Anthony Bogues is the Asa Messer Professor of Humanities and Africana Studies at Brown University. A political theorist and intellectual historian, he has written extensively on Caribbean and African intellectual, cultural and literary history, and political thought. In Autumn 2025, he was Visiting Professor in the Department of Sociology at the London School of Economics and Political Science. During his visit, Professor Bogues delivered a talk entitled “Illiberalism, war, violence and authoritarianism: the current conjuncture“. The premise of his talk was the following:

 We live in a tumultuous world in which there is the regularisation of death. We live in a world in which the stories of human life are told in tales of death. Is this a new conjuncture? Are we at the end of neoliberalism? How did we get here? Are there histories that have morphed into a dangerous present?

In this talk, Professor Bogues attempted to think through our current moment by arguing that the core of the present conjuncture is the ways in which the figure of the human and life itself has been configured. Drawing from various radical anti-colonial thinkers, the talk posited a history of liberalism and its deep relationship to illiberalism, raising questions of the figure of the human and of life itself.

In this blog post, we publish the original audio of the talk as a podcast – listen to the recording. Several months later, Neil Warner and Will Kendall sat down with Professor Bogues to discuss further the features of this new conjuncture, how it might differ from neo-liberalism, and the dialectical relationship between liberalism and illiberalism. Additional input from Maya Adereth.

WK: In your talk, you argue that we are entering a new conjuncture. You also describe a series of letters between yourself and Stuart Hall, in which he urged you not to think in historical analogy. Instead, he encouraged you to do the hard work of thinking of the features of the present moment. How would you characterise the historical process we are watching unfold?

The first feature I see of our contemporary era is the erosion of the postwar international order that was formed to primarily advance the interests of Europe and the United States – the United Nations (UN), the World Trade Organization (WTO), and other international organisations.  We are witnessing a rapid unravelling of that world order. The WTO cannot stop the tariffs imposed by the United States. The UN has been revealed to be nearly impotent in its capacity to intervene in the world. In place of diplomatic rules of engagement, we see a shift towards practices of 19th century power politics and personalities. In particular, we can see this in the recent American removal of Maduro. Although his removal followed a lengthy tradition of American intervention in the region from the 19th century, after the declaration of the 1823 Monroe Doctrine, the rhetoric around the intervention was crucial. This was not only about oil. Recall a member of the administration made it clear that the world today must be governed “by force”, and that these are the “iron laws of the world.”  If force is the order of the law, then any ruled-based structures have no place.

The second feature is the disintegration of the Keynesian social contract, which had begun to erode in the 1980s as neoliberalism consolidated, but has now been entirely done away with as a basis for political engagement. Inequality has risen to historical highs.

Third, we see deepening ties between technological elites and political elites. Giuliano da Empoli’s book, The Hour of the Predator, argues that technological elites are the new global bourgeoisie. Just look at how many billionaires are tied to tech companies. This changing character of elites has implications for the state. In the classic liberal model, the power of the economic elite was more subtle. It was exercised through institutions and through the construction of hegemony. By contrast, today, many elites – political and economic – are working hand in glove. That’s part of the reason why you see, certainly in the United States, the rise of authoritarianism. Because while the old liberal model called for some distance and some subtle relationships, the new arrangements call for people working in sync.

Fourthly, there has been the complete abandonment of the liberal narrative of racial progress. Racial domination was something that, the liberals argued, would be erased over time, in the so-called “long arc of justice.” In this new dispensation, white supremacy is naked and aggressive. And because it is naked and aggressive, you can see it not just in relationship to Black lives, but you see it also in relationship to immigration and the racialisation of migrants. And this is true across the political spectrum.

Finally, there is a matter of political terms. The term “fascism” is often used today to describe the conjuncture. I shy away from that term because, working through the moment with Hall’s injunction, I think we need to grapple hard with what is unfolding before us. Of course, there is, as Cedric Robinson notes, a tradition of radical black thought which addresses historical fascism, and in the middle of the 20th century writers like George Jackson worked through a political theory about America as fascist. However, while it is clear that in many countries, fascists are part of the ruling coalition sometimes informally, I think it is critical to grapple with the entire moment as one which is deeply authoritarian and illiberal and to understand that these are not breaks but rather re-emergences and new adaptations.

NW: You set up the construction of the western liberal democratic tradition via racialised exploitation and subjugation. How should we characterise the qualitative shift we see in relation to that tradition? Is it a return of a feudalist-aristocratic despotic ruling class or something fundamentally new and different?

I’ve been thinking about this question a lot in my current work. There’s no historical moment in which we return. We see something that, on the surface, appears a certain way. But we then have to dig under the surface to understand the nuances. In the 16th and 17th centuries, the emergence of liberalism in Europe coincides precisely with the European Colonial Project and the project of racial slavery. Liberalism and illiberalism are thus deeply intertwined. John Stuart Mill makes it clear in his essays on liberalism, for example, that in colonial societies, colonial subjects or natives cannot have rights until they have gone through a civilising process, what I like to call the “great ladder of civilisation.”  He was a major liberal reformer in Western political thought and history.

We cannot think about the United States’ constitutional formation without recognising the coinciding genocide of native indigenous persons. We can’t think about liberalism in the United States without thinking about settler colonialism. We can’t think about liberalism in the United States without thinking about the racial order that was created there and how it was buttressed by economic life and activity across the country.

My view is that this intimacy between liberalism and illiberalism means that, at any moment, you can have – in a kind of dialectical relationship – certain parts of the illiberal system suddenly emerge and become dominant. Many contemporary commentators argue that we have shifted between two distinct phases, from liberalism to illiberalism.

Instead, what I want to argue is that these two systems are cojoined, and at any specific moment, the underlying illiberalism upon which liberalism is founded can emerge and predominate. In the lecture, I suggested that we have to see history as a kind of sedimentary deposit. The residues of what is not dealt with always come back to haunt us.

WK: The other metaphor you used in the talk was that liberalism has always had an “underbelly” of illiberalism – of war, of violence, of authoritarianism. Why do you still see value in making a contrast between liberalism and illiberalism, and what is the nature of that entanglement?

I’m not arguing for liberalism. What I’m arguing is that the political terrain changes with the relative influence of different parts of the entanglement. When the underbelly is dominant, it’s a different kind of politics that you have to practice. There are different questions on the table that you have to think about.

Let me give you a complicated example that I saw this morning on TikTok. Here is a Somali American who was, sometime this week, picked up by ICE. He’s an American citizen. He was picked up, chucked into a van, and left in the snow to walk for miles. When they finally let him go, because he is able to prove his citizenship, he appears at a press conference. Who is beside him in the press conference? The chief of police of Minneapolis city. This struck me because it indicates a division within the security forces. The liberal security forces, who have long been accused of mistreating Black folks, are now finding themselves defending the rights of people of colour.

This debate taking place within police departments regarding collaboration with ICE is one thing that to me marks the difference between liberalism and illiberalism. Not that the police are not the repressive apparatus of the state. But if we take a concrete moment, we see these agents distinguishing themselves from authoritarianism.

NW: You have also talked about the history of neoliberalism and its relationship to the current conjuncture. Neoliberalism’s enemies were organised labour and the social movements of the twentieth century. Which enemies does this underbelly of illiberalism seek to defeat?

If we take Donald Trump as an example, the line between friend and foe has been drawn very narrowly. It includes not only the entire left –  social democratic, liberal Democratic, Marxist – but even those who might have disagreements within Trump’s own party, like Marjorie Taylor Greene.

At first, the enemy was the administrative state. That’s what Steve Bannon, Steve Miller, and others talked about. Today, the enemy is not just the state. The enemy is any opposition at all. And that I think is a different political terrain.

It means that Trump exercises power against anybody who says anything against him. If you’re in the media, he will lock you down or sue you. If you are in his political party, he will run you out of that political party. I have never seen a political situation where grievance is actually such a deep political practice. Neoliberalism does not operate that way in political terms. It recognises friends, recognises foes, but it also, I think, recognises the so-called liberal rules of the game.

This form of illiberalism recognises no conventional rules of the game. Instead, there is a certain aggressive grievance which is part of a political practice, which I think is not the conventional way – the liberal way, or even neoliberal way – in which people think about and practice politics.

WK: You have mentioned a tightening between the technological and political elite. Could you talk a little bit about the changing composition of capital in this new conjuncture – are there any divisions emerging within the ruling class?

What we are seeing, with things like AI, is the development of technology at a rapid speed. Manufacturing has now declined almost 40 per cent as a share of global GDP, and the manufacturing elite is being replaced with a technological elite. What does that mean? Banks had also been central pillars of the capitalist order alongside manufacturing. But to some degree, banks are no longer the core actors in global markets. We need to do some more work to think about the ways in which, what Marx would’ve called fictitious capital, stock markets and stock exchanges, generate and produce wealth.

Someone can borrow money against their own company shares to do something and then will actually sell those shares higher than the borrowed sum. The tech sector in this way becomes economically more significant than the banks. We need to empirically study that and see what is happening. And, as Stuart Hall would have suggested, we need to understand the ideology that comes alongside these new structures of capital accumulation. What do these structures create for us as human beings? What I see in this political moment is not just a drive to construct the human as primarily homo economicus. We are now entirely disposable.

WK: You describe this new conjuncture as being built through violence and war, with rights displaced by might. But does this new conjuncture also speak to imagination and desire? Can you identify a new kind of common sense that is trying to construct a new hegemony?

The common sense that is emerging from the top, in my view, is a common sense of disposability. A common sense that there is no need for people to have “rights.” One response to that is the return to a notion of popular sovereignty. As it is organised within a diaspora, this involves trying to make sure that sovereignty has certain claims or can engage in certain practices that they think would continue to make them human.

Quite frankly, I think the left has a great deal of work to grapple with the conjuncture in any profound way. We need to find the spaces of the imagination that desire a different order. That begins with a certain understanding that we are living in a totally different world, in a conjuncture that is not reducible to Trumpism, but of which Trumpism forms an important part.

I would argue that when the resistance comes, it will not take the familiar form of a general strike or other conventional forms we are used to. Those forms will be there, but what are the forms of resistance which work through disobedience? This is something we will need to pay attention to.

NW: You spoke in your talk about the important role that the construction of fantasies and narratives that are impervious to evidence has played, firstly in birtherism and the Tea Party, and then in the Trump movement. But does the left also need fantasies? If so, what might they look like?

I would argue, no, I don’t think we need fantasy. I think we need serious doses of reality, quite frankly, and we need to work to try and penetrate and understand what it is that’s before us.

What we need to do is to think really hard. How can we begin to think about the work of the imagination? And how can we begin to develop programmes and political practices that will facilitate what people are aiming for?

There is really no master key. The problem with all forms of fantasy is that they hide a certain reality. If we are developers of a certain left fantasy, what is the reality we are hiding? I don’t want to give a left programme because I would argue that the programme in the United States is different from the programme in England, is different from the programme in the United Emirates, is different from the programme in Gaza. But I would say, as a general principle, that the issue is around encouraging a set of political and cultural practices that might eventually evolve into a social movement. This is not a simple crisis to just wait out. We are not in a civilizational or typical capitalist crisis – we are in a dangerous moment for the human species.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: SWinxy via Wikimedia Commons

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The enduring Kurdish question in modern international politics

There are few questions of modernity, whose lifespan stretches beyond the bounds of conventional historical frameworks while remaining a game-changing force in international politics. From the 1639 Treaty of Qasr-e-Shirin, which ended sixteen years of territorial hostilities between the Ottoman and Safavid Empires, to the 1923 Treaty of Lausanne, which abandoned earlier promises of Kurdish statehood through secret negotiations between Turkey, the United Kingdom, and France, the Kurdish Question remains one of the largest unresolved remnants of European colonial legacies in the Middle East.

The Kurds are renowned as one of the largest stateless nations—spanning Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran. In this intervention, I examine recent developments affecting Kurdish communities in Türkiye and Syria, particularly within the context of the emerging peace and reconciliation process between the Turkish government and the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK).

In the shadow of uncertainty, a glimpse of unity

Crafting analysis during periods of reconciliation demands care. It’s vital to acknowledge diverse perspectives while offering critical, measured commentary. Reflecting on the Kurdish-Turkish peace process today calls for cautious optimism, as each day may bring either progress or setback. I must admit that the motivation for writing this intervention stemmed from a certain moment that inspired genuine hope for the Kurdish people:

On Saturday, 26 April 2025, a historic pan-Kurdish conference titled Yekrêzi û Yekhelwesta Kurdî li Rojavayê Kurdistanê—translating to Kurdish Unity and Solidarity in Rojava, Western Kurdistan—was jointly organised by the Democratic Autonomous Administration of North East Syria (DAANES) and the Syrian Kurdish National Council (ENKS), following months of intra-Kurdish dialogue aimed at unifying a political front in negotiations with the interim government in Damascus. The conference brought together over 400 delegates from Kurdish political parties and movements across Qamishlo Province, only four kilometres from the Turkish border. Symbolically and politically, it reanimated sentiments of Kurdish unity across national borders and diasporic communities. Representatives from the Kurdistan Communities Union (KCK), Kurdistan National Congress (KNK), the two dominant parties of Iraqi Kurdistan—the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP) and the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK)—and Türkiye’s pro-Kurdish DEM Party stood at the forefront of what may be considered a historic moment of collective national assertion.

Rojava: an experiment in stateless democracy

The DAANES—colloquially referred to by Kurds as Rojava, meaning “West” in Kurdish and denoting western Kurdistan—has led a bold social and political experiment since the onset of the Syrian civil war. Widely regarded by international observers across ideological traditions as a beacon of hope amid regional conflict and collapse, political and military groups in the region have spent over a decade reconstructing an alternative model of governance based on grassroots democracy and a cooperative eco-social economy.

The downfall of the Assad regime in Damascus in early December last year created profound upheavals in Syria, bringing Rojava to a critical juncture. The Turkish state quickly moved to deepen ties with the interim Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) government, arguably seeking to leverage the situation to intensify pressure on Syrian Kurdish groups it considers a high-level security threat due to alleged ties with the PKK. As anxiety loomed over Rojava regarding a potential military incursion by Ankara, imprisoned Kurdish leader Abdullah Öcalan made a landmark statement from İmralı Prison Island on 27 February 2025, calling on the PKK to end its forty-year armed campaign and move toward organisational disbandment. Öcalan’s intervention sent shockwaves across the region and globally, shifting the trajectory of the decades-long Kurdish struggle for freedom and autonomy.

Intra-Kurdish unity in the context of regional political dynamics

Efforts to cultivate unity among Kurdish parties in Syria—and, more broadly, across Kurdistan—are not new. While the lack of legitimate status and representation in the international order has had tragic consequences, it has simultaneously motivated many Kurds to reimagine liberation and meaningful self-determination beyond the traditional statist paradigm. Öcalan-inspired organisations, including the Syrian Kurdish Democratic Union Party (PYD), People’s Protection Units (YPG), and Women’s Protection Units (YPJ), have championed models of stateless democracy through the Rojava experiment. Meanwhile, the Barzani-led Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG) in Iraq has pursued autonomy within a federal framework, achieving partial recognition and diplomatic standing.

As the central fulcrum of the new “process” initiated by Turkish nationalist leader Devlet Bahçeli in October 2024, the PKK convened its 12th Congress between 5–7 May 2025 in Iraqi Kurdistan, declaring an end to the method of armed struggle and organisational disbandment, in response to Öcalan’s February call. This landmark development appears to have brought the 40-year conflict closer to a potential resolution—at least from a security perspective. The PKK’s declaration was welcomed by international stakeholders, including the United Kingdom, Germany and the United Nations, as a window of opportunity to resolve a longstanding conflict through peaceful, democratic means.

Yet many remain sceptical. There are still no legal or political guarantees for Kurdish communities in Türkiye—no amnesty provisions, no constitutional amendments securing Kurdish language and cultural rights, and no firm commitments to local self-governance.

The central demand and the road ahead for the Kurdistan Freedom Movement

In the latest release of perspectives sent to the Kurdistan Freedom Movement, imprisoned Kurdish leader Abdullah Öcalan’s analyses emphasise the dialectical relationship between state and commune, the need to strengthen the latter, and the urgency of fully abandoning nationalist-statist tendencies that continue to resurface within the movement, despite its paradigm shift. He calls this a socialism of democratic societies (emphasis on the plural). In Rojava, this shift has taken form through a new model of internationalism and stateless democracy—one that continues to shape the Kurdish movement’s epistemological foundations and opens space for post-nationalist engagement with the world. Amid ongoing imprisonment in Öcalan’s case, and sustained military assaults in the movement’s broader context, both appear to be laying the groundwork for a renewed call to global solidarity. As Öcalan recently wrote: “This resolution also necessitates a new International. It would be a sound and historic step to initiate an internationalist effort with our friends—without delay.”

While the organised political body of the Kurdistan Freedom Movement recalibrates in this manner, the central demand that Ankara ensures free and secure conditions for Abdullah Öcalan through which he may assume the role of chief interlocutor in negotiations for a new era of peace and reconciliation in Türkiye remains intact. Whether this moment will mark a historical turning point depends on the sincerity of the Turkish government and the willingness of the state apparatus to move toward meaningful democratic solutions. What is certain, however, is that the Kurdish Question continues to reshape the very terms upon which peace, sovereignty, and modernity are being redefined in the 21st century Middle East.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: Wria Mahmood

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In the 1960s, U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson launched the “War on Poverty” to address social inequalities in struggling communities. Today, President Donald Trump’s administration seeks to weaken and completely abolish these safety nets, which a significant portion of his constituents rely on. Cuts to Medicaid, SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program), housing assistance, and other social programmes disproportionately impact low-income Americans, particularly rural white voters who backed Trump in the 2024 election. The Trump administration’s regressive attempts to improve economic efficiency raise the question: Has the war on poverty become a war on poor white Americans?

Many poor white Americans who supported Trump did so in the belief that his policies would target Black and Brown communities—not themselves. Their support stems from “perceived racial status threat”—deeply ingrained beliefs of white supremacy and entitlement, and a rejection of any policies that would even remotely place them on equal footing with Black Americans. Their commitment to racial prejudice and hierarchy blinds them to economic inequality. Ultimately, Trump’s policies have not only failed to address poverty but have actively contributed to the worsening conditions of the very people who elected him. To understand the pattern of why many poor white Americans vote against their interests, we must discuss the deeper psychological roots of white entitlement.

The role of white entitlement and racial hierarchies

Coined in many academic disciplines, “white entitlement” is an idea at the intersection of whiteness and privilege that helps explain why working-class white Americans hurt themselves by voting for Trump. W.E.B. Du Bois’s concept of “psychological wage” further explains why some poor white voters continue to support policies that harm them as long as the racial hierarchy remains. The Trump administration exploited this, using racial tensions as a weapon to justify regressive politics.

A National Bureau of Economic Research (NBER) study found that respondents were asked about their beliefs on the racial distribution of welfare recipients. Results concluded that respondents overestimated that 37 per cent of Black people and 39 per cent of white people received welfare benefits. In reality, Black beneficiaries only make up 21 per cent, far from the 37 per cent of the respondents’ belief.

The NBER study further included party affiliation as a determining factor for biased ideology. The results found that “conservatives and moderates are significantly more likely to overestimate the share of welfare recipients who are Black than liberals.” These findings indicate that Trump’s strategic approach relies on undermining evidence-based and inclusive social policy, and in doing so, he continues to weaponise racial tensions for political gain.

Despite aid being essential to millions of white Americans, the continued reinforcement of long-standing racial stereotypes surrounding welfare recipients by the Trump administration perpetuates fear and resentment. For example, the term “welfare queen” came into conversations about poverty in the 1970s during the Reagan administration. This stereotypical language shames Black women who receive welfare based on assumptions rather than their actual realities, which stems from the belief of who is the “most” deserving of government aid. In other words, once accessible welfare programmes developed a negative connotation because they made non-recipient families and working-class people internalise their struggles as not deserving enough. The Clinton administration solidified the link between the poor and poverty by codifying it through policy and reshaping welfare dependency, further enhancing the “welfare queen” narrative, as mentioned by New America.

The Trump administration reinforces this rhetoric in how Trump himself speaks about immigration, shifting the conversation to frame non-white communities against immigrants as a national threat. Notably, during Trump’s first term, his detest for immigrants, especially Black and Brown immigrants, was met with strong family separation policies. As this Just Security article highlights, the Reagan-era stereotypes painted Black women as “irresponsible” women who make many babies to benefit from government welfare checks. Over time, racial and welfare discussions changed, creating another stereotype where “Black children born on US soil [were] for…citizenship.” This narrative fuelled discussions of “whataboutism” and strong views of separating “anchor babies” from “welfare queen” mothers.

The dual nature of the “war” on poverty and poor white Americans

The Price of Poverty

The Trump administration plans to abolish essential programmes, including the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) and federal rental aid. If implemented, his proposed cuts would seriously harm at-risk communities that depend on the services during emergencies. Disasters like Hurricane Helene in 2024 made this evident, as struggling communities were left heavily reliant on federal aid and demonstrated the essential part of these programmes.

By reconsidering and potentially modifying this funding, the administration is introducing uncertainty within the nation and deepening the very crisis it claims to address, all while promoting Trump’s vague slogan of “putting America first”. Eight days into Trump’s new administration, the Office of Management and Budget (OMB) issued a temporary pause on certain federal financial assistance programmes to review spending priorities, reported by The 19th. Although this pause was lifted after legal changes were made the following day, the confusion already had a lasting impact on its beneficiaries, shifting to intensified negative stereotypes and racist beliefs about social welfare recipients.

Government Neglect and Disaster Failures

While Trump’s funding review did not completely halt all social programmes, the damage was already done, especially during Trump’s confusing “federal freeze“. As a result, many Americans who rely on consistent access to critical services like SNAP benefits, particularly in rural areas, faced confusion and panic. In September 2024, the devastation from Hurricane Helene foreshadowed the chaos that the federal freeze would create during the 2025 federal review. Hurricane Helene targeted the Western region of North Carolina, leaving the state’s relief plan and FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) under scrutiny as communities struggled to get aid. During his “Tour of Hurricane Helene Disaster Site”, Trump made it clear that he intended to significantly alter FEMA by “fundamentally reforming [it] and overhauling”, as reported by The American Presidency Project. With the changes to FEMA, the affected community felt abandoned and uncertain about their future, particularly among working-class white Americans who make up a crucial demographic in Trump’s political base.

Final Realities

Currently, Trump’s politics reinforce these illusions of an “America First” agenda while undermining his voter base—majority poor white Americans. Recently, Time reported the Department of Government Efficiency’s (DOGE) plan to eliminate jobs and funding, forcing jobs at the Social Security Administration and their offices to close. Some policymakers even fear new “identification policies”, introduced by the Senate or House, which increase the difficulties of accessing these offices, including requiring beneficiaries and applicants to come into their offices or call as opposed to online access. As a result, rural communities (full of his supporters) will face challenges due to the inaccessible nature of these codified policies.

So, is this a war on poverty or a war on poor white Americans? …It’s both! Poor white Americans hope and aspire to “get ahead” of people they view as beneath them, particularly Black people. To be seen in the same class as other minorities goes against their fundamental principles of entitlement and some of their beliefs about white entitlement. Therefore, their vote in hopes of getting ahead ends up impacting them more, as this demographic does not tend to vote where they socially, politically, or economically stand.

In the end, despite the policies favouring the capitalist wealthy, these fundamentals contradict the U.S.’s self-proclaimed role as a representative and advocate of human rights. Its own citizens, especially rural poor white Americans, are left to face the systematic economic obstacles they had hoped to combat by voting for Trump. The same government that touts American exceptionalism is completely disregarding the well-being of one of its most vulnerable populations, with 73.9 per cent of majority-white rural counties supporting Trump in 2024 & 52 per cent of Trump supporters came from families earning $50,000-$99,999 in 2023. By provoking a race war with extreme political rhetoric, Trump fails to address these concerns, taking advantage of their economic instability.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: René DeAnda

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Fifty miles north of the border where California meets Oregon sits the small city of Grants Pass. In this community, hundreds of individuals go unhoused every night, far exceeding the number of available beds at shelters in the city. In 2013, a series of city ordinances made it illegal to camp in public spaces, which in practice subjected individuals who are homeless to civil and criminal penalties. The penalties begin with a $295 fine and, after multiple offences, can lead to 30 days’ imprisonment. In response, a class action lawsuit was filed in 2018 on behalf of the individuals experiencing homelessness in the community. The case eventually became the City of Grants Pass v. Johnson case and was brought to federal court, arguing that the civil citations violated the cruel and unusual punishment clause of the 8th Amendment.

The federal case was built on the legal precedent of the 2019 case of Martin v. Boise, in which the 9th Circuit Court concluded that penalising individuals experiencing homelessness for camping in public spaces violated the 8th Amendment when there are not enough beds available in the community (excluding religiously affiliated shelters). This circuit court’s ruling affirmed a crucial distinction in American law: the government has a responsibility to separate the act of trespassing or loitering from criminalising the status of being involuntarily homeless and needing to make a shelter to protect themselves from the environment.

This argument for separating the act and the status is part of the principle of Actus Reus, a fundamental legal doctrine that requires perpetrators to have committed an act voluntarily. To punish individuals for their status as involuntarily homeless, without any viable alternative, is to render them criminals for circumstances beyond their control. Despite this precedent, in June 2024, the US Supreme Court ruled in a 6-to-3 decision that Grants Pass’s use of civil fines and short imprisonment to regulate public camping didn’t violate the constitutional amendment. The majority decision, written by Justice Gorsuch, asserted that the ordinances were neutrally applied and that this was an issue that should be left to the states.

Since the Supreme Court handed down its City of Grants Pass v. Johnson decision, hundreds of local governments, led by both Democrats and Republicans, have introduced or passed new anti-camping laws. On the state level, the Grants Pass decision has permitted the wide-sweeping criminalisation of street camping in states like Florida and Tennessee. In California, Governor Gavin Newsom has been emboldened by the decision to conduct massive removals of homeless encampments, proclaiming that such actions allow the state to “humanely remove encampments from public spaces” due to the threat they pose to public health and safety. Across the country, government leaders speak about how this Supreme Court decision has allowed them the flexibility needed to address and control the growing visibility of homelessness. For those forced to live on the margins, it represents not a solution, but an escalation of their suffering.

The U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development’s (HUD) Annual Homeless Assessment Report announced that, on a single night in 2024, the total number of individuals experiencing homelessness in the United States was estimated to be 771,480 people, including 150,000 children. This not only marks the highest recorded level of homelessness since HUD began tracking it in the 1980s, but also reveals an alarming 18.1 per cent surge from the previous year’s count. These statistics are a consequence of multiple converging crises: growing national affordable housing shortage, stagnating wages and the ending of homelessness prevention programmes implemented during COVID-19.

The precarious nature of housing in America for low and middle-class individuals and families is becoming more pronounced. For instance, the 2023 American Community Survey found that half (49.7 per cent) of all renters are cost-burdened by housing costs, meaning any unforeseen financial obstacles like a medical expense or sudden unemployment could result in homelessness.   

Homelessness in America is more than anything an economic and housing crisis rather than a criminal justice issue, and therefore doesn’t warrant this punitive approach. This impulse for a punitive approach stems from the belief that somehow homeless individuals are in control of their housing status, should bear full responsibility for their circumstances (see page 5) and had previously taken advantage of the cities and public property under the Martins decisions.

This approach also compounds existing injustices, with homelessness having persisting impacts of systemic racism, with Black and Hispanic individuals disproportionately affected. According to the HUD’s report, Black and Hispanic individuals make up 31.6 per cent and 30.6 per cent of individuals experiencing homelessness, respectively. The criminalisation of homelessness perpetuates a continuous cycle of incarceration, debt and homelessness that has the reverse effect of pushing people further into poverty. Criminalising acts that are unchosen has no penological purpose, is an ineffective way to address rising homelessness and results in the further entrenchment of inequalities.

The United States is currently at a critical juncture with a simultaneous rapid increase in both individuals experiencing homelessness and the criminalisation of unhoused people. As President Trump begins his new administration, he is hoping to overhaul the way that homeless people are managed, further stepping away from housing-first policies. Instead, Trump plans to prioritise criminalisation and impose drug and mental health treatment. While access to these services should be provided, the massive shortage of affordable and subsidised housing is the major reason for the increase in homelessness. This new fixation on requiring treatment programmes before housing is provided is a dangerous demand for an ideal victim deserving of help, which creates an exclusionary system that further marginalises the most vulnerable.

The financial cost of enforcing the criminalisation of homelessness far exceeds the price of providing resources and housing. Studies show that criminalising homelessness costs taxpayers three times as much as simply offering shelter. At the heart of this issue lies a fundamental question: Should cities that fail to meet the basic housing needs of their citizens be permitted to punish those who have no choice but to sleep in public spaces?

This turning point for the nation represents more than just a legal battle. It reflects the consequences of rapid wealth consolidation and growing inequalities in the United States. The implications of the Supreme Court’s decision amid a worsening housing crisis raise urgent questions about the role of the legal system and the deeply individualistic nature of American society. Criminalising homelessness is not only fiscally irresponsible, it also stands in stark opposition to international human rights norms, which recognise that punishing people for their poverty is a violation of fundamental human dignity. Advocates stress a renewed need for federal, state and local legislation that restores these protections from criminalisation that has been lost in the courts, at the same time, the nation must reckon with the reality that true justice lies not in punishment, but in addressing the systemic failures that create homelessness in the first place.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: Colin Lloyd

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“Today, we won in the first round and we made history. We’ve turned the page on power.” Nayib Bukele’s win marked the collapse of El Salvador’s two dominant political parties: the conservative Nationalist Republican Alliance (ARENA) and the leftist Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN), both of which had lost public trust amid decades of corruption and failure to curb rising gang violence. Bukele’s election in 2019 was seen by many in the country and across Latin America as the dawn of a new political era. One that promised anti-corruption, investment in education, infrastructure and, most urgently, a safer nation.

Now, six years and a second term later, the era ushered in by Bukele has delivered more security—but at a cost that is increasingly drawing international scrutiny. The establishment of the Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo (CECOT), a mega-prison with the capacity to hold 40,000 inmates, has become a symbol of Bukele’s iron-fisted approach to crime. Under his “state of emergency,” which suspends certain constitutional rights, more than 75,000 people have been arrested, many without due process. While homicide rates have plummeted and public spaces once controlled by gangs are now accessible, human rights organisations warn that the price of peace has been mass incarceration, arbitrary detentions and the erosion of democratic norms.

From murder capital to mandate for change

Before Bukele, El Salvador was known as the “murder capital of the world,” with the country recording an average of 103 homicides per 100,000 people in 2015. This staggering rate of violence was largely driven by powerful street gangs, particularly MS-13 and Barrio 18. The state, weakened by years of civil war and institutional corruption, struggled to assert control, leaving many Salvadorans at the mercy of extortion, forced displacement and extrajudicial killings.

Previous administrations implemented a mix of hardline crackdowns, known as mano dura policies, and short-lived truces with gang leaders. While these approaches occasionally led to temporary declines in violence, they often backfired, strengthening the gangs’ internal structures and giving them more leverage over communities. Prisons became recruitment hubs, and the public grew increasingly disillusioned with the state’s inability to restore order.

By the time Bukele came into office in 2019, trust in traditional political parties had eroded. His rise represented not just a generational shift but a broader desire for a clean break from the status quo. Campaigning on promises to restore security and take back control of the streets, Bukele capitalised on a public mandate for change—setting the stage for drastic measures.

CECOT: symbol of power or repression?

CECOT is not an isolated initiative; it’s the culmination of Bukele’s seven-phase Territorial Control Plan, which he launched within his first year in office, focused on reclaiming gang-occupied areas. Marketed as a fortress of law and order, CECOT was unveiled in a highly publicised media campaign that broadcast images of tattooed inmates lined up with their heads bowed and shaved, effectively stripped of their identity and autonomy. Inmates are held in overcrowded cells, sleep on metal bunks without mattresses and have 0.6 square meters of space each. There are no educational programs, family visits, or outdoor access. These conditions highlight the state’s prioritisation of security over basic human rights. For supporters, it represents the long-awaited triumph of the state over criminal organisations that had terrorised the country for decades.

Exporting authoritarianism and the spread of populism

As crime surges across Latin America, regional leaders are increasingly looking to Bukele and CECOT as a blueprint for security policy. The prison’s scale and symbolism have drawn attention from politicians across Latin America seeking to replicate Bukele’s perceived success. In Ecuador, President Daniel Noboa has unveiled plans to construct similar “ultra-secure” facilities, citing Bukele’s strategy as a model. In Honduras, President Xiomara Castro has announced plans to build a similar CECOT-style mega-prison. In Lima, Peru’s capital, Mayor Rafael López Aliaga has called Bukele’s crime crackdown a “miracle,” while Costa Rica’s Security Minister, Jorge Torres, has expressed interest in adopting similar methods. Bukele’s brand of authoritarian securitisation is quickly emerging as Latin America’s most influential model for public safety policy.

This influence goes beyond infrastructure; it signals a shift in how governments across the region approach public safety. Rather than focusing on long-term social reform or institutional rebuilding, many are turning toward hardline containment strategies that project immediate control. However, copying Bukele’s model risks normalising security-driven populism, a framework that exchanges civil liberties for public order without addressing the structural roots of violence. In this model, poverty, lack of opportunity and state neglect are treated not as causes of crime but as conditions for criminality.

Rethinking safety from the ground up

Building lasting security requires more than mass incarceration and militarised crackdowns; it requires rebuilding trust between communities and institutions. Instead of relying on surveillance and fear, countries can invest in violence prevention through education, social services and local economic development. Programs such as Operación Convivencia in Medellín, Colombia, have shown that community-based interventions, such as youth mentorship, conflict resolution guidance, job training and urban renewal, can dramatically reduce crime while empowering citizens, not silencing them. Strengthening judicial independence, reforming police forces and ensuring that justice is fair and accessible are also essential steps toward sustainable peace. These approaches offer a human rights-based approach to the issue of gang violence in El Salvador through security grounded in dignity, inclusion and long-term resilience

Nayib Bukele entered politics promising to rewrite history. In many ways, he has. However, CECOT is not just a prison; it is a political symbol. It represents the region’s growing acceptance of authoritarian shortcuts in exchange for public safety. As other Latin American leaders begin to follow his blueprint, the region faces a pivotal question: Will lasting security come from fear and force—or from justice, accountability and the rebuilding of trust between people and the state? The answer may define the future of democracy in Latin America.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: Emiliano Bar

The post How has the establishment of CECOT shaped security policy across Latin America? first appeared on LSE Human Rights.

In December 2023, the Integrated Food Security Phase Classification (“IPC”) assessment found that 93 per cent of Gaza’s population was in a state of crisis, emergency, or catastrophe. By March 2024, the number in “catastrophe” nearly doubled, and famine was projected as imminent without immediate cessation of hostilities and access to aid. The Famine Early Warning Systems Network (FEWS NET) similarly reported that famine likely began in northern Gaza in April 2024 and will persist without significant intervention. These dire conditions stem from the “complete siege” imposed on Gaza after the October 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel, with aid delivery disrupted and over 1.1 million Palestinians facing catastrophic living conditions.

The conflict-induced famine in Gaza may constitute a war crime under International Law, specifically given its potential violations of the Geneva Conventions and the Rome Statute. Israeli forces have reportedly obstructed the delivery of food, water and fuel, destroyed agricultural land, and impeded humanitarian aid—actions that deprive civilians of essential means of survival.

David Marcus, one of the first scholars to conceptualise famine as a crime under International Law, categorises famine crimes into two degrees: first-degree (when individuals knowingly create conditions leading to starvation) and second-degree (when individuals recklessly continue to pursue policies after learning they lead to starvation). Depending on intent, these actions may constitute war crimes or crimes against humanity. International law prohibits such acts in war under the Geneva Conventions and the Rome Statute, and they are condemned in UN Security Council Resolution 2417.

Given these legal frameworks, the deliberate or reckless deprivation of food and humanitarian aid in Gaza may not only violate international norms but also rise to the level of prosecutable war crimes. While the immediate priority is to end the violence and alleviate suffering, a longer-term response must include legal accountability and reparations to uphold humanitarian law, deliver justice to victims, and deter future violations.

The need for reparations in Gaza has become increasingly urgent due to the unprecedented destruction caused by the conflict. The Israeli blockade and military actions have decimated Gaza’s food supply and infrastructure. Agricultural devastation has led to the damage or destruction of 75 per cent of fields once used to grow crops. Over two-thirds of agricultural wells are no longer functional, crippling irrigation. Livestock losses exceed 70 per cent and over 40 per cent of croplands have been damaged, with some areas permanently affected by seawater flooding. The healthcare system, vital for mitigating diseases such as diarrhoea and cholera, is operating at only 16 of 36 hospitals, with their collective capacity merely above 1,800 beds.

Even before the recent escalation on October 23, food insecurity in Gaza was severe but not catastrophic. By early 2024, as per the IPC the entire Gaza Strip had reached Phase 4 of the hunger scale, with some households already at Phase 5 of acute food insecurity—55 per cent in the north, 25 per cent in central Gaza, and 25 per cent in the south. This marks a significant shift from pre-conflict conditions.

The International Court of Justice established reparations as a legal obligation in the 1928 judgement in the Factory at Chorzów case. This case established modern reparations principles under International Law, emphasising the need to fully address harm through both prosecuting offenders and compensating victims to uphold justice and accountability. This framework is crucial for Gaza as prosecutions of offenders offer significant symbolic justice to victims by transforming their suffering into a recognised crime, sending a message that such actions will not go unpunished and compelling the Israeli government to reassess its policies and acknowledge its role.

Under International Law, during an ongoing conflict, states may be obligated to provide compensation for wrongful acts, particularly when such compensation is specifically requested by the injured party. This principle is rooted in customary international law and outlined in the 1907 Hague Convention and Additional Protocol I. It also appears in ARSIWA, which stresses that compensation should be provided when restoring the original situation is not possible. This responsibility has been reinforced by numerous United Nations resolutions. ARSIWA also permits individuals to seek reparations through either unilateral state acts or national courts.

In Gaza, however, seeking reparations through national courts or direct negotiations is largely unfeasible. Israel has consistently rejected legal responsibility for the humanitarian crisis, and affected individuals lack effective legal avenues to claim compensation due to restrictions on access to international courts and Israel’s broad assertion of sovereign immunity. Given these barriers, the obligation to provide compensation must be upheld through international mechanisms, such as UN-led restitution programs, international tribunals, or third-party state intervention. In the absence of voluntary compliance, enforcement through sanctions or diplomatic measures may be necessary to ensure accountability and redress for the victims of the famine in Gaza.

Reparations by Israel would serve a dual purpose: first, to provide a legal and moral acknowledgement of the harm inflicted, in line with IL; and second, to address the long-term consequences of the conflict. Compensation could help rebuild Gaza’s agricultural sector, healthcare system, and critical infrastructure.

The famine in Gaza, and the international community’s response to it, highlights the urgent need to bridge the gap between established legal norms and their enforcement. Holding Israel accountable under International Law for its role in this humanitarian catastrophe is not only a legal obligation but also a moral imperative. Reparations must go beyond a mere acknowledgement of harm—they must aim for systemic transformation to prevent future atrocities.

To move from condemnation to accountability, specific actions are necessary. International legal mechanisms, such as the ICC, should prioritise investigations into the deliberate denial of humanitarian aid as a potential war crime. Governments must exert diplomatic pressure to lift the siege and ensure unfettered access for aid organisations. Advocacy groups and civil society must amplify the voices of affected populations, lobbying for policy changes that address the use of famine as a weapon of war.

As we witness the consequences of inaction, we must ask: How can the world move from condemnation to accountability? Can legal systems rise to protect the vulnerable? The path forward demands collective effort — advocating for justice, amplifying voices, and making accountability real. The time to act is now.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: Alun McDonald/Oxfam

The post Famine as a war crime in Gaza: Israel’s legal liability, reparations, and structural justice under International Law first appeared on LSE Human Rights.

Jose Rizal, a national hero of the Philippines once said “Youth is the hope of our future”. Rizal was a remarkable figure: his contributions to literature, reformist ideas and martyrdom ignited a sense of nationalism and inspired the country’s struggle for independence from Spanish colonial rule. He fought quietly. Instead of using violence or hostility, he wrote books, essays, and articles to show his love for the Philippines. In his works, Rizal emphasised the importance of youth as the “hope of the nation,” believing that they are the future leaders and architects of progress. He saw youth as key to nation-building, as they could drive positive change and shape a better future for the Philippines. And it’s true, youth are more important than ever for nation building, society, and politics.

Today’s world is characterised by upheaval and extremes. Many young voters believe current governments are dysfunctional and incapable of addressing the critical challenges, such as climate change, economic inequality, or the erosion of democratic norms. Thus, instead of voting for the mainstream democratic bourgeois parties, they vote for parties at ideological extremes. This can be seen across Europe. For example, in Germany’s recent federal elections, many youth voted for the Linke and AFD – not long-established parties, but left- and right-wing extreme parties. Left-wing parties are the dominant political force among young French voters according to Mathieu Gallard from the research at polling organisation Ipsos. At the same time, right-wing radical parties are also receiving many votes from young voters because, for example, Marine Le Pen’s 2022 election programme promised the abolition of taxes for those under-30s, provide financial support for student workers, and promote student housing. Jacob Davey, from the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, cited the influence of a radical right-wing and far-right youth counterculture, as another factor for this voting behaviour. The fact that youth are politically active and interested in politics is a good development because it ensures that new ideas and the concerns of future generations are taken into account in the political process. Youth often challenge the status quo and push for progressive reforms. Their engagement strengthens democracy by making it more inclusive, responsive, and future-oriented.

Youth engagement is structurally supported by political measures such as youth strategies and youth policies. For example, the first EU youth goal is ‘Connecting EU with Youth.’ It aims to foster a sense of between youth and the European project in order to regain trust and increase participation. National and international youth strategies intend to strengthen the political and civic participation of youth, as the Austrian Youth Strategy points out. There is no specific number of youth strategies globally, however, there are several well-known global and regional frameworks that guide youth development. These strategies differ from country to country, depending on local circumstances, priorities and needs. A well-known international youth strategy is the United Nations (UN) Youth Strategy, promoting youth participation and empowerment, and is aligned with the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). Regional youth strategies, like the African Union (AU) Youth Strategy (2020-2030) focus on creating opportunities for youth in areas such as civic engagement. Other regional youth strategies include the European Union (EU) Youth Strategy and the ASEAN (Association of Southeast Asian Nations) Youth Strategy. The EU Youth Strategy (2019-2027) focuses on improving participation and inclusion for youth with emphasis on youth engagement in democratic life and social inclusion. It deals with the issue of participation and how to encourage youths to become active citizens. The ASEAN Youth Strategy promotes active participation youths, by giving them a voice in decision-making and opportunities through volunteering activities and participation in peacebuilding and conflict resolution activities in the region. The ASEAN Youth Strategy is aligned with broader regional goals, such as the ASEAN Community Vision 2025. While both strategies share common goals there are differences in how they are structured and implement policies given their unique regional contexts. The EU Youth Strategy operates within the context of the EU, involves 27 EU member states and is aligned with broader EU goals (e.g., EU strategies (2020-2030)). On the other hand, the ASEAN Youth Strategy operates within the ASEAN framework, involving ten Southeast Asian countries and focuses on regional cooperation and economic integration.

Both youth strategies contain elements that help youth to participate in democratic processes, including voting. The EU advocates that youth should be informed, engaged and involved in political decision-making. Initiatives such as youth parliaments or youth councils offer a platform to express their opinions and understand how important their voice is in shaping policy. Further, youth receive civic education to gain knowledge about their role in democracy, of democratic institutions, the rule of law, and of shared values and human rights. The ASEAN Youth Strategy also encourages youth to participate in politics, and to support democratic processes and reforms. Through youth forums, summits and network activities, ASEAN provides the means to improve youth participation in the political landscape in their countries. In comparison, Europe has a more structured, long-established political environment where youth engagement is encouraged through programmes such as Erasmus+ and the European Youth Parliament. ASEAN member states aim to have something similar and to create a common higher education area in Southeast Asia that could serve as a catalyst for cooperation. A joint declaration for the region’s tertiary sector was adopted in 2024, which could lead to increased mobility and progress within the region. Several challenges must be addressed first, including inconsistencies in international commitments and intraregional academic engagement, and a stronger commitment to policies “from the region, for the region.”

The influence of these strategies on youth’s understanding of democracy depends on the political context. According to a published study by the ISEAS – Yusof Ishak Institute, 25.3% of Filipino undergraduate students agree that “under certain circumstances, a non-democratic government is acceptable.” That means 1 out of 4 college students are open to an undemocratic government. Many ASEAN member states are confronted with political instability or conflict. This is because different political systems exist in the region; however, this is only one piece of a much more complex puzzle. Political instability and conflict are often caused by a mix of factors, including economic inequality and lack of opportunity; historical grievances and colonial legacies; ethnic, religious, or cultural tensions, foreign interference or geopolitical rivalries; corruption, weak institutions and a lack of rule of law; and youth unemployment and a lack of trust in leadership. Although the ASEAN Youth Strategy promotes the participation of youth, and democracy and human rights are enshrined in the constitutions of most ASEAN countries, there are still major obstacles to implementation. For example, through voter intimidation, or vote-buying and the repression of civil society and the media remain widespread. Such practices are increasingly challenged by citizens across ASEAN, who want their governments to be more accountable and transparent. There are numerous examples of human rights violations in the political context in recent years that contributes to the search for democracy in Southeast Asia. Lili Yulyadi Arnakim and Ibnu Aqil depicted some of them: the former president of the Philippines Rodrigo Duterte was known for bloody drug massacres, which led to the deaths of thousands of people through extrajudicial executions. In Cambodia, Hun Sen was in power for 38 years. He was elected in the 2018 again and won all 125 parliamentary seats. In 2023, after four decades Hun Sen announced his resignation and paved the way to hand over power to his son Hun Manet. In Vietnam, bloggers and human rights activists who advocate for land reforms, the eradication and end of corruption, and greater democratic freedoms get arrested and imprisoned. In Myanmar, the political situation is rather unstable, as the junta, more specifically the Myanmar Military Council, holds political power over the population for many years already.

Both the European Youth Strategy as well as the ASEAN Youth Strategy help promoting youth participation in democratic processes, but the direct impact on youth’s voting behaviour depends on the context. In Europe, the European Youth Strategy has a more direct and structured impact on encouraging youth to support democratic processes, as it is embedded in a well-established democratic system with strong youth participation initiatives. In the ASEAN region, the ASEAN Youth Strategy promotes political awareness and engagement, but faces greater regional challenges due to the different political systems in the member states. Nevertheless, both strategies help to cultivate politically active and engaged youth, which can ultimately lead to greater support for democracy in general, in elections, especially where the youth are given a strong platform for engagement.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

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Most of us have, at some point, muttered the phrase, “There just aren’t enough hours in the day.” We stretch our days thin, sacrificing rest in the name of the ever-present pressure to always do more. As a college student, I know this feeling all too well. With a full courseload, a job, and an internship, I hold countless stories of late nights cooped up in the library grinding out papers and assignments. Fuelled by caffeine and a culture that glorifies sleeplessness as a badge of productivity, I – like so many others – have come to accept exhaustion as a normal part of my life. While a sleep-deprived night here and there might seem like a temporary sacrifice, chronic sleep deprivation isn’t always a choice. For many, it’s a systemic issue tied to human rights. 

​Chronic sleep loss takes a serious toll on the body and mind. When we aren’t well rested, we aren’t just cranky – we face slowed cognitive function, a weakened immune system, and even a higher risk of serious health issues like heart disease and early death. These effects don’t stop at physical health. Sleep deprivation is linked to increased rates of depression, anxiety, and the worsening symptoms of PTSD. Yet, despite its important role in our well-being, sleep remains overlooked and under protected. 

​Technically, sleep fits under existing human rights protections, but is never explicitly mentioned. The right to health, for example, is recognised in Article 25 of the UDHR and Article 12 of the ICESCR. These documents guarantee access to medical care, clean water, and proper nutrition. It isn’t a hot take to say that these are all things that are necessary to stay alive. But there’s an essential piece that is left out of these formal covenants: sleep. Proper sleep is health. You can drink all the water and eat all the healthy food in the world, but without sleep, your body and mind will still break down regardless of the circumstance. 

​There are a lot of things we could blame universal sleep deprivation on. We could pin it on the endless notifications lighting up our phones at night. Or is it picking up extra shifts at a side job just to get by? Maybe it’s the pressure to squeeze productivity out of every waking hour. Well, I’ll tell you this straight up: hustle culture has turned exhaustion into a status symbol: a direct product of a system that values productivity over the very well-being of its people. We live in a world that treats sleep as expendable, something we can cut back on without regard for consequences. But the consequences are everywhere – rising burnout rates, declining mental health, and worsening physical conditions linked to chronic exhaustion. Greedy companies push the idea that high achievers should be constantly available. They should be checking their emails late at night, working weekends, and putting in extra hours – often unpaid. And it doesn’t stop at corporate jobs. Gig workers, medical staff, and night-shift employees operate in a system that makes quality sleep a privilege rather than a guarantee.  

​Not everyone is equally sleep-deprived, though. Research shows that race, class, and social status play a role in determining who is likely to get quality rest and who isn’t. In the United States, Black Americans sleep nearly an hour less per night than white Americans. Due to differences in income and environment, sleep becomes a privilege for lower socioeconomic and ethnically diverse groups as they have to contend with noise, crime, and industrial pollution that makes getting rest more difficult. Shift work disproportionately affects Black and Latino workers, forcing them into irregular schedules that harm sleep and health. Medical bias worsens the issue, as Black Americans are less likely to be diagnosed or treated for sleep disorders. The sleep gap isn’t just personal, it’s structural. If sleep is essential to well-being, addressing sleep inequality must be a public health priority.  

​Beyond socioeconomic factors, sleep deprivation isn’t just a consequence of overwork or poor conditions – it’s also deliberately weaponised. For example, in the aftermath of 9/11, interrogation techniques such as prolonged sleep deprivation and painful stress positions were authorised by the United States. The CIA’s use of sleep deprivation included keeping detainees awake for up to 180 hours, a method intended to break them mentally and physically. The deliberate use of sleep deprivation to weaken individuals proves just how essential rest is to human dignity. If sleep deprivation is recognised as a form of torture in extreme cases, why is it ignored when millions of workers, students, and marginalised communities experience it daily? 

​Yet, amid these issues, how do we solve this? The first step is recognising sleep as a fundamental human right, not just a personal responsibility. To change this, international organisations must formally recognise sleep – or even rest – as such. But we can’t stop there. More stringent labour laws are needed to protect workers from exploitative overtime policies, especially in industries like healthcare and food service, where exhaustion is essentially built into the job. No one should be forced to sacrifice their health just to keep a paycheck. At the same time, government-funded sleep health campaigns – similar to anti-smoking and mental health initiatives that have historically been beneficial – could help shift attitudes about rest. These campaigns could raise awareness of sleep deprivation risks, promote healthier workplace policies, and push for systemic changes that prevent chronic exhaustion. 

​We’ve all felt it; that sense that there aren’t enough hours in the day, that rest is something we must sacrifice just to keep up. But maybe the problem isn’t time itself; it’s the way we’ve built a world that treats sleep as negotiable, as something to cut back on rather than protect. Sleep isn’t a privilege; it is a fundamental right. Instead of chasing more hours, maybe it’s time we start reclaiming the ones we already have.​ 

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: Krista Mangulsone

The post Exhausted by design: addressing sleep deprivation as a human rights issue   first appeared on LSE Human Rights.

In December 1984, Bhopal witnessed one of the most harrowing industrial disasters in history. The leak of methyl isocyanate gas from the Union Carbide India Limited (UCIL) plant claimed thousands of lives overnight and left a horror of health and environmental crises. Four decades later, the disaster’s toxic legacy lingers as hazardous waste contaminates the soil and groundwater.

As Pandora’s box unleashed its evils upon the world, so too does Bhopal’s toxic legacy, which remains an enduring reminder of human hubris and the cost of negligence. But unlike Pandora’s tale, hope cannot be our sole salvation, rather accountability and action must guide us forward.

On January 1 2025, the Indian government transported 337 metric tonnes of toxic waste from the UCIL site in Bhopal to Pithampur, Indore, for incineration. While touted as a major step in addressing the environmental aftermath, this decision has re-ignited debates over its effectiveness, safety, and timing. Questions about the adequacy of policy responses and long-term solutions remain unresolved. This article critically examines the policy decisions shaping this waste transfer and its implications for environmental justice and public health. 

A legacy of neglect

The Bhopal disaster’s immediate aftermath saw the enactment of the “Bhopal Gas Leak Disaster Act” and a $470 million settlement with Union Carbide in 1989. However, these measures proved insufficient in addressing the magnitude of the crisis. Successive governments formed task forces and commissioned studies to assess contamination, yet substantive remediation efforts remained elusive. As confirmed by multiple studies, groundwater contamination in 42 nearby areas contains carcinogenic chemicals exceeding safe limits by 50 times. The lack of effective policies to mitigate such contamination has left affected communities vulnerable, perpetuating environmental and public health risks.

Unfortunately, the bureaucratic response to the disaster has been marred by delays and avoidance of corporate accountability. Union Carbide’s now parent company, Dow Chemicals, has consistently distanced itself from responsibility, leaving the burden of remediation on the Indian government. This has resulted in taxpayers shouldering the costs of waste disposal, which many argue should have been funded by the corporation responsible for the tragedy.

The toxic waste transfer: a policy necessity or greenwashing?

The recent transfer of 337 metric tonnes of pre-stored toxic waste to Pithampur has been carried out to comply with judicial mandates under the directives of the Supreme Court and the Madhya Pradesh High Court in Alok Pratap Singh (Deceased) In Rem vs the Union Of India. However, critics argue that the operation carried out covertly at midnight, focuses on less harmful waste stored since 2005, while larger issues like groundwater contamination and toxic residues at the factory site remain unaddressed.

Over the years, various locations, including Ankleshwar in Gujarat and Taloja in Maharashtra, were considered for incinerating the waste. However, public protests and concerns about technical inadequacies derailed these plans. Even Pithampur, designated as the current disposal site, has faced scrutiny. Trial runs in 2015 reportedly resulted in toxic emissions, raising fears about long-term exposure to harmful by-products such as dioxins and furans. These chemicals, known for their long-term health impacts, have raised concerns among environmental experts and local communities. Activists have called the move a “slow-motion Bhopal” in the making and warned of the potential for secondary environmental disasters in Pithampur.

The timing of the transfer, coinciding with the 40th anniversary of the tragedy, has led many to view it as a public relations exercise. A 2010 government-commissioned study highlighted that over 11 lakh tonnes of contaminated soil and other toxic substances remain untreated at the UCIL premises. Activists have questioned the rationale behind incinerating 337 tonnes that had already been securely stored when the broader environmental crisis remains unsolved. According to a technical presentation by the Ministry of Environment & Forests on the incineration of Union Carbide’s hazardous waste, the process is expected to generate 900 tonnes of residue. The recent decision to incinerate the waste at Indore is a 180-degree pivot from the state government’s previous stance, as officials from the state had opposed incineration in multiple official meetings.

The communication surrounding the risks of incineration at Pithampur has raised concerns about transparency. Limited engagement with local communities has led to apprehension, as residents worry about potential health impacts such as respiratory issues. Several petitions have highlighted these concerns, reflecting the need for a more inclusive approach to policymaking, incorporating community voices and comprehensively addressing their apprehensions.

Alternatives and the way forward

The current approach to disposing of Bhopal’s toxic waste has faced significant criticism, highlighting the need for more robust, globally aligned solutions. One viable alternative is secure containment. Hazardous materials can be stored in stainless steel drums with advanced sealing technology to prevent leakage. This method is widely used in nuclear waste management, where containment over decades ensures minimal environmental impact. For instance, the US Department of Energy uses this technique to manage nuclear waste at the Hanford Site, reducing risks to surrounding communities.

Another critical alternative is deploying closed-loop incineration technology, significantly reducing emissions and toxic residues. Germany, known for its stringent environmental standards, employs such technologies in facilities like Remondis, ensuring waste is incinerated with minimal harm to air quality. India could collaborate with countries like Germany to adopt or import such advanced systems.

A more sustainable approach involves enforcing corporate accountability. Companies responsible for hazardous waste should fund its disposal or repatriate it to countries with the infrastructure to handle such materials safely. A notable precedent is Unilever’s mercury waste, which was repatriated to the USA for safe disposal after contamination at a thermometer factory in Kodaikanal, Tamil Nadu. This aligns with the “polluter pays” principle, a cornerstone of environmental jurisprudence globally.

By adopting these alternatives, India can move beyond temporary fixes and implement sustainable solutions prioritising public health, environmental integrity, and global best practices.

The midnight waste transfer from Bhopal to Pithampur epitomises the dangers of greenwashing in environmental policy. While the recent waste transfer is presented as progress, it fails to address contamination and corporate accountability. India must adopt a comprehensive approach grounded in global best practices and prioritise community engagement to resolve this toxic legacy. Only then can the lessons of Bhopal truly inform a sustainable and just environmental policy framework.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: Yann Forget / Wikimedia Commons / CC-BY-SA. 

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The military dictatorship that violently overthrew the democratically elected socialist government of Salvador Allende of Chile in September 1973 under the leadership of Army Commander-in-Chief Augusto Pinochet, marked a prolonged period of repression and widespread political violence. Lasting until 1990, this era saw the suppression of the rule of law and, to this day, remains a deeply contested and complicated chapter in Chilean society. In a country of only 10 million people in 1973, over the course of the dictatorship, there were a documented 82,000 political arrests, an estimated 40,000 people were tortured and more than 3,000 were killed. Of the forcibly disappeared, only 310 of them have been identified, with the number of those still missing ranging from 1,109 to 1,469.

After the end of the dictatorship, the Chilean state followed the path of transitional justice, seeking to ensure the non-repetition of the events and reparation for the damage caused at the hands of agents of the dictatorship. However, the military coup that enacted this political violence and fractured Chilean democracy fifty years ago is currently justified by 36% of society (a significant increase from ten years ago) and half of the population thinks the coup was not avoidable.

Education has been a central site of memory construction in Chile’s post-dictatorship period. During the Concertación governments (1990-2010), curricular reforms sought to move beyond the dictatorship’s legitimizing narratives, incorporating perspectives from historians across the political spectrum. However, rather than establishing a unified account of the dictatorship, the curriculum presents multiple interpretations, reflecting broader societal divisions. The prevailing approach has been to foster reconciliation—often by avoiding conflictive discussions rather than promoting critical engagement.

Teachers are at the forefront of this challenge, particularly in elite schools where historical narratives often align with conservative values. These institutions, many with tuition fees averaging around US$8,000 per year, serve the children of Chile’s political and economic elites. In these settings, parental influence is strong, with families demanding neutral or revisionist approaches to history that downplay the brutality of the dictatorship. As a result, teachers face considerable pressure: addressing human rights violations critically can lead to reprimands or job insecurity.

But what can drive a teacher to make a difference? In a conservative environment, or as historian Steve Stern would say, one shaped by a memory of the dictatorship as salvation, what inspires a teacher to take a stand?

Andrea (39), a teacher in an Opus Dei school in Lo Barnechea, Santiago, exemplifies the tensions educators navigate. She is the daughter of communist militants, one of whom was a member of the MIR, the far left movement active during the Unidad Popular. Though her life has taken a different path from that of her parents—now living comfortably in one of Santiago’s most affluent neighbourhoods—their story remains an inescapable part of her own. However, in her conservative school environment, she avoids discussing contentious contemporary issues like the failed attempts at a new Constitution, the Mapuche cause, or abortion. Speaking out could put her job at risk—something she cannot afford, especially as a mother.

During her prenatal leave in 2023, Andrea found an opportunity to challenge dominant narratives. She shared the story of a colleague whose husband was tortured by the regime, putting a human face to the repression. Something significant happened:

When I was in my minute of confidence, I showed them [her case], and that way I put a face to it. And then they were able to empathise. (…) I have a very rigid and very Pinochetista student, and it was really special because the other time he managed to say to me: ‘My classmates themselves don’t allow me to think differently, there are many stereotypes, but in this course I realise what Pinochet did, and that regardless of what I think, in my value as a Catholic, I have to defend life’.

This moment illustrates how personal engagement with memory can create openings for critical reflection. However, such instances remain the exception rather than the norm. Without institutional support, teachers like Andrea must rely on circumstantial opportunities to foster historical awareness.

So what about the rest of the cases? When there are no exceptions? When there is no teacher whose priority is the defence of memory and human rights? This disparity raises fundamental questions about the role of education in the construction of a collective memory. Is education only a route to university? Or is it also a tool for critical thinking and for building a country that considers the wounds that remain open?

Teachers navigate the challenge of teaching about the dictatorship using different pedagogical strategies shaped by their personal experiences and the expectations of their schools. Some adopt a rationalist approach, aiming for neutrality and sticking strictly to historical facts, while others take a critical stance, emphasising human rights violations and encouraging students to analyse power structures, like Andrea. A third approach, the moral perspective, focuses on ethical reflections and democratic values. In practice, these strategies often overlap, but the extent to which students receive an education that fosters critical thinking about the dictatorship largely depends on external factors, such as the socio-economic background of their schools, the personal histories of their teachers and the students’ personal histories.

The consequences of this fragmented teaching are profound. Students from elite schools, who are more likely to occupy influential positions in society, could graduate with a limited or skewed understanding of Chile’s past. This, in turn, shapes their perceptions of democracy, human rights, and justice, reinforcing existing social divides and affecting the capacity for peaceful coexistence. When history is taught incompletely, the wounds of the past remain open, and the possibility of genuine reconciliation diminishes.

Fifty years after the coup, education continues to play a crucial role. The teaching of this period cannot be left to individual interpretation; it must be a state commitment. Democracy is not sustained by forgetfulness—or worse, by the glorification of authoritarianism—but by the certainty that “never again” is more than a phrase; it is a responsibility. It is also the right of new generations to have the opportunity to remember, and the right of an entire society to reconcile.

All articles posted on this blog give the views of the author(s), and not the position of the Department of Sociology, LSE Human Rights, nor of the London School of Economics and Political Science.

Image credit: The image was taken by María Isabel Vera’s friend, Luis Felipe Manques, during a tribute they attended last year at the Memorial of the Political Executed in Santiago’s General Cemetery. The photo captures a group of his friends, now nearing 70 years old, gathered to honour his memory. It is a beautiful reminder of the commitment of all generations to never forget and to exercise memory. You can also see the red carnations in the photo, which are an iconic symbol used to remember the victims of forced disappearance.

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