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

On November 11th, Iraqi citizens will elect a new Council of Representatives, the 329-seat unicameral legislature of Iraq, with every seat up for election. Fewer than half of Iraq’s voting-age population has registered to vote, which is nothing new for a country whose young republic has long struggled to encourage high voter turnout. This persistent apathy is indicative of Iraq’s many systemic problems and the futility that many Iraqis associate with elections.

Regardless of the outcome of the federal elections, Iraq remains in a precarious position due to political norms established after the 2003 collapse of Saddam Hussein’s Ba’athist regime and continued influence of both the United States and Iran. Elections in Iraq have consistently produced only minimal change, unable to address the deeply ingrained issues the country faces. 

Iraq’s political system, designed to prevent the dominance of one ethnic group as seen during Hussein’s Sunni Arab-supremacist government, has instead further increased divisions and hindered the formation of a unified movement capable of change. After the 2003 invasion, Iraqi officials, with the encouragement of the occupying U.S. forces, established a confessional system of government similar to those of Lebanon or Northern Ireland, intended to divide political power among Iraq’s different ethnic and religious groups. The system, known as muhassa, while ensuring representation across numerous ethno-religious groups, has also encouraged people to vote based on sectarian identity and has further alienated members of different groups. 

Around half of Iraq’s population identifies more with their ethnic or religious group than with the Iraqi identity, a number that has consistently declined since the defeat of Islamist forces in the region. Iraq’s media landscape, fragmented across outlets aligned with one of the 38 political parties contesting the elections, often inflames sectarian tensions to pander for votes, a trend that has risen due to the elections, according to Iraq’s Independent High Commission. Most parties remain ideologically bankrupt and rely more on political messaging and top-down personality-driven leadership than on a political manifesto. 

Even political actors from the same identity groups are not immune to infighting. The incumbent prime minister, Muhammed Shia’ Al-Sudani, and former prime minister, Nouri Al-Maliki, experienced a falling out that split their once-successful pan-Shia Coordination Framework, a coalition that had previously served as a bulwark against hardline Shia nationalist groups. Its collapse into multiple lists is an ominous sign for a country already struggling to maintain political continuity and stability, both prerequisites for any meaningful systemic reform.

A further consequence of the muhassa system is that complicated governing system that results from a parliament full of a spectrum of political parties unable to govern alone. Instead of implementing a unified vision, parties use a mix of populism and patronage to remain in power. This has led to the constant inflation of public sector salaries, which is a significant drain on Iraq’s budget and a barrier to increasing investment in necessary infrastructure. Even when particular politicians fall out of favor due to poor policies or political plunder, the same parties stay relevant, turning elections into a shuffling of seats rather than a vehicle for any real change. 

Iraq’s dependence on oil (92% of Iraq’s budget comes from oil revenues) has long been considered a vulnerability by both domestic and foreign observers, leaving Iraq highly susceptible to fluctuations in global oil prices. However, domestic parties lack either the will or the ability to diversify Iraq’s economy, as the patronage system means that every dollar spent on investments in the economy is a dollar not being used to retain a party’s foothold amongst its supporters. As a result, successive Iraqi governments have devoted the majority of the budget to social welfare and government salaries at the expense of the temporarily painful but necessary investments in other sectors. While Al-Sudani has initiated economic reforms, his commitment to slow and deliberate reform means Iraq remains far from achieving genuine economic diversification.

Popular discontent with the corrupt and ineffective political system has fueled the rise of reform candidates advocating for asmandani, an Iraqi civic identity that transcends religious and ethnic affiliation. Despite widespread calls for change throughout Iraq’s general populace, reform politicians have accomplished very little success, both due to low voter turnout (only 41% of Iraq’s eligible population voted in the last federal election) and political elites determined to retain the power of the entrenched parties. The 2019–2021 Tishreen protests, which erupted as a result of anger over corruption and political stagnation, brought little tangible change. Their most significant achievement, electoral reform meant to help smaller parties and independent candidates through a district-based first-past-the-post voting system, was quickly reversed in 2023.

Given the inability of reform candidates to build an electoral base large enough to propel them into government, Iraq’s most realistic prospects likely will come from already-established elites who are willing to make some concessions towards reforming Iraq. Al-Sudani’s newly formed electoral alliance, the Reconstruction and Development Coalition, created in the aftermath of the collapse of the Coordination Framework, presents itself as a technocratic and centrist coalition. By appealing to Iraq’s emerging middle class through promises of a pragmatic vision of governance, Al-Sudani hopes to achieve a second term in office, a feat that has not been achieved since 2010. His investments in energy infrastructure, land distribution, and smaller-scale economic projects in agriculture and pharmaceuticals appear to be a boon for his electoral favorability.  However, his inclusion of the National Coalition, the leader of which is also the leader of a pro-Iran semi-independent militia, may reduce his favorability among Iraq’s sizable Sunni minority. It remains to be seen whether Al-Sudani’s slow and reconciliatory approach will be enough for him to secure a second term and sustain Iraq’s modest path of reform.

Another vital element ahead of the elections is the role of foreign powers, namely the United States and Iran. Iran, reeling from the sound defeat of its proxies in Lebanon as well as the collapse of the allied Assad regime in Syria, will attempt to preserve its influence in the region by ensuring its Iraq-backed militias retain their influence in parliament. Meanwhile, the U.S. has threatened sanctions on Iraq if the country fails to curb the power of the same militias, setting the stage for another proxy confrontation between the United States and Iran.

The Popular Mobilization Forces (PMF), a functionally independent military force comprising hundreds of thousands of soldiers, remains one of Iran’s most reliable footholds in Iraq. While the PMF was instrumental to the fight against terrorism in Iraq, it has engaged in illicit financial operations on behalf of the Iranian government.  In August, the U.S. government was able to convince the Iraqi parliament to table a bill that would have formally institutionalized the PMF’s independence. However, dismantling the group entirely will prove more difficult as the PMF is unlikely to peacefully accept dissolution, which places the Iraqi government in a serious dilemma ahead of the new election. 

While Al Sudani has taken steps to shift Iraq away from Iran’s influence through relationship-building with the Gulf States and Turkey, his electoral alliance with the head of the PMF could jeopardize Iraq’s relationship with the United States and constrain future partnershıp in the region. True reform will require Iraq’s collaboration with external actors, but its inability to fully sever the influence of pro-Iran militias may prove a significant roadblock. Al-Sudani has stressed the importance of pragmatism and an “Iraq First” foreign policy, citing Iraq’s noninvolvement in the brief war between Israel and Iran as a success of his administration’s approach to geopolitics. However, what exactly this means for the future of Iraq’s diplomatic efforts remains uncertain as Iraq refuses to align itself with either Washington or the Iranian government. 

All things considered, with the prospect of deep institutional change looking unlikely and the inability of established political elites to garner enough political capital to reduce Iraq’s reliance on oil as well as on foreign countries, the Iraqi elections seem to bring little less than a slightly revised version of the status quo, as genuine, fundamental change in foreign and domestic policy looks improbable. 

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Iraqi Flag, Image sourced from Flickr | CC License, no changes made

By August of last year, Myanmar’s ruling military Junta, the Tatmadaw, appeared to be on the brink of collapse. Since seizing power from the nation’s democratically elected government in 2021, the Tatmadaw, under the iron-fisted rule of Min Aung Hlaing, has faced numerous defeats at the hands of the pro-democracy National Unity Government (NUG) and its allies in the nation’s civil war. By August of last year, it allegedly controlled less than a third of the nation’s towns. However, the still-fragile Tatmadaw has since made a surprising comeback, even recapturing the strategic town of Kyaukme in October 2025. Coincidentally, the Tatmadaw has started receiving an abundance of military and diplomatic support from a likely ally: China.

In the early years of the war, China sought a balanced approach to the various sides of this highly unpredictable conflict. Despite tacitly supporting the Tatmadaw, Beijing has also maintained ties with various rebel groups. This is perhaps best displayed by China’s implicit support for Operation 1027, a widely successful rebel offensive by the anti-Junta Three Brotherhood Alliance. And yet, possibly fearing the establishment of a pro-American democracy by the NUG and viewing Min Aung Hlaing’s government as more stable than it initially appeared, China has now more heavily thrown its support behind Myanmar’s ruling military Junta.

Despite increased Chinese support, the Tatmadaw continues to face strong opposition from the NUG and other rebel groups, with many believing it is still likely to lose the civil war. And yet, the United States, hyper-focused on the wars in Ukraine and Gaza, not to mention its escalating tensions with Venezuela, has failed to provide any form of military aid to the NUG or its allies, nor has it put any meaningful pressure on the ruling military Junta. In maintaining this stance of neutrality and non-intervention, the United States is missing out on a golden opportunity to help establish a pro-US democracy on the border of what is perhaps its greatest rival, while helping to eliminate a brutal dictatorship in the process.

So why hasn’t the United States provided military aid to the NUG? There are several explanations. 

Unlike the wars in Ukraine and Gaza, the conflict in Myanmar does not involve or potentially threaten key US allies like NATO and Israel. In a world where these two wars have taken center stage, Western media outlets often describe the Myanmar Civil War as “forgotten.” As such, many Americans view Myanmar as a far-off corner of the world that the United States has no obligation, nor reason, to protect, especially considering increasing economic problems within the US, the tens of billions already given to support Ukraine and Israel over the past three years, and the much closer threat of Venezuela. Many also argue that providing military aid to the NUG would antagonize China, as Beijing would likely see US military support as little more than a hostile act of Western interference in East Asian affairs.

Despite these reservations, the benefits the United States would reap from providing military aid to Myanmar are enormous. With US support, the NUG would be well-positioned to topple Min Aung Hlaing’s oppressive regime and restore democracy. This would not just be a victory for democracy over authoritarianism, but with enough support, it could bring about a pro-American federal state strategically positioned to counter China’s rising influence and military reach. A democratic, pro-US government in Myanmar would undermine China’s influence and hegemony in East and Southeast Asia. Moreover, Myanmar’s position along the Andaman Sea would give the US greater ability to blockade the Malacca Strait, a vital waterway which China relies on to import critical materials like oil. The threat of a blockade could severely restrict China’s ability to pursue military aggression in the region. This could help deter a Chinese invasion of democratic Taiwan, or at the very least provide a military advantage for the United States should a horrific war break out between these two powers.

Of course, a new democratic government in Myanmar would not necessarily be fully pro-American and anti-Chinese. Still, it is vital to consider both the Tatmadaw’s great unpopularity in Myanmar and, more recently, the historic surge in anti-China sentiment among the Burmese populace as a result of Chinese support for the Junta. While it would be naive to assume that a democratic Myanmar would naturally become a close US ally simply because both countries are democratic, it makes sense that extensive US military support in toppling an unpopular, oppressive regime would win some gratitude and loyalty from the NUG and the general populace. Moreover, should the NUG and its allies succeed in reestablishing a democratic state despite Chinese military aid to the Tatmadaw, this new government would naturally have a negative disposition towards China and would likely seek support from a more powerful nation to counter the hostile influence of Beijing. A democratic US, having just provided extensive military support to the new government, would be a natural choice for establishing military pacts and improving ties. Alternatively, should the NUG emerge victorious even without US support, the new government would likely emerge from the conflict with no favorable disposition towards the United States. Such a government may even be wary of American influence and choose instead to deepen ties with another democratic nation, such as nearby India.

The many atrocities committed by the Tatmadaw since 2021 provide a compelling moral argument for the United States to support Myanmar’s pro-democracy rebel groups. In addition to the brutal suppression of civil liberties, the Tatmadaw is guilty of numerous human rights violations conducted with appalling cruelty. Since 2021, the military Junta has conducted countless massacres against its own people, often using lethal machine guns, explosive weapons, and, more recently, motorized paragliders. Earlier this month, the Tatmadaw used such devices to slaughter more than two dozen civilians at a religious festival in Sagaing, adding to an already extensive list of atrocities. Aerial bombardment campaigns like this one, far from unusual in present-day Myanmar, were known to have displaced roughly 3 million people by 2024.

Min Aung Hlaing’s Tatmadaw also engages in brutal war crimes against rebel forces and vicious terror campaigns against Myanmar’s populace. These atrocities include torturing, mutilating, beheading, and even burning captured rebel soldiers alive, many of whom were in their teens or early twenties. The Tatmadaw has gone as far as forcing local villagers to watch these gruesome executions as part of a twisted fear tactic, and has reportedly started using chemical weapons on their own people. Such atrocities have been widespread throughout this war, and appear more horrific than even the better-known atrocities committed by Russia and Israel thousands of miles away. As such, the United States ought to take a much stronger stance against Min Aung Hlaing’s brutal regime, not just to advance its own strategic interests, but also to put an end to the Junta’s unparalleled atrocities and support both life and liberty for the Burmese people.

American foreign policy regarding the conflict in Myanmar has thus far failed to live up to the ideals the nation professes to hold so dearly. While the Biden-era BURMA Act of 2022 provided humanitarian aid to many rebel groups and sanctioned an array of Tatmadaw-linked organizations, this legislation failed to deliver the military support the NUG actually needs to bring lasting change and establish a pro-US democracy. Moreover, the recent dropping of US sanctions on critical Tatmadaw allies by the Trump administration serves only to bolster Min Aung Hlaing’s China-backed regime while betraying core American Interests and values.

Such policies run contrary to America’s strategic interests in both Southeast Asia and the wider world, and allow for the continued existence of a brutal dictatorship guilty of numerous atrocities. By providing moderate military aid to the NUG and some of its allies, the United States could help establish a pro-American democratic state in Myanmar, advancing US foreign policy goals while providing freedom and humanity to the long-ravaged Burmese populace.

For nearly half a decade, the Burmese jungles have burned under the heel of authoritarianism. With American support and military aid, the NUG can restore democracy, and freedom may yet return to the “Golden Land.”

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Mandalay People’s Defense Force Female Commander and Recruits during Training, Image sourced from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, Cropped

Populism is everywhere—and nowhere at the same time. Chávez, Iglesias, Le Pen, and Trump, are just some examples of the politicians considered to be populist by the general public. Yet, it seems rather complicated to find a connection between all these characters. Nowadays, populism has undergone what might be called a semantic democratization as everyone uses it—the press, the citizens, the politicians—giving the impression that they have a clear idea of what they are talking about. However, it does not seem that there is an agreement on what populism truly means, and who can be called a populist. 

The general critique towards the use of this concept is that it is too vague, almost like a “joker” term that one can use for situations with no apparent connection. The current context shows that there are several cases with highly different characteristics that are labeled as populist. In fact, while in the European continent, the populist phenomenon is usually associated with right wing parties, there is one case that proved to be different. The case of Spain’s Podemos far left wing party, shows that populism is both a democratic tool and a concept at risk of losing meaning.

Following the 2008 financial crisis, widespread discontent in Spain emerged due to austerity measures, high unemployment and political corruption. This discontent gave rise to the Indignados movement, in which citizens demanded broader political representation and economic solutions to the crisis. A new political figure, Pablo Iglesias, tapped into these grievances by calling the political elites la casta—a term symbolizing corruption, self-interest, and detachment from the struggles of the citizens. Unidas Podemos, Pablo Iglesia’s party, emerged as a far-left party that wanted to represent the interest of “the people” that were suffering the austerity measures and were not represented in the parliament.

 This rhetoric transformed fragmented grievances into a shared identity, “the people,” who stood in opposition to la casta. This approach demonstrated how the concept of populism leverages existing discontent to create powerful and cohesive political identities. Nonetheless, can we consider Pablo Iglesias bolstering of the Indignados movement in Spain a case of populism in Europe? Some Spanish speaking philosophers that have studied this social phenomenon would say yes. 

Although it is complicated to find similarities between populist movements, Ernesto Laclau’s theory defends that there is a common aspect: a dichotomous presentation of society between “the people” and “the elites.”¹ Laclau emphasizes that populism transforms diverse and fragmented demands into a unified collective identity by linking them through “equivalential chains.” These chains generate a shared framework of opposition that positions “the elite” as the common adversary. 

As previously mentioned, Iglesias gained popularity by labeling the Spanish political elite as la casta. This term has a high negative connotation to it in Spanish and has been used also by other politicians recently such as Javier Miley in Argentina. Indeed, context helped Podemos to gain national and international awareness, it is during this process of popularization inside Spain and internationally that “the people” that Podemos is referring to become an inclusive and plural identity.

However, portraying “the people” as a single, unified entity with a common will tends to obscure the internal tensions and ideological diversity present within society.² As a result, the binary division proposed by many theorists of populism risks oversimplifying the complex sociological realities of modern democracies. 

In the case of the Podemos, Iglesias and Errejón represent some of the internal tensions within the party itself. On one hand, Iglesias embraced the dichotomous political discourse between the casta and “the people,” seeking tension between both and pursuing antagonism rather than agonism. On the other hand, Errejón advocated for a more agonistic vision and less division of society to reach a greater number of voters. These contrasting approaches reflect a deep ideological split within Podemos. 

Indeed, judging the entirety of Podemos as populist poses a risk, as it does not allow for the same depth of understanding of the party’s internal dynamics as well as the unique characteristics of its members. Precision is what allows analysts to better understand decisions made by politicians and analyze political movements in greater depth. Therefore, the concept of populism loses utility due to its lack of understanding of the internal divisions within the same political movement or party.

Moreover, Chantal Mouffe’s theory of agonistic pluralism, which offers another lens to understand how populism functions in fragmented democracies, argues that politics is inherently conflictual and thrives on the articulation of opposing visions of society, hence, the role of democracy is to create spaces where diverse voices can engage in meaningful contestation.³ Populism, when inclusive, can foster agonistic spaces by mobilizing diverse social groups around shared struggles, while still recognizing their differences.

However, Pablo Iglesias was not known in Spain for promoting an inclusive and positive type of populism. In 2021, Iglesias had to leave the party he had founded ten years earlier, and a new leader had to occupy the vacant position. Íñigo Errejón, one of the co-founders and strategists of Podemos, applied Mouffe’s principles by promoting an inclusive vision of “the people.” In fact, Errejón sought to appeal to a wider demographic beyond the traditional left, targeting citizens alienated by the failure of mainstream parties like PSOE (Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party) and PP (People’s Party).⁴ He also targeted younger generations that were facing precarious employment and systemic inequality. Unlike Pablo Iglesias’s confrontational approach, Íñigo Errejón sought to broaden Podemos’s appeal by framing it as a unifying force. Errejón’s strategy highlights how populism, understood through Mouffe’s lens, can act as a tool for building broad-based democratic coalitions.

Populism lacks a fully developed ideology, which allows it to attach itself to different “host ideologies” depending on the sociopolitical context. Cas Mudde argues that applying the same signifier to label ideologically opposing actors’ risks confusing their distinct political projects and obscuring the nuances of their actions. 

For instance, in Europe, two parties labeled as populist demonstrate this issue. The left-wing Podemos advocates for social justice and defines “the people” broadly, including working class and minorities. In contrast, Marine Le Pen’s party in France promotes nationalism, defining “the people” narrowly based on nationality. What do these two political agents have in common to both be considered populist? Where is the utility in calling them by the same name? These stark ideological differences question the utility of grouping such distinct movements under the same term.

Considering what has been mentioned until now, the term populism does not seem to define Podemos’ ideology farther than explaining its dichotomic representation of society. Jan-Werner Müller argues that populism is increasingly used as a vague and pejorative label—one that replaces older terms like “demagogic” or “destabilizing.”⁵ This framing suggests that the term populism is no longer used as something with clear substance and definition, but rather as a multi-purpose argument against our political enemies to discredit their ideas. According to Müller, populism is not necessarily bad, as it can also act as a corrective that highlights the disconnection between elites and people and how all interests must be represented in a democracy.

In Spain, both far-right and far-left parties are often labeled populist. When Podemos gained parliamentary power in 2015, PSOE used this label to discredit them and protect their voter base. Rather than engaging with Podemos’s policy positions (which were similar to PSOE’s), critics focused on attacking their leaders as populists. This dismissive framing reduced serious policy discussions about economic inequality, housing, and corruption to mere rhetorical disputes. Conversely, in later elections both parties have formed coalitions to govern the country, proving that populism nowadays is used as an insult rather than an adjective carefully selected to define a political figure. 

Hence, the assumption that everything defined as populist is bad limits its democratic capacity for action. In other words, instead of trying to understand the ideas defended by “populist” leaders, people focus on the populist label and whether or not they agree with its use depending on whether the politician or party aligns with their ideals. 

The case of Podemos shows that populism is neither inherently dangerous nor inherently democratic—it is a mirror of political discontent. In Spain, populist rhetoric gave voice to real grievances and helped channel frustration into participation. Yet as the label spread to movements of opposing ideologies, it lost the clarity that once made it useful.

To understand contemporary politics, we should treat populism not as a fixed ideology but as a logic of representation: a way of defining “the people” against perceived elites. Whether that logic strengthens or undermines democracy depends on the values it carries. The challenge is not to abandon the term but to use it with precision—to recognize when it mobilizes citizens for inclusion, and when it merely fuels division.

1.  Laclau, Ernesto. On Populist Reason. Verso. London/New York, 2005. ↩︎
2.  Linden, Felipe Rafael. “How ‘Empty’ Is the Signifier ‘the People’? Impasses of the Poststructuralist Approach in Ernesto Laclau’s Political Ontology.” Journal of Political Ideologies 30 (2): 327–51, 2023. doi:10.1080/13569317.2023.2230449. ↩︎
3.  Mouffe, Chantale. For a Left Populism. Verso. London/New York, 2018. ↩︎
4.  ERREJON, Inigo y Chantal [intro by Owen Jones] MOUFFE. Podemos: In the Name of the People. Lawrence & Wishart, Limited, 2016. ↩︎
5. Ibid. ↩︎

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

For five days in late July 2025, the world witnessed violence erupt once again on the Thailand-Cambodia border, one of the most prominent flashpoints in Southeast Asia. This time, it wasn’t merely the intensity of the violence that made the situation different, but rather the sudden and dramatic diplomatic engagement of U.S. President Donald Trump, who guided the two nations to a ceasefire and returned to the world as the essential broker for Indo-Pacific peace.

Trump wasted no time identifying himself as victorious and touted himself as “the president of peace.” His prompt actions were more than crisis management for an emerging situation in a volatile region; they were clearly directed at improving his own reputation and candidacy for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Trump’s Strategic Diplomacy

Trump’s engagement came at a time of rising nationalism sentiment, with the two parties blaming each other for attacks against civilians and ancient temples. The crisis was in danger of spiraling out of control with over 38 killed and 300,000 civilians displaced. Trump’s move was both forceful and transactional: he put a hold on every trade deal with the region and threatened new tariffs unless the conflict stopped. By making a series of phone calls behind the scenes to international leaders, in addition to public declarations, he evolved a regional stalemate to a test of statesmanship on an international scale.

His pressure was rewarded. High-level discussions in Kuala Lumpur—facilitated by Malaysia in its capacity as ASEAN chair but endorsed by both Washington and Beijing—resulted in a ceasefire at midnight on July 28, 2025. Both Thai and Cambodian leaders, having seen the carrot of resumed trade and the stick of diplomatic ostracism, did recognize Trump’s “decisive mediation” and credited him for restoring peace.

A Global Campaign for Recognition

But the Southeast Asia ceasefire was neither the only nor even the primary goal for Trump. And, in the weeks prior to the crisis, he had already been passionately pursuing international kudos for other conflicts he had settled, including ceasefires between India and Pakistan, and Israel and Iran. Trump has long sought Nobel acknowledgement, famously whining that, no matter the peace he creates, he receives “no credit.”

This time, however, it was governments themselves who were falling all over each other to respond to his call. Pakistan formally nominated Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize, highlighting his “decisive diplomatic intervention” both in their standoff with India and, now, in Southeast Asia. Pakistani spokespeople described him as “a genuine peacemaker,” and insisted that his mediation prevented a nuclear escalation in South Asia. Israel quickly followed suit, and Prime Minister Netanyahu submitted Trump’s name for consideration, complimenting Trump on his “unwavering commitment” to peace in multiple hot spots around the world—including the Middle East and Southeast Asia. Other nations and commentators have also commented that Trump is not just a mediator; he’s a leader trying to change America’s image around the globe to an image of being a power of dialogue instead of a power of domination. 

Beyond the ceasefire: ambition and legacy

There are, of course, naysayers who feel that Trump’s peace deals’ continuous success is tenuous at best and that he makes crises for his own benefit, both to play a key role in the ceasefire later and to sponsor Lockheed Martin and Boeing weapons industry. But in the case of the Thailand–Cambodia ceasefire, a deadly border clash has stopped for now, and an important trade route remains open.

Trump’s intent is clear: he wants to be remembered—and recognized—as a maker of peace, not a maker of war.  By being involved in multiple, high-profile conflicts, taking center diplomatic stage, and securing backing from international allies such as Pakistan, Israel, and several others, he has thrust himself into the discussion of speculation of Nobel Peace Prize winners. It is still widely debated whether this is statesmanship or self-promotion, or a bit of both. But right now the former president is closer than ever to the ultimate title he covets: not only “president of peace” but maybe, at last, Nobel laureate.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Trump Speech, Image sourced from The Flat Hat | CC License, no changes made

Multiculturalism emerged at the forefront of Western Europe after the Second World War, gaining prominence during decolonization and the post-war flow of labor migrants. Introduced as a model that acknowledged difference while preserving equal citizenship, multiculturalism gained momentum in Britain, Canada, and later across Europe. Subsequently, several European states adopted components of multicultural policy by the 1980s and 1990s. For instance, Britain encouraged ethnic community associations. The Netherlands, on the other hand, pursued a form of “pillarization,” allowing communities to keep their own schools and cultural institutions. Germany took a different approach,  gradually shifting from a guest-worker approach toward recognizing permanent immigrants. For a while, these changes looked like progress for liberal democracy.

In the past two decades, however, this vision has come under heavy strain. In 2010, Chancellor Angela Merkel said that multiculturalism in Germany had “utterly failed.” Likewise, in 2011, then British Prime Minister David Cameron criticized what he called “state multiculturalism.” Together, these incidents represented the hidden growing unease within European societies related to immigration and diversity that it might indeed be weakening the social fabric.

The Rise of the Backlash

From the PEGIDA marches in Dresden to the populist energy behind Brexit in 2016, Europe has witnessed a surge of anti-immigrant rallies and movements. The electoral strength of figures such as Marine Le Pen in France or the Alternative für Deutschland in Germany reflects a deeper cultural anxiety running through these societies. Political scientist Cas Mudde has shown how the populist right depicts multiculturalism as an elite project that overlooks ordinary citizens’ concerns, and argues that many people feel a loss of cultural continuity, pressure on welfare systems, and job insecurity.

Opposition to immigration is often framed by those participating in these rallies as a defence of sovereignty and stability rather than hatred. Amidst this, Christian Joppke notes that many Europeans saw multiculturalism as creating parallel societies and feared that minorities were not integrating, but rather were isolating themselves. This has been particularly evident in France, where the republican model emphasises on strict secularism; visible religious or cultural differences, particularly among Muslim communities, have often been seen as clashing with national identity.

Does This Mean Multiculturalism Failed?

It is very tempting to read anti-immigrant mobilization as an indication that multiculturalism has failed. Such a deduction, however, is based on a misreading of the idea of multiculturalism and reflects a flawed understanding. A closer look at this makes it apparent that the fault may lie less with the idea itself and more with its partial implementation. Notably, on this matter, Tariq Modood argued that multiculturalism was often narrowed to symbolic gestures like recognition of holidays or foods, without tackling deeper inequalities in housing, education, and political voice. Furthermore, in this regard, Nancy Fraser’s “redistribution-recognition dilemma” also provides a useful perspective, which states that recognising cultural difference without economic redistribution makes minorities visible but keeps them marginalised.

Making matters worse, incidents such as the London bombings in 2005 and the murder of Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh in 2004 provoked panic. Ultimately, it led governments to retreat from multicultural policies. However, this approach of abandoning multiculturalism entirely can undeniably risk poor management being confused with an impossible ideal. To that end, some argue that Europe never fully committed to multicultural demands, as it treated multiculturalism as optional tolerance rather than as a structural rethinking of democracy.

Tracing the Fears Behind the Movement

At the same time, it is worth mentioning that simply dismissing the anxieties behind anti-immigrant movements as wholly irrational is unfair, as rapid demographic change indeed unsettles social norms. This was evident during the Syrian refugee crisis of 2015. During this crisis, over a million asylum seekers entered Europe, which eventually led to strained housing, welfare, and schools. In this regard, that is, during periods of economic austerity, these pressures are felt most by the working class, who may then see immigration as competition rather than enrichment. Ricard Zapata-Barrero hereby notes that when states fail to craft effective integration policies, diversity can then be linked to insecurity, thus boosting populist backlash. The debate, therefore, should not be merely seen as a litmus test of right versus wrong, because anti-immigrant mobilization highlights genuine policy failures even where its rhetoric distorts or scapegoats.

A Global Mirror: The United States

This isn’t unique to Europe. Long described as a “nation of immigrants,” the United States also struggles with the contradictions of multiculturalism. Even though the 1960s civil rights movement further pushed the country toward stronger ideals of racial and cultural equality, anti-immigrant sentiment still managed to emerge later, as evident from the recent “build the wall” campaign to violent episodes like Charlottesville in 2017, all thereby echoing European anxieties. Intensifying this scenario, President Trump, in late May 2025, announced restrictions on foreign student visas at Harvard University and revoked Harvard’s certification under the Student and Exchange Visitor Program (SEVP). This now bars the university from enrolling international students and forces existing F-1 students to transfer or lose status. However, some signal this as another move towards America’s continuing nationalist retreat, in line with “America First” and its withdrawal from global affairs. While others believe this policy to be based on the notion that multiculturalism fragments the nation. Yet a few argue that diversity fuels creativity and growth.

Lessons from India’s Experiment

India presents an important comparison in this context. India managed extraordinary diversity as early as 1950, even before the West embraced multiculturalism. Back in 1950, the Constitution of India recognised multiple languages, protected minority religions, and sought to combine secularism with pluralism. In addition to this, the founding fathers designed legal safeguards for caste and religious minorities in the Constitution. It is also pertinent to note that Indian secularism differs from the Western model. This is supported by the fact that, unlike the Western model, Indian secularism balances equal respect with minority rights, instead of an absolute separation of religion and state.

India’s experience makes one thing clear: multiculturalism must be based in constitutional and institutional structures. However, at times, even this balance can become fragile. For example, a few critics believe that India’s pluralistic model is now under threat, thereby suggesting that multiculturalism, even where it is foundational, requires constant defence and therefore establishes a very real possibility that multiculturalism is not a one-time achievement, but rather, a continuing negotiation.

The Future of Belonging

Anti-immigrant rallies across Europe do not necessarily signal the death of multiculturalism. In contrast, they reveal an underlying tension that is yet to be resolved between ideals of equality and fears about identity loss. This tension would only be exacerbated if multiculturalism were abandoned totally. Moreover, doing so would further risk retreating into ethno-nationalism. Defending it, however, would require the states to go beyond token recognition to real equality and civic participation. Amidst this, some suggest that it’s high time that the policy of interculturalism is embraced, which focuses not only on recognition of difference but also on shared projects and dialogue.

The more likely truth is to accept the paradox, i.e., multiculturalism is both indispensable and incomplete; it is indispensable because diverse societies need recognition and respect to function, while at the same time, it is incomplete as each generation must adapt it to new realities.

In this regard, it is clear that the perception of multiculturalism needs to be revisited. The states must move beyond symbolic recognition to substantive implementation, since token gestures not only fail to resolve such deep-rooted tensions but often exacerbate them, as evident from the recent developments. Ultimately, Europe, the United States, and India have all evidently shown that multiculturalism is not a stable endpoint but an ongoing struggle over the meaning of democracy and belonging.

Featured/Headline Image Caption and Citation: Diversity Protests in Spain, Image sourced from Wikimedia Commons | CC License, no changes made

When Pakistan issued 75-rupee commemoration banknotes in 2022 to mark the seventy-fifth anniversary of its independence, the symbolism was hard to miss. The new note was meant to celebrate freedom from colonial rule as well as the birth of a nation carved out of South Asia’s tumult in 1947. Yet, holding it in my hand, I could not help but wonder: how different is it, really, from the banknotes once stamped with King George VI’s portrait or the five British monarchs before him?

As Pakistan nears its eighth decade of independence, the question grows sharper: is this the country that people imagined when they inherited the sacrifices of Partition–the largest mass migration in history? 

Pakistani sociologist Hamza Alvi argued that Pakistan, like other post-colonial societies, inherited an “overdeveloped state structure”: institutions designed for imperial needs that outlived the empire. These habits still shape Pakistani society–its culture, education, power, consumerism, mannerisms, and collective psyche, fueling an inferiority complex and crises of self-perception.

My own journey into this subject began with a professor’s question in class: how do colonialism and Orientalism shape the subjectivity of people in post-colonial societies? Dr. Tahir Kamran maintains in his book, Chequered Past, Uncertain Future, that Pakistan bears neocolonial attitudes. In my exploration of this subject, one thing was clear: Pakistan still struggles to escape the shadows of its colonial inheritance, the echoes still reverberating. I thus questioned, is this independence or are we still carrying colonialism in our identity, our institutions, and even our everyday aspirations?

Reflecting on this, whereby the legacy of colonial rule is not only political or administrative, but deeply psychological as well, the result is a country that is formally sovereign yet still, in the words of postcolonial theorist Robert J. C. Young, living in a state of “in-dependence” rather than independence.

While this legacy is visible in many places, it is nowhere more stark than in the education system in Pakistan. Pakistan today has three parallel systems: elite private schools where English is the medium of instruction, underfunded public schools where most children study in Urdu, and religious madrasas where curricula often leave students disconnected from modern economic life. 

A child educated in an English-medium private school is effortlessly on top of the hierarchy and their chances of a better future are bright. A child educated in a public school may never fully catch up, while a child educated in a madrasa faces an even steeper climb. These divisions are not merely economic, they are cultural and psychological. 

English fluency, for instance, is a marker of status and accomplishment. Parents proudly boast when their child’s first words are in English, while speaking one’s mother tongue in elite circles can invite quiet shame and exclusion. Growing up, I could feel this divide. Educated in a private school, I could easily check the box on forms asking “K-12 medium of instruction in English?” That privilege, however, contrasted painfully with the millions of children for whom the question is irrelevant, locked out of opportunity not because of talent but because of socio-economic background and languages. For instance, the divide between O-levels and matriculation isn’t merely academic–it often creates social distance, where students on either side may look down on the other in condescending ways, reinforcing exclusion and existing hierarchies.

The divide has long been documented. For instance, a 2014 Dawn report noted how several scholars had pointed out Pakistan’s fragmented language policy. Another professor whose work and research nudged me to see how language policy perpetuates inequality in the country, linguistics scholar Dr. Tariq Rehman, observed that Pakistan had never had a uniform national language policy, with the state and provinces pursuing different goals. Education consultant John McGovern highlighted the gap between policy and classroom reality, warning that without coherence, reform would remain futile. The report also quoted British Council’s Punjab Director Richard Weyers, who said that only three per cent of students in Pakistan had access to private schools offering proper English instruction, while the remaining ninety-seven per cent were left to public schools unequipped to teach in English. So, all of this only deepens existing hierarchies and social divides, and leaves real learning stagnant.

But worse, it doesn’t start or end in classrooms—it spills into our screens, wardrobes, and everyday imagination. Pakistani media, through soap operas, advertisements, and popular narratives, reinforces these divides and entrenches the hierarchy in the collective psyche.Turn on a television drama: the modern, successful character is often shown in Western clothes, fluent in English; the naïve or uneducated character speaks Urdu or a regional language, wears traditional attire, and sits on the floor; modernity is dressed in a tie, while backwardness is wrapped in a dupatta; a person in a suit is seen as authoritative, while someone in traditional shalwar kameez may be dismissed as unsophisticated, rowdy, uneducated. This bias goes beyond personal perception—it reflects a deeper societal hierarchy. The danger is not only cultural amnesia but also deepening inequality. A society where opportunity is determined by language and dress will always reproduce its divides and continue to embrace colonial imports. 

In such a context, English and Western dress have therefore become shorthand for being “modern” and “intelligent” thereby a ticket to mobility, respect and authority. While this condition is not unique to Pakistan; this cultural and linguistic hierarchy no doubt masks a deeper loss: the erosion of heritage.  Pakistan is heir to one of the world’s oldest civilizations, from Mehargarh to the Indus Valley, and to centuries of rich traditions in poetry, music, and art across its many languages and ethnicities.

Yet too often these traditions are sidelined or commodified without context. Urban elites spend lavishly on clothes and ornaments inspired by “ethnic” patterns, but cannot name the region or history they come from. A Sindhi ajrak or a Balochi Doch embroidery becomes a fashion accessory stripped of its meaning. Similarly, Punjabi, Pashto, or Siraiki proverbs that once carried deep wisdom are now dismissed or forgotten. TikTok trends, ethnic fashion shows, and diversity campaigns celebrate surface-level aesthetics while hollowing out the substance beneath. Songs in traditional languages or rooted in folklore are often sung by artists who have no connection to the ethnicity they represent; they may not even know the history of the songs they perform. Listeners, meanwhile, “vibe” to the music without paying attention to the lyrics or the stories behind them.

Worse still, local accents and identities are mocked—Punjabi speech is linked with illiteracy, while Pashtun and other ethnicities are caricatured as crude or unintelligent in films, dramas, and jokes. Even many music platforms may profit from new covers and remixes of traditional songs, and people may listen, but this too is a form of consumerism and commodification. What happened to orature; to the living oral archives of stories and songs passed down from generation to generation?

Moreover, the same pattern repeats beyond songs and symbols. What is sold as “heritage”; from architecture to historic sites and site visits, sadly, becomes another product to consume. In tourism, hotels rise on historic remnants where the wealthy ‘buy’ culture at high prices, and ordinary visitors, often unaware of its significance, deface walls with graffiti, trample fragile areas, and sometimes remove or damage artifacts, still contribute to the site’s erosion. In the end, both play a role in its destruction. Lahore’s Walled city is one such example. 

So, when heritage becomes a commodity, identity becomes hollow. Reclaiming it is not nostalgia, it’s survival. This struggle to protect living heritage from erasure is not Pakistan’s alone; across the world, others have wrestled with how to reclaim what colonialism once fractured.

African poets, for instance, have written powerfully against cultural erasure, and they haven’t rejected English rather refused it to define their worth. South African poet Mazisi Kunene once wrote, “We are not driftwood of distant oceans, our kinsmen are thousand centuries old.” For Pakistanis, this means remembering that their civilizational roots long predate the empire. Similarly, Nigerian-British poet Ben Okri laments the loss of cultural heritage and destruction by colonial powers. He writes in the poem Lament of the Images, “They took the masks … They burned what they could not / Understand.” Writers like Nigerian Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie remind us of the danger of reducing identity to “a single story.” 

The words of African writers remind us that decolonization is not unique to us, it’s a shared struggle to reclaim one’s story. They warn of a familiar trap: mistaking political freedom for psychological or cultural liberation. Pakistan must avoid the same trap and combat it by finding its voice, for true independence lies not in sovereignty alone, but in self-belief. Reviving local languages, celebrating our own art forms, and teaching children to take pride in their history can help them see their true selves and tell their own story. Colonialism’s legacies are stubborn, but not immutable. 

Pakistan can move beyond its neo-colonial attitudes—when freedom is felt, not just declared; when even the newest currency notes carry the imprint of confidence and memory. Because true independence is not what we print or perform; it is what we practice and internalize.

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