Results of the vote on the approval of the appointment of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, UN General Assembly, 24 July 2026. Credit: UN Photo/Loey Felipe

By Samuel King
BRUSSELS, Belgium, Aug 26 2026 (IPS)

On 24 July, the United Nations (UN) General Assembly reappointed Volker Türk as High Commissioner for Human Rights for a further four years. Only 10 states – among them Israel, Russia and the USA – opposed the decision.

Türk is an Austrian lawyer who’s spent almost his entire career in the UN system, from field postings in Kosovo to the UN refugee agency to his present role in Geneva. Because of this, when he became High Commissioner in October 2022, there were concerns he might be more cautious than his predecessors, but he has spoken out about violations committed by the powerful. He criticised Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, demanded investigations into deaths in US immigration detention and condemned Israel’s atrocities in Gaza. He has, however, faced criticism for not calling out Israel’s actions in Gaza as genocide and not speaking out enough on China, particularly concerning the situation of Uyghur people in Xinjiang.

The vote will make Türk the first person set to serve two full terms since the post was created in 1993. One early High Commissioner, Mary Robinson, wanted to stay on, but strong US resistance to her positions on its post-9/11 military interventionism and the 2001 Durban Conference — the UN’s World Conference against Racism, where Israel and the USA walked out due to its focus on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict — left her with only a one-year extension.

As a funding crisis continues to engulf the UN human rights system, continuity matters. US withdrawal from funding UN agencies, part of its broader assault on the international system in general and human rights bodies in particular, has placed the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) under serious financial strain, forcing staff cuts and reducing capacity to work in countries where human rights violations are taking place. A vacancy or a contested process would have added further disruption at a difficult time.

A rushed and contested process

The vote came unexpectedly and moved fast. UN Secretary-General António Guterres informed states of his intention to reappoint Türk without a public process, open competition or much time for deliberation. With Guterres’ second term ending this year, the move was likely intended to keep the decision off his successor’s desk and prevent opposition from building.

Most states accepted this, but the USA didn’t. It immediately moved to delay the vote, citing insufficient consultation. Ireland, speaking for the European Union, opposed the US motion, which was defeated by 63 votes to 27. The USA’s representative called the process ‘classic UN cronyism’, accused Guterres of cutting a backroom deal and warned there would be ‘consequences’. Russia tried a different tactic, proposing to extend Türk’s mandate by just 81 days, to the end of 2026, leaving the decision to the next Secretary-General. That too was rejected, by 71 votes to 19.

Argentina, Burkina Faso, Israel, Mali, Nicaragua, Niger, North Korea, Russia, Trinidad and Tobago and the USA voted against Türk’s reappointment. The list contains tight US allies, such as Argentina and Israel, and states that align with Russia, such as North Korea and the three military-run states of the Sahel, which are increasingly working as a bloc. Under the Trump administration, it’s no longer a surprise to see the USA voting the same way as Russia. Most of the states, including Nicaragua, systematically violate human rights. Russia and North Korea both resist any accountability for human rights violations, while the USA particularly objected to Türk’s criticism of its war on Iran and migration detention deaths. Israel accused the OHCHR of having ‘erased the atrocities of October 7 and betrayed UN neutrality’.

Some states that might have been expected to vote against Türk, however, supported him. Among the 144 who backed his reappointment were the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Sudan and Syria, all states subject to active UN scrutiny. This suggested that hostility to a specific human rights mandate doesn’t necessarily extend to the whole system, and even heavily scrutinised states may see value in a working relationship with the OHCHR.

A vulnerable human rights system

The 13 abstentions and 26 no-shows also deserve attention. Some were procedural, with Ecuador and Paraguay saying afterwards that they wanted more time. Peru cited concerns about limiting the incoming Secretary-General’s flexibility, though its abstention may also reflect Türk’s recent criticism of Peru’s human rights record, including laws granting amnesty to security forces accused of serious violations during armed conflict between 1980 and 2000.

Iraq, New Zealand, South Korea, Sri Lanka and Uganda all abstained. New Zealand described its position as ‘procedural rather than policy’, but the decision drew sharp domestic criticism, not least given its recent failure to recognise Palestinian statehood.

Among the smaller states that ducked a decision, some likely faced economic or political pressure from the most powerful states to stay quiet, while others may have judged themselves insufficiently protected from the consequences of taking a visible position. This means the vote may reflect vulnerability as much as it measures support for the High Commissioner. As the most powerful states increasingly throw their weight around in the international system, smaller states may have to make calculations about when they can afford to take a position and when they need to stay quiet.

Continuity as the outcome

Institutional continuity is the immediate outcome, and Türk has signalled what he intends to do with it. In a June speech, he described an ‘unprecedented, shameless onslaught against international law’ that’s causing appalling human suffering, insisted the international community must stay focused on fundamentals and declared the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the core treaties ‘ever more important’. His message to the G7, meeting nearby, was blunt: put human rights at the centre of discussions as a force for stability, not an afterthought.

Legitimacy and moral authority, however, won’t pay the OHCHR’s bills. Over the next four years, Türk must resist China, Russia and the USA as they work to undermine the UN bodies that protect human rights. The 144 states that backed Türk now carry the responsibility of turning their votes into action. They should ensure the OHCHR is adequately funded and work to bring on board states that abstained, particularly if they did so out of fear. They must show that collective commitment to human rights still counts for something.

Samuel King is a researcher with the Horizon Europe-funded research project ENSURED: Shaping Cooperation for a World in Transition at CIVICUS: World Alliance for Citizen Participation.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the rapid erosion of civic space in Ecuador with Gabriela Panchana, an activist, communicator and founder of the En Voz Alta and Rumbo Plural digital platforms.

Gabriela Panchana

How did the legal proceedings against you start, and what stage are they at?

The current proceedings began with a thread I posted on Twitter/X on 9 June, in which I asked the US Embassy in Quito to help shed light on the murder of Monika Silva Koniuszek, a Polish human rights defender based in Ecuador who had handed over documentation on alleged drug-trafficking networks to the embassy and the US Drug Enforcement Administration. Someone accused me of speaking ‘solely out of financial self-interest’. I replied, and as a result I was charged with a fourth-class offence, which is the least serious category of criminal offences.

The proceedings were riddled with irregularities. They were exceptionally swift and involved several different judges, while observers were barred from attending. On 27 July, I was sentenced to 30 days’ imprisonment and ordered to issue a public apology. I applied to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) for interim measures. On 14 August, I received notification of the written judgment. We lodged appeals before the three-working-day deadline expired. Meanwhile, not a single person has been arrested in connection with the murder of Monika Silva.

The harassment did not begin with this trial. Since December, four successive criminal cases have been brought against me. This has been accompanied by a coordinated campaign of online harassment and stigmatisation.

Added to this is digital surveillance. On 13 August, I received an official alert from Apple confirming that my phone had been the target of a mercenary spyware attack. The evidence is currently undergoing forensic analysis by international organisations. Given that this incident forms part of a pattern of judicial harassment and persecution against me, I have demanded the state investigate who authorised the spying and shed light on the public procurement of intelligence tools.

It’s important not to lose sight of the fact that Monika Silva handed over documentation to foreign authorities regarding networks operating in Ecuador, and now she’s dead. I have been convicted for calling for an investigation into her death. Any analysis that focuses solely on freedom of expression falls short. We must also ask what relationship exists between criminal structures and parts of the judicial system.

How else are people being criminalised for speaking out?

My case is not an anomaly. It’s the predictable application of a law designed for that purpose. Section 396.1 of the Criminal Code punishes expressions that ‘discredit or dishonour’, concepts subject to judicial discretion, with imprisonment. The fundamental problem is that it turns expression into a criminal matter.

Other cases confirm this pattern. In May, four habeas data applications – a legal remedy to demand the rectification or removal of information – resulted in rulings ordering various media outlets to remove content of public interest and issue public apologies, the same penalty that was imposed on me. In June, an investigative journalist announced he would stop covering one of the country’s biggest corruption cases after his wife was dismissed from a public job and his son lost his medical residency at a state hospital.

The wider picture is even more worrying. The IACHR’s Special Rapporteur for Freedom of Expression documented at least six murders of journalists and media professionals in 2025, as well as the use of administrative, legal and tax measures as reprisals.

Criminalisation is not limited to the press. Human rights defenders and social leaders face investigations and criminal proceedings because of their work.

What are the consequences of criminalisation?

The punishment is not just the sentence. It is the process itself. Even if I win on appeal, I have already lost months, resources and peace of mind, and I have been exposed to a campaign of digital lynching. There’s no need to convict many. It’s enough to convict one person quickly and in full view of everyone. Added to this is the nature of the punishment. Forced public apologies don’t provide redress for anyone. They force a person to say out loud the opposite of what they think. They serve as a deterrent. They seek to discipline others.

The impact of judicial persecution is uneven. I have been able to mount a professional defence and appeal to international bodies, but most of those who speak out don’t have these resources, and a fourth-class offence spells the end of their public participation. The categories of people covered by international mechanisms also leave many people unprotected. Those of us who carry out citizen oversight from our own platforms are neither civil society organisations nor the press, yet we face many of the same risks and have less support.

The most worrying thing is that the public debate has shifted from asking who killed Monika Silva to asking what Gabriela Panchana wrote. The judicial system took action in a matter of weeks against an opinion, while the murder investigation has been at a standstill for months. This asymmetry reveals the system’s priorities.

How has civil society responded, and what are its demands?

The response has been quicker and more coordinated than I expected. Fundamedios, an organisation that monitors attacks on freedom of expression, has issued three successive alerts about my case, and other organisations have supported this with statements, monitoring and advice. There’s a network that documents, challenges in court, publicises these attacks and understands how administrative restrictions, coordinated online harassment, legal proceedings, physical threats and stigmatisation combine to silence those of us who speak out.

The authorities must repeal paragraph 1 of article 396 of the Criminal Code and guarantee an independent judiciary, with transparent proceedings and hearings open to domestic and international observers. They must also establish a national protection mechanism for human rights defenders and journalists, and diligently investigate the murder of Monika Silva and threats against those who expose corruption and organised crime.

Official stigmatisation must cease. When those in power portray journalists and human rights defenders as enemies, it opens the door to all other forms of violence.

What international support is needed?

The first and most tangible step is the monitoring of ongoing cases. The presence of international observers at hearings, requests for information from the state and public monitoring of case files can change the behaviour of courts.

We also need existing international mechanisms, such as the IACHR and United Nations human rights experts, to be activated and maintained. But this requires constant monitoring.

Support must also be practical. Human rights defenders need resources for digital security, legal defence and psychosocial support. Criminal proceedings require lawyers, expert reports and time, all of which come at a cost.

It is also important to raise the profile of these cases. When a case receives public attention, those behind the reprisals pay a political price. A case nobody knows about carries no cost.

Finally, countries and organisations working with Ecuador on justice and security issues can exert pressure to ensure judicial independence is respected and expression is not criminalised. International solidarity must translate into advocacy, monitoring, resources and follow-up.

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.

Ecuador has been placed on the CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist, which identifies countries where a severe deterioration in the quality of civic space is taking place.

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Ecuador remains on the CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist CIVICUS Monitor 29.Jul.2026
Ecuador: ‘Defending rights should not be a high-risk activity’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Mauricio Alarcón 04.Jul.2026
Ecuador: ‘We fear the Transparency Law will be used to persecute organisations that challenge those in power’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Vivian Idrovo 12.Sep.2025

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Supporters of the Cockroach Janta party rally against the Minister of Education in Kolkata, India, 24 July 2026. Credit: Debarchan Chatterjee/NurPhoto via AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Aug 21 2026 (IPS)

India’s strongman leader, Narendra Modi, has just been forced to do the thing he likes least: making concessions in response to protests.

It all started on 15 May, when the country’s Chief Justice, Surya Kant, told a courtroom that unemployed young people who protest and speak out on social media are like cockroaches. The remark, revealing the establishment’s contempt for the country’s young people, spectacularly backfired. Within days it had spawned a nationwide movement, the Cockroach Janta Party. Its central protest demand was the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan. Pradhan quit on 25 July. But that may not be enough to satisfy the demand for change the movement has unleashed.

Birth of a movement

India has more Gen Z people than any other country. Around 407 million Indians, some 30 per cent of the population, are aged 14 to 29. They face extraordinary competition to access education and struggle to find jobs.

Kant’s remark sparked a fire. Communications strategist Abhijeet Dipke asked on social media: what if all the cockroaches came together? That question kickstarted a viral movement under a name, the Cockroach Janta Party, that playfully echoes that of the ruling Hindu nationalist party, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). What began as a satirical website quickly became a movement. Within two weeks, it had 22 million Instagram followers.

The cockroach movement fits into a broader global pattern. Recent years have seen Gen Z mobilise in numbers in many countries where governments are demonstrably out of touch and economies and political systems fail young people. Movements are characterised by collective leadership, mass protests and strategic use of social media. India’s time to join the wave had come.

The movement soon found its galvanising cause. India’s education system relies on make-or-break entrance exams, with results deciding the career prospects of millions. In the medical college exam, some 2.2 million students compete for 130,000 places. Families make sacrifices and students spend years preparing. But corruption means questions are often leaked in return for bribes. Two weeks before Kant’s outburst, the national medical college entrance exam paper was leaked and the exam was cancelled. Students despaired. Then they got angry.

Protest prevails

Protesters camped out for weeks in central Delhi, demanding Pradhan’s resignation. Volunteers supplied food, water, medicines and camping equipment. The movement broadened well beyond Gen Z, with people of all ages joining. Sonam Wangchuk, an environmental and education reform activist previously jailed for protesting, further raised the protest’s profile with a weeks-long hunger strike.

For seven weeks the government tried ignoring the protesters, and when that failed, it turned to violence. After authorities forcibly hospitalised Wangchuk, thousands of protesters marched from the protest site to parliament. Security forces responded with pellet guns and teargas, beat protesters and bystanders with batons and wooden sticks and detained many. The violence, widely documented on social media, was shocking for a country that prides itself on being the world’s biggest democracy. It was impossible to ignore, sparking protests in other towns and cities. The government was finally forced to hold talks.

Looking ahead

The government has promised fast-track courts for exam leakers and a review of the exam and education systems. In return, the movement called off the protests, having also secured a promise that no protester would face repercussions. But that’s not the way of a government that has long repressed dissent. Modi’s administration has a track record of detaining activists, using force against protests, censoring critical voices and passing restrictive laws. India has recently been added to the CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist because of its deteriorating civic space. Since the cockroach protests ended, police have detained and harassed hundreds of students and reportedly targeted their families.

Pradhan’s resignation was a remarkable event. The government had never before responded to pressure by sacking an unpopular minister. But the BJP doesn’t appear to have learned much. During a recent by-election campaign, its national president, Nitin Nabin, described protesters as ‘a virus and a cockroach gang devoted to breaking the country’.

Modi may have bought breathing space, but the underlying problems remain. The causes are both economic, with high youth unemployment and evident inequality, and political, with a high-handed government that doesn’t listen to young people or respect their right to dissent. Further protests look likely. One, sparked by similar corruption complaints over a civil service entry exam, has mobilised in Jharkhand state.

This isn’t the first time Modi’s government has bent to pressure. In 2021, sustained farmers’ protests forced it to drop farming law changes. Modi’s support fell in the 2024 general election, forcing him to rely on coalition partners. More recently, his party looked to be on the up again, winning power in West Bengal state for the first time in April following controversial changes to the electoral roll that removed over nine million names, disproportionately Muslim voters and others less likely to support the BJP. But it has just lost the by-election where Nitin Nabin repeated the cockroach slur.

The cockroach movement may present Modi’s biggest challenge to date, because it cuts across class, party and religious divides, making it much harder to dismiss. The BJP built its base among Hindus by vilifying Muslims, yet at the Delhi protest, people from both religions prayed side by side. The movement’s social media cut-through is also significant. It bypassed a conventional media largely co-opted by the BJP that typically parrots its lines and downplays other viewpoints.

The government should read the room, but there’s every chance it will learn the wrong lesson and go after protest leaders. That will be a recipe for further protests and a repeated cycle of state violence and criminalisation. If India is to live up to its promise as the world’s biggest democracy, it must deepen democratic freedoms, recognise the value of dissent and acknowledge that the young people it branded cockroaches have much to contribute to their country’s future.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the state of civic and humanitarian action in Gaza with Ibrahim Arandas, a Palestinian activist and project manager at SPARK Gaza, a civil society organisation that provides humanitarian and psychosocial support.

Ibrahim Arandas

What’s life like for people in Gaza now, and what needs are most urgent?

Today, life is defined by scarcity and uncertainty. Israel has turned Gaza into something far worse than a concentration camp. It has engineered a system designed not just to confine and suffocate an entire population, but to erode people’s lives day after day, generation by generation. This is not a simple military operation but deliberate, prolonged destruction, calibrated to keep people alive, but just enough to avoid global outrage while denying every basic condition of human dignity.

The psychological toll is enormous. Aid agencies report that anxiety and severe helplessness have become the norm rather than the exception, particularly among families who have lost their homes, routines and support networks. Our most urgent needs are clean water, healthcare, shelter and mental health support.

What has changed and what obstacles to humanitarian work remain?

When the ceasefire was announced, we thought it meant the end of the war and the suffering. Before the war, two million of us lived across Gaza. We have lost friends and family, and now live in just 36 per cent of the territory.

The hardest issue we face is reaching vulnerable people with the aid they need, including basic supplies, healthcare and mental health support. Patients need healthcare, but our teams cannot reach them. Israel makes movement between areas extremely hard, particularly during periods of escalation, when near-constant closures and limited crossings determine who enters and leaves Gaza.

This is a high-risk, complex environment and we have to stay adaptive to reach the sites and people who depend on us. Every movement implies high risk, but there’s no risk register.

How has your organisation’s work evolved?

We have grown. Gaza has lived through many wars, but we’d never faced conditions like these. In Gaza, you can’t plan a month or two ahead. Things collapse, and the plan has to be redesigned every day.

In our European Union-funded project, we had to constantly redesign how we deliver programming, shifting activities and timelines and sometimes moving sessions online, because access to project sites and young people can change from week to week depending on movement restrictions and security conditions.

We work under constant uncertainty, with internet and network cut-offs overnight and contact with front-line workers lost within an hour. From this, we learned and adapted existing global standards to our context. I developed and published a framework I call ‘adaptive conflict project management’, useful for working in conflict-affected areas like Gaza. It sets out how to build a risk plan, delegate to frontline workers rather than only leaders, divide projects across areas because movement is restricted and keep every worker feeling safe and supported.

How has civil society sustained the response and what support does it need?

Coordination has been essential. One of our few sources of resilience is local organising, combined with international partners who bring resources and access to global platforms like CIVICUS. The combination of local knowledge and international backing has kept civic and humanitarian work alive under the most difficult conditions.

As a frontline worker, what I believe is most needed is sustained access. It’s not just about the volume of aid, but about the ability to plan around consistent access to people and areas. We also need investment in local capacity, not only emergency relief, so Gaza’s civil society can lead the recovery rather than only respond to the crisis. We want to lead this recovery and think beyond emergency relief.

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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‘Life in Gaza’s shelters is marked by deprivation – but also by the endurance of human dignity’ CIVICUS Lens | Anonymous interview 12.Aug.2025

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A poster depicting Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu as wanted by the International Criminal Court is displayed in a corridor of the European Parliament in Brussels, June 2026. Credit: Frédéric Pétry/HansLucas via AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Aug 17 2026 (IPS)

In a recent Wall Street Journal piece, US Secretary of State Marco Rubio pledged to ‘dismantle’ the International Criminal Court (ICC). The Trump administration intends to pressure states into quitting the court, threatening sanctions, travel bans, visa restrictions and ‘increased scrutiny’ of states that receive its funding. At stake is the court’s ability to stand with victims of the gravest of human rights crimes.

Challenging impunity

Established in 2002 following years of civil society advocacy, the ICC prosecutes atrocities, including crimes against humanity, genocide and war crimes, when national or regional courts can’t or won’t. It prosecutes individuals, and national leaders enjoy no immunity. It has secured several convictions, including of warlords from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Mali and Rwanda. Among ongoing cases, former Philippines president Rodrigo Duterte awaits trial on crimes against humanity charges. Civil society plays a key role in collecting evidence. Filipino women-led groups, for example, have documented thousands of extrajudicial killings.

The court has 125 members, but the USA is among several powerful states, including China, India, Israel and Russia, that have never joined. US hostility intensified in 2020, when the ICC opened an investigation into crimes against humanity and war crimes in Afghanistan, including those committed by US forces.

A current US campaign could merit the court’s attention. In the Caribbean Sea and eastern Pacific Ocean, the US military is bombing boats it claims are being used by drug cartels to smuggle fentanyl and other illicit substances. It started the strikes as a way of building pressure on then Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro, but has continued after US forces invaded Venezuela and abducted him, now seemingly with the purpose of communicating US strength and contempt for international rules.

US forces have killed over 200 people. All are civilians, leaving little doubt the strikes are illegal under international law. Last October, a group of UN human rights experts concluded that the strikes amount to extrajudicial executions. UN human rights chief Volker Türk called for an investigation, saying he believed the campaign violated international law. The USA responded by lining up with Israel, North Korea and Russia to oppose Türk’s second term.

The victims include nationals of Colombia, St Lucia and Trinidad and Tobago, all ICC members. The ICC could investigate any strikes carried out in member states’ territorial waters or against vessels registered with them.

Defending Netanyahu

Donald Trump is also determined to defend his prize ally, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. He’s said as much, undermining Rubio’s lofty rhetoric about sovereignty. In November 2024, the ICC issued arrest warrants for crimes against humanity and war crimes against Netanyahu, former defence minister Yoav Gallant and Hamas commander Mohammed Deif, later confirmed to have been killed by Israel. Israel doesn’t recognise the court, but the warrants stand because Palestine does.

Netanyahu’s warrant is back in the headlines because he’s due to visit New York for the annual high-level opening of the UN General Assembly in September. Mayor Zohran Mamdani has called for his arrest, but the Trump administration has confirmed it will ignore the warrant. This may have fuelled the latest offensive, which goes further than the Trump administration’s 2025 decision to impose sanctions on nine ICC judges and officials. Early in his second presidency, Trump issued an executive order that declared a ‘national emergency’, arguing the court was a threat to the USA and Israel, and pledging sanctions against anyone who takes part in its investigations. The order was used to impose sanctions on Francesca Albanese, the UN Special Rapporteur on the Occupied Palestinian Territories.

Fearing criminalisation, US-based organisations may feel pressured to end cooperation with the ICC. Last year, two US-based civil society organisations pulled out of the ICC’s annual meeting. Civil society is however fighting back. In July, two US groups filed a lawsuit against the Trump administration, arguing the sanctions violate constitutional free speech protections.

International system under attack

The Trump administration’s attack on the ICC is part of its broader assault on the international system, and particularly its human rights functions. It’s withdrawing from some bodies, defunding others, trying to bend others to its will, forming alternatives it controls, such as the Board of Peace, and showing outright hostility towards those seen to stand in its way.

The USA isn’t the only one. Three military-run Sahel allies – Burkina Faso, Mali and Niger – have begun their withdrawal from the ICC, a process that takes a year. They previously quit the Economic Community of West African States, including its Community Court of Justice, leaving victims of human rights atrocities amid jihadist insurgency with no international routes to justice.

Venezuela set the same course under Maduro. Last December, parliament voted to repeal the law ratifying the Rome Statute, the treaty through which states accept the court’s jurisdiction. That path hasn’t changed under US-compliant Interim President Delcy Rodriguez, whose government recently declared its withdrawal ‘irrevocable’. The US government has welcomed the decision, which will deny justice both to victims of Maduro’s repression and the families of Venezuelans killed in boat strikes.

Others have rallied to the court’s defence. A European Union spokesperson said the bloc ‘stands firm’ behind it. Hungary, which under right-wing nationalist Viktor Orbán had committed to pulling out, reversed that decision under its new government.

Time to rally round

The court faces this onslaught while leaderless. On 24 July, member states voted to remove chief prosecutor Karim Khan following disciplinary proceedings triggered by a sexual abuse complaint from a former staff member. It’s vital that his replacement be a strong and independent leader who can continue the court’s work.

The ICC is under attack by the Trump administration because of its promise to hold the powerful to account. Its member states must defend the principle that no one is above the law by refusing to bow to US pressure.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the challenges posed by Paraguay’s ‘anti-NGO law’ with Hugo González, executive director of the Paraguayan Network of LGBTQ+ Artists (REPAR+), a civil society organisation (CSO) that promotes the rights of LGBTQI+ people, which has joined the constitutional challenge against this law.

Hugo González

What are the problems with Law 7363?

The law was enacted in November 2024, and its regulations came into force in October 2025. It applies to CSOs that receive or manage private or public funds from national or international sources and use those funds to influence public policy or state activities. The regulatory decree defines influence broadly, including reports, press releases and other forms of public expression.

The law establishes a public register administered by the Ministry of Economy and Finance and requires balance sheets, minutes, supporting documents and annual reports on programmes, beneficiaries, professionals, staff and affiliated entities. It also prohibits reference to donor confidentiality to circumvent these controls and provides for sanctions ranging from a formal warning to suspension and deregistration.

Civil society doesn’t oppose transparency. We were already complying with civil, labour, tax and anti-money laundering obligations, so this law was unnecessary. We call it the ‘big stick law’ because it duplicates controls, uses broad definitions and turns public advocacy into a risk factor that triggers extraordinary scrutiny for punitive purposes.

In what political context was the law passed?

The bill was passed thanks to the majority held by the ruling Colorado Party. The process moved forward against a backdrop of stigmatisation of CSOs, human rights activists and journalists, and coincided with the work of a congressional committee that framed CSO funding within a narrative centred on money laundering.

The law also reflected the convergence between parts of the ruling coalition and conservative religious networks. Among its main proponents were legislators such as Gustavo Leite and Lizarella Valiente, who have also participated in activities and initiatives linked to evangelical organisations. While this doesn’t prove that these organisations drafted or funded the law, it does highlight an asymmetry in access and scrutiny between groups that influence public policy.

The law treats different groups that influence the same policies very differently. It imposes extensive controls on CSOs but expressly exempts churches and religious groups.

What impact is the new law having?

The impact began even before the first sanctions were imposed. Ever since the Ministry of Economy and Finance launched the registration portal, CSOs have had to devote time, money and staff to complying with the new accounting, administrative and legal requirements. For small organisations or those run by volunteers, this means that a large proportion of their resources is no longer being channelled into activities, assistance, research or support services.

Uncertainty is also a factor. Although sanctions are not yet being applied on a large scale, the law is having a deterrent effect. Donors, organisations and supporters fear the consequences of getting involved or advocating for causes.

The obligation to provide detailed information on beneficiaries and supporters poses privacy risks, particularly in small communities and among vulnerable groups. The safety of these people depends on who has access to the information, for what purpose and with what effective safeguards.

What obstacles do LGBTQI+ organisations face, and how does the new law exacerbate them?

In Paraguay, gender and diversity organisations operate in a context of structural discrimination, characterised by hate speech, exclusion from education and the labour market, barriers to accessing healthcare and difficulties in reporting violence. Added to this is the lack of a comprehensive anti-discrimination law, legal recognition for same-sex couples and accessible administrative procedures for the recognition of gender identity. All this leaves LGBTQI+ people in a particularly vulnerable situation.

Law 7363 exacerbates these difficulties, as it imposes broad and unclear requirements on CSOs that defend these rights. REPAR+’s artistic activities can be regarded as advocacy, culture and support all at once. The vagueness of the law, combined with discretionary powers and the threat of suspension, makes it impossible to predict how these activities will be classified, and could stifle critical voices before any sanction is imposed.

How has civil society mobilised to challenge the law at the Supreme Court?

The response has combined dialogue, international appeals, litigation and technical analysis. Since December, CSOs working on community development, culture, the environment and human rights, as well as rural communities, have filed constitutional challenges against the law and its implementing decree. REPAR+ has joined the effort because we believe freedoms of association and expression are essential for organisations that support LGBTQI+ people, denounce discrimination and engage in public policy.

We hope that the Constitutional Chamber of the Supreme Court will examine these challenges independently and urgently, in the light of the Constitution, the American Convention on Human Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. A favourable ruling would directly protect the organisations bringing the challenges and establish an important precedent. We don’t seek to be exempt from accountability. We seek to prevent a regulatory process from becoming a form of political surveillance, exposing vulnerable people or serving as punishment for dissent.

What action is needed in and outside Paraguay to reverse these restrictions?

Within Paraguay, the court must rule urgently and prevent irreparable harm while it considers the merits of the case. However, a lasting solution requires Congress and the executive to repeal or comprehensively modify the law, through a pluralistic consultation process. Any regulation should be precise, avoid duplicate registrations and protect beneficiaries, donors, victims and workers. Intrusive requests should be subject to independent scrutiny and sanctions should be limited to what is strictly necessary and proportionate. These criteria should apply equally to anyone who manages public funds or influences policy, including religious organisations.

The international community could continue to monitor the situation at the United Nations, particularly through the Human Rights Council Universal Periodic Review process, and at the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights. It can also take action through embassies and cooperation agencies. Donors should offer flexible support to cover accounting, legal, security and technological costs, rather than withdrawing out of fear of the new regime.

Paraguay also needs a comprehensive anti-discrimination law, effective recognition of gender identity and protection for human rights defenders and journalists.

We are not asking for external guardianship or privileges. We are calling for democratic solidarity to preserve a space where people can organise, question and propose ideas. Transparency should strengthen democracy, not expose vulnerable people or turn criticism of those in power into a cause for suspicion.

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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Exiled Nicaraguans hold a national flag in the Church of San Francisco in San José, Costa Rica, at a service held on 19 April 2026 to commemorate the anniversary of protests in 2018. Credit: Ezequiel Becerra/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Aug 12 2026 (IPS)

On 19 July, the 47th anniversary of the Sandinista revolution that first brought him to power, Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega declared that his country would hold ‘no more elections’ so that the opposition could never again try to ‘seize power’. Just like that, he scrapped a presidential vote that had previously been pushed back to 2027, abandoning even the fiction of democratic legitimacy. The move changes little in practice, since no free vote had been possible for years. But it’s still revealing: a government that controls the army, the courts, the electoral machinery and the police, and will still not risk even a stage-managed ballot, is one that has lost confidence in its people.

Civil society dismantled

The abolition of elections is the political capstone of a longer-term project to eliminate every organised space beyond the ruling family’s control. A constitutional overhaul ratified in January 2025 extended Ortega’s term, elevated his wife, Rosario Murillo, from vice-president to ‘co-president’, and handed the couple control over every branch of the state, with their son, Laureano Ortega Murillo, positioned as monarchical heir apparent. Scrapping elections that had already been emptied of any meaning removes the last formal mechanism through which power in Nicaragua might, however unlikely, have changed hands.

Since 2018, the government has shut down over 5,500 civil society organisations, close to 80 per cent of what existed. Its net has encompassed trade unions, women’s groups, universities, independent media and religious bodies, with the Catholic Church a particular target. The legal profession is the latest victim. In early July, some 2,000 lawyers found their licences to practise revoked overnight, without notice or appeal, effectively leaving many Nicaraguans without legal defence.

The Group of Human Rights Experts on Nicaragua, mandated by the UN Human Rights Council, has concluded that the government has weaponised every arm of the state and its abuses amount to crimes against humanity committed as deliberate policy. It has documented chains of command linking the presidency to local officials, and named 54 officials responsible for the repression.

Repression beyond borders

Persecution has forced over 935,000 people, roughly one in eight Nicaraguans, into exile since mass protests in 2018, which security forces suppressed by killing more than 300 people. But exile offers no safety. A 2025 report by the Group of Human Rights Experts shows the regime runs an extensive transnational intelligence and surveillance network using the army, police, foreign service and informal agents to track critics abroad, monitor their communications and threaten their families back home.

For a growing number, surveillance leads to violence. In June 2025, Roberto Samcam, a retired army major turned prominent critic, was shot dead at his home in Costa Rica by an assassin posing as a delivery driver. He was one of at least four exiled opposition figures killed in Central America since 2022. Many more have survived attempts on their lives.

The regime has also stripped hundreds of critics of their nationality, including 222 political prisoners it expelled to the USA in 2023 and 135 it shipped to Guatemala in 2024, and made changes to the Penal Code to prosecute ‘crimes against the state’ committed abroad.

Aware that international bodies offer a route to accountability, the regime is moving to close it off. Having quit the Organization of American States in 2023, Nicaragua withdrew from the UN Human Rights Council and four other multilateral bodies in 2025. Yet some mechanisms do not need its consent. Two months after the government announced it was quitting, the Human Rights Council renewed the Group of Experts’ mandate for a further two years. An Argentine judge, acting under universal jurisdiction, has issued arrest warrants for Ortega, Murillo and other senior officials. The legal instruments exist, but the will to use them is often missing.

Democratic states have supplied little of that will. The USA does not recognise Ortega’s government, yet in September 2025 the Trump administration terminated Temporary Protected Status for Nicaraguans, asserting that the country was now safe for their return, a claim at odds with UN findings. This left thousands exposed to deportation.

Ortega has meanwhile leaned on autocratic friends, with China now his main source of funding and Russia supplying intelligence and security advice and training.

Long-term pressure needed

Ortega will have watched Venezuela closely. In 2024, Nicolás Maduro allowed the holding of an election he was sure he had won in advance, having stopped the main opposition candidate standing, only to see a little-known substitute become the catalyst for years of pent-up discontent. Scrapping elections spares Ortega that danger, at least in the short term.

Over the long term, pressure for the restoration of democracy will depend on the endurance of Nicaraguan civil society, at home and in exile, and on democratic states being willing to hold the regime to account. Neither can be taken for granted. The movement best able to sustain the fight has been driven abroad, where it also faces persecution, and the government best placed to shelter these exiles is busy sending them back home.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses India’s Cockroach Janta Party movement with Harshit Singh, a young activist, poet and storyteller who took part in protests in Delhi.

Harshit Singh

What’s the Cockroach Janta Party, and how did it start?

On 15 May, the Chief Justice of India said that young people who couldn’t find a job and turned to media, social media and activism to attack the system were like cockroaches. He corrected himself the following day, saying he had meant only those entering the legal profession with fake degrees, but it was too late. Everybody felt hurt and frustrated.

Abhijeet Dipke, a young Indian, posted a tweet asking what would happen if all the cockroaches came together. Within 24 hours he had set up an Instagram page, a website and a manifesto that said that if you were lazy, unemployed and had time on your hands, you qualified as a cockroach. The name, Cockroach Janta Party, was a parody of the ruling party. The response was enormous. Artists and creators began promoting the platform, and within weeks over 20 million people were following it.

It grew that fast because the frustration was already there. Two weeks before Surya Kant spoke, the question paper for the national medical entrance exam leaked in advance, and the exam was cancelled for over two million students who had spent years preparing. At least 21 students died by suicide; every morning we woke up to news of another death. And this was not an isolated case. Every other day we hear about another exam paper leaking somewhere.

The Cockroach Janta Party gave young people somewhere to channel their frustration with the education system and unemployment. It gave us hope and a chance to demand a better education system, one that isn’t privatised and doesn’t cost so much that only privileged people get a good education.

But education is just the baseline. Beyond it, this is a movement that brings together everyone who has been neglected and not listened to for years, so they can express their frustration and ask for change. What started as satire became a national movement that nobody, not even the person who started it, expected.

Would you call this a Gen Z movement?

It was organised by Gen Z, and most of us in it are, but it’s not only that. I have seen every generation at the protest. People of different castes, gender identities and religions have come together under one umbrella to ask for their rights. At the end of the day, we are all Indians, and every issue this country is going through is our issue.

There is no criterion for joining and no enrolment process. If you think something is wrong, or that your basic rights are not being respected, that is the moment you support the movement, however you can. Come to the protest, talk about it online or in print, and be a voice where you are.

What struck me most is how many people came who didn’t support Abhijeet or disagreed with something a spokesperson had said. Some didn’t even like that we call ourselves cockroaches. They came anyway, because the movement is bigger than any person in it and because after a long time we have a platform where we can speak out loud, with other people standing next to us. That’s why it grew so fast.

What role has social media played?

Social media has played a central role. The movement started online and the vast majority of what it has achieved rests on that. Nobody expected it to come onto the ground and organise protests at this scale.

The reason it mattered this much is that the media here is compromised. If you say anything against the government, mainstream television and print media will not carry it. There was a protest in the heart of the capital for weeks and you wouldn’t find a single headline about it in the newspapers or magazines.

But when you are on the ground with your phone, taking photos and videos, you become your own media. And everyone was using their platforms. It didn’t matter whether someone had 10 followers or 5,000, each person was reaching the audience they had. In the end, mainstream media just reaches a limited number of people, but social media reaches everyone.

The turning point was when artists and creators started speaking. I hesitated at first. My livelihood is social media and ticket revenue, so I doubted what would happen to my future if I spoke against the government. I feared my accounts would be taken down. But I couldn’t deny what was happening, so I spoke out, and many other artists did too.

How has the government responded?

The government has responded very negatively. People who question the government, protest against it or ask for their rights get labelled as anti-national or terrorists. There’s no second thought about it. When I was a child, those were heavy words. Watching this government make them ordinary and using them against us was frightening.

For seven weeks we were at Jantar Mantar, the designated protest site in central Delhi. The Prime Minister’s Office, the President’s house and every ministry are within a five-kilometre radius. Still, not official came to meet us. What they did instead was try to dilute the protest by dividing us with anything they could find. They mocked queer people and spread hatred between Hindus and Muslims, but the unity held and we stood together.

On 20 July, we marched from Jantar Mantar to parliament. Delhi hadn’t seen a peaceful protest this massive in about 15 years. Thousands of people, including children, teenagers and grandparents, were on the streets asking for their basic rights. We were carrying flowers, banners and posters, and chanting slogans.

But the security forces met us with repression and violence. They used pellet guns, teargas and batons against anyone, even if they were just standing nearby. There’s a girl who’s still in intensive care on a ventilator.

The way the police handled the protests was illegal and unconstitutional. At that moment a lot of people in India realised something was badly wrong, and support for our movement grew massively across the country. Cities, districts and small towns started protests in solidarity. That is when the government understood it had to listen.

What has the movement achieved?

Our non-negotiable demand was the resignation of Dharmendra Pradhan and action against everyone involved in the scam. Pradhan stepped down, and we are glad he did, but it shouldn’t have taken this long or this much violence. He even framed it as a way to stop the protests and prevent terrorist activity, not as an admission that anything had gone wrong. Accountability is still missing.

Our other two demands are still unmet. We asked for compensation of 10 million rupees (approx. US$115,000) for every family that lost a child to suicide. Those families haven’t received anything, not even an apology.

We also asked that nobody who took part in the protests face legal action. Instead, the police have spent the past days tracing protesters and opening cases against them. There’s a lot of rage about it, and Abhijeet and others have said we may have to protest again.

What support does the movement need now?

What we most need is for people to stop being afraid. Protesting here is almost a taboo, because people expect repercussions and stay away, which makes organising anything at all difficult.

That fear is not irrational. This government controls the security forces, the Central Bureau of Investigation and the Enforcement Directorate, and it can do whatever it wants with them, as we saw on the streets. The courts will not stop it either, because the judiciary is compromised in the same way the media is.

But if something is wrong, it is fine to ask the government why. They are here to serve us. All we are asking for is to be able to protest peacefully in what is supposed to be the world’s largest democracy.

We need young people in this country to keep showing up and artists to stop being silent, because if the mainstream media will not speak out, art must become the mode of resistance. Support from abroad matters too. When people elsewhere talk about our movement, it creates pressure on the government. And we must hold on to what we know – our rights and our intentions – because diluting the agenda is what the government will try next.

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.

India has recently been added to the CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist, which identifies countries where a severe deterioration in the quality of civic space is taking place.

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India added to human rights watchlist as repression intensifies in Modi’s third term CIVICUS Monitor 29.Jul.2026
Gen Z protests: new resistance rises CIVICUS | 2026 State of Civil Society Report
India: ‘When civil society is constrained, it cannot challenge power or amplify excluded voices’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Devanshi Vaid and Smarinita Shetty 11.Dec.2025

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Burkina Faso’s junta leader Captain Ibrahim Traoré attends a meeting with Russian president Vladimir Putin in Moscow on 10 May 2025. Credit: Angelos Tzortzinis/AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Aug 7 2026 (IPS)

Burkina Faso’s charismatic young military leader, army captain Ibrahim Traoré, has stopped pretending. In April, he declared that people should ‘forget about the question of democracy’ because ‘democracy isn’t for us’. When Traoré seized power in September 2022, ousting a leader who’d staged a coup earlier that year, he promised elections by June 2024. The junta broke that pledge, pushing any transition back to 2029. Now Traoré has confirmed he has no intention of restoring democracy. Instead, Burkina Faso’s military junta is tightening its repression, while working with neighbouring states to internationalise its dangerously undemocratic model.

Crackdown intensifies

Repression has unfolded in a context of jihadist insurgency. Frustration with the democratically elected government’s security failures helped fuel the conditions that led to military rule, but the army hasn’t turned things around. The insurgency has grown, and civilians are paying the price. All sides are accused of crimes against humanity and war crimes, and since the coup, there’s evidence that Burkina Faso’s armed forces and allied militias have increasingly targeted civilians, particularly members of the Fulani ethnic group.

A military seen to be failing against the insurgency and killing civilians would lose any claims to legitimacy. That makes the junta determined to control the narrative, silence dissent and crush any perceived challenge to its power.

Traoré backs his anti-democratic rhetoric with actions. In January, the government dissolved all political parties, claiming they sowed division and weakened the social fabric. The junta is also targeting civil society organisations (CSOs). In recent months, authorities have suspended over a thousand organisations. In April, the government dissolved 118 CSOs, citing non-compliance with a July 2025 law that imposed strict and onerous registration, compliance and reporting requirements. The law supposedly gave CSOs a year to comply, but the government dissolved them before the deadline expired. It targeted human rights organisations such as the African Meeting for the Defence of Human Rights, the Burkinabè Coalition for Women’s Rights and Christian Action for the Abolition of Torture.

Religious associations and student groups have fared little better. Association As Salam and the Coordination of Young Muslims of Burkina have no explicit human rights focus, but authorities have suspended both for alleged public disorder and activities said to fall outside their stated purpose. In May, the government suspended the General Student Union of Burkina Faso, the country’s biggest student group, after it issued a statement criticising the government’s security record, which the government claimed glorified terrorism.

Authorities have suspended several media outlets, typically over their reporting on the security situation. In May, the state media regulator indefinitely suspended French TV channel TV5 Monde, accusing it of siding with terrorist groups.

Anybody who speaks out risks arrest, detention, enforced disappearance, forced conscription into the armed forces and torture. Burkina Faso’s LGBTQI+ people are particularly exposed, since in 2025 the junta criminalised same-sex relations, with jail sentences of up to five years. The government has also granted itself the power to strip citizenship from anyone deemed to be acting against the national interest. Last December, repression took an even more ominous turn when the junta announced its intention to reinstate the death penalty.

Due to these actions, Burkina Faso has recently been added to the CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist, which identifies countries where a severe deterioration in the quality of civic space is taking place.

Repressive alliance

Burkina Faso isn’t working alone. Under Traoré, it has forged close relations with two neighbouring military regimes, Mali and Niger. Together, they’re promoting a model that rejects democracy and international scrutiny. In January 2025, they completed their joint withdrawal from the key regional organisation, the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS), a year after forming their rival Alliance of Sahel States. The move was clearly a response to ECOWAS pressure to restore civilian rule.

The three states have now formally begun the process to leave the International Criminal Court (ICC). They’ve denounced the court as a ‘tool of neocolonial oppression’ and promised to set up an alternative, although any body they create is unlikely to retain the ICC’s power to issue arrest warrants against sitting heads of state and other senior figures. For survivors of human rights atrocities, withdrawal from the ICC and the ECOWAS Community Court of Justice removes vital potential routes to justice.

In February, Burkina Faso suspended the UN Human Rights Office, which had operated in the country since 2019, in retaliation for a statement by UN human rights chief Volker Türk urging the junta to reverse its ban on political parties and open up civic space. The UN has now concluded it has no choice but to close its office.

These moves shield military leaders and security forces from external accountability. They’re part of a wider realignment that has seen Burkina Faso and its allies turn away from former colonial power France and other democratic states and towards Russia, a partner with no interest in human rights. Burkina Faso’s relations with Russia have extended beyond military cooperation to stronger economic ties. Last year the two countries signed a gold-mining deal.

Even as he rejects international scrutiny, Traoré has cultivated a global following. Through adept use of social media and a steady stream of disinformation, he casts himself as a pan-African leader in the mould of liberation-era icons such as Thomas Sankara, Burkina Faso’s revolutionary former president. His message taps into real anger about colonialism and the power imbalances in relations with western states.

But the people whose rights he tramples aren’t westerners. The civilians being slaughtered by the army and the activists and journalists being silenced are Burkinabe people. There’s nothing un-African about democratic freedoms, and nothing pan-African about a leader who denies them. African democracies have the most to lose if Traoré’s model spreads, and are the most able to challenge it. They should refuse to normalise his narrative and press him to restore fundamental freedoms, rebuild a path to democratic rule and recognise the value of international accountability.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS speaks about China’s recently implemented Ethnic Unity Law with Gulchehra Hoja, a correspondent for Reporters Without Borders and a Uyghur activist and journalist known for her reporting on human rights abuses against Uyghur people in China.

Gulchehra Hoja

What does the new Ethnic Unity Law state?

This new law means there is one acceptable way to be Chinese and requires every part of society, not just the state, to work towards it. Culture, faith and language become things to be managed rather than rights to be protected.

But none of this is new. The law formalises practices that are already in place and turns repression into official state policy. For years the Chinese government has closed Uyghur-language schools, demolished mosques, imprisoned intellectuals, separated children from their families and sent more than a million Uyghurs and other Turkic peoples into detention camps. Ordinary expressions of Uyghur identity can attract suspicion.

Every government wants security and stability. The question is how those goals are pursued and who ends up defined as a threat. Under this law the answer is anyone whose identity does not fit. The Ethnic Unity Law strengthens Communist Party authority, not minority rights. It tells minorities that loyalty to the Communist Party matters more than their identity and that even the most ordinary parts of life are subject to state control.

Doesn’t China’s constitution protect minority languages and autonomy?

On paper, Article 4 guarantees all ethnic groups the right to use their own languages and preserve their cultures. But there is an enormous gap between what the law says and what happens.

I come from the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. For Beijing, it is a strategic asset that connects China to Central Asia, holds vast natural resources and plays a central role in the country’s long-term economic and security ambitions. But for Uyghurs, it’s our home. It is where generations of our people have lived and built their lives.

The region is officially described as autonomous, but autonomy must include genuine local political participation, real cultural protection and the right to use and teach our language freely. Where those are missing, autonomy exists in name only.

Which communities does the law reach, and how is it enforced?

Uyghurs are the first victims, but we are certainly not the only ones. The law reaches Hong Kong activists, religious communities, Southern Mongolians and Tibetans. It can even be applied to Chinese citizens whose beliefs or identities just don’t fit the Communist Party’s vision. And because it applies beyond China’s territory, it reaches all of them wherever they live.

Paramilitary institutions, police, security agencies and universities work together, so every part of society is drawn into monitoring and reshaping people’s identities. Students from China’s National Security College, for example, were sent to East Turkistan to study governance centres, neighbourhood grid management, police stations and the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps, the state-owned paramilitary body that runs its own cities, courts, police and prisons across the region. This was not an academic visit. It was training in how to put a population under surveillance.

What are the risks of speaking out?

I know them personally. In authoritarian systems, telling the truth can be treated as a crime. I was branded a terrorist not because I committed violence but because I practised journalism and dared to speak out. And it was not only me who paid for it. After I reported on what was happening in East Turkistan, 25 members of my family were detained.

I am not alone in this. The Chinese government fears independent reporting, and that is why it works so hard to control information. Foreign journalists have been expelled, local journalists imprisoned and many Uyghur journalists working for international media have seen relatives disappeared, imprisoned or sent to detention camps simply for continuing to report.

The new law gives Beijing further justification to present peaceful advocacy as a threat to national unity. It also sends a message to Uyghurs living in Canada, Europe, Latin America, Turkey and the USA: we are still watching you. That is what transnational repression means.

What should the international community do?

Governments should not judge this law by its title but by its consequences. They should continue documenting human rights abuses, expose China’s efforts to intimidate critics abroad, sanction the officials responsible for these policies and strengthen protections for Uyghur journalists and refugees. We’ll keep documenting these stories even when access is restricted, but we can’t do it alone.

This is not only about Uyghurs. It is about whether a government can erase a people’s culture, history, language and religion and call it unity. That question should concern everyone.

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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Transnational repression: ‘China feels emboldened to globalise its political red lines’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Barbora Bukovská 19.May.2026
China: ‘The state is using generative AI to engineer reality through informational gaslighting’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Fergus Ryan 12.Mar.2026
The long reach of authoritarianism CIVICUS Lens 20.Mar.2024

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Anti-FGM activists protests outside the National Assembly in Banjul, The Gambia, on 18 March 2024, as lawmakers discuss a bill seeking to lift the ban on FGM. Credit: by Muhamadou Bittaye/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Aug 3 2026 (IPS)

Last August, a one-month-old girl in The Gambia bled to death after being subjected to female genital mutilation (FGM), a practice that had been illegal in the country since 2015. FGM is a human rights violation, whatever the appeals to faith or tradition made in its defence, but now the Gambian Supreme Court is being asked to strike the country’s ban down. This is the second attempt in two years to make FGM legal again.

Civil society stopped it the first time. When a repeal bill reached the National Assembly in 2024, the Network Against Gender-Based Violence brought survivors to testify, lobbied legislators, ran radio programmes and obtained a ruling from Cairo’s Al-Azhar University saying that FGM is not required under Islam. The bill fell in July 2024.

The ongoing fight in The Gambia is a measure of how fragile advances in the recognition of rights are. FGM is in retreat across most of the countries where it is practised, the result of decades of campaigning by survivors and community organisations. But holding that ground is becoming harder, as the money supporting those campaigns dries up and a resurgent anti-rights movement works to recast FGM as a traditional practice under foreign attack.

A practice in retreat

Over 230 million girls and women alive today have undergone FGM, with an additional four million cut every year. But the direction of travel has changed. A 2024 UNICEF report found that half of the decline in prevalence over the past 30 years has come in the last decade, with rates among adolescent girls halved or cut by 30-plus percentage points in countries including Ethiopia, Kenya and Sierra Leone. Attitudes have shifted too. Around 400 million people in practising countries, two-thirds of the population, now say they want FGM to end.

That change has a clear source. The Joint Programme run by UNICEF and the UN Population Fund found that the sharpest reductions come where communities are supported to deliberate and then commit, publicly and collectively, to abandoning the practice. The UN channels funding and provides coordination, but the dialogues, declarations and door-to-door persuasion are the work of community activists, national organisations and survivor networks. Thanks to these civil society efforts, in 2025 alone, over 7.5 million people took part in community dialogues and over 190,000 religious leaders and community influencers publicly denounced FGM.

The tools that work

Where campaigners have targeted the religious justifications that sustain FGM, results have followed. In 2025, Islamic scholars in Djibouti, Eritrea and Somalia issued a joint ruling saying that nothing in the faith requires FGM. Litigation has proved another powerful tool. In July 2025, the Court of Justice of the Economic Community of West African States found Sierra Leone in breach of its international obligations for failing to criminalise FGM, and said that, when intentionally inflicted, the practice meets the threshold of torture. In India, the Supreme Court has begun hearing whether cutting among the Dawoodi Bohra community should lose constitutional protection as an essential religious practice. And this June, Colombia became the first country in Latin America to ban FGM, driven by Emberá Indigenous women campaigning against a practice carried out in their own community.

Prohibition is now the norm rather than the exception, with Djibouti and Guinea writing bans into their constitutions in 2025. But laws alone don’t necessarily change what happens on the ground, and enforcement remains thin. Arrests and prosecutions rose sharply in 2025, yet there were still only 711 FGM court cases all year. In The Gambia, the fine imposed on the country’s first convicted cutters was paid by a prominent imam, an act that helped galvanise the campaign seeking to repeal the ban.

The movement’s defunding

The tactics that drove three decades of progress are now being starved of funding, with budget cuts falling hardest on the survivor-led and grassroots groups that are most effective but always face the toughest struggles for support. Funding for the Joint Programme fell from US$29.6 million in 2024 to US$16.3 million in 2025. The dismantling of USAID removed the largest single source of civil society funding worldwide, and total US foreign aid halved in a year. The UK, once the biggest funder of FGM prevention, is winding down its flagship programme with no replacement, so it can spend more on weapons.

The economics make no sense, because every dollar invested in prevention brings a tenfold return. The Joint Programme estimates that treating the health consequences of FGM currently costs US$1.4 billion a year. Politics, though, is playing a big part. In global north countries, political shifts are driving the withdrawal of aid, and far-right parties invoke FGM to stigmatise migrant communities while also opposing the gender justice policies that would make a difference. In practising countries, prohibition is increasingly recast as a foreign imposition on culture and faith. What unites these arguments is a shared sleight of hand that treats FGM as a question of cultural identity rather than a violation of fundamental human rights.

Elimination by 2030, the target that states set when they agreed the Sustainable Development Goals in 2015, is already out of reach. But the evidence on what works is not in dispute, and it points towards communities and grassroots movements. The question is whether governments that claim to value human rights will keep supporting those delivering progress, or let a generation of girls pay the price of retreat.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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A man walks past a sign reading 'unjustly persecuted' featuring journalist José Rubén Zamora, former CICIG lawyer Claudia González and Maya leaders Luis Pacheco and Héctor Chaclan in a Guatemala City, 12 May 2026. Credit: Johan Ordóñez/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Jul 24 2026 (IPS)

José Rubén Zamora, founder of elPeriódico, Guatemala’s now-defunct leading investigative newspaper, spent 1,295 days in detention before a court granted him house arrest on 12 February. He endured long stretches of solitary confinement in a military jail, held in near-constant darkness and subjected to treatment that six UN experts warned could amount to torture. His offence was simply doing his job. For decades, he exposed the corrupt dealings of Guatemala’s economic and political elites. Prosecutors are still trying to send him back to prison.

Police arrested Zamora in July 2022 on a complaint brought by a former banker who was under investigation for financial crimes, following Zamora’s reporting on corruption under then President Alejandro Giammattei. Within months, elPeriódico had shut down following intimidation of its advertisers and criminalisation of its staff. A court convicted Zamora of money laundering in June 2023, and when an appeals court overturned the conviction, a second case kept him in jail anyway. Courts ordered his release several times, and each time appeals chambers reversed those decisions. The Supreme Court transferred a judge who ruled to free him to a court in another part of Guatemala. At least 10 lawyers who took up his defence were forced to abandon it under pressure. Some were prosecuted and jailed.

In May 2024, the UN Working Group on Arbitrary Detention declared Zamora’s detention arbitrary and retaliatory and recommended his immediate release. It took almost two more years for him to be allowed home. In March, the Supreme Court voided the rulings that had returned him to prison, finding they violated due process. The Constitutional Court heard the prosecution’s latest appeal to send him back to jail in June, but has yet to issue its ruling.

The machinery of impunity

Zamora’s ordeal is no aberration; it’s how captured institutions are designed to work. The Guatemalan state has long been in the hands of what Guatemalans call ‘the pact of the corrupt’, a coalition of business leaders, drug traffickers, military officers and politicians that has captured the justice system to guarantee their own impunity. Anyone who threatens that arrangement risks prosecution on fabricated charges, reinforced by coordinated smear campaign. This includes journalists who investigate corruption, judges and prosecutors who pursue it, and Indigenous, land rights and climate activists who mobilise against its consequences. The aim, as a Guatemalan civil society leader put it, is to instil fear so nobody dares question anything. Over 100 people, including around 50 judges and prosecutors, have fled into exile rather than face trumped-up charges.

Because the justice system serves the corrupt pact rather than the law, any serious attempt to dismantle corruption has required external support. In 2006, the UN and the Guatemalan government agreed to establish the International Commission against Impunity in Guatemala (CICIG). Over 12 years, CICIG and the Public Prosecutor’s Office investigated over 70 complex criminal structures and brought charges against more than 1,540 people, including former presidents, ministers, members of Congress and business figures. This challenged the perception that the powerful were untouchable.

But success sealed its fate. When CICIG investigated sitting president Jimmy Morales in 2017, he moved to destroy it, refusing to renew its mandate and appointing a compliant attorney general, Consuelo Porras. President Giammattei reappointed Porras, who prosecuted or forced out dozens of judges and prosecutors who had worked with CICIG. She turned the Public Prosecutor’s Office into an instrument of persecution while dismissing 74 per cent of the complaints filed with it without investigating them. By the time her term ended in May, over 40 states had sanctioned her and some associates. The institution built to prosecute crime had become the state’s key tool for committing it.

New president, same system

Guatemalans elected Bernardo Arévalo in 2023 with a mandate to dismantle this system, but the system has consistently tried to disable him. His unexpected win – he scraped into the runoff largely because the establishment had not seen him as a serious enough threat to block – triggered what civil society described as an attempted electoral coup, with spurious legal complaints, raids on his party’s headquarters and at least two credible assassination plots. It took 106 days of peaceful resistance led by Indigenous authorities to ensure he was sworn in.

But taking office was not the same as taking power. Arévalo’s party had only 23 of 160 congressional seats, and its legal status was subsequently cancelled by judicial order. Congress blocked the legislative change that would have allowed him to dismiss Porras, and the Supreme Court, 13 of whose judges were selected in 2024 through a process stacked with candidates tied to corruption networks, refused to lift her immunity. Throughout Arévalo’s term, the Public Prosecutor’s Office continued to criminalise dissent and repeatedly tried to strip Arévalo of immunity.

A narrow window

But Porras’s term eventually expired, and his successor, Gabriel García Luna, a career judge with no ties to corruption networks, has moved quickly, dismissing prosecutors linked to Porras and closing the special prosecutor’s office that fabricated cases against Zamora and many others. His arrival offers the first genuine opening in eight years. But it’s a narrow one. Congress remains in opposition hands, and the Constitutional Court, the Comptroller General’s Office and the electoral authority are all due for renewal this year. Corrupt interests are well placed to exploit these processes to entrench their grip.

Much now depends on whether Arévalo throws his political weight behind García Luna’s efforts to rebuild the institution Porras weaponised, and whether the bodies up for renewal can be kept out of the corrupt pact’s hands. The clearest sign of change will come if Zamora and the dozens of others criminalised for exposing corruption and defending rights no longer face prosecution, and instead their persecutors face justice.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses land grabs and environmental damage linked to a luxury coastal resort project with Eva Kushova, Director of Destination Management Organisation Albania, a civil society organisation that supports sustainable tourism in Albanian destinations, seeking to preserve culture and nature while maximising benefits for communities.

Eva Kushova

What are the impacts of Albania’s foreign investment laws?

The Law on Strategic Investments was passed in 2015 to attract foreign investment and boost Albania’s economy. Its deadline has since been extended several times, most recently to 2027. In practice, it has become a vehicle for serious abuses. Unlike ordinary investment laws, it gives the state the power to expropriate private property on investors’ behalf, often at compensation well below market value. Some residents say they were forced off their land after refusing this compensation.

Despite the law’s stated purpose, only two of around 44 projects approved so far are genuinely foreign investments. Most are owned by domestic investors with close connections to the government. The system gives selected companies access to public land, beaches, forests and national assets, and grants them tax exemptions for up to 10 years. The state also pays for all the necessary infrastructure, including electricity, roads, telecommunications and water, effectively subsidising private profit. In some cases, water meant for villages has been diverted to supply resort swimming pools. Meanwhile, local communities lose beach access and remain economically marginalised.

What does the Zvërnec case reveal about how these deals are made?

The Zvërnec project, a luxury resort planned on the coast near Vlorë, in southern Albania, comprising around 10,000 accommodation units, drew international attention because of its Trump family ties, but it exposed broader governance failures. It includes a large property allegedly acquired by an internationally wanted drug trafficker under highly questionable circumstances, and there are also allegations that officials manipulated property records at the regional land registry. Many local residents claim ownership of the property, yet it was suddenly recognised as belonging to the trafficker, who then sold it to Arab investors.

This fits a wider pattern in Albania’s land governance. After communism collapsed in 1991, the law mandated redistribution of agricultural land to rural families in small parcels. Thirty-five years on, most Albanians own only limited land, while strategic investors obtain vast coastal properties through questionable transactions, controversial expropriations and alleged manipulation of property records. Property rights have remained unresolved for over 30 years, forcing people into costly court proceedings.

The secrecy around the Zvërnec deal is typical too. The public only learns about the projects once construction machinery arrives on site. News of Zvërnec, and of Sazan Island, an island off Albania’s Adriatic coast earmarked for luxury development, broke via international media in March 2024. Even now, the identity and ownership of the investors behind several of these projects remain unclear, and sites are fenced off with barbed wire. Authorities say this is in preparation for infrastructure works, fuelling further distrust.

What environmental damage have these developments caused?

The Zvërnec coastline is home to the Narta Lagoon, one of Albania’s most biodiverse areas and a critical stopover for thousands of migratory birds travelling between Africa and Europe. It was first threatened by the construction of Vlora International Airport and now by the Zvërnec resort.

The legal groundwork was laid in 2022, when the government removed thousands of hectares from protected areas, cutting total coverage by 20 per cent. In 2024, another law opened the door to construction inside protected areas, allowing for the transformation of one of Albania’s last wild coastal lagoons into a heavily urbanised area. A further law passed in 2025 extended the threat to forests and pastures elsewhere in the country.

This runs counter to Albania’s European Union (EU) membership bid, targeted for 2030. All candidate states must align their laws with EU standards across 33 negotiating chapters before joining, and chapter 27 covers environmental protection. The European Commission’s 2025 Enlargement Report raised serious concerns on this front, criticising recent legal changes for weakening environmental standards. The Bern Convention’s Standing Committee, an international body that protects European wildlife and habitats, has repeatedly asked Albania to suspend construction of Vlora International Airport inside the Pishë Poro–Narta Protected Area, which includes the lagoon, pending proper environmental assessment. So far these requests have gone unheeded. But sustained EU pressure could still force a repeal of regressive laws and the introduction of stronger protection for natural areas.

What has driven recent protests, and how has the government responded?

Protests began on 23 May in Zvërnec after the developer fenced off part of the beach with barbed wire. They intensified after footage emerged on 30 May showing private security guards beating a protester while police stood by without intervening. The movement spread to the capital, Tirana, the next day, then to other Albanian cities, Kosovo and diaspora communities abroad, becoming known as the ‘Flamingo Revolution’. Protesters have marched nightly since under the slogan ‘Albania is not for sale’, demanding the project’s cancellation and Prime Minister Edi Rama’s resignation.

What began as opposition to a single resort has broadened into a wider anti-corruption movement, with protesters citing grievances such as poor public healthcare. A nationwide protest on 10 June deliberately coincided with a national historic commemoration, joined by Albanians from the diaspora on five continents. Yet Rama has stayed defiant, arguing that the backlash has more to do with the Trump links than with the project itself.

There are encouraging signs of accountability, though. The Special Structure against Corruption and Organised Crime, an independent judicial body created in 2016, has opened an investigation into the 2024 legal changes that enabled the Zvërnec deal. Arrest warrants have been issued against around 20 businesspeople suspected of illegally obtaining land or permits linked to various projects. People hope public pressure will keep judicial investigations alive, ensuring accountability for abuses of power, environmental damage and property rights violations.

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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Albania: protesters and police clash at anti-corruption demonstrations; amendments partially decriminalising defamation criticised CIVICUS Monitor 22.Apr.2026
Albania: ‘Corruption is a serious problem, but no political force commands enough public trust to unite demands’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Gresa Hasa 13.Feb.2026
Albania: ‘Diaspora voting ensured every citizen, regardless of location, could exercise their right to vote’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Erida Skëndaj 01.Jun.2025

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People collect signatures against the construction of a massive Mitsui Fudosan datacentre in Hino City, Tokyo, 19 April 2026. Credit: Yasushi Wada/The Yomiuri Shimbun via AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Jul 20 2026 (IPS)

Few things unite Donald Trump’s most ardent supporters with the Democratic Party’s progressive wing, but datacentres are one of them. Across the USA, communities are joining forces across the political divide to oppose developments few want but governments seem determined to impose.

Michigan residents are among those who’ve come together across party lines to oppose plans for over a dozen datacentres. Polling shows just 28 per cent of the state’s population support the proposals. Local communities are fighting back, and similar struggles are unfolding across the world.

Datacentre impacts

Datacentre construction is booming, driven by AI use, demanding increasing computing power that requires huge amounts of electricity and water for cooling.

A single question to an AI chatbot can use 10 times more energy than a conventional search. Generating an AI image takes around a thousand times more energy than generating text. The International Energy Agency (IEA) projects that datacentre electricity demand will double by 2030.

In Utah, despite thousands of objections, authorities recently approved one of the world’s largest datacentres. It will need more power than the entire state currently uses. The development will construct a gas-fired plant.

AI growth is driving the construction of such gas-powered plants, meaning that more datacentres cause more greenhouse gas emissions. According to the IEA, coal is currently the top energy source for datacentres and over half of all current datacentre power comes from fossil fuels. The agency expects renewables to eventually provide a bigger share of growing needs, but warns that datacentre demand is driving growth for fossil fuel-generated electricity.

Tech companies once pledged to be climate leaders, but that no longer rings true. Google promised to become net zero by 2030, but its greenhouse gas emissions leapt 48 per cent from 2019 to 2023 as it embraced gas-fired electricity for datacentres. In Mumbai, India, two coal plants due to close in 2024 have had their operational life extended to meet demand from Amazon datacentres. Last December, Irish authorities decided that datacentres can keep using fossil fuel electricity for six more years. The UK intends to burn gas to power over 100 planned new datacentres.

Fossil fuel corporations lobby for datacentres almost as hard as tech companies, because they help perpetuate a destructive business model otherwise threatened by the shift to renewables. Fossil fuel corporations were among Donald Trump’s top campaign backers, and they’re benefiting from his administration’s rollback of regulations and ambition to achieve ‘unchallenged global technological dominance’.

Water supplies are coming under greater strain. One large datacentre can use as much daily water as a town of 50,000 people, yet datacentres are being built in some of the world’s driest regions. Amazon plans to open new datacentres in Aragon, Spain, even as the regional government seeks European Union help for drought. Similar concerns surround plans for one of the world’s biggest datacentres in the United Arab Emirates.

Civil society resistance

The struggle against tech companies and their lobbying riches is an unequal one, but civil society is mounting an increasingly credible response.

Climate litigation is an established civil society tactic, and recent research indicates that lawsuits are an emerging response to datacentre developments, with recent examples in Ireland, the UK and the USA. Civil society groups are also filing objections in planning processes, including one recently lodged against a huge proposed datacentre in Cape Town, South Africa.

Legal action by two UK organisations forced the developer of a huge new datacentre in Buckinghamshire to commit to binding environmental impact mitigation measures. Lawsuits are also exposing how datacentre impacts are often understated and inadequately measured. A 2022 case forced Google to publish accurate water consumption figures for an Oregon datacentre.

Protests and campaigning are bringing successes. In 2023, protests driven by a recent drought forced Google to change plans for a datacentre to reduce water use in Uruguay. Similar protests in Chile caused Google to pause its plans. As of last year, public pressure had led to over US$42 billion worth of datacentre projects being changed, delayed or cancelled in Europe, and US$77 billion worth in the USA.

In the USA, civil society groups have forged alliances with sub-national administrations to develop stronger local environmental and accountability standards. While established politicians aren’t listening, there are signs that US local politics are shifting. Some candidates opposed to datacentres have won, and several local administrations have introduced bans or moratoriums.

Campaign successes are bringing new threats. US industry lobbyists have smeared activists as agents of foreign influence determined to sabotage the country’s technological supremacy. US government documents show a growing focus on what they call ‘anti-technological extremism’, suggesting that security forces may be gathering intelligence on campaigners, and peaceful protesters could be targeted for surveillance on national security grounds.

Tech companies that are driving datacentre development often present themselves as free speech champions. They should prove it by ensuring that wherever they develop, people are able to protest, and hold them to environmental standards. There’s widespread public opposition and no shortage of people bearing the climate and environmental costs of the datacentre boom. Their voices must be heard.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the prospects for elections in Serbia with Rasa Nedeljkov, Programme Director at the Center for Research, Transparency and Accountability, a civil society organisation that monitors electoral processes and the rule of law in Serbia.

Rasa Nedeljkov

How has President Vučić responded to demands for elections?

Vučić committed to holding early elections in 2026 under pressure from over a year of mass protests. His announcement came with no date for dissolving parliament or his resignation, amid speculation that he could return as prime minister.

Vučić has deliberately dragged his feet because he wants to ensure that when they happen, his party cannot lose. Meanwhile, the government has systematically worsened conditions for elections. Independent media are being suffocated. University professors who supported student protests are being fired. Justice officials who show independence are being replaced by more obedient ones. Hate campaigns against civil society, journalists, opposition parties and students are intensifying. The plan has been transparent: call elections only once the environment is so controlled that they cannot bring real change.

This strategy reveals the fundamental collapse of democratic standards in Serbia. Democracy requires genuine competition, and competition is genuine only when the government can lose. Vučić is building the opposite, putting in place a system where elections are empty rituals that rubber-stamp predetermined outcomes. Every month of delay has bought time to consolidate control and eliminate remaining spaces for independent voices.

What are the challenges with elections in Serbia?

Elections are being voided of substance through the systematic disregard, misuse and selective enforcement of laws and rules, all with the goal of turning elections into empty rituals.

We are witnessing harsher voter intimidation, more elaborate political clientelism, more brazen abuse of public resources and increasingly overt violence on election day. Our observers have been physically attacked, with police looking on.

Elections are still held, but the quality of the process is severely damaged. Electoral corruption takes countless forms, including interference in elections by organised crime and capture of institutions. And it’s protected by impunity. The state apparatus refuses to prosecute it.

Serbia is becoming an electoral autocracy. Unlike democracies, where governments lose elections, in electoral autocracies only opposition parties can lose.

How is the government attacking civil society?

Fourteen months ago, police raided our office and remained on-site for 28 hours, copying almost 10,000 pages of financial documents. This was turned into a spectacle for state-controlled media, which branded us a ‘criminal gang of foreign mercenaries money-laundering millions of dollars’. Three other civil society organisations in Belgrade were raided on the same day. We still haven’t heard from the prosecutor’s office, and we are certain our papers were perfectly clean.

Yet the assault continues through narrative and threat. Senior ruling party officials and pro-government media regularly label us as behind-the-scenes organisers of a ‘colour revolution against Serbia’. We live in constant uncertainty, never knowing if another raid or something worse is coming. The strategy is clear: to exhaust civil society financially and psychologically and make donors and partners fear any association with us. It’s institutional intimidation dressed in the language of law enforcement.

Can protests bring lasting institutional change?

The protests are the best thing that has happened to Serbia in a long time. Sparked by the collapse of a railway station canopy in Novi Sad in November 2024, which killed 16 people, they began as a student-led demand for accountability and grew into a nationwide movement. Our society had sunk into political apathy, a feeling that there was no alternative, not even a slight possibility of change. The endurance of Serbian people in demanding the restoration of the rule of law, in the face of growing repression and toxic propaganda, has been remarkable. Society has been evolving politically, showing more solidarity and resilience. People have begun to imagine that change is possible.

At the same time, the protests have made painfully visible how deep state capture runs, and how far Serbia is from having accountable institutions. How do you translate months of mobilisation into lasting change? Nobody has a complete answer. When we get there, the transition will be complex and exhausting. We should closely watch neighbouring Hungary. Viktor Orbán’s and Vučić’s styles of authoritarian, grand-corruption-driven rule are very much alike. However, Hungary is an EU member, which may make a big difference.

We believe it’s important that this period, rather than the moment elections are officially called, be used for preparation, including by recruiting and training people to serve as election observers and members of polling boards, and building the logistics needed to cover polling stations nationwide. The goal has to be readiness, so whenever elections are called, the infrastructure of oversight is already in place.

What’s the role of the EU in Serbia’s democratic future?

Serbia needs more international support and pressure, and the EU is the most crucial lever. Neighbouring countries are making progress towards EU membership. Serbia is stuck. Without the EU perspective, all potential outcomes for Serbia look murky.

Our current government is far closer to China and Russia than to Europe, as its propaganda and rhetoric make abundantly clear. It wants only the financial benefits of EU membership, not the accountability that comes with it. It wants EU money without EU standards. That’s not a sustainable position, but without stronger international pressure, it may be the path Serbia remains on.

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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Serbia: ‘Social media are more trustworthy than much of official media, a disturbing sign of state capture’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Marija Babić 29.Jun.2026
Serbia: ‘We haven’t inherited democracy, so we’ve had to reinvent it ourselves’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Mihajlo Matković 06.Dec.2025
Serbia’s suspicious election CIVICUS Lens 26.Jan.2024

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Pride Parade participants march on the Elisabeth bridge in Budapest, Hungary on 27 June 2026. Credit: Attila Kisbenedek/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Jul 15 2026 (IPS)

On the morning of 28 June, riot police sealed off Taksim Square with iron barriers and enforced bans on all weekend gatherings in Istanbul. Marchers pressed ahead anyway, re-emerging from side streets each time police dispersed them. By the end of the day police had detained at least 50 people, including a journalist. It was Istanbul Pride’s 24th edition, and the 12th year running that the authorities banned it outright.

Homosexuality is not illegal in Turkey, so the state cannot prosecute people for who they are. Instead, it punishes them for making themselves visible. Authorities ban marches on ‘public morality’ grounds, block access to the social media accounts of LGBTQI+ organisations and put activists on trial for ‘obscenity’.

The pattern repeats in country after country. For a movement that spent decades making progress in winning recognition of rights, this Pride season tells a story of regression. A concerted backlash is clawing back territory once claimed, and Pride has again become a protest.

Much of the current wave of regression is a direct response to the gains LGBTQI+ movements made over previous decades. Anti-discrimination laws, recognition of equal marriage rights and growing public visibility have given opponents a clear target to mobilise against, and governments under economic or political pressure have found a convenient scapegoat in the LGBTQI+ community.

Authoritarian and populist leaders, facing discontent over corruption, inflation and unemployment, redirect public anger towards a minority that can be attacked without political cost, while conservative religious institutions find in opposition to LGBTQI+ rights, and particularly trans rights, a rallying cause that restores their claim to define society’s moral order. The result is a mutually reinforcing alliance between political power and religious conservatism, dressed up as the defence of children, the family and national identity.

Existence criminalised

A growing number of states are going further, criminalising not only LGBTQI+ people’s visibility but their very existence. Four West African states have criminalised consensual same-sex relations in the past two years, framing their move as a defence of national sovereignty against western influence. Mali’s military government criminalised homosexuality in December 2024 and Burkina Faso’s junta followed in September 2025. Niger’s new penal code, adopted last month, imposes punishment of up to 20 years in prison. Within weeks, media reported at least 40 arrests, the suspension of HIV prevention services and people fleeing the country.

Electoral democracies aren’t immune. In Senegal, parliament doubled the maximum sentence for ‘unnatural acts’ to 10 years in March, and over 300 ‘suspected homosexuals’ have reportedly been arrested in the past few months. Ghana’s parliament passed a bill imposing jail sentences on anyone who identifies as LGBTQI+ and requiring people to report prohibited activities to the authorities. President John Mahama has yet to sign it into law, but the debate about the bill has already fuelled a rise in blackmail, evictions and workplace discrimination.

The model is Uganda’s 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Act, which includes the death penalty for ‘aggravated homosexuality’ and punishes the vaguely defined crime of ‘promoting’ homosexuality with up to 20 years in prison.

All these laws, marketed as a rejection of foreign interference and imported values, have been promoted with foreign money. US-based conservative groups such as the American Center for Law and Justice and Family Watch International have played a key role in funding anti-rights advocacy. Days after passing its bill, Ghana’s parliament hosted the African Inter-Parliamentary Conference on Family Values and Sovereignty, a platform with documented ties to those groups that has promoted Uganda’s law as a template for the continent.

Consensus in retreat

US anti-rights groups have their president’s ear. Since returning to office, Donald Trump has signed a series of executive orders rolling back federal protections, particularly targeting transgender people. Private companies heard the message. Major events including NYC Pride and San Francisco Pride lost sponsors in 2025, and Tampa Pride had to cancel its 2026 parade.

For years, activist groups such as New York’s Reclaim Pride Coalition accused corporations of pinkwashing, that is, turning Pride into a corporate vehicle without advancing demands for rights. Many sponsors are now gone, but for the wrong reasons. Whatever its motives, sponsorship functioned as a seal of approval from mainstream institutions. Money withdrawn out of political fear takes with it more than event budgets; it erodes a social consensus that took decades to build.

Marching for those who can’t

In this context, the year’s biggest marches have become acts of political defiance. A million people marched in São Paulo under the theme ‘The street summons, the ballot box confirms’, ahead of Brazil’s October general election. In Bangkok, an all-time record half a million people marched a year after Thailand’s marriage equality law took effect, a testament to what legal recognition can do for a community’s visibility.

On 27 June, tens of thousands joined the 31st Budapest Pride, the first held since voters removed the right-wing populist government that repeatedly banned it. Organisers are treating this as a starting point, pressing the new government with a list of 14 demands that begins with repealing a 2021 ‘anti-LGBT propaganda’ law the European Union’s top court has ruled incompatible with equality and human dignity. Hungary shows that change is possible after all.

In places like Indonesia, Iraq, Niger and Uganda, among many more, there’s no Pride march to ban, because holding one is unthinkable. Even private organising now risks prosecution. In those places, people are looking outward, hoping that a crowd marching freely somewhere else will march for them too. That’s the duty of Pride season for those still free to gather: to mobilise both for themselves and for the many being forced to hide who they are.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS speaks about efforts to use the 2026 FIFA World Cup to highlight Mexico’s enforced disappearance crisis with Ana Enamorado, a Honduran national who continues to search for her missing son in Mexico, and founder of the Regional Network of Migrant Families.

Ana Enamorado

How did your son Óscar go missing, and what’s known about his case?

My son Óscar was 19 when he went missing. He left Honduras in 2008, fleeing the violence, and was in the USA when some young men invited him to Mexico with the promise of a job, a good wage, an education and the chance to see me again. It was all a deception.

Those were the years of the war on drugs that President Felipe Calderón declared in 2006, when the cartels began forcibly recruiting young people to join their ranks. Óscar was taken to El Carrizo, in the municipality of San Sebastián del Oeste, Jalisco state. It’s an isolated place with no public transport and severe deprivation, which makes it very difficult to escape. I last spoke to him on 19 January 2010, and I haven’t heard his voice since.

Little is known about his case, and the little that’s known is marred by negligence. In December 2009, weeks before his last call, charred bodies were found in the same place, but the investigation led nowhere. In 2013, forensic authorities in Jalisco attempted to hand over some ashes to me without any DNA evidence to confirm they were my son’s. The forensic institute went so far as to cremate around 1,560 unidentified bodies in less than a decade, a practice that has left so many families with no way of knowing the truth.

The Mexican state only began searching for Óscar in 2020, 10 years after I reported him missing. To this day, I am still searching for him and demanding justice.

What obstacles do migrant families face when searching for missing loved ones?

A major obstacle is the indifference of the authorities in the country of origin, which in my case is Honduras. We families are left on our own, with no one to guide us. The consulate should be the first authority to assist us, and it should do so quickly, because the first few hours are crucial for finding a person alive. But it rarely does so. As a result, filing a missing person report and a formal complaint becomes almost impossible. And without that, it’s not possible to open an investigation file or access our rights.

Added to this is my immigration status. Although I have been living in Mexico for 14 years, I am still considered a ‘visitor on humanitarian grounds’ and, to retain this status, I have to prove every year that my son is still missing. Having to prove my tragedy time and time again just to be able to stay revictimises me. That’s why I initiated legal proceedings against the National Institute of Migration to change my status to that of a permanent resident. However, it continues to reject my application, leaving me in a precarious situation when it comes to accessing my basic rights.

Why did you decide to protest during the World Cup?

We took to the streets of the host cities to show the other side of Mexico: the corruption, violence, impunity and the state’s indifference towards the thousands of missing people. Although the Mexican state may wish to project an image of celebration and modernity through the World Cup, there can be no World Cup celebrations against the backdrop of the humanitarian crisis caused by disappearances.

In Mexico, there are over 135,000 missing people. To put this into perspective, that number is one and a half times the capacity of the Azteca Stadium, where several matches in this World Cup have been played, including the opening match. Added to this is a forensic crisis. There are over 75,000 unidentified bodies. That is 75,000 people who did not return home and whose families continue inquiring about their whereabouts.

And the number keeps rising. We estimate that, since the World Cup began on 11 June, over 1,200 further people have gone missing. On 30 June, three teenagers aged 14 and 15 disappeared in Guadalajara, one of the host cities, in broad daylight amid streets full of celebrating crowds. The authorities believe it may have been a case of recruitment by organised crime. This practice continues unabated, and the government shows no sign of wanting to stop it or of searching for the missing people, particularly when they are migrants.

How has the Mexican government responded to the protests?

The state is uncomfortable with us taking to the streets to protest because every time we do, we expose the harsh and painful reality it wants to hide. That’s why, instead of listening to us and searching for our loved ones, it has responded with criminalisation, mockery and repression.

At her morning press conference on the day of the World Cup opening ceremony, President Claudia Sheinbaum played down our demonstration, and the Secretary of the Interior insinuated that someone was paying us to take to the streets, announcing an investigation into how we are funded. It’s an accusation that’s as painful as it’s outrageous. We have always searched for our loved ones using our own resources.

Then came the repression. Riot police cordoned us off and encircled us to prevent us from reaching the stadiums. On 30 June, on Calzada de Tlalpan, one of Mexico City’s main avenues, they assaulted and detained members of the ‘Hasta Encontrarte’ (Until we find you) collective simply for carrying images bearing the faces of their loved ones. Physical violence adds to the emotional and psychological trauma we already bear. Meanwhile, federal and state forces were deployed to ensure the safety of tourists, an effort they have never made to search for our loved ones.

What are you demanding of the government and international bodies?

We demand, first and foremost, that the Mexican state make the search for missing people a real priority. We call on President Sheinbaum to meet with the families and collectives in person to reach genuine agreements on search, location and prevention. We want to know how many people have been found alive, to have proper investigations carried out and to have trained and empathetic staff who can provide us with real answers.

But this crisis extends beyond Mexico’s borders, and the response must do the same. The United Nations Committee on Enforced Disappearances and the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights have offered their assistance. We call on the government to accept it. Such cooperation is urgent, because there are tens of thousands of people of other nationalities who have gone missing in Mexico, and searching for them requires the activation of international mechanisms. Many are women who have been trafficked, and most are taken out of the country, so finding them depends on governments working together.

Finally, we call on the international community to not turn a blind eye to what’s happening, and on the media to help us amplify our demands, so our voices reach the world just as World Cup goals do.

We won’t rest until we find them. They were taken alive, and we want them back alive.

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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Mexico: ‘The World Cup is an opportunity to raise global awareness of the crisis of enforced disappearances’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Angélica Orozco 28.Jun.2026
The disappeared: Mexico’s industrial-scale human rights crisis CIVICUS Lens 22.Apr.2025

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Credit: Connie France/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Jul 3 2026 (IPS)

Right-wing candidate Keiko Fujimori has won Peru’s presidential runoff, narrowly defeating leftist Roberto Sánchez to become the country’s ninth president in a decade. She inherits a system so engineered for dysfunction that rather than making compromises, she may decide the concentration of power is her only means of survival. The constitution that created this trap was written by her father.

A system built to fail

Keiko, daughter of authoritarian former president Alberto Fujimori, has finally succeeded in her fourth consecutive runoff, having lost in 2011, 2016 and 2021. She won with a margin of roughly a quarter of a percentage point over a candidate who is a close ally of jailed former president Pedro Castillo. Both sides alleged fraud, filed claims and sent their supporters onto the streets.

Peru is often described as a democracy without parties. The party system disintegrated in the 1990s and was never rebuilt. In its place came a sequence of improvised candidacies and personal electoral vehicles that rise and fall with their founders. For the first-round vote on 12 April, the largest ballot paper in Peru’s history listed 35 candidates. Fujimori came first with just 17.19 per cent. Ultimately, most Peruvians didn’t vote for either candidate who made the runoff. A president elected on that basis has a mandate so weak that rivals can dispute it from day one, and they do.

Congressional seats scatter across dozens of parties, none of which dominates. But parties can combine to reach the two-thirds threshold needed to invoke a constitutional clause to impeach and remove a president on the grounds of ‘permanent moral incapacity’, a mechanism Peru’s constitution leaves deliberately vague. The Congress elected in 2021 removed three presidents in one term.

Authoritarian incentives

The constitutional mechanism that enables political instability is the reason Fujimori’s presidency could be dangerous. As she enters office with a razor-thin margin and no congressional majority, she faces an immediate strategic choice. She can seek compromise with her opponents, but this might signal that the threat of impeachment works, inviting it. Or she can move to concentrate power and weaken the institutions that constrain the executive, denying her opponents the tools they could use to remove her.

Everything points towards the second option. Most presidents recently removed by Congress were, at the time of their removal, attempting to govern within the rules, and the rules were weaponised against them. Pedro Castillo tried a different approach, dissolving Congress pre-emptively to forestall his impeachment. He was immediately arrested and removed. A politician who has watched this dynamic consume eight predecessors might conclude that the only way to survive is to change the game.

Keiko’s father ruled Peru from 1990 to 2000 as an elected president who progressively dismantled the institutions that constrained him. Two years into his first term, citing the simultaneous crises of hyperinflation and insurgency, he dissolved Congress and suspended the constitution. The emergency was real, but it was also an opportunity. Fujimori rewrote the constitution to entrench executive power, won re-election in 1995 and then won a fraud-tainted third term before being forced from office within months. His government became synonymous with grand corruption and human rights atrocities, including the forced sterilisation of over 272,000 mostly Indigenous women. After he was forced out in 2000, he was convicted of homicide and kidnapping, and imprisoned.

The constitution Alberto Fujimori wrote to entrench his power is still in force. The moral incapacity clause that the 1993 constitution retained – useful to Fujimori when he controlled Congress – has become the primary weapon congressional majorities have used to remove president after president. The most significant recent constitutional change, the reinstatement of a two-chamber Congress, may end up increasing congressional power. This is the system Keiko now has to deal with.

The costs of dysfunction

Peru’s dysfunction has long been sustained by a comforting fiction: that while politics is chaotic, the economy runs itself. Macro fundamentals have remained relatively stable. Inflation in 2025 ran at around 1.5 per cent, and the economy grew 3.4 per cent in 2024. But economic growth has roughly halved over a decade of turmoil. Poverty, at 27.6 per cent in 2024, remains above pre-pandemic levels. Homicides stand at 10.7 per 100,000 people, alongside an epidemic of extortion.

Freedoms are deteriorating and those who protest pay the highest price. In 2025, attempts to change the pension system triggered Gen Z-led protests that quickly expressed broader anger at corruption, insecurity and political dysfunction. Security forces responded with violence. In December 2024, the CIVICUS Monitor, which tracks civic space conditions globally, downgraded Peru to repressed status, its second-worst rating, citing years of escalating state violence and the systematic harassment of human rights defenders and journalists, who political figures routinely smear as terrorists and traitors.

In March 2025, Congress passed a law giving the Peruvian Agency for International Cooperation extensive powers to control, censor and persecute civil society organisations that receive foreign funding, threatening fines of up to US$720,000 and criminalising any use of foreign funds to support legal action against the Peruvian state. It is, in effect, a law against accountability.

Danger ahead

Keiko Fujimori ran a law-and-order campaign under the slogan ‘Fujimori returns, order returns’, casting the fight against organised crime as a sequel to her father’s 1990s war against insurgency and promising mass deployments of police and military forces. Her party championed a 2025 amnesty law shielding security forces and civilian armed groups from prosecution for disappearances, killings and torture during that conflict, in direct defiance of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. Keiko has been evasive about her father’s atrocities and has recast human rights as a matter of access to basic services rather than accountability for past abuses. Her record offers no grounds for optimism about civic space or democratic norms.

Keiko’s father justified breaking the rules that constrained him by pointing to insurgency and economic collapse. Keiko faces no insurgency and no hyperinflation, so if she moves to concentrate power, she will have to find her own justification, perhaps in a crime wave, a security emergency or a conspiracy of her enemies. The Fujimorist playbook could come back with a vengeance.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses Mexico’s enforced disappearance crisis with Angélica Orozco, a member of Fuerzas Unidas por Nuestros Desaparecidos en Nuevo León (FUNDENL), a collective of relatives of disappeared people and people who support them. Since 2012, FUNDENL has been searching for the disappeared and documenting the human rights crisis.

Angélica Orozco

What are your demands?

There are over 133,000 people missing in Mexico. To put this into perspective, the disappeared would fill the stadium where four World Cup matches are being played in Monterrey almost two and a half times over. You could put together over 5,100 football teams, and it would take 107 World Cups to see them all play. The UN warns that only about two in 10 of these crimes are reported, so the actual figure could be much higher.

We have been searching by every means possible for nearly 15 years, with almost no support, using our own resources. We have written books, occupied public squares, organised protests and taken part in conferences. The World Cup is yet another opportunity to raise global awareness of the humanitarian crisis caused by enforced disappearances. As the world’s attention is now focused on Canada, Mexico and the USA, we want everyone to know about our struggle.

We are not against football. We are simply asking that the authorities search for our loved ones, bring them home and ensure that no one else is disappeared. For this to happen, prevention is key. When FUNDENL detects recurring cases in an area, we issue alerts to the public. It’s a simple step that the authorities, who have first-hand information, should be taking but are not. They should also enforce the laws and protocols we already have, thanks to the struggle of families and campaign groups. The law mandates a national register of missing persons, but the existing one is incomplete, with misspelt names and duplicate entries. The law also requires search and investigation plans to be drawn up, yet these do not exist.

We simply want the government to do its job. Instead, it’s investing millions in the World Cup to give the impression that everything is fine, while the search for the disappeared continues to receive neither the attention nor the necessary resources. It should work to find the disappeared with the same dedication it has put into organising this tournament.

To this end, we are holding various protests in the host cities. We have translated our slogan, ‘Where are they?’, into 10 languages: the eight languages of the countries visiting Monterrey, plus English and Chinese. Using AI, we have dressed 21 missing people in the Mexican national team’s shirt and called them ‘Mexico’s national team’, because that’s the team the authorities don’t want to see. We’ve also played street football matches in solidarity and put up over 150 photographs of missing people outside the stadium in Monterrey.

How have authorities responded?

The response has been deplorable. Instead of addressing our demands, the state criminalises and stigmatises victims. In Mexico City, there was a heavy police presence to contain the marches. The Secretary of the Interior cast doubt on the funding for the families’ journey from Jalisco to the capital and announced she would investigate the source of the funds. It was an absurd insinuation. We have always organised ourselves using our own resources, precisely because the state has never supported us.

President Claudia Sheinbaum also played down the significance of the protests. She even went so far as to say, amidst laughter, that there were more staff from the search commissions and victim support services than protesters. For us, it’s not about numbers, but about our 133,000 loved ones who are no longer with us. These are people with families, homes and lives that were snatched away from them.

We’d hoped that this government, which prided itself on being progressive, would be different. It wasn’t to be. The first sign was clear. In her inaugural speech, President Sheinbaum made no mention of the disappeared or their families. She’s said so herself: what’s not named doesn’t exist. She’s never met with the families. Like previous governments, it seems she prefers to ignore this humanitarian crisis.

The determination to conceal this reality is evident. Here in Nuevo León, the governor put up tarpaulins in poor neighbourhoods to hide the poverty. He placed giant planters in front of the Square of the Disappeared, which we occupied in 2014, so the faces of our loved ones couldn’t be seen from the street. We protested and stuck their photographs on the planters, and the next day we got the government to remove them.

On that square, we had written a sign on the pavement that read ‘130,000 disappeared’. Against the backdrop of the World Cup, we went back to refresh the paint and update the figure to include a further 3,000 who have gone missing since. The effect was immediate. Some people from Sweden who were visiting the city came over to ask us for more information.

What makes these enforced disappearances?

For a disappearance to be considered enforced, there must be state involvement, whether direct or indirect. And such involvement exists, even if Sheinbaum wishes to deny it.

There isn’t always a video proving it was a public official who took a person away, but there are omissions that prove it. An official who fails to request call records in time, for example, becomes an accomplice, because that information is key to the search, but it’s only kept for two years, and if it isn’t requested before the deadline, it’s lost forever.

In many cases, there’s direct involvement. There have been instances where men wearing municipal police vests have taken people away and cases where traffic police intervened in a road accident and the people involved subsequently disappeared. The constant is that the evidence implicating them always vanishes.

Added to this is the state’s refusal to acknowledge the crisis. It’s like with illnesses. If you don’t recognise you have one, you can’t cure it. That also makes them responsible.

We are not the only ones saying this. The UN Committee on Enforced Disappearances has recognised the gravity of the situation and referred the case to the General Assembly.

Who are the victims and who is responsible?

Anyone can be made to disappear, in everyday circumstances. Some people have disappeared on their way home, or while popping out for a soft drink, or following a road accident.

Nuevo León is the state with the fifth-highest number of missing persons in Mexico, with over 7,000. Between January and May this year, a further 433 people went missing – an average of three a day – and around 70 per cent have still not been found.

If we are disappeared, it’s because the conditions for this to happen exist. The main one is impunity. Out of over 133,000 missing people, only 3,869 have an investigation file open, according to government figures. That’s almost absolute impunity.

Nor are there any consequences for officials who fail to investigate. They are simply moved to a different post. The official who currently heads the Local Search Commission spent three decades in the public prosecutor’s office and is repeating the same practices in her new role. The current mayor of Monterrey was the state attorney-general during the most violent years. Instead of being punished for their failure to act, they appear to have been rewarded. The same applies to criminals. We have come across people responsible for crimes in 2010 and 2011 who are still at large and committing the same crimes years later.

As the state fails to take responsibility, we have taken it upon ourselves to search for our missing loved ones, and what we have found is appalling. In Nuevo León, we have reported the existence of 10 extermination camps. In one of them, Las Abejas, we found over 250,000 fragments of human remains and more than 100 DNA profiles. This means 100 people haven’t returned home. There are also over 3,000 unidentified bodies and remains in mass graves in Nuevo León and over 70,000 across Mexico. Figures like these cannot be reached without a system set up to make people disappear with the complicity of the authorities.

What are you asking of the international community?

We ask our international visitors to turn their attention to this crisis, learn about our missing loved ones, show solidarity and help us search for them, because we don’t know whether any of them have been taken out of the country. We also ask them to take this demand to their governments, so they can add to the pressure on the Mexican authorities.

Pressure matters. That’s why we welcome the decision of the UN Committee on Enforced Disappearances. When it was made public, the Mexican state rejected it and treated it as an attack, rather than engaging with it.

Enforced disappearance is a crime against humanity. When someone is disappeared, they are torn away from their family and their entire community. That’s why we appeal to humanity: no person, anywhere in the world, should be made to disappear. As long as disappearances continue, we will not live in complete peace or democracy.

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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World Cup: ‘FIFA has placed itself on the side of the polluters, not the rest of the planet’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Frank Huisingh 15.Jun.2026
The disappeared: Mexico’s industrial-scale human rights crisis CIVICUS Lens 22.Apr.2025

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A protester holds up a placard thar reads ‘Resist, don’t compromise’ at a mass march held under the slogan ‘The people are hungry, the prisons are full’ through popular neighborhoods in Tunis, Tunisia, on 16 May 2026. Credit: Chedly Ben Ibrahim/NurPhoto via AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Jul 1 2026 (IPS)

In May, Tunisian lawyer and journalist Sonia Dahmani was handed her second conviction of the year. Her latest sentence, a two-year jail term, came in reaction to her criticism of poor prison conditions. She previously received an 18-month sentence for calling out the government’s anti-migrant policies. Dahmani faces five more charges under a 2022 cybercrime law that criminalises the spreading of what it calls ‘false information’.

Dahmani is one of many victims of President Kais Saied, who continues to steer Tunisia in an ever more repressive direction. Saied won a free and fair election in 2019, but in 2021 he removed the prime minister and parliament, ruling by decree instead. The following year, he rewrote the constitution to give himself near-absolute power, approved in a low-turnout referendum held after key opposing voices had been jailed. When he won his second term in 2024, credible opponents had been criminalised and barred from running. It’s all a long way from the democracy that sprang into life after the 2011 Jasmine Revolution.

Growing criminalisation

Saied’s repression operates behind a facade of legality, with the criminal justice system serving as a tool of presidential control. In 2022, Saied sacked judges who disagreed with him and gave himself the power to control judicial appointments. Courts now do his bidding and jail opponents. At least nine staff of civil society organisations have received prison sentences so far this year.

Journalists Borhen Bssais and Mourad Zeghidi received three-and-a-half-year sentences on trumped-up money laundering and tax evasion charges in January. In 2025, 37 journalists, lawyers, opposition politicians and other dissidents were found guilty of terrorism and plotting to destabilise Tunisia. Following a mass trial, some were given decades-long jail terms. A November 2025 appeal court hearing that defendants weren’t allowed to attend upheld almost all convictions and increased some sentences.

The latest phase of the crackdown is targeting anti-racism campaigners. Since 2023, Saied has deployed the populist strategy of attacking Black African migrants to distract from the economic problems he’s failed to address. He’s repeatedly accused migrants of being responsible for crime and disorder, fuelling violence against them from security forces and the public.

Saied has branded organisations that stand up for migrants’ rights as traitors and foreign agents. Vilification prepares the ground for incarceration. In March, Saadia Mosbah, president of Mnemty, a Tunisian association that fights against racism, received a staggering eight-year sentence on bogus illicit enrichment and money laundering charges. Five of her colleagues were convicted alongside her.

Mnemty faces the threat of being closed down, part of an assault on associational freedoms that has seen dozens of other civil society organisations suspended. Hundreds more could face the same treatment. In 2024, courts ordered the closure of the Tunisian Council for Refugees. Last November, two of its leaders, Mustapha Djemali and Abderrazek Krimi, received two-year sentences for offences under a 1975 law on passports and travel documents.

No one appears to be beyond the state’s reach. In March, a judge ordered the pretrial detention of seven people on money laundering charges for their involvement in the first Global Sumud Flotilla, which last October attempted to take humanitarian aid to Gaza’s besieged population. Meanwhile being one of the organisations that won the 2015 Nobel Peace Prize offered no protection for the Tunisian League for Human Rights. The group was slapped with a one-month suspension in April.

For civil society organisations, suspension marks the start of a process that can lead to dissolution. Civil society organisations also face asset freezes, lawsuits and tax investigations. The combination of criminalisation, legal harassment and top-down vilification results in a pervasive chilling effect.

Judges that don’t do Saied’s bidding are also at risk. Anas Hmedi, President of the Association of Tunisian Magistrates, has been subjected to criminal proceedings since 2022, with a summons on fresh charges issued in January.

Europe says little

Tunisians continue to protest. Hundreds marched in the capital, Tunis, on 6 June to demand media freedoms and the release of political prisoners. Protesters in May also called out Saied’s failure to address the economic crisis. But they need international support.

Last October, Saber Ben Chouchane was handed a death sentence for criticising Saied on Facebook. Authorities interpreted his posts as constituting crimes of attempting to change the form of government, insulting the president and spreading false information. But this time the repression backfired. The severity of the sentence caused such an international outcry that Saied was forced to pardon and release him. This shows that international criticism can make a difference.

The European Parliament spoke up last November, passing a resolution calling for the release of political prisoners and the repeal of the false information provisions. But such gestures have limits, as shown by Saied’s dismissal of the resolution as ‘blatant interference’.

Resistance to autocratisation takes more than words, but the EU isn’t acting. It’s in a weak position towards Saied because it pays the Tunisian government to help prevent migrants crossing into Europe, and in April 2025, it classified Tunisia as a safe country of origin. This means it believes migrants can be deported there on the basis that they won’t be at risk of persecution, a claim that rings hollow for the many from civil society now in jail.

EU policies have contributed to the rising number of migrants in Tunisia, since people can make it there but no further. This makes them a ready target for Saied’s scapegoating. The EU must acknowledge its responsibility and change course. It must recognise that migrants’ rights in Tunisia aren’t being protected and that, in the current situation, only civil society can do that. In its dealings with Tunisia, it must insist that civil society freedoms are respected and people are free both to defend migrants’ rights and criticise the government’s decisions. Continuing silence will make it complicit in the consolidation of a dictatorship.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses Ghana’s anti-LGBTQI+ law with Leila Lariba, Executive Director of One Love Sisters Ghana, a community-driven organisation that advances human rights, social inclusion and wellbeing for Muslim LGBTQI+ people in Ghana.

On 29 May, Ghana’s parliament approved the Human Sexual Rights and Family Values Bill, which imposes prison terms of up to three years for people who identify as LGBTQI+ and three to five years for anyone deemed to promote, sponsor or support LGBTQI+ activities. With it, Ghana joins a growing group of West African states, including Burkina Faso, Mali, Niger and Senegal, that have recently passed anti-LGBTQI+ laws.

What does the new bill do, and how different is it from the version parliament approved in 2024?

Parliament approved the new anti-LGBTQI+ bill on 29 May and it now awaits President John Dramani Mahama’s signature. The bill criminalises LGBTQI+ people and anyone perceived to support, advocate for or provide services to them. It reaches far beyond identity and relationships into the freedoms of association, education, expression, healthcare and human rights advocacy. I have worked directly with LGBTQI+ communities across Ghana for years and I see this not as a legal document but as a tool that legitimises discrimination.

The version parliament approved in 2024, which former president Nana Akufo-Addo left office without signing, was already one of the continent’s most restrictive. The new text keeps most of its harmful provisions. It comes at a moment when LGBTQI+ people already face heightened fear, insecurity and stigma, and it makes simply existing, seeking support or speaking about human rights a potential crime.

Why is the bill being pushed now, and who’s behind it?

The bill is being pushed by anti-rights groups that have increasingly turned LGBTQI+ people into a political target. As many Ghanaians struggle with economic hardship, unemployment and governance concerns, public attention is being redirected towards a small and already excluded community.

Behind it stands a coalition of political figures, conservative religious groups and traditional leaders who frame LGBTQI+ rights as a threat to culture and family values. This narrative ignores Ghana’s long history of diversity and the fact that LGBTQI+ people belong to every family, community and faith group in the country and the world.

Do you expect President Dramani to sign the bill, and what would the consequences be?

It’s uncertain whether President Dramani will sign. But the damage is already done. The prolonged public debate has fuelled fear, encouraged discrimination and left many people feeling less safe. Even before it becomes law, the bill has emboldened hostility.

At One Love Sisters Ghana, we have documented rising reports of blackmail, evictions, family rejection, mental health crises, online harassment and workplace discrimination. People are now afraid to seek healthcare, legal help and psychosocial support in case they are exposed or targeted. When fear becomes institutionalised, people stop seeking help precisely when they need it most.

The law would threaten fundamental rights and deepen the stigma, isolation and vulnerability of people who already face daily barriers. As a queer Muslim activist, I know what it means to navigate many layers of exclusion. Many LGBTQI+ people are balancing identity, faith, family and safety. This law would make that even harder.

The impact would reach beyond individual people. Community organisations, healthcare providers, human rights defenders and support networks would also face risk, making it harder for vulnerable people to reach essential services and protection.

How are LGBTQI+ groups, including your organisation, responding?

Ghana’s LGBTQI+ communities are remarkably resilient. Across the country, people are supporting one another, sharing information, strengthening their safety and keeping community ties alive.

At One Love Sisters Ghana, we focus on community care, protection and wellbeing. We have tightened safety and security measures, expanded psychosocial support, documented rights violations and kept referring people in crisis to the help they need.

We work closely with activists, community leaders, health professionals, lawyers and regional partners to track developments and keep people informed and supported. Through our national support systems, we keep hearing from people worried about their safety, livelihoods and future.

We also hold on to hope. Our communities have survived hard times before, and we keep building solidarity, caring for one another and advocating for dignity and human rights.

What further restrictions could follow, and what support do you need to prevent them?

Our greatest fear is that this law lays the groundwork for broader restrictions on civil society, free expression and human rights work. Organisations could face tighter scrutiny, activists greater risk and excluded groups even harder access to services.

To prevent further harm, we need sustained support from national, regional and international allies for community safety initiatives, emergency response, legal assistance, mental health services and the protection of human rights defenders.

International solidarity should be led by local communities and grounded in human rights. Allies should amplify local voices, back grassroots organisations and keep advocating for fundamental freedoms.

This is bigger than LGBTQI+ rights. It’s about the kind of society we want to be. Respect for human rights can’t be selective. When the rights of one group are restricted, it creates a precedent that can affect everyone.

As a queer Muslim feminist and human rights defender, I believe that dignity, freedom and safety belong to all people. The conversations happening today will shape the future of our democracy. I hope Ghana chooses compassion over fear, inclusion over exclusion and human dignity over discrimination.

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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Gender rights: rollback and resistance CIVICUS | State of Civil Society Report 2026
Senegal: ‘The new law criminalises not only LGBTQI+ people but also anyone offering support’ CIVICUS Lens | Anonymous interview 21.May.2026
Ghana: ‘The anti-LGBTQI+ law enshrines prejudice and discrimination and perpetuates inequalities’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Solomon Atsuvia | 01.May.2024

Credit: Jaime Saldarriaga/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Jun 26 2026 (IPS)

On 21 June Colombians made their choice. By the narrowest of margins, Abelardo de la Espriella, a far-right criminal lawyer who’s never held elected office, became president-elect. Climate activists, human rights defenders, Indigenous communities and peace advocates have the most to lose from the incoming government’s agenda.

The election results follow the logic of a decade of deepening polarisation. Since the 2016 Peace Accord with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia began a contested and incomplete transition away from armed conflict, Colombian society has divided into two mutually hostile blocs. The election further revealed that no middle ground remains between them. The mainstream right is gone, its candidate receiving a humiliating 6.3 per cent of the first-round vote, and a new right, harsher and less constrained by institutional norms, has taken its place.

Peace agreement in trouble

Nothing divided the two runoff candidates more starkly than the 2016 Peace Accord. Iván Cepeda, the candidate backed by outgoing leftist President Gustavo Petro, is a long-time human rights advocate and senator, and chairs the Senate’s Peace and Post-Conflict Commission. He ran on a ‘comprehensive peace’ platform focused on addressing the structural roots of violence, including land access, inequality and the absence of state services in rural areas.

In contrast, De la Espriella said there would be no peace process under his watch, proposing instead to resume aerial bombardment of armed groups and reinstate herbicide fumigation of coca crops, a practice with well-documented environmental and public health consequences.

According to figures from Colombia’s Ombudsman’s Office, the six-decade conflict caused over 1.1 million killings and more than 200,000 enforced disappearances, while over nine million were forcibly displaced. That record, and the significant progress made since 2016, will now be judged expendable by a government that regards the accords as illegitimate.

For the communities living in territories where armed groups overlap with extractive industries, this is no abstract policy debate. Human rights organisations have warned that a return to a full military offensive will be devastating for civilian populations, particularly the environmental defenders and Indigenous communities who already face lethal threats. Colombia is the world’s deadliest country for environmental and land rights defenders. It’s likely about to get worse.

Cutting the human rights lifeline

De la Espriella also proposes to part ways with the international human rights architecture that has provided Colombia’s victims with a path to justice. On the campaign trail, he announced his intention to withdraw from ‘useless’ international organisations including the UN and the Organization of American States, and denounced the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights as ‘a farce’ that has served only to ‘support the left and persecute our security forces’.

In Colombia’s conflict-ridden territories where Afro-Colombian and Indigenous communities continue to experience massacres and displacement, international monitoring bodies are often the only source of independent verification that violence is happening. The American Convention on Human Rights, which Colombia ratified in 1973, is embedded in the country’s constitutional framework, shaping the interpretation of fundamental rights across the legal system.

The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights has hundreds of cases involving Colombia. In December 2024, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights found the state responsible for the 1995 enforced disappearance of two human rights defenders. Their families waited almost three decades for closure, and only got it because they turned to the regional system when domestic institutions failed them. Now that route could be closed.

What the results mean

Colombia’s change of direction could have global repercussions. Just weeks before the election, Colombia hosted the First Conference on Transitioning Away from Fossil Fuels, bringing together 57 states alongside civil society and scientists frustrated by the repeated failure of UN climate summits to deliver binding commitments on fossil fuel phase-out. Under Petro, renewable energy grew from two per cent to around 16 per cent of the energy mix, and Colombia issued no new contracts for fossil fuel exploration.

That era ends when de la Espriella takes office on 7 August. He frames fossil fuel expansion as a fiscal imperative and calls for the immediate legalisation of fracking, currently banned by judicial moratorium. Since the country includes significant parts of the Amazon rainforest, the climate impacts won’t be limited to Colombia.

Ultimately, De la Espriella did not win for his positions on peace, climate or human rights. He won on security and the promise of order. Calling himself ‘The Tiger’, he modelled his campaign on the populist template of Argentina’s President Javier Milei and El Salvador’s Nayib Bukele, vowing to shrink the state, build megaprisons and combat corruption with tools normally reserved for organised crime. The movement he founded, Defenders of the Homeland, carried Donald Trump’s public backing. The combination proved effective in a country exhausted by decades of violence where many are deeply sceptical of the left’s ability to deliver safety.

The far-right candidate converted legitimate grievances about insecurity into a mandate to dismantle the peace process, reverse climate commitments and withdraw from the international human rights architecture. The consequences will be felt most acutely by those his campaign never meant to speak to.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS speaks about the climate impacts of the 2026 World Cup with Frank Huisingh, founder of Fossil Free Football, a fan-led group that campaigns to end fossil fuel sponsorship in football and make the game more sustainable.

Frank Huisingh

What makes this the most polluting World Cup ever?

The 2026 World Cup is probably the most polluting event humanity has ever staged. It is bigger than any edition before it, with 48 teams and 104 matches played across 16 host cities in Canada, Mexico and the USA.

In past tournaments, much of the pollution came from building stadiums. Qatar built its venues almost from scratch in 2022, and Saudi Arabia will pour enormous amounts of concrete into constructing new stadiums for 2034. This World Cup can at least rely on existing infrastructure. Instead, the main driver of pollution is travel. The host cities are so far apart that the only way to get between most matches is by plane, and fans are effectively forced to fly to follow their team.

Another factor is that the tournament is a giant billboard for polluters. Its sponsors include airlines such as American Airlines and Qatar Airways, carmakers like Hyundai-Kia, and Bank of America, a major financier of fossil fuels. This advertising adds significant emissions, because advertising drives up consumption.

The most concerning announcement of all was that Aramco, the Saudi state oil company and the world’s biggest oil producer, would become the World Cup’s biggest sponsor. Fossil fuel advertising works differently from the rest. It is not really about selling us our next product, since we don’t make those choices consciously, but about building influence and soft power. Aramco is using the largest platform on earth to spread its message.

This soft power matters. At the COP climate talks, Saudi Arabia is widely regarded as the worst blocker of climate action, rivalled only by Russia and now the USA. That unpopularity is exactly why it builds soft power elsewhere, by sponsoring huge events like this or fronting ads with figures such as former player Rio Ferdinand and former Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger, which will be highly visible throughout the tournament.

What’s the impact of extreme heat?

Because of climate change, summer football is now threatened by extreme temperatures it was never designed for, and FIFA has not adapted.

Fans may spend the whole day outside and then sit in the sun inside the stadium, which is dangerous for anyone, young or old. FIFA is doing little to help them stay hydrated. If anything, it is making things worse, having recently announced that people will no longer be allowed to bring their own reusable bottles into stadiums. A basic precaution would be to guarantee that fans can refill their bottles whenever they need to.

For players it can be just as serious. Teams will try to prepare for the heat, but the first reports are already coming in of players left exhausted by it in the USA. And the three-minute cooling breaks FIFA has introduced, which will be applied in every match regardless of conditions, are too short to bring players’ body temperature down or let them rehydrate properly. Experts say they should last at least six minutes.

We worked with a group of over 20 medical, climate and sports-science experts on an open letter warning that FIFA’s heat standards are genuinely dangerous, even impossible to justify. The way to measure how the body actually experiences heat is the ‘wet bulb globe temperature’, which combines air temperature, humidity, sun radiation and wind speed.

The experts, in line with the players’ union, say measures should begin at 26°C wet bulb and matches should be postponed at 28°C. Yet FIFA only takes any precaution at 32°C, and even then, postponing a match is not mandatory. That threshold is extreme. A 32°C wet bulb reading can correspond to 45°C in dry air or 35°C in high humidity, conditions in which no one should be playing sports outside at all.

So FIFA is promoting the causes of the crisis, exposing players to extreme heat and then failing to protect them. It could do so much better.

How does all of this sit with FIFA’s climate commitments?

In 2021, FIFA signed up to United Nations commitments to cut its emissions by 50 per cent by 2030 and reach net zero by 2040. It was a moment when the climate movement had real momentum and every organisation felt it had to put something down. But since then, the strategy has done little more than sit on paper, while FIFA has moved in the opposite direction.

Net zero by 2040 is a fantasy. The world won’t be net zero by then, so a travel-dependent tournament certainly won’t be either. The 50 per cent target, by contrast, is difficult but achievable. It could be reached by hosting the tournament in a smaller territory, using existing stadiums, encouraging fans to use public transport and prioritising local supporters rather than relying so heavily on international travel. International fans should absolutely be there – they are part of the experience – but it is also wonderful when the World Cup comes to town and local fans get the chance to attend.

Yet FIFA has taken no steps towards this target. Since signing up, its tournaments have only become more polluting. Politically and economically, FIFA has placed itself on the side of the fossil fuel industry and petrostates, not on the side of everyone else on the planet.

What can fans and civil society do?

Fossil Free Football is a tiny organisation, but we make as much noise as we can to hold FIFA accountable and force it to answer questions, which you can already see happening in the media. But we need many more players and fans alongside us.

Football can only survive if people can still go outside and play. So, if you love the game and care about its future, the first thing to do is speak up. Men’s football is often seen as conservative, but if you ask fans anywhere, they are as worried about the climate crisis as everyone else. That is why even talking about it with friends can make a difference, and it is where civil society activism begins.

From there, fans can call on their football associations and local clubs to act on climate. That might mean challenging a polluting sponsor, putting solar panels and a battery at the clubhouse or serving more plant-based food.

The same pressure is already working at the city level. A growing number of cities are banning fossil fuel advertising, much as we once did with tobacco when its impact on health became impossible to ignore. Amsterdam and Edinburgh have done it, and it can be replicated almost anywhere. Now football must do the same.

What lies ahead for the next World Cups?

I hope this tournament will be a wake-up call, and I fear the extreme heat and its toll on players may be what forces FIFA to change course. This summer might open the debate about moving the World Cup to winter, something that until now has only happened for Qatar.

The next event is the 2027 Women’s World Cup in Brazil, which Aramco is also set to sponsor. Tellingly, far more female players than male players have spoken out against the deal. We are campaigning to get it dropped before the tournament. It would be a shame for a country like Brazil, which has lately played a fairly positive role on climate, to host a tournament sponsored by the biggest polluter.

The 2030 World Cup will be hot too, with the tournament taking place mainly in Morocco, Portugal and Spain and with three opening matches in South America. Southern Europe and Northern Africa in summer are no place to play football. Meanwhile, stadium construction in Morocco is already drawing protests from locals and its emissions will be huge.

As for the 2034 World Cup in Saudi Arabia, eight years is a long time, especially as we are in the middle of a fossil fuel energy crisis driven by the war Israel and the USA are waging on Iran. Many Saudi infrastructure projects are already being scaled back, and the country and the world economy could look very different by then.

The risk, though, is that nothing changes politically at FIFA and the tournament goes ahead in Saudi Arabia, almost certainly in winter. That would mean yet another World Cup driving enormous emissions from construction, in a country that already imports a staggering share of the world’s concrete.

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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People hold electronic candles during a vigil at Liberty Square in Taipei on the anniversary of China’s 1989 crackdown on democracy protesters in Beijing's Tiananmen Square, 4 June 2026. Credit: Cheng-Chia Huang/AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Jun 19 2026 (IPS)

When performance artist Sammu Chen tried to tie a red thread to a streetpost, plainclothes police stopped him before he could finish. Chen has twice been detained for his symbolic acts of commemoration of the 4 June 1989 Tiananmen Square Massacre, when Chinese authorities killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, to crush democracy protests.

The day used to one of commemoration in Hong Kong. Tens of thousands used to attend the mass vigil. But authorities banned it during the COVID-19 pandemic and haven’t permitted it since.

Chen’s attempted act of commemoration took place near the former site of the banned vigil. Close by, police moved on another artist marking the anniversary by holding a question mark-shaped balloon. In recent years, other symbolic acts, such as silently holding candles or flowers, have led to arrests. The organisation that used to hold the vigil closed itself down in 2021 following police investigations and prosecution of its leaders.

China’s campaign to stamp out demands for democracy in Hong Kong doesn’t stop at its borders, as events in the UK recently made plain.

UK spy network

Last month, two men with dual British and Chinese nationality were found guilty of spying on Hong Kong democracy activists in the UK. The case showed how far the Chinese state is prepared to go to silence Hong Kong’s diaspora.

Chi Leung Wai, who worked for the UK’s Border Force, and Chung Biu Yuen, who worked for the Hong Kong Economic Trade Office in London, were found to have carried out shadow policing operations to gather information on exiles. The spies also targeted UK politicians critical of China.

One of their targets was Nathan Law. Law was a student leader and politician active in Hong Kong’s democracy movement, which mobilised in mass protests in 2014 and again in 2019. Having spent time in jail in 2017 for his role in protests, he headed into exile in 2020 when the authorities introduced a draconian National Security Law.

In 2023, Law was one of eight activists the Hong Kong police targeted with arrest warrants, with a bounty of around US$130,000 offered as a reward. Hong Kong police took Law’s parents and brother in for questioning, and in 2024, authorities revoked his passport and those of other exiled activists.

Escalating transnational repression

Such is the level of repression China exerts in Hong Kong that activism can only be sustained among the diaspora. But while many states are exerting transnational repression against diasporas and exiles, the spy case shows that China remains the world leader in this field.

Hong Kong police issued a further round of arrest warrants and bounties against six more exiled activists in December 2024 and announced bounties on another 19 in July 2025. Hong Kong authorities have also started targeting exiles with spurious tax demands and may be gearing up to weaponise international anti-money laundering cooperation agreements against them.

Exiles’ families in Hong Kong aren’t spared. In February, Kwok Yin-sang, father of exiled activist Anna Kwok, was handed an eight-month sentence for violating national security laws after he tried to cash in her education savings insurance policy.

Around 100,000 people have fled Hong Kong to the UK, which controlled the territory before handing it over to China in 1997. That makes them a particular target. In 2024, addresses of Hong Kong citizens living in the UK were published online and anti-migrant protesters were encouraged to attack them, in a move that showed all the signs of a Chinese influence operation.

Intensifying domestic repression

As a new CIVICUS report documents, repression has intensified further within Hong Kong. In 2024, authorities introduced the Safeguarding National Security Ordinance, which allows them to criminalise simple acts of dissent by claiming they constitute secession, sedition, subversion and other major crimes. They’ve used this latest law’s sweeping provisions and the 2020 National Security Law to prosecute activists, dissidents and journalists. Since 2020, Hong Kong authorities have arrested at least 365 people and convicted 174 under the two laws. People have been convicted for such trivial offences as wearing T-shirts with protest slogans.

The authorities’ determination to silence dissent was on display again in the aftermath of a horrendous apartment complex fire in November 2025, in which over 160 people died. People were arrested for social media posts calling for accountability . Student Miles Kwan Ching-fung was detained and expelled from university after starting an online petition urging an independent investigation. China’s national security office in Hong Kong warned foreign journalists about negative coverage of the government’s response.

Hong Kong once had one of Asia’s most vibrant media environments, but now it ranks 140th out of 180 on the Reporters Without Borders World Press Freedom Index. In February, media owner Jimmy Lai, whose Apple Daily newspaper championed democracy, received a 20-year sentence under the National Security Law. Lai has been detained under multiple charges since 2019, often in solitary confinement. At 78 years old with diabetes and other reported health problems, he faces dying in jail. Despite Lai’s British citizenship, China has refused international appeals for his release.

The campaign against Lai continues, with four bookshop staff arrested in March on suspicion of selling copies of his biography, deemed a seditious publication. The authorities’ attempts to suppress the book are part of their wider cultural censorship, which extends to banning films, barring publishers from book fairs and demanding the blocking of YouTube videos of the protest anthem ‘Glory to Hong Kong’. In the face of this repression, many civil society organisations, media outlets and political parties have concluded that their only option is to close down.

In these circumstances, it will continue to fall on the diaspora to keep shining a light on the suppression of basic civic freedoms in Hong Kong. States where Hong Kong’s exiles live must be alert to the threats of China’s transnational repression and defend and protect exiled activists. They must confront the full scope of this repression, or be complicit in it.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

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CIVICUS discusses a proposed United Nations (UN) tax treaty with Jenny Ricks, General Secretary of Fight Inequality Alliance, a global movement that organises to counter the concentration of power and wealth in the hands of a small elite.

Jenny Ricks

Why do we need a global tax treaty, and what would an ambitious one look like?

Every year, trillions of dollars are drained from public services through tax avoidance, tax havens and sweetheart deals negotiated by and for the wealthiest corporations and people on the planet. This is a system designed by a powerful few, and it’s working exactly as intended. Countries across the global majority are losing money they urgently need for climate adaptation, hospitals and schools while billionaires park fortunes in jurisdictions that ask no questions.

An ambitious treaty must set minimum effective tax rates on corporate profits and extreme wealth, make automatic information sharing a baseline rather than an aspiration, and put in place binding commitments rather than voluntary frameworks that elites can walk away from when the political heat rises. The goal has to be redistribution at scale. Anything less is rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship.

How does the UN Convention compare to the OECD’s approach, and where might it fall short?

The OECD process was built by rich countries, for rich countries. The global majority had only observer status in negotiations that fundamentally shaped their economic futures. That’s the original sin of the existing framework and no amount of technical refinement changes the underlying power imbalance baked into it.

The UN Convention changes the venue and potentially changes the power balance. When every country has a voice and a vote, the interests of the majority of the world’s people have at least a fighting chance of being reflected in the outcome.

The shortcomings are real, though. Ambition gets negotiated down. Large economies drag their feet, threaten opt-outs or simply refuse to ratify. The convention’s potential is significant, but potential and outcome are very different things, and we have seen promising processes hollowed out before. Without a fundamental rethinking of the international system, including the UN itself, to put power firmly in the hands of the global majority, enforcement will remain elusive.

Who’s pushing the treaty forward, and who’s standing in the way?

States with the most to gain have shown the most political courage, while those that have profited most from the existing architecture are throwing sand in the gears. This pattern is not coincidental. Governments protecting the interests of their wealthiest people and most powerful corporations are the obstacle. The barriers are political, rooted in elite self-interest, and naming that clearly matters.

The negotiations are ongoing and fast-moving. For the latest developments, the Tax Justice Network database is the best place to look.

How is civil society influencing the treaty process?

The movement to tax the super-rich has to be built from the national to the global level. Movements shape what’s considered possible before politicians decide what’s acceptable. When we mobilise people in Kenya, Malaysia and Peru, in the streets and in people’s assemblies, we change the political cost calculation for decision-makers domestically and internationally. We demonstrate that there’s a constituency demanding this change, that it’s a matter of survival for millions of families, not an abstraction debated in Geneva conference rooms.

Fight Inequality Alliance and our allies have worked to surface frontline voices and lived experience in spaces that tend to run on position papers and spreadsheets. We have supported national alliances to bring their governments to the table with clear demands. We have made visible who benefits from the status quo, and that visibility increases accountability. Civil society doesn’t win these fights alone, but without sustained pressure from organised movements, the political space to win them simply doesn’t open.

What do civil society and states need to do to ensure equitable global taxation?

States that have pushed hardest for an ambitious convention must hold firm. Dilution always comes in the final stages, when powerful interests feel threatened. They should ratify promptly, implement genuinely and resist pressure from wealthier governments to hollow out enforcement mechanisms.

For civil society, the task is sustained pressure and political education. People need to understand the connection between tax justice and the hospital that closed, the school that’s crumbling, the debt that their governments cannot escape. That connection is real and it’s political, and once people see it, they don’t unsee it. That’s how movements grow and how the terms of debate shift. We need more of that, faster and bigger, and we need organisations with resources and reach to invest in building those connections alongside us, rather than commenting on the process from a distance.

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Global governance: power politics tests global rules CIVICUS | State of Civil Society Report 2026
UN at 80: a struggle for renewal in a time of crises CIVICUS Lens 19.Sep.2025
Trillions at stake in quest for tax justice CIVICUS Lens 31.Mar.2025

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Thousands gather outside Istanbul City Hall to mark one year since the arrest of Mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu on 18 March 2026. Credit: Yasin Akgul/AFP

By Inés M. Pousadela
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay, Jun 15 2026 (IPS)

When Hungary’s Prime Minister Viktor Orbán lost by a landslide to a unified opposition in April, Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan was watching. The lesson he drew was not that he should be more moderate; it was that he needed to crack down harder. He had already arrested Istanbul Mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu, the opposition Republican People’s Party (CHP)’s leading presidential contender, in March 2025. After Orbán’s defeat, he has accelerated his campaign to fracture the opposition and rewrite the rules before the next election in 2028.

Electoral autocracy

Erdoğan has been in power since 2003. After surviving a coup attempt in July 2016, he used emergency powers to purge the state at scale. Over 150,000 people were detained, fired or suspended from their jobs. Emergency decrees expanded the government’s power to shut down organisations and remove elected officials. A 2017 constitutional referendum, narrowly approved in a campaign that independent observers found deeply flawed, replaced Turkey’s parliamentary system with a hyper-presidential one.

Independent media has been systematically dismantled. Turkey now ranks 163rd out of 180 countries on Reporters Without Borders’ 2026 World Press Freedom Index. Yet elections have continued, and the opposition has continued to win at the municipal level, most strikingly in Istanbul in 2019 and again by an even wider margin in 2024. That residual competitiveness is what Erdoğan is now moving to close.

İmamoğlu had beaten Erdoğan’s candidate in Istanbul twice, was formally nominated as the CHP’s 2028 presidential candidate and polled strongly against Erdoğan nationally. Authorities arrested him on charges of corruption and links with terrorism as his nomination was under way, triggering Turkey’s largest wave of protests in over a decade. A 4,000-page indictment filed in November 2025 sought to sentence him to over 2,000 years in prison. Espionage charges followed in February 2026. His trial began in March amid continuing protests. He remains in prison, and in the 14 months since his arrest, over 500 more people have been detained, including 16 CHP-affiliated mayors.

With İmamoğlu imprisoned, Erdoğan’s next move was to prevent the CHP from consolidating around anyone else. On 21 May, an appeals court annulled the outcomes of the CHP’s 2023 national congress, ejecting the party’s elected leader Özgür Özel, who had raised the CHP to rough parity with Erdoğan’s Justice and Development Party (AKP) in national polls, and reinstating his predecessor Kemal Kılıçdaroğlu, a divisive figure who lost the last presidential election. Özel condemned the ruling as a judicial coup and refused to leave the party’s headquarters. Three days later, riot police stormed in, firing rubber bullets and teargas. The government denied any involvement, implausibly claiming the judiciary had acted independently. The operation was legal in form and political in substance.

Turkey’s constitution limits presidents to two five-year terms, and Erdoğan’s second expires in 2028. In May 2025, he appointed a legal team to draft a new constitution. It seems clear the goal is to extend his eligibility. The AKP and its nationalist allies fall short of the parliamentary threshold required to change the constitution or call a referendum on it. Some analysts believe the government’s recent initiative to end the decades-long conflict with the Kurdistan Workers’ Party is at least partly designed to attract enough parliamentary votes to clear that threshold.

There is a structural reason the stakes are so high. Turkey’s hyper-presidential system means that, unlike Orbán, Erdoğan would have no safe path back from electoral defeat. For him, losing power could mean political extinction. His crackdown is a response to this threat.

Civil society resistance

Turkey’s civil society has, however, not submitted. Huge protests followed İmamoğlu’s arrest. A mass rally marked his 100th day in jail, and people marched again when the CHP headquarters were raided. Most recently, when Erdoğan ordered the closure of Bilgi University, one of Turkey’s oldest liberal academic institutions, students and staff immediately gathered outside to protest. Within two days the government reversed the closure. This illustrated both the extent of Erdoğan’s repressive urges and their limits when met with swift resistance.

The government has responded to protest with blanket bans on public gatherings, social media restrictions and mass arrests. Four days after İmamoğlu’s arrest, at least 1,879 people had been detained. Police repeatedly intervened forcefully, using teargas and detaining protesters and journalists.

Orbán’s downfall has frightened Erdoğan as much as it has inspired the Turkish opposition. He is moving to eliminate the conditions that made it possible. He has got rid of the most credible and unifying opposition candidate, neutralised the main opposition party and is in the process of dismantling what’s left of an electoral architecture that, however tilted, could still allow the opposition to win.

Turkey’s democracy now depends on whether enough people keep showing up, and on whether they can keep resisting Erdoğan’s campaign to dismantle democracy.

Inés M. Pousadela is CIVICUS Head of Research and Analysis, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report. She is also a Professor of Comparative Politics at Universidad ORT Uruguay.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses Botswana’s decriminalisation of same-sex relations with Faith Gunda, a Botswana-based law student and human rights defender, a member of the CIVICUS Protest Lab and co-founder of Sisterhood Chain International, a solidarity initiative that supports grassroots groups and amplifies young women’s voices.

Faith Gunda

What does repeal mean for LGBTQI+ people?

The formal repeal is symbolic, but symbols matter because they tell people whether they belong. For years, criminal provisions sent a message to LGBTQI+ people in Botswana: you are criminals. Even after the courts ruled these provisions unconstitutional in 2019, they remained on the books, a constant reminder that the state saw their identities as a threat. Their removal aligns written law with constitutional values of dignity, equality, liberty and privacy. But more importantly, it says that LGBTQI+ people are not criminals.

This changes everything for young people. When the law no longer criminalises your identity, it has positive impacts on mental health, belonging and civic participation. It lets LGBTQI+ people report violence, seek healthcare and live openly without fear. People can breathe a little easier. They can imagine futures they couldn’t before.

This progress didn’t come from above. It came from years of relentless advocacy by LGBTQI+ activists, LGBTQI+ organisations such as Lesbians, Gays and Bisexuals of Botswana and everyday people willing to risk everything to challenge entrenched stigma. The formal repeal is not the end of a struggle. It’s a foundation for the next phase. The work continues.

Why did it take so long to remove provisions courts declared unconstitutional?

Legal victories and political change don’t move at the same pace. The courts were clear in 2019 that the law was unconstitutional. But court rulings cannot implement themselves. Colonial-era laws remain embedded in statute books because removing them takes political will and politicians fear backlash. For six years, LGBTQI+ people lived with a law the courts had already called unjust.

What finally made change happen was sustained pressure. Civil society organisations, human rights defenders and lawyers refused to let this go. The Court of Appeal upheld the judgment in 2021, and activists kept speaking up, organising and demanding implementation. In March, the law finally changed. So, this is the lesson: court rulings matter, but it’s sustained civic action that turns them into real protection.

What barriers remain, and what comes next?

Decriminalisation isn’t the same as equality, but it’s the foundation for it. Real equality means marriage rights, family recognition and anti-discrimination protections. The marriage equality case due to be heard in court in July will test whether constitutional protections reach beyond private intimacy into full citizenship and whether same-sex couples can access the dignity and legal recognition marriage provides.

But legal barriers are only a part of the story. Social barriers persist too, including stigma in families, healthcare systems, schools and workplaces. Legal reform creates protection, but it cannot instantly change rooted attitudes. Young people in Botswana increasingly believe everyone should be able to live authentically without fear. They are organising, speaking openly, refusing the silence previous generations endured. This generational shift is becoming the most powerful driver of change.

The journey is not linear, but the direction is undeniable. Meaningful reform takes continuous civic engagement. This means activists documenting and defending civic space, grassroots organisations amplifying youth leadership and people refusing to accept anything less than full humanity.

Is Botswana an example for Africa?

Botswana’s progress shouldn’t be romanticised. The country still faces social conservatism and discrimination, and its gains will be vulnerable unless they are continuously defended. But it offers a model to follow.

Botswana stands out on the continent because it succeeded through civic advocacy, constitutionalism and judicial independence. This matters all the more now, when several African governments are passing harsher anti-LGBTQI+ laws and dismissing these rights as ‘un-African’, even though the laws banning same-sex relations were colonial imports.

Botswana’s path challenges that narrative. It shows that African constitutional democracies can interpret dignity, equality and liberty inclusively, without abandoning local legal traditions. For human rights defenders across the region, Botswana is proof that civic engagement, sustained advocacy and strategic litigation can produce meaningful change even in difficult political climates.

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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Botswana: criminalisation of same-sex relations off the books CIVICUS Lens 21.May.2026
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Namibia: LGBTQI+ rights victory amid regression CIVICUS Lens 05.Jul.2024

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UN Special Rapporteur on the Occupied Palestinian Territories Francesca Albanese presents her latest report before delegates at the Human Rights Council in Geneva, Switzerland on 23 March 2026. Credit: Fabrice Coffrini/AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Jun 10 2026 (IPS)

For a few days in May, Francesca Albanese could live more easily. On 13 May, a US federal judge ruled that sanctions the Trump administration imposed on her violated her right to free expression. The government was forced to remove the UN Special Rapporteur on the Occupied Palestinian Territories from its sanctions list. But the reprieve lasted barely a week. On 27 May, after an appeals court suspended the ruling, the US Treasury restored sanctions.

The sanctions have been punishing. Due to the dominant role US institutions play in international financial transactions, Albanese can no longer use credit and debit cards. Her apartment in Washington DC has been seized, while Georgetown University ended her affiliation as a scholar. Her offence is to call out Israel’s genocide in Gaza and the occupation policies that preceded it.

An Italian citizen with a legal background, Albanese was appointed in 2022 and began her final term in 2025. She’s consistently been critical of Israel’s occupation of Palestinian territories. In 2024, she presented her Anatomy of a Genocide report to the Human Rights Council. The report found reasonable grounds to conclude that Israel was committing genocidal acts in Gaza, and called for an arms embargo. Her 2025 report, From Economy of Occupation to Economy of Genocide, set out the complicity of major companies in Israel’s human rights atrocities.

Albanese’s demands for justice have brought a fierce backlash from Israel and its allies. Israel called for her to be removed from her post and banned her from visiting Israel and Palestine. The Trump administration followed suit in calling for her sacking. When it imposed sanctions on Albanese last July, it was the first time these had been applied against a UN independent human rights expert.

Sanctions politicised

Albanese isn’t the only target. Democratic states have long applied sanctions against dictators, terrorists and human rights abusers, but the Trump administration is increasingly using them as a weapon against people who defend human rights.

This month, Israel received widespread international condemnation for its actions against the Global Sumud Flotilla, a civil society-led initiative to defy Israel’s chokehold on aid for Gaza and bring vital humanitarian supplies by sea. Israel intercepted the boats in international waters, abducted those on board and subjected them to sickening abuse. When Israel’s far-right national security minister Itamar Ben-Gvir posted a video of himself taunting the abducted activists, democratic states including Canada, Italy and the UK deplored his behaviour, and France and Poland banned him from their countries.

But the US government has done the opposite, imposing sanctions on four activists involved in organising the flotilla. The politicisation of sanctions is evident, given that one of Donald Trump’s first acts on returning to the presidency was to lift sanctions on violent Israeli West Bank settlers.

The International Criminal Court (ICC) is also a target. Last year the Trump administration sanctioned nine ICC officials. The measures came after the ICC issued arrest warrants on crimes against humanity and war crimes charges against Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and ex-Defence Minister Yoav Gallant, and in retaliation for the court’s investigation into potential US war crimes in Afghanistan.

Trump sanctioned two ICC officials in his first term and has repeatedly attacked the ICC, with reports last year that his administration was threatening further sanctions to try to force revisions of the court’s founding treaty, the Rome Statute, to explicitly prevent it having jurisdiction over non-member states such as the USA. Early in his second presidency, he issued an executive order threatening sanctions against anyone who participates in the ICC’s investigations. This sweeping order enabled the sanctions against Albanese.

Trump has also weaponised sanctions to block climate action. Last year the International Maritime Organization was about to finalise a deal to limit the shipping industry’s greenhouse gas emissions. At the last minute, adoption of the new rules was postponed when Trump threatened sanctions against states that supported the emissions curbs.

Chilling effect

Beyond their immediate effects, sanctions help repressive states smear human rights advocates as criminals and terrorists. For Albanese, sanctions form part of a broader campaign to restrict her right to speak out. She has received death threats, which have also been levelled against her daughter.

A broader chilling effect on civil society is visible. Concern about being penalised for sanctions violations caused two US-based human rights groups to pull out of the ICC’s annual meeting last year. For the Trump administration, sanctions are part of a wider onslaught on the rights of people and institutions to demand justice for Israel’s many human rights violations. They’ve come alongside violence against US protests in solidarity with Palestine, deportations of activists and threats to throw young people out of university and defund education institutions.

The misuse of sanctions also forms part of a broader assault on the institutions and rules of global governance. At the same time that the Trump administration is twisting international norms about how sanctions are used and who they’re applied to, it’s also choosing which organisations to participate in and which rules to follow depending on what it sees as the US national interest, and lashing out at international bodies and processes that bring human rights scrutiny.

A single ruling, now suspended, was never going to be enough against the Trump administration’s increasing use of sanctions as a tool to try to silence people. The democratic states that condemned Israel’s abuses against the flotilla activists must show the same resolve when the world’s most powerful state turns sanctions against people whose only offence is to insist that human rights apply everywhere, including in Gaza.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the interception of the Global Sumud Flotilla on its mission to bring humanitarian aid to Palestinians in Gaza with Musa Roshdy, a humanitarian activist who took part in the flotilla.

Musa Roshdy

What’s the Global Sumud Flotilla and why is it important?

The Global Sumud Flotilla was the second civilian maritime mission launched by a coalition of Palestinian solidarity organisations advocating for aid delivery to Palestinians in Gaza and the end of Israel’s illegal siege of Gaza. While it was the Global Sumud Flotilla’s second mission, this was the 39th sea-based attempt to break Israel’s illegal blockade. The Spring 2026 flotilla was organised in direct response to a call for aid put out by civil society organisations on the ground in Palestine.

On 15 April, we sailed from Barcelona with several hundred activists from dozens of countries including Brazil and Spain, determined to deliver aid to Palestinians facing severe deprivation. Our mission highlighted a crucial reality: if everyday civilians from all over the world can mobilise and get this close to establishing a humanitarian corridor, then governments can certainly do it. What’s missing is not ability or infrastructure, but political will. The flotilla represents civilian solidarity with Palestinians and a direct challenge to the illegal blockade. We were prepared for interception after Israel arrested the previous flotilla last year, but not for the scale of violence that followed.

How were you kidnapped?

I was kidnapped by the Israeli navy in the interception that occurred on 29 April, when we were sailing in international waters over 600 miles from occupied Palestine, off the coast of Crete. They attacked us in the middle of the night. We had little warning before military motorboats approached us at high speed. They pointed rifles at us and announced on a megaphone that they were the Israeli navy, they were boarding our vessel and we needed to go inside immediately or they would shoot us.

That night, the Israeli military stopped 22 of the 54 boats in the flotilla en route to Gaza. There’s no legal precedent for military action so far from Israel’s sea borders. We were in the European Union’s search-and-rescue zone, under Greek jurisdiction. But instead of protecting us, Greek coastguard ships observed Israel’s raid and then received us after we were tortured for two days.

Israel’s legal claims were absurd. They accused us of illegal entry into Israel when we were sailing to Gaza and were kidnapped en route. Most of the 180 activists were released in Greece, but two of us were abducted and brought before Ashkelon Magistrate’s Court in Israel on charges with no legal basis.

This violated fundamental principles of international law. You cannot take military action in international waters so far from your territory. You cannot abduct foreign nationals without due process. You cannot torture detainees. Yet all this happened.

Israel acts with impunity because the international community has failed to hold it accountable.

What did you endure in detention?

It was clear from the start they were trying to denigrate us for standing with Palestinians. I was forced onto my hands and knees and held in uncomfortable positions for hours. Soldiers stole my shoes, then stomped on my feet with their combat boots. I was left in just leggings and a tank top. We were held in makeshift prisons built from shipping containers. The soldiers deliberately manipulated the temperature, wetting the floor to freeze us at night, then forcing us outside under intense heat during the day. I experienced hypothermia both nights, as confirmed by a doctor who was imprisoned with me. When comrades tried to give me sweaters, soldiers took them away. At one point, a soldier pointed a rifle at my comrade and threatened to kill him for offering me a jacket in the cold.

Soldiers banged on containers and shone huge lights while we slept to keep us awake. They threw flashbangs and used force to drag people into solitary confinement. On the last day, they shot activists at point-blank range with rubber bullets. They took photographs and videos that showed us collecting our medications when they kidnapped us, but then denied us access to our medications once we were on the prison boat. Sixty-one people went on hunger strike. The food they provided, mostly bread, was insufficient to feed the rest of us, even with a third of us not eating. This cruelty is consistent with what Palestinians experience in Israeli detention, though what we experienced pales in comparison with the cruelty they face.

The Israeli military intended to deter the humanitarians sailing to deliver aid to the people of Gaza, but they were unsuccessful. People around the world recognise that Palestinians in Gaza still have an overwhelming need for aid, legal protection and solidarity. Many activists who were detained with me on 29 April set sail again a few weeks later on 14 May and were intercepted off Cyprus just days later on 18 and 19 May.

What must change internationally?

What governments must do is clear but consistently absent. They must condemn the kidnapping of their citizens. They must impose targeted sanctions against Israeli officials, not humanitarian activists. They must denormalise diplomatic relations with Israel. For instance, Croatia’s leader just refused to approve Israel’s new ambassador to Croatia due to Israel’s current policies.

The most fundamental step is an arms embargo. If we stop supplying weapons to Israel, it cannot do what it is doing. Last year, civil society in Belgium won a court case preventing the transit of military equipment to Israel. France recognises Palestine but still supplies weapons. Governments know these mechanisms exist but lack the political will to prioritise Palestinian lives over strategic interests.

Western states are also complicit in other ways. Some of our torturers had US accents. Another had a German accent. Western governments allow their citizens to join the Israeli military, which commits war crimes and kidnaps and tortures their nationals, then lets them return home without consequence.

Instead of holding Israel accountable, many western states are restricting the space for pro-Palestinian activism. In the UK, Palestine Action faced an absurd terrorism designation for blocking weapons manufacturing. In Germany, authorities banned the watermelon symbol as antisemitic.

On 19 May, as the Israeli military was kidnapping humanitarians in international waters, the United States Department of the Treasury sanctioned four leaders of the Global Sumud Flotilla, calling humanitarian aid delivery ‘pro-terror’, and blocking all access to financial institutions in the USA. The mechanism used by the USA to sanction humanitarian activists was recently deemed illegal by a federal judge when applied to Francesca Albanese, the United Nations Special Rapporteur on the Occupied Palestinian Territories. It criminalises support for Palestine and conflates it with support for terrorism.

What lies ahead for activism for Palestinian rights?

Our detention and torture were intended as a deterrent, but they failed. In practice, they had the opposite effect. Frontline work exacts a real human cost and people need time to recharge. But activism will continue because Palestinians in Gaza are still facing genocide.

What this moment teaches is that rights exist because we enact them. When everyday people learn from Palestinian courage how to stand up, call atrocities atrocities, and demand basic decency and access to life itself, movements spread across borders. People will continue to pursue humanitarian work, join future flotillas and resist authoritarian restrictions on civic space. Tactics will adapt, new symbols will emerge – as when the watermelon was adopted because Palestinians couldn’t display their flag – but the work won’t stop.

Credit: D.V. Bakke

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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Global Sumud Flotilla/Instagram
Humans of the Global Sumud Flotilla/Instagram
Musa Roshdy/Instagram

SEE ALSO
USA: sanctions weaponised against human rights CIVICUS Lens 01.Jun.2026
Gaza: ceasefire an illusion CIVICUS Lens 16.Mar.2026
Palestine: ‘The EU cannot position itself as a defender of human rights while being one of Israel’s primary arms markets’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with 7amleh 26.Mar.2026

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Credit: UN News

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, Jun 5 2026 (IPS)

Ahead of World Environment Day, the UN General Assembly made a vital commitment to protect people from climate impacts, adopting a resolution on the climate change obligations of states. The resolution follows up on the International Court of Justice (ICJ) advisory opinion issued last year, which found that states have a legal duty to prevent activities that cause environmental harm. Most states voted for the resolution despite a concerted campaign by the Trump administration to block it.

From ruling to resolution

The ICJ ruling was a landmark moment. It made clear that climate change is a human rights issue, because the right to a clean, healthy and sustainable environment is essential for human rights as a whole. Its ruling means that if states breach their climate obligations, it’s an intentionally wrongful act, opening them up to legal challenges.

The ICJ case was brought by the government of Vanuatu, but it was a victory for civil society, because the campaign to seek a ruling was started by law students who formed an organisation, Pacific Islands Students Fighting Climate Change, to pressure their governments to go to the court.

ICJ advisory opinions aren’t legally binding, but their reasoning often plays a part in litigation efforts, strengthening the climate lawsuits civil society is increasingly bringing against states and corporations. It’s already being referenced in court hearings. Last year, a Brazilian judge cited it when he ordered a coalmine and thermoelectric plant to cease operations, although his ruling is currently on hold pending an appeal.

However, at the latest global climate summit, COP30, the Saudi Arabian government vetoed any reference to the ICJ ruling. Vanuatu therefore pushed for the General Assembly resolution to recognise the international legal standing of the judgment and encourage greater implementation.

Approval was far from unanimous. The Trump administration urged its allies to pressure Vanuatu to withdraw the resolution, part of its extensive campaign to defend the interests of fossil fuel corporations. It has also renounced the Paris Agreement and UN Framework Convention on Climate Change, withdrawn from an array of international climate and environmental bodies and blocked an agreement on global shipping emissions. It was one of eight states that voted against, alongside Belarus, Iran, Israel, Liberia, Russia, Saudi Arabia and Yemen, a roll call of petrostates, countries that routinely ignore international rules and their close allies. The Trump administration continues to dispute the resolution, having issued a statement questioning its legality.

Momentum and resistance

States that backed the resolution have made clear that action on the climate crisis isn’t a question of political convenience, but a matter of respecting international law.

The resolution further contributes to the growing momentum behind climate action, despite attempts by a handful of powerful states to drag the world backwards. Renewables now provide around 30 per cent of global electricity, and renewable energy investments in 2025 were more than double those in fossil fuels. The First Conference on Transitioning Away from Fossil Fuels, held in April, brought together 57 states to commit to developing national roadmaps to phase out fossil fuel production and consumption. The blockade of the Strait of Hormuz, through which a fifth of the world’s oil supplies flow, has brought further recognition of the reality that fossil fuel dependence benefits only a handful of petrostates and leaves everyone else vulnerable.

These shifts are having an impact. In May, the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change dropped its worst-case scenario for the possible effects of climate change, under which global temperatures could have risen to 4.5 degrees above preindustrial levels, because emissions cuts are making a difference.

Activists in the crosshairs

The ICJ case offers just one example of how civil society is making a crucial difference in pushing for climate action. Activists are urging ambition and resisting new fossil fuel projects. But they’re paying a heavy price. The Business and Human Rights Centre found that in 2025, three quarters of almost 800 attacks it documented against people who spoke out against businesses targeted those who mobilised on climate, environmental and land rights issues.

Ten activists from the Mother Nature Cambodia environmental group remain in jail, having been handed heavy sentences in 2024 in retaliation for their work to raise public awareness about the impacts of extractive and infrastructure projects. In Mexico, Kenia Hernandez, leader of the Zapata Vive peasant movement that protects land rights, is serving a ten-and-a-half year sentence on fabricated charges.

In Uganda, last year authorities arrested 11 activists for protesting against the construction of the East African Crude Oil Pipeline. In January, police raided the home of Harjeet Singh, one of India’s most prominent environmental activists and a vocal campaigner for a fossil fuel non-proliferation treaty. In Chile, where the government has weakened environmental laws, Indigenous women activists are experiencing intimidation, judicial harassment and violent attacks for opposing large-scale projects.

Last year the German government launched an inquiry into public funding of environmental groups, the Dutch parliament adopted a motion declaring Extinction Rebellion an ‘unlawful, society-disrupting and vandalistic organisation’ and the Portuguese government listed environmental groups in a section on terrorism of its annual security report. Authorities in Australia and New Zealand have arrested numerous people at climate and environmental protests, including in opposition to coal mining.

The UN resolution makes clear that criminalisation and violence are incompatible with states’ obligations, and everyone has a part to play in climate action. It calls on states to ‘ensure the full, meaningful and equal participation of Indigenous Peoples, local communities, people of African descent, women and girls, children and youth, persons with disabilities and people in vulnerable situations in decision-making on climate action’.

States that backed the resolution are attacking the people it demands they work with. They can’t meet their climate obligations unless they stop repressing civil society. The resolution should give fresh impetus to civil society’s calls to replace repression with partnership.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the outlook ahead of Peru’s runoff presidential election with David Hidalgo, journalist and executive director of OjoPúblico, a Peruvian digital investigative journalism outlet.

David Hidalgo

What were the first round results?

The Peruvian electoral system requires a candidate to secure over 50 per cent of the vote to win. The first round, held on 12 April, produced no clear winner, as none of the parties took over 20 per cent. Consequently, on 7 June there will be a runoff between two candidates who did not secure strong support but have merely cleared the minimum threshold to reach the runoff.

The contest between Fujimori of Fuerza Popular and Sánchez of Juntos por el Perú promises a difficult and polarised election. Meanwhile, Rafael López Aliaga of Renovación Popular, who came third trailing by some 20,000 votes, has persisted with an intense campaign alleging fraud.

It was an unusual election, as over 30 presidential candidates stood and, for the first time in over 20 years, voters also elected a bicameral parliament. The recent constitutional changes that reintroduced the Senate granted it considerable power, including the final say on whether to vacate a president by removing them via a parliamentary mechanism. In a country that has had eight presidents in 10 years, the composition of the new Senate will be just as decisive as the result of the presidential runoff.

Who are the candidates?

Keiko Fujimori is the daughter of Alberto Fujimori, who came to power in Peru in the 1990s and, two years after taking office, staged a coup and ruled autocratically throughout the decade. Fujimori left a legacy of corruption and serious human rights violations, for which he was sentenced to prison. His daughter defends his government and has built her campaign on the promise of a return to order, a message that may resonate with an electorate affected by historic levels of public insecurity.

However, she carries political baggage. She was the subject of a judicial investigation into the alleged illegal financing of her 2021 campaign, a process that made significant progress but was ultimately quashed. She is surrounded by figures who uncritically defend and recycle a hardline rhetoric that includes the passing of laws to grant amnesty for past human rights violations.

Sánchez built his campaign around the figure of ex-president Pedro Castillo, a former schoolteacher who channelled popular frustration and won the 2021 election, but lacked political preparation and ended up attempting a coup. Castillo is now in prison. Sánchez, who served as minister of trade in his government, has indicated that should he come to power, he could use presidential powers to pardon him.

His candidacy also raises concerns due to his closeness to Antauro Humala, a former military officer who spent almost 18 years in prison for leading a revolt in which four police officers were killed, and who holds radical views on various issues.

López Aliaga, a business leader and former mayor of Lima, has an equally controversial profile. Following a contentious tenure as mayor, he ran on a far-right platform that polarised the presidential campaign. He called for an insurgency when the results went against him and suggested the murder of a critical journalist. He constantly invokes conspiracy theories about an alleged state takeover by a supposed left-wing mafia and dismisses anyone who doesn’t share his views, from human rights organisations to Keiko Fujimori.

Was the first round election free and fair?

Although it was a turbulent electoral process, with incidents relating to the distribution of electoral materials and the opening of polling stations, the election was conducted within parameters that have been validated by various observation missions. There’s no evidence of a concerted effort to commit electoral fraud.

The irregularities that occurred are under investigation. The problem is that these gave rise to allegations of fraud put forward by López Aliaga and his party. Distorted versions of events were circulated to give the impression of significant impacts. For example, in some polling stations in southern Lima, electoral materials didn’t arrive on time, which led to false claims that, for this reason, a million people had been unable to vote. False information also circulated that electoral tally sheets were allegedly tampered with. It’s true there were incidents and irregularities, but there’s no evidence of fraud. This was acknowledged by the European Union’s observation mission.

The narrative of fraud is not new. Since the 2021 election, Keiko Fujimori’s party has maintained that she lost due to fraud, and has repeated this in every election since. López Aliaga adopted the same strategy this time and called for the election to be annulled.

What role have civil society and independent media played?

Disinformation and polarisation have reached historic levels, and the media have had to contend with them in situations of hostility and inequality. The landscape has been marked by constant attacks on independent media from the usual political figures and also parts of the press aligned with powerful corporate structures and others within the ecosystem of content creation for social media, which has emerged as the new arena for public debate.

At the same time, an authoritarian political alliance currently controlling the government and the main public institutions has consolidated a sort of legal stranglehold on independent media, which operate as non-profit organisations. The law on the Peruvian Agency for International Cooperation extends state control over civil society organisations working with international funding and requires their projects to be registered in advance with the state and subjected to coercive oversight, with disproportionate and unconstitutional sanctions. This law undermines editorial independence for independent media and creates risks incompatible with international press freedom standards.

On top of this, there’s a practice where some political groups accuse those who denounce state abuses, corruption and anti-rights practices of terrorism. This was particularly brutal following the social unrest that erupted after Castillo’s downfall in December 2022, when state repression of protests left around 50 people dead in southern Peru. The attacks targeted organisations supporting victims.

To tackle disinformation, used as a political tool in the electoral context, OjoPúblico, with the support of CIVICUS and in partnership with 26 organisations, launched an election coverage initiative using verification methods, in partnership with digital media outlets, radio stations and organised groups from different regions of Peru. The aim was to give the public verified information and show how disinformation undermines democracy. In six months, we generated almost three million views and over 180,000 social media interactions.

What’s the cause of instability in recent years?

The current crisis began in 2016, when Keiko Fujimori rejected the election results and pursued a sustained strategy to weaken the elected government, which culminated in it being removed from office by Congress. Since then, polarisation has deepened and Congress has taken on an increasingly destabilising role.

In this context, an unusual dynamic took hold, when parties at opposite ends of the political spectrum began acting in unison to benefit one another, halt investigations against them and advance their control over key state institutions such as the Constitutional Court, the Ombudsman’s Office and the Public Prosecutor’s Office. By appointing like-minded officials, they weakened the mechanisms of democratic control.

Added to this is the infiltration of illegal economies into politics. One example is that, according to revelations by independent journalists, 28 parties included people linked to illegal mining on their lists. This is an activity with an economic weight comparable to that of drug trafficking in past decades.

The combination of polarisation, institutional capture and the infiltration of criminal interests has sustained a system that reproduces itself election after election. Forces change and adapt, but they don’t disappear and instability persists.

What’s at stake in the runoff?

What’s at stake is democratic stability. This is regardless of who wins. Neither of the two candidates has provided sufficient guarantees that they will respect democratic principles and the rule of law. For 20 years, Peruvian voters have had to choose the lesser of two evils.

If Fujimori wins, she will seek to revive her father’s heavy-handed approach under the banner of law and order, one very much in line with the hard-right wave sweeping through Latin America. If Sánchez wins, his alliances with left-wing groups with a history of violence will open up an equally uncertain scenario.

Neither has presented a solid and convincing programme for the next five years. Their proposals rely more on slogans and spending pledges than on structural solutions to urgent problems such as record levels of insecurity, out-of-control illicit economies, and a fiscal situation undermined by disproportionate tax breaks.

But it’s also true that, given this complex scenario, this is not a choice between two equivalent risks. The dilemma facing Peruvian voters lies in understanding which candidate, if elected, will have greater power to pursue their authoritarian impulses without checks from the institutions that should restrain them.

In recent years, various international analyses have ceased to classify Peru as a democracy and now regard it as a hybrid regime. Depending on who wins, this trend will continue or intensify.

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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SEE ALSO
Peru: ‘If authorities once again ignore the popular will, accumulated discontent could trigger a new outbreak’ CIVICUS Lens | Anonymous interview 26.May.2026
Peru: ‘The adult public and the mainstream press ridiculed our protests’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Jackelinne Ponce Paredes 07.May.2026
Peru: ‘Young people have lost their fear and realised change requires constant participation’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Wildalr Lozano 21.Oct.2025

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Credit: Rizwan Tabassum/AFP

By Andrew Firmin
LONDON, May 22 2026 (IPS)

Narges Mohammadi, awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for her human rights activism in Iran, has been allowed to go home. After guards found her unconscious in her cell, the apparent victim of a heart attack, she was granted temporary release from prison and transferred to a hospital. However, she still faces the threat of being taken back to jail once her condition has improved.

Mohammadi has been repeatedly imprisoned for criticising the theocratic regime, demanding women’s rights, advocating for prison reform and campaigning against the death penalty. Over her lifetime she’s been sentenced to a total of 44 years. She’s already spent more than a decade behind bars, including 161 days in solitary confinement, and has also been sentenced to 154 lashes. In February she was handed a further seven-and-a-half-year sentence. From prison – where she experienced cardiac and blood pressure problems and severe weight loss – she has documented systematic rights violations against political prisoners, including sexual and physical abuse of women detainees, torture and extensive use of solitary confinement.

Mohammadi’s case is one among many. While her ordeal has rightly drawn international attention, others more distant from the spotlight are in danger. Three more women human rights activists – Pakhshan Azizi, Sharifeh Mohammadi and Varisheh Moradi – are on death row at imminent risk of execution. The dangers they and countless others face have grown sharply since the current war began.

Repression tightens

Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has made clear he wants regime change in Iran. On 1 March, an Israeli strike killed Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei. But if the intention was to topple the regime, it didn’t happen. Iran’s ruling theocratic structures run deep, with multiple layers of planned succession. Khamenei’s son Mojtaba Khamenei, injured in the same attack, was quickly named his replacement, despite Iran’s official ideology formally rejecting hereditary succession.

While clerical leaders have been killed, Iran’s coercive apparatus has gained in its day-to-day power, hardening the theocracy into something closer to a military dictatorship, with the Basij, the paramilitary volunteer force long deployed to crush public dissent, now front and centre.

Israeli and US hopes that Iranians would rise up against the regime have been disappointed. Iran has seen successive mass protest waves, each crushed with large-scale lethal violence. They include the Green Movement that demanded democracy in 2009 and 2010 and the Woman, Life, Freedom protests that demanded women’s rights in 2022 and 2023. The latest uprising came in December 2025 and January 2026, triggered by economic collapse, forging a movement that united broad sections of society to demand an end to the theocratic regime. The state suppressed it with shocking brutality, killing thousands and detaining tens of thousands.

By February, the uprising had been crushed. The Israeli-US intervention was unlikely to reignite a meaningful mass protest movement. If anything, for some Iranians the war has stoked patriotism and more intense enmity towards Israel and the USA. The anticipated revolt simply hasn’t happened.

Much of Iran’s vast diaspora has rallied in support of the war as a means of toppling the regime. But while the diaspora is united in demanding change, its array of ethnic minority organisations, Islamist factions, leftists, monarchists and republicans is bitterly divided over what should come next. Reza Pahlavi, son of the last shah, enjoys some support but others are wary about monarchical nostalgia and his close ties to Israel and the USA. The most credible potential unifying figures inside Iran are imprisoned or otherwise silenced.

Instead of losing control, the regime has tightened its repression. Even as Iran’s leaders wage a social media propaganda war abroad, at home they’ve imposed a near-total internet shutdown, including a block on VPN services. The blackout has caused immense economic harm, disrupting businesses and financial transactions and hitting women the hardest. This comes on top of the economic effects of the current US blockade of Iranian ports, sending inflation and unemployment soaring.

Under the cover of war and the internet shutdown, the government has accelerated executions of political prisoners. While precise figures are hard to get, rights groups report close to 200 executions so far this year, most preceded by prolonged torture to extract false confessions. Secret hangings are reportedly being carried out on an almost daily basis. Among those killed are people detained during the January protests. On 4 May, it was reported that three people arrested at protests on 8 and 9 January – Ebrahim Dolatabadinejad, Mohammadreza Miri and Mehdi Rasouli – had been hanged. For families, the suffering doesn’t end there, as authorities reportedly refuse to return bodies and pressure relatives to stay silent.

Local priorities

Democracy and human rights in Iran depend on the regime’s departure. But the latest war isn’t about any of this. For Netanyahu, with an election impending and anger remaining at his corruption charges and Israel’s security failures around the 7 October Hamas attacks, permanent warfare is a political strategy. Donald Trump’s many social media announcements provide little clue of what motivates a president who promised not to mire the USA in foreign wars, but distraction from low popularity ratings and his many appearances in the Epstein files may be a factor.

This war isn’t the way to achieve change. The regime appears entrenched and capable of surviving a longer conflict. Any peace deal would leave it intact, which its rulers would treat as a victory.

Real change will come when protests can grow into a mass movement large enough to withstand the lethal repression the state will inevitably deploy. That can only happen with sustained support that respects the autonomy of local civil society leaders and strengthens their capacity. The immediate priorities must be to protect credible local sources of information amid the information blackout and ensure the safety and security of Iran’s democracy and human rights activists.

Above all, states must press the Iranian government to halt executions and release everyone detained for speaking out, protesting and demanding change, beginning with Narges Mohammadi. Temporary medical release is nowhere near enough. The Iranian regime must let her be free.

Andrew Firmin is CIVICUS Editor-in-Chief, co-director and writer for CIVICUS Lens and co-author of the State of Civil Society Report.

For interviews or more information, please contact research@civicus.org

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CIVICUS discusses the cancellation of RightsCon 2026 with Barbora Bukovská, Senior Director for Law and Policy at ARTICLE 19, a human rights organisation that works on freedom of expression and information around the world.

Barbora Bukovská

Why does the cancellation of RightsCon matter?

This cancellation is significant on three levels. First, it means the loss of community. The human rights movement depends on relationships built across borders and over time. RightsCon was one of the few global spaces where civil society organisations, funders, governments, journalists, researchers and technology professionals could meet without political interference. Losing it means losing opportunities to build solidarity and strengthen the networks the movement runs on.

Second, it was a symbolic blow. RightsCon represented the idea that at least one global space existed where civil society could convene freely, protected from political pressure. That illusion is now shattered. The space proved vulnerable. It is yet more evidence of shrinking civic space globally, and the message it sends is chilling: no space is truly protected from state interference any more.

Third, it caused financial damage. Following funding cuts from the USA in early 2025 and reduced funding from other major donor governments, civil society is struggling to secure resources. Organisations had invested precious funding to attend RightsCon, covering travel, organising side events and preparing advocacy materials. These are resources vulnerable civil society organisations cannot afford to waste.

What does this episode reveal about transnational repression?

The cancellation lays bare how emboldened China feels to globalise its political red lines and exercise transnational repression. For years, it has applied pressure on governments to sideline Taiwanese participation in multilateral forums. Taiwan’s leading role in digital rights and technology has long irritated China. What’s new is other governments’ willingness to yield.

China’s tactics have grown more sophisticated. Rather than open confrontation, it leverages threats of diplomatic fallout or lost investment. The pressure now extends into spaces once thought beyond its reach, such as cultural institutions, rights conferences and universities. China has shown it can coerce governments across sectors and at multiple levels.

The wider context matters too. The USA, once a leading global supporter of internet freedom, has retreated from diplomatic and financial backing for digital rights. China’s influence on the African continent has expanded in the absence of rights-based alternatives. When democratic states withdraw support for civil society, authoritarian influence fills the void.

How do China’s leverage and Zambia’s democratic decline combine?

China’s leverage across Africa has grown substantially in recent years. Chinese funding has built major infrastructure in Zambia, including Mulungushi International Conference Centre, the venue where RightsCon was due to take place. Only days before the cancellation, China signed a new agreement to fund further development projects. Zambia carries roughly US$5 billion in debt to China, and that dependency comes with strings attached.

Domestically, the picture is similarly bleak. Despite President Hakainde Hichilema being elected in 2021 on a promise of democratic renewal, civic space has shrunk steadily since. In 2025, parliament passed cybersecurity laws now used to curtail freedom of expression online and detain political opponents. Ahead of the August 2026 general election, the government is enacting further laws designed to entrench its power. Political control is winning out over democratic commitments.

Yielding to Chinese pressure while restricting civic space at home calls Zambia’s commitment to the rule of law and human rights into serious doubt. The debt creates a channel through which China can extract political cooperation. Together, these dynamics create a dangerous precedent for other global south nations facing similar pressure.

What does this mean globally?

The danger extends well beyond Zambia. If a government can cancel a major international civil society gathering without serious diplomatic or institutional consequences, it sends the wrong signals. States must show that interference carries costs. Democratic states, multilateral organisations and regional institutions must impose costs through sustained pressure and exclusion from future convenings.

International human rights mechanisms, including the United Nations Special Rapporteur on the Rights to Freedom of Peaceful Assembly and of Association, have already condemned Zambia’s decision. But statements alone are not enough. Zambia shouldn’t be considered a reliable host for rights-based global dialogue in future.

If governments can yield to authoritarian pressure at the expense of civil society protections without paying a price, the pattern will spread.

What steps should be taken to protect global civil society forums?

Civil society can adapt but cannot insulate its gatherings from state pressure on its own. Real responsibility lies with states that claim to support human rights. They must send a diplomatic and political signal that interference in global forums is costly and prevent other governments from following Zambia’s example. They must reaffirm their commitment to multi-stakeholder forums and invest in civil society’s ability to convene and participate.

That includes member states of international coalitions such as the Freedom Online Coalition and the Media Freedom Coalition. They must act against restrictions on civic space and freedom of expression, using these platforms to impose costs on governments that interfere with civil society. The behaviour Zambia has just normalised must be made costly.

The UN, other intergovernmental organisations and states must work to guarantee the safety and openness of global gatherings. As democratic states withdraw support and authoritarian states expand their reach, the spaces where global civil society can gather, build relationships and advance human rights will continue to shrink. What’s at stake is the infrastructure of global civil society coordination and solidarity.

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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Democracy: an enduring aspiration CIVICUS | State of Civil Society Report 2026
Zambia: ‘Constitutional changes in an election period tend to be driven by political expediency rather than the public interest’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Gideon Musonda 24.Dec.2025
Zambia: ‘The NGO Bill strengthens legal mechanisms designed to discredit or silence critical civil society voices’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Josiah Kalala 03.Jun.2025

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Credit: Emmanuel Herman/Reuters via Gallo Images

By Hannah Wheatley, Joanna Makhlouf and Taís Siqueira
BAGAMOYO, Tanzania / BEIRUT, Lebanon / WASHINGTON D.C., May 18 2026 (IPS)

In an era when civil society funding is in decline, it’s time to rebel against a broken system.

Today, too much is being asked from the people already doing the most. In a time of multiple and connected global crises – of climate, conflict, democracy, disinformation, global governance, human rights and inclusion – and in a context of intensifying civic space restrictions and collapsing funding, funders and the intermediary organisations that distribute resources somehow expect frontline organisations to transform systemic injustices that have built up over centuries. At the same time, these groups are expected to keep meeting inflexible targets, writing flawless reports and keeping their teams emotionally and physically afloat.

As governments, international organisations, investors, philanthropists, civil society and business leaders meet at the Global Partnerships Conference on the future of international development, it’s time to do things differently.

Let’s stop asking local leaders to transform their communities before they’ve had space to heal. Let’s stop training grassroots organisations to become international clones. Let’s stop intermediaries replicating burnout culture.

No single organisation can undo the long legacy of colonialism or the systemic problems of global capitalism. And they shouldn’t have to. The role of the civil society ecosystem must be to build and protect space, redistribute power and resources and, most of all, stop transferring institutional pressure downwards. If we truly trust local civil society, we must also trust its limits. That means intermediaries must stand their ground with funders, set realistic expectations and champion the right to do less when circumstances demand it.

At CIVICUS’s Local Leadership Labs – an initiative to tackle the barriers that get in the way of local leadership of development – partners often report feeling compelled to deliver ambitious workplans that involve them reaching every district, leading multiple initiatives and facilitating extensive community engagements, even as civic space is closing around them. Driven by passion and the need to prove their worth in a competitive ecosystem, many have overextended without realising the toll on their wellbeing and sustainability.

Burnout is not just about long hours. It stems from impossible expectations in unsafe, high-pressure contexts. Civil society is striving to stretch every grant dollar, prove its worth at every reporting cycle and ensure the survival of communities. In restrictive civic space conditions, these pressures are compounded by harassment, intimidation, surveillance and violence.

The result is a constant feeling of not doing enough, even when the demands are structurally impossible. Over time, this erodes morale, health and leadership sustainability.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, funders proved that another way was possible. They provided unrestricted funding and offered flexibility and simplified reporting. Trust was extended. Partnerships were strengthened. But that willingness to experiment has not lasted.

What must change

It must be recognised that in these conditions, scaling back is not failure. It is how movements endure.

We have seen that investing in healing and reflection is not a luxury. It is what sustains movements. At Local Leadership Labs, partners working with survivors of state violence realised they could not move forward without first addressing exhaustion and trauma. Their care-centred approach showed that the process itself can be the outcome. Taking time for healing and thoughtful collaboration produces more sustainable, transformational results.

This is what the civil society ecosystem should support: not chasing impossible targets, but creating conditions for dignity, reflection and resilience.

Addressing burnout requires more than acknowledgement. It calls for rethinking about how support is structured and how expectations are set. Funders and intermediaries can help break the cycle by:

1. Budgeting time and priority for healing
Leaders are often asked to deliver systemic change while carrying unaddressed trauma. Without space for healing, burnout is inevitable. Intermediaries can normalise pacing, integrate healing into workplans and advocate with funders for timelines that reflect reality.

2. Showing funders the way
Funders need guidance on becoming more adaptable to intensifying civic space conditions and contexts of high volatility. Intermediaries can convene learning spaces where funders reflect on how flexibility and responsiveness protect communities and sustain movements. They can also challenge extractive, funder-driven processes and advocate for spaces where local civil society can lead and influence on its own terms.

3. Bridging, connecting and humanising
Behind funders, intermediaries and frontline civil society are people, all under institutional pressure. Intermediaries can help in both directions, by shielding local partners from unrealistic demands while working with funders to develop an understanding of what’s achievable. By cultivating empathy, they can replace transactional directives with reciprocal accountability, unlocking collaborations that go beyond the extractive.

In many contexts, civil society is holding the line in the face of authoritarianism, even worse attacks on human rights and still stronger repression. The enemies of democracy and human rights thrive when those defending freedoms and demanding social justice burn out. When forced to compete for scarce resources, organisations try to over-deliver to prove their worth, further deepening stress and accelerating exhaustion.

In this context, supporting the wellbeing of local civil society is not optional. It is central to protecting the energy that drives activism. Funders and intermediaries must pause, reflect and reset expectations. If we create space for healing, rest and resilience, movements will survive the current storm, and emerge equipped to resist, transform and win.

Taís Siqueira is Local Leadership Labs Coordinator at CIVICUS: World Alliance for Citizen Participation. Hannah Wheatley is CIVICUS’s former Data Analyst and Joanna Makhlouf is a former member of the Local Leadership Labs implementation team.

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CIVICUS discusses the rising trend of social media bans for children with Marie-Ève Nadeau, Head of International Affairs of the 5Rights Foundation, an organisation that promotes children’s rights in the digital environment.

Marie-Ève Nadeau

Are social media bans an effective way of protecting children?

Today, one in three internet users is a child, and digital technologies increasingly mediate all aspects of their lives, from the classroom to the playground, from their first friendships to how they see themselves. As evidence of harms and risks mounts, lawmakers around the world are racing to impose age limits on children’s access to social media. The instinct to act is right, but the current direction risks missing the point.

The real issue is the conditions children face when online. Children are growing up in a digital environment designed without their distinct rights, needs and vulnerabilities in mind. This is a deliberate choice. Tech companies’ business models prioritise commercial gain over children’s safety and wellbeing, deliberately embedding persuasive design, relentless engagement loops and extractive data practices by default. Fixing this requires more than blocking children’s access.

Age restrictions are not new, yet their effectiveness remains inconclusive. Banning children from specific services while leaving the underlying system untouched lets tech companies off the hook for recommender systems that push harmful content, persuasive design that keeps children compulsively engaged and data practices that exploit their attention for profit. Used in isolation, bans create an illusion of protection while the same harmful design practices continue unchallenged. Children are pushed towards other unregulated environments, such as AI chatbots, gaming platforms and educational technology services, where they face equivalent risks with even less scrutiny.

What do these bans mean for children’s rights to expression and information?

Children’s rights are interdependent and indivisible, and the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child General Comment No. 25 makes clear that all children’s rights apply fully in the digital environment. This includes the right to protection from harm, but also to the rights of access to information, expression and participation. In practice, tech companies have made these rights conditional on the commercial surveillance, exploitation and manipulation of children, eroding their privacy, safety, critical thinking and agency.

Age-based bans that restrict access without addressing underlying design practices create a false choice between freedom and safety. Children need both protection from harm and meaningful access to expression, information and participation. Restricting access without reforming the systems that embed risk fails to uphold the full range of children’s rights.

Who is most harmed by these bans, and what gaps do they create?

Children’s rights apply until the age of 18, yet proposed restrictions often only cover children under 16 and a narrow set of high-risk services. This creates gaps. Children above the age threshold, and those who circumvent poorly implemented restrictions, end up in unregulated spaces outside the scope of bans.

Bans can also entrench inequality. Children are not a homogeneous group, and those facing intersecting vulnerabilities linked to disability, gender, political opinion, race, religion or ethnic, national or social origin may heavily rely on digital spaces for expression, identity safety and support.

At the same time, engagement-based platform design often rewards and amplifies divisive and harmful content, for example on gender-based violence, heightening risks for excluded communities. Blanket bans do not create safer spaces, nor eliminate these harms. Instead, they displace them to less visible, less regulated and even less accountable spaces. Effective protection must ensure children can exercise their rights and have safe spaces of support and community.

How does age verification work, and what does it mean for children’s privacy?

Tech companies routinely invest heavily in targeting advertising and personalising content yet fail to apply the same rigour to protecting children. Age assurance, an umbrella term for both age estimation and age verification solutions, allows companies to recognise the presence of children and act accordingly. It must be lawful, rights-respecting and proportionate to risk. Data collection should be limited to what’s strictly necessary to establish age, and used only for that purpose.

Global privacy regulators found that 24 per cent of services lack any age assurance mechanism and 90 per cent of those relying on self-declaration are easily bypassed. Yet robust solutions exist. Australia’s age assurance technology trial demonstrates that privacy-preserving age verification can confirm age without exposing identity. Technical standards, such as the 2089.1-2024 Standard for Online Age Verification published by the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers, show that independently audited frameworks, like those used in product safety or pharmaceuticals, are both feasible and necessary to ensure age assurance systems are secure, proportionate and compliant.

For low-risk services appropriate for all users, there should be no requirement to establish age. Where services or functionalities present risk to children, companies should address or mitigate specific high-risk features rather than gatekeeping entire services.

What should governments demand from platforms to protect children?

Age restrictions have become part of a global playbook, notably in data protection regimes like the US Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA), which sets 13 as the threshold for consent to data collection. Poor implementation and enforcement of COPPA and similar laws have allowed tech companies to hide behind obscure disclaimers while failing to meaningfully restrict access and profiting from embedding risk into children’s digital experiences.

There’s another way forward. The priority should be holding tech companies accountable, not banning children from the digital world. That means banning exploitative practices, regulating risky features such as addictive design, manipulative recommender systems and extractive data practices, and requiring privacy, safety and age-appropriate design as the baseline.

It also means shifting to systemic risk management: companies should be legally required to anticipate, assess and mitigate how their products expose children to risk. This baseline already exists in other high-risk sectors such as aviation, food safety and medicine, where products must demonstrate safety before reaching the market.

A growing global consensus points to a clear path forward: embedding age-appropriate design, requiring child rights impact assessments, mandating privacy and safety by design and default, establishing effective enforcement mechanisms and ensuring independent auditing. Over 55 leading organisations and experts from all continents have endorsed the 10 best-practice principles developed by the 5Rights Foundation.

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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SEE ALSO
Child social media bans: a growing global problem CIVICUS Lens 05.May.2026
Technology: Innovation without accountability CIVICUS | State Of Civil Society Report 2026
North Macedonia: ‘The solution cannot be to cut children off social media, but to make it safer’ CIVICUS Lens | Interview with Goran Rizaov 23.Apr.2026

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