CIVICUS discusses Gen Z-led protests in the Philippines with Charles Zander, a 17-year-old climate justice activist from Bohol and youth campaigner for Greenpeace Philippines.

Charles Zander

What brought you to activism?

I grew up in Bohol, an island province in the Philippines where the climate crisis knocks on our doors every week. When I was younger, politics felt distant, but that changed in 2021, when Typhoon Odette hit our province. My home was severely damaged, but others suffered a lot more. I knew people who lost everything. Coastal communities were flattened and some villages were so cut off that it took weeks for supplies to reach them. In my case, it took two years before we had electricity again, and a year before we had water or I could access education.

My two childhood best friends died in the aftermath, and losing them changed me. At first, I didn’t think I was doing activism. It started with relief work: distributing food, organising community support, listening to people who had lost everything. I realised people needed to be heard. But the more you listen, the more questions appear. Why were some communities still waiting for aid?

Eventually, I realised if you grow up in a place where disasters are routine, silence feels like complicity. I joined local groups working on climate justice, community education and disaster response. And I saw protest as the moment when patience runs out.

What are young Filipinos demanding?

For many young Filipinos, the climate crisis is not a policy issue; it is the story of our lives. Climate injustice is therefore at the core of our struggle, but it connects to many other struggles. We live in a country hit by stronger typhoons every year, yet coal plants still get approved. We have coastal communities losing their homes to storm surges, yet development decisions rarely involve them. We have severe flooding everywhere in the country, and our government is pocketing climate adaptation funds.

When disaster hits, wealthy neighbourhoods rebuild quickly and sometimes are not damaged at all, while remote island communities wait for assistance for months, if not years. Disasters expose inequality, so climate protests are about fairness, about whose lives are considered worth protecting.

How were recent protests organised, and what role did social media play?

There are many active organisations, youth groups and community leaders, and when a major event such as a typhoon or a scandal creates urgency, conversations spread through networks and messaging groups. At some point someone proposes a date, which we often tie to a symbolic moment, such as the day of a national hero. The most recent one, in February, was on the 40th anniversary of the 1986 People Power Revolution. This has practical implications: on holidays, people don’t have school or work, so they can participate without worrying about their livelihoods. And because they’re home, people are paying more attention to social media, which increases our reach.

In this sense, nobody owns the protests. Movements grow because many people decide the moment has come. But organising involves logistics, including permits, safety planning, communication, outreach and coordination among groups with different priorities and strategies. That process can be messy, but it also reflects the democratic nature of grassroots movements. Eventually we all come together and get onto the streets.

Social media platforms, particularly Facebook and Instagram, allow young people to organise quickly across islands, cities and movements. Calls for protests can reach people within hours. Organisers can document events, share live updates and counter disinformation.

We use memes a lot. Older generations might respond to more technical explanations, but Gen Z and Gen Alpha are more reachable through humour and jokes. We also link issues to people’s actual lives so they feel compelled to act. But there needs to be more work on making sure people really know what they are fighting for when they join, not joining because it looks cool on social media.

Ultimately, technology is just a tool. A hashtag cannot replace a community. The underlying work is slower and happens when no one is watching. Protests are the visible tip of the iceberg, but below the surface there are community workshops, policy research meetings with local leaders, training of young volunteers and network-building across the country. A protest is just one day, but organising is the thousands of conversations that make that day possible. Without that groundwork, protests would fade quickly.

What risks have you faced?

For me personally, one of the most tangible dangers has been surveillance, online and offline. After participating in a major climate and social justice march, I noticed my online activity and messages being monitored more closely. It’s a subtle kind of pressure, but it makes you think twice about who you trust, how you communicate, what you post.

There’s also intimidation. At one protest, for instance, local authorities questioned volunteers about their involvement, contacts and affiliations. This is meant to create fear.

This has emotional and practical impacts. It can be exhausting and sometimes isolating. But it also shapes how you organise. You become strategic, deliberate, more protective of your peers. The fact that there are risks shows that those in power recognise the potential of youth movements to challenge the status quo. It is a reminder that our struggle matters.

What have the protests achieved, and where have they fallen short of ambition?

Change rarely arrives all at once. Sometimes protests produce policy progress, stronger commitments and greater attention to issues. Sometimes the impact is cultural. A protest can shift what people believe is possible, what people believe is right.

In the Philippines, the most visible achievement concerned the corruption around flood control projects. Although change is slow, we have seen some politicians arrested. A sitting senator is in hiding right now because of an arrest warrant. If we hadn’t spoken up, we would have lost so much more money from climate adaptation projects while our communities continued to suffer.

But movements also face setbacks. Governments delay action, hiding behind procedural issues, and public attention moves on quickly. This is discouraging. What failure teaches, though, is that we should communicate more effectively, build stronger alliances and sustain momentum beyond a single protest. A movement is not defined by the moment it wins, but by whether it continues after losing.

Is it right to call these Gen Z protests?

I have mixed feelings about it. I understand why the label appears. Many of the visible faces in recent movements are young people. The label captures something real: many young people feel the future they are inheriting was shaped by decisions made long before they had any political voice. The climate crisis is the clearest example. Policies that created the crisis were implemented decades ago, yet the consequences will unfold across the lifetimes of today’s young people. That creates a sense of urgency, and calling these protests Gen Z protests signals that a new generation is politically active and unwilling to remain passive.

But movements are rarely that simple. In almost every movement, people from many generations stand together, students marching alongside workers, community elders joining demonstrations, parents bringing their children, veteran organisers who have been fighting for decades showing up alongside people attending their first protest.

When protests are framed only as Gen Z movements, something important gets lost. It can unintentionally erase the contributions of older generations who built the foundation for these struggles. Every movement stands on ground that someone else cleared. Civil rights campaigns, climate movements and labour struggles didn’t start with Gen Z. These are long historical arcs that young people are entering and pushing forward.

The most powerful movements are intergenerational. Older organisers bring experience, historical memory and institutional knowledge. Younger generations bring new energy, new tools and new ways of communicating. One generation can ignite a movement, but lasting change requires many generations moving together.

It is also wrong to call us leaderless. We are not leaderless; we are leaderful. We just refuse to adopt some of the hierarchical ways of organising of previous generations, because sometimes leading collectively works much better than having someone dictate everything.

What keeps you going?

People, particularly young people, keep going because the problems are immediate and impossible to ignore. Protesting means refusing to accept the future we are being handed and making our voices matter.

Hope is not a passive feeling. It’s found in action, not in waiting. I see hope in the movement, because when young people, elders, students and communities stand together, there’s a shared strength, and the possibility of a world that values dignity, justice and sustainability becomes real. We keep moving because we are not alone. I also find hope in history, because it shows that while change is messy, people have always managed to push the boundaries of what is possible.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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Gen Z protests: new resistance rises CIVICUS | State of Civil Society Report 2026
Bulgaria: ‘We protested against a whole system of corrupt governance and state capture’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Aleksandar Tanev 21.Apr.2026
Philippines: ‘We refuse to stay silent while those in power treat public office like private property’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Raoul Manuel 25.Nov.2025

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CIVICUS discusses the status of political prisoners in Venezuela with Manuel Virgüez, director of Movimiento Vinotinto, a Venezuelan human rights organisation that works for citizen empowerment, democracy and justice.

Manuel Virgüez

What’s the status of political prisoners?

Following the 2024 presidential election, the state detained around 2,000 people as part of what it called Operation Tun Tun. In early 2026, around 1,000 remained in detention, although various organisations put the total at between 950 and 1,200, depending on the classification criteria they use. Since 8 January, when Jorge Rodríguez, President of the National Assembly, announced imminent releases, and following the approval of an amnesty law, that number has fallen to around 450.

Among those released were human rights defender Rocío San Miguel, activist Javier Tarazona and journalist Eduardo Torres. The vast majority of those released were members of civil society or political activists. On 16 April, it was unofficially reported that around 50 former employees of Petróleos de Venezuela, detained in 2025, had been released. If this is confirmed, the current number of political prisoners remaining would be around 380.

The group that remains in detention consists mainly of dissident military personnel and former public officials. The authorities are reluctant to release them because they pose a direct threat to the regime’s stability. They are the ones who have suffered the worst treatment: various organisations, including Movimiento Vinotinto, have documented enforced disappearances, inhuman treatment, torture and persecution of family members. In some cases, people remained missing for weeks or months, with no knowledge of their whereabouts or whether they were still alive. These are some of the most serious violations recorded in recent decades in Venezuela.

How did these arrests differ from previous ones?

Two things distinguished them from previous waves of repression. The first was the abusive use of the concept of ‘eradication’, provided for in the Organic Code of Criminal Procedure, to transfer all cases to courts in Caracas. People detained in states such as Bolívar, hundreds of kilometres from the capital, were required to appear there. This was an unprecedented violation of the procedural principles of Venezuelan law. Not even in the 1960s, in the face of guerrilla movements, was there such a concentration of cases in a single court.

The second thing was the criminalisation of everyday acts. The state used anonymous reports via mobile apps to identify and arrest people, and a simple WhatsApp status update could be treated as an act of terrorism. The presumption of innocence ceased to exist in practice and the burden of proof was reversed: it was the detainee who had to prove they were not guilty.

What does the amnesty law entail and what does it exclude?

The law provides for the closure of cases linked to political events from different periods in Venezuelan history. This is no minor matter. After years of mass detentions and restrictions on freedom, the state implicitly acknowledges that those people should not have been imprisoned. The credit goes, above all, to the detainees’ families, human rights organisations and the international community.

But the law falls short. It does not provide for any mechanism of redress for those who were unjustly detained. Nor does it provide for the restitution of property. Many political prisoners had their businesses, homes and vehicles confiscated and won’t recover them on release. The law also offers no clear guarantees for those in exile. On 16 April, former legislator Alexis Paparone returned to Venezuela and was detained for several hours before being brought before a court, demonstrating that returning remains risky.

The law effectively excludes dissident military personnel and makes no provision for the thousands of politically motivated dismissals that have taken place, in violation of International Labour Organization Convention 111, nor for political disqualifications. As long as leaders such as María Corina Machado are unable to exercise their political rights, there can be no talk of a genuine transition.

What conditions are required for a genuine democratic transition?

There can be no reconciliation without justice. What Venezuela has experienced is one of the darkest periods in South America’s recent history. Bringing victims and perpetrators together without a prior process of accountability is not reconciliation; it is impunity. Where there’s no justice, there’s vengeance, and that generates endless cycles of violence. Societies that have not dealt with their crimes have carried that wound for generations.

For there to be justice, profound institutional reform is needed: in the armed forces, the electoral system, the judiciary and the public prosecutor’s office. Cosmetic changes are not enough. It will be a long-term process, but the first steps must be taken to call general elections and move towards real economic recovery.

What’s possible, and necessary, is a pact of coexistence: an agreement to respect the constitution and live without mutual persecution. But such a pact requires the Chavista regime to acknowledge its mistakes and its crimes. Without that, any transition will remain incomplete.

Even so, I am optimistic. Venezuelan civil society, despite all it has lost, remains standing. There are signs that something is changing, and we must seize this opportunity. I’m confident that we will be able to lay the foundations for a democracy that says ‘never again’ to authoritarianism.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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Venezuela: ‘People once again believe they can influence what happens in their country’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Pedro González Caro 29.Mar.2026
Venezuela: democracy no closer CIVICUS Lens 29.Jan.2026
Venezuela: ‘We are seeing an economic transition, but no democratic transition’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Guillermo Miguelena 29.Jan.2026

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CIVICUS discusses Bulgaria’s Gen Z-led protests with Aleksandar Tanev, founder of Students Against the Mafia, an informal student organisation that took part in mass protests against corruption and state capture.

Aleksandar Tanev

What brought you to activism and these protests?

I am a Russian-Bulgarian citizen, because my father is Bulgarian and my mother is Russian. I lived in Bulgaria until I was about five years old and then moved to Russia, where I lived until a few years ago. From around the age of 12 I became interested in politics and started asking questions. I took part in my first protest in Russia at age 17 and participated in campaigns for independent parliamentary candidates. When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, my life changed drastically. On the first day I took part in a protest that turned out to be my last. I immediately started receiving threats, and on the same day I received a draft notice from the military registration office. I decided to leave.

Bulgaria was one of the first countries to suspend flights from Russia. But my brother, who was doing an internship at the Bulgarian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, told me a humanitarian flight was being organised to evacuate Bulgarian citizens. I managed to sign up and flew to Sofia. I started a new life in Bulgaria, remembering the language and meeting new people.

When I arrived, I found so many people had been exposed to Russian propaganda. I had to explain over and over what the real situation in Russia was. For two and a half years I worked at the Bulgarian Red Cross helping Ukrainian refugees. I enrolled at Sofia University and gradually reintegrated into my home country.

When the protests broke out, I was in Germany and saw the photos and videos of young people taking to the streets. I thought the time had finally come to do something. What triggered the protests was a government budget that included tax increases but no institutional reforms. People may struggle to understand complex political issues, but when the government takes money from them, they understand. Very quickly, the protest went beyond the trigger issue and turned into a protest not just against the government, but against a whole system of corrupt governance and state capture.

At that moment, I realised students were the driving force, and started an informal group called Students Against the Mafia. We told major media about it and began preparing our first action. We attached a three-by-four metre banner reading ‘Students Against the Mafia’ to the balcony of Sofia University’s rector’s office while an international conference was being held inside. We held a student march and joined the big protest.

What’s the current level of trust in institutions?

Bulgarians, including young people, are very disappointed by the actions of those in power. Bulgaria is a parliamentary democracy and people had a lot of expectations when it joined the European Union (EU) but have since become increasingly disappointed. Trust in state institutions is overall very low, and so is trust in civil society organisations and other parts of society. This is dangerous, because it may mean a loss of trust in democracy.

People don’t really understand the difference between government and civil society. They think NGOs are organisations created by the government to control society or financed by foreign states to lobby for their own interests. There is very little critical thinking. People don’t fact-check information and instead absorb propaganda and dangerous narratives.

My personal goal is to try to bring back trust in civil society, showing that civil society groups are instruments of people power. That’s why we show our faces, our goals and our actions.

Who took part in the protests?

Very different parts of Bulgarian society protested, and with very different ideas. There were pro-European people, Eurosceptics and people who had never been interested in politics before. What united them was that they were tired of the injustice of a system in which you can’t change anything for the better because power is captured by a small elite.

Politics is a revolving door: Boyko Borissov, the prime minister at the time, was prime minister three times, and his party was in power for over a decade. Delyan Peevski, leader of the Movement for Rights and Freedoms, was sanctioned under the US Magnitsky Act for corruption in a controversial scandal, representing a merger between political power, media influence, institutional dependence and impunity. The same group of politicians captured the government, parliament and the most important institution, the courts. This meant that change wasn’t going to come from institutions.

While protesters had many different complaints and demands, they all shared the hope for normal governance and the feeling that this couldn’t go on.

How were protests organised, and what role did social media play?

The first big protest was half organised, half spontaneous: the call came from a political party, but it echoed well beyond party supporters, so the turnout was much bigger than anybody expected. It was a broad national protest.

The organiser was the pro-European, anti-corruption coalition We Continue the Change – Democratic Bulgaria. After the party made the announcement, people started sharing it on social media and in personal conversations, and soon there was this protest energy in the air. Everyone was talking about it.

In between protests, people waited for the signal from this political party to come back out. We didn’t think to organise our own protests. Instead, we prepared actions and performances to stage at the next protests the party organised. And each time, more and more people came, because those who had previously protested shared the call within their own small networks.

Social media helped us enormously, because traditional media in Bulgaria is captured too. Corrupt politicians have a strong influence over traditional television channels but they don’t control social media. So Facebook, Instagram and other platforms filled the space of independent media. On social media, we can share and talk freely. To Gen Z protesters, the protests became an extension of this space: they came to the protests to speak their minds.

One problem was that during the protests, the internet was very slow. We thought the authorities caused this deliberately, but it’s also possible mobile operators simply couldn’t handle so many people in one place. Either way, social media was key to the success of the protests.

Do you agree with the label that these were Gen Z protests?

I do. In fact, to one of the protests we brought a five-metre banner that read ‘Gen Z is coming’. It was shown by the Daily Mail, Reuters and other international media.

While I think the label is correct, we shouldn’t interpret it literally. Many different age groups took part in the protests. What made them Gen Z protests was the participation of so many young people who gave them a face of hope. But it was only because all Bulgarian society joined in that we succeeded in bringing down the government.

What risks did protesters face?

Honestly, compared to Russia, the risk wasn’t very high. But that doesn’t mean everything was okay. For instance, some students faced pressure from their universities not to go to protests. Students who helped me spread the word about Students Against the Mafia at their university got warnings from the administration not to do it again. That’s not acceptable. Students have the right to express their opinions freely, including through protest.

Provocateurs showed up towards the end of each protest. They covered their faces and brought some kind of explosives, and police started beating protesters. Because of this, most regular people left after a couple of hours. We think these provocateurs may have been sent by the parties in power to discredit protests.

Some people were unnecessarily scared. I protested very actively and nothing happened to me, though I should be honest that when you become visible, that gives you a degree of protection, and this may not be true of everyone.

What did the protests achieve, and what comes next?

The government fell. That’s a big achievement. And Bulgarian society woke up. A lot of people who previously thought politics was something dirty, something separate from their personal lives, understood they had a responsibility.

But there’s still a long way to go. All this protest energy needs to be transformed into electoral energy. Power is built not only in the streets but also within institutions. If we don’t turn this energy into votes, all the effort will have been useless. Voter turnout in the last election prior to the protests was under 40 per cent. This is not representative democracy; it is a disaster. We cannot expect change to happen when only 40 per cent of voters actually turn out.

Diaspora voting rights are also under threat. The opposition Revival party proposed limiting polling stations outside the EU to just 20 locations, far too few for the large Bulgarian communities in the UK, the USA and elsewhere. The proposal was backed by most governing parties; only Peevski opposed it. Revival’s stated aim was to limit votes from Turkey, which tend to go to Peevski’s party. But the measure would hit all diaspora communities: over 60,000 voter applications were submitted for the 19 April election, over twice the figure from the previous election. Unlike voters in Turkey, who can travel to Bulgaria to vote in person, those in the UK and USA cannot. This was a deliberate attempt to suppress the votes of people who have left and who tend to vote for change.

Following the main protests, we also started organising actions against the chief prosecutor, Borislav Sarafov, the one who ultimately decides whether a corruption case will be investigated. According to Bulgarian law, a temporary chief prosecutor can only hold the post for up to six months. But now they say that this law doesn’t apply to him because he was already in the role when the law was passed. So this temporary prosecutor can now potentially stay in this position for life. We have held four or five protests against him, but so far we have not succeeded.

What keeps me going is the desire to live in a fair society where the state is at the service of the people, and not the other way around. But in a democracy, you have to change things yourself. You can’t wait for someone to do it for you. Living in Russia, I understood that if you don’t fight for justice and truth, there is always a danger that power will take over everything. There’s this phrase I keep coming back to: if you are not interested in politics, politics will start to take an interest in you. That’s my motivation.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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Gen Z protests: new resistance rises CIVICUS | State of Civil Society Report 2026
‘People reacted to a system of governance shaped by informal powers and personal interests’ CIVICUS | Interview with Zahari Iankov 18.Dec.2025
Bulgaria: stuck in a loop? CIVICUS Lens 24.Oct.2022

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CIVICUS discusses Gen Z-led protests in Nepal with Abhijeet Adhikari (Abhi), a lawyer and political activist who took part in the protests.

Abhijeet Adhikari

What drove young people onto the streets, and what were their demands?

Since this protest was decentralised, there was no uniform agenda but rather a pile of frustrations with the workings of the political system.

A decade ago, Nepal introduced a new federal democratic constitution that people saw as a new beginning that would lead to development and better living conditions. But politicians didn’t live up to those aspirations and instead played a game of musical chairs with the post of prime minister, with a few politicians from the three biggest political parties taking turns and not allowing new parties or people in their own parties to rise against them. There was no clear separation between government and opposition, and five or six governments would rotate in quick succession during one parliamentary term. It was hard to hold anybody accountable.

Nepal’s economy is highly dependent on remittances sent by migrant workers, and following high school, every young person thinks about where to go to find a job or a better life. This went on for years, and frustration with politicians who only thought about their own benefit continued to accumulate.

The trigger was the government social media ban. Following a trend in Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, young people had started comparing their lives with those of politicians’ kids, and a trend called ‘nepokids’ exposing their lavish lifestyle went viral on TikTok. It seems that security agencies advised the then-prime minister that things might get out of control, so he decided to ban the platforms. He didn’t realise our generation was born with the internet and social media, meaning we know how to use VPNs to access the web. The ban only added another layer of frustration at not being able to express our frustration.

Once we were on the streets, we organised our demands. The first was the reversal of the social media ban. The second was an end to the musical chairs game between top-tier politicians. And the third was reform of the Commission for Investigation of Abuse of Authority, the institution that deals with corruption.

We tried to put all of this in language young people would connect with. We used AI tools to generate Gen Z-friendly slogans, such as ‘delete corruption’ and ‘stop putting filters on our democracy’. People also brought anime-inspired posters, particularly One Piece characters. The whole aesthetic was very uniquely Gen Z.

How did events unfold on 8 and 9 September?

We gathered at Maitighar Mandala, a symbolic monument located in the heart of Kathmandu, and planned to march to the Everest Hotel, which is the closest you could get to the parliament building, as the streets beyond the hotel were blocked. When we arrived, we were surprised there were very few security personnel there. We didn’t know that earlier, people had come towards parliament from various sides, with electric fence-cutting machines and kerosene. A few violent groups pushed the crowd towards restricted areas. The police, who weren’t prepared to handle the crowds, panicked and started shooting at protesters. Within four hours, they killed 19 people, including children, some of them in their school uniforms.

Before the protest, there had been rumours of international rules prohibiting shooting at people in school uniforms, and many people thought that if students marched in front, police wouldn’t shoot at them. That sadly wasn’t the case.

The next day, people took to the streets again, and some opportunist groups did too. Someone put up a website with politicians’ home addresses, and mobs marched to their homes and set them on fire. They also burned down government buildings, including parliament, executive offices and the Supreme Court.

The prime minister resigned and protesters pushed for the dissolution of parliament, which the president then did. Following further pressure on social media and in critical circles, a retired Supreme Court judge was brought in as transitional prime minister. Even though this was not the constitutional process, people accepted it as a temporary solution to regain political stability, and it was this prime minister who paved the way to a peaceful and fair election.

How were the protests organised, and what role did social media play?

Protests were decentralised. Two Discord channels were used, which no longer exist because all those violent plans, arson included, were discussed there. But only around 2,000 people were on Discord before the protest, and many more groups joined spontaneously. Those who were already activists posted about the protests on social media.

Some of us joined as a group, and thought we were at the centre of it, but when we reached Maitighar, we felt like drops in the ocean. It was a massive protest, and we didn’t know who was leading it.

The day before, we had got together and planned, and many other groups did the same. We shared the call through Instagram and TikTok. Some went to schools and asked school departments to give a half-day waiver so students could join.

After the protest, the Discord channel grew to around 10,000 people, who started voting on Discord for who should become prime minister. The person who received the most votes on Discord eventually became prime minister. It was a very Gen Z way of doing politics.

However, I think ‘youth-led’ would be a more appropriate label than Gen Z protest. Gen Z might be accurate from the perspective of social media driving it. But while people in the city who have access to the internet may have Gen Z characteristics, the same age group in rural Nepal may not fit the description.

What risks did you and other protesters face?

On the first day, when we reached the Everest Hotel and saw the crowd push further, I was aware I should not go beyond that point. But when we heard on social media that people were entering the parliament building, we ran through another alley. A special task force police officer, there to guard the parliament building, loaded his gun and pointed it directly at me. But he didn’t fire.

After the protest turned violent, the police searched every place where protesters could be hiding, taking people out and beating them. From around noon un late night, eight or nine of us hid in a cubicle. It was dangerous to go back home, because there were lots of police in civilian clothes on the streets. During those two or three days when the army had effectively taken over and there was no functioning government, we had reason to believe our phones were being monitored.

Now there are people in prison and facing criminal charges for throwing stones or making TikTok content while the parliament building was burning. But those who manipulated the crowds and instigated violence supposedly in the name of the movement do not seem to be facing consequences.

How has the movement organised since the protests?

After the protest, people from different circles started forming their own Gen Z groups. There are over 40 now. A few of them, including Gen Z Alliance, Gen Z Civic Forum and Gen Z Front, are still active. Some have remained informal, some have registered as non-governmental organisations and some have formed political parties, although they didn’t receive a significant share of the vote. These are the ones who positioned themselves as guardians of the Gen Z movement, but not in terms of the aspirations and values we actually had.

People continue to take to the streets because the Karki Commission, formed to investigate who is responsible for the 19 deaths on 8 September and for the arson and vandalism on 9 September, has submitted a huge report, but the government has not yet released it. This has happened before: in the 1990s, when democracy was restored, a similar committee, the Malik Commission, produced a similar report that was never made public. In the 2006 transition, the report by the Rayamajhi Commission wasn’t made public either. People won’t have it again and are demanding transparency.

What did the protests achieve, and what lessons have you taken from them?

I believe more in institutions and processes than in charismatic figures and results. So I think it would have been best not to dissolve parliament. By the second day of protests, we could have pushed for any law we wanted, because parliamentarians’ morale was so low that they would have agreed to almost anything protesters demanded. Instead, we demanded the dissolution of parliament.

Negotiations should have been held mostly by the president’s office as the only legitimate institution after the prime minister’s resignation, but instead, the army dominated negotiations. That was another blunder. The negotiation process itself should have been taken into public discussion. After that, the focus should have been on reforming the party system and making the system more accountable, but instead, we thought everything would change if new people were brought in. The problem is that the new will eventually become old, and any new party that doesn’t create radically different structures will end up like the old political parties.

I also think that when it comes to protest, organised leadership is best, because in decentralised structures no one can be held accountable if things go wrong. Also, they allow people to push their own agendas and the real demands of protests risk being lost.

Additionally, I am concerned that while bottom-up protests arising from rural areas may produce more inclusive and progressive results, urban-centred protests arising in reaction to governance failure and lack of economic opportunity may end up leading to polarisation and the rise of authoritarian figures. After this protest, political dynamics have shifted towards delivery. People have started demanding meritocracy, forgetting all about inclusion. Even if this government successfully delivers on people’s aspirations, it could be like the government in India, providing good infrastructure but dismantling political institutions, disrupting the social fabric and promoting religious extremism.

How do you see the future of Nepal’s democracy?

Right now, people have put their expectations and trust in a single person, while trust in institutions is shrinking by the day. Even civil society has lost credibility. Two decades ago, civil society was at the forefront of the change that took Nepal from monarchy to republic. But gradually, civil society leaders have been discredited. Civil society is mostly a launching pad for politics; people don’t remain there for long. Most prominent civil society leaders have become members of parliament for one party or another.

If this government fails, people will start thinking about bringing back the old monarch. Authoritarian nostalgia will take over. I am also concerned about political radicalisation taking on ethnic or religious dimensions, particularly given the fundamentalist elements active along the border with India.

As for the protests, I think the government will continue to allow people to come out in the street, but it won’t listen to our demands.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses the spread of AI-powered surveillance in Africa with Wairagala Wakabi, executive director of the Collaboration on International ICT Policy for East and Southern Africa (CIPESA) and co-editor of Smart City Surveillance in Africa: Mapping Chinese AI Surveillance Across 11 Countries, the latest report by the African Digital Rights Network (ADRN) and the Institute of Development Studies (IDS).

Wairagala Wakabi

How widespread is AI-powered surveillance in Africa?

Under the guise of reducing crime and fighting terrorism, at least 11 governments have invested over US$2 billion in AI-powered ‘smart city’ surveillance infrastructure: Algeria, Egypt, Kenya, Mauritius, Mozambique, Nigeria, Rwanda, Senegal, Uganda, Zambia and Zimbabwe.

Governments are installing thousands of CCTV cameras linked to central command centres, paired with tools such as automatic number-plate recognition, biometric ID systems and facial recognition to track people and vehicles. The largest known investments are in Nigeria (over US$470 million), Mauritius (US$456 million) and Kenya (US$219 million), though the real total is likely much higher, since surveillance spending is often secret and the report covers only 11 of Africa’s 55 countries.

Despite being presented as tools for crime prevention, counter-terrorism, modernisation and urban management, these are not targeted security measures. They represent a broader shift toward continuous, population-level monitoring of public spaces, rolled out over the past five to ten years almost always without clear legal limits or public debate.

Are these systems achieving their stated purpose?

No, there is no compelling evidence that they have in any of the countries studied. Instead, the data points to a pattern of use that raises serious human rights concerns.

In Uganda and Zimbabwe, AI-powered surveillance including facial recognition is being used to suppress dissent rather than ensure public safety. Activists, critics of the government, opposition leaders and protesters are identified and monitored through this system, even after protests have ended. In Mozambique, smart CCTV systems have reportedly been installed in areas of strong political opposition, suggesting targeted rather than neutral surveillance.

In Senegal and Zambia, countries with relatively low terrorism threats, governments have still invested heavily, which calls into question the stated security rationale.

Across the countries studied, the scale of surveillance far exceeds any actual or perceived security threat, and the infrastructure is consistently being used to monitor dissent and consolidate state control rather than address genuine public safety needs.

Who’s supplying this technology?

While firms from Israel, South Korea and the USA supply surveillance technologies, Chinese companies are the primary suppliers and financiers. They typically offer end-to-end ‘smart city’ packages that include cameras, software platforms, data analytics systems, training and ongoing technical support. Many projects are backed by loans from Chinese state-linked banks, which makes them financially accessible in the short term but creates long-term dependencies on external vendors for maintenance, system management and upgrades.

This model undermines transparency. Procurement processes are opaque and civil society, the public and oversight institutions including parliaments rarely have information about how these systems operate, how data is stored or who has access to it. That lack of accountability is what makes abuse not just possible, but hard to detect or challenge.

What impact is this having on civic space?

This large-scale surveillance of public spaces is not legal, necessary or proportionate to the legitimate aim of providing security. Recording, analysing and retaining facial images of people in public without their consent interferes with their right to privacy and, over time, their willingness to move, assemble and speak freely.

The most immediate consequence is a chilling effect, particularly where civic space is already restricted. Knowing they can be identified and tracked, activists and journalists are less willing to attend protests for fear of later arrest or reprisals, and end up self-censoring. Civil society organisations also report heightened anxiety about the risks for their members and partners.

What should governments and civil society do?

None of the 11 countries studied have a legal framework capable of balancing the state’s security needs with its commitments to protect fundamental human rights. That must change. Governments must adopt clear regulations on surveillance, including restrictions on facial recognition and other AI tools, require independent human rights impact assessments before introducing new systems, make procurement and deployment processes transparent and establish strong oversight mechanisms, including judicial and parliamentary scrutiny, to prevent abuse.

Civil society should continue documenting abuses, raising public awareness and advocating for accountability, while also supporting affected people and communities through digital security support and legal assistance.

Technology-exporting states and donors must enforce stricter controls and safeguards on the export and financing of these tools, support rights-based approaches to digital governance and help fund independent monitoring and advocacy across Africa.

Without urgent action, these systems will continue to expand, and the rights of people across Africa will continue to shrink.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses recent regressive changes to Argentina’s labour laws with Facundo Merlán Rey, an activist with the Coordination Against Police and Institutional Repression (CORREPI), an organisation that defends workers’ rights and resists state repression.

Facundo Merlán Rey

What does the new law change and why did the government decide to push it through?

Capitalising on its victory in last year’s legislative election, which gave it a majority in both parliamentary chambers, the government pushed through a labour law that introduced changes on several fronts simultaneously.

It increases the daily maximum of working hours from eight to 12, with a weekly cap of 48. Hours worked beyond this limit no longer need to be paid separately, but can be accumulated and exchanged for days off at a later date.

It also introduces the concept of ‘dynamic wage’, allowing part of an employee’s pay to be determined based on merit or individual productivity. The employer can decide this unilaterally with no need for a collective agreement. This would allow two people to be paid differently for doing the same work.

The law creates the Labour Assistance Fund, an account to which the employer contributes three per cent of a worker’s salary, of which between one and 2.5 percentage points come from the worker’s pay. If dismissed, the worker receives the amount accumulated in that fund. This is deeply humiliating. It makes the worker contribute to the financing of their dismissal. Given that these contributions previously went into the pension system, the effect will also be to weaken pensions.

The law restricts the right to strike by expanding the list of occupations deemed essential, which means they are required to maintain at least 75 per cent of their operations during a strike. Previously, this category included air traffic control, electricity, gas, healthcare and water. Now it also includes customs, education at all levels except university, immigration, ports and telecommunications. In practice, this means that in these fields a strike will have a much more limited impact.

Finally, the law repeals the special regimes that regulated working conditions in some trades and professions. Over the next six months, hairdressers, private drivers, radio and telegraph operators and travelling salespeople will lose these protections. The Journalists’ Statute will be abolished from 2027 onwards.

At CORREPI, we believe all these measures are unconstitutional, as they directly contravene article 14 of the constitution, which guarantees the right to work and the right to decent living conditions. The changes put employers in a position of almost absolute dominance in an employment relationship, leaving workers with no real scope to defend their rights.

How have trade unions and social organisations reacted?

The most militant groups highlighted the problems with the new law clearly, but the response from the organised labour movement has been insufficient.

Union leaders responded with a belated and low-profile campaign plan. They have long been criticised for preferring discreet agreements to open confrontation, and this time was no different. They negotiated behind the scenes and secured concessions to protect themselves. The law maintains employers’ contributions to trade union health schemes and the union dues paid by workers for two years. The rights of workers as a whole were sidelined.

What impact are the changes having?

Although the law is already in force, its full implementation faces obstacles, partly because it has internal consistency issues that hinder its practical application. When the government attempts to apply it in employment areas that still retain rights, it will likely face legal challenges, which will increase social unrest.

Even so, some of its effects are already being felt. Unemployment is rising slowly but steadily. Factory closures, driven by the opening up of imports and the greater ease of dismissal, are pushing more workers into informal employment and multiple jobs. The result is a fall in consumption and a level of strain with outcomes that are difficult to predict.

The consequences extend beyond the economic sphere. Increasingly demanding working conditions, combined with high inflation and rising household debt, are taking a toll on workers’ mental health. Regrettably, there is already a worrying rise in the suicide rate.

There’s also a consequence that is harder to measure: this reform erodes the collective identity of workers. When work is informal, individuals tend to solve their problems on their own, making it much harder to organise to demand better conditions. In working-class neighbourhoods, drug trafficking is becoming established as an alternative source of employment, generating situations of violence that largely go unnoticed. Unfortunately, everything points to an ever-deepening social breakdown.

What lessons does this experience hold for the rest of the region?

Regional experience shows it is very difficult to reverse this kind of change. In Brazil, President Lula da Silva came to power in 2022 promising to repeal the labour law passed in 2017 under Michel Temer’s government, similarly opposed by social organisations and trade unions. However, he failed to do so, and the framework Temer left remains in force. Once passed, these laws tend to remain in place regardless of who governs next.

That’s why what’s happening in Argentina should not be viewed as an isolated phenomenon. The reform appears to be part of a broader direction that regional politics is taking under the influence of the USA, one of the main drivers of these changes and a supporter of the governments implementing them.

The weakening of labour rights and collective organising is not a side effect; it is the objective being pursued. Dismantling workers’ ability to organise collectively facilitates the advance of extractive and financial interests and guarantees access to cheap labour. In that sense, Argentina offers a warning to the rest of the region.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses Italy’s restrictive immigration policies with Eleonora Celoria, a researcher at FIERI (Forum Internazionale ed Europeo di Ricerche sull’Immigrazione), a research centre on migration, and a member of the Association for Legal Studies on Immigration (ASGI), an Italian legal organisation that defends migrants’ and asylum seekers’ rights through advocacy, public awareness and strategic litigation.

Eleonora Celoria

What are the main objectives of the new migration bill?

The bill introduces a 30-day naval blockade mechanism, extendable to six months, for ships deemed to pose a ‘serious threat to public order or national security’, including on the grounds of ‘exceptional migratory pressure’. It goes beyond European Union (EU) frameworks and is designed to restrict civil society organisations conducting search and rescue operations.

The blockade is really a prohibition on entering Italian waters, and ships that violate it would face fines of up to €50,000 (approx. US$ 57,000), with repeat offenders facing confiscation. Since civil society rescue vessels are the only ships making multiple trips in and out of Italian waters, they are the primary target. This is not simply a border management tool; it’s a deliberate escalation of state control over maritime arrivals.

More significantly, the bill would make the Italy-Albania protocol permanent: migrants intercepted at sea would be transported directly to Italian-run processing centres in Albania, bypassing Italian mainland ports entirely. Their asylum claims would be determined outside Italy’s jurisdiction. Because they never reach Italian soil, they wouldn’t access Italian legal protections or independent judicial review. The government is determined to use this mechanism. Albanian facilities held only 10 to 15 people due to adverse court rulings, but the government has recently ramped up transfers to take the number to around 80.

How does the bill change asylum and border management practices?

The bill focuses on criminalisation, deportations and removals rather than asylum procedures. It introduces stricter rules for immigration detention centres (Centri di Permanenza per i Rimpatri, CPRs), expands expulsion grounds to include minor criminal convictions and ramps up criminal penalties for people facing expulsion. This effectively criminalises irregular status itself.

Critically, the bill eliminates special protection, a form of national protection that Italian courts have frequently recognised for people who don’t meet narrow refugee criteria but face serious risks if they are returned. This has been one of the few remaining meaningful pathways to legal status. Stricter eligibility criteria would reduce judicial discretion, trapping more people in legal irregularity.

Finally, the bill implements the EU Pact on Migration and Asylum, a package of EU laws overhauling asylum and border procedures across the bloc, which member states must transpose by 12 June. It does so through legislative delegation, giving the government wide discretion to enact implementing measures by decree. Italy’s approach is the most restrictive possible. The Albania externalisation model is the primary mechanism, prioritising rapid removal over thorough examination. Changes to asylum procedures will be determined through executive action, with limited parliamentary scrutiny.

What is remigration, and why does it concern civil society?

Remigration is a white supremacist concept that calls for the forced removal of immigrants, refugees and their descendants, including legal residents and naturalised citizens, on grounds of ethnicity, race or perceived failure to ‘assimilate’. It targets people for who they are, not what they have done, violating the non-discrimination principle that underpins human rights law and the rule of law.

What makes this dangerous is that remigration has moved from marginal to mainstream political discourse. A far-right petition on remigration has recently gathered enough signatures to force a parliamentary debate. When such concepts gain mainstream legitimacy, they push other parties towards increasingly restrictive policies. Italy’s current bills move precisely in that direction.

From a legal perspective, remigration violates international human rights conventions and Italy’s constitution, which guarantees non-discrimination and solidarity. A policy based on ethnic or racial identity would also be incompatible with Italy’s international obligations.

Where do these measures conflict with international law?

The measures create serious tensions with several binding legal instruments: the 1951 Geneva Convention, the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) and EU primary law including the Charter of Fundamental Rights.

Expanded administrative detention in Italy and Albania risks being arbitrary where the legal basis is insufficiently precise or subject to inadequate judicial review. Documented conditions in Italian CPRs and foreseeable conditions in Albanian centres expose people to inhuman and degrading treatment in violation of Article 3 of the ECHR. The externalisation model creates a direct risk of violating the non-refoulement principle, the absolute prohibition on returning people to places where they face persecution.

The government will argue these measures align with the EU Pact. But alignment with the pact does not guarantee compatibility with the ECHR or the Geneva Convention. ASGI will respond with litigation, through individual cases and strategic cases targeting CPR detention and the Italy-Albania deal, and documentation of the human costs of these policies.

What risks do these policies pose for migrants’ and asylum seekers’ rights?

Under the proposed legislation, Italy would intercept boats and transfer rescued migrants to extraterritorial centres without assessing their health status, protection needs or vulnerabilities. Victims of persecution, torture and trafficking may never get to present their claims or be identified as needing protection.

The bill criminalises irregular migrants by allowing both administrative detention in CPRs and criminal imprisonment in prisons, a dual-track approach that multiplies the risk of fundamental rights violations and exposure to degrading conditions. Detention in existing CPRs is already documented as dangerous. Conditions in the Albanian centres, with minimal oversight and no independent monitoring, would predictably be worse.

The result is a system designed to process people quickly rather than accurately. Trafficking victims, torture survivors and people with severe mental health conditions — people who most need careful assessment and legal support — are unlikely to be identified and protected. Compressed timelines and limited access to lawyers amount to a serious restriction on the right to effective judicial protection.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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Migration: Cruelty as policy CIVICUS | 2026 State of Civil Society Report
Greece: ‘New migration and asylum policies challenge the basic principles of refugee protection and the European legal order’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Minos Mouzourakis 26.Sep.2025
Italy: ‘No migration policy should be based on fear and punishment’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Valeria Carlini 17.Nov.2024

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CIVICUS discusses the presidential election in the Republic of the Congo with Ivan Kibangou Ngoy, executive director of Global Participe, a civil society action-research organisation focused on democratic governance based in Pointe-Noire.

Ivan Kibangou Ngoy

How can the 94.8 per cent result be explained?

The outcome of this election was predictable from the outset, and for one fundamental reason: the legal framework gives free rein to electoral fraud. The electoral law lacks the necessary safeguards to prevent manipulation. The ruling party has systematically rigged the electoral process, excluding its opponents and independent civil society from any meaningful participation.

Accreditation for observers was refused to independent civil society organisations (CSOs), evidence of a total lack of transparency. Without independent observers, there’s no external oversight of the conduct of the vote or the counting of votes.

The result was not the outcome of electoral competition; it was the logical result of a system designed to guarantee precisely this outcome. When the legal framework allows for fraud, the opposition cannot campaign, observers are excluded and the government controls all administrative mechanisms, including the electoral administration, the result becomes inevitable. This is not an anomaly but the product of a system designed to produce it and to give it the appearance of democratic legitimacy. So the result was already decided even before polling stations opened.

How was competition restricted?

Opposition parties and independent CSOs were not allowed to organise public meetings or campaign openly among voters. They were denied access to public media, preventing them communicating with people.

The country still operates under a prior authorisation regime: the government must approve all public political activity. This system creates a fundamental imbalance: the ruling party can organise its rallies freely, while the opposition is blocked at every turn. There is an urgent need to move to a simple notification system, in which CSOs and parties would inform the authorities of their activities without needing their consent. Without this change, the opposition has no legal mechanism to participate fairly in an election.

The imprisonment and exile of major opposition figures send a clear message: challenging Sassou Nguesso’s regime is criminalised. Two of the country’s best-known opposition figures have been in prison for nearly a decade. When opponents cannot stand for election, campaign or move about freely, the result is predetermined both by fraud and the physical elimination of alternatives. The election is merely an administrative charade designed to legitimise the retention of power. It’s not a genuine choice but a demonstration of state power over a population reduced to silence.

Why is the internet cut off during elections?

Since the advent of social media, every election has been accompanied by an internet blackout, a deliberate measure the authorities take to control the information circulating during the vote. Internet shutdowns directly reinforce the system of electoral fraud by preventing the spread of information on fraud, irregularities or violations of voters’ rights. Without the internet, people cannot share photos or videos from polling stations, observers cannot report anomalies in real time and citizen movements cannot coordinate monitoring efforts.

The internet blackout effectively transforms the country into an information-controlled zone where only government messages can circulate. This reveals that the regime understands the power of social media as a tool for accountability and mobilisation. It’s an implicit acknowledgement that, without control over information, the regime could not maintain its official narrative. This systematic practice ultimately reveals the fragility of the regime’s legitimacy.

How has civil society mobilised despite restrictions?

Despite systematic restrictions, civil society organised itself by holding press conferences and workshops in private spaces, where the authorities could not intervene directly. These meetings enabled civil society to coordinate strategies and strengthen cohesion between organisations, even with a limited number of participants. Press conferences enabled direct engagement with the media despite restrictions on access to public media. Civil society also used social media to document rights violations, mobilise people and maintain a public conversation on electoral issues.

However, these strategies reveal the limits of resistance in a heavily controlled environment. Meetings in private spaces reach only a limited audience and social media can be shut down at any moment, as happened on election day. We must continue mapping independent CSOs to identify and connect all those working outside the regime’s control. We must also train CSO leaders in techniques for raising awareness and mobilising people.

People must understand the nature of the regime governing Congo-Brazzaville. The current regime is embodied by the Congolese Labour Party, a former Soviet-style party-state ousted from power at the ballot box in 1992, in the only truly free and transparent election the country has ever held. The party returned to power by force of arms after overthrowing the democratically elected government. Understanding this history is crucial: it proves that democratic change is possible. When people understand the mechanisms of power seizure and refuse to accept them, the regime loses its legitimacy even if it retains formal control of the state.

What’s the future for democracy in Congo after 42 years of rule?

Four decades under the same regime amount to the systematic denial of democratic change, of citizens’ fundamental right to choose a different government through the ballot box. Sassou Nguesso’s fifth term consolidates an institutional framework designed to ensure no one else ever comes to power through democratic means.

This framework operates through the systematic contradiction between constitutional promises and practice. The constitution proclaims a multi-party system, but a law recognises only those parties that pledge allegiance to the ruling power. The constitution creates the post of leader of the opposition, but this leader is the head of a party affiliated with the ruling power. The constitution establishes an advisory council of associations, but this institution is attached to the office of the head of state to muzzle civil society. The country is run like a barracks.

We must expose and discredit this regime internationally, by publicly denouncing its supporters, notably the French government and oil multinationals. Independent civil society must step up awareness-raising campaigns, both in person and online. The international community must exert sustained pressure, including diplomatic pressure, sanctions and support for organisations in exile. Without this combination of internal action and international pressure, democratic change will remain impossible. But it is possible. It happened in 1992, and it can happen again.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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‘Media and social networks are battlegrounds where rumours and disinformation circulate widely’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Kaberu Tairu 11.Oct.2025

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CIVICUS discusses Portugal’s presidential runoff election and the rise of the far-right Chega (Enough) party with Jonni Lopes, Executive Director of Academia Cidadã (Citizen Academy) and a Steering Committee member of the European Civic Forum, an organisation working on civic engagement, democratic participation and the protection of civic space at national, regional and international levels.

Jonni Lopes

Why did centre-right voters back a Socialist candidate?

Despite not agreeing with his politics, centre-right voters backed a Socialist candidate to build a firewall around the presidency, recognising that the office demands deliberation, predictability and respect for democratic rules, none of which Chega represents. Seguro’s campaign made this possible. He distanced himself from party politics, avoided turning the race into a debate about the Socialist Party and positioned himself as a stable figure capable of providing institutional continuity during a political crisis.

This was practical risk management, not ideology. The centre-right Social Democratic Party is pushing labour law changes that triggered a joint general strike in December, with over three million workers participating. With Chega already holding significant parliamentary power, voters feared that a far-right president would go further still, using veto powers not to check the government’s agenda, but to entrench it and block any legislation protecting workers’ rights.

This coalition shows that a clear boundary against the far right still exists, at least when it comes to leading the state. It’s a defensive pact: democrats can disagree on policy, but there’s a line when it comes to handing power to a reactionary force that threatens democratic institutions.

What does the result mean for Portugal and Europe?

For Portugal, this result is a temporary reprieve for democracy. Seguro won two-thirds of the second-round vote and over 3.5 million votes, the most ever cast for a presidential candidate in Portugal, despite storms that disrupted voting. This shows that, faced with a genuine far-right threat, Portuguese democracy can still mobilise broadly to defend itself.

But this wasn’t a clear victory against the far right. Ventura won one-third of the vote, strengthened his base and positioned himself as a serious contender for right-wing leadership. In just a few years, Chega has gone from a fringe party to parliament’s second largest.

This sends a mixed message to Europe: broad democratic coalitions can still prevent far-right candidates reaching the top office, but the far right is now mainstream, shapes political agendas and forces other parties to constantly define themselves in relation to it. This is the new normal. This matters particularly for the European Commission, as far-right movements are structural threats and the only response is to strengthen the rule of law and democratic institutions.

Where does Chega go from here?

Ventura lost the presidential election, but Chega has emerged stronger. Winning a third of the vote against a candidate backed by the entire democratic spectrum cements its position. Ventura can now claim to speak for a significant portion of the right, and his loss only strengthens that claim, as he can frame the firewall as evidence that the political system is rigged against him, feeding narratives of elite persecution. He will also use his parliamentary strength to extract concessions by supporting or blocking the government’s budget and pushing on immigration and security, winning enough policy gains to show he delivers for his voters.

Ventura has already said that support for stability ‘has limits’. If the government hits serious problems, such as a budget crisis or a political deadlock, Chega will position itself as the only force willing to break the impasse and ‘fix things’. He’s not treating the presidential loss as the end of his political project but as a stepping stone to bigger gains in future elections. His calculation is that electoral legitimacy can eventually become governmental power.

What does this mean for civic space and civil society?

Portugal’s civic space is shrinking. Hate speech is becoming normalised, immigration rules are tightening, government administration is becoming more exclusionary, protest organisers face police intimidation and civil society organisations are struggling financially. These create real barriers to people exercising their rights. Chega’s rise and its racist and xenophobic rhetoric now heard in parliament raise the risk that discrimination and violence against migrants will become politically acceptable.

A president committed to rights protection can set limits: vetoing discriminatory laws, refusing to suppress information the public needs and protecting communities and organisations under attack. The presidency alone cannot reverse the shrinking of civic space, but it can prevent the government from fully institutionalising a far-right agenda.

Human rights organisations, labour movements and migrant groups see this moment as an opportunity to strengthen protections, not a final victory. Turnout held strong despite devastating storms and emergency conditions, evidence that people were genuinely mobilised by the threat, particularly urban voters connected to civil society, including unions, who had already fought the government over labour rights. The organisations that coordinated the strike now expect the president to use his powers to defend rights.

How should Seguro use his presidential powers?

Seguro has been clear he won’t be the reason parliament is dissolved, and has committed to working with the government while demanding ‘solutions and results’. This means dissolution of parliament will be a last resort in a genuine crisis, not a tactical move to tackle normal political disagreements. He will use his veto power to block laws he thinks violate the constitution and rights and mediate between the government and opposition to push them towards compromise.

The challenge will be to keep the democratic parties, both government and opposition, at the centre while Chega tries to dictate the agenda. If Seguro dissolves parliament too quickly or without a strong reason, he’ll just fuel Chega’s narrative that the system is broken. If he’s too passive and doesn’t use his veto when rights are threatened, he’ll look complicit in democratic erosion. Both scenarios would help Chega: either the system looks incapable of functioning, or it looks unwilling to defend people’s rights.

Seguro will have to walk a very fine line between doing too much and doing too little, while a far-right opposition waits to exploit whatever mistakes he makes. If he gets it wrong, his historic electoral victory will give way to deeper crisis rather than democratic renewal.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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Portugal’s far-right surge CIVICUS Lens 30.May.2025
‘Civil society must engage to prevent discussions devolving into demagoguery’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Jorge Máximo 28.May.2025
‘The rise of the populist right only further weakens trust in the political system’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Ana Carmo 19.Feb.2024

 
CIVICUS discusses Nepal’s upcoming election with youth activist Anusha Khanal of the Gen Z Movement Alliance, a youth-led civil society coalition mobilising for democratic accountability and governance reform in Nepal.

Anusha Khanal

What triggered the Gen Z protests, and how did the state respond?

The immediate trigger was the government revealing its authoritarian tendencies by banning 26 popular social media platforms. This happened during the ‘nepokids’ trend, in which people exposed the wealth of politicians’ families, contrasting with widespread economic desperation. Inflation was high and unemployment among young people stood at around 23 per cent, and there were no pathways for change within existing political structures. But this wasn’t just about jobs. Young people demanded accountability for decades of corruption, poor governance, service delivery failures and a political system completely disconnected from our realities. The leaders of three parties had rotated in power for years without delivering anything meaningful. We mobilised because we had nothing to lose.

The response was brutal. On the first day of protests, police killed several young people. The government refused to show any responsibility, instead seeking to frame the movement as violent and deny it any legitimacy. It criminalised youth anger instead of listening to it. The choice to emphasise property damage over deaths when some buildings were burned and vandalised told us everything about where their priorities lay. The government showed it did not care about young people.

But repression didn’t stop the movement; it accelerated it. Thousands more young people mobilised, and eventually the pressure became impossible to ignore. Oli’s resignation was a forced concession. But it exposed something important: the political system only moves when threatened directly. That’s a lesson we’re carrying into these elections.

How did civil society organisations engage with the movement?

Young people created the movement, not civil society organisations. Once it started, we received a lot of support from wider civil society. It became a people’s movement, with people of all ages taking part, in person and in spirit. Many civil society groups made a conscious choice to support it, document what was happening, share knowledge, help shape narratives, amplify demands and help exert pressure to translate grassroots anger into political demands. We pushed for accountability, investigations into the killings, protection for protesters and systemic reforms around corruption and governance. We insisted that any negotiation include young people at the table, as stakeholders in decision-making.

A major win was a 10-point agreement with the interim government that included commitments to address corruption, improve governance, ensure youth participation in decision-making and move towards more inclusive democracy. We also pushed for the establishment of the Gen Z Council, a body designed to hold government accountable, monitor implementation of reforms and bridge the gap between the state and young people.

But we’ve been realistic about what civil society can and cannot do. We can organise, advocate, document and monitor. We cannot force a government to implement reforms if the bureaucracy resists or political will collapses after elections. That’s why we’re now focused on maintaining pressure and building systems that make it harder for future governments to ignore youth demands.

How have election candidates addressed the movement’s demands?

Anti-corruption and good governance have become dominant themes across party manifestos. All parties are talking about digital governance, e-governance, going cashless and paperless. Some are promising to establish commissions to investigate past corruption or audit public officials’ assets going back decades. Others focus on timecard systems for service delivery, budget transparency and digitisation of transactions. It’s just that corruption is so visible that ignoring it would be political suicide.

The problem is that most parties are vague on implementation. They describe the what but not the how. There are also ideological differences, but most parties are talking about systemic reform and public-private partnerships.

Across the board, parties are responding to the movement’s anti-corruption demand because they have to. The question is whether these commitments are genuine or just campaign rhetoric.

Why are women and excluded groups still so underrepresented among candidates?

Campaign financing is a massive problem. The government sets spending limits, but everyone knows that’s not what happens on the ground. To run a serious campaign with widespread reach, you need sponsorship from wealthy backers or business interests. If you’re a woman earning a minimum wage, you simply cannot compete against candidates funded by millionaires. There is no public financing system, no state support for candidates from marginalised backgrounds. The economic system excludes most women and poor people before we even get to party selection processes.

Safety is another critical issue that doesn’t get enough attention. Digital violence against women running for office is rampant. Women and queer candidates face abuse, harassment and threats online and offline. When we encourage female and queer colleagues to run, the response is often hesitancy, due to the lack of support and because we haven’t created safe enough spaces for them to participate in politics. Although the constitution guarantees women 33 per cent representation, the reality on the ground is completely different.

Then there’s the distribution of candidacy slots within parties, which is opaque and controlled by party leaders. Even after public pressure, many parties failed to meet the female quota in direct candidacies. Some did better in proportional representation slots, but even there, they selected women who are mostly well-connected and wealthy. The movement emphasised inclusion, but we’ve regressed when it comes to candidate selection.

What obstacles stand in the way of reform?

The first challenge is that we’re almost certainly heading towards a coalition government, which means compromise on every issue. When multiple parties have to negotiate and share power, reform agendas get watered down. Parties will prioritise holding their coalition together over pushing through the anti-corruption and governance reforms they promised. We’ve seen this pattern before. What isn’t clear yet is what kind of coalition will result and what compromises will be made.

The second challenge is the bureaucracy. Nepal’s bureaucracy can be notoriously resistant to change, transparency and accountability. A reform can pass parliament and still die in implementation because mid-level bureaucrats refuse to change how they work. Even though the law to establish the Gen Z Council has been passed, it hasn’t been formed yet. We can identify problems, document failures and advocate loudly, but we cannot force a government to act. If the bureaucracy decides to drag its feet, we have limited leverage. Structural incentives favour the status quo, and that’s before we even consider whether individual politicians will prioritise reforms over personal interests or patronage networks.

But we’re not giving up. Civil society’s role now is to maintain constant pressure, document what does and doesn’t get implemented and call attention when governments fail to keep their promises. The Gen Z Council gives us a formal mechanism to do this, and we can also raise our voices independently of it. We need to build broader coalitions, keep the movement’s demands visible in public discourse and make clear that if a government fails to deliver, there will be consequences. Real change is slow and difficult — but it’s possible if civil society stays organised and vigilant and doesn’t compromise on core demands.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses China’s tech-enabled repression with Fergus Ryan, a Senior Analyst at the Australian Strategic Policy Institute (ASPI), where he specialises in how the Chinese Communist Party shapes global information environments through censorship, propaganda and platform governance. His research includes a major study on China’s AI ecosystem and its human rights impacts, as well as investigations into China’s use of foreign influencers.

Fergus Ryan

What AI systems is China developing?

Based on our research, China is rapidly developing a multi-layered AI ecosystem designed to expand state control.

Tech giants are building multimodal large language models (LLMs) such as Alibaba’s Qwen and Baidu’s Ernie Bot, which censor and reshape descriptions of politically sensitive images. Hardware companies including Dahua, Hikvision and SenseTime supply the camera networks that feed into these systems.

The state is building what amounts to an AI-driven criminal justice pipeline. This includes City Brain operations centres such as Shanghai’s Pudong district, which process massive surveillance data, as well as the 206 System, developed by iFlyTek, which analyses evidence and recommends criminal sentences. Inside prisons, AI monitors inmates’ facial expressions and tracks their emotions.

AI-enabled satellite surveillance, such as the Xinjiang Jiaotong-01, enables autonomous real-time tracking over politically sensitive regions. Additionally, AI-enabled fishing platforms such as Sea Eagle expand economic extraction in the exclusive economic zones of countries including Mauritania and Vanuatu, displacing artisanal fishing communities.

How does China use AI for censorship and policing?

China relies on a hybrid model of censorship that fuses the speed of AI with human political judgement. The government requires companies to self-censor, creating a commercial market for AI moderation tools. Tech giants such as Baidu and Tencent have industrialised this process: systems automatically scan images, text and videos to detect content deemed to be risky in real time, while human reviewers handle nuanced or coded speech.

In policing, City Brains ingest data from millions of cameras, drones and Internet of Things sensors and use AI to identify suspects, track vehicles and predict unrest before it happens. In Xinjiang, the Integrated Joint Operations Platform aggregates data from cameras, phone scanners and informants to generate risk scores for individuals, enabling pre-emptive detention based on behavioural patterns rather than specific crimes.

On platforms such as Douyin, the state does not just delete content; it algorithmically suppresses dissent while amplifying ‘positive energy’. AI links surveillance data directly to narrative control and police action.

What are the human rights impacts?

These AI systems erode the rights to freedom of expression, privacy and a fair trial.

Historically, online censorship meant deleting a post. Today, generative AI engages in ‘informational gaslighting’. When ASPI researchers showed an Alibaba LLM a photograph of a protest against human rights violations in Xinjiang, the AI described it as ‘individuals in a public setting holding signs with incorrect statements’ based on ‘prejudice and lies’. The technology subtly engineers reality, preventing users accessing objective historical truths.

AI also undermines the right to a fair trial. In courts that lack judicial independence, AI systems that recommend sentences or predict recidivism act as a black box that defence lawyers cannot scrutinise.

Pervasive surveillance changes behaviour even when not actively used, so its chilling effect may be as significant as direct deployment. Knowing their conversations may be monitored, people self-censor online and in private messaging. Emotion recognition in prisons takes this further: people can theoretically be flagged for their internal states of mind. It’s not just actions that are punished, but also thoughts.

Which groups are most affected?

While AI-enabled surveillance affects all people, ethnic minorities such as Koreans, Mongolians, Tibetans and Uyghurs are disproportionately targeted.

Mainstream LLMs are trained primarily in Mandarin, leaving little commercial incentive to develop AI for minority languages. The Chinese state, however, views those languages as a security vulnerability. State-funded institutions, including the National Key Laboratory at Minzu University, are building LLMs in minority languages, not for cultural preservation, but to power public-opinion control and prevention platforms. These scan text, audio and video in Tibetan and Uyghur to detect cultural advocacy, dissent or religious activity.

Feminist activists, human rights lawyers — particularly since the 709 crackdown in 2015 — labour activists and religious minorities including Falun Gong practitioners face disproportionate targeting. Chinese models consistently adopt state-aligned narratives about such groups, labelling Falun Gong a cult and avoiding human rights framing. Since 2020, Hong Kongers have also been subject to National Security Law surveillance using many of the same tools deployed on the mainland, a reminder that this infrastructure can be rapidly extended.

How can activists in China protect themselves?

Protecting oneself inside China is increasingly difficult. AI leaves very few blind spots. But the system is not perfectly omniscient.

Activists have historically relied on coded speech, euphemisms and satire, the classic example being the use of ‘Winnie the Pooh’ to refer to President Xi Jinping. Because AI struggles with cultural nuance and evolving memes, new linguistic workarounds can temporarily bypass automated filters. But this is a relentless game of Whac-a-Mole: Chinese tech companies employ thousands of human content reviewers whose only job is to catch new memes and feed them back into the AI.

The most practical steps are to use VPNs to access blocked platforms, secure communications apps such as Signal and separate devices for sensitive work. None of these are foolproof. VPN use is technically illegal and increasingly detected and Signal can only be accessed via VPN. It helps to keep a minimal digital footprint and communicate face-to-face on sensitive matters. For activists in Xinjiang, however, surveillance is so pervasive that individual precautions offer little protection. Strong international networks and rigorous documentation practices are essential.

Is China exporting these technologies?

China is the world’s largest exporter of AI-powered surveillance technology, marketing these systems globally, particularly to the global south.

The Chinese state is purposefully expanding its minority-language public-opinion monitoring software throughout Belt and Road Initiative countries, effectively extending its censorship apparatus to monitor Tibetan and Uyghur diaspora communities abroad. Chinese companies including Dahua, Hikvision, Huawei and ZTE have deployed surveillance and ‘safe city’ systems across over 100 countries, with Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates among the most significant recipients. Critically, these companies operate under China’s 2017 National Intelligence Law, which requires cooperation with state intelligence, meaning data flowing through these systems could be accessible to Beijing as well as to purchasing governments.

China is also exporting its governance model through the open-source release of its LLMs, embedding Chinese censorship norms into foundational infrastructure used by developers worldwide.

What should the international community do?

The international community must recognise that countering this requires regulatory pushback.

First, democratic states should set minimum transparency standards for public procurement. This means refusing to purchase AI models that conceal political or historical censorship and mandating that providers publish a ‘moderation log’ with refusal reason codes so users know when content is restricted for political reasons.

Second, states should enact ‘safe-harbour laws’ to protect civil society organisations, journalists and researchers who audit AI models for hidden censorship. Currently, doing so can breach corporate terms of service.

Third, strict export controls should block the transfer of repression-enabling technologies to authoritarian regimes, while companies providing public-opinion management services should be excluded from democratic markets. Existing targeted sanctions on companies such as Dahua and Hikvision for their role in Xinjiang should be enforced more rigorously.

Finally, the international community must recognise that Chinese surveillance extends beyond China’s borders. Spyware targeting Tibetan and Uyghur activists in exile is well-documented, as is pressure on family members remaining in China. Rigorous documentation by international civil society remains essential for building the evidentiary record for future accountability.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses the situation in Venezuela following US intervention and the ousting of President Nicolás Maduro with Verónica Zubillaga, a Venezuelan sociologist who specialises in urban violence, state repression and community responses to armed violence.

Verónica Zubillaga

Is the recently announced amnesty a real opening or a strategic manoeuvre?

We are at an unprecedented crossroads. Venezuela and its Chavista regime, under US tutelage and despite two decades of anti-imperialist rhetoric, are reconfiguring themselves in such a way that some opening could result. However, there is still a risk that an authoritarian model will be consolidated, with economic and humanitarian concessions, but without real democratisation.

The release of political prisoners — a constant demand in all negotiations with international support, and a low-cost form of early opening for the interim government that has taken over from Maduro — could function as a stepping stone towards democratisation. The restoration of civil, political and social rights will be a difficult and lengthy struggle in this context of such deprivation, in which our rights have been violated for so long.

In the first half of February, there were partial and gradual releases, but hundreds of people remained in detention. The enactment of the Amnesty Law on 19 February has accelerated the releases.

The announcement was presented as a political concession, not as a recognition of the extensive human rights violations committed by Maduro’s government. There has been no mention yet of initiating processes to seek the truth, hold those responsible accountable, provide reparations or dismantle the repressive apparatus, which are urgent.

We therefore need to react with caution. The release of people deprived of their liberty for political reasons is essential, but it cannot replace a broader agenda of justice, reparation and institutional transformation.

How has civil society worked to keep this issue at the centre of the debate?

The cause of political prisoners is cross-cutting. There are detained people of different ages, social classes and political backgrounds. In a society as polarised as ours, this is one of the few causes around which there is broad consensus.

After the results of the presidential election of 28 July 2024, which the opposition clearly won, were disregarded, it was mainly people from the working classes who took to the streets to protest. Many young people, including teenagers, were arrested and imprisoned. This situation significantly deepened the social dimension of the problem, highlighted the break between the ruling party and its traditional base and consolidated the brutally authoritarian nature and illegitimacy of Maduro’s government.

There is also an important gender dimension. While many young men are in prison, it is women – mothers, sisters and other relatives – who have organised committees, vigils and public actions demanding their release. Symbolically, the figure of the grieving mother demanding the release of her children is particularly powerful. It is a symbol that appeals to the Latin American imagination about women and their cries for democratisation, justice and reparation in the context of crumbling authoritarian regimes.

Recently, the demand for the release of political prisoners has also been raised by the student movement in its call for a rally at the Central University of Venezuela. After a year and a half of brutal repression following the 2024 election, which emptied the streets and created a climate of widespread fear, any public demonstration is a significant sign that could trigger a chain of progressive demands and the vindication of civil, political and social rights.

What has been the impact of the USA’s renewed interest in Venezuelan oil?

It is clear that the Trump administration is fixated on oil and investment opportunities and completely disregards democracy and human rights. The part of the opposition represented by María Corina Machado has been stunned by its exclusion from key decision-making despite its efforts to gain Donald Trump’s attention. This exclusion has altered the internal political balance.

Historically, there has been tension within the Venezuelan opposition between those who favour resorting to external pressure and those who prioritise internal negotiation strategies. Since 2014, two main strategies have coexisted: one that is more confrontational, demanding the immediate end of the government, and another favouring negotiation or elections. Civil society mirrors these same divisions. One of the difficulties of the Venezuelan process is this constant fragmentation and internal disagreements within the opposition. As the government has become more authoritarian, these divisions have prevented more powerful coordinated political action. It is important for the opposition to coordinate strategies and, instead of wearing itself down in these disagreements, coordinate efforts to move strategically between confrontation and negotiation.

Whenever the opposition has managed to coordinate, as in the 2015 legislative and 2024 presidential elections, it made significant gains. During the 2024 campaign led by Machado, the opposition achieved an unprecedented level of coordination, generating enormous collective hope, particularly with regard to the prospect of family reunification in a country with over eight million migrants. This situation affects people of all social classes and political ideologies. But in response, the government redoubled its repression and consolidated the dictatorship. This led to frustration, demobilisation and further fragmentation. The opposition lacked a long-term strategy to sustain its gains and withstand setbacks. This is still one of the biggest challenges today.

What should the international community do to contribute to real democratisation?

The international community, and Latin American states in particular, could have taken a firmer stance after the 2024 electoral fraud. Silence and a lukewarm approach weakened the defence of democracy. Now it should not repeat that mistake. Beyond Maduro’s profound delegitimisation, the US military operation in Venezuela is a sign of what could happen to any Latin American country under the US government’s new national security strategy.

With the USA as an imperial power primarily concerned with its geostrategic interests and oil resources, demands for democratisation may take a back seat. An authoritarian model that is economically stable but without real democratisation could become entrenched.

In this context, the USA’s prioritisation of energy interests is worrying. It is an unprecedented scenario in which external intervention and the permanence of the ruling party in power coexist. The situation is highly volatile, and this has only just begun. A period of instability and political violence could follow if the civil-military coalition in power breaks down, which may happen given the tradition of anti-imperialist discourse rooted in the armed forces during the two and a half decades of Chavista rule.

Ironically, the USA’s focus on energy interests could result in the defence of sovereignty becoming a new unifying cause for the Venezuelan opposition, potentially leading to basic agreements between the ruling party post-Maduro and the opposition to defend Venezuelan oil interests. What’s at stake is recovering politics as an exercise involving conflict and struggle, as well as recognition and exchange for democratic coexistence — something we have lost, particularly over the past decade.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent

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CIVICUS discusses the criminalisation of dissent in the Philippines with Kyle A Domequil, spokesperson of the Free Tacloban 5 Network, a campaign supporting journalist Frenchie Mae Cumpio, human rights defender Marielle Domequil and their co-accused and advocating for their release.

Kyle A Domequil

What were the circumstances of the arrests?

In the early hours of 7 February 2020, police and military forces raided the offices of several organisations in Tacloban City. Five people were arrested: Cumpio, a community journalist and Domequil, a Rural Missionaries of the Philippines lay worker, along with Alexander Philip Abinguna, a member of Karapatan’s National Council, People Surge Network spokesperson Marissa Cabaljao and Mira Legion of Bagong Alyansang Makabayan-Eastern Visayas. They’re collectively known as the Tacloban 5.

The raids followed Karapatan publicly raising concerns about extensive surveillance of its office and other organisations in the city. Days before her arrest, Cumpio reported to the Centre for Media Freedom and Responsibility that masked men had been tailing the staff of Eastern Vista, the local news website where she served as executive director. Cumpio was already being followed and Legion received a very suspicious call from a man saying who just kept saying ‘stop it’. Cumpio was able to publish on Eastern Vista about what was happening to them just a few days before the arrest.

The Tacloban 5 have denounced that evidence was planted during the raid. Ammunition, explosives, firearms and a Communist Party flag were allegedly found where they slept, under pillows and mattresses and even near Cabaljao’s one-year-old child’s crib. They were unable to witness the seizure because they were turned away during the search. Authorities also seized ₱557,360 (approx. US$9,600) in cash.

Cabaljao and Legion faced bailable charges of illegal possession of firearms and were eventually granted bail. On top of that, Abinguna, Cumpio and Domequil faced non-bailable charges of illegal possession of explosives. Since their arrest, they remained detained while facing successive charges widely viewed as politically motivated. Now Cumpio and Domequil have been convicted, while Abinguna remains in pretrial detention six years after being detained.

What evidence did the court rely on to convict Cumpio and Domequil?

The conviction rested almost entirely on testimonies from four ‘rebel returnees’, people who claim to have left armed groups and who receive financial support from the military. They testified that on 29 March 2019, they saw Cumpio and Domequil at a camp of the New People’s Army (NPA), the armed wing of the Communist Party, handing cash, ammunition and clothing to an NPA commander.

There was no corroborating proof or documentary or photographic evidence, just those testimonies from military assets whose credibility should have been questioned. The defence presented evidence that Cumpio and Domequil were elsewhere that day and they also presented documents of their activities, but the court dismissed this.

The court acquitted Cumpio and Domequil of the illegal possession of explosives and firearms charges, ruling the evidence was based on unreliable witnesses and inconsistent narratives and there was indeed an opportunity for planting evidence. Yet on the same lies and perjured testimonies, the same court found them guilty of terrorism financing and sentenced them to 12 to 18 years in prison.

This verdict is particularly troubling given that in October 2025 the Court of Appeals had overturned a civil forfeiture case against them, finding there was little reason to believe they were connected to the NPA. The Court of Appeals even warned against the hasty labelling of human rights workers as terrorists.

How do anti-terror laws and red-tagging enable cases such as this?

They function as tools of political persecution. Red-tagging labels people as linked to insurgent or terrorist groups without credible evidence. Once red-tagged, they face arrest, harassment, surveillance and threats. It creates a climate where suspicion replaces due process.

The anti-terrorism law contains vague, overly broad provisions. Authorities can associate community organising humanitarian work and journalism with armed groups, even without intent to commit violence. Cumpio was reporting on red-tagging and illegal searches before her arrest. Her radio programme was also red-tagged.

Public vilification combined with expansive security legislation produces a repeatable pattern: stigmatise, raid, charge and detain for years. Cumpio and Domequil’s case reflects this architecture of repression.

Who celebrated their conviction, and what does that reveal?

The National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-ELCAC) celebrated the verdict as a ‘decisive legal victory against terrorism’. NTF-ELCAC is a government body that systematically targets activists, human rights defenders and journalists through red-tagging. It has repeatedly accused Karapatan of being a communist front. It labels legitimate civil society organisations as terrorist supporters, creating the pretext for raids, arrests and prosecutions.

When a court convicts a community journalist based on compromised testimony and the government’s counter-insurgency apparatus celebrates, it reveals the conviction’s true purpose: silencing dissent and punishing those who document abuses.

What’s happened to the other members of the Tacloban 5?

Cabaljao and Legion were released on bail, but not without suffering frozen assets, multiple cases, extended detention and relentless red-tagging. Abinguna remains in pretrial detention and his trial continues at Tacloban City Regional Trial Court, where the prosecution has so far presented fewer than half its listed witnesses, effectively delaying proceedings and prolonging his detention.

While detained, Abinguna was hit with additional trumped-up charges: double murder and attempted murder, based solely on testimony from a ‘rebel returnee’ who tried to link him to an alleged NPA ambush in October 2019. Cumpio faced the same charges until a court granted her motion to quash them in November 2025. Abinguna’s motion was denied.

Beyond this case, what does Karapatan’s documentation reveal about the broader pattern?

Karapatan documents arbitrary imprisonment, enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings and militarisation across the Philippines. We conduct fact-finding missions, file cases through courts and international human rights bodies, provide psychosocial support to victims and help organise victims’ families.

Under the current government, the Anti-Terrorism Act of 2020 and the Terrorism Financing Prevention and Suppression Act of 2012 have been aggressively enforced not to protect the public, but to persecute critics and suppress dissent.

The Tacloban 5 case exposes how counter-terrorism laws, fabricated charges, judicial harassment and years of unjust detention silence activists, humanitarian workers, human rights defenders and journalists. It’s not an isolated incident; it’s a deliberate strategy.

According to our latest data, there are around 700 political prisoners in the Philippines. Many face the same pattern: red-tagging, questionable raids, planted evidence, reliance on testimony from military assets and prolonged detention.

What happens next?

The case is under appeal. All available legal remedies are being pursued. The conviction needs rigorous review, particularly of due process violations and evidentiary standards in terrorism-related cases. Courts must ensure national security claims don’t override fundamental rights.

But we need more than case-by-case appeals. Structural reforms are essential. Red-tagging must be explicitly prohibited with those responsible held accountable. The anti-terrorism law must be repealed or fundamentally amended to prevent misuse against human rights defenders and journalists. Safeguards must be strengthened to prevent unlawful raids, evidence-planting and security force abuses. NTF-ELCAC must be held accountable for its role in criminalising dissent.

Ultimately, prevention of similar cases requires the dismantling of mechanisms that treat dissent as crime. Without accountability and structural reform, the criminalisation of activism will continue.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses the recent protests in Iran with Sohrab Razaghi, executive director of Volunteer Activists, a Netherlands-based diaspora organisation empowering Iranian civil society.

Sohrab Razaghi

What sparked the protests, and in what ways were they different from previous ones?

Rising prices and the collapse of the national currency initially sparked the protests, but these quickly expanded beyond economic grievances. At least in part, this is because the economy is no longer seen as a purely technical issue but as a measure of the state’s ability to govern. A central question among social groups now is whether the government can manage crises and provide sustainable solutions.

Anger has built up, reflecting broken promises and lost futures. Over the past three decades, four major protest waves – in 2009, 2017, 2019 and 2022 – were met with repression, denial or superficial reforms. This pattern has produced a strong sense of humiliation and political voicelessness.

But perhaps the most decisive factor in the latest wave of protests has been the role of Generation Z, a generation that did not experience the 1979 revolution or the war with Iraq and does not have the ideological attachments of earlier generations. The dividing line is not just age but also expectations, lifestyles and values. While previous generations used to hope for gradual reform within the system, now many young people see no viable future within the current framework. For them, the most rational responses to what they perceive as a structural dead end are disengagement, migration or radical protest.

Recent protests, particularly those of 8 and 9 January, also reflected shifts in protest dynamics, with higher levels of violence visible in both rhetoric and practice. This escalation likely reflects accumulated frustration and political deadlock, but doesn’t necessarily indicate that the state has weakened. Security forces so far appear cohesive and operationally effective, and there are no clear signs of fragmentation inside the coercive apparatus.

But the rise in violence is troubling for democratic forces and civil society. When violent tactics become prominent, organised civic initiatives are marginalised and security-driven narratives prevail, weakening sustained civic action.

Additionally, Israeli and US statements expressing support for protesters and threatening military action had contradictory and largely negative effects.

While such rhetoric initially generated hope among some protesters, the lack of follow-up produced disillusionment and scepticism. Most importantly, statements by foreign governments, including Israel and the USA, strengthened the regime’s narrative. They enabled the authorities to frame protests as the products of foreign interference and protesters as instruments of external powers, including claims of involvement by Mossad agents. This narrative was very useful to justify securitisation and repression.

How have civil society and the media documented human rights violations amid internet shutdowns?

During near-total internet blackouts, local and community-based groups played crucial roles. They recorded the time and location of incidents, collected testimonies from multiple sources and preserved legal, medical and visual documentation while observing basic digital security principles.

When limited internet access became available, information was shared securely with international partners and diaspora networks. These networks helped archive data, liaise with human rights organisations and media and reduce pressure on activists operating inside Iran. International human rights organisations then cross-checked and verified reports before incorporating them into official documentation. Because communication shutdowns, security risks and restricted access to evidence prevented full documentation, they typically presented casualty figures and details of repression conservatively. At the same time, fake news and baseless casualty figures are also prevalent in diaspora and international media reports. It is essential to interrogate such reporting to preserve the credibility of fact-checked, evidence-based reports.

Under severe restrictions, independent and evidence-based documentation has been essential to preserve truth, counter denial and lay the groundwork for future accountability.

What’s limiting sustained pressure for change?

Recent protests have not expanded into broader forms of social organisation. Participation by labour unions, local networks and professional associations has been limited, restricting the potential for sustained institutionalised pressure. Without stronger organisational structures, documentation of abuses won’t necessarily translate into coordinated civic action. Social media-based coordination and mobilisation are effective for the start and first phase of protests, but on-the-ground leadership, networks and organising capacity are instrumental for sustaining protests and increasing pressure for change.

At the discursive level, significant attention has focused on appeals for foreign pressure rather than on building internal coalitions among social groups. In some cases, rhetoric has centred on state collapse rather than democratic transition, a framework that risks instability and further social fragmentation. The use of profanity and violent language – both inside Iran and among the diaspora community – has also alienated families and moderate groups, narrowing rather than broadening support.

Ultimately, for protests to evolve into movements capable of exerting sustained pressure for change, what’s needed is inclusive organisation, coalition-building and a unifying narrative.

What should the international community do to strengthen Iranian civil society?

Sustainable change will depend on domestic organisational capacity, leadership and representation, not external force. So international leaders should avoid war rhetoric and avoid engaging in any form of military intervention. Historical experience suggests that even limited foreign military intervention is unlikely to weaken domestic repression. Instead, it may well increase regime cohesion, at least in the short term, intensify nationalist sentiment and raise the costs faced by civil society activists, who can be easily portrayed as collaborators and traitors.

When supporting Iranian civil society, international allies should prioritise independent, nonviolent civil society organisations rather than opposition groups advocating violence. Narratives of ‘collapse at any cost’ marginalise civic initiatives and undermine the prospects of democratisation.

Long-term investment in capacity strengthening is essential. This includes supporting civic organising skills, digital security, democratic advocacy, nonviolent action and secure communication tools. Over recent decades, resources and repertoires for change within civil society have been weakened. Sustained engagement is required to rebuild these capacities, with up-to-date resources, techniques and tools.

Monitoring, documentation and evidence-based reporting grounded in credible local sources are among the most effective forms of support. Accurate reporting strengthens prospects for accountability and limits the space for propaganda.

Ultimately, sustainable democratic change in Iran will depend on civil society acting independently, rooted in domestic capacities and supported by context-aware, non-interventionist international engagement.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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CIVICUS discusses the genocide case against Myanmar at the International Court of Justice (ICJ) with Mohammed Nowkhim of the Arakan Rohingya Society for Peace & Human Rights (ARSPHR), a civil society organisation led by Rohingya people born out of refugee camps in Bangladesh to document atrocities, preserve survivor testimony and advocate for accountability and justice.

Mohammed Nowkhim

What atrocities were committed against Rohingya people and what is being examined in court?

During what were called ‘clearance operations’ in 2017, Myanmar security forces burned entire villages, raped women, killed children and threw them into fires and wells. According to documented reports, over 10,000 people were killed and around 700,000, including me, were forced to flee Myanmar. These were not random acts of violence; they were systematic and targeted attacks aimed at erasing our community.

In 2019, The Gambia, supported by 11 other states, filed a case against Myanmar at the ICJ, accusing it of genocide. Judges are now examining evidence of mass killings, sexual violence, village destruction and forced displacement. They are also reviewing official policies and actions that show intent to destroy Rohingya people as a group, including patterns of violence, coordination by state forces and the systematic denial of basic rights.

This case shows that genocide claims can be examined through law rather than dismissed for political convenience. But for the Rohingya, this is not just a legal process. It represents acknowledgment and a source of hope for present and future generations. After decades of denial and silence, our suffering is being heard at the world’s highest court and recognised in a legal space where truth matters. The hearings can’t erase our wounds, but they can offer some solace and a path towards justice.

What evidence supports the case against Myanmar?

The case was built on years of evidence-gathering. The Gambia relied on extensive material from the Independent Investigative Mechanism for Myanmar and United Nations (UN) fact-finding missions, as well as documentation collected over many years by human rights organisations, including Fortify Rights, Human Rights Watch and Rohingya-led groups.

Civil society played a key role when states failed to act. Even when the world looked away, organisations continued to document the truth and refused to let these crimes be erased or rewritten. Long before any court agreed to listen, groups including the ARSPHR were collecting survivor testimonies, documenting violations and carefully preserving evidence, knowing it might one day be used in court. Without that work, much of what happened would have been lost and perpetrators couldn’t have been challenged.

In a way, civil society became the memory of the Rohingya people. Today, this evidence forms part of the case before the ICJ.

Why is accountability so difficult?

Politics often protects perpetrators. Those with power choose stability over justice and shield those responsible for crimes. Myanmar’s authorities continue to deny wrongdoing and refuse to cooperate, which delays justice.

International law also has its limits. Justice moves slowly because ICJ rulings do not automatically lead to consequences. International courts can establish the truth, but they can’t force states to act. Enforcement depends on political will, often through the UN Security Council, where countries such as China and Russia can block action, even when crimes are clear and well documented.

What must happen to ensure justice?

There must be real action. Perpetrators must be held accountable, Rohingya citizenship must be restored and discriminatory laws that enabled genocide must be removed. Any return of refugees must be voluntary, safe and dignified. It can’t happen without international monitoring and guarantees of protection. People can’t be sent back to the same conditions that forced them to flee.

Ultimately, justice is not only about the past, but also about ensuring that future generations of Rohingya can live with rights, safety and dignity. This case is only the beginning. What happens after the judgment will decide whether justice is real or only symbolic.

CIVICUS interviews a wide range of civil society activists, experts and leaders to gather diverse perspectives on civil society action and current issues for publication on its CIVICUS Lens platform. The views expressed in interviews are the interviewees’ and do not necessarily reflect those of CIVICUS. Publication does not imply endorsement of interviewees or the organisations they represent.

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International Court of Justice offers hope of rules-based order CIVICUS Lens 19.May.2025
Myanmar at a crossroads CIVICUS Lens 28.Oct.2024

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CIVICUS discusses the situation following the US intervention in Venezuela with Guillermo Miguelena Palacios, director of the Venezuelan Progressive Institute, a think tank that promotes spaces for dialogue and democratic leadership.

Guillermo Miguelena Palacios

What led Donald Trump to intervene militarily in Venezuela?

The US intervention responds to a mix of economic pragmatism and the reaffirmation of a vision of absolute supremacy in the hemisphere.

First, it seeks to secure nearby stable energy sources in a context of global instability. In his statements, Trump mentioned oil and rare earth metals dozens of times. For him, Venezuela isn’t a human rights issue but a strategic asset that was under the influence of China, Iran and Russia, something unacceptable for US national security.

Second, it represents the financial elite’s interest in recovering investments lost due to expropriations carried out by the government of former president Hugo Chávez. Trump has been explicit: the USA believes Venezuela’s subsoil owes them compensation. By intervening and overseeing the transition, he’s ensuring the new administration signs agreements that give priority to US companies in the exploitation of oil fields. It’s an intervention designed to ‘bring order’ and turn Venezuela into a reliable energy partner, even if that means coexisting with a regime that has only changed its facade.

How much continuity and change is there following Maduro’s fall?

For most Venezuelans, the early hours of 3 January represented a symbolic break with historical impunity. The image of Maduro under arrest shattered the myth that the regime’s highest leaders would never pay for their actions. However, beyond the joy experienced in Venezuelan homes and in countries with a big Venezuelan diaspora, what happened was a manoeuvre to ensure the system’s survival

Chavismo is not a monolithic bloc, but a coalition of factions organised around economic interests and power networks. Broadly speaking, there are two main groups: a civilian faction and a military faction. Both manage and compete for strategic businesses, but the military is present, directly or indirectly, in most of them as coercive guarantors of the system.

The civilian faction controls areas linked to financial and political management, while the military faction secures and protects logistics chains, ports, routes and territories. Within this architecture there are various conglomerates of interests. There’s oil, an opaque business managed through parallel markets, irregular intermediation and non-transparent financial schemes. There’s drug trafficking, sustained by territorial control and institutional permissiveness. There’s the food system, which historically profited from exchange controls and the administration of hunger. And there’s illegal mining, where the military presence alongside Colombian guerrilla groups such as the National Liberation Army (ELN) is dominant and structural.

Maduro’s downfall appears to have been part of an agreement among these factions to preserve their respective businesses: they handed over the figure who could no longer guarantee them money laundering or social peace in order to regroup under a new technocratic facade that ensures they can enjoy their wealth without the pressure of international sanctions.

A revealing detail is that, while Maduro and his wife, Cilia Flores, were captured, their children remain in Caracas with their businesses intact. Their son, Nicolás Maduro Guerra, continues to operate in the fishing sector and in the export of industrial waste such as aluminium and iron. This suggests the existence of a family protection pact.

We are seeing an economic transition, but by no means a democratic transition. Rodríguez has the reputation of being much more efficient and has had greater international exposure than the rest of Chavismo. She’s backed by a new business elite, young people under 45 who need to launder their capital and gain legitimacy in the global market. Their goal is to improve purchasing power and reduce hunger in order to confer respectability on the regime, while maintaining social control.

What caused the recent resurgence of the territorial conflict with Guyana?

The conflict over the territory of Essequibo is neither new nor improvised: it’s a historical dispute and Venezuela has legal and political arguments to support its claims over the territory. For decades, the two states agreed on a mechanism to contain the dispute, which involved a temporary cessation of active claims and a ban on exploiting the area’s natural resources while a negotiated solution was sought.

In this context, Chávez chose to de-escalate the conflict as part of his international strategy. To gain diplomatic support, particularly in the Caribbean, he reduced pressure on the Essequibo, and as a result several Caribbean Community countries supported Venezuela in multilateral forums such as the Organization of American States. Guyana interpreted this not as a tactical pause but as an abandonment of the claim, and decided to move forward unilaterally and grant concessions to ExxonMobil to conduct oil exploration. These operations revealed the existence of large reserves of high-quality crude oil.

The reactivation of the conflict is, therefore, a combination of legitimate historical claims and political expediency. This wasn’t simply Maduro’s nationalist outburst but an attempt to capture new revenue amid the collapse of Venezuela’s traditional oil industry.

Oil remains the linchpin of the regime’s geopolitics. Although Venezuela has the largest reserves in the world, most of it is extra-heavy crude, which is expensive to extract and process and profitable only when international prices are high. In contrast, the oil discovered off the Atlantic coast of the Essequibo is light, comparable to Saudi oil, and therefore much cheaper to produce and refine. This economic differential explains much of the regime’s renewed aggressiveness in a dispute that had been contained for years.

What’s the mining arc and what role does it play?

In addition to oil and gas, there’s another source of strategic wealth that sustains the regime. The Orinoco Mining Arc is a vast exploitation zone in southern Venezuela, rich in coltan, diamonds, gold and rare earths. The ELN operates there under the protection of the army. It’s a brutal extraction system that generates a flow of wealth in cash and precious metals that directly finances the high military hierarchy, maintaining its loyalty to the system regardless of what happens to oil revenues or the formal economy.

It is noteworthy that, despite the US intervention and the rhetoric about strategic resources, the mining arc has hardly been mentioned. We presume it was part of the negotiation so the military would not resist Maduro’s arrest. The USA appears to have chosen to secure oil in other areas of Venezuela and let the military maintain its mining revenues in the south, since intervening there would mean getting involved in guerrilla warfare in the jungle.

What’s your analysis of the announcement of the release of political prisoners?

The announcement was presented as a gesture of openness, but the so-called releases are actually simple discharges from prison. This means political prisoners are released and go home, but still have pending charges and are therefore banned from leaving Venezuela and must appear in court periodically, usually every few days. In addition, they are absolutely prohibited from speaking to the media and participating in political activities.

This reduces the political cost of keeping prisoners in cells, but maintains legal control over them. Released prisoners live under constant threat. The state reminds them and their families that their freedom is conditional and any gesture of dissent can return them to prison immediately. This is a mechanism of institutional whitewashing: it projects an image of clemency while maintaining repression through administrative means that are much more difficult to denounce before the international community.

What’s the state of social movements?

Social and trade union movements are in a state of exhaustion and deep demobilisation. After years of mass protests between 2014 and 2017 that resulted in fierce repression, people have lost faith in mobilisation as a tool for change. Increasingly, the priority has been daily survival, particularly food and security, with political struggles taking a back seat.

Authorities have been surgical in their repression of the trade union movement: they imprisoned key leaders to terrorise the rank and file and paralyse any attempt at strike action. While organisations like ours have continued to provide technical support and training in cybersecurity, activism is now a highly risky activity.

What are the prospects for a democratic transition?

I see no signs of a genuine democratic transition. The regime’s strategy seems to be to maintain for the next two years the fiction that Maduro has not definitively ceased to hold office and could return, in order to circumvent the constitutional obligation to call immediate elections, which the opposition would surely win. During those two years, which coincide with the final two years of Trump’s term, they will flood the market with imported goods and try to stabilise the currency to create some sense of wellbeing. They will surely use the Supreme Court to interpret some article of the constitution to justify that there’s no definitive presidential vacancy.

Halfway through the term, they would no longer need to call elections. Instead, they could declare Maduro’s ‘absolute vacancy’ so that Rodríguez could finish the 2025-2031 presidential term. Thus, they would try to reach the 2030 election with a renewed image and a recovered economy, on the calculation that a sense of economic wellbeing would prevail over the memory of decades of abuse. They could even enable opposition figures to simulate a fair contest, but would maintain total control of the electoral system and media.

We are concerned the international community will accept the idea of an ‘efficient authoritarianism’ that reduces hunger but maintains censorship and persecution of dissent.

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Venezuela: the democratic transition that wasn’t CIVICUS Lens 30.Jan.2025
Venezuela: ‘Each failed attempt at democratic transition reinforces the power of the authoritarian government’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Carlos Torrealba 25.Jan.2025
Venezuela struggles to hold on to hope CIVICUS Lens 15.Aug.2024

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CIVICUS speaks to the Business and Human Rights Centre (BHRC) about labour rights abuses in Myanmar’s garment industry since the 2021 military coup.

Myanmar’s garment sector, which employs hundreds of thousands of workers, is in deep crisis. Since the coup, labour protections have collapsed, independent unions have been dismantled and workers who try to organise face intimidation, dismissal and arrest. Inside factories, reports show multiple cases of child labour, forced overtime, harassment, poverty wages and unsafe conditions. At the same time, rising living costs and US tariffs are pushing many workers further into insecurity as factories close and layoffs become more common. Garment workers, most of them women, are trapped between exploitation, repression and a rapidly shrinking industry.

How have conditions inside Myanmar’s garment factories changed since the coup?

Our monitoring between February 2021 and October 2024 shows a sharp rise in both the number and severity of pre-existing labour rights abuses. Since the coup, factory employers have increasingly worked with the military to restrict organising and silence workers. This collaboration has led to threats, arrests and violent attacks against workers. In one case, security forces carried out joint military and police raids on the homes of workers who demanded unpaid wages and limits on overtime.

Factories have also expanded surveillance. Workers report invasive searches, phone confiscation and installation of CCTV inside factories, including near toilets. Employers also force workers to lie during audits. These practices aim to hide abuses and have exacerbated the abuses workers already faced.

What abuses do garment workers suffer in the workplace?

Factories force workers to meet extreme production targets through excessive and often unpaid overtime. Many workers must stay overnight until dawn, often without enough food, water or ventilation, leading to exhaustion and health problems. Managers threaten and abuse workers who refuse to work overtime or fail to meet targets. We have documented a case where supervisors denied workers food and water as punishment for not meeting targets.

Health and safety conditions have worsened. Workers report dirty, insufficient toilets, poor food quality and unsafe drinking water. They’ve also reported blocked emergency exits, inadequate ventilation and leaking roofs that put lives at risk. Factory-provided transport creates further dangers, as they are often overcrowded and suffer frequent road accidents. In one case, a major crash involving a worker shuttle left several workers badly hurt, including one who needed abdominal surgery.

Women workers face particularly severe abuses, including hair-pulling, physical assault, sexual harassment and verbal attacks. In one case, supervisors punched and kicked women workers and called them ‘dogs’.

What happen to workers who try to speak out or organise?

Workers who dare speak out face brutal reprisals. After the military declared 16 labour unions and labour rights organisations illegal, arrests, home raids and surveillance increased, particularly against union leaders and activists linked to the Civil Disobedience Movement. The movement began after the coup and brings together workers who refuse to cooperate with military rule through strikes and other forms of non-violent resistance.

Inside factories, employers threaten and dismiss union leaders on false grounds. In one case, a factory reopened and refused to reinstate union members and publicly humiliated them. Employers have also created Workplace Coordination Committees to replace independent unions, denying workers the right to choose their representatives and silencing their complaints. Prominent union leaders such as Myo Myo Aye have been arrested multiple times simply for continuing to organise.

What should international brands be doing in this context?

Under the United Nations Guiding Principles on Business and Human Rights, brands operating in conflict settings must carry out heightened, conflict-sensitive due diligence and demonstrate, with independent and verifiable evidence, that it works. In Myanmar’s current context, where surveillance and violent repression run through all the supply chain, this standard is exceptionally hard to meet.

Any brand that stays must deliver clear and demonstrable improvements in working conditions. Brands that can’t meet this threshold must carry out a responsible exit, working with workers and their representatives and taking steps to reduce harm, rather than adding to the instability garment workers already face under military rule.

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Myanmar’s junta tightens its grip CIVICUS Lens 12.Dec.2025
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Business and Human Rights Treaty: a decade of struggle for corporate accountability CIVICUS Lens 08.Mar.2025

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CIVICUS speaks with Belarusian activist, blogger and journalist Mikola Dziadok about his experiences as a two-time political prisoner and the repression of dissent in Belarus. Mikola was jailed following mass protests in 2020.

Mikola Dziadok

Why were you arrested following protests in 2020?

I was arrested because I was not silent and I was visible. During the 2020 uprising, I ran Telegram and YouTube channels where I shared political analysis, explained what was happening and gave people advice on how to resist repression. I talked about strategies to protect ourselves, counter state violence and survive under authoritarian pressure. The regime viewed this as extremely threatening.

By that time, I had around 17 years of experience in the anarchist movement, which is a part of a broader democratic movement in Belarus. But most people who joined the protests weren’t political at all: they’d never protested before, never faced repression, never dealt with police violence. They were desperate for guidance, particularly as there was an information war between regime propaganda, pro-Kremlin narratives and independent voices..

Authorities made a clear distinction between ‘ordinary people’ who apologised and promised never to protest again, who were released, and activists, organisers and others who spoke publicly, who were treated as enemies. I was imprisoned because I belonged to the second category.

What sparked the 2020 uprising?

By 2020, Belarus had already lived through five fraudulent elections. We only had one election the international community recognised as legitimate, held in 1994. After that, President Alexander Lukashenko changed the constitution so he could rule indefinitely.

For many years, people believed there was nothing they could do to make change happen. But in 2020, several things came together. The COVID-19 pandemic left the state’s complete failure exposed. As authorities did nothing to protect people, civil society stepped in. Grassroots initiatives provided information and medical help. People suddenly saw they could do what the state couldn’t. From the regime’s perspective, this was a very dangerous realisation.

But what truly ignited mass mobilisation was violence. In the first two days after the 9 August presidential election, over 7,000 protesters were detained. Thousands were beaten, humiliated, sexually abused and tortured. When they were released and showed their injuries, the images spread through social media and Telegram, and people were shocked. This brought hundreds of thousands onto the streets, protesting against both election fraud and violence against protesters.

What’s the situation of political prisoners?

Since 2020, over 50,000 people have spent time in detention, in a country of only nine million. There have been almost 4,000 officially recognised political prisoners, and there are now around 1,200, although the real number is higher. Many prisoners ask not to be named publicly because they fear retaliation against themselves or their families.

Repression has never subsided. Civil society organisations, human rights groups and independent media have been destroyed or forced into exile. Belarussians live under constant pressure, not a temporary crackdown.

Political prisoners are treated much worse than regular prisoners. I spent 10 years as a political prisoner: five years between 2010 and 2015, and another five years after 2020. During my second sentence, I spent two and a half years in solitary confinement. This is deliberate torture designed to break people physically and psychologically.

How did your release happen?

My release was a political transaction. Lukashenko has always used political prisoners as bargaining chips. He arrests people, waits for international pressure to reach its peak and then offers releases in exchange for concessions. This time, international negotiations, unexpectedly involving the USA, triggered a limited release.

The process itself was terrifying. I was taken suddenly from prison, handcuffed, hooded and transferred to the KGB prison in the centre of Minsk. I was placed in an isolation cell and not told what would happen. It was only when I saw other well-known political prisoners being brought into the same space that I realised we were going to be freed, most likely by forced expulsion.

No formal conditions were announced, but our passports were confiscated and we were forced into exile. We were transported under armed guard and handed over at the Lithuanian border. Many deportees still fear for relatives who remain in the country, because repression often continues through family members. That’s why I asked my wife to leave Belarus as quickly as possible.

What should the international community and civil society do now?

First, they should make sure Belarus continues receiving international attention. Lukashenko is afraid of isolation, sanctions and scrutiny. Any attempt to normalise relations with Belarus without real change will only strengthen repression and put remaining prisoners at greater risk.

Second, they should financially support independent Belarusian human rights organisations and media. Many are struggling to survive, particularly after recent funding cuts. Without them doing their job, abuses will remain hidden and prisoners will be forgotten.

Most importantly, activists should not lose hope. We are making history. Dictatorships fall and fear eventually breaks. Freedom always returns – but only if we hold fast to our values and sustain the struggle.

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‘Belarus is closer than ever to totalitarianism, with closed civic space and repression a part of daily life’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Human Rights House 14.Oct.2025
Belarus: ‘The work of human rights defenders in exile is crucial in keeping the democratic movement alive’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Natallia Satsunkevich 15.Feb.2025
Belarus: a sham election that fools no one CIVICUS Lens 31.Jan.2025

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CIVICUS discusses Kazakhstan’s anti-LGBTQI+ bill with Temirlan Baimash, activist and co-founder of QUEER KZ youth initiative, a Kazakhstani LGBTQI+ organisation.

Temirlan Baimash

Why is the government pursuing an anti-LGBTQI+ law now?

The government has both domestic and geopolitical reasons for pushing this new law criminalising LGBTQI+ activism and expression.

At home, it’s facing growing public dissatisfaction. Promoting an anti-LGBTQI+ law helps shift attention away from economic problems and demands of accountability for abuses, including the mass shootings and killing of peaceful protesters ordered by President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev in January. The law also helps mobilise conservative support and score political points. Anti-LGBTQI+ rhetoric presents queer people as a threat to what are described as ‘traditional values’, deepening stigma and making violence seem acceptable. State-aligned media repeat this message, while authorities tolerate it, creating a climate where attacks against LGBTQI+ people and human rights defenders are increasingly normalised.

External factors also play a role. In the context of deteriorating relations with the USA, the government is increasingly copying Russian policies. For example, authorities have been pushing a foreign agents law similar to Russia’s. This move is also intended to demonstrate to Russia that Kazakhstan remains its ally. In this context, authorities have intensified repression at home, particularly against journalists and LGBTQI+ people, using our community as a convenient political target.

How will this bill affect LGBTQI+ people if adopted?

Although the law hasn’t been adopted yet, it’s already affecting us. Repression has intensified, and my colleagues and I have faced arrest, detention, torture and other forms of ill-treatment.

In October, our colleague Aziyat Agishev spoke out against the proposed law at a civic forum attended by government representatives. Two days later, military personnel abducted him, beat him and denied him access to his lawyer and family despite there being no legal grounds for his detention. He was only released thanks to media and public pressure.

A month later, during a private presentation of research on LGBTQI+ people in Kazakhstan, a group of homophobic people forced their way into the venue, filmed us and provoked a confrontation. Later that day, police detained our colleague Ardzh Turynkhan, held him overnight and fined him around US$170. While he was detained, officers mocked him, threatened him with rape and physical violence and ignored his requests for help, despite the fact he has a disability.

Just one day after this incident, on 22 November, the same group attacked us again in a café. Although we were the victims, police detained me instead, clearly in retaliation for our activism. They held me for three hours without showing any legal documents, surrounded by around 10 police officers and secret service agents. They later fined me on unrelated grounds. My colleague and I now face the risk of criminal charges based on false accusations, which could lead to prison sentences.

How are you opposing this law?

Despite the risks, we continue to document violations, speak out publicly and try to keep attention on what is happening. This law can still be blocked, because President Tokayev has between 10 and 30 days to sign it, and he hasn’t signed it yet. We and other civil society groups are mobilising to stop it.

We also work to empower LGBTQI+ people. We run workshops to help young queer people understand their rights and begin their journeys as activists. We share information and organise community events and gatherings to strengthen networks and build resilience.

Because civic space is heavily restricted and domestic avenues for dissent are extremely limited, international advocacy is essential. We engage human rights mechanisms by preparing shadow reports for processes such as the United Nations (UN) Human Rights Council Universal Periodic Review process and reviews under the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights.

What international support are you receiving, and what more is needed?

International civil society organisations such as Front Line Defenders and the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association support our work, alongside organisations such as COC Netherlands and intergovernmental bodies including the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe and UN mechanisms.

Their support is vital, but it isn’t enough. We need governments such as France, Germany, the Netherlands and the UK – which are major investors in Kazakhstan – to pay more attention to what’s happening on the ground. Naming and shaming can work, but only if it’s followed by real consequences. These governments must pressure our government economically and politically to stop this law from passing.

We also need international media to tell our story. This repressive law cannot be ignored, yet so far we have struggled to reach journalists willing to report on our illegal arrests, kidnappings and torture. Press coverage, public statements and sustained pressure from international civil society, media and public figures can make a difference by putting Kazakhstan under the spotlight and increasing the political cost of signing this bill into law.

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A ‘New Kazakhstan’, or more of the same? CIVICUS Lens 02.Dec.2022

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CIVICUS discusses environmental accountability in Zambia with Christian-Geraud Neema, Africa editor at the China Global South Project, an independent journalism initiative that covers and follows China’s activities in global south countries.

Christian-Geraud Neema

What’s this lawsuit about, and why are farmers seeking US$80 billion?

The farmers are suing Sino-Metals Leach Zambia, a subsidiary of the Chinese state-owned China Nonferrous Metal Mining Group, because on 18 February, the company’s tailings dam collapsed, releasing an estimated 50 million litres of acidic, toxic wastewater and up to 1.5 million tonnes of waste material into the Kafue River. This led to water pollution affecting communities in Chambishi and Kitwe, far beyond the immediate mining area.

The lawsuit reflects real harm and frustration. From the farmers’ perspective, the company is clearly responsible. Their livelihoods have been destroyed, their land contaminated and their future made uncertain. In that context, seeking accountability through the courts is a rational response.

That said, the US$80 billion figure is likely exaggerated. It shows the absence of credible damage assessments rather than a precise calculation. When no one provides clear data on losses, communities respond by anchoring their claims in worst-case scenarios.

This case also highlights a broader accountability gap. Mining companies should be held responsible, but governments must also be questioned. These projects are approved, inspected and regulated by state authorities. If a dam was unsafe, why was it authorised? Why was oversight insufficient?

It should be noted that Zambia’s legal framework allows communities to bring such cases domestically, which is a significant step forward compared to earlier cases where affected communities had to sue foreign companies in courts abroad.

What caused the toxic spill?

There is no single, uncontested explanation. There were clear structural weaknesses in the tailings dam. Reports from civil society and media suggest the dam was not built to the required standards under Zambian regulations. But the company argues the dam complied with existing standards and that it was encroachment by surrounding communities that weakened the structure over time.

These two narratives are not mutually exclusive. Even if community interactions with the site occurred, the primary responsibility still lies with the company. Mining operations take place in complex social environments, and companies are expected to anticipate these realities and design infrastructure that is robust enough to withstand them. Ultimately, this incident reflects governance and regulatory failures. It was not an isolated accident.

What were the consequences of the spill?

The impacts have been severe and multidimensional. The spill polluted large sections of the Kafue River, reportedly extending over 100 kilometres. It killed large numbers of fish, contaminated riverbeds and disrupted ecosystems. Agriculturally, farmers using river water for irrigation saw their crops destroyed or rendered unsafe. Livestock and soil quality were also affected. Acidic and toxic substances entered water sources used daily for cooking, drinking and washing, and communities were exposed to serious health risks.

What makes the situation particularly troubling is the lack of reliable and independent data. There has been no transparent and comprehensive assessment released by the government, the company or an independent body. This absence has left communities uncertain about long-term environmental damage and health effects, and fuelled emotionally charged debates instead of evidence-based responses.

Was the disaster preventable?

Absolutely. At a technical level, stronger infrastructure, better-quality materials and stricter adherence to safety standards could have significantly reduced the risk. At an operational level, companies know mining sites are rarely isolated, and community proximity, informal access and social dynamics must be factored in when designing and securing tailings dams.

But prevention also depends heavily on governance. Mining companies are profit-driven entities, and in weak governance environments, the temptation to cut costs is high. This is not unique to Chinese firms. The main difference in how companies operate is not their origin but their context: the same companies often operate very differently in countries with weak or strong regulatory oversight. Where rules are enforced, behaviour improves; where oversight is weak, shortcuts become the norm.

The key issue here is enforcement. Zambia has good environmental laws and standards on paper. The problem is their implementation.

Could this case set a precedent?

This case has the potential to strengthen existing accountability mechanisms rather than create a new precedent. Zambia has seen similar cases before, including lawsuits involving western mining companies. What is different now is the increased legal space for communities to act locally.

If successful, the case could reinforce civil society advocacy for responsible mining, greater transparency and stronger enforcement of environmental regulations. It could also raise awareness among communities living near mining sites about their rights and the risks they face.

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Ghana: ‘We demand an immediate ban on illegal mining and strict enforcement of environmental laws’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Jeremiah Sam 29.Oct.2024

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CIVICUS discusses Generation Z-led protests in Bulgaria with Zahari Iankov, senior legal expert at the Bulgarian Centre for Not-for-Profit Law, a civil society organisation that advocates for participation and human rights.

Zahari Iankov

What sparked recent protests?

Bulgaria has been in a prolonged political crisis since 2020, when mass protests first erupted against corruption and state capture. Although they didn’t immediately lead to a resignation, these protests marked the beginning of a cycle of repeated elections and unstable governments. Since 2021, Bulgaria has held several parliamentary elections, and no political settlement has lasted.

The latest protests, which erupted on 1 December, have probably been the largest since the early 1990s, during Bulgaria’s transition from communism to democracy. They were initially sparked by a controversial 2026 budget that raised taxes to fund public sector wages, but while economic concerns played a role, the protests were primarily centres on values. People reacted to the fact that democratic rules were being openly disregarded and governance was increasingly being shaped by informal powers and personal interests.

Several incidents reinforced the perception that institutions were being systematically undermined. One symbolic moment was the treatment of student representatives during parliamentary debates about education, including proposals for mandatory religious education. Members of parliament publicly shamed student council representatives, which many people saw as emblematic of a broader contempt for citizen participation and government accountability.

Other cases reinforced this perception: environmental laws were weakened without debate, key oversight bodies were left inactive for over a year and proposals that threatened freedom of expression were introduced, and only withdrawn following public backlash. Together, these incidents created a sense that institutions were being hollowed out.

The budget acted as a trigger, but public anger had been building for months. Throughout the government’s short mandate, there was a clear pattern of sidelining public participation and bypassing parliamentary procedures. Laws were rushed through committees in seconds, major reforms were proposed without consultation and controversial decisions were taken at moments designed to avoid opposition.

What made these protests different from previous ones?

One striking difference was the speed and scale of the mobilisation. What began as a protest linked to budget concerns quickly turned into huge demonstrations involving tens of thousands of people. Estimates suggest that between 100,000 and 150,000 people gathered in Sofia, the capital, during the largest protest. For such a small country, this was impressive. Also unlike previous mobilisations, these protests spread well beyond Sofia to many cities across the country, something unusual for Bulgaria’s highly centralised political system.

Another important difference was the strong presence of young people, which led to the protests being described as Gen Z protests. While young people also played a role in big protest movements in 2013 and 2020, this time the generational identity was much more visible and explicitly embraced. Young people were central as communicators as well as participants. Social media campaigns, humour and memes played a significant role in spreading information and mobilising support.

Additionally, these protests were not driven by a single political party. Although one party provided logistical support in Sofia, the extent of participation and the geographic spread made clear this was a broad social mobilisation, not a partisan campaign.

What role did organised civil society groups play in sustaining the protests?

There were a couple of civil society groups that were involved in the organisation of protests, but organised civil society’s main role was not in mobilising but in providing crucial long-term support. For years, civil society groups and investigative journalists have documented corruption, challenged harmful laws and mobilised public awareness around environmental and rule-of-law issues.

As traditional media came under increasing control, civil society helped fill the gap by exposing abuses and explaining complex issues in accessible ways. This helped counter the narrative that ‘nothing ever changes’ and empowered people to believe protest could make a difference.

At the same time, attempts by politicians to discredit or intimidate civil society organisations, including proposals resembling laws to stigmatise civil society as foreign agent, underscored how influential civil society has become.

Who are the figures at the centre of public anger, and what do they represent?

The two key figures are Boyko Borissov and Delyan Peevski, who represent two different but deeply entrenched forms of political power. A former mayor of Sofia and prime minister who has dominated Bulgarian politics for over a decade, Borissov retains a loyal voter base despite major scandals, and has repeatedly returned to power through elections. He built his image on strongman rhetoric and visible policing actions.

Peevski is a different figure. Sanctioned under the Magnitsky Act — a US law targeting people involved in corruption and human rights abuses — he has never enjoyed broad public support but wields enormous informal influence. Despite leading a political party, he operates largely behind the scenes. Over the years, he has been linked to deep penetration of the judiciary, influence over regulatory bodies and media control. His role in governance has become increasingly visible despite his party not formally being part of the ruling coalition.

Together, these two figures embody what protesters see as the fundamental problem: a ‘mafia-style’ system of governance, where access, decision-making and protection depend on proximity to powerful individuals rather than transparent institutional processes.

Does the government’s resignation address the underlying problems?

This was a political response, but it does not resolve the structural issues that triggered the protests. Bulgaria’s institutions remain weak, key oversight bodies continue operating with expired mandates and the judiciary continues to face serious credibility problems.

What happens next will depend largely on voter participation and political renewal. Turnout in recent elections has fallen below 40 per cent, undermining any legitimacy claims and making vote-buying and clientelism easier. Mass turnout would significantly reduce the influence of these practices and could be our only hope for real change.

However, lasting change will require action to restore institutional independence, reform the judiciary and ensure regulatory bodies function properly. Otherwise, any new government risks being undermined by the same informal power structures that brought people out onto the streets.

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Bulgaria: stuck in a loop? CIVICUS Lens 24.Oct.2022

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CIVICUS discusses migrants’ rights in Libya with Sarra Zidi, political scientist and researcher for HuMENA, an international civil society organisation (CSO) that advances democracy, human rights and social justice across the Middle East and North Africa.

Sarra Zidi

Libya has fragmented into rival power centres, with large areas controlled by armed groups. As state institutions have collapsed, there’s no functioning system to protect the rights and safety of migrants and refugees. Instead, state-linked bodies such as the Directorate for Combating Illegal Immigration (DCIM) and the Libyan Coast Guard (LCG) often work with militias, smugglers and traffickers, with near-total impunity. In this lawless environment, Sub-Saharan migrants face systematic abuses that the International Criminal Court (ICC) and United Nations bodies warn may amount to crimes against humanity. Despite this, the European Union (EU) continues to classify Libya as a ‘safe country of return’ and work with it to externalise its migration control.

What risks do migrants face in Libya?

Libya has no asylum system, which leaves migrants and refugees without legal protection and highly vulnerable to abuse. From the moment people enter the country, they face the risk of arbitrary arrest, torture and, in some cases, ending up in mass graves or being killed extrajudicially.

Detention is the default approach to migration management. While the DCIM formally oversees detention centres, many are effectively run by militias that hold people indefinitely without registration, legal processes or access to lawyers. Centres are severely overcrowded, with hardly any food, healthcare, sanitation or water, and disease outbreaks are common. Sexual and gender-based violence are systematic. Militias and guards subject detained women to forced prostitution, rape and sexual slavery.

Extortion is widespread. Officials torture detainees to force ransom payments from relatives, and their release often depends on intermediaries paying bribes. Those who manage to get out typically have no documents or resources, leaving them exposed to being arrested again.

Smuggling networks shape much of the movement across Libya. Traffickers routinely subject migrants to economic exploitation, physical violence and racial discrimination. Some CSOs have documented slave auctions where Black migrants are sold as farm workers. Officials and traffickers treat migrants as commodities in an economy built on forced labour across agriculture, construction and domestic work.

Accountability is almost non-existent. Libya lacks laws criminalising key offences under the ICC’s Rome Statute, including sexual and gender-based violence and torture. In this context, many migrants try to flee through the Central Mediterranean Route – the world’s deadliest migration route – as the only escape they can see.

What’s the EU’s role?

Although Libyan authorities are the ones who commit these human rights violations, they operate within a wider EU policy designed to externalise migration control. By relying on Libya to contain migration along the Central Mediterranean Route, the EU prioritise containment over protection.

Since the 2017 Malta Declaration between Italy and Libya, the EU has funded and trained the LCG. This support enables Libya to maintain a vast search and rescue zone and intercept people attempting to cross the sea. This approach draws inspiration from other offshore detention models, such as Australia’s, and focuses on preventing people from reaching European territory. This has strengthened Libya’s capacity to intercept migrants while doing little to address the systematic violations occurring in detention centres and at the hands of militias.

What are CSOs doing to help, and what challenges do they face?

CSOs play a crucial role in documenting violations, gathering survivor testimonies and building evidence archives that can support future accountability efforts. They are also a vital source of information and protection for migrants. Many work closely with international partners such as Doctors Without Borders and the World Organisation Against Torture, and often intervene directly in individual cases to save lives.

But because security risks remain extremely high, activists, human rights defenders and journalists must carry out much of their work discreetly. They face constant surveillance, threats and pressure from authorities and militias, and some have been arbitrarily detained, tortured and forcibly disappeared.

Their work is becoming increasingly difficult as authorities further restrict Libya’s civic space. The government uses draconian laws to silence organisations that expose abuses, call for reforms or maintain ties with international partners. The 2022 Cybercrime Law is routinely applied to target activists and bloggers under vague charges such as ‘threatening public security’. In March 2023, a new measure invalidated all CSOs registered after 2011 unless they were founded under a specific law from the era of Muammar Gaddafi.

On 2 April, the Internal Security Agency ordered the closure of 10 international CSOs, accusing them of ‘hostile activities’ and of trying to alter Libya’s demographics by assisting African migrants. This move has cut off essential services for asylum seekers, migrants and refugees, leaving them even more vulnerable.

What actions should the international community take?

The international community must urgently refocus its attention on Libya. When donors de-prioritise the crisis or divert funds elsewhere, Sub-Saharan migrants are left even more exposed to exploitation and violence.

International bodies also need to strengthen their support for Libyan civil society and ensure activists can participate safely in global forums in Brussels, Geneva and New York. Policymakers need their testimonies to shape informed, rights-based decisions.

Protection systems need major improvements too. The International Organisation for Migration and the United Nations Refugee Agency struggle with long bureaucratic processes that result in many people never receiving the help they need. Migrants need places where they can report abuse safely and receive proper legal advice and psychosocial support.

Only with adequate resources, renewed political will and a rights-based approach that brings local voices to the table can we address the ongoing crisis in Libya and protect migrants trapped in a system of abuse.

This interview was conducted during International Civil Society Week 2025, a five-day gathering in Bangkok that brought together activists, movements and organisations defending civic freedoms and democracy around the world. International Civil Society Week was co-hosted by CIVICUS and the Asia Democracy Network.

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Libya: Women, HRDs, migrant support NGOs, journalists and online critics face systematic violations CIVICUS Monitor 26.Oct.2025
Outsourcing cruelty: the offshoring of migration management CIVICUS Lens 15.Sep.2025
Migrants’ rights: humanity versus hostility CIVICUS | 2025 State of Civil Society Report

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CIVICUS discusses climate displacement and Tuvalu’s future with Kiali Molu, a former civil servant at Tuvalu’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs and currently a PhD candidate at the University of the South Pacific in Fiji and the University of Bergen in Norway. His research focuses on state sovereignty and climate change in the Pacific.

Kiali Molu

Why have so many Tuvaluans applied for Australia’s climate mobility visa?

This visa is part of the Falepili Union Treaty agreed by Australia and Tuvalu. The treaty combines a special mobility pathway, guarantees around Tuvalu’s statehood and sovereignty and a broader security arrangement. Under the mobility component, Tuvaluans can apply for residency in Australia through a ballot system, without being forced to permanently relocate.

Many applications are driven by practical reasons, such as employment opportunities to be able to support families back home. Others value the ability to travel more freely, particularly given Australia’s historically long and uncertain visa processes. Access to education opportunities and social protections also matter. What’s important is that selection under this pathway does not require people to leave Tuvalu. It creates choice and security in a context where the future feels increasingly uncertain.

How is climate change reshaping daily life in Tuvalu?

Rising sea levels and frequent king tides regularly flood homes, public buildings and roads, interrupting community gatherings, education and work. Coastal erosion continues to reduce habitable land, while saltwater intrusion contaminates groundwater and destroys pulaka pits that are central to food security, as they’re used to grow staple root crops.

These impacts extend beyond infrastructure: higher reliance on imported food means families face rising costs, and stagnant water means a rise in waterborne diseases. Constant flooding is increasing anxiety about displacement and cultural continuity, and farming and fishing livelihoods are becoming harder to sustain. Climate change affects our food, health, housing and identity every single day.

What does potential resettlement mean for Tuvaluan culture and identity?

Our identity is inseparable from our community, our land and the ocean surrounding it. Tuvaluan culture is rooted in fenua – shared practices around agriculture and fishing, church life and the falekaupule, a community meeting house. Large-scale resettlement risks disrupting these foundations. The transmission of everyday cultural practices, language and oral history may weaken if younger Tuvaluans grow up away from the islands.

However, mobility doesn’t automatically mean cultural loss. Tuvaluan communities abroad are finding ways to preserve collective life, language and traditions through associations, churches and digital platforms. Initiatives such as the Tuvalu Digital Nation aim to safeguard cultural heritage virtually. Still, there is no substitute for ancestral land, and this raises profound questions about what it means to be Tuvaluan if our homeland becomes uninhabitable.

What climate adaptation measures does Tuvalu urgently need?

Adaptation for Tuvalu is not only about renewable energy and seawalls. While these remain essential, there’s also a critical legal and political dimension. The international system still defines statehood on the basis of physical territory, offering little protection to nations facing permanent land loss due to climate change.

We believe Tuvalu should push for a new global legal framework that rethinks sovereignty in the context of climate displacement. This would protect Tuvalu’s international legal personality, maritime boundaries and political rights even if parts of its territory become uninhabitable. This diplomatic strategy is needed as much as physical adaptation measures because it addresses national survival, not just infrastructure resilience.

What responsibilities do major polluters have towards climate-vulnerable states?

Major polluters have legal and moral obligations towards climate-vulnerable countries. International law increasingly recognises duties to reduce emissions, prevent environmental harm and cooperate in protecting those most at risk. Recent legal developments, including advisory opinions from international courts, reinforce that these responsibilities are enforceable, not optional.

These obligations go beyond emissions cuts. They include providing climate finance through mechanisms such as the Green Climate Fund and the Loss and Damage Fund, supporting adaptation efforts and sharing technology. For countries like Tuvalu, this support is fundamental to preserving lives, culture and sovereignty. Continued inaction by major emitters should not be seen solely as political failure, but also as a breach of international law.

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CIVICUS discusses restrictions on civic space in Thailand and the detention of activist and human rights lawyer Arnon Nampa with Akarachai Chaimaneekarakate, Advocacy Lead at Thai Lawyers for Human Rights (TLHR).

Akarachai Chaimaneekarakate

Thai authorities are using the country’s draconian lèse-majesté law, which bans criticism of the monarchy, to criminalise dissent and shut down debates about the role of the king and royal family. Arnon Nampa, featured in CIVICUS’s Stand As My Witness campaign, is currently imprisoned simply for giving public speeches questioning the monarchy’s role in a democratic system. His case is one example of a wider crackdown on freedom of expression. Yet despite this pressure, a new generation of activists continues to push for accountability, democracy and equality, mobilising creativity and solidarity to challenge longstanding power structures.

Why was TLHR founded, and what’s its role?

TLHR was established in 2014, just two days after a military coup overthrew Thailand’s elected government. A group of activists and human rights lawyers came together because they knew people would soon be detained, harassed or prosecuted simply for speaking out or criticising the coup, the government or the monarchy. Sadly, they were right. And although the founders expected the organisation to be temporary, assuming elections would soon restore normality, 11 years later TLHR is still working every day to defend people targeted for exercising their fundamental rights.

Arnon Nampa is one of its founders. He is a well-known activist and human rights lawyer who has spent more than a decade defending victims of rights violations, including environmental defenders and activists charged with lèse-majesté. Under Thai law, each count carries a sentence of three to 15 years, so people can end up serving decades in prison.

In August 2020, amid nationwide pro-democracy protests, Arnon delivered a Harry Potter-themed speech that invoked ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’ to pose previously taboo political questions about the monarchy and constitutional reform. His speech opened a national conversation about the monarchy’s role in Thai democracy, but it also led to his imprisonment on the same lèse-majesté charges he had previously defended others against.

How widespread are lèse-majesté prosecutions?

Unfortunately, they are very common. The lèse-majesté law is used to silence dissent and punish even the mildest criticism. People have been prosecuted simply for sharing a BBC article about the Thai king, questioning constitutional amendments or raising concerns about public spending linked to the monarchy.

Since the 2020 protests, over 280 people have been charged with lèse-majesté, and the sentences have been extremely harsh. One activist was sentenced to 50 years in prison just for sharing online clips about the monarchy on Facebook, including a segment from John Oliver’s ‘Last Week Tonight’ comedy show.

People have been prosecuted for absurd reasons: one child was convicted for wearing a crop top to a protest after being accused of mocking the king. Another protester was sentenced for wearing a traditional Thai dress said to mock the queen. A further activist was convicted for conducting a peaceful public opinion poll on the king’s royal prerogatives.

How do Thai activists manage to stay hopeful despite such intense repression?

Thai activists keep finding creative ways to make their voices heard. Humour and symbolism have become powerful tools for raising sensitive issues without crossing legal red lines. Arnon’s Harry Potter speech was only one example.

What’s truly inspiring is the solidarity that has emerged among diverse groups. Children, labour activists, LGBTQI+ advocates, rural communities and students are standing together, fighting for free expression but also broader social justice causes including environmental protections, labour rights and the struggle against torture and enforced disappearances.

Society is shifting too. Not long ago, openly discussing the monarchy was unthinkable. Now those conversations are happening everywhere. People are finding new ways to resist in everyday spaces, even in cinemas where many no longer stand for the royal anthem. While the government is still trying to shut down dissent, as shown by the dissolution of the largest opposition party for proposing changes to the lèse-majesté law, it has become clear that once conversations about democracy and equality begin, they are very hard to silence.

What role are young people playing in driving and shaping the democracy movement?

Many older people still hold deep reverence for the monarchy because they grew up under its strong influence. But younger generations are asking direct, fundamental questions that strike at the heart of Thailand’s political order: shouldn’t everyone be equal, and shouldn’t rights stem from our shared humanity rather than bloodlines? For many young activists, the struggle doesn’t end on the streets. It continues at home, around the dinner table, when they discuss politics with their parents who may not support their views.

The 2020 protests showed how powerful young people can be. Middle school, high school and university students led the movement. They were fearless, tech-savvy and well organised, and their creativity, courage and solidarity reshaped activism in Thailand.

This push for change isn’t happening in isolation. Young Thais are drawing inspiration from the global wave of Gen Z-led movements in places like Hong Kong, Myanmar and Taiwan, and the online political movement the ‘Milk Tea Alliance’, where young activists are calling for equality, transparency and real democracy. This way, Thai activists are linking their local fight for democracy to a broader global movement for freedom and justice.

How can real change happen in Thailand?

Change is already underway, but there’s still a lot of work to do. The 2023 election made it clear that people want democracy, and even though the establishment blocked the winning party forming a government, the democratic spirit remains strong.

A recent campaign for a new, people-drafted constitution gathered over 200,000 handwritten signatures in just three days. Small business owners, students and vendors took part across the country, showing they want change and a say in shaping their future.

Civil society is also pushing for an amnesty bill to free people prosecuted for political reasons. It would be a key step towards reconciliation and a more inclusive democracy, because a country can’t claim unity while jailing people for thinking differently.

Arnon once said something that has stayed with me: we’ll definitely reach the finish line. But there’s no rule saying everyone in the movement must reach the finish line together. Some may leave the path, some may pass away. If anyone doesn’t make it that far, we can tell the people standing at that finish line that in this struggle there was a friend who once fought side by side with us. Arnon said, ‘In this movement, there is no hopelessness. If you reach the finish line and don’t see me, then just think of me. And if I reach the finish line and don’t see you, I’ll be thinking of you too’.

His words are a reminder that even in difficult times, this is a shared journey, and people will keep walking it together.

This interview was conducted during International Civil Society Week 2025, a five-day gathering in Bangkok that brought together activists, movements and organisations defending civic freedoms and democracy around the world. International Civil Society Week was co-hosted by CIVICUS and the Asia Democracy Network.

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Thailand: ‘The right-to-work initiative is a big relief for refugees and a step forward for human rights’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Mic Chawaratt 31.Oct.2025
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Thailand: new prime minister, same old problems CIVICUS Lens 21.Aug.2024

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CIVICUS discusses US civil society action under the second Trump administration with Bridget Moix, General Secretary of the Friends Committee on National Legislation, the oldest faith-based lobbying organisation in the USA, advocating for peace, justice and environmental stewardship. Bridget has participated in the No Kings movement, a nationwide grassroots response to democratic backsliding and attacks on rights.

Bridget Moix

What drives the No Kings movement?

We are experiencing a rapid and devastating rise of authoritarianism. Since coming into office for his second term, Trump has embarked on a relentless campaign to undo generations of democratic institution building and international law while pursuing his own interests and the interests of billionaires. He has launched a militarised mass deportation campaign against immigrants that is ripping families apart and disappearing people from our streets. At the same time, he is dismantling core government agencies and firing hundreds of thousands of federal employees, punishing political opponents and rewarding those who are willing to serve him and his so-called ‘America First’ agenda.

Many people across the political spectrum are deeply troubled by what he’s doing and see it as a major attack on core principles of democracy, which have been at the heart of the struggle for freedom and equality since the country’s founding. The USA was founded on the rejection of rule by monarchy, a declaration against kings doing what they want at the expense of the public. The No Kings movement recalls that history and speaks out against Trump’s authoritarian actions today.

What have the protests been like, and what role is civil society playing beyond the streets?

The first protests brought about five million people in 1,500 cities and towns across the USA onto the streets to stand up for democracy. More recent protests in October brought seven million people out in 2,600 towns and cities.

What’s impressive about these protests is they bring a wide diversity of people together, across traditional social and political boundaries, who all believe our democracy is at real risk and we need to resist Trump’s authoritarianism. Even in very small towns, large groups gather, including people who have never protested before but feel they must do something now. That gives me hope.

Beyond the protests, US civil society has been very active and is learning and taking inspiration from movements elsewhere, as well as from our history of democratic struggle. Civil society groups have been quick to take legal action to sue the Trump administration for its overreach and continue to do so. They provide training every week on non-violent resistance and monitor immigration enforcement activity. Faith leaders have been speaking out and holding vigils and taking part in civil disobedience. Many groups are advocating with Congress to uphold its constitutional powers and provide a check on the Trump administration. Mutual aid groups are providing support for migrants and others at risk across the country. People are also working to build long-term resilience individually and in solidarity with others because we know this could be a long struggle.

How are immigration policies affecting communities?

Immigration raids and detentions are happening across the USA. I live in Washington DC, where Trump has deployed the national guard to further militarise our communities. The White House has given Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) free rein to terrorise people, detaining them from their homes, schools and workplaces as well as off the street, in front of their families. ICE officers drive unmarked vehicles, wear masks and do not follow due process as they should under US law.

Here in DC we’ve had at least 1,200 people detained in two months, probably many more. They are often taken without any warning and transported hundreds of miles to detention centres. Their families struggle to find out what happened to them and get legal help. Many people who are here legally have been swept up in these detentions, including US citizens. Many families are too afraid to send their children to school or leave their house. All of us know families who have been affected. The economy is also being affected.

However, the good news is that communities are standing up and working around the clock to support and protect one another, document and interrupt abuses and urge our leaders to push back against this mass cruelty campaign. Neighbourhood groups in Chicago, DC, Los Angeles and elsewhere are organising rapid response teams and sharing learning with each other to build resistance and solidarity.

How has the government responded to the protests?

The Trump administration doesn’t care about protests and just tries to ignore them or spread lies about them. We are used to that. What is important though is that we’re beginning to see more movement among members of Congress, whose constituents are protesting and advocating with them, and the protests are building the awareness and broader engagement of the public we need to push back.

Research shows that it takes 3.5 per cent of the population engaged in civil resistance to overcome authoritarian regimes. We have 330 million people in this country, and with each major protest we’re getting closer to that threshold.

What needs to happen to protect democracy?

We need to continue building an engaged and active movement of people who speak up, push back and advocate to rein in the Trump administration’s authoritarian takeover. We need to draw on the lessons from our history of struggles for freedom such as the Civil Rights movement, as well as lessons from grassroots movements around the world, as we grow non-violent civil resistance. We need more people protesting and protecting their neighbours, and we also need to turn that protest into policy action.

We need more people lobbying their members of Congress to stand up as an independent branch of government that responds to people and to do the right thing. Also critical is Congress standing up to protect its constitutional power of the purse and its authority over war. These are critical guardrails we need exercised against the militarised campaigns of the Trump administration at home and abroad.

We need to continue the legal pushback through the courts to uphold the rule of law and prevent the White House from further militarising our streets and corrupting government and elections. Solidarity across impacted communities in the USA and with civil society movements around the world will be very important to help us maintain and grow momentum here. We need to remember that our struggles for peace, justice and freedom are connected to people’s struggles all around the world.

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By CIVICUS
Oct 24 2025 (IPS)

CIVICUS speaks about the disappearance of Turkmen activists Abdulla Orusov and Alisher Sahatov with human rights defender Diana Dadasheva from the civil movement DAYANÇ/Turkmenistan and with Gülala Hasanova, wife of Alisher Sahatov.

On 24 July, Turkmen activists Abdulla Orusov and Alisher Sahatov were abducted in Edirne, Turkey, after being labelled a ‘threat to public order.’ Despite applying for international protection, they were unlawfully deported to Turkmenistan. Orusov and Sahatov, prominent voices in the diaspora through their YouTube channel Erkin Garaýyş, are now being detained, starved and denied a fair trial, while authorities are deliberately delaying proceedings to exclude them from an upcoming amnesty. Their cases highlight the growing risks faced abroad by Turkmen activists, who are being targeted beyond their country’s borders. The international community must push to secure their immediate release and end such abuses.

What happened to Abdulla Orusov and Alisher Sahatov?

Abdulla Orusov and Alisher Sahatov are Turkmen civil activists and bloggers who reported on human rights violations, corruption, migrant issues and social hardships faced by people in Turkmenistan. They were among the few who dared to speak when most were forced into silence.

Last April, Turkish police came to their home under the pretext of checking their documents. Acting on Turkmenistan’s request, they detained both men on false terrorism charges, claiming they posed a threat to Turkey’s national security. They were taken to a deportation centre in Sinop and later transferred to Edirne.

The Turkish Supreme Court ruled that returning them to Turkmenistan would put their lives in danger and ordered an end to the deportation process. But on 24 July, immediately after their release, they disappeared. Reliable sources told us they had been secretly flown to Turkmenistan on a cargo plane, under the supervision of Officer Amangeldiyev Amangeldy, who was later awarded a medal for the operation.

To this day, we don’t know where they are or in what condition. Their abduction is a serious crime and a blatant violation of international law.

Are there other examples of such human rights violations?

Over recent years, many Turkmen activists who were brave enough to speak up have disappeared in Turkey and Russia, including Malikberdy Allamyradov, Azat Isakov, Rovshen Klychev, Farhad Meymankuliev and Merdan Mukhammedov. Activist Umida Bekjanova is currently detained in a Turkish deportation centre and we fear she may face the same fate.

Turkmen authorities are carrying out a systematic campaign to eliminate independent civic voices. In today’s Turkmenistan, anyone who refuses to stay silent risks being branded a terrorist or enemy of the state. These labels have become tools of repression, used to justify abductions, fabricate criminal charges and force people to return to Turkmenistan.

What risks do Abdulla, Alisher and other activists face after being forcibly returned?

Their lives are in danger. We receive reports of torture, starvation, humiliation and psychological abuse. They are held in isolation, denied legal defence and a fair trial.

In Turkmenistan, there are no independent courts, lawyers or free media. People disappear into secret prisons for years, cut off from their families and the world. We don’t know where they are or if they are still alive. For their relatives and loved ones, this means endless waiting and despair, a slow, silent form of torture.

How has this affected your families?

Having my husband abducted has destroyed our lives. I am raising four children who ask every day when their father will return. We live in pain and fear, under constant surveillance and threats.

Being a Turkmen activist means facing harsh living conditions. Some, like Diana, live without documents or means of subsistence or social protection, caring for small children under the constant fear of being abducted.

Still, we refuse to stay silent; if we did, others would disappear too. Together with the DAYANÇ/Turkmenistan Human Rights Platform, we have declared a hunger strike until Abdullah and Alisher return home safely. We have also launched a campaign ‘If I Disappear – Don’t Stay Silent’ where we publicly name those who will be responsible if we too disappear. This is how we protect ourselves and our loved ones, because today it’s Abdulla and Alisher but tomorrow it could be any of us.

What do you expect from the international community?

The international community must act urgently to secure the release of Abdulla, Alisher and other disappeared activists. They must also demand Turkmenistan put an end to the criminal practice of labelling people as terrorists for simply speaking the truth.

But statements aren’t enough. We need real action. We call for an independent investigation into illegal deportations and abductions, and for those responsible for abductions, torture and repression, in Turkmenistan and Turkey, to be held accountable for their actions. We also demand the creation of a ‘Green Corridor’ for at-risk activists and families and the issuance of emergency documentation and financial support for migrants left without legal status and vulnerable to exploitation, trafficking and recruitment by criminal networks or extremist groups.

The world has no right to remain silent or look away. The international community must stand with Turkmen activists deprived of their basic rights to identity, movement and freedom of expression. Their silence only empowers the perpetrators and fuels impunity. Every moment of inaction breaks another life. The international community must act now.

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Forced loyalty, fear, and censorship: Turkmenistan’s relentless assault on civic freedoms CIVICUS Monitor 26.Jun.2025
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Turkmenistan: ‘There is nothing resembling real civil society – and no conditions for it to emerge’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Farid Tukhbatullin 10.Mar.2022

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CIVICUS discusses enforced disappearances in Mexico with a member of the International Network of Associations of Missing Persons.

The crisis of disappearances in Mexico has reached alarming proportions, with over 52,000 unidentified bodies in morgues and mass graves. On 1 July, the Mexican Congress approved controversial changes to the General Law on Disappearances, which promise to modernise the search process through a national biometric system, but which human rights organisations and victims’ groups claim could establish an unprecedented system of mass surveillance.

What are the main changes and how will they affect searches?

The changes seek to strengthen the mechanisms for searching for, locating and identifying missing persons. The main innovations include the creation of a National Investigation File Database and a Single Identity Platform that will integrate various databases. The revised law also provides for the strengthening of the Unique Population Registry Code (CURP) through the incorporation of biometric data such as iris scans, photographs and fingerprints.

The law obliges authorities and individuals to provide information useful for search processes and incorporates new institutions such as the National Guard and the Ministry of Security into the National Search System. It also increases the penalties for the crime of enforced disappearance.

The new system aims to ensure faster and more efficient searches through technology and inter-institutional coordination. It also provides for the use of satellite imagery and advanced identification technologies, under the coordination of the National Search System.

What risks are posed by the authorities’ access to biometric data?

There are serious concerns that the changes give security and justice institutions, including prosecutors’ offices, the National Guard and the National Intelligence Centre, immediate and unrestricted access to public and private databases, including those containing biometric information. The official argument is that this will speed up searches.

However, civil society warns that the Single Identity Platform and the biometric CURP could become instruments of mass surveillance. It is feared the authorities could misuse the information and, instead of helping to find missing persons, use it to help control the population, putting the rights to privacy and security at risk.

How have victims’ groups reacted?

Victims’ collectives have rejected the reform as opaque and rushed. They complain that, although round table discussions were organised, these were merely symbolic and their proposals were not taken into account.

The families of missing persons argue the changes focus on technological solutions that don’t address the underlying structural problems of corruption, cronyism, organised crime and impunity. But no technological solution will work as long as the institutions responsible for abuses and cover-ups remain in charge of implementing it.

This law runs the risk of repeating the mistakes of the 2017 General Law on Enforced Disappearances. That was an important step forward, as it criminalised the offence, created a national search system and sought to guarantee the participation of families in locating and identifying missing persons. Unfortunately, it was never properly implemented. There are fears this new law, in the absence of effective enforcement mechanisms, will only deepen frustration and perpetuate impunity.

What alternatives do victims’ groups propose?

Their demands go beyond legislative changes: they demand truth and justice through thorough investigations, the prosecution of those responsible in state institutions and organised crime groups and an effective search in the field, with the coordination and active participation of victims’ groups.

The collectives also stress the urgency of identifying the over 52,000 unnamed people in morgues and mass graves, and are calling for the creation of an Extraordinary Forensic Identification Mechanism. And they demand real protection for those searching for their relatives, who continue to face threats and attacks.

Above all, they demand an end to impunity through the dismantling of the networks of corruption and collusion between authorities and organised crime. As one local activist summed it up, at the end of the day, without a genuine National Plan for Missing Persons, none of this will work. Each state also needs its own plan. Otherwise, we will remain in the same situation: without results, without reports and without answers about our disappeared.

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‘The discovery of the torture centre exposed the state’s complicity with organised crime’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Anna Karolina Chimiak 09.Apr.2025

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CIVICUS discusses recent protests that led to a change of government in Nepal with Dikpal Khatri Chhetri, co-founder of Youth in Federal Discourse (YFD). YFD is a youth-led organisation that advocates for democracy, civic engagement and young people’s empowerment.

Dikpal Khatri Chhetri

What triggered the protests?

When the government asked social media companies to register and they failed to comply, it blocked 26 platforms, including Discord, Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, Signal, WhatsApp, X/Twitter and YouTube. A similar situation happened in 2023, when TikTok was banned and later reinstated once the company registered.

The government said the goal was to create a legal point of contact for content moderation and ensure platforms complied with national regulations. For them, the ban was just a matter of enforcing rules. But people saw it differently, and for Gen Z this was an attempt to silence them. Young people don’t just use social media for entertainment; it’s also where they discuss politics, expose corruption and organise themselves. By banning these platforms, the government was cutting them off from one of the few spaces where they felt they could hold leaders accountable.

However, the ban was the final factor after years of frustration with corruption, lack of accountability and a political elite that seems out of touch with ordinary people. Young people see politicians’ children living in luxury while they struggle to get by. On TikTok, this anger became visible in the ‘NepoKids’ trend that exposed the privileges of political families and tied them directly to corruption.

That’s why the response was so strong and immediate. What began as anger over a restriction on freedom of expression grew into a nationwide call for transparency, accountability and an end to the culture of corruption. Protests became a way for young people who refuse to accept the status quo to show their voices can’t be silenced.

How did the government react to the protests?

Instead of dialogue, the government chose repression. Police used rubber bullets, teargas and water cannon to try to disperse crowds. In many places they also fired live ammunition. By the end of the first day, 19 people had been killed.

The use of live ammunition against unarmed protesters is a serious violation of human rights. Authorities claimed protesters had entered restricted zones around key government buildings, including Parliament House, and argued this justified their response. But evidence tells a different story: footage and post-mortem reports show many of the victims were shot in the head, indicating an intent to inflict severe harm rather than simply disperse crowds. Police also failed to fully use non-lethal methods before turning to live bullets.

Rather than containing the protests, this violence further fuelled public anger. Protests, now focused on corruption and the killings, continued even after the government lifted the social media ban. Many realised the government was both corrupt and willing to kill its own people to stay in power. In response, authorities imposed strict curfews in big cities.

The political fallout was immediate. Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak resigned the next day, taking responsibility for the bloodshed. Within a day, Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli also stepped down. An interim government led by former Chief Justice Sushila Karki took over, parliament was dissolved and a new election is scheduled to take place in the next six months.

What changes do protesters demand and what comes next?

We are demanding systemic change. Corruption has spread through every level of government and we are tired of politicians who have ruled for decades without improving our lives. While they grow richer, everyday people face unemployment, rising living costs and no real opportunities. We refuse to accept this any longer.

We want a government that works transparently and efficiently, free from bribery, favouritism and political interference. Leaders must understand that sovereignty belongs to the people and their duty is to serve citizens, not themselves.

We need more than just some small reforms. Nepal needs serious discussions about holding to the essence of its constitution, finding ways to amend it when dissatisfaction occurs instead of uprooting it entirely. Its implementation has to be strengthened to truly include diverse voices, reflect our history and be able to respond to future challenges. We are calling for new, younger and more competent leaders who can break the cycle of past failures.

The upcoming election will be a crucial test. Gen Z must turn out in numbers, articulate clear demands to the wider public and ensure the changes we strive for in the streets are carried into parliament.

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Nepal: Anti-corruption protests force political change despite violent crackdown CIVICUS Monitor 23.Sep.2025
Nepal: ‘The Social Network Bill is part of a broader strategy to tighten control over digital communication’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Dikshya Khadgi 28.Feb.2025
Nepal: ‘The TikTok ban signals efforts to control the digital space in the name of national sovereignty’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Anisha 11.Dec.2023

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CIVICUS discusses North Korea’s closed civic space with Hanna Song, Executive Director of the Database Center for North Korean Human Rights (NKDB). Based in Seoul, South Korea, NKDB documents systematic human rights violations in North Korea through testimonies from escapees, and has built the world’s largest private database of such abuses.

Hanna Song

What North Korean human rights violations has NKDB documented?

When NKDB first began documenting violations in 2003, testimonies focused overwhelmingly on survival during the ‘Arduous March’ of the 1990s, a period of severe famine that killed hundreds of thousands of North Koreans. People described the collapse of the food distribution system, with families torn apart and entire communities struggling with famine. At the time, violations were framed through the lens of survival – the right to food and life – revealing the state’s neglect of basic needs.

Over time, as more escapees shared their experiences, it became clear these violations weren’t limited to famine periods but were part of a systematic pattern of abuse. The landmark 2014 United Nations (UN) Commission of Inquiry report solidified this understanding. It documented widespread violations, from political prison camps to enforced disappearances, persecution on political and religious grounds and torture, and concluded that crimes against humanity were – and continue to be – perpetrated by the North Korean state.

There has been little improvement in the years since. The government has tightened information restrictions, further isolating people from the outside world. The COVID-19 pandemic exacerbated this isolation, closing borders, worsening economic hardship and reducing the already small number of defections, making testimony collection harder. Most recently, the regime’s decision to dispatch young soldiers to Russia has raised additional alarm, as it has exposed minors and young adults to forced labour and potential involvement in armed conflict.

Despite evolving circumstances, the underlying reality remains unchanged: North Korea continues to operate a system of control that denies people the most basic rights and freedoms.

How does NKDB monitor human rights violations?

North Korea permits no independent human rights monitoring or reporting within its borders. Even the UN has never been granted investigative access despite repeated requests. This complete isolation means monitoring organisations must rely on escapee accounts, making testimonies from defectors and refugees indispensable windows into a society the regime keeps hidden.

NKDB conducts secure and confidential interviews with escapees after they have resettled in South Korea. There are around 34,000 people. We document experiences ranging from arbitrary detention and torture to forced labour and religious persecution. Although the sharp decline in recent defections has reduced new testimonies, the information we collect remains critical. When combined with satellite imagery, open-source intelligence and other remote monitoring tools, these first-hand accounts allow us to identify patterns of repression and preserve survivor voices for history and accountability.

Through this work, we’ve built the largest private database on North Korean human rights abuses, containing over 88,000 documented cases based on interviews with more than 20,000 people. This database forms the foundation for UN reports, government policy and international advocacy, and lays the groundwork for future transitional justice processes.

But we don’t stop at documentation. We have in-house counsellors and social welfare workers who provide psychosocial support to escapees after they share their testimonies. For many, recounting traumatic experiences is retraumatising. We don’t abandon them after the interview process, but provide them ongoing counselling and practical support to help them process their experiences, heal and rebuild their lives. In this way we have preserved critical evidence while preserving the dignity and wellbeing of those who entrust us with their stories.

How has civil society documentation influenced policy and international awareness?

Civil society documentation has profoundly influenced international attention and responses to North Korea’s human rights situation. For instance, NKDB’s research on overseas workers has highlighted the critical intersection between security and human rights. While the focus is often on sanctions or weapons proliferation, our work ensures North Korean people’s rights aren’t forgotten, even amid emerging Russia-North Korea ties.

By documenting how North Korean workers are exploited abroad – through wage confiscation, movement restrictions and state surveillance – we provide evidence for human rights-based policy approaches. In a context as closed as North Korea, civil society testimonies and evidence form the foundation for major human rights reports by governments, UN special rapporteurs and international bodies. Without this documentation, there would simply be no reliable record of the scale, scope or persistence of human rights abuses in North Korea. Our work preserves truth, amplifies the voices of survivors and keeps the international community accountable to its responsibility to act.

What has been the impact of recent US funding cuts?

US withdrawal has caused a huge crisis. For two decades, the USA played a unique role in sustaining the global movement for truth, justice and accountability for the people of North Korea. It was the only government that provided consistent and large-scale support for documenting human rights abuses in North Korea. In the absence of alternative funding, this support enabled much of the North Korean human rights movement to exist. Now that movement is facing its greatest crisis since it began in the 1990s.

For escapees who depend on civil society organisations (CSOs) for therapy, counselling and reintegration support, this freeze has meant a loss of essential services. It has also weakened the ability of survivor empowerment groups and information dissemination organisations to train defectors as advocates, challenge the regime’s information blockade and bring credible evidence to the international community. In our case, the suspension of funding threatens the infrastructure we have built since 2003.

The impact is also symbolic: it sends North Korean escapees and victims who have risked everything to tell their stories the chilling message that their voices don’t matter.

Impacts go far beyond civil society. Human rights documentation challenges the secrecy, denial and impunity on which authoritarian regimes thrive. It provides credible evidence that informs international pressure, prevents the regime rewriting history and generates the intelligence needed to understand the regime’s inner dynamics in the absence of conventional diplomacy. All that infrastructure –databases, testimonies, training programmes and survivor networks — is at risk of being dismantled.

How are you adapting and finding alternative resources?

Faced with declining funding and challenging conditions, NKDB and other CSOs have adopted multiple adaptation strategies. Collaboration is central: by working together with other CSOs, academic institutions and advocacy groups, we pool expertise, share methodologies and sustain initiatives despite disruptions.

We’ve also actively engaged with the public to build grassroots support. Our public exhibition in Seoul makes North Korean escapee stories tangible for residents and international tourists. By translating statistics into human-centred experiences, the exhibition reminds visitors of the issue’s urgency while encouraging broader community engagement and cultivating supporters who can advocate and contribute in the long term.

What urgent actions should the international community take?

Given these critical realities, the international community must prioritise restoration and expansion of funding for advocacy, documentation and research. Adequate support ensures CSOs maintain capacity, pursue high-impact initiatives and respond to emerging crises like young soldiers’ deployment to Russia.

Beyond funding, capacity development support is crucial, including training in digital security and evidence verification. The international community must facilitate access to decision-making forums where civil society findings directly inform policymaking through UN bodies and diplomatic engagements.

Critically, human rights and security are deeply intertwined. Documentation provides real-time intelligence on North Korea’s internal dynamics, essential for informed diplomacy. The international community should ensure human rights remain central in broader diplomatic efforts.

Finally, cross-border collaboration among CSOs, governments and academic institutions must be strengthened. This amplifies credible evidence while sustaining networks capable of long-term monitoring. It ensures the human rights ecosystem survives political uncertainty and funding disruptions. To prevent years of progress unravelling, the international community must act decisively, strategically and urgently.

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North Korea: ‘Since Kim Jong-un came to power, the surveillance and security system has increased dramatically’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Bada Nam 18.Oct.2023
North Korea: ‘It is time for the international community to adopt a ‘human rights up front’ approach’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Greg Scarlatoiu 06.Oct.2023
North Korea: ‘Many women escape to experience the freedoms they are denied’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Kyeong Min Shin 07.Nov.2022

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CIVICUS discusses Peru’s new amnesty law with Nadia Ramos Serrano, founder and researcher at the Leadership Centre for Women of the Americas, a civil society organisation working on democratic development and the role of women in politics.

Nadia Ramos Serrano

In August, the Peruvian government passed a controversial amnesty law that benefits military personnel, police officers and members of self-defence organisations accused of committing human rights violations during Peru’s internal armed conflict from 1980 to 2000. The law affects the search for justice for some 69,000 victims and has drawn national and international condemnation for institutionalising impunity.

What does the amnesty law establish?

The amnesty law exonerates from criminal responsibility members of the armed forces, the national police and self-defence committees who have been prosecuted and sometimes convicted for crimes committed during the internal armed conflict. Although in theory the law excludes crimes of corruption and terrorism, in practice it could benefit people involved in serious human rights violations including extrajudicial executions, enforced disappearances and torture.

The law re-victimises the victims. After over three decades of struggle, the state tells them that those who murdered and disappeared their relatives or subjected them to torture will not be punished and may be released. It is the state again causing harm rather than providing redress.

The law perpetuates impunity under the pretext of pacification and consolidates structural discrimination. The majority of victims were Indigenous Aymara and Quechua peasants, historically excluded groups. Relatives and victims feel the state is again abandoning them to protect the powerful, fuelling frustration, political disaffection and lack of trust in the system.

Does the new law comply with national and international law?

It doesn’t. The state cannot pardon itself for violating human rights: justice is not negotiable. This law seeks to normalise impunity and violates the principle of equality before the law. It weakens accountability and sends the dangerous message that those in power can violate fundamental rights and face no consequences.

This contravenes international law. The Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACtHR) has established that amnesty cannot be granted for crimes against humanity. One example is the case of Barrios Altos versus Peru, where the court condemned the Peruvian state for murdering 15 people and seriously injuring four others in 1991. The court has also declared that amnesty laws that seek to prevent the investigation and punishment of serious human rights violations are incompatible with the American Convention on Human Rights.

What has civil society’s response been?

Civil society has responded firmly. Academic institutions, citizen movements, family associations, human rights organisations and victims’ groups have rejected the law, which they consider a serious setback for struggles for justice and memory. The National Human Rights Coordination, alongside feminist and youth groups, have organised sit-ins, published statements and run public campaigns to denounce impunity.

The wounds of the conflict remain open. While some insist on focusing exclusively on the fight against terrorism, rendering state crimes invisible, thousands of families continue to wait for justice. Most of those responsible have never been brought to trial and over 20,000 people are still missing. For their families, this law reinforces the lack of justice and prolongs a mourning process that has already lasted for decades.

How does this situation compare with other transitional justice processes in the region?

Peru is experiencing a setback, while the regional trend is of progress in transitional justice processes. Argentina, for example, repealed laws that prevented those responsible for crimes against humanity committed during dictatorship from being tried, and hundreds of military personnel have been convicted as a result. Chile implemented policies of reparation and held trials against some people responsible for human rights violations. Colombia, with the creation of the Special Jurisdiction for Peace as part of the peace agreement with FARC guerrillas, has also shown it is possible to seek justice and reconciliation without resorting to blanket amnesties.

The international community has reacted strongly to Peru’s setback. The IACtHR issued an urgent resolution reminding the state it cannot apply amnesties in cases of crimes against humanity. The United Nations and organisations such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have pointed out the law violates basic principles of international law, and foreign governments and human rights experts have warned about the deterioration of the rule of law in Peru.

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CIVICUS discusses the deaths of Indigenous activists in custody in Tajikistan with Khursand Khurramov, an independent journalist and political analyst.

Khursand Khurramov

What’s the background to the state’s persecution of Pamiri people?

The Pamiris are an Indigenous minority who have lived on their land for thousands of years. Throughout history, they have been part of various empires – from the Achaemenids and Alexander the Great to the Arab Caliphate and the Timurids – but have always retained de facto autonomy. At the end of the 19th century, the Pamir region was divided between the British and Russian empires, and the Pamiri people found themselves separated by the borders of modern states – Afghanistan, China, Pakistan and Tajikistan – while retaining their cultural and linguistic characteristics and, importantly, their historical attachment to their land.

In Tajikistan, the Pamiris live in an area called Gorno-Badakhshan (GBAO). The Soviet period was favourable for them in terms of demographic, economic and technological progress. The region had good transport links with Kyrgyzstan, while the road to the central regions of Tajikistan was only accessible seasonally.

Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, civil war broke out in Tajikistan in 1992. The Pamiris supported the United Tajik Opposition and became victims of mass repression. Many were murdered, with the number of victims unknown to this day. Following the war, the authorities continued to persecute former opponents, including the Pamiris, and several military operations have been carried out in the region, resulting in dozens of deaths and hundreds of arrests.

This means the Pamiri identity formed amid difficult conditions, largely in response to state pressure. Tajik authorities apparently fear recognition of Pamiri identity will lead to separatism, although there have never been any calls or demands for separatism within the Pamiri community.

It’s clear the authoritarian regime perceives Pamiri people’s desire for democratisation and freedom as a bad example for the rest of Tajikistan’s population, and it uses collective punishment to suppress any challenge to its authority.

What led to the recent wave of deaths in custody?

In November 2021, Tajikistan’s security officers carried out an operation in GBAO, in which a local resident was killed. This sparked mass protests, which in Tajikistan are prohibited by law and therefore extremely rare. Activists tried to hold those responsible to account by cooperating with law enforcement agencies. But instead of investigating, the authorities launched a large-scale crackdown on protesters, instrumentalising the law to justify violence by security forces.

In 2022, when protests flared up again, the authorities classified them as terrorist acts, allowing security forces to use firearms against protesters. As a result, around 40 people were killed. They also conducted mass arrests of activists. Some 300 people were imprisoned with sentences of over 15 years, and 11 received life sentences. Considering the entire Pamiri population is only about 220,000, these numbers represent a catastrophic scale of persecution. Prison conditions are extremely harsh, with relatives of prisoners repeatedly reporting overcrowding, lack of access to medical care and systematic psychological pressure. In 2025 alone, five men from GBAO aged between 35 and 66 have died in Tajikistan’s prisons.

How has the crackdown on civic freedoms affected GBAO?

Restrictions on civil liberties affect the whole of Tajikistan, but GBAO is subject to particularly harsh repression. In 30 years of independence, not a single independent media outlet has existed in GBAO. International media outlets such as the BBC and Radio Liberty have been unable to obtain accreditation to cover events in the region. As a result, most of what happens in GBAO remains unknown to the public, and state propaganda interprets events in a light favourable to the authorities, demonising Pamiri people in the eyes of the rest of the population.

At the national level, these restrictions take the form of a ban on political activities, a complicated procedure for registering associations and informal bans on the creation of parties and movements within the country and abroad. Any political or civic activity outside Tajikistan seems to be viewed by the authorities as a potential threat. Until 2022, Pamiris had a fairly powerful informal youth diaspora structure in Russia, but this has been effectively destroyed with its key figures arrested and returned to Tajikistan. The main reason for this was a rally they organised in November 2021 outside the Tajik embassy in Moscow.

Now even likes of social media posts by opposition groups are classified as extremism. According to the Tajikistan Prosecutor General’s Office, 1,500 people have been convicted for this, including nine journalists and bloggers. Many of them were not involved in politics at all. Their posts were exclusively about social rather than political issues.

How are Russia and other states in the region involved?

Russia and other post-Soviet states play a role in this process as political allies of the Tajik government. For Russia, the regime is an important partner in the areas of security and labour migration, so it tries to prevent the strengthening of forces that could threaten the status quo. As a result, it supports Tajikistan’s official position, including in international organisations, and often returns wanted political activists and opposition figures to Tajikistan.

Some post-Soviet states share a similar political logic, because they fear recognising ethnic or regional diversity within their borders. By supporting Tajikistan in suppressing Pamiri identity, they are consistent with their domestic policies of denying minority rights. Russia and the other member states of the Collective Security Treaty Organisation – Armenia, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan – cooperate on security matters, exchanging data and coordinating operations against opposition activists, including Pamiris. This is a mutually beneficial practice that strengthens authoritarian solidarity and reduces the risks of alternative centres of political influence emerging in the region.

What role can civil society and the international community play in holding the government accountable?

In Tajikistan, civil society in the classical sense has practically ceased to exist. Even those organisations that continue to operate are forced to coordinate their activities with the government. Although on paper these organisations may address civic space or human rights issues, their activities are largely formal: they function more as a facade than a mechanism for protecting rights within an authoritarian system. Over the past decade, any human rights work has been effectively equated with political activity, which carries serious risks.

Outside Tajikistan, diaspora civil society is also underdeveloped, with no strong institutions yet in place. However, the main thing activists and the diaspora can do is to draw international attention to the problem, talking about it as often as possible in different forums and in different languages. Only then can we expect the international community to put pressure on the Tajik authorities.

Despite these efforts, the situation for Pamiri people in Tajikistan has remained virtually unchanged. Authorities continue to deny the existence of their distinct identity. In prisons, people continue to die from torture, disease and inhumane conditions, but these facts are silenced and their deaths are presented as natural deaths.

The international community must move beyond statements to tangible action by strengthening monitoring and reporting through the European Parliament, the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe and the United Nations. They must impose personal sanctions on officials responsible for repression and torture, and condition aid, loans and grants on Tajikistan’s compliance with human rights obligations. Support for the diaspora and independent media is also essential to provide alternative information channels and prevent the regime isolating GBAO.

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Tajikistan: end systematic repression of Pamiri people CIVICUS 04.Aug.2025
Tajikistan: ‘Authorities silence dissent by accusing activists of extremism, terrorism and spreading false information’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Leila Seiitbek 20.May.2025
Tajikistan’s crackdown on dissent: erosion of rights and civic space CIVICUS Monitor 17.Feb.2025

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CIVICUS discusses recent protests in Angola with Florindo Chivucute, founder and executive director of Friends of Angola, a US-based civil society organisation established in 2014 that works to promote democracy, human rights and good governance in Angola.

The Angolan government’s 1 July decision to remove diesel subsidies, sharply pushing up public transport costs, triggered a series of protests. Angola is one of Africa’s biggest oil producers, but many have seen little benefit from its oil wealth and continue to live in poverty. People have taken to the streets in unprecedented numbers to demand an end to corruption and mismanagement, presenting the ruling party, in power for 50 years, with its biggest test. Security forces have responded to incidences of looting and vandalism with lethal violence. At least 30 people have been killed, 277 injured and over 1,500 arrested.

What triggered the protests?

Fuel subsidy cuts sparked the crisis. The protests began on 28 July, after the government’s decision to remove diesel subsidies immediately pushed up fuel prices. What started as a drivers’ strike in Luanda, the capital, quickly spread to other provinces and escalated into bigger protests.

The impact was devastating. For many families, even a small rise in fuel costs is crushing, because wages have been eroded by years of recession and currency devaluation. When transport costs rise, food prices and school fees rise too, leaving those already struggling unable to make ends meet.

But fuel was just the trigger. The unrest reflected much deeper frustrations, including high unemployment, particularly among young people, growing poverty and anger at corruption and mismanagement. People see public resources channelled into luxury spending and infrastructure deals benefiting a few powerful figures connected to the ruling People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA), while basic services and jobs are neglected. Combined with the immediate shock of higher fuel prices, these grievances fuelled widespread anger.

Why are people struggling in such a resource-rich country?

This is the irony at the heart of the crisis. Angola produces large quantities of oil, along with diamonds, yet most people don’t see the benefits. Mismanagement and entrenched corruption are central to the problem. Revenues from natural resources have too often been captured by networks close to political power and channelled abroad or invested in ways that don’t create jobs.

Angola’s dependence on fuel imports makes the situation worse. We don’t have sufficient domestic refining capacity. Instead of using oil revenues to build refineries and strengthen local industry, a system emerged in which those with political connections profited from importing refined products back into the country. This removed incentives to invest in local processing or agriculture. The result is a tiny wealthy elite and a large majority with very low wages and limited access to services.

What do these protests reveal about the government’s grip on power?

The protests have marked a turning point. The MPLA has dominated politics since independence in 1975, and large-scale protests are not common. The fact that so many people were willing to take to the streets, particularly in and around the capital, shows growing discontent with the government and ruling party.

The authorities’ reaction has been heavy-handed. Security forces have used teargas and live ammunition in some cases, and carried out numerous arrests, including of union leaders and journalists. In some areas protests were accompanied by looting and, tragically, by deadly clashes with security forces. Civil society has since called for investigations into the killings and for accountability for those responsible.

The government’s strategy risks backfiring. By responding with force and detentions, it risks creating a greater sense of mistrust and frustration, which could influence how people engage with political processes as we approach the 2027 election.

How is civil society organising and what challenges does it face?

Civil society – including church groups, trade unions and local associations — has mobilised quickly to call for accountability and transparency. New coalitions are forming; for example, groups such as the Bishops’ Conference of Angola and São Tomé and Príncipe’s Episcopal Commission for Justice and Peace, Friends of Angola, the Justice, Peace and Democracy Association and Pro Bono Angola are working with religious organisations to push for investigations into the killings and provide humanitarian support to families affected by the unrest.

But the environment is hostile. Funding for democracy and human rights work is scarce, so organisations struggle to pay staff or sustain programmes.

State surveillance creates another barrier. The state has invested heavily in surveillance infrastructure, and civil society organisations are often targeted by cyber intrusions and closely monitored. The legacy of communist authoritarian rule creates deep mistrust, which makes organising more difficult.

Language barriers limit international support. Much of the work happens in Portuguese, which limits reach to the wider international audience that often communicates in English, French or Spanish.

Additional restrictions threaten to further tighten civic space. Recent draconian measures include the 2024 National Security Bill and the Bill on the Crime of Vandalism of Public Goods and Services. In addition, the 2023 draft law on Non-Governmental Organizations, approved by presidential decree, imposed harsh regulations. These restrictive laws and policies undermine fundamental freedoms and, if fully implemented, risk worsening the already limited environment for civil society in Angola.

What would it take to address the underlying problems?

Strong political will is needed to tackle corruption and manage public finances transparently. This means opening up procurement and fiscal data, pursuing accountability for past abuses, and ensuring resource revenues are channelled into public priorities such as hospitals, local industry and schools. Investment in education, healthcare and small-scale agriculture would create jobs, strengthen livelihoods and reduce dependence on imports.

Institutional reform is equally vital. This means protecting property rights, improving the business environment so investment generates employment and strengthening an independent judiciary and electoral processes so people can seek change through democratic channels.

International partners have a role to play by supporting electoral transparency and demanding accountability from companies and governments that operate in Angola.

The 2027 election will offer a crucial test. The international community should pay close attention and support reforms that increase transparency and electoral integrity. Electoral reforms and the clear, public release of results at the local level would go a long way towards restoring confidence in democratic processes.

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Angola: ‘Criticising the government means risking arbitrary detention, intimidation and physical assault’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Pedro Paka 30.Jul.2025
Angola: Repressive new laws threaten civic space CIVICUS Monitor 15.Sep.2024
Angola: ‘The untrue government narrative reveals an aversion to civil society denouncing malpractice’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Emilio José Manuel 01.Jan.2025

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CIVICUS discusses civil society’s challenges in engaging with United Nations (UN) processes with an activist from a Salvadoran queer-led organisation who asked to remain anonymous for security reasons.

The UN recently held its annual High-Level Political Forum (HLPF) to review progress on the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). El Salvador proclaimed the country’s ‘comprehensive transformation’ under President Nayib Bukele’s increasingly autocratic rule. But the Bukele government is attacking civic space, and its domestic repression extends internationally, with civil society facing serious barriers and potential reprisals when engaging with UN processes.

What challenges did you face participating in the 2025 HLPF?

Our participation was made extremely difficult. It was only thanks to the support of international allies that we were able to prepare a civil society response to the state’s Voluntary National Review and attend the forum. Once there, the barriers to reading the civil society statement were significant. We made numerous behind-the-scenes efforts before the Women’s Major Group generously offered to read our statement on our behalf.

Being the only Salvadoran civil society representative in the room, I was forced to give up my speaking space and rely on the solidarity of others. Despite feeling deep companionship and mutual care among civil society, it remained a profoundly painful experience. Not being able to read a statement that had been built collectively and carefully through anonymous consultations felt like erasure: of our presence, our voices and our right to speak truth in global spaces.

Potential reprisals were another major concern. During the HLPF, we closely monitored the situation back home, as just months prior, El Salvador had taken further steps towards full authoritarianism. The arrest of Ruth López, a high-profile human rights lawyer, caused widespread concern. Most Salvadoran organisations dropped out of the UN process afterwards, leaving our organisation as the only one present in New York.

Even after Ruth’s arrest caused international outrage, human rights defenders continued to be targeted. The government wasn’t deterred by the possibility of international scrutiny. Further, the cases of Kilmar Armando Ábrego García, deported from the USA by the Trump administration and imprisoned in a maximum-security detention centre, and Venezuelan detainees who experienced torture under custody in El Salvador, illustrate that threats of arrest, torture and death are real risks.

Is this problem widespread beyond El Salvador?

These attacks are not unique to El Salvador: civil society leaders from countries including Guatemala and Nigeria also faced threats during the HLPF. One organisation’s office was raided during the forum. This confirms that the UN remains one of the few spaces where civil society can speak truth to power, which is why repressive governments are willing to go to great lengths to suppress their voices.

However, even if not everybody faces the same level of repression, there was a shared sense that the space for civil society engagement at the UN is also narrowing. This has serious implications. When fear of retaliation shapes who speaks and how, the credibility of the UN as a platform for civil society suffers. It fundamentally changes who is able and willing to speak out. Who will take the mic at the UN when doing so might cost them their freedom?

What needs to change?

The UN needs stronger protection mechanisms for human rights defenders who engage in these spaces. When we reached out to UN officials in Geneva and New York, their support was unfortunately limited. It was civil society, not official UN mechanisms, that stepped in to activate protection networks, establish contacts and contribute to tracking possible reprisals.

The narrowing space for civil society engagement at the UN must be addressed. This has become particularly visible in the planning process for the UN80 initiative – an efficiency drive to mark the UN’s 80th anniversary – which, instead of being a moment of celebration, is increasingly seen as a push for further exclusion.

I deeply hope CIVICUS and other allied networks will continue to push for stronger protection mechanisms and public responses when defenders are under attack for daring to engage in these spaces.

El Salvador is currently on the CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist, which tracks countries experiencing a serious decline in respect for civic freedoms.

SEE ALSO
SDGs: accountability under threat CIVICUS Lens 11.Aug.2025
Defending the defenders: civil society’s struggle for global space and voice CIVICUS Lens 28.Jul.2025
Key highlights: CIVICUS at 59th Session of the UN Human Rights Council CIVICUS 23.Jul.2025

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CIVICUS speaks about the Iranian regime’s execution of political prisoners with Safora Sadidi, a human rights activist with the Women’s Committee and Foreign Affairs Committee of the National Council of Resistance of Iran. Safora lost her father and six family members to the theocratic regime, and has dedicated over two decades to the Iranian Resistance’s international efforts.

Safora Sadidi

How do the recent executions connect to your experience and what do they reveal about the regime’s strategy?

The killings of Ehsani and Hassani are a painful echo of my personal tragedy. I lost seven members of my family in the struggle against this religious dictatorship, including my father. Like Behrouz and Mehdi, he was a member of the PMOI/MEK and was executed in 1988 along with 30,000 other political prisoners whose only ‘crime’ was demanding freedom and justice. I was six years old and losing my father was the heaviest burden of my childhood. It’s a grief that never leaves you, and it resurfaces with every announcement of another life taken.

Last week, another five political prisoners were forcibly transferred to the site where Behrouz and Mehdi were executed. They are next in line, and at imminent risk.

As the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Iran has stated, the killing spree continues because the architects of the 1988 massacre never faced consequences. Many of them now hold senior positions in the government, and impunity fuels their brutality.

Executions are a political weapon that exposes the regime’s strategy for survival: terror. Since its first day in power, it has ruled through systematic repression, executing dissidents at home and exporting terrorism abroad. To date, it has executed over 120,000 people.

The recent surge in executions shouldn’t be mistaken for strength: it’s a desperate act of a collapsing dictatorship. History shows mass killings are the final resort of failing regimes, and that’s exactly what we are seeing in Iran today. When state media praises the 1988 massacre as a ‘successful historical experience’ to be repeated, it exposes its only remaining tool to cling to power. The regime intensifies repression because it senses its end is near.

The fact that prisoners like Ehsani and Hassani were executed despite European Parliament resolutions and widespread international condemnation is a sign of a profound internal crisis. It also reveals that the regime’s primary war is not against any foreign power, but against the Iranian people, particularly women and young people, who it fears most. These killings are meant to frighten us into submission. But they are backfiring: with every drop of blood spilled, people’s resolve to overthrow this regime becomes a hundred times stronger.

What challenges do women human rights defenders face?

In Iran’s medieval dictatorship, gender apartheid is the law, with stoning and public executions of women as official policy. As a woman, I face double repression: from the regime’s institutionalised misogyny and from its political narrative, which seeks to erase women’s role in the opposition.

Those who dare to resist face severe brutality. Pregnant women and teenage girls as young as 13 have been executed, and mothers have been raped and tortured in cages designed to break their will. Yet it is their resilience that inspires generations. Take Maryam Akbari Monfared, a mother of three who has spent almost 16 years behind bars without a break, simply for demanding justice for siblings executed in the 1988 massacre. The regime has said she won’t be released unless she renounces her call for accountability, but she refuses to do so. Her courage inspires countless others.

What truly frightens authorities is that women keep organising, learning and leading despite the risks. They show their bravery in all-female teams of resistance units, risking their lives on the frontlines and motivating all of Iran to rise against the dictatorship. As Maryam Rajavi, president-elect of the Iranian Resistance, has said: the courage and leadership of women will strike the regime where it least expects it. That’s why I and so many others are willing to pay the price.

How do families of victims support each other?

Our greatest strength is solidarity. The bonds between the families of the executed and political prisoners began at the prison gates and grew into a united front that has resisted two dictatorships – first the Shah, now the mullahs – for some 60 years. We are bound by a shared love of freedom, a desire for justice and a common enemy: the regime that took our loved ones.

What cements that bond is the cause for which our parents, children and siblings gave their lives: the liberation of Iran. My father’s and 120,000 other people’s blood was spilled by a regime that thought it could extinguish this desire for freedom – but it was wrong. Before his execution, my dad sent me a cassette tape with a message: ‘My daughter’s heart is her homeland. And because her homeland is captive, her heart is also captive’. His sacrifice taught me, and millions of young Iranians, that we must fight to win back our homeland.

Knowing I am not alone gives me strength. Together with other families of the executed and political prisoners, we transform grief into resolve. We provide each other with moral and material support, organise memorials, run international campaigns and document every crime of this regime. We stand side by side in courtrooms, at conferences and on the streets, making sure the world hears the truth.

This is a deeply rooted, organised resistance, built on the sacrifices of those before us. We keep the flame of resistance alive while supporting the new generation of resistance units fighting for a democratic Iran. Rajavi’s 10-Point Plan offers a path to that future.

How should world leaders respond to the regime’s brutality?

As someone who has lived through this system’s brutality, I want the international community to truly understand the cost of silence. For too long, a shameful policy of appeasement has bought time for the mullahs, leading to more executions, more repression and more terror exported abroad. When the world remains largely silent, it gives a green light for state murders to continue. The consequences are devastating: in 2023, Iran accounted for 74 per cent of the world’s recorded executions. Silence and inaction are complicity. The world must choose between standing with Iranian people or their executioners.

But mere verbal condemnations aren’t enough. We need tangible action: states should make all political and economic relations with this regime conditional on a complete halt to executions. We also demand accountability for those we’ve lost. We call on the international community to apply the principle of universal jurisdiction to bring the perpetrators to justice – including those responsible for the 1988 massacre – and judge them for committing crimes against humanity. The evidence is ready and the witnesses are waiting.

The international community must also reject the false choice between war and appeasement. There is a democratic alternative: the National Council of Resistance of Iran. We ask world leaders to end appeasement and stand on the right side of history, alongside Iran’s people.

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Iran: ‘The regime is executing protesters to create fear and suppress any attempt at new mobilisation’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Asal Abasian 24.Feb.2024
Iran: ‘The regime uses executions to maintain its grip on power through fear and intimidation’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Jasmin Ramsey 15.Feb.2024

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CIVICUS speaks with a West Bank-based Palestinian activist about her family members currently enduring the war in Gaza. She has asked to remain anonymous for security reasons.

Israel’s war on Gaza has killed over 60,000 people and displaced more than two million. The Israeli government’s prolonged obstruction of humanitarian aid has now pushed people to starvation. Although people worldwide have protested in solidarity with Gazans, many states have failed to act or continue to support Israel. Civil society continues to play a crucial role in documenting human rights violations despite facing criminalisation and persecution.

What was life like in Gaza before the current war?

Before the war began following Hamas’s 7 October attack, life in Gaza embodied resilience, vitality and unwavering hope, even as the area had been deeply scarred by years of Israeli blockade and hardship. Economic and living conditions were precarious, characterised by high unemployment – particularly among young people – and heavy reliance on humanitarian aid and UNRWA, the United Nations refugee agency for Palestinians.

Though many families lived below the poverty line, strong community bonds ensured mutual support. People had strong family ties and celebrated weddings and religious occasions such as Eid Al-Fitr and Ramadan, gathering to share joy despite adversity. Art, music and theatre were powerful tools for expression and resistance, with young people and artists defying the blockade through their creative endeavours.

Education was still a priority, with universities such as Al-Azhar and the Islamic University continuing despite limited resources and schools running double shifts due to overcrowding. Health services struggled with severe shortages of medicines and equipment, yet dedicated medical staff persevered.

Electricity was limited to just four to eight hours per day, and clean drinking water was scarce due to the lack of desalination facilities. Nevertheless, Gaza’s young people brimmed with creativity and ambition, working in fields such as design, e-commerce and programming, freelancing and connecting with the world through digital platforms. Despite overwhelming challenges, Gaza’s markets, cafés, coastline, universities and even refugee camps pulsed with life. People were determined to live fully and joyfully even under oppression.

How has displacement affected your family?

Like countless others across Gaza, my family has been in a state of constant displacement, having moved yet again just two days ago. Since the current war began, they have been forced to flee 16 times, moving from north to south and east to west, each time leaving behind more of their belongings until they possessed nothing.

Displacement drains physical, emotional and mental energy, and now they have none left. Forced evacuations often follow instructions from the Israeli Defence Forces, delivered through websites, social media or leaflets dropped over shelters and neighbourhoods.

Tragically, during my family’s ninth displacement, as they evacuated a shelter under threat of bombing and headed towards the beach area, a soldier shot my mother. She was killed as she was fleeing for safety.

What’s daily life like in the shelters?

It’s a daily struggle for survival. Life is marked by overcrowding and deprivation, but also by the quiet endurance of human dignity. Entire families – often 10 to 15 people if not more – squeeze into single classrooms or tents, stripped of privacy, comfort or adequate sleeping space. Even sleep offers little relief, as people sleep on bare floors or cardboard without mattresses, exposed to extreme temperatures, under the constant threat of bombing. True rest is impossible.

Women lack basic dignity, unable to find private spaces to change clothes or use toilets. When available, food – simple staples such as rice, canned goods, lentils and bread – comes from charity or someone’s generosity. But quantities remain insufficient, with some families going days without a proper meal. Drinking water is scarce and sometimes contaminated, so it’s consumed sparingly. Mothers often go hungry to feed their children, sometimes surviving on water alone.

Bathrooms are overcrowded, poorly maintained and insufficient for the massive numbers of displaced people. Women and children endure long queues, and due to inadequate facilities, families resort to using buckets as makeshift toilets. This has fuelled the spread of skin diseases, diarrhoea and infections, particularly among children, while medicines and medical care remain almost non-existent. Pregnant women receive no proper care, and some are forced to give birth in tents or on the ground.

How are communities responding, and what support exists?

Amid this suffering, solidarity persists. People have assumed active roles in organising and distributing humanitarian aid alongside local and international organisations and individual donors, united in a collective effort to preserve life amid devastation.

Families share their meagre food supplies, distribute extra bread to neighbours and lend cooking gas when possible. Mothers exchange nappies, medicines and clothes. Young people organise simple games, songs or drawing sessions to comfort children. Neighbours console each other, and nights fill with whispered conversations, Quran recitations and collective prayers that bring moments of peace. Some women teach children to read or recite the Quran to ease their sense of loss.

However, securing even minimal aid has become increasingly difficult, often needing what feels like a miracle. Simply searching for food can prove deadly – people risk being shot or trampled in desperate crowds of hundreds of thousands seeking relief. Just two days ago, I lost my cousin while he was collecting aid. My sister’s husband and other relatives have also been killed in similar circumstances.

Despite the heartbreak, I’ve been fortunate to receive support from friends, both directly and through a GoFundMe campaign I established to raise donations for my family.

How do you assess the international response?

The international response to Gaza’s crisis has both positive and negative aspects. Many voices worldwide rejected the ongoing violence from the outset, demonstrated through widespread marches, protests and various expressions of solidarity with Gaza’s people. Conversely, others openly support the war and its devastating consequences.

Ultimately, however, political decisions continue to override popular will. The international stance remains notably weak, whether due to inability to stop the war, hold Israel accountable or propose meaningful, long-term solutions. This is also reflected in the failure to consistently deliver humanitarian aid to those most in need.

What has been keeping you and your family going?

My family and I appear destined to survive, but survival itself has become our inescapable reality – a life defined by hardship and loss. Despite all current difficulties and those yet to come, we continue clinging to fragile hope that nothing remains unchanged forever. Change is inevitable. It will come, whether through the war’s end or through our deaths.

But even if the war ends, regardless of how – whether through a deal, withdrawal or declarations of defeat or victory – this will not end our suffering. What we endure now represents one phase of torment likely to be followed by many more. Nothing in Gaza remains fit for life anymore. History seems to repeat itself in endless cycles of pain. Perhaps the only way to endure is accepting that this is our fate, something we must experience, whether we choose it or not.

SEE ALSO
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Israel vs Iran: new war begins while Gaza suffering continues CIVICUS Lens 19.Jun.2025
Gaza: a year of carnage CIVICUS Lens 07.Oct.2024

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