forms of violence. In addition, discrimination and xenophobic attitudes have affected them in different ways. For example, trans women have experienced a greater violation of their rights and lack of protection, while LGB people have had to hide their sexual orientation to avoid being discriminated against. The purpose of asylum law is to provide protection to individuals who have a well-founded fear of persecution based on factors such as political opinion, religion, nationality, race, or membership in a particular social group. Transgender individuals fleeing systemic discrimination and violence often seek protection under this framework because returning home may expose them to serious risks.


“Being queer in Venezuela has meant growing up under the constant threat of exclusion, corrective violence, and abandonment,” Andrés Perez, a non-binary activist exiled in Colombia, explains to Global Voices via message. ”For many people in the LGBTQIA+ community, migrating is not a decision about the future, but a way to protect our lives in the present.” Shakira’s case is not occurring in isolation. It echoes concerns raised in the case of Andry Hernández Romero , another Venezuelan LGBTQ+ migrant whose experience drew attention from advocates and human rights organizations due to his transfer to CECOT , El Salvador’s infamous prison, and subsequent deportation to Venezuela. Although their circumstances differ, both cases illustrate a troubling reality: LGBTQ+ Venezuelans seeking protection in the United States can find themselves navigating systems that fail to adequately recognize their vulnerabilities. As her case continues, advocates are calling for her release from detention and for a fair evaluation of her asylum claim. Their demands are rooted in a simple principle: people who seek protection from persecution should not be subjected to conditions that place them at further risk.


Colombia becomes the first Latin American country to ban female genital mutilation

Nine days remained — just nine days before the deadline expired, the bill died, and years of work would have to begin again from scratch. But on June 10, 2026, the Colombian Senate finally voted and gave its approval, making Colombia the first country in Latin America to prohibit female genital mutilation (FGM). Bill 440 of 2025, known as “Niñas sin Ablación” (“Girls Without Ablation”), is a law that was not born in a legislative office, but rather, within the communities that needed it most. On March 22, 2007, three newborn girls from the Emberá Chamí community died from an infection after being subjected to genital mutilation. It was the first documented case to reach official records, though it is believed it was not the first to occur. Since then, Colombia has remained the only country in Latin America to officially acknowledge that female genital mutilation is still practiced within its borders. Rather than that acknowledgment being a source of shame, it allowed the state to begin taking action and helped place the eradication of FGM on the global Sustainable Development Goals agenda — but twenty years later, without a law to support those efforts, recognition alone was not enough to protect anyone.


Female genital mutilation (referred to in some communities as a “healing,” “correction,” or “operation”) involves the partial or total removal of the external female genitalia without any medical justification. In Colombia, it is performed on girls ranging from 17 days to 12 years of age. According to international health organizations, the consequences are permanent : hemorrhaging, chronic infections, childbirth complications, psychological trauma, behavioral disorders, anxiety, depression and, in the most severe cases, death. A law born from survivors, driven by numbers Official figures reveal only part of the picture. The state typically learns of cases when girls arrive at hospitals suffering complications, but many affected communities are located hours away from the nearest healthcare facility. What is recorded is always less than what actually occurs. Even so, the available data is enough to demonstrate the scale of the problem. Colombia’s Ministry of Health reported 91 cases in 2023 and 54 in 2024, though no consolidated national registry exists since many occur in remote communities without access to the healthcare system. Between 2020 and 2025, the National Institute of Health documented 204 cases , 177 of them involving Indigenous girls, primarily in the departments of Risaralda and Chocó.


In the municipality of Pueblo Rico alone, 46 cases were recorded between 2013 and 2014: 32 involving infants under one year old and 11 involving children between one and two years old. Data from Colombia’s National Indigenous Organization, corroborated by the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), indicates that two out of every three Emberá women have undergone genital mutilation. Authorities have also identified cases among Afro-Colombian, Raizal, Palenquero, and migrant communities. We are not talking about adults. We are talking, overwhelmingly, about babies. It was precisely this reality that pushed Emberá women themselves — many of them survivors — to stop waiting and begin building solutions from within their communities. The bill grew out of years of dialogue with affected communities that were asking for concrete tools to protect their daughters. Its approach is not punitive, a deliberate choice. Criminalizing grandmothers and traditional birth attendants would only discourage families from taking girls to the hospital when complications arise. More children would die, not fewer. The law establishes an interinstitutional committee made up of government agencies, the Colombian Family Welfare Institute (ICBF), civil society organizations, and representatives from the affected communities themselves.


It creates care pathways, mandatory healthcare protocols, stronger data collection systems, and an intercultural approach that recognizes the complexity of the issue without using it as an excuse for inaction. Alejandrina Guasorna: A survivor’s testimony In an interview with El Pais , Alejandrina Guasorna remembers when she was 74 years old and her sister confirmed what rumors had long suggested: on the day she was born, someone removed her clitoris. A razor blade, a heated nail, a closed room, and then silence. No one had ever told her. Not her mother, nor any of the women in her Emberá community in Pueblo Rico, Risaralda. She grew up unaware, lived her life unaware, and even became a midwife without knowing, helping bring other girls into the world who may have suffered the same fate. What weighs most heavily in her story is not the moment she cannot remember; it is everything she does remember: the girls who died, the hemorrhages, the infections, the tiny bodies that could not survive. Then came the most devastating sentence of all: “They brought dead girls all the time. We thought it was normal.” It was not ignorance.


It was an entire community conditioned over generations not to see, not to speak; to bury its daughters and move on. Guasorna challenges one of the most common arguments used to justify inaction: this is not an ancient, immutable tradition. Unlike in some African countries, it is not always carried out by traditional midwives. Rather, it is a practice passed down through generations, in marginalized communities with limited access to education and little state presence, where no one explained that what was being done to their bodies was neither normal nor necessary. The road that almost ended before it began The approval of the law was far from easy . The bill passed two debates in the House of Representatives in 2025 and was later unanimously approved by the Senate’s First Committee. Yet for weeks, the final debate, the only remaining step, was buried at positions 12 or 13 on the legislative agenda, behind issues such as school vouchers and transportation subsidies. The deadline was June 20. The presidential runoff election was scheduled for June 21. Few politicians wanted to complicate matters.


That the vote happened at all, given Colombia’s political climate , is no small detail. It is the result of years of pressure from women who had nothing to gain politically but everything to gain personally. Female genital mutilation is practiced in at least 94 countries and affects more than 230 million girls and women worldwide. Of those 94 countries where the practice has been documented, only 59 have laws that specifically address it, with most of those laws concentrated in Africa, Europe, and North America. Until the passing of this historic bill, Latin America had none. Leandra Becerra, Equality Now’s legal advisor for Latin America, summarized the significance of the moment after the bill’s approval: “This achievement is the culmination of years of coordinated work by survivors, activists, and lawmakers. The challenge now is ensuring that the law is implemented effectively, with sustained political will and adequate resources, so that no girl in Colombia is ever subjected to female genital mutilation again. President Gustavo Petro must still formally sign the legislation into law, but the hardest part has already happened. Colombia has decided that female genital mutilation can no longer continue.


Hong Kong’s LGBTQ+ communities struggle to survive amid shrinking civic spaces

Hong Kong civil society has faced increasing challenges in recent years, including arrests and political prosecution, the disbandment of NGOs, shrinking funding sources, the erosion of the right to protest and assembly, and more, since the enactment of the National Security Law (NSL) in 2020. LGBTQ+ activism has also been negatively affected. Since 2023, the city’s Pride Parade has been forced to move indoors, as organizers could not find public venues where they could freely celebrate. The venue issue also forced the Gay Games 2023 to scale down and the Pink Dot carnival to move indoors. LGBTQ+ advocacy groups have faced drastic reductions in government-related and charity funding. To find out how the city’s LGBTQ+ communities are affected by the post-NSL political environment, Global Voices conducted a face-to-face interview with Peregrine (a pseudonym), a nonbinary activist who discussed the challenges they faced, their survival strategies, and their hopes for the future.


GV: How do you account for the clampdown on LGBTQ+ rights in recent years, especially since the enactment of NSL in 2020? Peregrine: LGBTQ+ [people] used to be part of the Hong Kong democracy movement, as the community’s earliest campaigns were along the legal and judicial fronts, which included the enactment of the Bill of Rights and the decriminalization of homosexual acts between consenting adults in 1991 and judicial reviews against the government’s discriminatory policies towards legally married same-sex couples. Many human rights lawyers who acted on behalf of the LGBTQ+ community were affiliated with the democratic movement, and hence the two movements often went hand in hand. Before the introduction of the National Security Law in 2020, some pro-establishment groups, even the pro-China Federation of Labor Union, had expressed support for LGBTQ+ rights. However, after the passage of the National Security Law and the subsequent mass arrest of the 47 pro-democracy activists, the attitude of the pro-establishment [groups] changed. Hence, I see that the clampdown on LGBTQ+ rights is part of the crackdown on the pro-democracy sector.


I don’t think many pro-establishment figures see LGBTQ+ activities like the 2023 Gay Games or Pride Parade as a threat; they just do not express support because LGBTQ+ rights used to be a pro-democracy agenda. I also suspect that many of them want to align with Beijing’s position and dare not express their view for fear of making a political mistake. As a result, very few extreme conservative voices become representative of the whole establishment. Another issue is that the city law enforcement now opposes public gatherings which are connected to social and political agendas. The whole civil society is muted, and LGBTQ+ [organizations] can’t be exempted from the chilling environment. GV: Can you elaborate further on how the new political order affects the internal dynamics within the LGBTQ+ community? Peregrine: Since no one knows where the red line is, our views are more divided. The marriage right campaign, as an example, Jimmy Sham , while he was still in jail for the 47 activist case, had to withstand internal pressure from a few conservative voices accusing his judicial review for equal marriage rights of being too aggressive.


Then, as the court of final appeal handed down its ruling in favor of the same-sex partnership framework, some were satisfied with the result, while a few insisted on pushing for equal marriage rights. That’s why we did not have any public D-day celebration. The irony was that after all the legal hustle to push the government to introduce a same-sex partnership registration framework, the legislative council voted down the government bill in September 2025. GV: How do you navigate the “red lines”? Peregrine: It is very difficult to navigate red lines under the current politicized environment. Even the pro-establishment does not know where they lie. One example is the 2023 Gay Games. The event was endorsed by the Hong Kong Tourism Board to promote the city as a diverse and open society. However, the Games eventually had little government support and had to rely on school venues to host many sports competitions. Another example is the annual Pink Dot outdoor carnival, which is considered too commercial within the LGBTQ+ community. Yet even such a mild event has faced abrupt venue cancellations in the past two years.


After the 10th anniversary of the carnival in September 2024, Pink Dot was abruptly denied permission to operate an outdoor event by the West Kowloon Cultural District Authority in 2025 and by Link REIT in 2026, forcing the carnival to move online and indoors, respectively. Peregrine: What we are facing now is also a global backlash against LGBTQ+ people. For example, last year in Kazakhstan, they passed a law to ban so-called ‘ LGBTQ+ propaganda ,’ and they considered any positive display of non-mainstream sexual orientation ‘propaganda.’ As for the authorities in Hong Kong, they just want to fulfil the minimum human rights standard laid out by the United Nations, which means they allow the community to exist but prefer them not to come out in public. That’s why we could not find public venues for our activities. International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia and Transphobia ( IDAHOT ) has remained a publicly visible LGBTQ+ activity, with LGBTQ+ rights NGOs setting up street booths in Causeway Bay to advocate for sexual minorities’ equal rights, thanks to the support of Consulates from European Countries.


GV: How does the venue issue affect the city’s LGBTQ+ movement in Hong Kong? Peregrine: An important front of the LGBTQ+ movement is encouraging the community to come out with pride through parades and rallies, which also provide us with opportunities to meet each other face-to-face, discuss important issues, and build consensus. Those who have not reconciled with their sexual orientation and gender identity need to see each other to resolve their inner conflict. Moreover, our coming out in sexy outfits or as drag queens can inspire the mainstream to embrace inclusion. But we don’t have the space to do that now. In 2023, the government-funded Radio Television Broadcast also cut its “We are Family” program , which was launched in 2006 to educate citizens on sexual diversity. GV: There are many media reports about LGBTQ+ NGOs suffering from funding cuts. Do you have any insider views on the situation?


Peregrine: In the past, aside from direct funding from public institutions such as the Equal Opportunities Commissions, resources for LGBTQ+ community building also came from the advocacy front of major NGOs and Charities, which appropriated health and social service grants for advocacy work, such as community empowerment. In the past few years, most of these institutions have cut their advocacy front for fear of losing government support for their work. GV: What spaces remain for LGBTQ+ activism? Peregrine: I foresee LGBTQ+ activism becoming highly individualized. In fact, on social media platforms, particularly on Threads, there is no shortage of positive LGBTQ+ content, and when dialogues emerge, we can see clusters of like-minded people in the networks. I would name such clusters ‘queer spaces.’ However, thanks to the algorithm, they are less visible to those outside of the circle. You can say that we are being forced into a semi-underground mode, and we have to keep expanding the underground spaces by digging our own virtual and physical ‘rabbit holes,’ so that we can build an urban tribe for mutual aid, like the New York ballroom culture in the 19th and 20th centuries.


GV: Do you have any hopes for the future of Hong Kong’s LGBTQ+ movement? Peregrine: Even before the decriminalization of homosexuality in Hong Kong in the 1990s, the LGBTQ+ community had found ways to survive. Currently, the public acceptance of sexual diversity remains high, and there are still private venues available for us to host smaller-scale activities such as LGBTQ+ film festivals. What we need is for every individual to take responsibility for defending the space by attending LGBTQ+ events and donating to advocacy groups. We can’t be free-riders anymore. Although the authorities want to further marginalize the LGBTQ+ community, they can’t deny our existence. Even in China, despite the heavy-handed crackdown on the LGBTQ+ community, the country launched its first transgender clinic in 2024, allowed the organization of Diversity Week in Beijing to mark the International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia and Transphobia (IDAHOT) in 2025, and gave single women access to artificial insemination. If Hong Kong wants to remain an international city, it has to be far better than that.


Planes don't fly on masculinity: Why society views women in transportation as an anomaly

The plane had barely left the ground before everything started going wrong. Air traffic controllers were left stunned when a loud explosion and the emergence of a thick cloud of black smoke replaced the airspace Air Algerie Flight 6289 had been mere moments before. In one of my all-time favorite shows, Mayday Air Disaster , Season 26 (the most recent season), Episode 7, entitled “Divided in Crisis” and released on February 16, 2025, investigators revisit the harrowing tragedy of Air Algerie Flight 6289, a Boeing 737-200 that crashed shortly after takeoff from Tamanrasset Airport in southern Algeria at the end of a runway on March 6, 2003. What began as a routine flight in perfect weather conditions quickly spiraled into catastrophe after an engine failure during takeoff forced the crew into several split-second decisions that ultimately led to the loss of the flight. There were two pilots in the cockpit that day: the woman pilot, who was supposed to be in charge of flight controls, and the supervising pilot, who was an older man.


Watching this particular episode unsettled me, but not for the obvious reasons. It’s quite terrifying how quickly everyday decisions and mundane moments can turn into irreversible tragedies. That particular episode forced me to delve into why society as a whole views women in transportation as an anomaly. Stereotypes about African women in transportation I’m a 23-year-old African woman, and I have spent most of my life noticing how competence is still quietly treated as a masculine trait. Not in the loud, obvious ways people imagine sexism looks today. Modern sexism is often quieter than that. It hides in reactions, assumptions, body language, jokes, hesitation, and the strange surprises people still have whenever women occupy positions associated with control. Especially behind a steering wheel, especially inside a cockpit. Even now, there are people who become visibly uncomfortable when they realize their Uber driver is a woman. Some quietly cancel rides. Others spend the trip hyper-aware of every turn, every brake, every lane change, every little maneuver, as if awaiting proof that women are naturally worse drivers than men.


I notice this dynamic everywhere. In many African countries, transportation spaces still feel heavily gendered. Taxi ranks, omnibuses, buses, trucking routes, and aviation spaces are still overwhelmingly associated with men. A woman driving an omnibus still catches people off guard in ways a man never would. A female pilot’s voice over an intercom still surprises some passengers. Some people will instinctively trust a male driver before they trust a woman with the exact same qualifications. What fascinates me is how normalized these reactions are. People laugh about women drivers so casually that they rarely stop to ask themselves what exactly they are implying. Because what does society actually believe? Maybe that planes are somehow kept in the air through masculinity? Maybe buses become softer because female hands are operating them? I guess it comes from the belief that leadership, technical precision, and calmness under pressure are biologically male characteristics. It sounds absurd when said out loud. Skill has never belonged to one gender Transportation systems do not operate on gender. They operate on training, communication, discipline, regulations, teamwork, and skill.


A Boeing 737 does not respond differently because a woman is in the cockpit, nor does a bus or truck. And yet women in transportation are still treated like phenomena instead of professionals. What frustrates me the most about this topic is that society has already proven it can evolve beyond those stereotypes when it wants to. For years, men working as cashiers in retail stores were viewed strangely because customer service and cashier work were considered “women’s jobs.” A man standing behind a register would have looked quite unusual to people a few years ago. Over time, society adapted, though. Today, most people barely think twice about male cashiers. So, clearly, these gendered ideas are not fixed. Yet when it comes to women in transportation, society still feels emotionally stuck in the past. Women are still expected to prove themselves before they are trusted. Men, meanwhile, are often trusted first and evaluated later. And the pressure this creates is exhausting. Double standards against women As women, especially African women, we grow up understanding that mistakes are rarely viewed as individual.


One woman struggling in a male-dominated space somehow becomes evidence against women as a whole. Meanwhile, men are allowed the luxury of being seen as individuals. A bad male driver is just a bad driver. A bad female driver somehow becomes a conversation about women. That double standard follows women everywhere. You see it in the workplace, in classrooms, in leadership spaces, in conversations about engineering, technology, politics, and science. Confidence in men is interpreted as authority, while confidence in women is often interpreted as attitude. Men are allowed to be assertive. Women are expected to remain agreeable while simultaneously proving they are competent enough to belong. It is exhausting to constantly perform with excellence only to be viewed as adequate. And maybe that is why this conversation matters beyond aeroplanes and omnibuses. Transportation is simply one of the clearest reflections of a bigger social issue; society is still uncomfortable with women occupying spaces associated with authority, technical skill, and control — e ven in 2026, even among people who call themselves progressive.


What makes that irony painful is that African women have always carried enormous responsibility. Society trusts women to raise children, support households, hold families together emotionally, survive economic hardship, and carry entire communities through crisis. Put a woman behind the controls of a plane, and suddenly, people become nervous. That contradiction says everything. The world has already changed, whether society is emotionally prepared for it or not. Women are flying planes, driving omnibuses, operating public transport systems, navigating cities, and moving economies forward every single day. Young girls are growing up seeing women in positions that previous generations were often told were beyond their reach. However, real progress begins when women in these roles stop feeling symbolic. When hearing a female pilot’s voice over the intercom feels completely ordinary. When competence stops being treated as a male trait. And when society finally grows up enough to understand that skill has never belonged to one gender in the first place.


Fake visuals, defamed civilians, and fabricated wars: How Indian mainstream media failed during operation Sindoor

In early May 2025, India launched “ Operation Sindoor ”, a military response to a terrorist attack in Pahalgam, in Indian-administered Jammu and Kashmir , that killed 26 tourists. Indian officials blamed Pakistan for the attack — an accusation that Pakistani officials staunchly denied. As the nation braced for heightened hostilities with Pakistan, millions turned to their television screens for accurate coverage of the national security crisis. What they received instead, across multiple major news channels, was a barrage of fabricated visuals, defamed civilians, and entirely fictional war reports. This article documents three patterns of journalistic failure during Operation Sindoor, based on formal complaints filed with broadcasting regulators, independent fact-checking investigations, court orders, and an expose by The Washington Post. When a teacher became a “terrorist” On May 7, 2025, as cross-border shelling intensified along the Line of Control in Poonch, Jammu and Kashmir, a 47-year-old religious teacher named Maulana Qari Mohammad Iqbal stepped out to buy groceries for his students in India.


He was among twelve civilians killed that day by Pakistani artillery fire. But while his family began grieving, India’s News18 MP Chhattisgarh broadcast a segment that transformed their tragedy into a nightmare. The channel misidentified Iqbal as a “top Lashkar-e-Taiba commander” and a “most-wanted terrorist” killed in an Indian airstrike. The broadcast used his photograph, taken from a condolence post shared by a colleague, and paired it with dramatic triumphal rhetoric. The reality was completely different. The Poonch Police officially confirmed that Iqbal had no links to any militant organisation and was a respected religious figure in the local community. His family publicly condemned the coverage. “We were already wounded, and now this tragedy has struck us”, said his brother-in-law, Ishaq Khayan. Other channels followed the same path. Republic World labelled Iqbal a “top LeT ( Lashkar-e-Taiba ) commander involved in major terror attacks, including Pulwama ”, while Zee News called him a “terrorist” killed during Operation Sindoor. Local residents staged protests over the false accusations.


The Citizens for Justice and Peace (CJP), a human rights organisation, filed a formal complaint with the News Broadcasting & Digital Standards Authority ( NBDSA ) against News18 MP Chhattisgarh , detailing violations of accuracy, impartiality, privacy, and responsible crime reporting. On June 28, 2025, a court in the Punch district of the Indian-administered Jammu and Kashmir delivered a landmark judgment . Sub-Judge Shafeeq Ahmed directed the Jammu and Kashmir Police to register a First Information Report ( FIR ) against News18, Zee News, and unspecified editorial staff under provisions of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (Indian Justice Code), related to public mischief, defamation, and promoting enmity between religious groups, as well as under Section 66 of India’s Information Technology Act . The court’s observations were critical. “The act of branding a deceased civilian teacher of a local religious seminary as a ‘Pakistani terrorist’ without any verification, particularly during a period of Indo-Pak hostilities, cannot be dismissed as a mere journalistic lapse”, the judge wrote .


The court further observed that while some channels had issued apologies following public backlash, “an apology may have mitigating value at the stage of sentencing but does not preclude the statutory duty of police to register an FIR”. The family, represented by advocate Sheikh Mohammad Saleem, has since filed defamation lawsuits seeking INR 50 million (USD 528,500) in damages. “It still haunts us”, said Tariq Manzoor , Iqbal’s nephew. “They showed his bloodied body and claimed he was behind Pulwama. These lies have deeply wounded our family and community”. Recycled wars: How Aaj Tak sold old footage as “Live Combat” While News18 invented terrorists, Aaj Tak, one of India’s largest Hindi news channels, invented a war . On two separate occasions in May 2025, the channel broadcast outdated footage from entirely different conflicts, falsely presenting it as real-time visuals of Indian military operations. The first incident dates to May 7, 2025, when senior anchor Anjana Om Kashyap was hosting a segment. The broadcast showed dramatic visuals of missiles being launched and claimed they depicted Indian strikes on terrorist infrastructure in Bahawalpur, Pakistan.


However, reverse image searches traced the footage to a Sputnik Armenia news report published on October 13, 2023, which clearly stated that the video showed Israeli airstrikes on Gaza. The visuals had nothing to do with India, Pakistan, or Operation Sindoor. Just two days later, on May 9, 2025, Aaj Tak repeated the offence . The channel aired a video showing an air defence system intercepting incoming threats. Anchor Anjana Om Kashyap claimed the footage showed a Pakistani air attack being stopped in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan. Independent fact-checking revealed that the original video had been uploaded to YouTube on May 10, 2021, four years before the broadcast by NSF Channel. The accompanying caption explicitly identified the visuals as showing Israel’s Iron Dome air defence system. The CJP filed a formal complaint against Aaj Tak for both broadcasts, noting that the channel aired no corrective statements or clarifications. The complaint detailed violations of NBDSA guidelines on impartiality, accuracy, and, critically, national security. By broadcasting fake visuals of active combat during a live military situation, the channel risked misleading international observers and inflaming tensions.


Fiction as news: The Washington Post exposes the war that never was The failures of News18 and Aaj Tak were not isolated. According to a comprehensive investigation published by The Washington Post in June 2025, the problem was systemic, involving multiple major news channels. The Washington Post report named Zee News, NDTV, Aaj Tak, and Times Now as among the channels that broadcast fabricated war reports, including claims that Karachi had been destroyed, Pakistan’s army chief had been arrested, and Pakistan’s Prime Minister had surrendered. These claims were presented as breaking news without any confirmation from the Indian military. The Post described Indian television coverage as being “in the grip of fiction writers”. The report further alleged that retired Indian military officials were brought in as pundits to lend credibility to fabricated narratives, and that unverified “leaks” from government-affiliated WhatsApp groups were relayed to news anchors without journalistic verification. One Indian security official anonymously admitted to The Washington Post that spreading misinformation was a deliberate war tactic, one that ultimately backfired and embarrassed India on the global stage.


The CJP’s complaints against six channels, Aaj Tak, ABP News, Times Now Navbharat, NDTV, India TV, and News18, further detailed how recycled footage from the Israel-Gaza conflict and four-year-old videos of Israel’s Iron Dome were systematically passed off as exclusive visuals of India’s military prowess. The cost of abandoning journalism The consequences of this misinformation campaign extend far beyond reputational damage. A grieving family has had to fight a defamation battle while mourning their loss. A religious community has seen one of its respected teachers falsely branded a terrorist on national television. The Indian public was systematically misled about the nature of military operations during an active conflict. The Poonch court’s words serve as an apt conclusion. “Freedom of the press does not grant a license to publish defamatory or misleading material”, the judge wrote, “and when such conduct results in serious harm to individuals or society at large, it must be addressed in accordance with law”. As India reflects on the media’s performance during Operation Sindoor, one question remains: will there be accountability, or will the next crisis bring another round of recycled footage, defamed civilians, and wars that never happened?


Can the Special Seats Bill deliver the gender parity Nigeria needs?

Hundreds of women rallied in Nigeria’s capital city, Abuja, on June 11, urging lawmakers to pass the Special Seats Bill (also known as the Reserved Seats Bill), a constitutional amendment designed to tackle the severe underrepresentation of women in parliament . Despite comprising 50 percent of Nigeria’s population, women hold just 4.5 percent of seats in the National Assembly . Nigeria consistently ranks near the bottom globally and in Africa in terms of women’s parliamentary representation. The proposed law seeks to create 37 additional seats reserved exclusively for female candidates in both the Senate and House of Representatives (one per state plus the Federal Capital Territory), as well as three dedicated seats per state assembly. These new positions, to be contested only by women in general elections, are framed as temporary affirmative action to advance gender parity and inclusive governance.


Why some advocates support the passage of the bill Ifebuchechukwu Francisca Edeh, a gender and youth advocate and founder of the Touch to Heal initiative, told Global Voices that structural barriers have prevented women from achieving meaningful representation in existing political processes. For much of the country’s modern history, access to political representation in Nigeria has been systematically denied to women. There are structural barriers such as discriminatory laws, cultural norms, marriage, and economic disadvantages. Without interventions, the cycle of exclusion continues. Special seats are not permanent solutions; they are transitional mechanisms to dismantle systemic barriers. Once equity is achieved, the need for such measures diminishes. The proposal is not emerging in a vacuum. For years, women’s groups, civil society organizations, and some lawmakers have pushed for reforms aimed at increasing female political participation. Previous efforts, including gender-related constitutional amendments and political party commitments, have yielded limited results. Yet, supporters of the bill remain hopeful. Esther Ogbomo, a podcaster in Abuja, told Global Voices that she’s optimistic the bill will be passed into law.


I believe the Special Seats Bill has a good chance of being passed because there is increasing recognition of the need to improve women’s representation in politics. With continued advocacy, public support, and commitment from lawmakers, the bill could help address the significant gender gap in political leadership. While challenges remain, the growing conversation around inclusion and equitable representation makes me cautiously optimistic about its passage. African countries that have adopted quota systems or reserved seats for women, such as Rwanda, Senegal, and South Africa, have significantly higher levels of female representation in legislative bodies. Criticisms of the Special Seats Bill Critics, however, question whether reserved seats are the appropriate solution. Christopher Olusa, a youth advocate and public speaker, believes that the special seats bill is unnecessary. He told Global Voices: It is not supposed to be a matter of gender but the needs of the constituents.


We have the right in our current democracy to elect whoever we want, regardless of gender, so the special seats bill now creates the opinion that seats should be handed to people just because they’re women. Another reason I do not support the bill is that we’re at a time where a lot of people, including myself, want a reduction in the cost of governance, even eliminating one of the chambers. The bicameral system of legislature is expensive, so creating special seats is like adding to the burden, and I don’t believe that it might provide efficient results. I am also not convinced that when seats are created because of gender, that if or when these people get elected, they will not be regarded as equal to other elected politicians. The Special Seats Bill currently remains at the committee stage in the National Assembly, where it is scheduled for voting/clause-by-clause consideration on July 7, with advocates continuing to push for its passage before the end of the current legislative term.


Haiti: Fleeing is not enough in Port-au-Prince and other major cities

Haiti remains under the grip of armed gang federations. These include Viv Ansanm (“Living Together”), led by Jimmy “Barbecue” Chérizier , a former police officer turned one of the country’s most notorious gang leaders. The group emerged out of the G9 federation , founded in 2020 to unite rival gangs. As one unit, these gangs now control a significant share of the capital, Port-au-Prince, and major national highways — including a significant share of Port-au-Prince’s metropolitan region and strategic national highways leading to the Great North and the Great South — inflicting acts of violence on civilians, including sexual assault, kidnapping, extortion, and arson. With more than 1.5 million internally displaced persons and successive international missions failing to achieve on-the-ground results, the government remains profoundly overwhelmed. On the night of August 17, 46-year-old Marie Rose (pseudonym) and two of her three children were walking home in Carrefour-Feuilles. Power supplies had been cut off , plunging this densely populated neighbourhood in the southern suburbs of Port-au- Prince into darkness. Two armed men ambushed them, forcing Marie Rose into an alleyway and raping her in front of her children. Gangs invaded the neighbourhood the following day.