It was almost inevitable that Iran would announce its withdrawal from the new inspection arrangement on Thursday. The decision came just hours after the International Atomic Energy Agency asked for details about the country’s enriched uranium stock and the condition of the sites Israel bombed in June. This effectively buries the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action, the zombified 2015 agreement designed to trade strict verifiable limits on Iran’s nuclear program for the country’s reintegration into the global economy.

The JCPOA will no longer exist because the conditions that sustained it are now relics of the past. The accord relied on three specific pillars to function: coordinated international pressure, a credible enforcement mechanism, and political continuity in Washington and Tehran. In 2015, those conditions existed, but today, not a single one remains. The events of this week confirm that we are interacting with the shell of an agreement rather than a living framework.

Myth of International Unity

The JCPOA was often described as a “masterpiece of diplomacy,” but a closer reading of its origins points instead to a masterpiece of leverage. The deal emerged from a very specific geopolitical alignment that concentrated pressure on Tehran with unusual consistency. Washington operated inside a coalition rather than above it, signaling that the United States had partners willing to translate political commitments into economic pain.

The economic trap set for Iran snapped shut in 2012. Europe implemented a full embargo that removed around 600,000 barrels of Iranian oil from global markets, reshaping the country’s economic horizon. At the same time, China, India, Japan, and South Korea reduced their purchases under U.S. waiver pressure, and Russia supported Security Council resolutions that closed procurement channels. To seal the trap, the SWIFT banking network disconnected Iranian banks, making it nearly impossible for the regime to repatriate the revenue it did manage to generate.

The combined effect of these measures drove Iranian exports from roughly 2.5 million barrels a day to around 1.1 million within a year. Tehran confronted a landscape in which the path toward negotiation carried much more promise than the path toward defiance. This moment of alignment carried extraordinary weight because each actor had separate interests yet acted in concert.

But that arrangement has since faded from relevance. China has become the single most important buyer of Iranian oil, acquiring more than a million barrels a day through channels designed to bypass scrutiny. Beijing capitalized on the deep discounts created by Western sanctions, securing cheap energy for its independent refineries while signaling that American financial power could no longer dictate its strategic inputs. Meanwhile, as the war in Ukraine stretched into its later stages, Moscow turned to Iran for drones and related technology. Shared isolation forced a strategic convergence, as Tehran provided the cheap, mass-producible hardware Moscow needed to sustain its campaign against a NATO-backed Ukraine. This military reliance changed Russia’s incentives; the country that once supported pressure on Tehran now benefits from a deeper partnership.

When France, Germany, and the United Kingdom attempted to initiate snapback sanctions in the summer of 2025, Russia and China moved quickly to block the effort. This is the environment that the IAEA’s request arrived at. Iran just understood the geopolitical equation and responded accordingly.

Enforcement Vacuum

The JCPOA’s architects created snapback to ensure automatic penalties in the event of a violation. The design appeared elegant because it reversed the standard logic of the Security Council: instead of requiring a vote to impose sanctions (which Russia or China could veto), it required a vote to continue lifting them. This meant that any single participant could force the return of penalties, and no great power could stop them.

But this mechanism relied on a premise that collapsed in May 2018: U.S. support. The United States’ withdrawal from the JCPOA exposed Europe’s dependence with clarifying brutality. The moment Washington reimposed secondary sanctions, Europe’s firms reassessed their commitments based on their exposure to the U.S. dollar. Total abandoned a $4.8 billion gas project, Siemens suspended infrastructure investments, and shipping giants like Maersk and MSC halted shipping services at Iranian ports. When companies were forced to choose between the Iranian market and the American banking system, they chose survival.

The consequences of this exodus became obvious in 2019, when Iran responded to the economic pressure by expanding its uranium stockpile, and European leaders recognized the breach but simply hesitated to act. They understood that without the United States, they possessed the legal right to snap back sanctions but lacked the economic weight to make them bite. The enforcement system was designed to be automatic, but in practice, it depended entirely on American participation.

Europe attempted to preserve the illusion of sovereignty by launching INSTEX, a clearinghouse designed to facilitate trade outside the dollar. It was a failure. Over its entire operational life, the mechanism facilitated just a single transaction for medical goods. The pressure system that once surrounded Iran had relied on American financial dominance as its central pillar. Once the facade was removed, “snapback” transformed from a threat into bureaucracy with no real force behind it. 

Domestic Trap

A long-term nonproliferation agreement requires political stability to survive, and the last decade proved that neither Washington, Tehran, nor Jerusalem can offer. 

The roots of this failure lie in the precedent set in May 2018. Although the IAEA verified Iranian compliance repeatedly between 2015 and 2018, the United States withdrew anyway, establishing a fatal new norm: a treaty tethered to American election cycles cannot synergize trust. President Obama signed the deal in 2015; President Trump reversed course three years later; President Biden attempted a revival in 2021 with limited traction. By 2025, Republicans had returned to a posture centered on maximum pressure, confirming the warnings of analysts like Vali Nasr and Trita Parsi that any agreement faces reversal the moment domestic tides shift. 

The JCPOA ceased to be a technical agreement and became a political emblem. In the United States, it evolved into a touchstone for broader debates about America’s role in the world. Republican senators linked it to weakness, conservative commentators described it as “appeasement,” and Donald Trump elevated opposition to the deal to signal a total rejection of Obama-era diplomacy.

Tehran internalized this dynamic. Hardliners used the precedent of the U.S. withdrawal to undermine the arguments of the moderates who had invested their political capital in the agreement. The narrative framing inspections as concessions to imperial powers ceased to be rhetorical leverage. Following the death of Ebrahim Raisi, it calcified into state policy. While his successor, Masoud Pezeshkian, campaigned on engagement, the real power centers, the IRGC and the Supreme National Security Council, consolidated around a doctrine of “resistance economy.” In this new domestic equilibrium, any concession to the IAEA became politically fatal.

This internal logic dictated the events of this week. Following the intensification of security incidents at nuclear facilities, the nuclear file became a primary test of regime legitimacy. The IAEA’s November 20 inquiry had only routine significance within international guidelines, yet the political environment placed on its shoulders a symbolic weight. When conservative lawmaker Mojtaba Zolnour characterized the request as an affront to national dignity, he was drawing a red line for his own government. Tehran’s decision to withdraw followed the logic of that domestic climate: in a system built on defiance, cooperation looks like treason.

A similar hardening of domestic politics transformed Israel’s strategic calculus. For years, the Israeli security establishment operated under the “campaign between wars” (MABAM) doctrine, which is a strategy of covert sabotage designed to delay Iran’s progress without triggering a full-scale conflict. The events of October 7 and the subsequent multi-front war ended that consensus. The prevailing political demand shifted from managing threats to eliminating them. By 2025, the government could no longer justify a policy of quiet containment to a public demanding absolute security guarantees.

This shift forced the country’s leadership to abandon ambiguity in favor of overt action. The strikes in June 2025 were the output of a new domestic mandate that views international agreements as dangerous distractions. Prime Minister Netanyahu’s coalition framed the JCPOA as a shield that allowed Iran to build capacity under diplomatic cover. When the IAEA requested updates this week, Jerusalem viewed the move as proof that the international community remained stuck in a pre-war mindset. Israel’s domestic politics now demand kinetic solutions rather than paper guarantees.

Discussion surrounding the JCPOA often suggests that the agreement can return with enough diplomatic determination, but interpretation understates how deeply the international environment has changed. Iran’s announcement on November 20 carries meaning because it clarifies the state of an arrangement that has relied on memory rather than function. A future agreement requires a different foundation. A durable successor must reflect the geopolitical competition between major powers, the economic architecture that shapes compliance, and the domestic incentives that determine political survival. A structure built around the conditions of 2015 cannot endure in the environment that defines 2025.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: JCPOA Implementation, Image sourced from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, no changes made

For just one time I would take the Northwest Passage

To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea

Tracing one warm line through a land so wide and savage

And make a Northwest Passage to the Sea.

“Northwest Passage,”Stan Rogers, 1981.

During the Age of Sail, countless sailors attempted to traverse the frigid arctic waters of the North Pole in search of a maritime route that would cut down on shipping costs and travel time. However, due to the treacherous conditions, rogue ice sheets, and insufficient advancements in naval technology, all expeditions ended in failure and death. Nevertheless, with modern-day Arctic vessels such as icebreakers and the thawing of polar ice, a “Northwest Passage” may finally be in reach. 

A potential arctic shipping route has appeared attractive for centuries due to its potential to cut shipping costs and travel time by nearly half, or 6,200 miles – roughly the length of the entire Pacific Ocean when measured from Los Angeles to Beijing. Additionally, ships taking this polar express would avoid the conflict-prone Red Sea, where recent Houthi missile attacks on maritime cargo ships have required the armed intervention of the American navy to protect commerce. 

Due to increasing temperatures and the unequal distribution of heat on the Earth’s surface, the poles heat up four times faster on average than the rest of the Earth for an average of 12.8% sea ice decline per decade. However, this does not necessarily mean the Arctic is completely ice-free. Instead, man-made climate change has created brief seasonal windows when the ice retreats just enough to make Arctic maritime shipping viable. Still, in an interview with CNN, the polar geopolitics expert Elizabeth Buchanan remarked, “A new global economic corridor is about to come online… This is a game changer.” 

Additionally, the Arctic Circle is estimated to contain 30% of Earth’s undiscovered natural gas and 13% of its undiscovered oil reserves, potentially making any nation that could control or exert influence over the region very powerful. Consequently, Canada, Denmark, and Russia have all recently invoked an obscure clause in the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea to extend their economic claims to the Arctic.

The United States, however, may find it difficult to justify similar economic activity in the Arctic as the United States has yet to sign the aforementioned United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, therefore making any claims outside its 200 mile exclusive economic zone illegitimate in the eyes of international law. Alaskan politicians have since lobbied the federal government to become a signatory, but progress is unlikely to be made due to long-held American fears of loss of sovereignty to the United Nations. Interestingly, if the United States were a signatory to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, not only would it be able to extend its Alaskan Arctic claims by almost 160,000 square miles, it would also potentially be able to stack the scientific panels judging international oceanic claims with American experts. 

Given the highly lucrative potential of the Arctic, the power of influencing territorial arbitration would be especially important due to the many overlapping claims that cover the Arctic. For example, the Lomonosov Ridge, an underwater mountain range stretching 1,100 miles in the extreme North Pole, is claimed by both Russia and Canada. The importance of the Lomonosov Ridge led Russia in 2007 to plant a Russian flag on the seabed around the Lomonosov Ridge using a robotic arm attached to a submarine. It is perhaps also no coincidence that the parts of the Arctic closest to Russia have been described as having “mind-boggling” amounts of oil and natural gas. 

Whereas the interests of countries like China are purely economic in nature, the Arctic has also been militarily important to polar nations like Russia, Canada, and the United States for several decades. For example, during the Cold War, Canada and the United States’ early-warning missile-detection systems were based in the Arctic. Likewise, the Center for Strategic and International Studies has described the purpose of Russia’s Arctic military presence as being to “1. Enhance homeland defense, specifically a forward line of defense against foreign incursion as the Arctic attracts increased international investment; 2. Secure Russia’s economic future; and 3. Create a staging ground to project power, primarily in the North Atlantic.” Predicitably, Russia also has the world’s largest icebreaker fleet, numbering at 50, with some icebreakers nuclear-powered and armed. Comparatively, the United States has two, both of which are decades old. 

In fact, in terms of active economic, legal, and military activity in the North Pole, Russia is the world’s foremost Arctic power. According to U.S. officials, if NATO were to regain the Arctic advantage, it would require the construction of 70 to 90 icebreakers. During the 2024 NATO summit, the United States, Canada, and Finland announced the Icebreaker Collaboration Effort (ICE) to begin negotiations regarding a joint effort to construct new icebreakers. This joint nature of this agreement is notable as the United States is expected to require consistent, deliberate investment spanning decades to bring its shipyards up to global par in icebreaker construction – a problem emblematic of the larger decline of American shipyards as a whole. Inevitably, the United States is relying on polar allies such as Finland to build icebreakers for it, as in the $6.1 billion Finno-American deal announced in October of 2025, under which Finland will build four icebreakers for the United States Coast Guard and assist America in constructing seven additional icebreakers. The first icebreaker is expected to be delivered in 2028. 

Although the Arctic has the potential to be the next frontier of geopolitics, environmentalists warn of the possibility of catastrophic destruction there. Counterintuitively, melting sea ice in the Arctic actually makes transiting to the North Pole more perilous in some respects, as the thawed ice now floats freely and unpredictably rather than being previously locked into unmoving ice sheets. This has the potential to damage oil tankers transiting through the Arctic and cause oil spills. Whereas oil spills in other oceans, such as the Gulf of Mexico, can be relatively manageable to clean up due to their proximity to highly developed and prepared nations like the United States, Arctic oil spills have the potential to be uniquely destructive to the environment, as the desolate and isolated nature of the Arctic Ocean makes cleanup exceptionally difficult. Not only would specialized vessels such as icebreakers be necessary, but the frigid Arctic temperatures might also require specialized cleanup equipment and specially trained crews. Not only would oil stay in the relatively pristine Arctic waters for longer than in other oceans, but the dark, black color of spilled oil would also absorb sunlight, heating the Arctic even further. 

As the climate warms and more Arctic sea ice melts, more human activity accelerating climate change is expected to take place in the Arctic in a positive feedback loop akin to a vicious, environmental death spiral. Consequently, this will further warm the climate, leading to additional climate-change-contributing Arctic activity. This will, of course, lead to even more climate change. 

Instead, it would do the world well to look south for guidance. The 1959 Antarctic Treaty established the South Pole as a demilitarized, environmentally-protected, scientific no-man’s-land, which it has remained to this day. Consequently, Antarctica has stayed relatively untouched. Not only would a scramble for the Arctic spell disaster for the environment, it would also inflame the growing great power competition between the United States and Russia. The Arctic is at a crossroads, and it could either become an additional theater in geopolitical struggle, or a testament to international cooperation and the pursuit of science over extraction. A treaty akin to the 1959 Antarctic Treaty should be enacted that would protect the Arctic, and put posterity before profit.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Arctic, Image sourced from RawPixel | CC License, no changes made

In late-May of 2013, Ida Angotigirk, a member of the Salluit community in Northern Quebec, disappeared. After nearly a month of Angotirgirk being missing, it was finally reported to the Kativik Regional Police Force, who immediately suspected foul play in her disappearance. In the same year, another Indigenous woman named Bernice Rich was killed in Sheshatshiu, a reserve in Newfoundland and Labrador, by a man who had a history of violent offenses. Her death is remembered years later in the community alongside the numerous other Indigenous women and girls that have gone missing or been killed over the years. 

These stories are far too common in Canada–those that make the news, at least. Indigenous peoples in Canada, despite only making up around 5% of the population, represent a disproportionate fraction of missing people in Canada, specifically women. In 2014, Indigenous women were six times more likely to be homicide victims than non-Indigenous women. Indigenous women also make up 50% of human trafficking cases in Canada. Victims such as Bernice Rich, Ida Angotigirk, and others who make these headlines, seldom receive justice, and their cases are not treated with the necessary level of urgency. Cases frequently go unpublicized, with many of these women never being found or even reported as missing. Canada needs to implement measures, such as a specific national database to fairly report these cases, rather than continuing to treat the issue as second-class or continue their slow, non-prioritized implementation of these ideas. Without serious and swift action, the crisis that affects Indigenous women in Canada will persist with little consequences and scare consideration from the public. 

The Highway of Tears

Crimes committed against these women are not concentrated in specific areas of the country. Cases of human trafficking of Indigenous women span across the major regions in Canada: British Columbia, Ontario, Alberta, and more. However, a section of the Yellowhead Highway 16, which runs from Winnipeg to the coast of British Columbia, has been notoriously dubbed the “Highway of Tears” due to its “national crisis of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls.” Although many Indigenous women have been found, or taken off of, this route, the national crises affects urban and rural areas alike. 

A 2025 report on human trafficking in Canada found that in the last 14 years, after identifying 185 cases of missing or murdered Indigenous women, 67% of those cases still resulted in the victim’s status being missing. To this date, many of the cases that have been suspected to originate from the Highway of Tears are still unsolved. Women have come to fear the region, with interviews from Human Rights Watch stating that their researchers were “struck by the fear expressed by women they interviewed.” Despite Canada having both a national and regional police force to work on these cases, these institutions have seemingly failed these communities, both in bringing justice to the victims, but also in ensuring that their constituents feel safe to express their concerns. 

Critiques: Colonialism and Socioeconomic Disparities in Canada

Many hypothesize that the largest contributor to these inequalities is Canada’s legacy of colonialism. The Indian Act, which was passed in 1876, established reserved lands and aimed to assimilate the Indigenous people of Canada during the British Colonial Rule. It rigidly structured the Indigenous population, both by forbidding them to leave their reservations and creating strict power dynamics for Indigenous women. For example, if an Indigenous woman married a non-Indigenous man, it would result in them giving up their Indigenous status. Additionally, even if an Indigenous woman married another Indigenous man, the man would be allowed to surrender her status as an Indigenous woman for Canadian citizenship and land. All land and property thus belonged to the men of these reservations, and women had few rights outside of what their husband permitted. Indigenous women were also socially, though reinforced by the Indian Act, to remain “pure and chaste,” with any deviation from this norm resulting in being deemed unworthy of respect. Sexual shaming thus became a frequent issue in these communities, leading to those who experienced sexual violence less likely to come forward with their stories to not seem “impure.”

Socioeconomic disparities also contribute to the lack of reporting and increased targeting of Indigenous women. For example, 18% of Indigenous peoples live in core housing, while only 10% of non-Indigenous households do. Additionally, studies published by the National Library of Medicine have reported that medical institutions in Canada frequently overlook the needs of Indigenous women. Many of these institutions are rooted in discriminatory practices, which decreases the desire for these women to share their experiences. With limited access to safe housing, and a deep mistrust of health resources, Indigenous women are more vulnerable to sexual crimes, with nearly 44% of Indigenous women reporting physical or sexual abuse, which is nearly double the percentage of non-Indigenous women (25%). The continued effects of socioeconomic disparities, which also stem from the issue of colonialism, make it difficult for Indigenous women to protect themselves against the persistent dangers of human trafficking and death.  

In the context of Canada’s complex history with colonialism, and the few efforts to deconstruct the structures that this Act created, it is no surprise that Indigenous women have continued to be victims of crime. While the Canadian government has attempted to interfere less with these Indigenous populations, it also means they no longer adequately protect these groups. The marginalization of Indigenous women, even by their own communities, can lead to crimes of sexual violence, trafficking, and kidnapping to be overlooked. Rather than protect the victims of these crimes, it’s easier to forget about them and shame them for the promiscuous nature of their disappearances. These fundamental social and historical influences have affected present-day Canadian society, with the government and police forces overlooking Indigenous women as victims that deserve fair justice and equal importance. 

The Role of Police and Government

Institutions, such as the Canadian government and their police authorities, have failed the Indigenous populations. From underreporting, to a lack of urgency in fixing these systemic issues, there are various barriers for these Indigenous women to obtain justice in a system that works against them.

The police systems and news sources actively play a role in the continuation of these disproportionate abuses against Indigenous women with their lack of transparency and underreporting of victims. Government officials have hypothesized that the “actual number” of Indigenous women that are victims of disappearing or murder is “far higher.” Studies also find that in the court system itself, “‘language and translation difficulties, inadequate and insensitive defence representation, pressures to plead guilty and racist stereotypes” all are disadvantages that Indigenous people face in the justice system. The issue is not just that Indigenous women are less likely to receive media attention, but that when they do, justice is seldom served in the courts. 

Solutions: Fair Reporting, Urgency, and Transparency

This article is not the first to urge Canada to re-evaluate its approaches to these crimes. Numerous organizations have called upon the government to actively change its procedures and protect the lives of Indigenous people. One organization, now called Red Dress Stories, created a website archive to honor the lives and stories of Indigenous women who have gone missing or murdered. Additionally, the Native Women’s Association of Canada has started numerous initiatives to reduce violence against Indigenous women. Despite these efforts, however, the government has yet to make active efforts to change their policies regarding these issues. 

This article contends that Canada needs to address the fundamental issues in their processes by implementing the following: first, a national public database that promotes transparency and accountability for the police force, and second, a system to enforce news sources to accurately and fairly report missing or murdered Indigenous women.

A national public database would force cases to remain open until solved within a reasonable time, as well as generate awareness on which women are missing or victims of trafficking or murder. It would also allow families of these victims to provide information on their loved ones and be updated on the progress of their cases being solved. Additionally, enforcing news sources to fairly report these cases can include police sending records to these sources for publishing, continued public support for accurate news, and continued accountability by continuously collecting data on the proportion of Indigenous vs. non-Indigenous victims reported on.

These proposed measures target some of the key weaknesses of the current system and seek to strengthen it through transparency, urgency, and accountability. Despite efforts from various groups and years of discussion, reform has been continuously stalled by a lack of urgency. Awareness and continued pressure from civil societies, organizations, and the public are critical to gaining the needed support from the government to implement these suggestions and draw attention to the situation. By making data on these women more transparent and holding their abusers accountable, women like Angotigirk and Rich can finally have a fair chance at seeking justice through a system that has repeatedly let them down.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Vigil for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG), Image sourced from Flickr | CC License, no changes made

Did we learn nothing? Hitler utilized ethnocentric nationalism to unite the “Aryan” Germans against Jews based on their belief in racial superiority. This led to one of the most horrific genocides in the past century, drastically changing how countries approach international relations, human rights, and economic policy. Yet nearly a century later, Germany faces a disturbingly familiar pattern. So while the outward symbols have changed, the political mechanics, like exclusion and fear, are parallel. Germany’s far-right revival, brought by the Alternative für Deutschland (AfD), demonstrates once again that history repeats itself.

History lessons are often remembered as abstract concepts, as if there is a physical barrier between the past and the present. Germany’s post-war constitution was designed to prevent another Hitler, yet nationalist rhetoric has crept back into mainstream politics. Today, the AfD capitalizes on the same conditions that once invigorated the Nazi Party: cultural anxieties, economic uncertainty, and mistrust in institutions. The resurgence of the far-right in Germany illustrates how ethnonationalist and populist rhetoric, which Hitler once weaponized, has returned to Germany in a new form. By exploiting citizens’ fear, social division, and political dissatisfaction, the AfD threatens the foundations of Germany’s post-war democratic stability. 

To prevent history from repeating itself, it is imperative to understand Hitler’s rise. Many nationalists, such as Hitler, employed populist tactics to achieve their goals. Populist politics typically emerge as a reaction against globalization, and their proponents use straightforward inclusion and exclusion to reach their base and win electoral majorities. As noted by Harvard sociologist Bart Bonikowski, populism serves as a “discursive tool of political outsiders–usually elites themselves–who seek to gain power by eschewing mainstream politics.”¹ This dynamic reflects a growing trend today “among political elites to channel public grievances into ethnoracial resentment and political distrust.”² 

Furthermore, in political scientist Panayota Gounari’s words, fear politics utilize an ethnic, religious, linguistic, or political minority “as a scapegoat for most if not all current” problems of the country, subsequently construing the other group as dangerous and threatening.³ These explanations of nationalism and how it uses populism as its means perfectly align with the rise of the Nazi Party in the 1920s and 1930s. Following its defeat in World War I, Germany faced staggering economic hardship, in part due to the extensive monetary reparations required by the Treaty of Versailles. By framing Jewish people as responsible for Germany’s problems, Hitler was able to reach his white Germanic base around an imagined national purity and gain popularity. Today, similar forces are again shaping German politics. 

The Alternative für Deutschland, or AfD, is a populist far-right political party in Germany that became the second-strongest party after receiving 20.8 percent of the vote in the 2025 federal election. The party initially started gaining traction after adopting xenophobic and Islamophobic positions following the refugee crisis in 2015, when almost one million asylum seekers settled in Germany. The crisis led to many political tensions, such as concerns over the strain on social services, the integration of refugees, and increased crime rates. While overall crime and total victimization rates actually declined, the AfD exploited this fear to gain support and create an ingroup as their base of power. 

The party’s rhetoric portrays migrants and refugees as invaders who threaten German culture and security. In 2021, the leader of the AfD party in the state of Thuringia, Björn Höcke, concluded a political campaign speech with the words, “Everything for our homeland, everything for Saxony-Anhalt, and everything for Germany!” The last part of his speech is banned in Germany because it was the slogan associated with the Nazi Sturmabteilung stormtroopers, who played a key role in the Nazi Party’s rise to power. This slogan once again emphasizes cultural purity and exclusion. Further, in 2017, Björn Höcke referred to the Holocaust memorial in Berlin as a “monument of shame,” stating that the Germans’ mental state continues to be that of a “totally vanquished people.” Höcke’s remarks test the limits of democratic tolerance, which is the willingness to accept the civil rights and liberties of all citizens, regardless of their opinions. While this is central to any democracy, unlimited tolerance should be cautioned, however, because “it may lead to the disappearance of tolerance itself.” The Nazi movement has shown that when unlimited tolerance is extended to those who are intolerant, the tolerant will be destroyed. Höcke reframes national memory as something to be rejected instead of respected, dangerously telling Germans to ignore the lessons the past gives.

Germany’s post-war constitution specifically places limits on far-right and other extremist speech. Due to its increased radicalization, Germany’s domestic intelligence agency, the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution (BfV), put AfD under surveillance as a potential threat to the constitution. The BfV concluded that the far-right wing of the AfD had “extremist intentions,” and that the AfD’s “vehement anti-migrant rhetoric online was leading to violence in the real world.” Furthermore, the BfV assessed that about one-third of the AfD party members are inclined towards right-wing extremist violence. 

Along with anti-immigration stances, the AfD has also embraced anti-LBGTQ+, anti-environmental, and pro-Russian positions, among others. In Thuringia and Saxony, several wings and organizations of the party have even been deemed “a threat to the liberal democratic order.” The AfD party’s leaders consistently oppose support for Ukraine and refuse to label Putin a war criminal, claiming Russia is a victim of Western aggression. By aligning with Russia in the war, the AfD appeals to Germans skeptical of NATO and frustrated by Germany’s role in global conflicts. 

Dr. Karl-Rudolf Korte of the North Rhine-Westphalia School of Governance explained that AfD mobilized as a “profiteer of fear,” and thrived because it filled in the emotional and ideological gaps left by traditional parties. Since June 2023, AfD has received more support from the German people in opinion polls than the ruling chancellor’s party, the Social Democrats (SPD). In June 2023, the AfD won its first county administrator post in a runoff election in Sonneberg in the eastern German state of Thuringia, where the AfD is classified as a “proven right-wing extremist” by the BfV. 

AfD profits from fear and agitates resentment, passively collecting dissatisfied voters of other parties. Harmony, consistency, or agenda is irrelevant to AfD voters. AfD, rather than having a base of ideologically committed voters, “collects communities of disappointed and mistrustful voters from other parties.” AfD, as a sponge for resentment, benefits from fears that typically accompany societal modernization: the dissolution of traditional roles and the loss of security. This manifests in fears of downward social mobility, which is usually blamed on the influx of immigrants. These fears translate into a desire for a return to the ‘good old days,’ when German society was supposedly more homogeneous and stable. They try neither to convert nor lecture voters; instead, they mobilize on issues where other parties remain silent because they lack common positions, for instance in economic stances. Political scientist Achim Goerres has found that the economic preferences of AfD voters are very mixed, which leaves little potential for strategy blurring. Many AfD voters feel ostracized in Germany and find appeal in AfD’s stances. Any weakness of parties in the center becomes support for the AfD.

The aftermath of COVID-19 has led to feelings of social isolation, economic turmoil, and fatigue from constant change. This perceived instability creates a “breeding ground for authoritarian temptations that promise simple answers and idyllic worlds.” AfD’s appeal can be boiled down to those concerns: its promise to protect ‘ordinary people’ from globalization, immigration, and out-of-touch elites. 

Support for the AfD is not evenly distributed across genders and demographics. Pew Research Center says in a 2024 report that “around one-in-five Germans (19%) see AfD favorably, but a large majority (79%) have a negative opinion of the party.” However, men “have more positive views of AfD than women do (26% vs. 11%), and the share of men holding this opinion has risen 10 points since 2022.” 

This gender gap can be attributed to several factors. Economic instability has hit working-class men the hardest, particularly in more rural areas. As technology continues to develop, it changes the market and leads to a decline in traditional manufacturing jobs. Shifting social values have also led some men to lose the sense of identity and pride once tied to earlier social roles. This phenomenon has been called the “status threat” by Diana Mutz. The feeling of being left behind economically prompts a defensive reaction from those who believe that it’s been stolen from them. 

The AfD taps into this alienation by insisting upon traditional masculinity, order, and national pride. By framing immigration and feminism as threats to the stability of Germany, AfD produces cultural resentment. This, combined with economic insecurity, pushes many men toward the far right.

The rise of AfD has already shifted the German political scene. AfD Party leaders Alice Weidel and Tino Chrupalla increasingly undermine trust in Germany’s democratic institutions by questioning election results, disparaging public broadcasters as “state propaganda,” and promoting conspiracy theories about migration. At AfD’s party conference to select candidates for the European Parliament, many party members were openly promoting theories such as the “Great Replacement,” which holds that political elites are “deliberately introducing non-white migrants into Europe to supplant the white race.”

These tactics gradually delegitimize democracy; as a result, voters lose trust in their government, the media, and elections, becoming more susceptible to authoritarian ideas. Further, in regions where AfD is the strongest, such as Saxony and Thuringia, hate crimes and political intimidation against refugees, journalists, and even public officials have increased. The normalization of extremist rhetoric and violence has also blurred the line between political discourse and hate speech. 

The presence of AfD forces mainstream parties to adjust their rhetoric in turn; as a result, more centerist parties have adopted tougher stances on migration or national identity to avoid losing voters to AfD. This is one of the most dangerous signs of populist politics: when the center begins to echo extremism. 

If populist politics feed on fear and disconnection, then overcoming it requires reestablishing trust and inclusion in democratic institutions. The AfD has a highly fluid voter base, especially in East Germany, where political disillusionment runs deep. Many voters choose AfD not out of firm ideological convictions, but because they feel ignored or unrepresented by mainstream politics and media.  In a 2023 poll by DeutschlandTrend, “about two-thirds of those who supported AfD said they did so in protest of over other parties, rather than because they were convinced by the far right’s policies.” Increasing political polarization has caused many voters to avoid the center and vote instead for the far-left Greens party or for far-right AfD. A 2024 European Council on Foreign Relations public opinion poll highlighted immigration at the most important issue shaping how Germans look at their future. Centrist parties, however, have developed no clear approach to immigration, some “adopting populist and AfD-lite tactics and creating internal divisions.” Rather than uniting, this pushes voters already disillusioned with the centrist parties further towards the AfD, while AfD voters are not likely to won back by underdeveloped version of AfD’s policy stances. 

Political scientist Teresa Völker finds in her study that “when mainstream parties mimic the anti-immigration rhetoric of the far right, they bring such ideas from the fringes into the mainstream debate,” thereby legitimizing the far-right’s demands. A study by Cambridge University in 2025 found that accommodating far-right agendas instead leads to more voters defecting to the radical right, with the effect being more pronounced when the far-right pary is more established. 

Thus, this breakdown between the party in charge and the voters leads to voters turning to alternative media and the AfD. Echoing the American-German Institute (AGI), political success depends on seeking “proximity to the lives of citizens.” Centrist parties should address issues such as housing shortages, healthcare access, and local economic development, and not simply copy AfD’s stance as an attempt to win back voters. By focusing on practical results and distinct stances, democratic parties can regain credibility from the AfD. The AGI puts it best: “People vote for parties that get things done.”

Ultimately, democracy’s resilience depends on addressing conditions that make extremism attractive, rather than suppressing dissent. The past must be confronted, not as a history lesson in a textbook, but as a living reminder of how fragile democracy can be. 

The rise in AfD’s popularity indicates that nationalism can never truly be eradicated; instead, it lies dormant, waiting for fear of change and social division to revitalize it. Germany’s history demonstrates to all of us how easily democratic institutions can break down when citizens lose trust in each other and their leaders. AfD’s capitalization on the swirling resentment and harkening to past traditional roles represents a test to Germany’s post-war constitution and its ability to prevent another far-right rise to power. 

Yet history need not repeat itself. If Germany’s centrist and democratic forces can rebuild citizens’ trust, they can restore the promise of a society in which everyone, regardless of background or situation, is accepted. Beyond defeating AfD at the ballot box, Germany’s goal should be to address the conditions that allow its messages to take root with its citizens; democracy cannot endure through complacency. 

Germany has faced this test before. The world is watching again to see if this time, it will pass.

1. Bonikowski, Bart. 2016. “Background to Brexit: Populism, Nationalism, and the Politics of Resentment.” Epicenter: Harvard University. ↩︎
2. Ibid. ↩︎
3. Gournari, Panayota. 2018. “Authoritarianism, Discourse, and Social Media: Trump as the ‘American Agitator.” Critical Theory and Authoritarian Populism, 207–228. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: AfD, Image sourced from Heute | CC License, no changes made

“It’s lights out and away we go!” With those words, the crowd went wild as the twenty Formula 1 drivers began the first of their 57 laps around the Bahrain International Circuit. The 105,000 spectators gathered at the 2025 Bahrain Grand Prix went through a range of emotions as the race progressed: Fans cheered as rookie Oliver Bearman fought his way from 20th place to 10th to score his team points. Thousands mourned as fan-favorite Carlos Sainz crashed in lap 45, damaging his car and forcing him to end the race early. And by the end of the day, McLaren die-hards were thrilled when the team’s 24-year-old Oscar Piastri clinched the first-place trophy after over an hour and a half of racing in the Bahraini heat.

The Bahrain Grand Prix is unique on the F1 calendar. It was the first Grand Prix to be held in the Middle East, and it stands out as one of the only races to happen at night and in a desert setting. It is also home to some of the most iconic moments in F1 history, like the epic battle between Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg in 2014 and Romain Grosjean’s fiery crash in 2020. For many fans, Formula 1 is what put Bahrain on the map, and the Bahraini government knows it. By being the first Middle Eastern country to host an F1 Grand Prix, the Bahraini government ensured that the country would receive massive media attention, heightened international awareness, and most importantly, money. However, the Bahrain Grand Prix also serves a darker purpose, drawing attention away from human rights violations in a phenomenon known as sportswashing.

Sportswashing refers to the use of prominent sports events as a means to boost the public image of a country and draw attention away from its wrongdoings. High-profile events like the FIFA World Cups in Russia and Qatar and the 2022 Winter Olympics in China are examples of this phenomenon, bringing money and positive attention to countries that are so often under fire for human rights abuses. 

While sportswashing occurs across many athletic events, F1 has been a key avenue for this tactic due to its immense global popularity and built-in marketing opportunities. F1, now in its 75th season, has exploded in viewership in recent years, with the Netflix docu-series Drive to Survive serving as a primary catalyst for this growth. At the end of 2024, F1 had over 750 million fans, making it the most popular annual sporting series. 

F1 races draw huge crowds, which always include prominent celebrities, CEOs, and politicians. The 2024 grand prix in Azerbaijan, another country with severe discrimination and strict government control, drew stars like Naomi Campbell, Will Smith, and J Balvin. In 2025, the Bahrain Grand Prix served as a royal family reunion, with four of Queen Elizabeth’s grandchildren in attendance. These famous guests add to F1’s reputation for luxury, and serve as great marketing tools for the host country.

The marketing potential of F1 goes further, as races often incorporate the cultural symbols of the host countries. Every race begins with the host country’s national anthem. Many countries combine this patriotic performance with an aerial display over the racing track, with planes releasing colored smoke into the sky to represent the national flag. With dozens of cameras capturing the race and the accompanying showcase, these countries are also able to show off the host city around the racetrack. For example, the Baku City Circuit takes drivers through the streets of Azerbaijan’s capital, where fans can see both the city’s towering skyscrapers and the medieval city walls. For grands prix that take place on the streets of a major city, the race footage is essentially a multi-hour travel ad.

In the case of countries like Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, and Azerbaijan where human rights abuses are abundant, the positive attention that Formula 1 draws is problematic. F1 driver Esteban Ocon reminisced, “When I think about Bahrain I always remember the beautiful paddock, which . . . looks amazing at night with all the trees lit up.” Former driver Daniel Ricciardo adds, “Bahrain is great. The weather is warm, the paddock is modern, the hotel is amazing.” For many F1 fans, their only knowledge of Bahrain comes from testimonials like these, and not from the plethora of reports that describe Bahrain’s intense religion- and gender-based discrimination, the torture commonly used in Bahraini criminal proceedings, and the lack of basic political rights like freedom of expression.

This is why sportswashing is such a powerful tool. It crafts a positive narrative of the host country, associating it with the glamour and excitement of sports like F1, thus diverting negative attention and diluting public criticism. This can have monetary benefits in the form of increased tourism, but also in the creation of jobs and infrastructure leading up to a grand prix. In the words of Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia, “If sportswashing is going to increase my GDP by way of 1%, then I will continue doing sportswashing.” And while sportswashing may bring money into a country’s economy and boost its reputation, it does nothing to combat human rights abuses, instead actively minimizing discussion of these issues and encouraging complacency from outsiders. 

Lewis Hamilton is a rare example of a driver who acknowledges this dangerous phenomenon and works to combat it. In a 2020 press conference ahead of the Bahrain Grand Prix, he said that “the human rights issue in so many of the places that [F1 drivers] go to is a consistent and a massive problem,” going on to say that as a sport that travels to so many different countries, F1 has a responsibility to raise awareness about these issues. While some members of the FIA (the governing body of F1) claim that the sport has improved circumstances in oppressive regimes, Hamilton rejects this notion, saying that the fight for human rights is not a priority for many in the sport.

While sportswashing has had positive impacts, like the increase of women in Middle Eastern countries following racing and even competing in it themselves, the downsides must be acknowledged. Press coverage of grands prix should not only highlight the glamour of F1, but also educate viewers about the host countries themselves. When more fans and sponsors have context for host countries, market forces may limit sportswashing and encourage real change.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Red Bull, Image sourced from Flickr | CC License, no changes made

Introduction 

This January, the hyper-conservative Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) party in Germany released its latest–and most controversial–manifesto: a 94 page document detailing their vision for the country’s future. The piece addresses everything from university funding, to genetic engineering, to the efficacy of the Euro. But part of what makes it such a catalyst for discourse is its seventh chapter. This section is titled, “Culture, Language and Identity,” and discusses regulations for media, language, and, most strangely, religious and Germanic cultural loyalty.

Chapter Seven, to most, seems out of place in a 2025 manifesto. After all, it might fit better among the Nazi’s extreme nationalist and antisemetic rhetoric of the 1930s and 1940s. It does not help that the AfD has already faced scrutiny on the global stage for employing similar language to that of the Nazi party in other official communications. For instance, the leader of the AfD in 2021, Björn Höcke, was tried and fined for proudly shouting Nazi slogan, “Everything for Germany!” in one of his speeches.

Today, we cringe to compare anything to the horrors of Nazism, and, indeed, Germany’s current political and economic state is not a perfect mirror for what it was one hundred years ago. Yet, the social and political echoes between the Nazi Party in the 1930s and today’s far-right AfD are too stark to ignore, both in and outside of their manifesto. To do so would risk turning every historian’s nightmare into reality: allowing Germany’s legacy of racial hatred and nationalist extremism to resurface.

Social

Perhaps the most concerning thing one can see in any political party is a strong sense of hatred for a group of people based on ethnicity, gender, religion, etc. It is–or should be–the first and most obvious warning sign that such a party poses a threat to the lives and livelihoods of those they target.

The Nazi party made their social stance rather clear: anything non-traditional or non-German was an enemy of the state and had to be eliminated.

Similarly, in Germany today there is a strong push to return to the traditional. Recent changes in what marriage, gender, race dynamics, etc. look like have given pause to conservatives everywhere trying to contend with this new world outlook. Still, the ability for LGBTQ+ couples to marry, for women to enjoy full equality to men, or for religious minorities to practice have been accepted in most places globally. Yet, the AfD places itself rather firmly against these things, just like the Nazi party once did.

For the sake of exercise, let us compare two statements, one from the AfD’s manifesto and another from a 1923 interview with Adolf Hitler:

“[Religion X] does not belong to Germany.”

“The [Y Religious Group] are not German. They are an alien people in our midst.”

Without the context filled in of which religious group is being targeted, the statements are identical in sentiment. In context, the first is read: “Islam does not belong to Germany” and comes from the AfD. The second reads: “The Jews are not German. They are an alien people in our midst” and is from Hitler’s interview.

If that were not bad enough, the AfD’s manifesto boasts many more sentiments reminiscent of those held by Nazis regarding Jews–this time targeting Muslims. For instance, chapter seven of the AfD’s manifesto, which was discussed briefly in the introduction, boasts a disturbing number of subsections dedicated to the erasure of Islam in Germany under the guise of “Culture, Language, and Identity” regulations. To demonstrate, a selection of the chapter’s subsections includes: “Islam and its Tense Relationship with our Value System”, “Tolerate Criticism of Islam,” “No Full-Body Veiling in Public Spaces,” and, “No Public Body Status for Islamic Organizations.” Chapter 8, which focuses on education, goes on to include, “Close Qur’an Schools and Integrate Islamic Studies in Ethics Education” and “No Special Rights for Muslim Pupils.” There is also a ban suggested on slaughtering animals in such a way that makes them Halal or Kosher in the manifesto’s thirteenth chapter, which would prevent Jews and Muslims from being able to eat German meat.

Beyond the glaring similarities between Nazi and AfD sentiment as it relates to religious minorities, views on other conservative issues are also similar. For instance, the role of women and men in the military. Let us repeat the exercise from before with one statement coming from the AfD and one from a Nazi official:

“We consider military service to be the duty of all young men, irrespective their social background…Women shall have the opportunity to perform military service on a voluntary basis.”

“It has always been our chief article of fact that woman’s place is in the home – but since the whole of Germany is our home we must serve her wherever we can best do so.”

Admittedly, the language of the time makes it a bit easier to tell here that the first quote comes from the AfD’s manifesto while the second comes from Gertrud Scholtz-Klink–a female leader in the Nazi party. But, this exercise is a disturbing one. Through it, concerning parallels between the hyper-conservative, nationalist movements of the Nazi party become intimately linked to the same hyper-conservative, nationalist movements of the AfD. 

Of course, one must be careful when generalizing these similarities too much. After all, much of the racial cleansing, deeply sexist, explicitly hostile language present in Nazi rhetoric would cause global outrage if it were to be used by the AfD. But, any level of similarity–especially as it relates to the deeply congruent language used about Muslims today that was used about Jews in the 1930s–should raise alarms for the international community. 

Political 

Now, it is true that, when contained, these dangerous ideologies seem ridiculous and relatively unthreatening. Indeed, in its 2013 debut general election, the AfD gained a measly 2% of votes. But, it should be noted that, in 1924, the Nazi party, too, received only 3% of votes. By 1932, they had raised that number to a parliamentary majority of 37.3%. Similarly, as of October 2025, the AfD holds a tie for the majority of votes in Germany at an alarming 26%.

Parties like these are extremely problematic because they do not remain unpopular. Instead, they target underprivileged, desperate groups, make supporters of them, and, before one remembers how destructive the party’s social policies are to minorities and global progress, the party is ruling the country.

In the 1920’s and 1930’s, Hitler’s method of gaining support was simple: take advantage of a desperate country, a party in power that was failing to satisfy its people, and, frankly, charm to convince the nation that the Nazi party was their only salvation. He did this primarily through the media, making use of the radio before and during his control of Germany while also visiting various parts of the nation in person to deliver passionate speeches. The people, who were promised that he was their savior and who heard from him frequently, began to identify with this new leader who was meeting them where they were and promising to solve their problems. Thus, the Nazi party rose.

Today, one does not have to look far to find this similar sort of populist rhetoric used to gain power. Indeed, the AfD has taken the same path to their prominence. With them, instead of using radio broadcasts and speeches, the fight for political relevancy has taken mostly to TikTok and the internet. Because these platforms are so rapidly changing and allow for targeted marketing, it is much easier for the AfD to curate their messages to address issues that will gain them the most support/attention in the moment and to curate their messaging to vulnerable groups likely to be receptive. This being done, it has followed that the AfD is very popular on social media, boasting 370,000 followers on Instagram and 676,400 on TikTok–impressive when compared to the measly 210,000 followers on Instagram and 95,900 on TikTok that the AfD’s main competitor, the Christian Democratic Union of Germany (CDU), holds.

These platforms in particular being among the AfD’s strongest is no mistake. Instead, it is a way of targeting the youth, who are especially vulnerable to the struggles with housing, employment, and education in Germany at the moment. TikTok’s largest age demographic is between the ages of 25-34–a group who would relate perfectly to the AfD’s push for supporting new families and reallocating immigrant benefits to young Germans. Meanwhile, Instagram’s largest age bucket ranges from 18-24, including those who might relate to the AfD’s desire to lower housing costs or to expand participation in democracy to all–no years of experience causing one’s voice to be more meaningful than another’s. All that considered, it is easy for voters to lose the fine print of religious discrimination and harsh traditionalism today with the AfD just like it was easy to do the same in the 1930s with the Nazis. 

Of course, the AfD and CDU, among other smaller political parties in Germany, also make use of national television, print media, and radio to gain supporters. However, these forms of marketing mostly target older populations who have already had years to become loyal to their political parties and are unlikely to change their long-held beliefs. Thus, especially with these mediums becoming obsolete and failing to appeal to the “common man” the same way social media does under a populist marketing strategy, they are not quite as prevalent or dangerous as the AfD’s deeply effective use of platforms like Instagram and TikTok. 

It is precisely for this tactful development of popular support paired with extreme traditionalism and religious hatred that deep care must be taken to ensure the AfD does not abuse the influence it has gained. 

Conclusion

When World War Two ended, the international community promised it would not forget the millions who were killed, displaced, and traumatized by the Nazi regime. In many ways, it has lived up to that. Today, monuments, museums, and people everywhere dedicate themselves to ensuring everyone can learn from the mistakes of our past such that we do not repeat them. But, fewer are bringing to light parties which mirror the rhetoric and political strategy of that which once devastated Europe and the world. The German AfD is easy to select because it shares the same country of origin, a clear hatred for religious minorities and non-traditionality, and a populist strategy for gaining popularity as the Nazi party. But, a wave of hyper-conservativism is crashing over the world, from the Rassemblement National party in France to the Bharatiya Janata Party in India. Ignoring this and allowing it to continue unchecked is a grave mistake.

In the words of President Eisenhower: our purpose is “to guard vigilantly against the domination ever again of any part of the world by a single, unbridled aggressive power.” Only by identifying and holding these powers–the AfD and otherwise–accountable can we hope to remain free from the chains of injustice.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: AfD, Image sourced from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, no changes made

In 2013, a Philippine high school expelled three students. Their crime? Speaking their native language. Their school’s policy mandated the use of English in all on-campus interactions, punishing the use of any other language, but especially those indigenous to the Philippines. While the decision to expel the offending students was uniquely harsh, the school is not alone in strictly enforcing English language education.

Many Filipinos believe that proficiency in English is key to the country’s economic and political success, and encourage its use in academic settings. However, with a declining number of people speaking certain Philippine dialects, mandatory English policies are also seen as hindrances to Philippine culture and catalysts for language extinction. While English language policies are also present in government and legal settings, it is the sphere of education that directly impacts the most Filipinos, and is thus at the center of this linguistic debate.

Modern-day English language education in the Philippines has its roots in 1898, when the United States officially took control of the islands after the short-lived Spanish-American War. Prior to 1898, very few Filipinos spoke English. Most elites had some knowledge of Spanish from the previous colonial era, but the majority of Filipinos used a variety of local languages and dialects to communicate. However, when the United States took charge of the Philippines, English became the standard, at least when it came to education. 

In 1901, the Second Philippine Commission (a U.S.-appointed body tasked with governing the Philippines) enacted Philippine Public Law Act 74 Section 14, which proclaimed that “The English language shall, as soon as practicable, be made the basis of all public school instruction.” The Philippine Commission cited three main reasons for implementing this law: English was practical, Filipinos needed a common language to unite them, and English education would instill Western values in Filipinos.¹

After decades of mandated English education systems, the Commonwealth of the Philippines was established in 1935. It operated as a transitional government between American colonial administration and full independence. The Commonwealth’s government acknowledged the benefits that English language education had provided in terms of Filipino literacy rates, but wanted to insert native Philippine languages into the narrative as well. In its first year, the Commonwealth ordered the adoption of an indigenous language as an official language of the Philippines alongside English. Ultimately, the government landed on Tagalog, the language which it believed was most linguistically developed and most likely to be accepted by the largest number of Filipinos.

While this progress was being made, the Commonwealth still emphasized the need for proficiency in English. As the so-called “language of democracy,” it was perceived as the key to meaningful interaction with other countries and Philippine growth on the global stage. Therefore, even after decolonization occurred in 1946, English language education persevered. In 1987, the Department of Education, Culture, and Sports established Order No. 52, setting guidelines for which languages should be used in which academic fields. Specifically, it proclaimed that English should be used in order to advance technological education in the fields of science and math, but Tagalog should be used in all other subjects. 

This, however, drew opposition as globalization increased and many came to believe that English was critical to economic and political progress. Limiting the use of English to two subjects, many claimed, was not enough to propel the Philippines forward. So, in 2003, President Arroyo issued an executive order mandating the use of English as the primary language of instruction in all public and private schools at the secondary level, stating that English should be used no less than 70% of the time in educational settings. More recently, in 2024, Republic Act 12027, also known as the “Act Discontinuing the Use of Mother Tongue as Medium of Instruction,” required that kindergarten through 3rd grade teachers move away from local dialects and instead teach solely in English or Tagalog.

These gradual shifts away from local languages and dialects have prompted debate among Filipinos, as some schools have adopted strict language policies that punish those who do not speak in English. These regulations are especially common in high schools and universities. The three expelled high school students drew massive media attention in 2013, and just this year, on February 3, 2025, another controversy arose when the University of Cabuyao implemented a policy stating that all official interactions and meetings on campus must be held in English. 

While some defend these schools, arguing that English language education creates global citizens who can get outside of their comfort zones, others say that extensive English use limits the expression of cultural identity and hinders critical thinking. Albert Madrigal, a former president of the University of Cabuyao, pushed back on the current administration’s policies, saying “quality education is not solely defined by fluency in English but rather by the ability to think critically, solve problems and communicate effectively in various contexts and languages,” further adding that English-only rules, by limiting the use of languages Filipinos are most comfortable with, can inhibit meaningful collaboration and connection. 

Opponents of English language mandates also point out that as many as 59 indigenous Philippine languages are facing extinction, with two already considered extinct. This problem is often tied to the longstanding dominance of not only English in Philippine society, but also Tagalog, especially in education. And because one language is indigenous to the country while the other was originally a foreign imposition, English attracts the most backlash.

Debates about the use of English in Philippine schools remain contentious, with no end in sight. There is no clear-cut solution to this linguistic conflict; English language use in the Philippines is inherently a double-edged sword. Balancing global collaboration, crucial for economic and political power, and cultural expression is not easy and is a dilemma many countries face in today’s increasingly interconnected world. Language policies express a country’s values and aspirations. The Philippines and similarly positioned countries want to be global players, but also protectors of cultural heritage. The Philippines’ historic English language policies have shown an emphasis on the former, and while this is understandable, it ultimately comes with a price.

1.  Isabel Pefianco Martin, The Filipino Bilingual: A Multidisciplinary Perspective (Linguistic Society of the Philippines, 1999), 134. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Philippine School, Image sourced from RawPixel | CC License, no changes made

Introduction

The exploration and utilization of space resources represent a frontier that promises to transform the global economy, fuel technological advancements, and shift geopolitical dynamics. As private corporations, such as SpaceX and Blue Origin, and spacefaring nations like the United States, China, and Luxembourg increasingly focus on mining celestial bodies, the existing international legal framework governing space exploration and resource extraction appears outdated and fragmented. The principles of peaceful use and prohibition of territorial appropriation, embedded in the Outer Space Treaty (OST), remain fundamental to space law; however, they offer little guidance on the complexities introduced by modern space mining technologies. As private ventures expand and technology advances, the current body of space law is failing to keep pace with the rapid developments, creating both significant opportunities and risks. 

My analysis asserts the need for a comprehensive, international framework to regulate the extraction of space resources. Specifically, it proposes the establishment of an International Space Mining Authority (ISMA), modeled on successful governance structures like the International Seabed Authority (ISA) under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS). Such an authority would ensure that space mining is regulated in a way that promotes equity, environmental sustainability, and peaceful international cooperation.

The Legal Foundation: Existing Treaties and their Limitations

At the heart of space law lies the 1967 Outer Space Treaty (OST), which asserts that “outer space, including the Moon and other celestial bodies, is not subject to national appropriation by any means.”¹ The treaty envisions space as a domain for peaceful use by all, prohibiting territorial claims on celestial bodies and emphasizing cooperation among states. The 1979 Moon Agreement further elaborates on the principle that the Moon’s resources must be shared for the benefit of all nations, with particular regard to developing countries. However, both the OST and the Moon Agreement fail to address the growing challenges posed by space resource extraction.² While these treaties provide a broad legal framework for peaceful exploration, they do not offer practical guidance on the ownership, extraction, or commercial use of space resources.

Moreover, while the OST’s principles are well-intentioned, they do not consider the rapid development of private space ventures and the potential for exploitation of extraterrestrial resources. The absence of clear legal provisions on ownership, extraction rights, and resource management has led to a patchwork of national laws. The U.S. Commercial Space Launch Competitiveness Act (CSLCA) of 2015, for instance, grants U.S. companies the right to extract and use space resources, which has raised concerns about nationalistic approaches to space mining and the lack of international coordination. Similarly, Luxembourg’s pioneering space mining laws have attracted private investments, but they raise significant concerns about equitable resource distribution and environmental protections.³

Thus, the existing framework fails to address the legal, ethical, and environmental complexities of space mining, creating potential for competition and conflict in outer space, with no effective governance mechanisms to ensure fair and responsible exploitation of celestial resources.

Ethical, Environmental, and Geopolitical Implications

Space resource mining presents profound ethical and environmental challenges that must be carefully considered in any new legal framework. Chief among these is the issue of ownership. If celestial bodies and their resources are to be considered the “common heritage of mankind,” how can we ensure that the wealth generated from their exploitation is fairly distributed among all nations, especially those less capable of accessing space?⁴ As it stands, the benefits of space mining are likely to be monopolized by technologically advanced nations and private corporations, exacerbating global inequalities.⁵ The lack of an equitable framework for resource distribution may further entrench disparities between the Global North and South, making space a domain where only the rich and powerful have access to its wealth.

From an environmental perspective, the extraction of resources from celestial bodies carries risks that are not yet fully understood. While the Outer Space Treaty prohibits harmful contamination of space environments, space mining could lead to the accumulation of space debris, alterations to celestial bodies’ physical structure, and disturbances to ecosystems that are currently unexplored. The potential environmental degradation of celestial bodies—such as the Moon’s fragile ecosystem—poses a long-term threat that cannot be ignored. The principle of precaution, often invoked in international law to prevent harm when scientific uncertainty exists, should be applied to the regulation of space mining.⁶

For example, the extraction of Helium-3 from the Moon, a resource believed to have significant potential for energy production, could destabilize the Moon’s geological and environmental balance, causing harm that could reverberate throughout the space ecosystem.⁷ These environmental risks further emphasize the necessity for a comprehensive governance framework that prioritizes sustainability and takes into account the unknown consequences of space resource extraction.

The Need for an International Space Mining Authority (ISMA)

In order to address these challenges, according to my analysis, the establishment of an International Space Mining Authority (ISMA), a governing body modeled after the International Seabed Authority (ISA) under UNCLOS, is essential. The ISA oversees the extraction of seabed resources in the deep ocean, ensuring that these resources are used for the benefit of all nations, with particular attention to developing countries. Similarly, the ISMA would regulate the extraction of space resources, ensuring that the benefits of space mining are shared equitably and that the environmental impact is minimized.

The ISMA would operate as an international body responsible for granting licenses for space mining operations, establishing environmental impact assessments (EIAs), and ensuring the responsible extraction of resources. It would also be tasked with creating a Space Resource Fund to support developing countries in accessing space resources and technologies.⁸ This fund could also facilitate international cooperation in space missions, enabling less developed nations to participate in space exploration and resource utilization.

In terms of environmental governance, the ISMA would be responsible for implementing strict environmental standards, including requirements for comprehensive EIAs and sustainable practices in space mining operations. The agency would have the authority to monitor and enforce compliance with these standards, ensuring that space mining does not lead to irreversible damage to celestial bodies and the space environment. Furthermore, the ISMA would oversee the development of technologies that minimize the environmental impact of mining operations, such as systems for space debris removal and the responsible management of mining byproducts.

Fostering Global Cooperation and Technological Exchange

Given the immense financial and technological challenges of space mining, no single country or corporation can effectively manage space resources alone. The creation of the ISMA would facilitate global cooperation by fostering technology-sharing agreements and joint ventures among spacefaring nations. Such collaboration would help democratize access to space resources, ensuring that developing countries are not left behind in the pursuit of space wealth.

Furthermore, the ISMA could play a critical role in overseeing the development of sustainable technologies for space mining. By promoting international partnerships, the ISMA would facilitate the sharing of technology and expertise, ensuring that space mining operations are environmentally responsible and technologically feasible.⁹ This exchange of knowledge and resources could significantly reduce the technological divide between wealthier and less developed nations, promoting greater equity in space exploration.

Conclusion

As the commercial exploitation of space resources accelerates, the need for a robust international legal framework has never been more urgent. The current legal landscape, with its outdated treaties and fragmented national laws, is ill-equipped to handle the complexities of space resource extraction. By establishing an International Space Mining Authority (ISMA), we can ensure that space mining is conducted in a way that is fair, sustainable, and environmentally responsible.

The ISMA would provide a platform for equitable governance, ensuring that the benefits of space resources are shared by all nations and that the space environment is protected for future generations. In this way, space exploration can serve as a tool for the collective advancement of humanity, rather than a new frontier for exploitation by a select few.

1. United Nations, The Outer Space Treaty (1967), Article II, accessed October 13, 2025. ↩︎
2. Baker, M. A. The Legal Regime of Space Mining: Progress and Pitfalls. Journal of Space Law 44, no. 2 (2018): 123-142. ↩︎
3. Bryner, G. Private Space Exploration and the Need for Regulatory Frameworks. Space Policy Review 36, no. 3 (2020): 45-67. ↩︎
4. United Nations, Agreement Governing the Activities of States on the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies, December 5, 1967, Article 1. ↩︎
5. Sung, L. “Space Mining and Environmental Sustainability.” Journal of Space Law and Policy 47, no. 1 (2020): 15-34. ↩︎
6. Baker, M. A. “The Legal Regime of Space Mining: Progress and Pitfalls.” Journal of Space Law 44, no. 2 (2018): 123-142. ↩︎
7. Gagnon, J. “Ethical Issues in Space Resource Mining.” International Law Review 29, no. 1 (2019): 67-89. ↩︎
8. Bryner, G. “Private Space Exploration and the Need for Regulatory Frameworks.” Space Policy Review 36, no. 3 (2020): 45-67. ↩︎
9. Sung, L. “Space Mining and Environmental Sustainability.” Journal of Space Law and Policy 47, no. 1 (2020): 15-34. ↩︎

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Space Mining, Image sourced from Prism Sustainability | CC License, no changes made

From Roman aqueducts to the Eiffel Tower to Moscow’s Metro, throughout history elites have presented major public projects as symbols of national greatness. Unlike “appearance-based” monuments, such projects aim to unite their scale and functionality to create national emblems and validate the efficiency of the political class. Modern times are not immune to this practice: the Kanal Istanbul project announcement and the “Sicily Bridge,” explored here, are coherent examples.

The proposal to connect Sicily to mainland Italy through a bridge across the Strait of Messina is not a novelty in the Italian political landscape. This idea has circulated among decision-makers since the unification period, although it was abandoned due to financial and structural concerns. After a long-lasting bureaucratic and political discourse dating back to the 1960s which involved doubts, instrumentalisations, and sudden route changes according to the vision of different governments, 2025 marked the arrival of the construction plan’s preliminary confirmation, deemed a historical milestone by the Deputy Prime Minister and Transport Minister Matteo Salvini. 

The overly celebrative storytelling about the approval, paradoxically spread by the same political groups which used to oppose it, is directly linked to the project’s previous tribulations and the current government’s desire for grandeur. In fact, the bridge  now serves as a megaphone for the governing coalition to collect and amplify certain messages. For example, Salvini repeatedly announced on social media that there is an intent to revive a “past glory” by replicating Roman infrastructures; moreover, he stated that a hypothetical “mafia defeat” would come from regional development and the alleged creation of 120,000 jobs prompted by the bridge project.

The reality is, at best, quite far from such idealised representations. Rumors that organised crime may infiltrate the construction have sparked out even from Meloni’s right-wing coalition members. According to Member of Parliament Calderone, the bridge’s realisation will involve great investments, which can increase the risk of corruption in the local administration and of criminal organizations infiltrating public tenders. Concerning the job creation estimates, they have been prudently revised by some observers. Additionally, several “no-bridge” groups have attracted more support since the latest project approval. Their many protests underscore the creation of a rather odd circumstance for Sicily and Calabria regions, where a pompous and expensive bridge is supposed to coexist with numerous ignored internal viability problems.

Despite divergent opinions, one thing is certain: if built, the Sicily Bridge would become the longest suspension bridge in Europe. Such a record represents a great victory for the government, which aims to be remembered for achieving it regardless of the actual impact the bridge can have.

Two main factors can explain why Salvini and the ruling coalition need this victory as a political communication tool. To begin with, the bridge would boost the League party’s current status. Initially denominated Northern League, this group sustained Northern Italy’s independence in the past. Salvini’s shift from strictly regional to national identitarianism, connected to the steady support loss since his power apex in 2018-2019, shows how an attempt to regain support can be made by reshaping the Messina Bridge into a symbol of commitment in favour of the proverbially neglected Southern regions.

Moreover, the party’s instability is worsened by the increasing popularity of Roberto Vannacci, a former army officer and current member of the European Parliament, whose political career has been endorsed by Salvini himself and who can now challenge his role. The successful construction of the bridge can, in this case as well, be used to remark Salvini’s leadership and the League’s success.

The second factor is the recent NATO agreement, in which members agreed to increase their defense budgets  to 5% of their gross domestic product. Regarding this, Italy is under “special observation” by NATO, as it was among the latest to reach the previous 2% GDP target. Therefore, Italy has been called to resolve a crucial dilemma: on the one side, the need to provide President Trump with guarantees of being able to face the new defense effort; on the other, the obligation to face the lack of financial resources to allocate to the military.

The Messina Bridge, with an approved budget of 13.5 billion euros, has presented Meloni’s government with the occasion to be among the first countries to reach the new infrastructural target (1.5% of the total 5% GDP defense allocation) and to showcase the country’s power without irritating the public opinion any further. Or, at least, so it was thought. As a matter of fact, the idea was met with harsh criticism almost immediately: its dismissal by NATO allies, especially the United States, has caught the Italian government unprepared and forced it to change plans.

Both of these reasons help highlight the government’s aim to make the Sicily Bridge project a strong political tool at all costs, exploiting its perceived aura of greatness and seemingly transforming it into the solution to all problems. A swift cost-benefit analysis tends to a negative balance for the current state of affairs. The possibility to end the bridge’s long path to approval blinded the government, which focused on speeding up the project. Furthermore, the potential losses of the project were underestimated: the harsh criticism of the bridge from the ruling coalition and the general public alongside the failed endeavor to include the bridge building budget in the new NATO target posed unexpected challenges. 

While this ongoing process can still evolve positively, the miscalculated negative sociopolitical effects must be acknowledged. Nevertheless, through a sunk cost fallacy, it is unlikely for the project to be stopped at this point: as the Court of Auditors temporarily blocked the project on October 29th due to discrepancies in the project’s authorizations and safety regulations, the government accused it of stalling the bridge’s construction because of pressures by the opposition. Thus, the question persists: are then the political narratives about the bridge more important to the government than the modalities and consequences of its construction?

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Sicily, Image sourced from Rusi | CC License, no changes made

After the Arab Spring, digital power and censorship in the Middle East surged to the forefront of the global political agenda. Once anticipated as tools of liberation, digital platforms have increasingly served as sites of repression as regimes moved to tighten their grip on online discourse. One of the most glaring examples of this is the Islamic Republic of Iran’s parliament approving a bill titled “Combating the Spread of Untrue News Content” in July of 2025. This law  aimed at silencing online misinformation. By criminalizing broad areas of online expression that it deemed ‘untrue,’ the legislation serves to expand Iran’s censorship. As a state party to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR)—Iran is bound by international obligations to uphold rights including freedom of expression, privacy, and protection. This 2025 law serves as a legal and political instrument that directly conflicts with the ICCPR. By comparing Iran’s cybercrime framework with relevant ICCPR standards—specifically Articles 19, 17, and 9—one can see how the legislation’s vagueness and disproportionate penalties violate the Covenant.

Iran’s modern digital censorship is shaped by its foundation—the Computer Crimes Law of July 2009 that emerged amid political unrest. The 2009 CCL set extensive controls over online activity and established legal grounds for internet censorship. Some notable provisions of the CCL included: a ban on the use of encryption or data protection that would “deny access of authorized individuals” to data (Article 10), the criminalization of producing or distributing “obscene” online content (Article 14), and mandates for Internet Service Providers to retain user data and even record VoIP conversations (Articles 21 and 48). According to the ARTICLE 19 Law Programme, the CCL is “saturated with provisions that criminalise legitimate expression,” which argues that it duplicates many content-based speech violations from Iran’s penal code and extends them to online. For example, it penalizes online dissent under the term of being “against public morality and chastity” and it assigns severe punishments. This has led to the forced closure of blogs and news sites inside Iran, silencing online speech. Human rights analyses find that the 2009 law “flagrantly violates international human rights law” and is “an affront to freedom of expression,” given its ambiguity and generic wording.

Then, on July 27, 2025, Iran’s Majlis (parliament) passed the Combating the Spread of Untrue News Content bill by a majority (205 in favor, 49 against). The law is framed as a measure against misinformation on social media and a way to “align with constitutional protections” for truth in journalism. In reality, it is a “widely condemned” initiative designed to deepen censorship, and confirm the state’s monopoly over information. The strategic timing—soon after a brief military conflict—suggests the bill was a reaction to the regime’s fear of digital mobilization of protests.

The key provision in the 2025 law is its redefinition of the offense of spreading false information online. Previously, Iranian law punished “spreading lies” with up to two years’ imprisonment The new bill replaces that term with the far vaguer category of “untrue news content.” This change criminalizes even partial truths, inaccuracies, or omissions—in other words, virtually any online post that authorities choose to deem not fully accurate or not reflecting the official version of events.

While the prior law on spreading lies carried a sentence of a few months to 2 years in jail, the 2025 law raises possible prison terms to 6 months up to 15 years for online content deemed untrue. Moreover, Article 14 of the law allows the authorities to treat serious cases as instances of “corruption on earth” (efsad-e fil-arz)—a grave charge in the Sharia-based legal system that carries the death penalty. Practically, “this law makes it possible for the state to execute someone simply for posting a tweet or sharing a WhatsApp message,” as one human rights legal advisor observed.

Iran’s new law must be examined next to the ICCPR, a binding treaty that Iran ratified in 1975. The ICCPR places strict conditions on any limitations of civil liberties. Two provisions of particular relevance are Article 19 (freedom of opinion and expression) and Article 17 (right to privacy). Of specific interest is Article 19—which protects the right to hold opinions without interference and the right to freedom of expression, which encompasses virtually all forms of speech—political discourse, journalism, commentary on public affairs, etc.—and extends protection to expression that may be critical of the government or even “deeply offensive.”

Under Article 19(3), any restriction on freedom of expression must be “provided by law,” meaning it is contained in a clear law that defines the prohibited expression with sufficient precision for citizens to regulate their speech. Vague wording fails this legality requirement. The law must also not give complete discretion on officials to apply it. Additionally, the restriction must be necessary to achieve a legitimate aim, and be proportionate to the threat addressed. This implies that the law should be the least intrusive means to protect the interest at hand. The Human Rights Committee has emphasized that restrictions must not be overbroad—they must be narrowly tailored, and a direct and immediate connection must exist between the expression being restricted and the threat justifying the restriction.

Most importantly, General Comment No. 34 explicitly notes that the ICCPR does not allow general bans on publishing “erroneous” or “incorrect” information. In the Committee’s words: “The Covenant does not permit general prohibition of expressions of an erroneous opinion or an incorrect interpretation of past events.” Laws that penalize the expression of opinions about historical or current facts solely for being “false” are incompatible with Article 19.

Similarly, Article 17 states that “no one shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his privacy, family, home or correspondence” and that everyone has the right to the protection against such interferences. The U.N. Human Rights Committee, in its general decisions, has agreed that surveillance measures or access to personal data must not be arbitrary. Even if authorized by domestic law, they violate Article 17 if that law is disproportionate or imprecise. For instance, broad laws enabling mass monitoring of internet usage or requiring real-name registration for online activity could violate privacy rights if not strictly tailored. Under Article 17, any such interference must not be arbitrary, and vague notions of “combatting false news” are not a free pass to invade the privacy of all internet users.

In general, the conflicting agenda between the “Untrue Content” Law and ICCPR Standards can be summarized to two distinct problems: the violation of the principles of a valid law, and the absence of authentic aim. A fundamental defect of Iran’s fake-news law is its vagueness. The ICCPR requires that restrictions on speech be formulated with sufficient precision so that individuals can know what is prohibited. In this case, the law prohibits disseminating “untrue” content without clearly defining what counts as “untrue” or how truth will be determined. After all, such wording gives total discretion to prosecutors and security forces to label virtually any statement false. Because the law can encompass satire, opinions, or honest mistakes, Article 19 would clearly agree it is overbroad in scope. Further, it does not target a specific compelling threat but rather imposes a blanket of “incorrect” speech. Borrowing from the case of Shreya Singhal v. Union of India, This includes “a very large amount of protected and innocent speech,” phrasing used by India’s Supreme Court when striking down a similarly vague internet speech law.

Furthermore, even though the Iranian government defends the “untrue content” law on grounds of protecting the public from misinformation and safeguarding national security, the ICCPR demands evidence that a given restriction is truly necessary for that aim and that no less-intrusive measures are available. In this case, the necessity of Iran’s approach is highly contestable. The law appears to be aimed at suppressing narratives of corruption and protest rather than a genuine protection measure. The Human Rights Committee has warned that using public order to silence criticism or unwanted information is an abuse of Article 19(3). Iran’s law, by criminalizing dissent under the guise of “false news,” fits this pattern of illegitimate aim. Moreover, even if we accept legitimate objectives, the means chosen are not necessary. Criminalizing speech with long prison terms is an extreme step.

Ultimately, even if one could argue some necessity, the penalties and enforcement of the law are disproportionate to any legitimate objective. Proportionality is a core requirement under the ICCPR: restrictions on expression must not only be suitable to achieve their aim but also proportionate in severity, meaning the harm to free expression must not outweigh the interest protected.

In general, to treat a social media rumor as if it were an act of treason is a blatant violation of the ICCPR, and must be acknowledged as so. As journalists begin to inevitably fear reporting anything not officially confirmed; citizens will refrain from sharing news or opinions online in fear of being prosecuted for getting a detail wrong. In Iran, where the government has a history of selectively enforcing laws against critics, this overhanging threat of severe punishment will impoverish public discourse.

Ultimately, the clash between Iran’s “untrue content” law and the ICCPR highlights a broader issue: the use of “fake news” as a scapegoat to erode fundamental liberties. The ICCPR was designed to prevent exactly such abuses of power by requiring that any restriction on speech be tailored, and justified—whereas Iran’s law is unlawful under international standards. To honor its ICCPR obligations, Iran would need to radically amend this law to bring it into compliance with Article 19’s stringent criteria, as well as ensure that no one is arbitrarily detained or subjected to surveillance simply for what they say online. Until then, the law will remain an example of how domestic legislation can directly conflict with international human rights law.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Person holding Iran’s flag, Image sourced from Pexels | CC License, no changes made