By discipline – DDRN

Climate Change and the Risk of State Extinction: A Challenge for International Law

Sofia Kiryttopoulou — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 11:50:20 +0000

Climate change is usually discussed as an environmental or economic problem. For some countries, however, it represents a far more fundamental challenge: a threat to their continued existence as states. Rising sea levels, coastal erosion and environmental degradation are already affecting several low-lying island countries, particularly in the Pacific and Indian Oceans.

For states such as the Maldives, Tuvalu and Kiribati, climate change is not a distant scenario but a present reality. If sea levels continue to rise during the twenty-first century, parts of their territory may become uninhabitable or even disappear entirely. This possibility raises a primary legal question: what happens to a state if it loses its territory?

The Crisis of Traditional Statehood

International law has traditionally assumed that states are stable territorial entities. Under traditional international law, a state is defined by the criteria established in the 1933 Montevideo Convention: a permanent population, a defined territory, a government, and the capacity to enter into relations with other states. Modern legal theory further emphasizes independence and the effective exercise of authority over a specific geographic area.

The climate crisis challenges this assumption. International law has historically dealt with the disappearance or transformation of states in political contexts such as war, annexation or state succession. The idea that a state might disappear due to environmental change is largely absent from existing legal frameworks. If a state were to lose its entire territory, it is unclear whether it could continue to exist as a subject of international law.

Small Island Developing States at Risk

The states most exposed to this risk belong largely to the group of Small Island Developing States (SIDS), a coalition of island and coastal countries that face structural vulnerabilities due to their small land area, geographic isolation and strong dependence on coastal ecosystems. According to the United Nations Office of the High Representative for Least Developed Countries, Landlocked Developing Countries and Small Island Developing States, these states are among the most vulnerable to climate change despite contributing minimally to global greenhouse gas emissions.

Many SIDS consist of coral atolls or low-lying islands where the highest elevation is only a few meters above sea level. As a result, even relatively modest sea-level rise can lead to coastal erosion, saltwater intrusion into freshwater supplies and the loss of habitable land. These pressures are already affecting communities in the Pacific and Indian Oceans and are expected to intensify throughout the century.

Because their territory is so limited, SIDS often have few options for internal relocation. This makes them particularly vulnerable not only to environmental degradation but also to the legal uncertainties that may arise if territorial loss accelerates.

Survival Strategies for Vulnerable States

In response to these risks, governments and scholars have begun exploring a range of potential strategies aimed at ensuring the survival of states threatened by climate change. These strategies generally fall into three broad categories: territorial adaptation, population relocation and legal innovation.

Territorial Adaptation

One approach focuses on preserving habitable territory through large-scale adaptation projects. These measures include coastal defenses, land reclamation and the construction of artificial islands designed to withstand rising sea levels.

Some island governments have already invested heavily in such initiatives. In the Maldives, for example, extensive land reclamation has been used to expand and elevate artificial islands such as Hulhumalé, a reclaimed island developed as a climate-resilient urban hub and built roughly two meters above sea level to reduce flooding risks. Experimental floating infrastructure projects have also been proposed as potential long-term solutions.

While these engineering solutions may help maintain habitable land and delay environmental pressures, they require significant financial resources and technical capacity. For many vulnerable states, implementing such large-scale projects remains a major challenge.

Planned Relocation and Mobility

A second strategy focuses on the relocation of populations as environmental conditions gradually deteriorate. Relocation may take place within national territory where possible, but in some cases it may involve migration to other states through bilateral agreements.

Some governments have already begun exploring long-term relocation options. Kiribati, for instance, has pursued policies aimed at preparing its population for international mobility through education and labor migration programs, often described as a strategy of “migration with dignity.” These initiatives aim to ensure that mobility occurs gradually and voluntarily rather than as a sudden humanitarian crisis.

Although relocation strategies can help protect affected populations, they raise complex questions about citizenship, political identity and the continued functioning of state institutions.

Even when relocation is carefully planned, it exposes a critical gap in International Law: individuals forced to leave their homes due to climate-induced territorial loss currently lack clear legal protections, because they do not meet the criteria set by the 1951 Geneva Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees. The Convention requires a “well-founded fear of being persecuted” on grounds such as race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion, a standard that neither environmental disasters nor rising sea levels satisfy. This is why the term “climate refugee” has no formal status in international law.

As a result, individuals displaced by the physical disappearance of their home states are denied the same legal protections or rights to asylum as political refugees, leaving their fate subject to the discretionary policies of host nations. This legal invisibility reflects a broader “crisis of identity” in the field: while the physical reality of displacement is undeniable, formal legal structures remain rooted in a pre-climate era, failing to provide a collective security framework for populations whose sovereign bond to their land has been severed by nature rather than politics.

Legal Continuity Without Territory

A third strategy involves the development of legal frameworks that would allow states to maintain their international legal personality even if their territory becomes uninhabitable.

Recent diplomatic initiatives suggest that such ideas are beginning to enter international practice. In 2023, Tuvalu signed the Falepili Union Treaty with Australia, which includes provisions recognizing the continuing statehood and sovereignty of Tuvalu despite the long-term risks posed by sea-level rise.

In parallel, scholars have proposed additional legal approaches, such as preserving existing maritime boundaries even if coastlines retreat. These discussions are closely linked to the interpretation of maritime rights under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, which governs the establishment of maritime zones.

Such proposals seek to ensure that vulnerable states retain control over their maritime resources and maintain their status within the international community even under changing environmental conditions.

Rethinking Statehood in the Age of Climate Change

None of these strategies alone provides a complete solution. Territorial adaptation may only delay environmental pressures, relocation raises difficult political and social questions, and legal innovations still require broader international recognition.

What the experience of vulnerable island states demonstrates is that climate change challenges some of the most basic assumptions on which the international legal system has historically been built. The traditional link between territory, population and sovereignty may no longer be as stable as previously assumed.

For this reason, the growing risk of climate-induced state extinction is not only a concern for a small group of island states. It represents a broader challenge for international law and the international community as a whole.

As sea levels continue to rise, the central question may not simply be whether certain territories will disappear, but whether international law can evolve quickly enough to ensure that the states and populations affected by these changes are not erased from the global order.

Sofia Kiryttopoulou is studying for a Bachelor’s Degree in Balkan, Slavic and Oriental Studies. Specialization: Politics and Law, at University of Macedonia | Thessaloniki, Greece.

Wasted at Both Ends: How the Global Food System Discards from Farm to Shelf

Sofia Kiryttopoulou — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 11:08:33 +0000

At a plantation in coastal Ecuador, a crate of bananas is set aside, not because it is spoiled, but because it is slightly curved in the wrong way, too small, or marked by minor blemishes. Thousands of kilometers away, in a Paris supermarket, sealed yogurt containers are emptied into a bin at the end of the day, discarded not for contamination, but because they have passed their “best before” date. Neither is unsafe. Yet both are destined for waste.

This contrast is not incidental. It reflects a deeper structural reality within the global food system, where food is routinely discarded both before and after it reaches the market. According to the Food and Agriculture Organization, roughly one-third of all food produced globally is lost or wasted, while the European Commission reports over 58 million tonnes discarded annually in Europe alone.

What emerges is not a broken system, but a coordinated one: production and retail practices that generate surplus on one end and enforce selectivity on the other. The result is a continuous flow of food that is grown, transported, and ultimately discarded at different stages of the same supply chain. To understand how this dynamic takes shape, it is necessary to begin at the source: the conditions under which food is grown, selected, and often discarded long before it ever reaches global markets.

The Producer’s Burden: Invisible Waste in Peru

In export-oriented regions such as Latin America, food waste is not primarily the result of poor farming practices or environmental conditions. It is shaped by the requirements of international trade.

Global supply chains operate under strict grading systems in which the value of produce is determined by standardized criteria of size, color, and shape. Retailers in high-income markets impose detailed specifications that define what is considered marketable. Produce that deviates from these parameters, even slightly, is excluded from export channels regardless of its nutritional quality. This system effectively prioritizes visual uniformity over edibility.

For producers these requirements create a structural dilemma. Because even minor imperfections can lead to rejection, farmers are compelled to overproduce as a form of risk management. To fulfill a contract for a fixed quantity of “Class A” produce, growers must account for the proportion of their harvest that will not meet these standards.

Evidence from Peru illustrates the scale of this dynamic. A case study from the REFRESH Project documents how cosmetic specifications imposed by export markets generate substantial losses at the farm level. In some crops, rejection rates range from 10 to 40 percent depending on quality requirements. In one instance, more than 3,500 tons of edible onions were discarded in a single year because they did not meet size or shape criteria. Citrus producers face even higher levels of uncertainty, with exportability rates for certain fruits dropping to around 50 percent. When local markets are unable to absorb this surplus, rejected produce is often left to decompose or is buried, as the cost of transport exceeds its potential value.

Price volatility further intensifies these losses. Agricultural markets are highly sensitive to fluctuations in supply and demand. Periods of overproduction can lead to sharp declines in prices, making it economically unviable to harvest or distribute crops. In such conditions, farmers may leave produce in the fields, not because it lacks demand in absolute terms, but because it cannot be sold at a price that covers production and distribution costs. This reflects a broader imbalance in which producers bear the risks of market instability while operating within constraints set by distant buyers.

The environmental implications of this upstream waste are significant. Food that is never consumed still embodies the full cost of its production. Water, fertilizers, land, and labor are expended regardless of whether the crop reaches the market. According to the Food and Agriculture Organization, agriculture accounts for a substantial share of global freshwater use, meaning that production losses translate directly into resource waste.

This is particularly evident in regions such as the Ica Valley in Peru, where large volumes of water are used to produce export crops that may ultimately be discarded due to market standards. Studies highlight that water-intensive food is wasted in areas already facing severe water stress, illustrating how food loss translates directly into inefficient use of scarce water resources.

The result is a system in which a significant share of food is filtered out at the very beginning of the supply chain. This upstream waste remains largely invisible to consumers, yet it forms a foundational part of the global food economy and sets the stage for further losses at the retail level.

The Retail Gatekeeper: Why Good Food Dies on the Shelf

While part of the global food waste crisis occurs on distant farms, it also continues in the climate-controlled aisles of supermarkets. In these regions, food waste is not caused by a lack of technology or storage capacity. Rather, it is the result of retail strategies that prioritize brand image, visually appealing displays, and risk avoidance over the actual consumption of food. Supermarkets function as the ultimate gatekeepers of the supply chain, and internal policies often mandate the disposal of large quantities of perfectly edible products.

One of the most significant drivers of this waste is the “aesthetic of abundance.” Retailers operate on the principle that overflowing shelves encourage purchases. This leads to a cycle of overstocking, particularly in produce, bakery, and deli sections. To maintain the appearance of abundance until closing time, stores stock more than they can reasonably expect to sell. In one case study of a supermarket in Poland, a single store generated 3.3 tonnes of food waste in just two weeks, with meat, fruits, and vegetables comprising more than half of the discarded volume. Often, it is cheaper for retailers to discard surplus than to risk a half-empty shelf affecting customer perception.

Date-label practices further exacerbate the problem. “Use By” dates indicate food safety, while “Best Before” dates refer only to quality. Many retail policies fail to distinguish between the two. Once a product reaches its “Best Before” date, it is frequently removed and discarded, even if it remains safe to consume. Research by WRAP shows that consumer confusion over date labels drives significant household waste, but the cycle begins with retailers, whose policies often prevent discounts or donations of items approaching these thresholds. Products such as yogurt, cheese, and bread are routinely disposed of despite being perfectly edible.

Policy interventions provide important examples of how this dynamic can be addressed. In 2016, France passed the Loi Garot, making it illegal for supermarkets over a certain size to destroy unsold food. Large grocers are now required to establish donation contracts with charities. Before the law, many stores destroyed edible products to prevent “dumpster diving.” While the legislation has increased food donations, over-ordering and waste at the retail level persist.

The retail system treats food as a high-volume, low-margin commodity where disposal functions as a routine inventory management tool. When a supermarket discards a crate of aged produce, it is not only wasting food. The energy, labor, water, and transportation that brought it to the shelf—including scarce water from Peru’s Ica Valley—is lost. The retail gatekeeper completes a cycle that began thousands of miles away, linking upstream overproduction to downstream disposal. By prioritizing a flawless shopping experience over resource efficiency, the system guarantees that millions of tonnes of food are grown, transported, and ultimately discarded.

Environmental Costs and Pathways Forward

The cumulative effect of waste at both ends of the supply chain is staggering. Globally, if food waste were a country, it would rank as the third-largest emitter of greenhouse gases, largely due to methane released from decomposing organic matter in landfills. Each discarded item carries the embedded energy, water, and labor that went into its production, transport, and storage. In regions like Peru’s Ica Valley, water scarcity is severe, yet millions of cubic meters are used annually to grow crops that never reach consumers. Similarly, fuel, fertilizer, and packaging invested in overproduced or rejected food in Latin America and the energy used to ship it thousands of miles to Europe or North America are effectively wasted, amplifying both carbon and resource footprints.

Addressing this dual-hemisphere crisis requires structural change. Shortening supply chains through direct-to-consumer models or subscription services for “ugly” produce allows farmers to sell imperfect but nutritious crops that would otherwise be discarded. Reforming cosmetic standards can significantly reduce waste at the production stage and ensure more food reaches markets while protecting both revenue and resources. On the retail side, clearer guidance on date labels and mandatory donation policies, such as France’s Loi Garot, can prevent edible food from being thrown away unnecessarily. Greater transparency in contracts between retailers and producers could reduce overproduction and distribute risk more evenly across the chain.

Reducing food waste is not a matter of isolated fixes but of rethinking the value of food. Each discarded item represents lost labor, water, energy, and land, resources concentrated in producing regions but wasted globally. Combining supply chain reforms, policy interventions, and consumer education can shift the system from a cycle of disposal to one that respects the true cost of food production. Tackling this challenge benefits both the environment and the communities that grow the food, creating a more equitable and sustainable global food system.

Sofia Kiryttopoulou is studying for a Bachelor’s Degree in Balkan, Slavic and Oriental Studies. Specialization: Politics and Law, at University of Macedonia | Thessaloniki, Greece.

Namokora: Revisiting a Forgotten Massacre in Northern Uganda

William Odinga Balikuddembe — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 15:51:26 +0000

In Uganda, it is now forty years since President Yoweri Museveni captured power, and he has ruled ever since. When his National Resistance Army (NRA) fought its way into power in January 1986, unease swept through Namokora — a remote community 500 kilometres north of Kampala and the birthplace of the ousted president, Tito Okello Lutwa. Seven months later, that unease turned to horror. A brutal massacre unfolded, claiming 68 lives. Bodies lay unburied for weeks as scavengers tore at the remains. Nearly four decades later, the cries for justice still echo unanswered.

Researchers at Gulu University are now revisiting the incident, documenting testimonies from survivors, witnesses and victims’ families as part of efforts to preserve the historical record and inform ongoing discussions about recognition, justice and reparations.

Testimonies

Seated outside the house where he lived as a young man in Guruguru village, Atanansio Oyet, now 61, recalls the experience vividly.

“On the morning of August 19, one soldier whispered that we were going to be killed. Soon after, the soldiers formed two lines from our detention room to a parked lorry, beating us with clubs, gun butts, and kicks as we ran and climbed aboard. You had to grab a hanging rope while those already inside pulled you up. As we left Namokora Centre, a woman at the back held her head in her hands. Suddenly, she jumped off and ran into the bush. Another man jumped too, but he fell badly and couldn’t move. Then a few others and I jumped. The soldiers in the escort car behind us opened fire, killing people — those running and those still in the lorry,” narrates Oyet.

Oyet was rounded up from his home on August 15 in what appeared to be a random operation. He was taken to a small church room in Namokora trading centre, where others from Namokora and neighbouring sub-counties were being detained. They were subjected to torture during interrogations about guns and soldiers from the toppled regime. When he eventually returned to his village, it was deserted. His family and neighbours were hiding on a hill known as Akara. They remained in hiding for three months, venturing cautiously back to their homes only to harvest food.

Uthant Okot was only 16 and a boarding student at Kitgum High School when the massacre occurred. His father, Yonah Yesalom Okot, was among those killed — despite being an NRA collaborator and the Resistance Council III (RCIII) chairman for Namokora Subcounty under the new regime.

Yonah had fled Uganda’s capital Kampala after the overthrow of Lutwa. Having lived in the city for many years, he spoke both Luganda and Swahili. This made him the first point of contact between the NRA — reportedly commanded by Captain Matovu, whose name suggests he is a Muganda — and the Acholi-speaking community of northern Uganda.

“The NRA soldiers arrived around April or May 1986,” recalls Okot. “Our people feared there would be retaliation. Many had fled — some to Southern Sudan — but the soldiers came with a friendly approach. They would even play football with the kids here.”

For months, the soldiers seemed friendly, and people returned from hiding. But in July, an ambush on NRA troops by remnants of Tito Okello’s Uganda National Liberation Army (UNLA) reportedly took place at a centre called Akilok in Namokora sub county. It shattered that fragile calm.

The massacre

“Once some NRA soldiers were killed in the ambush, everything changed. Between August 10 and 15, they began rounding up villagers from Namokora and nearby sub-counties. Whoever they saw was now considered a rebel. They went on a rampage — killing people, raping women, and destroying granaries. Those they arrested were packed into a small church room at Namokora Mission — men and women alike,” said Okot.

August 19 was a Tuesday, a market day in Namokora. People had come from surrounding sub-counties, including Orom, Omiya Anyima, Kitgum Matidi, Wol, Omiya Pachar, and Lagoro. Around 100 people were forced onto the lorry. This included those already detained in the church, as well as others who had just been rounded up. The massacre unfolded about 1 km from Namokora Centre, at a place called Wii Gweng, when some captives began jumping from the truck.

Twenty-eight people were killed at this spot. Among them was Okot’s father. Okot’s uncle, James Akena, who had been arrested with his brother, survived the massacre despite major injuries. After his escape, he lived in an abandoned house for two weeks before being rescued and taken to Kalongo Hospital in Agago District.

The smell of death hung over Namokora for weeks, until an Italian missionary priest, Fr. Tarsicio Pazzaglia, mobilised some people in the neighbourhood, collecting and burying the decomposing bodies in a mass grave, today marked with a monument. Other killings occurred away from this site, with some who had escaped the truck being pursued.

The long silence

What followed the massacre was even greater chaos, fuelled by the subsequent rebellions of Alice Lakwena’s Holy Spirit Movement and Joseph Kony’s Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA). For two decades, northern Uganda was engulfed in violence — marked by more massacres, kidnappings, and the mass displacement of almost the entire Acholi population into internally displaced people’s camps. The memories of Namokora were buried under years of hardship, where mere survival became an achievement.

The quest for justice

But those memories resurfaced during the 2011 general elections, when one of the survivors aspiring for LCIII chairperson of Namokora Subcounty placed the massacre at the centre of his manifesto. Charles Onen was a boy when the killings happened. His uncle, Ben Nyeko, was killed, and his parents fled with him to Kalenga (then a subcounty, now a district).

“When I went into politics in 2011, the Namokora massacre was the main item on my agenda. I told people that if you elect me, I will make sure our people who were massacred get justice. They elected me,” said Onen.

Under Onen’s leadership, the survivors and relatives of the victims formed the Namokora United Relatives of the Massacred and Survivors Association (NURMSA), officially launching it in 2012. They unanimously elected Onen as their chairperson. Their main aim was to honour the dead and seek justice for what had happened — justice they primarily hoped would come in the form of compensation.

They drafted a constitution, compiled lists of victims and survivors, and set out to lobby and agitate for justice. They also began holding annual memorial prayers, the first on August 19, 2013, reportedly attended by more than 1,000 people.

Politics

What Onen had hoped would be a turning point instead deepened local political tensions. The massacre issue was swallowed by local political feuds, which Onen believes helped keep it invisible. In 2016, he chose not to seek re-election for the Namokora LC3 seat and also stepped down as NURMSA chair.

“That [NURMSA] was the beginning of real threats to my life. I met a lot of resistance from the district chair, Luka Nyeko, and the area Member of Parliament, Henry Okello Oryem. The only person who supported me was Beatrice Anyar, then Woman MP for Kitgum. During the memorial service, I told people: ‘I am making my will today. No one should take my body to my father’s home. Let my body be buried close to the victims.’”

Ironically, one of the people he accuses — Oryem — is the son of the late President Tito Okello, has ancestral roots in Namokora, and has served in the Museveni’s government since 2001. He currently holds the position of Minister of State for Foreign Affairs (International Cooperation).

“They intimidated me. They would use anonymous numbers to send threatening messages: ‘You are fighting the government. We shall deal with you.’ They organised to remove me from power. Even leaders from my own subcounty opposed me. Government programmes were withheld from me. Even Northern Uganda Social Action Fund 2 (NUSAF 2) support did not reach us. I had to take another step. I became very tired — every day was a fight. After I was removed [from the NURMSA Chair], the LC5 chair took over but died. His vice took over, and that one dropped the initiative.”

Efforts to reach Oryem were unsuccessful, as he did not respond to requests for an interview on the matter sent through his known telephone number.

The current push

The NURMSA mantle is now carried by Uthant Okot, who lost his father in the massacre but worked his way up to become the District Agriculture Officer for Kitgum. He was elected chairperson in 2023 during the annual memorial prayers, to serve a three-year term.

“We verified and updated the lists. We have 28 who died at the Wei Gweng site, 40 killed within the subcounties, and 31 survivors. We are now spreading our tentacles. We have taken the issue to the Chief Justice, Owiny-Dollo, whom we met in June 2024; to Lillian Aber [the current Woman MP for Kitgum and State Minister for Relief, Disaster Preparedness and Refugees]; and to the DISO and the RDC — they all know our issue. Even Nobert Mao [Minister of Justice and Constitutional Affairs] is now in the know,” says Okot.

Expert perspectives

Dr. Stella Laloyo Apecu, Chief of the Institute of Peace and Strategic Studies (IPSS) at Gulu University and Head of the Centre of Excellence in Transitional Justice and Refugee Studies, says the government’s failure to provide reparations for the Namokora massacre reflects a culture of impunity.

“This is one of the neglected transitional justice sites in the Acholi sub-region, just like Atiak and Mucwini. It was the NRA that caused their pain, and that same institution remains in power. It is also clear that what happened was payback because this was Tito Okello’s home area. Whatever happened was intentional — not a mistake. It was a clear act of revenge.

“Because it involved the ruling government, people even fear to tell their stories. The survivors are now elderly, and some have already died. The government needs to provide reparations. It has taken far too long,” she says.

Dr. Agatha Alidri, a Senior Lecturer in the Department of History at Gulu University, and one of the researchers documenting the testimonies, says the Namokora massacre reflects the broader challenges that have shaped Uganda’s post-colonial governments and their armies.

“At the centre of this is ethnicity. The massacre reflects Uganda’s deep-rooted north–south political divide. It highlights how ethnicity continues to shape both the armed forces and the state.

“The fact that it happened in the home of a former president speaks volumes. Innocent people were killed, and the government must remain accountable. The reality is that the NRM government, whose army committed the massacre, is still in power. It carries the responsibility to ensure healing,” she says.

Will justice come?

Onen, the man who initiated the push for accountability and compensation for Namokora victims and survivors, remains hopeful that the momentum built under NURMSA will eventually yield results.

“I have invested a lot in this cause at a personal level. We prepared a position paper on the victims, and I have made sure the documentation reaches all the relevant places. I am confident that one day this will bear fruit,” he says.

While Onen remains hopeful, whether justice will come may ultimately depend on the willingness of the Ugandan state to confront unresolved chapters of its own history. For the survivors of Namokora, the passage of time has not erased the memory of what happened — only the urgency of addressing it.

William Odinga Balikuddembe is a science journalist based in Kampala, Uganda, and the Chairman of Uganda Science Journalists’ Association (USJA).

Do Humor and War Go Together? What The Global South Can Teach Us

Manar Sadkou — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 14:39:47 +0000

“Buy one, get one free” usually sounds like a good deal. But in one small theatre in London, the offer comes with a twist: the free item is a burial shroud. The audience laughs, then hesitates, then laughs again.

This uneasy laughter is not accidental. It is exactly the reaction Palestinian writer Ahmed Masoud seeks to provoke, and it reflects a broader phenomenon that researchers are only beginning to take seriously: the role of humor in the Global South.

A gap in humor studies

In 2024, the European Journal of Humor Research dedicated a special issue to this topic, featuring contributions from scholars across Asia, Africa, and South America. The issue highlights a striking gap: despite its cultural significance, humor in the Global South remains largely underrepresented in academic research.

Although the term “Global South” is often understood geographically, the editorial “Humor and Conflict in the Global South” offers a broader definition. Authors Diego Hoefel, João Paulo Capelotti, and Rujuta Date argue that it refers not simply to location, but to communities that are politically, economically, or culturally marginalized due to histories of colonialism and global inequality.

These are precisely the contexts in which humor takes on heightened significance. The contributors to the special issue highlight its many roles: as satire used to challenge authoritarian politics in Zimbabwe, as dark comedy emerging from life under siege in Palestine, and even as a political tool in right-wing meme culture among supporters of Brazil’s former president Jair Bolsonaro. Taken together, these examples paint a clear picture: humor in the Global South is not peripheral; it is pervasive, political, and deeply embedded in everyday life.

Humor as cultural resistance in Palestine

One particularly striking example of this comes from the work of Natasha W. Vashisht, who examines how black comedy operates as a form of cultural resistance in Palestinian writer Ahmed Masoud’s play The Shroud Maker.

In her analysis, Vashisht argues that humor in the play does more than just entertain. Through Hajja Souad’s cynical voice, she argues that Masoud “confronts the desensitisation of violence against Palestinians,” reclaims control of the narrative, and invites “the audience to consider the harsh reality of Palestinian life in a more digestible way.”

This balance between humor and tragedy is central to the play. Hajja Souad, an elderly shroud maker living in Gaza, uses black comedy to make sense of a life shaped by loss and conflict. Her jokes are unsettling and often inappropriate, but they are deeply intentional. At one point, she remarks that the war is “good for business,” a line that is both shocking and darkly comic.

The joke lands because of its absurdity, but once the laughter fades, it leaves behind a sense of discomfort. Rather than diminishing the tragedy, Masoud’s use of dark humor draws the audience closer to it. It forces them to sit with the violence and pain faced by Palestinians, rather than turning away from it. Dr. Vashisht contends, “laughing in the face of adversity is invaluable in coping with trauma and making life more livable.”

Writer Ahmed Masoud shares this perspective. For him, humor is rooted in everyday life. “Humor is very, very important in our lives,” he explains. “It’s a way to console yourself… and to bring back your humanity.” Growing up under siege in Gaza, he describes humor as something that persists even in the most difficult circumstances. Rather than diminishing suffering, it allows people to endure it. In this sense, humor becomes both a coping mechanism and a form of resilience, insisting on humanity in situations that often strip it away.

He also notes that this sense of humor is shaped by the region. Being geographically and culturally close to Egypt, where comedy has long been central to film and theatre, meant growing up surrounded by it. Even if the style of humor varies, it becomes part of everyday life and something shared across households and generations. It’s a dynamic I found familiar myself, having grown up in a Moroccan household where Egyptian comedies, especially those of Adel Emam, were often playing in the background.

But for Masoud, humor is not only cultural. It is also deeply personal. In recent years, he has lost many family members, including his brother. Writing, he says, has become a way of processing that grief. And while his poetry leans toward raw emotion, humor remains central to his work in theatre, where it allows him to reach audiences differently. As Vashisht’s work shows, this is precisely what allows Masoud to offer “an alternative way of discussing violence and war beyond the dominant Western narrative that marginalises the Palestinian voice.”

In bringing Souad’s character to life, Masoud does something deliberate. He humanises Palestinians in a way that many narratives often fail to do. Hajja Souad is not simply a symbol of suffering. She is sharp, irreverent, flawed, and funny. “Telling the story… is resisting erasure,” he says, describing his work as a way of pushing back against narratives that reduce Palestinians to either victims or stereotypes. Instead, he presents them as complex individuals, shaped by trauma but not defined solely by it.

Beyond resistance: Humour, power, and the politics of representation

Masoud’s work is just one example of what is often overlooked in broader discussions of humor. As the editorial “Humor and Conflict in the Global South” clarifies, the issue is not a lack of humor but a lack of attention to it. Part of this may lie in the discomfort it creates because much of this humor forces audiences, particularly in the Global North, to confront realities they are often distanced from, whether geographically or politically.

Another part of this imbalance lies in the structures that shape whose voices are heard in the first place. As the editorial notes, humor studies remain heavily dominated by work from and about the Global North, leaving many perspectives from the Global South underrepresented. This reflects longer histories of colonialism and inequality that still shape how knowledge is produced today.

At the same time, humor in the Global South cannot be reduced to a single function. While it often operates as a form of resistance or coping, it can also take on more complex and, at times, troubling forms. As the special issue shows, humor is also present in right-wing meme culture, including among supporters of Jair Bolsonaro, who served as Brazil’s president from 2019 to 2023.

In his paper on political humor in Brazil, Viktor Chagas examines how memes circulated among Bolsonaro supporters function within this landscape. A former army captain and long-time congressman, Bolsonaro rose to power on a populist, anti-establishment platform and has been associated with strong nationalist and conservative positions. Over the course of his political career, he has drawn criticism for a number of public statements about women, LGBTQ+ individuals, and minority communities, as well as for his praise of Brazil’s former military dictatorship. His presidency was marked by significant political polarisation, controversies surrounding his handling of the COVID-19 pandemic, and international concern over rising deforestation in the Amazon.

Within this context, humor also becomes a powerful political tool. Circulating widely on platforms like WhatsApp and social media, memes supporting Bolsonaro often frame political debates in simplified, emotionally charged ways, turning complex issues into easily shareable jokes that reinforce “us versus them” narratives. In doing so, they do not just reflect political divisions but actively contribute to them.

Together, these examples show that humor in the Global South is not secondary or niche; it is part of everyday life. It can help people cope, challenge power, or, in some cases, reinforce it.

And yet, as this special issue of the European Journal of Humor Research makes clear, it remains underrepresented in the very fields that seek to study it. In this contribution, what the authors hope for is a global shift in perspective, one that takes seriously the voices, histories, and lived experiences that shape humor outside of the Global North.

Masoud’s work also shows what is at stake. Through humor, he tells stories that might otherwise be overlooked, and does so on his own terms. Taking that work seriously, alongside the many other forms of humor emerging across the Global South, can help close the gap between what is studied and what is lived.

Manar Sadkou is a Bachelor student in Globalization, Governance, and Law at Karlshochschule International University, and a DDRN Intern.

List of references

Do Ethnic Chinese Malaysians Actually Speak Chinese?

Francesco Biancalana — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 14:26:15 +0000

Scholars often observed how less-dominant languages are being spoken less and less. As a result, the dominant varieties might take over, leading the world toward less multilingual societies and cultural losses. Are non-Mandarin Chinese varieties in Malaysia an analogous trend of monolingualism and cultural loss? When the British colonised Malaysia, they regarded the Malays as unskilled and unable to develop the colonial economy. Chinese and Indian immigrants were considered as labourers. These migrants brought along their community languages so that they were able to communicate and stay close to help one another. What is the current sociolinguistic situation of Malaysian Chinese communities?

Linguistic Overview

Malaysia is a federation in Southeast Asia composed of 13 states and 3 separately administered federal territories. Such vast territory is characterised by a distinct linguistic landscape, the three major ethnic groups are Malay, Chinese, and Indian. Diverse communities who gained independence from British rule in 1957. On top of that, other minority groups are further observed in everyday life such as Vietnamese, French, German, Nepali, Tagalog, Bahasa Indonesian, Korean, and Japanese. In 2020, Malaysian Chinese are the second-largest ethnic community with approximately 6.91 million members among Malaysian citizens, the so called “ethnic Chinese” or in some specific cases “Tang people” 唐人 tángrén. Identifying themselves as distinctive groups with a historical inheritance of identity, reflecting their own linguistic and cultural varieties, such as the people from the Chinese territories of Fujian, Hakka, Fuzhou, Guangxi, Xinghua, Fuqing and others. Although linguists classify Chinese language varieties as distinct languages, they are often referred to as dialects. Many of these varieties are mutually unintelligible, even among speakers within the same group. The Chinese varieties spoken by Malaysian Chinese communities include several subgroups of Min (i.e., Hokkien, Teochew, Xinghua, Hainan, Foochow), Hakka, and Yue (i.e., Cantonese).

The dominance of Mandarin among Chinese communities in Mainland China, Taiwan, Macao, Hong Kong, Singapore, and other regions has been widely reported and analysed; this article focuses on the case of Malaysia. Although some Chinese schools in various overseas communities still teach dialects. The current mainstream trend in international Chinese inheritance language teaching is to unify the use of Mandarin as the standard, the so called “Common Language” 普通话 pǔtōnghuà. With an increase in Mandarin Chinese literacy resulting from Chinese medium education, formal usage of dialects has decreased over the years and may only be used in rural churches for preaching and reading of religious texts. Chinese primary schools in Malaysia are often funded by Chinese associations and individuals, with support sometimes politically incentivised during elections by Chinese-based parties. Mandarin was introduced as the medium of instruction in the 1920s and is widely used in media, education, and increasingly among younger Malaysian Chinese. There are also newspapers, magazines, dramas, and films on television and in cinemas using Mandarin as the primary medium.

Historical and Social Frameworks

Under British rule, schools for locals and migrant children were divided according to the languages of instruction. As a result, the colonial government did little to promote national integration or foster a shared identity, and migrant communities largely remained in separate enclaves without a strong sense of belonging to the nation. The history of the racial conflicts in Malaysia began with the Chinese migrations in the 19th century and was exacerbated in 1957 after the independence from the United Kingdom. The colonial rule and the Japanese occupation let to a communist insurgency with fragile race relations. The selection of Malay, the language of the majority, as the national and official language, along with special privileges granted under the Malaysian Constitution (e.g., customary land rights) was perceived as racially biased. Consequently, the majoritarian party, United Malays National Organisation (i.e., UMNO), significantly lost parliamentary seats. While it still held a majority in Parliament, the Chinese-based opposition party claimed “victory”. As a result, the tensions between Malays and Chinese communities culminated in the 1969 racial riots. In response, Malaysian policymakers promoted Bahasa Malaysia as the national language and developed a national education system to foster cultural unity and to support the nation’s social and political development. During the 1970s and 1980s, this approach came to be known as the ‘One Language One Culture’ policy, because it promoted a single, unified national culture.

Social tensions declined in the 1990s with government support for the teaching of standardised ethnic languages as a school subject. Standardised ethnic languages, namely Mandarin for the Chinese and Tamil for the Indian, serve as the medium of instruction. The dominant socio-political influences decide the family language for communication rather than parents/grandparents. Likewise, studies have also shown that many Malay children are not speaking Malay community languages, while Indian children are not learning Telugu, Gujarati, Punjabi and Malayalam. Children who attend Chinese or Tamil medium primary schools often acquire an additional language, Mandarin or Tamil. However, Tamil medium private schools are largely absent, as the Tamil community often cannot afford this option. Consequently, many families choose not to pass on the ethnic language to children, prioritising standard languages instead.

As reported by several analysts and scholars, racial discrimination in Malaysia remains far from being resolved. Racism pervades multiple aspects of contemporary Malaysian society, including employment-related discrimination, education, economic policies, housing, and language policies. Systemic exclusion from meaningful employment opportunities contributes to income inequality, social marginalisation, and intergenerational disadvantage, in breach of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and key International Labour Organisation conventions. Research indicates that students who experience racial bias are likely to undergo trauma, leading to decreased confidence and motivation, eroding academic performance, and negatively affecting long-term social and economic mobility. Moreover, racism in the housing sector is characterised by a combination of prejudice and structural weaknesses in state and federal regulation and policy. Regarding language policy, discriminatory practices have been observed affecting Chinese minorities and non-Malay-speaking individuals within Malay communities. However, it is important to highlight that multilinguism in Malaysia is allowed and incentivised. Article 152 of the Federal Constitution states, “While Malay is the national language, the freedom to learn, use and develop the mother tongue of all communities is expressly guaranteed”. Additionally, documents such as UNESCO Universal Declaration on Cultural Diversity (2001) affirm the importance of cultural plurality and recognise that “All persons have therefore the right to express themselves and to create and disseminate their work in the language of their choice, and particularly in their mother tongue” (i.e., Article 5). Conversely, it has been reported how Standard Chinese is gradually taking on this role, even replacing Chinese dialects within the domestic domain.

New Generations VS Old Generation?

To determine the active use of a language, linguists analyse several sociolinguistic factors, one of the most significant being usage among young people, who can ensure the preservation of both the language and the corresponding culture. Several factors contribute to the ongoing language shift among Chinese Malaysians. A significant number of Chinese Malaysian parents send children to Chinese-medium primary schools, where Mandarin serves as the medium of instruction. However, few studies have examined how the younger generation perceives the importance of the relation between dialects and cultural heritage. At the same time, the dominance of major languages in most social and professional domains has reduced opportunities to use community languages. In the broader context, speaking Mandarin is advantageous because it allows individuals to claim membership within the Chinese community worldwide. In the past, membership in Chinese dialect groups in Malaysia was essential for survival and for business networks. Giving speakers access to cultural ideals, norms, and ways of thinking that collectively contribute to the community. However, heritage languages now have low instrumental value, compared to Mandarin. Therefore, younger generations increasingly perceive Mandarin as conveying higher social prestige due to wider versatility of the language. On another note, research suggests that younger Chinese Malaysians tend to feel more positively toward Malaysian Mandarin Chinese than toward the variety spoken in Mainland China. Indicating that the language and cultural preferences of young Malaysians may reflect a strong sense of local cultural identity rather than external influence.

Studies on older generations bring peculiar results. Not only are new generations giving up on community languages, but also parents and grandparents seem to be slowly shifting toward Mandarin. The findings indicate that participants used Chinese heritage languages in everyday lives, particularly in domestic domains, employment, religion, and friendship. However, there is a noticeable shift toward Mandarin, which is increasingly perceived and used as the primary medium of communication in analogous circumstances. Analysis of the interviews suggests that the main functional distinctions between these languages remain in communication with friends and with family members or peers of the same or older generations. Not only do middle-aged and older speakers rely on Mandarin when interacting with younger generations who cannot understand or speak Chinese heritage languages, but also with individuals from other Malaysian states who may not share the same heritage languages. This language shift is not driven by personal preference for Mandarin among middle-aged and older speakers. Rather, it reflects a pragmatic need to accommodate younger generations and others who do not speak Chinese heritage languages. Moreover, recent studies also investigated the reasons that led parents to shift to Mandarin. Exposure of children to the heritage language through having grandparents as carers and media was not effective for language maintenance. Some parents also believed that transmitting heritage languages was not considered useful. In other circumstances, children are responsible for ‘micro-language decisions’ at the family level. The choice of Mandarin and English was affirmed by the broader sociopolitical context, whereby proficiency in standard languages ensures access to educational and career opportunities.

Conclusion

It seems inevitable that Chinese heritage languages in Malaysia are going to vanish. However, these studies report that Mandarin, particularly the Malaysian variety, plays a fundamental role in Malaysian Chinese communities as a primary language in community events, everyday life, media, and the domestic domain. Is Malaysian Mandarin Chinese then a modern tool to build a sense of a common cultural identity that strengthens local culture rather than an obstacle to heritage preservation?

Francesco Biancalana is a Master student at University of Naples, Italy, and a DDRN intern

Only a limited number of schools incorporate the use of Chinese dialects, and not all schools in Malaysia offer heritage language education, particularly those outside National-Type Chinese Schools, where Mandarin is the main medium. This results in noticeable differences in parental expectations and teaching standards. As noted by Qian (2024:60), “Malay teachers and classmates dominate public schools, while Chinese teachers and classmates dominate private schools. Parents of the two types of schools have different expectations for their children’s future, with children in public schools having more chances of staying in Malaysia to further their education. In contrast, private school students are more likely to go abroad for further studies after high school.” Moreover, access to heritage languages education is uneven across communities. As highlighted in the article, “Tamil medium private schools are largely absent, as the Tamil community often cannot afford this option.” This aligns with Ting (2009:11.8), who reported that “that privately-supported Tamil schools do not exist since the Tamil community cannot afford this luxury.”

Mandarin has become increasingly important in the economic sphere. In contrast to the past “Chinese dialect groups in Malaysia was essential for survival and for business networks” (Ong, 2023:33), Mandarin is now widely used within Chinese communities
for business purposes, making it a valuable asset in the job market.

List of references

Whose Arctic? Indigenous Agency in Regional Policy Formation

Florin-Madalin Nicu — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 13:00:16 +0000

The Arctic region has increasingly gained prominence not only as an area of environmental and strategic significance but as one of the most instructive arenas for examining the limits and possibilities of inclusive international governance. At the center of this examination stands a question that is both institutional and normative: to what extent do Arctic Indigenous peoples hold genuine agency in shaping the policies that govern the region they have inhabited for millennia? This article analyzes the role of Indigenous Permanent Participants (PPs) within the Arctic Council framework, the normative foundations of their participation rights under international law, the post-2022 institutional disruptions caused by the conflict in Ukraine, and the trajectory of Indigenous Arctic governance under Denmark’s 2025–2027 Chairship.

The Permanent Participant Framework

The Arctic Council, established by the Ottawa Declaration of September 19, 1996, introduced a governance innovation that remains unique in the landscape of intergovernmental institutions: the Permanent Participant (from now on it will be abbreviated as PP) category, which accords Indigenous peoples’ organizations formal and continuous participation rights alongside the eight Arctic member states. Six organizations currently hold this status, as detailed in Table 1 in the sidebar. Together, they represent approximately 500,000 Indigenous people across the Arctic, constituting a significant share of the region’s total population of four million.

The rights conferred by PP status are substantive. The Arctic Council’s Rules of Procedure specify that PPs may address all meetings, that their consultation must precede the adoption of meeting agendas, and that they may propose cooperative activities and projects. The Ottawa Declaration stipulates that decisions are taken by consensus of the Arctic States, with full consultation and involvement of the Permanent Participants, a formulation that defines both the formal constraint on PP power and the practical leverage it generates. While PPs cannot formally block a state decision, the mandatory consultation requirement creates strong political incentives for states to accommodate PP concerns before decisions are finalized. The Indigenous Peoples’ Secretariat (IPS), operational since 1994 and predating the Arctic Council itself, provides the institutional infrastructure that allows PPs to function as genuine governance actors rather than ceremonial participants, through capacity-building, logistical support, and systematic coordination among the six organizations.

The Normative Dimension: UNDRIP and FPIC

The institutional framework of the Arctic Council must be assessed against the broader normative standard established by the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), adopted by the UN General Assembly in 2007. UNDRIP’s most consequential provisions for Arctic governance concern Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC). Article 19 requires states to consult and cooperate in good faith with Indigenous peoples through their own representative institutions in order to obtain their free, prior and informed consent before adopting measures that may affect them, while Article 32 extends this requirement to projects affecting Indigenous lands, territories, and resources. The OHCHR clarifies that FPIC requires consent given voluntarily, sought sufficiently in advance, and based on complete and accessible information, a standard qualitatively distinct from consultation alone .

The gap between this standard and the Arctic Council’s consultation-only PP framework represents the central normative tension in Arctic Indigenous governance. In practice, however, the mandatory consultation process combined with consensus-based state decision-making approximates a de facto form of influence that provides PPs with meaningful leverage over policy outcomes, even absent formal consent rights. Several Nordic Arctic states, including Norway, Finland, and Denmark, are additionally bound by ILO Convention No. 169 on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, which creates legally enforceable consultation obligations reinforcing and extending the PP rights within the Council framework.

Policy Influence in Practice

Each of the six PPs exercises policy influence primarily through project leadership within the Arctic Council’s working groups. The ICC co-led the PAME working group project on Meaningful Engagement of Indigenous Peoples and Local Communities in Marine Activities (2021–2023), producing internationally recognized guidelines for sustainable shipping. The Saami Council’s Climate Impacts on Terrestrial Environments (CITE) project, developed with the Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Programme (AMAP), established a digital platform through which Sámi reindeer herders document seasonal landscape changes, integrating traditional knowledge directly into scientific climate models. RAIPON, AIA, and AAC jointly lead the Salmon Peoples of Arctic Rivers project within the Conservation of Arctic Flora and Fauna (CAFF) working group, linking Indigenous subsistence practices to biodiversity monitoring across Arctic river systems. The GCI leads the ArcticFIRE wildland fire monitoring project, addressing the growing threat of climate-driven boreal fires.

These roles reflect a model of Indigenous governance influence that operates through knowledge co-production rather than formal voting rights. Arctic Council assessment reports increasingly credit Indigenous monitoring data alongside conventional scientific sources: Inuit hunters have tracked changes in sea ice thickness and movement for generations, providing data that satellites simply cannot replicate. Sámi reindeer herders have documented shifts in grazing patterns that signal broader ecological disruption long before scientific surveys catch up, making Indigenous monitoring an addition to conventional science. The Council’s Strategic Plan 2021–2030 was explicitly co-developed between Arctic States and Permanent Participants, embedding Indigenous priorities into the Council’s long-term institutional vision.

Post-2022 Disruptions and Institutional Adaptation

The conflict in Ukraine in 2022 represented the most severe test of the Arctic Council framework since its establishment. On March 3, 2022, seven of the eight Arctic states announced a temporary pause in Council meetings and activities, suspending the institutional channels through which PPs exercise their governance roles. PP responses varied significantly, as documented in Table 1. The GCI and Saami Council supported the pause while insisting on continued inclusion in resumption planning. RAIPON’s endorsement of Russian military actions created a rupture in PP unity and raised unresolved questions about the representational integrity of the PP category under conditions of state political pressure.

In August 2023, all eight states reached consensus through written procedure on modalities for resuming working-group-level activities, consulting all six PPs throughout. In February 2024, Working Group meetings resumed virtually, described by ICC Chair Sara Olsvig as a key step in maintaining the full and effective participation of Arctic Indigenous Peoples. The 14th Ministerial Meeting of May 12, 2025 confirmed the Council’s institutional resilience, producing the Romssa–Tromsø Statement which reaffirmed the individual and collective rights of Arctic Indigenous Peoples and called for strengthening the capacity and project leadership role of Permanent Participants.

Denmark’s Chairship and Future Trajectories

The Kingdom of Denmark assumed the Arctic Council Chairship on May 12, 2025, with a program placing Indigenous Peoples as the first of five thematic priorities. Greenland’s Foreign Minister Vivian Motzfeldt serves as Chair and Greenland’s Arctic Ambassador Kenneth Høegh leads the Senior Arctic Officials process, meaning an Indigenous-majority territory is exercising the prerogatives of an Arctic Council Chair for the first time. Høegh has described the Chairship’s approach to Indigenous Knowledge as practical rather than symbolic, arguing that combining Western research and Indigenous knowledge produces a demonstrably better analytical and policy outcome.

The future effectiveness of Arctic governance will depend on whether the adaptations developed during the 2022–2025 crisis can sustain meaningful PP participation across the Council’s full mandate. The weakening of multilateral cooperation in the region has direct implications for SDGs 13, 14, 15, and 17, undermining the scientific collaboration and climate monitoring that underpin global environmental governance. Preserving robust Indigenous participation is not merely a question of rights fulfillment but a practical prerequisite for the legitimate and effective governance of one of the world’s most consequential and fragile regions.

Florin-Madalin Nicu is a student of the BACHELOR’S PROGRAM OF INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS at Eurasian National University “L.N. Gumilyov”, Kazakhstan

Table 1: Comparison of Permanent Participants — Status, Influence, and Post-2022 Positions

Sources: Arctic Council official pages, Ottawa Declaration, Iqaluit and Barrow Declarations, AC Rules of Procedure, and PP organizational websites. Admission years and formal rights from Arctic Council materials. https://oaarchive.arctic-council.org

Danish Science Festival 2026 Event – Debate on Migration and Mental Health

Manar Sadkou — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 11:17:29 +0000

Click for Danish Time: 21 April at 7.30pm-9.30pm FREE ADMISSION

Join us for an evening debate featuring presentations from researchers exploring the relationship between migration and mental health:

(1) Anthropologist, Assistent Prof. Gabriel Antonio Brown, Department of English, Germanic and Romance Studies, Centre for Culture and the Mind, University of Copenhagen. He will present Migration and Mental health in Latin America: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives.

(2) PostDoc Ahlam Chemlali, Department of Politics and Society, Aalborg Universitet. She will discuss her fieldwork on everyday life in transit and the lived experiences of migrants.

(3) Journalist Lise Josefsen Hermann tells about her own experiences reporting from the Global South. She will share insights from her work interviewing migrants for media and educational purposes, including materials used in Danish upper secondary schools. Lise Josefsen Hermann will also moderate the final debate and encourage questions from the audience throughout the event.

Please register by emailing your name to info@ddrn.dk Organizer: Danish Development Research Network (DDRN.dk) Read also: https://ddrn.dk/6773/; https://ddrn.dk/12108/; https://ddrn.dk/11706/; https://ddrn.dk/6754/

Venue: UNION, Nørre Allé 7, 2200 Cph.

Beyond a Buzzword: Sustainability as a Way of Life Among the Baduy People

Rostya Putri — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 11:13:15 +0000

This piece is my reflection on my visit to the magical forest in the Kendeng Mountains, home to the Baduy people, an indigenous community in Indonesia. Here, life unfolds in harmony with nature guided by a set of customary rules (pikukuh) passed down through generations. Walking through lush hills and hidden trails, I witnessed a way of life where humans and nature coexist in perfect balance, a journey that feels both timeless and otherworldly.

As you read on, you might be asking, “Who are the Baduy, and where do they live?”

Discovering the Baduy People

I had the chance to visit the Baduy People in 2025, in a village called Cibeo, located in Banten, the westernmost part of the island of Java in Indonesia. The Baduy area is within a few hours’ travel from Jakarta. The journey took around two hours from Tanah Abang Station to Rangkasbitung Station followed by a two-hour minivan ride to reach the final basecamp. From there, it was a seven hour trek to reach the village.

The Baduy community is divided into Outer and Inner Baduy. For outsiders unfamiliar with them, it can be a bit difficult to distinguish between the two. However, there is a striking difference, namely their clothing color. The Outer Baduy typically wear black or dark blue clothing, while the Inner Baduy wear white. The white clothing of the Inner Baduy symbolizes purity and reflects their adherence to their ancestral traditions. This commitment is part of a broader philosophy that shapes their daily life.

The Baduy philosophy says, “Lojor heunteu beunang dipotong, pèndèk heunteu beunang disambung.” In other words, what is long must not be cut, and what is short must not be joined. This teaching emphasizes respect for nature and the resources it provides: everything that exists has its purpose and should be preserved as it is, since nature already meets human needs without being altered for mere desires.

They allow researchers or visitors to document their daily life. In contrast, Inner Baduy is stricter, prohibiting the use of any technology and cutting off internet access. Outsiders are only allowed to stay in Inner Baduy for one day. If they wish to conduct further research, community representatives will walk from their homes and meet the researchers at the basecamp.

I still remember how excited I was when taking photos of the outer Baduy area, until I reached the barrier bridge and was reminded to turn off the devices. From that moment, the experience shifted and while staying in Inner Baduy, I was not allowed to take any pictures or record anything, so the trip could focus on reconnecting with the community and nature. I focused on remembering the moments, sketching the layout of the village, and being fully present.

Baduy Daily Life

According to their custom, the Baduy community is led by a leader called pu’un, who must be from the Inner Baduy community. They are the ones who establish laws and all matters related to their customs. Each Inner Baduy group has a Puun who leads their group. The pu’un is assisted by a Jaro (head of the Kapuunan) who manages the day-to-day government affairs. Each pu’un in Inner Baduy has different authorities; in Cibeo Village, where I stayed, the pu’un was responsible for Baduy community services, social affairs, and other regional matters. The Cibeo community also handled governance, agriculture, and communication with outsiders.

Agriculture is the primary livelihood of the Baduy. In general, the Baduy people make their living by farming, weaving, and trading, with no specific gender division, as both women and men perform the same tasks in the household. Their houses are constructed from bamboo, wood, and palm leaves and thatch are commonly used for roofing. The house typically lacks furniture such as tables, chairs, or beds.

For farming, they do not use chemical pesticides or fertilizers and only harvest once a year, in order to treat the environment gently. They also do not practice animal husbandry such as raising cows or other four-footed animals. The Baduy people have rice production on dry hillsides (huma), and use ecological pest control techniques. Their agricultural practices emphasize ecological balance and traditional knowledge, as highlighted in a study on Baduy ecological farming. Their methods of preserving the harvest provide an effective and sustainable approach to providing solutions for sustainable food.

To manage their harvest effectively and maintain a reliable food supply, they build a small bamboo house called leuit, located outside the main village. Leuit serves as a granary to store rice and its surplus until it is needed, the rice often being saved for up to a century without spoilage. I see the leuit not only as storage but as a form of disaster risk management: as they explained, if a fire were to occur, the leuit ensures that the community still has a secure supply of rice.

Living in Baduy slowly shaped my daily experience. They do not have bathrooms since all water-related activities take place in the river. Women and men have separate areas, as does the pu’un. At first, I felt a sense of awkwardness, but that feeling gradually disappeared as the Baduy women welcomed me warmly, showing me how to use natural ingredients for bathing and including me in their routines. Their kindness and openness made me feel part of the community, and I began to enjoy the refreshing coolness of the water.

I remember being given a plant stem, and when I asked about it, they simply explained that the stem was called honje and that it had to be crushed to release its fragrance. It was not until I got home that I learned more about honje. The stem of honje (Red Torch Ginger) is used as a soap substitute, producing natural bubbles. These natural materials are renewable, non-toxic, and biodegradable. This close relationship with natural resources extends to their approach to health. As one elder, whom we called “Father,” explained, the average life expectancy in the Baduy community is around 80 to 90 years. Even when someone falls ill, they rely on medicinal plants found throughout the village.

Rethinking Tourism in Baduy

The Baduy reject the concept of “tourism” and instead promote a new concept called Saba Budaya or communal bounding, as stipulated in Kanekes Village Law No. 1/2007 on Saba Budaya and the protection of Kanekes cultural communities. Over the past few years, Baduy has attracted a number of visitors both local and international. This interest has sparked debate about how far visitors’ habits and behavior may influence and potentially disrupt the Baduy way of life. While tourism brings cultural exchange and economic benefits, it also brings challenges. Traditions that were originally privately owned by the community have increasingly become public spectacles and this exposure has even prompted the Baduy leaders to raise their concerns with the Indonesian government.

Even though Saba Budaya was designed with strict guidelines, challenges still arise. Visitors sometimes fail to respect the rules, leaving behind trash, entering sacred areas, or taking pictures without permission, which can disrupt the community’s delicate balance and long-held traditions. Since September 2025, foreign tourists are restricted to visit several places as sacred areas must remain protected. While access to the inner Baduy areas is restricted, foreign tourists are still welcome to visit the Outer Baduy.

This is not the first time the Baduy have adjusted their rules regarding visitors. In 2020, during the Covid-19 pandemic, the community implemented strict measures and successfully reported zero cases. Their unwavering discipline and strong sense of solidarity demonstrated their remarkable ability to adapt to external challenges while fiercely protecting their unique way of life.

Not Left Behind, Simply Different

On social media, I often see the Baduy people in Jakarta selling their natural honey. At the same time, they are sometimes mocked for being barefoot or for their appearance. Recently, a 15-year-old Baduy teenager selling honey in Central Jakarta, was violently robbed. The attack left him not only financially harmed but also traumatized. The suspect is still being pursued by the police. This incident shows that the challenges the Baduy face go beyond social ridicule. Navigating unfamiliar urban spaces can put them in real danger.

The Baduy are often misunderstood as a community “left behind” by modern life, but my experience gave me a very different perspective. Having spent time with them, I can say this with certainty. They deserve respect and should not be seen as inferior or weak. Their way of living is far more harmonious and truly sustainable than that of many modern communities who talk about sustainability but struggle to put it into practice. While much of society is still debating the best way to implement a sustainable lifestyle, for the Baduy, it is not a theory. They realize that no matter how advanced life becomes, humans will always depend on nature. Destroying it puts humanity at risk.

Visiting Baduy gave me an unforgettable experience: slowing down, respecting boundaries, and leaving with values rather than content. They are not left behind. They are aware that the world is changing, but they consciously reject certain forms of modernization to protect the system passed down by their ancestors.

Rostya Septiana Putri is a MSc in Sustainable Development, Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), with a strong focus on the Environmental, Social, and Governance (ESG) sector, founder of Green Jobs Indonesia, and DDRN Intern.

When Local Knowledge Leads: Transforming Humanitarian Action from the Ground Up

Daniela Padilla — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 10:06:33 +0000

By October 2025, according to OCHA, only 23% of the global humanitarian funding required for the previous year had been met. Behind this percentage lies a stark reality: millions of people affected by conflict, displacement, and climate-related disasters received less support than planned, while frontline responders struggled to stretch increasingly limited resources. The shortfall reinforces a pressing question: who has access to funding, who controls it, and who ultimately decides how it is used?

These tensions sit at the heart of contemporary international development. Grounded in principles of solidarity and shared responsibility (articulated through agendas such as the Sustainable Development Goals under the United Nations) development is framed not merely as technical assistance, but as a collective commitment to building more inclusive, equitable, and sustainable societies. Yet the language of partnership and multilateralism often contrasts with operational realities. International cooperation operates through complex systems of bilateral donors, multilateral institutions, development banks, civil society organizations and non-governmental organizations, where financial control and decision-making frequently remain concentrated in donor countries.

Forms of cooperation shape these power dynamics. Many developing countries have historically preferred multilateral assistance, perceiving it as less directly tied to national security or commercial interests than bilateral aid. International aid has therefore been conceived not only as a mechanism for resource transfer, but as a means of addressing structural inequalities within the global system. This broader ambition, however, intensifies debates about ownership, accountability, and authority in development cooperation.

Localization as a Structural Shift in Development Practice

It is within this structural tension, between normative commitments to solidarity and the realities of asymmetrical control, that localization has emerged as one of the most significant contemporary reform agendas. By seeking to rebalance resources, authority, and decision-making toward local actors in the Global South, localization challenges operational practices and the political economy of international cooperation itself.

The agenda gained momentum at the World Humanitarian Summit and through the Grand Bargain, which committed states and organizations to increase direct support to local and national actors and strengthen their institutional capacity. At its core, localization shifts development practice from externally designed, donor-driven interventions toward approaches grounded in local ownership, contextual knowledge, and community leadership — often summarized as “as local as possible, as international as necessary.”

Local and national NGOs are widely recognized as crucial actors in humanitarian and development action. They possess contextual expertise, cultural legitimacy, and sustained community presence, often remaining long after international agencies withdraw. In many crises, they serve as first responders, maintaining access where international actors face security or logistical constraints. Consequently, NGOs play a distinctive role, emphasizing participation, civil society strengthening, and empowerment — enabling marginalized groups to articulate and defend their interests.

However, participation has often remained consultative rather than transformative. In many cases, local actors are invited to contribute but not to lead. Localization seeks to move beyond inclusion toward ownership: the capacity to define priorities, shape strategies, and control resources.

Hence, l ocalization can be understood in two ways. On one level, it represents an internal reform of the development architecture, improving efficiency and accountability by leveraging local knowledge in complex contexts. On a deeper level, it signals a normative shift, reimagining cooperation not merely as resource transfer but as a redistribution of authority and partnership. In this sense, localization challenges paternalistic tendencies and seeks to align practice with principles of solidarity and self-determination articulated in the UN framework.

Putting Localization into Action

As part of this process of strengthening local political agency, Street Child provides a clear example of how localization moves from concept to practice. Its approach is defined by working alongside local partners to co-design solutions grounded in community priorities rather than externally imposed templates. Through initiatives such as its flagship project, Elevating Local Leadership in Emergencies (ELLIE), Street Child engages local actors as full partners (not merely implementers) supporting them to lead programmes, access resources, and assume roles within broader humanitarian coordination structures. Partnerships are structured not only around delivery but around institutional strengthening, including support for funding access, financial and safeguarding systems, monitoring frameworks and long-term organizational autonomy.

A central element of this model is the intentional transfer of technical expertise. Approaches such as Teaching at the Right Level (TaRL) and Accelerated Learning are embedded within local NGOs, enabling independent, high-quality delivery. Increasingly, this strategy incorporates a gender-responsive lens, recognizing women as educators, leaders, and agents of intergenerational transformation. By localizing both expertise and leadership, including women’s leadership, the aim is not only effectiveness but structural rebalancing.

This approach is particularly visible in Uganda, where Street Child advanced localization within programmes supported by Education Cannot Wait (ECW), the United Nations’ global billion-dollar fund for education in emergencies and protracted crises. Under ECW’s Multi-Year Resilience Programme (MYRP) and First Emergency Response (FER) frameworks, Street Child co-established a dedicated Localization Unit to create fairer access to funding for national NGOs. By enabling them to compete equitably with international organizations, a significant share of programme funding flowed directly to national partners, strengthening locally led education responses and shifting decision-making closer to affected communities.

In South Sudan, a similar approach has been taken through the Education For All South Sudan (EFASS) programme and Street Child’s Partnership Support Unit. Here, local actors are supported to lead emergency education interventions, with hands-on guidance to manage resources, secure funding, and build robust organisational systems. This support strengthens local ownership while also embedding accountability, transparency and operational resilience. The programme actively promotes women’s leadership in schools and communities, recognizing the long-term impact of gender-equitable education on society.

As a result, by prioritizing local expertise and leadership, Street Child demonstrates that effective interventions are rooted in the knowledge, networks, and agency of those closest to affected communities. Its model illustrates that localization is not merely a technical adjustment but a practical effort to redistribute authority and embed sustainable capacity within local institutions. In doing so, Street Child translates the normative ambitions of localization into tangible practice, offering an example of how international development can more coherently align global objectives with locally driven leadership.

Challenges Ahead

Despite its growing prominence, localization remains the subject of ongoing discussion. Financial regulations, risk-averse donor practices, and entrenched hierarchies continue to shape development architecture. Meaningful localization therefore requires more than funding targets; it demands a sustained reconfiguration of relationships, incentives and accountability. It calls for trust, reciprocity, and a willingness among international actors to relinquish control that has long defined the system.

If international development is to remain faithful to its commitments to solidarity, self-determination, and shared responsibility, localization must move beyond rhetoric. It must continue evolving as a practical effort to reshape partnerships, embed authority, and empower communities and institutions closest to crises.

At its core, localization is about centering the knowledge, expertise, and agency of local actors. Communities bring unique insights, skills and solutions that are essential for sustainable, responsive, and effective interventions. Flexible funding, equitable collaboration, and investment in local capacities unlock these contributions, ensuring that programs are not only efficient but also contextually grounded.

Street Child’s work in Uganda, South Sudan, and other contexts demonstrates this principle in action. By supporting local actors to lead programs, access resources and participate in decision-making, it shows that empowered communities are more resilient, better able to respond to crises, and capable of sustaining long-term outcomes. The journey toward genuinely equitable, locally led humanitarian and development systems is arduous, but it is both necessary and possible, and it reminds us that the most effective solutions arise from those closest to the challenges, not imposed from afar.

Daniela Padilla has a M.Sc. International and Securiy Politics, Catholic University of Lille/ESPOL, France, and is a DDRN Intern

The Environmental Cost of Generative AI and Large Language Models

Celia Rhodes — Mon, 09 Mar 2026 14:58:42 +0000

The rise of artificial intelligence (AI) has seen huge technological advancements across many different fields. In recent years, generative AI (GenAI) and large language models (LLMs) like ChatGPT, Grok, Claude and Google Gemini have risen in popularity, and seen significant investment in their development.

These GenAI and LLMs have the ability to generate images, videos and large amounts of text. GenAI and LLMs are trained to find patterns in massive amounts of input datasets. A user gives the AI a prompt, and it then generates a ‘new’ or ‘unique’ text, image, video, code or other output. GenAI and LLMs are also increasingly being used as search engines and to answer user questions.

There are many ongoing debates about using GenAI and LLMs. These debates are often centered on the environmental impact, use of copyrighted work and the loss of critical thinking skills. There are also debates surrounding the ethics of GenAI and LLMs. Ethical concerns include the use of finite resources, the exploitation of workers and data, and the potential to spread false information.

The environmental impact has become one of the most important conversations regarding GenAI. As users of GenAI increase, it means that more data centres must be built. Data centres contain servers, where the digital information is stored. These data centres require high amounts of energy and water to power them, and produce harmful pollutants as a byproduct. To train a single LLM, it can create the same amount of pollution as the lifecycle of 5 average petrol-powered cars.

The growth of GenAI and LLMs mean that more resources and raw materials are needed to power servers and tech advancement. Coltan and cobalt are two minerals that are needed for batteries and computer chips. 15% of the global coltan supply is located in mines in the Democratic Republic of Congo. As a result of the increased demand, the eco-systems and environment in the surrounding areas have suffered major losses.

What implications does increased usage of GenAI and LLMs have for the global south?

Studies have shown that over 90% of global emissions are caused by the Global North. Yet, the Global South has seen an increase in climate-related catastrophes as a result of global warming and climate change. Generative AI and LLM use in the United States is predicted to use the same amount of energy as 22% of the average American households by 2028.

Other reports suggest that the amount of energy used by GenAI and LLMs will become a minimum of 40% of global energy usage by 2030. The new data centers being built to support the AI goals of tech giants such as Amazon, Google, X and Meta are mostly concentrated in the United States. Local communities are reporting water shortages and electrical shortages due to the demand that these data centers place on resources.

It’s short sighted to think that because many new data centers are being built in the global north, that there isn’t a knock-on effect for the global south. Data centers are still largely powered by fossil fuels, which then contribute towards the climate crisis. As they increase in size and number, it also means the resources that they need increase.

With GenAI usage having the potential for such a large knock-on effect for the global south, it makes you wonder why this isn’t something that is often discussed more across different media outlets. The largest focus when it comes to the environmental impact has been on issues such as water usage and harmful pollutants in local communities.

Since 2020, there have been higher amounts of climate-induced migration. In 2022, Somalia suffered its worst drought in 40 years. Around 43,000 people are predicted to have died, and the drought has been attributed to human-engineered climate change. We have not yet seen the full impact of the GenAI and LLM ‘boom’ yet in terms of climate impact.

The exclusion of the global south shows part of a much wider problem when it comes to representation and exploitation of the global south. The increase in natural disasters and extreme weather is now beginning to impact the global north. In 2024, Spain, Germany and France experienced extreme flooding. Droughts across Europe have worsened and are predicted to worsen as water scarcity increases. Unless more sustainable data centers and ways of powering them are discovered, GenAI will only continue to put more and more pressure on finite resources.

What are the main concerns surrounding water consumption?

Water has become one of the newer concerns when it comes to the increased use of GenAI. The Great Lakes of the United States are already shrinking as they are drained of water. 80% of data centers in the UK are located near London, even though this is one of the dryer parts of England. The response to water shortages and lack of access to clean water by the global north is then to import water from elsewhere.

Around 1.1 billion people globally do not have access to clean drinking water. Data centers require water to stop their servers overheating. The amount of water needed by these data centers has seen a prediction that 50% of the worlds population may struggle with water shortages due to their increased demands. Water is one of the most important resources for communities and the natural environment. Water scarcity can cause violence over control of water supplies, disease and malnutrition and displacement. Within the environment, water scarcity can disrupt eco-systems and cause mass animal death and displacement. A loss of ecosystems can see land become uninhabitable.

The existing data shows that the areas with the lowest access to safely managed clean water are Sub-Saharan Africa, Oceania (excluding Australia and New Zealand) and Eastern and South-Eastern Asia. As more data centers have been proposed in Sub-Saharan and central Africa, there is growing concern about what this means in terms of access to safely managed water.

There is a growing gap between access to clean resources in urban vs rural areas in countries such as Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda and Mozambique. In 2021, it was reported that 5% of rural Ethiopians had access to safe water, compared to 39% of those living in urban areas. Kenya currently has the largest data center in eastern Africa, and there are proposals for more data centers around the capital. Nairobi has become the hub of the Kenyan digital economy and is currently expanding due to rapid growth.

Despite there being more investment into infrastructure in the cities, rural communities in the north of the country have been struggling with droughts and water scarcity. There is a growing concern that urban economic growth comes at the expense of the rural populations’ access to resources. In countries where there is already water scarcity, it raises the question of where the large amount of water needed for data centers will come from.

What other environmental impacts does generative AI have?

Generative AI and large language models require high power computers to be able to run the data centers. This means they need more advanced and more powerful computer chips. Cobalt and coltan are two of the natural minerals that are required to make these chips and as part of computer batteries.

15% of the world’s coltan and cobalt supplies are in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Many of these mines were shut several years ago, due to safety concerns. Some of these mines have since reopened, as areas fell under the control of rebels and rival forces to the Congolese government.

The mining process is highly damaging to the environment. As more tunnels are dug, it creates instability in the structure of the surface land. The increase in more extreme weather and climate disasters has also led to mine collapses due to flooding.

Cobalt and copper mines in Southern Congo also have large deposits of uranium. Some regions are now suffering higher levels of radiation. The mines are large polluters of the local landscape. Crushed rock and mining waste is polluting the local waterways and airways. Mines often produce other toxic chemicals and pollutants that contaminate and contribute to the destruction of local eco-systems.

Like water, there are only a finite number of these resources. Deals made between the Congolese government and trade partners like the United States mean that these natural resources are often being sold for huge profits. Workers are often exploited and left in unsafe conditions. As demand increases for raw materials, mining operations expand. Often these mines are illegal and unregulated.

To conclude

GenAI and LLMs are often seen as being problem solvers and technology the can help to beat climate change, but in its current form it’s contributing towards it. The global south is faced with growing environmental challenges because of global north overconsumption.

The global north’s exploitation of the resources of the global south for profit is not a new phenomenon, but the growing digital and tech economies that fund advancements in GenAI and LLMs follow the pattern of using the global south as a resource rather than viewing it as an equal.

Celia Rhodes has a MA Global History and International Relations, Erasmus University Rotterdam